#and a little less irreparably corrupt

[takami-takami]

Sweet, Sweet Indulgence.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut.

warnings— gn!reader. corrupting the sweet boy till he's addicted to edging himself <3. hand jobs. masturbation. edging. desperation. brief mention of oral.

Perhaps all these years, Keigo was just waiting for someone to give him permission to truly indulge.

For someone as busy as the number two hero, getting off was always something he had to do quickly; and to put it bluntly, it was less of an indulgence and more of a hassle for him to take care of than anything else. He simply never had much free time to call his own. Rubbing one out was merely a five minute task to clear his head on nights he had to wake before the sun rose.

But you threw the most devastating wrench in his perception. You showed him exactly what he was missing, just how much of a delicacy it could be.

The first time you wrapped the snake of your hand around him, he threw his head back and choked. His deep, sinful slouch and spread legs were evidence of just how heavenly your touch felt, just how blissful the feeling was that made his eyes flutter shut and his breath come quick.

He never could have guessed how electric your grip could be; not until it reached the head of his cock and traveled back down, down to the base before twisting back up, leaving crackles of pleasure in its wake.

Again, and again, and again.

But just as that familiar feeling crept up within him, you stopped.

His entire body went stiff.

Golden eyes shot wide open, brows furrowing in innocent confusion. In between his desperate panting, he managed, "W-Why'd you stop?"

And that smirk against his ear broke a part of his brain, irreparably. He could feel the tandrils of your presence tainting his thoughts, corrupting his mind down to far more debaucherous places.

With a seductive whisper over his left shoulder, your words sent him straight to the pits of hell.

"Because it feels so much better that way."

After that fateful night, he simply cannot control himself.

Nights like these are now spent on his back, with his shirt bunched up over his heaving chest, kicking at the sheets below as they ruffle with his writhing. He reaches that peak again, only to deny himself with the most pathetic mewl.

He chases that ecstacy you provide, pretty little mind drowning in phantasmic visions of you. Hazy and thick is the essence he gulps down, trickling down the recesses of his filthy thoughts and dripping toward his twitching cock.

Sometimes when he gets close, he yanks his hand away with a sob, as if the heat of his dick were the burn on a stovetop. Other times, the blur of the hand fisting his cock comes to an abrupt halt at his base, squeezing almost painfully instead, frantic to stave off that release.

It aches, it throbs, and he loves it.

No more stress, no more worries; just the continuous, painful nirvana of edge after edge.

He goes on and on building up his cum, letting himself fall further and further to whining, whimpering desperation. It gets to the point that he rolls his head along his pillow, mutters begs and pleas to you under his breath. He knows you're not there to hear; but his mind is fuzzy, and it almost feels like if his display is cute enough, if his little show is pathetic enough for you, you'll give him a little bit of mercy.

But isn't this mercy? He gets to feel so good for as long as he wants— forever, if his pretty little heart desires.

He mulls the question in his mind, back and forth, before settling on a conclusion: there's not enough room in his head to even think about it right now. Frustrated, he tosses the thought and focuses what little brainpower he has left on the swell of his cock, instead.

"Wanna cum, wanna cum— Please," he throws his head back and whines into the open, empty air, sweat beginning to dampen the perfect, golden strands sticking to his forehead. "I-I can be good," he squeaks to the phantom you in his mind.

Keigo can hear your sultry tone even now, a serpent seducing him and enticing him to behave. It creeps down his spine, slithering and causing his back to arch.

"Doesn't that feel good? Feels so much better to play on the edge, doesn't it?"

It does, it does.

His fist starts to move quicker now, tight grip making sounds that are unbearably loud; but that only makes his eyes screw shut in blissful, perverted ecstacy. His other hand steadily crawls up his chest, palm splayed and clutching at the sensitive skin there; in this state, after enduring edge after edge, it's nearly as sensitive as the reddening head of his cock.

His lidded gaze turns downwards. The thick tip is leaking so, so much— perfect to use to fist his dick even better, he muses.

And so he does, collecting the pre in his palm and using it to milk his cock raw.

His whole body is fit to burst, trembling and alight with a greedy need that drains the blood from his brain, directing it somewhere far more important, far more useful at the moment.

"Hah," he pants out, high pitched and whiny before breathing in deep. The oxygen barely reaches his foggy head. Every languid stroke causes his eyes to roll that much further into the back of his head. Legs tense and toes curling, every nerve sparks with an inexplicable desire enveloping his body; like countless sparks of pleasure, his sensitive skin feels akin to flint and steel.

Oh god, this awakens something in him.

The first time Keigo whimpered for you, you let out the most condescending coo, as if he were just the cutest little thing.

Right now, he keeps memories like that in his mind on repeat. He fantasizes, vividly picturing the time you had him edge himself on his knees while he used his mouth on you, or the days you'd instruct him to text you real-time updates on how often he ruined his own orgasms; he had to meet the quota you assigned for him, of course, though his texts became more illegible as the night went on.

It's been ages since the last time he questioned the twitch of his cock when you talk down to him.

Pretty boy likes it.

How kind of you to open his mind to the depths of debauchery he had unintentionally denied himself all those years. Years of missing out on this kind of bliss... Isn't that a form of denial, too? He's so grateful, he thinks, hissing once again through pearly gates of teeth at a particularly exquisite stroke.

God, Keigo loves to edge. Loves this, loves you, loves, loves...

The blur of his movements freezes once more.

A whimper escapes through the delirious smile of his lips. He's being so good, he thinks. He wants you to see how good he is, wants your eyes fixed on his little exhibitionist performance.

You'd tell him he's a good boy, won't you?

His breathless laugh devolves to the cutest "o-oh," as his grip begins to stroke up and down again. That same, wet sound rings in his ears again, pulling him down, farther and faster.

One desperate sigh later, and the remaining braincells in his mind put together the perfect idea.

Fuck, he should call you.

[chicoca]

Did you know that i have your heart in the garden?

Chapter two: can't take my eyes off of you/ ao3

Song: can't take my eyes off you - engelbert humperdinck

Warnings: Violent descriptions and suggestive acts.

Words: 7.6K

dedicated to my beloved @yezzyyae ♡

A few days before his arrival, Michael and Nina face their own forbidden desires. A look at Nina's engagement. And small encounters.

Read masterlist for summary and playlist <3

Don Tommasino’s house remained relatively silent, even with all the soldiers hanging around. What he could always hear was the melody that the little radio, in the kitchen, was playing. Some italian ballads with romantic tones that set the mood for silent afternoons. Sometimes, when he came down unexpectedly, he dared to think that you were there in the kitchen, dancing slowly to the music, feeling the notes in your being.

As every Saturday he had planned an outing to Palermo, in the company of his bodyguards. It wasn’t like they could defend him. The reality was that they served as witnesses and backup for anything that happened in Sicily. He didn’t know much, but they told him things were tense between The Families. New businesses with new faces arrived. Men deported from the United States who managed to establish themselves as new mafiosi. Prostitution, drugs and corruption already invaded Sicily. But these men appeared more aggressive, and that was bad to the Don. Because he was an old–fashioned man, his domain didn’t contemplate things beyond the management of territories and alliances with the wealthiest men in town. His power within those large spaces attracted the attention of the new mafiosi, causing their protection to be weakened. 

The Quintana family had control of drug trafficking in Corleone, especially heroin, which is why they had the power to intimidate the new mafiosi. By having a large hectares of crops and a lot of men in production, they dominated that business. Like the new mafiosi, the Quintanas also wanted to own the lands that Don Tommasino managed, as well as his contacts with the elite and politics. Don Tommasino didn’t mix with the new forms of extortion, having the police on his side and Lieutenant Gaspare Pisciotta, he was protected from any ambush.

That’s why the war didn’t end. Men died from side to side but no one gave in. Don Tommasino wasn’t going to, much less Guido Quintana. But time has passed and the Dons, even without retiring, have granted opinions from their heirs. Simone supported his father in maintaining the land and promoted new perspectives on the trafficking business. And Leandro, for his part, had an alliance in mind, because, according to him, the De Rosas and the Quintanas could be much stronger if they were united. Of course, that meeting ended in an altercation where Don Tommasino profoundly refused to involve you. Leandro promised that it would be his only attempt to mediate peace, since he didn’t intend to be soft on his enemies. For Don Tommasino that was final, but he didn’t count on Leandro finding you in Paris while you were studying. His plan was almost perfect. Court you, fall in love, get married and inevitably become part of the De Rosas, you being a Quintana. It would be something irreparable for the clan.

Sadly for him, your soul was too indomitable to fall for a man thirsty for your father’s power. You knew it the third or fourth time he spoke to you, but you still couldn’t walk away. Leandro appeared in many places, persuading you with presents, pretty words and smiles. When that didn’t work he was honest with you. He admitted that he would hurt your father, even though he didn't want to because that meant hurting you. For him there were two ways to get what he wanted, and there was a good way and a bad way. You had to decide.

Although you never wanted to get involved in your father’s business, you were aware of it and supportive of his decisions regarding what the family meant. You met politicians, greeted their wives, talked to their daughters while your father made deals in his office. You knew how it worked and your father wouldn’t lie to you if you asked. At the end of the day you understood the value of his work, and you loved him so much that you didn’t have to think twice. Leandro wasn’t a bad man, he didn’t treat you badly, he didn't threaten you directly, and he never tried to do anything to you.  For you, he was just asking you to help, and how could you not do it if it meant your father’s safety.

When your brothers found out they swore death to the Quintanas. Even Guido didn’t agree to form such a bond. But you got stubborn. Leandro was capable of murdering your entire family in order to ascend and dominate all of Corleone. He was hungry for power and your family was just an obstacle that, for better or worse, he had to deal with. The Quintanas were known for being bloodthirsty and cruel. They had no mercy with women, children or babies. They had killed entire families, including pets. They left no trace of anything after stealing it all. 

You took it as a duty. Something you could do and live with. Leandro was attractive and educated. He could be a good man if he put his mind to it. You wouldn’t be the first woman to marry for convenience. And even though your father never wanted that fate for you, it seemed that the world chose to reduce your life like that. It was ultimate. You agreed to get married with the promise that your family would be fine, like a guarantee of the mafia. Leandro didn’t plan to disappoint you, with the commitment to marry you, Don Tommasino granted some land that would only be given with the birth of the firstborn Quintana–De Rosa.

You hadn’t thought about being a mother yet. But you knew that Leandro had it in mind and wanted to get you pregnant as soon as possible. Therefore, your wedding would be in a week. Planned in less than a month. A month that you left college, abandoning your artistic dreams in the name of your family. You could still write and publish, you have been doing it for a while. Also teach literature at a local school. But your great aspirations were already a thing of the past. Travel the world, learn, live your experiences deeply. You planned to be free, with the power that being your father’s daughter gave you. For a moment you seemed to escape the fate of every woman in the Sicilian mafia. But time came to you with the face of a man whom you will have to tolerate your entire life.  That’s your destiny.

So Michael was a surprise to you. The obvious attraction was clear, and maybe in another world you would have tried something. But it was impossible, Michael seemed to be an inaccessible man in his own tumult of problems. You had your own. So, no matter how hard it was, avoiding him was the best, because in his presence you seemed to talk more, and flirt, and be who you were before Leandro appeared.

You knew that that Saturday he would go out to Palermo with his guards. That’s why you stayed in the kitchen helping your mother with lunch. He wouldn’t eat at home, preferring to take a couple of sandwiches for the road. As an irony of life, your mother asked you to debone the chickens that he would take. So now, with the ballad playing in the background, you shook your hips gently while you sank your fingers into the oily flesh. Behind you your mother was talking about the decorations that would arrive tomorrow. But you couldn’t pay attention, because you heard those footsteps approaching.

At the entrance to the kitchen he appears with his hair combed carelessly, wearing all dark, pants and dress shirt under a large coat, and he stands there with his gloved hands crossed, waiting to be noticed. 

He’s behind you, you know it by the tingle that runs down your spine, it feels warm like drinking coffee on a cold day. His perfume and the smell of soap, that only visitors use, impregnated your senses with his essence, a delight that you took with your eyes closed.

“Good morning, Michele. Ready to go, I see” Your mother said cheerfully.

You looked over your shoulder as he approached and leaned on the counter. For a second he looked at you in the eyes, but you turned around avoiding him.

“Buongiorno Signora De Rosa… Buongiorno Nina (Good morning Mrs. De Rosa… Good morning Nina)” The way he curled his tongue saying your name almost gave you a shiver, so slow it seemed like he was savoring naming you.

“Nina, saluta il ragazzo… Dio, questa ragazza è tra le nuvole (Nina, greet the boy… God, this girl is in the clouds)” You turned around looking briefly at your mother. You blushed a little at the embarrassment you felt, if Michael noticed it he made no attempt to show it.

“Buongiorno Michele, sarai a Palermo tutto il pomeriggio? (Good morning Michael, will you be in Palermo all afternoon?)”  You asked, going to wash your hands from the chicken grease. 

You were wearing a long skirt that swayed with every step you took. Michael couldn’t help but look at your hips, as the fabric hugged your curves for a few precious seconds before releasing them. 

“Starò lì per qualche ora… (I’ll be there for a couple of hours)” He answered. 

You turned and took the plate with the chicken to the counter. Your mother had already cut the bread, so your job was to fill it and wrap it. Under his watchful gaze, you began to prepare his food. 

“Well… Nina has to try on her dress. Oh! Michele, is very very pretty” Your mother said, making gestures in the air, imitating the fabric falling from the veil.

“Oh really? When is the wedding?” His eyes seemed to pierce your being. You didn’t know what he was thinking, but you wondered why he looked at you that way.

“Next Saturday! Oh mi Dio! sarà bello bello (Oh my God! It will be beautiful beautiful)” Your mother exclaimed enthusiastically “You are gonna be there, don’t you Michele?”.

“I don’t think so. I’m not invited” His passive tone of voice failed to demonstrate the clear intention of questioning you. For your part, you could only look at him with a raised eyebrow, not quite understanding what he wanted from you.

“Oh but of course you are invited! It’s a big celebration”.

“Mama, I don’t think is a good idea” You interrupted “Michele needs to go unnoticed. Leandro’s entire family and ours will be hanging around the house. I don’t think it will be good for him… for you” You finished saying with your eyes fixed on him.

He just shrugged his shoulders and stood up, no longer leaning on the counter in front of you. You were finishing making the sandwiches when he stole a piece of chicken from you and put it in his mouth.  You don’t know exactly what it was, but his intense gaze, the way he left his fingers suspended against his lips and the soft way he chewed enthralled you. The last thing was his tongue passing over his lips, tasting the tips of his fingers. It was in the almost smile that he formed, the small vestige of what he noticed that provoked you. You couldn’t understand what happened until your mother held you by the shoulders.

“It’s ready, Nina. Can you go out and call your brother?” Your mother’s request brought you out of trance. You didn’t look at him again, you didn’t want to know what face he had.

Michael watched you leave. He followed you with his eyes until he stopped in your absence. Even so the kitchen kept your perfume, he would recognize it anywhere after carrying it in his pocket for days. Your handkerchief folded in the left pocket of his coat, just above his chest. If he concentrated he could feel the folds and the light weight pressing against him. He thought if maybe he would be able to imagine your hand in the place of that handkerchief.

You, leaning on the door frame, gestured for Calogero to come in. That day only your brother and mother were in the house for lunchtime. Your father had to make many agreements with the Quintanas. Agreements in which you didn’t actively participate, at the request of your fiancé. Your father promised you that everything was going well, that’s why you didn’t worry when you knew that he was sharing with people that, for a long time, he called enemies.

Calogero told you he would be in in a second, so you decided to come back to the kitchen. Thinking about seeing Michael caused a strange feeling, a childish emotion that exploded in your chest with the desire to giggle for nothing. It made you want to run or jump in order to expend this ball of excitement that made no sense to you. It was dangerous, a break in your perfectly planned scheme that involved no one but Leandro. A part of you wants to feel the same emotions for your fiancé, it would be much easier that way. But there were so many differences, and you didn’t even understand where that attraction, that seemed to push you towards him, came from.

You thought about going to your room. Pretending that you had to do something. To wait for him to leave so you could walk freely around your house. You didn’t even think that he was looking for you, that he was stealthily watching you from behind, with your handkerchief pressed to his nose. He admired your silhouette still near the half-open door. The cold made your skin crawl, and for a second you felt a tug in your stomach that served as a warning, as if you were an animal, you felt the presence on your back, and you turned around so quickly that you hit his hand, the one holding the handkerchief, throwing it down.

“Oh! Che spavento (Oh! What a scare)... I’m so sorry Michele, I didn’t see you” You made to bend down to pick it up but he stopped you.

“Don’t worry, it was my fault” He said as he put one of his knees on the ground to pick it up. His head stayed close to your hip and as he looked up you admired his bruised face in the pale winter light.

“You should let a doctor look at that injury” You didn’t control yourself. You raised your hand to gently run your fingertips over his jaw. You felt his rough skin against yours, a warmth that you didn’t expect to receive.

Michael avoided closing his eyes when he felt you caress him. He slowly took your wrist and moved it away from his face. He rose until he was standing, still holding you. When he noticed this he let go, and tried not to focus on the warmth he still felt from having touched you.

“Don’t worry” He said without adding more.

You watched him put your handkerchief in his pocket and then adjust his coat. With a paper bag with his food ready, he was going to ask you to move out the door. At that moment Calogero entered.

“Buon pomeriggio Michele, goditi Palermo! (Good afternoon Michael, enjoy Palermo!)” He said as he grabbed you by the shoulders, almost carrying you along with him “Ho fame, sorella, mangiamo! (I'm hungry, sister, let’s eat!)” He almost didn’t wait for you to go to the dining room. 

Behind you Michael had already left and was talking to Calo and Fabrizio. Without looking at him again, you followed your brother. Michael briefly watched you leave. He asked one of his guards to close the door and began walking, thinking about the fresh air he would have in Palermo.

**

“Raccontaci qualcosa di New York (Tell us something about New York)” Said Fabrizio while eating. 

The three men were sitting on the dry grass. That particular day it wasn’t so cold and the humidity had decreased.

“Sai che sono di New York? (How do you know I’m from New York?)” asked Michael.

“Noi ascoltiamo. Qualcuno ci ha detto che eri importante – a big-a shot (We heard. Somebody told us you were real important)” responded Fabrizio. Calo, next to him, nodded.

“I’m the son of a big shot” That made both men curious.

“L’America è ricca come dicono? (Is America as rich as they say?)” Fabrizio asked again, Michael noticed his interest in his country. Calo rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Smettila di seccarmi con queste cose sull’America rica!! (Stop bothering me with this rich America stuff!!)” Fabrizio just laughed while Calo grunted in boredom.

“Hey, take me to the America! If you need a good lupara in America” Fabrizio says while palming his gun “Take me, I’ll be the best man you can get!” He ends by saying with genuine enthusiasm.

“I’ll think about it” Michael said, looking around. Fabrizio applauded at his response “What’s going on there?”.

In the distance, in a small straw house, an altercation was taking place between four men. One of them, an old man, was on his knees praying with his palms together. Michael could see the difference between them, the standing men carried rifles similar to those of Fabrizio and Calo, they were talking to each other stiffly while they pointed at the house and the old man. Suddenly one of them kicks the man in the chin making him scream in pain. Another of the men points the gun and shoots into the man’s back, causing the other two to fire a burst of bullets at high speed.

“Merda! Andiamo! Andiamo! (Shit! Let’s go! Let’s go!)” Fabrizio exclaimed, taking his lupara and sliding through the grass until he reached the street. Michael and Calo followed him.

“What’s happening?” Michael asked somewhat crouched, the three of them moved downwards.

“A punizione” Calo said.

When they were further away they stopped. Michael looked back waiting for one of the men to appear but there was no one.

“What’s a punizione?” Michael asked.

“Some men rob these shacks that serve as shelter for soldiers… The owners, the clan, punish with death” Fabrizio said, passing his hand over his forehead, he looked nervous.

“That old man robbed that house?” He asked incredulously.

“Probably not. But they surely saw him nearby and he didn’t have backup to defend him” Michael looked at him intently, as if he didn’t fully understand what he was saying “Look, there are rules here that you don’t know. That’s why we walk with you wherever. Anyone could accuse you of something and kill you instantly”.

“Morto morto (Dead dead)” Calo whispered, Michael ignored him.

“Don’t worry. You just have to go unnoticed. Do not go to places with many people, especially with people from other clans” Fabrizio warned.

“The Quintana family will come to the wedding” Calo mentioned, Fabrizio nodded to it.

“Devi essere atento… Careful (You have to be careful)” Michael nodded, starting to talk down the hill “A wedding!” Fabrizio suddenly exclaimed.

“Un matrimonio (A wedding)” Calo followed.

“Quella bella donna si sposa, è così carina (That pretty woman is getting married, so pretty)” Fabrizio said, bringing his hands to his chest. 

“Pretty pretty” Calo said.

“Cosa darei per una donna così. È instruita… e ha un corpo! (What would I give for a woman like that. She is educated… and has a body!” He made the faint of your hips with his hands and grunted in ecstasy.

“Un bel corpo, ben formato (A good body, well formed)” Continued Calo.

Michael remained silent.

“What a pity that she’s going to marry a Quintana” Fabrizio proclaimed sadly.

“Pensa che Nina lo guarderebbe! (He thinks Nina would look at him!)” Calo said mockingly. He elbowed Michael to make him laugh.

“Why it’s a shame that she marries Quintana?”.

 “Why?! That man is the devil” Fabrizio exclaimed, Calo next to him nodded “L’hai visto con il vecchio? (Did you see that with the old man?)” Michael nodded “Ha fatto lo stesso con un bambino (Did the same with a kid)”.

“Lo sapevano tutti, aveva lasciato il corpo per strada (Everyone knew, he left the body in the street)” Said Calo.

“And she knows that?” Michael couldn’t imagine that, knowing that information, you would marry him.

“No no, that girl doesn’t know anything” Fabrizio hit his forehead in a mocking gesture “According to what they say, she returned from Paris with the man on her arm”.

“The Don wasn’t happy, no no” Calo added.

“True! But the wedding will happen anyway, it’s a surprise”.

“Why?” Michael asked again.

“Guardalo, che curiosità (Look at him, so curious)” Calo giggled, Michael ignored him.

“Quintana e De Rosa are enemies” Fabrizio commented, approaching a tree to rest “They have fought over Corleone for years. Don Guido hates Don Tommasino. Some say they have a personal conflict” Calo nodded at that and pointed to Fabrizio.

“They say Don Tommasino had an affair with Don Guido’s wife” Fabrizio laughed.

“No no, that isn’t true. But whatever, they hate each other, so they never agreed on anything. So, when his daughter appeared with Leandro Quintana proclaiming they are going to marry everyone was shocked”.

“Shocked!” Calo repeated.

“And no one knows how that happened?” Michael asked. Calo looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“So curious for girl Nina, eh?” Michael rolled his eyes and sat down.

“I just have questions… That guy, Leandro, is he really bad?” Fabrizio sighed and adjusted his lupara.

“Yes, he first killed when he was twelve years old. He killed his dog because it barked so loud. We all knew he hated the De Rosa family, he wanted to have it all in Corleone. Maybe he loves her, we don’t know, but that man is crazy” Fabrizio said. 

They were silent for a moment, which Michael appreciated because his mind was full of you. Leandro didn’t seem like a particularly aggressive man when he met him. He remembers the handshake, the cordial smile and the soft kiss he left on your cheek, which continues to surprise him. For a Sicilian he was quite daring with his fiancee. But what he still keeps in his mind was your downcast gaze and the lack of reciprocity with him. He knew there were parts he still didn’t understand, but you seemed to be indecipherable even in your transparency. 

He wanted to know why you looked at him that way. Why did he feel that you asked something from him every time he saw those beautiful eyes. He would give you whatever you wanted if his soul was weak, but he knows his limits. And even though his desires went beyond being nice to you, he couldn’t allow himself to be a man to you. If Leandro really was who they said he was, it was better for Michael to stay aside and just have the joy of looking at you for these months that he had left in Sicily.

**

The day seemed calm. After lunch the only thing left to do was do nothing, since you didn’t have things scheduled. The wedding was approaching and the preparations were ready, the only thing left to do was say “I do” and be a Quintana. It still seems like a dream when you think about it. Marrying Leandro and starting a family. He had already confessed to you that he wanted at least five children, something that left you silent, causing him to laugh. In your mind there was barely the possibility of having one, you didn’t want to think beyond that, but five babies, you were already tired of just imagining it. Even so you accepted, the only thing you asked him was that you wouldn’t be involved in his business.

For your father the business was a man’s job, which didn’t involve women or children. Being a little soft to you, he let you know a few things when you were curious. But it was a curiosity fueled by concern. Seeing your father tired or angry made you alert and controlling, you wanted to know what was happening and what to do. There was very little you could do, but you could try to understand, give him an ear for his angry babbling, be someone he can trust. 

You were spoiled, you had always been a daddy’s girl, no one could blame you if he was around and your brothers were the same. But that would end, you knew it when you saw your father’s disappointed eyes. Being Leandro’s wife would distance you from him, it would put you in a position in which he couldn’t intervene. His sadness was so big that he cried when he found out that you were getting married, that even with his greatest efforts he could not keep you away from danger.  Leandro promised to never hurt you and, although it was difficult for him to admit it, he actually believed him. But that wasn’t the problem, it was what that marriage meant. A contract between families that would make them partners for life, unbreakable the moment the heir is born. What will happen when Leandro wants his son to be the Don of both families? Death, death between cousins and brothers like the old royalty. 

Protecting the family condemned it in the future. But you only thought about the present, that your father’s health was becoming more and more compromised, that Simone has not yet married or formed his own life to take on a power. If you could guarantee that Leandro wouldn’t murder anyone and would be prudent in his decisions with your family, then there was nothing to fear and nothing else mattered. 

Now, sitting against the trunk of your favorite tree, you were reading Felicia Hemans.

“Lonely she stood:–in her mournful eyes // Lay the clear midnight of southern skies, //And the drooping fringe of their lashes low, //Half veil'd a depth of unfathom'd wo. //Stately she stood–tho' her fragile frame //Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flame, //And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, //Under the waves of her dark hair worn” You murmured following a beaten rhythm.

“... She had been torn from her home away, // With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day, // And brought to die of the burning dreams //That haunt the exile by foreign streams.” You stopped and caressed the pages of the book. The Sicilian captive, how ironic, you thought as you sighed.

You closed the book and stretched out on the grass, you spread your legs letting your skirt rise slightly, you felt the strands of grass touch your shins and you giggled involuntarily at the tickling. 

You felt suddenly liberated, with the clear sky above you like a light blanket. The time seemed eternal. You were in a pause that calmed your soul until it left you drowsy. You almost closed your eyes, but the pale blue was too beautiful to ignore it. You wanted to paint the sky. You raised your hands and moved your fingers in the air, simulating invented faces that little by little coincided with already known lines. Round and big eyes with a roman nose that fell at its tip to the cupid’s bow, there its fleshy shape delighted you. 

What greater beauty was that hidden among forbidden pleasures? 

Michael seemed to completely invade you without doing anything at all. He had bewitched you and now you swarmed to desire him and ignore him. Why wasn’t he the one who found you in Paris? You could imagine him with his clean and smiling face, being just a college student. Has he ever been like that? Free, as you once were? He was a man of war, he was a man of the mafia, but would he be a free man? Could he be the one you would draw in your dreams? Your eternal dreams where life didn’t imprison you in this reality. You dared to think that in another world it would be different. But what would you know? You didn’t even know if he left any woman in New York, if so you would have the excuse to not fantasize about him anymore, he would be a forbidden man, as forbidden as you were.

Life hasn’t smiled on you for a few months now, and now you only have to wait for what destiny has in store for you, because there was not much else to do.  You deeply believed that Michael’s arrival could mean something. Your spiritual impulse wanted you to believe that you saw signs, but you couldn’t fall for those things. You were already sunk to believe that there was an escape in the form of a beautiful man. 

Now a little annoyed with yourself, you got up to go home, picked up the book in a huff and adjusted your skirt. Your hair retained traces of grass and leaves, tangled in a bun at the nape of your neck, with thin hairs contouring your face. 

Without wanting to be in your own body, you left your place to cross the stream, with stones placed by yourself, you crossed your improvised bridge and walked to the fence. Your used and folded book dangled from your hand as you climbed and threw yourself to the other side. You landed on your feet. When you saw that none of your father’s men paid attention to you, you walked to the back entrance. 

When you entered you suddenly ran into Michael. He was wearing a simple dress shirt with his black pants and suspenders. He quickly noticed your disheveled appearance and, without showing it, he found himself shocked when he felt the pressure of your body with his. 

You pulled away quickly, your red cheeks, whether from how annoyed you were or how embarrassed you felt, gave you an adorable touch that almost made him smile. He could feel his own warmth on his face, the blood pumping rapidly through his veins. 

“I’m sorry” You spoke quietly, not looking him in the eyes because you knew you couldn’t escape his gaze.

“Hi Nina, Where were you?” Michael asked as he removed a leaf from your hair, surprised you looked at him. 

“Mmm I was in my place, reading” You showed him your book which he took while looking at the cover.

“Who is she?” He pointed his thumb at the face of Felicia Hemans.

“Felicia Hemans, she was a great poet, one of the most read in the english language” Michael still held the book, his long fingers monopolizing the cover, leaving your fingers with almost no space.

“What’s your favorite?” You looked at him a little confused, Michael noticed the tilt of your head and your inquisitive look “Poem, your favorite poem”.

“Oh! The Sicilian captive, that’s my favorite one” He raised his eyebrows a little, almost imperceptible, but you noticed it “A woman who sings about her homeland and how she must die far from it”.

“That’s sad, why do you like that?” Michael didn’t let go of the book, instead he changed the position of his wrist making your fingers brush against the back of his hand.

“It’s beautiful, her pained song due to the abandonment of Sicily, the love for her home makes the poem fall into a wonderful melancholy. The feeling of distance is necessary when you aren’t where you belong” Your words pierced him in the utmost sincerity. His eyes with a softer touch, almost rounded on the edge of a tenderness, gave you a new facet of him.

“Can I borrow it?” You looked at him delighted and nodded effusively. You dropped the book, losing his touch, but quickly took his hands with enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes, you can read it in its entirety and then we can comment on it!”.

Since you left college you haven't shared your readings with anyone. There wasn't any interest in your family, and only Dr. Taza read but you didn’t see him enough to talk as you would like. That Michael wanted to read one of your favorite poems took away any trace of annoyance, and you even forgot that you wanted to get away from him as much as possible. Now you just wanted to share this with him.

“I’m not a skilled reader, don’t expect much from me” You shook your head as you let go.

Michael could feel the waning touch of your hands against his, he wanted to squeeze them in order to keep your warmth.

“Read it. I have more books in my library, maybe I can lend you others later, so you don’t get bored while being here” Michael nodded in agreement.

You wanted to go further into the house, to show him some of the things you had. You were enthralled by the idea of showing him one of your passions. He followed you from behind, watching as your walk moved your disordered clothes in a fluttering swat that he tried to ignore.

“Do you know any writers? Anyone you would like to read? I have many americans in my books” You didn’t notice his gaze on you, so focused on showing him your great collection.

“Poe, I think, I read him in school” Michael said.

You walked down the right hallway opening a door where a large library was located. Michael admired the large shelves and long sofas that were in the center. You approached a corner, put your index finger on the spine of the books and began to read the titles, looking for a specific one. You moved your head from side to side following the letters with your back leaning forward. 

Michael could observe the depth of your hips. Round, somewhat pompous, with a softness that, he imagined, must be pleasurable. Your innocently suggestive posture provoked him enough to feel the tension of his body under the clothes. For being in winter his insides felt genuinely hot, almost feverish. He attributed it to being inside the house where the temperature remained warm. Even so, his tense neck had the impulse to turn to continue looking at the room. But impossibly enthralled, your body attracted him enough to surpass his thoughts. For no reason, he compared that curve with his well-known Kay, and for a moment he urgently needed to drink water.

“Here it is!” You said, taking one of the books. You turned around and noticed his stare, a little flustered, you showed him the book “For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams” You recited.

“Annabel Lee” Michael responded with the title of the poem, he took the book in his hands. It had a dark and thick spine, it looked old “Is it inherited?”.

“Yes! It was my grandfather’s. Most of these books belong to the family” You couldn’t help but keep talking “I used to spend a lot of time here when I was a kid. My brothers called me a mouse for hiding and hunched over in this corner” You pointed to your favorite spot, a little armchair.

“I was like that too. Quieter than my brothers” You felt a little tingle knowing that you shared something.

“How many brothers do you have?” You asked, sitting down. Michael sat down too, not too close to you, but close enough to feel his weight on the couch.

“Three and a sister” You looked at him attentively, something he took to continue talking “She… She got married recently”.

“How was it? I guess american weddings are different” Michael shook his head slowly, leaning on his side with his leg bent over the cushion and his arm dangling from the backrest. His entire posture directed at you.

“Most of them were italian. I think all of them, except my companion” That caught your attention. Resting your elbow on the backrest and turning to look at him completely. Both of you looked comfortable on the couch.

“Companion? Your girlfriend?” You asked.

“You could call her that” His somewhat evasive tone made you frown.

“Something happened?” That brought out another shine in his eyes.

“No, nothing happened”.

“And how did she take it?” Michael gestured for you to explain “The fact that you are here, without knowing when you will return”.

“She understands” His passivity made you want to believe him.

“Will you marry her?” That question took him by surprise.

“I don’t know, maybe I should” Even though you asked, you didn’t like his answer and that made you a hypocrite, you knew it.

“Would you do an american wedding? Considering that she is one”.

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe at another time in my life I would have said yes, but I have the need to follow my… Desires” His intense stare made you blush slightly.

“And what are those desires?” You swallowed, you felt nervous even though you didn’t understand why.

“You would like to know”.

Before you could answer, a knock on the side of the door frame announced your mother at the entrance to the library. She looked at you carefully for a second, and then sighed.

“I have dinner ready. Michele, my husband wants to see you” At this Michael nodded and stood up. He didn’t look at you again before disappearing through the door. Your mother looked at you and crossed her arms.

“Cosa fai? Non puoi restare da solo con Michele. Leandro si arrabbierebbe se lo sapesse (What are you doing? You can’t be alone with Michele like that. Leandro would be angry if he knew)” You stood up and rolled your eyes at your mother.

“Non lo saprà (He won’t know)” In response to her silence you added “Non lo saprebbe, vero? Dato che stavo solo chiacchierando, non è che io sia invisibile (He’s not going to know, right? Because I was just chatting, it’s not like I turned invisible)”.

“Dovresti essere invisibile se sei fidanzata con un uomo del genere (You should be invisible if you’re engaged to a man like that)” Your mom hit your shoulder, you whined a little and rubbed yourself.

“Non pensare cose che non sono, e non dire niente a Leandro, sono affari miei cosa gli succede (Don’t think things that aren’t, and don’t say anything to Leandro, it’s my business what happens with him)” Your mother just looked at you disapprovingly.

“Non fare cosa che non dovresti. Ricorda, buone azioni, buoni risultati (Don’t do things you shouldn’t. Remember, good deeds, good results)” You walked away from your mother to go to the dinner room.

“Non preoccuparti, non farò nulla (Don’t worry, I won’t do anything)”.

**

In Don Tommasino’s office, Armando and Andrea were both sitting while the Don was talking to Michael.

“... It has these beautiful peach trees. I’m sure you would like to see them, I can arrange for you to go next week” Said Don Tommasino while drinking.

“I would like that… Isn’t the wedding next week?” Michael asked, that made Armando look at him.

“Oh! Don’t tell me. Yes, it will be held here at the house. All those Quintanas here as if nothing had happened” His voice showed annoyance, he slammed the glass down on the table and made a gesture at Armando “Where is that bastard?”.

“Leandro? Taking care of a few things, he sent flowers to Nina yesterday” Don Tommasino laughed mockingly, and Andrea smirked knowing that he would say.

“That ugly shit! I saw them last night. They were orange. Damn orange! Doesn’t he know that his fiancee hates orange?” Armando covered his mouth to laugh and gestured to Michael before speaking.

“Nina doesn’t hate orange, he does” He says pointing his chin at his Don “You’re just overprotective of your kid, but remember Nina is old now”.

“No man would keep up with my daughter. There isn’t a man on the face of the earth capable of being equal to her” He suddenly looked at Michael “Your father must have felt the same about your sister”.

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there when the whole engagement happened”.

“You will understand when you have a daughter, I swear” Michael nodded at the glass that Armando offered him.

“If you don’t mind me asking. What’s the problem with Leandro?” That prompted Don Tommasino to sigh deeply as he passed his hand over his forehead.

“The Quintanas have been a problem for years, ever since they wanted to dominate Corleone, fleeing from Giuliano like rats. At first I didn’t think it would be a problem, we don’t have the same businesses. But they want to have things that I have and that has caused many deaths. Now, Leandro is another problem, a much more dangerous one now that my daughter is marrying him” Michael put the glass on the table and leaned back in the chair.

“Why is she marrying him, then?” Armando served another glass to Don Tommasino, Andrea remained silent.

“My daughter is a martyr, Michele. She has always been like that, when she was little she cried for killing spiders and when she was an adolescent she dared to challenge me for Calogero. Seek the good for all… And unfortunately Leandro knew what to do. Did you know that I sent her to Paris? to France, so that she could study and become an educated woman. That fucking bastard found her, I don’t know exactly what he said to her, but when she returned I could feel that something had changed. She had that look she’s always had when she does something that will make me angry. She is equally altruistic and stubborn” He sighed again angrily.

“Don’t be so angry, Nina knows what she’s doing even when you don’t believe it” Armando responded, he offered another glass to Michael but he denied.

“I don’t bless that marriage” He grumbled.

“Anyways… Will Michael be able to attend that wedding?” Armando asked.

“I don’t want to lock you, it’s not natural. But a lot of people will be here and I don’t trust those idiots. I could take you to Doctor Taza” Michael thought about it before denying.

“I would like to be here, I have never been to a genuinely italian wedding” He lied “Don’t worry, I’ve introduced myself under a different name and won’t be in the spotlight”.

“Okay… Just be careful, please”.

**

At night Michael seemed to have no rest, he looked at the ceiling without a hint of sleep, even when it was already after one in the morning. He was used to sleeping early, but since he arrived in Sicily he only seemed to have insomnia. Among the recurring images in his head he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even with all the worries locked in the back of his mind, the first thing that came up was the question of what to do. What to do with this interest that seemed to grow every time he saw you. He didn’t know what caused him to desire to possess you. 

If he was honest with himself the last thing that mattered to him was your engagement, even though he refused the idea because your fiancé, soon to be husband, was a man whom he shouldn’t confront, not while being hidden under the protection of Don Tommasino. It was too risky to even think about you, and he didn’t understand why with every second that passed he felt like he was infatuated with you. 

He remembered the afternoon where he dared to look at your body, and imagined beyond what was allowed. He wanted to know if your skin had the same tone on the curve of your thighs, the curiosity of feeling the soft texture under his fingers, caressing the inside with the slowness of a tickle. Would you be ticklish? Maybe you would giggle amidst the moans that he would gladly listen to. His imagination flew to what you would be like then, if your face would light up with the lust of his touch, if your eyes would mist through those long lashes. He could imagine your long neck stretched out, perfect for him to bite and mark, for your husband to see and know that there was a man pleasuring you, that that man was Michael.

He doesn’t remember if a bold idea had ever excited him so much. Something forbidden. Maybe that made his interest rise, the fact that you were someone outside his limits. And wouldn’t you know it, Michael has been discreet as he should be, but what would happen if he let you know? If perhaps you would dare to be a disloyal woman, even if it means danger. For a second he allowed himself to be selfish, forgetting anything, he just thought that in that same library, in that same couch, you would be there for him, as he wanted and he would do whatever thing he imagined. Curious to know what you would be like blows his mind in a multitude of scenarios. You bent over, stretched out and ready for anything. 

In his ecstasy the exhaustion came in a sudden explosion. His dry and surprising orgasm made him gasp in surprise. He lifted his sheets and looked down with his eyebrows furrowed. Like a fucking teenager, he couldn’t remember the last time his imagination was real enough to provoke him. Knowing that he was already a lost cause, he got up to go to the bathroom. The last thing on his mind was berating himself for having crossed a line that would now lead to more.

CHAPTER THREE

[serenemy]

panopticon as fuck

as a witch she was supposed to be outside the globe looking in. through a series of events best phrased contemporaneously as “playing herself” it had turned out otherwise

but like whyy tho??

why would anyone read a Book that doesn’t spark their magic? why would anyone pay this much attention to a character they actively dislike and engage in complicated ruses to have removed from the stories?

it pains me to acknowledge this could be some form of magic. new corrupt spells from the bad wizard? [any gender can be a witch whether good or bad. but not this person. wizard is synonymous in every way except it isn’t derived from the native tongue of the vvitche, an honor, she had pettily decided, too painful to bestow] lingering remnants of his old ones? or was there another bad wizard in the midst? or some weird wild juju of indeterminate origin and moral appropriateness?

idk

i just know it makes me uncomfortable. i’ve felt its hostile presence everywhere for like two human years. its existence made no logical sense and i used my thusly discredited sense of it to undermine me on other things in dangerous ways. the magic’s been wrong across realms for awhile

magic works both ways with a Book of Shadows. theoretically a powerful enough interaction between pages and a hostile reader could leave even a completed works altered, perhaps irreparably so, and i’m not sure i should go on

perhaps the Board has a point

here is where she is a liar because while she might not have been the only source of dangerous magic—there was at least one corrupt wizard in the region, she had mistaken to great effect for a mundane—in her secret heart of hearts she had known for a long time, maybe all along

she started it

at a minimum, she opened the door

she tried to eat and have two cakes

every propagandist in human history knows you can tell a story and manifest a thing that didn’t previously exist. in a Book of Shadows a story can weave a spell. and she was not solely a witch. she was many other things and one of them was storyteller

of course the risk would be there, in her Book, even if she told herself you’re only writing down the honorable parts and keeping the rest inside in your soul

it is the soul from whence all springs, little mouse

here is the other part where she is a liar

she knew she wasn’t really going to maybe quit either. it was different than expected, less morally pristine, more reckless. but there was still beauty and powerful good in the pages

not all the secret watchers had stained it with malevolence. some touched the works with beneficial magic so lovely it alone justified continued existence in the present form

and the muse was the right one. one she’d learned in bittersweetly painful ways to trust

and the songs still felt true and right and beautiful

as the “writer,” if she existed, it wasn’t so much surprising—

she could argue there should have been warning. the content wasn’t ready. you still as of now haven’t seen the [*BENIGN and] creative place this is going [she was like grrm. but the content was still alive. there was time]

*yinze know i use content warnings. some people love a tragic story. some feel bait and switched when they get their hearts broken by a story they loved. i write both but i don’t trick people. to me that’s a shitty click baity and unnecessary way to get readers

we don’t do jump scares here. one of my central theses as an author is that compelling, exciting fiction, with high stakes, can in any genre including smut be created around moral characters who treat each other in morally sensitive ways and via moral stories that treat their audiences morally. these stories exist, they’re gorgeous, and since i didn’t find as many as i wanted, i started making my own

i’ve broken so may “i swear i’ll nevers” along the way

i’ll swear i’ll never write anything with sex shaming language [guy character calls his sister a whore, a word i promised myself i’d never replicate in any form]

i swear i’ll never write a rape scene. it’s not the worst thing that can befall a woman. for most women, if they really thought about it, it wouldn’t be as close to the top as they expected

so can we get some other storylines?? a lot of survivors have been encountering that one their entire lives and the scenes are really really unpleasant. plus while a lot of the fiction comes from women, the idea that this is the worst thing that can befall a woman is a cultural construct originating entirely with men

the other thing is they almost always treat the event itself as the trauma. i’m not familiar with a single example pre Unbelievable that understood sometimes the worse trauma is the reaction of others. [wrote a rape scene in a romance novel. i think ‘wind river’ is powerful art the existence of which improves the world. because it showed something impossible to tell. mattress girl’s “porno” does the same and should exist for the same reasons]

i swear i’ll never write a revenge story. i just couldn’t conceive being interested. still haven’t watched old boy eg. if morality is your guiding star, it answers every question about how to respond when someone wrongs you. to the extent the genre intends to differ from a “justice” story any “revenge” story i could love would definitionally have to be the former [might have written one. turns out i have a more complicated relationship with those themes than i thought. sometimes the hero’s cause is just but the nature of the remedy demanded by the context of the storylines opens the door for hatred and anger to influence proportionality in morally culpable ways

in my novel i weighed that. the villain received notice. my hero went no further than remedy demanded. if it seemed otherwise the flaw was in the author’s storytelling, not the character’s choices]

it’d be intellectually dishonest to deny i could fail more i swear i’ll nevers in the future. what i can say is two things:

1. i have no such works in progress, in mind, or alive in my head at this time and can’t foresee that changing anytime in the foreseeable future

2. if you haven’t encountered multiple content warnings (as my villain did) you’re not going to get ambushed with content

—as it is unexpected

i’m not sure it’s a good place for an author to be mental health wise to court a cult following of hate readers for a project so experimental they can see the words *of a Book of Shadows no less* being written—and deleted—in real time

can potentially alter its course with their attention

the presence of the observer changes things—in science and in fiction

[there was a reason she’d been telling the truth when she told that prelator she only sought or wanted a few acolytes who were perfect fits for the material. she really didn’t like to lie, even to someone who wouldn’t remember. wait. wrong “character.” nvm, all fiction lies]

but i don’t know. there might be something here

something lovely and worth telling. something sufficiently moral to justify its existence

[sometimes so do all truths]

[nyxneon]

Ok, so... let's put it out there. Here comes my first drabbly suede ficcie. It's in the realm of RPF so, if that squicks you, keep scrolling.

Disclaimer: own nothing, except my personal obsession. Never happened, just fiction.

Title: Always the quiet ones

Pairing: Brett/Richard

Rating: T (there's some suggestiveness but it's not acted upon, so to say)

It's just Brett having some naughty thoughts, basically.

Time-frame reference: just after Richard joined the band.

Notes: I know it's kind of weird using the title of a recent song for something set in the mid 90s... but I felt like it. Also, I realised that I used an expression that can also be found in Mat Osman's novel The Ruins, which I'm reading... weird eh? 😏

Link on ao3. Or read below.

There's something innocent, something pure about him. Something that makes Brett feel the need to leave a mark, his mark, to stain him, to mould him into his image, to turn him into something new. 

Is it just for the sake of bringing about change in the band dynamics? To fill the hole left by Bernard's departure? To balance it out?

Or is it a different kind of need, the same one you feel when you want to leave your footprint on fresh snow, when it's still all clean and pretty and untouched.

Untouched, is what he is. Which is just another word for virgin, just a little less charged. The boy didn't even have a girlfriend back home. He said he had no time for that... too busy practising on his guitar.

He feels like a cheap Lord Henry, with his own personal Dorian, round-cheeked and soft, snatched from the everyday worries of school and homework to join their admittedly questionable world.

And here he is, corrupting the youth with his bad influence. Or just thinking about it, at least. For the moment. Richard doesn't even smoke, for god's sake!

Oh, the idea of taking him by the hand and leading him to plesure. He could teach him so much. Again, the whole expression, "taking him", comes with certain connotations...

Still, for all his inexperience and youth, Richard has shown remarkable courage, arrogance,  even. He walked right into the lion's den, armed with his guitar and the kind of self-assuredness that doesn't always come with talent. Such boldness is exciting in itself.

In the end, Brett doesn't do anything irreparable, and everyone should really congratulate him for showing admirable restraint. Still, the temptation is always there, lurking in the background, like the shadow of something familiar but almost forgotten. They just have a beer together, and he could swear that Richard knows what has been going on in his head, that there is the slight hint of eager anticipation in his eyes.

[cmpunkdilf]

No wait this is so fucking smart.

Specifically concerning the AEW World Championship, it takes the quality that is the most prevalent with the man that is holding it, corrupts it as much as it can, and even when they’re no longer in possession of the belt that corruption is still something that affects them.

Jericho - yearning for the rockstar glory days once more.

It’s no secret that the Alpha was on a bit of a slump when he won the title as AEW’s inaugural World Champion. (I’ll never let go of the “built like a baby mama” memes.) And as soon as he got another taste of the big gold, he immediately went off the rails. He got too crazy off (more than) a little bit of the bubbly, and even lost the title while at dinner literally just days after winning it. Of course the belt didn’t take kindly to this, and let Chris’s recklessness bite him in the ass. It wasn't immediate though, the belt took its time before wanting to exact its revenge. 

When Jericho finally lost the belt to Moxley, Jericho immediately wanted to be back in the spotlight. After all, he was such a big draw for the other promotions he worked I, why should he let that light go out so quickly? With the seemingly endless sagas of the Inner Circle and then the Jericho Appreciation Society, the championship let Jericho’s character be seen for what it truly is: even though he can put the other man over just fine and have great match while being in his fifties, he still wants to be The Guy, and the ONLY one at that. Thus, like Midas with his golden touch, everything Jericho feuded with after losing the title was ruined almost irreparably (The Pinnacle: didn't have a good feud after finishing up with the Inner Circle. Fizzling out of relevancy was a sad way for them to go. Eddie Kingston, PnP, and BCC: dragged out his hate for way longer than it needed to be and almost ruined each of them too. BCC recovered pretty well; Eddie and PnP, not so much).

Moxley - hard worker, sometimes too much.

Jon Moxley’s first AEW Title win was well overdue; the new man on top of the mountain in a company that was ready to give him the best treatment as such after years of not being seen for who he truly was: a man with dedication like no other. But then the pandemic hit and AEW were forced to film their weekly product in one place only and abide by incredibly strict protocols. But that didn’t stop Jon. He carried the promotion through its darkest days yet and refused to let anything put him down. So when he lost the title to Kenny Omega (via shenanigans) he didn’t want that to be the end. After once again losing to Omega in the exploding barbed wire death match, it was almost as if Jon had made his peace. But the belt took into account how hard of a worker he was, and wasn’t just going to let that go.

Cue the summer of 2022. The injury bug has just taken out a multitude of AEW competitors, including the newly crowned World Champion, CM Punk (we’ll get to him in a bit). Mox found his way back to the belt and had another great reign that, again, carried AEW through another dark age. When Punk came back and staked his claim for the title, Mox didn’t want to let it go. Hell, he flat out refused. He beat Punk in less than five minutes to become the undisputed World Champion. He knew that’s not what anyone was expecting to happen, and he was proud of it. Mox was the one who walked through fire and brimstone to make that belt feel special, and he didn’t want to let it go. He was going to continue doing so, even if it killed him. (Think, “If I can’t have you, no one can.”)

So Mox dropped the title to Punk just a few weeks later at All Out, and it finally seemed like he was going to get to rest. NOPE. The belt called him back once more to be the champion, like that one on-again-off-again relationship that just never seems to end their cycle. And that is exactly the dynamic Moxley and the AEW World Championship have had: Mox feels like the two are made for each other, and anyone else having that belt doesn't feel right. So Mox must continue to prove to the world that he is the hardest worker. Fuck a well-deserved vacation, fuck the injuries. Even after proving himself again and again and again, he feels it has never truly happened so that work is never done. Never. Ending. Cycle.

Omega - self-absorption and an already deep downward spiral culminating in a recipe for disaster.

Kenny Omega’s trials and tribulations with the AEW World Championship are arguably one of, if not *the* most complex. As one of the creators of All Elite Wrestling and a founding member of the Elite himself, it seemed inevitable the Best Bout Machine was going to have a world title reign one day. And when it finally happened, it was a climatic point in the Elite’s history in their promotion thus far. After winning the AAA Mega Championship in October 2019 and winning the tag titles the following January with then-member of the Elite, Hangman Adam Page (what felt like an odd pair considering the other career tag team in the stable, the Young Bucks), everything felt like it was going their way. But of course, Camelot had to go down in flames eventually. 

As Hangman and Omega lost the titles, the ties between those two, as well as each of their relationships with the Bucks, became more and more unraveled, especially after the four fought each other for those very titles at Revolution in 2020. The breaking point was Hangman screwing over the Bucks as they fought for the number one contender-ship to the AEW tag titles, causing Hangman to be kicked out of the group. The Elite were in a massive downward spiral after everything had gone so perfect for them, when was it going to end?

When Omega won the title at Winter is Coming 2020, he did so by cheating and hitting Jon Moxley with the belt. Again, this was another climactic point for Omega as this dark side of his was something that hadn't been seen for years, and that side was put away thanks to a man by the name of Kota Ibushi. (Come on, did you really think he wasn’t gonna play a part in this?) Kenny Omega himself said that he is not the truest version of himself if he isn't with his other half, his twin flame... his soulmate. Of course the world title of the championship he created of the promotion where his soulmate couldn’t yet join him was going to take advantage of this, how could it not? But the belt wasn’t the only person to take advantage of the hole in Kenny’s heart; an Invisible Hand was also at play.

Don Callis, one of the sneakiest little weasels in wrestling history, was planning for something just like this. As someone who knew Kenny even as a young wrestler just trying to make a name for himself, of course he knows how Kenny thinks, works, acts. Of course he would act in his friend’s best interest and assist Omega in cheating during his match with Moxley. But Don didn’t let it stop there. A few months after Kenny captured the AEW World Championship, he travelled to Impact Wrestling and took the Impact World Championship from Rich Swann in April of 2021. Kenny Omega now held not one, not two, but three world titles in some of the biggest promotions on the planet. And so The Belt Collector was birthed. 

So when it came time for his former stablemate and close friend, Hangman Adam Page, to challenge for the AEW World Title, of course Kenny wouldn't have it. Trying to screw Page out of a title shot, again and again and again, until Omega could no longer hide from Hangman when he won the 2021 Men's Casino Ladder Match, guaranteeing him a title shot at Full Gear. Every injury, every unraveled thread in the Elite’s history up until this point came to a head as Omega and Hangman went to battle. But Omega ended up crumbling, staying down for the count after two Buckshot Lariats. Having lost the Impact title in August and vacating the AAA title shortly after Full Gear due to injuries, the Belt Collector was no more.

Both Don Callis and the AEW belt corrupted Kenny Omega. By taking advantage of Kenny’s strained friendships, the absence of one of the people who means the most to him, and resurrecting a part of him that would do absolutely anything to prove he was the best, Kenny Omega went on a rampage as the AEW World Champion, having the longest reign to date. But with each defense, Kenny's body was growing weaker and he was piling injury on top of injury (as he had been since 2018). There was obvious mental strain from carrying the literal and metaphorical weight of the AEW World Title as Kenny was (and still is) an Executive Vice President of the promotion, but the time off proved somewhat helpful. After almost an entire year off, Kenny returned in August 2022 and became 1/3 of the inaugural AEW Trios Champions, with of course none other than the Young Bucks (as well as 1/3 of the first two-time Trios Champions!) But Callis is still accompanying the Elite, surely imposing some sort of will...

Page - a good man trying his hardest to break the curse and it becoming his undoing.

Hangman Adam Page’s story not only as the AEW World Champion but as a former member of Bullet Club/The Elite is one of a rogue cowboy hanging out with the “bad crowd.” But it turned into something more: a story of finding friends, the vicious ups and downs of those friendships, finding new friends who genuinely appreciate you, and finally getting to prove to everyone just who you really are.

Hangman's character work is undoubtedly some of the best in professional wrestling today, and a lot of that credit is due to how he does not shy away from talking about his mental health and incorporates it into his character. Hangman always fell into the background in the Elite’s escapades, and when he finally won a title in AEW with a close friend of several years in Kenny Omega, he was as close to being the forefront of the brand as he had ever been. However, Hangman was struggling with being what he considered “a good friend” to Omega and the Bucks and his copious alcohol consumption wasn't making things better.

When Hangman got kicked out of the Elite, he drifted around for a while until the Dark Order attempted to recruit him. Hangman had assured himself by now that he was no good for anyone and it was better if he was a lone wolf. But the members of the Dark Order refused to give up. They backed him up countless times, spent time with him outside of the ring, and showed Hangman what true friendship is like. Even when Hangman willingly distanced himself from the Dark Order, they were always in his corner. It was the first time Hangman felt he was loved unconditionally, and he didn't feel like he deserved it. But he reciprocated that love when he could.

Hangman Page winning the AEW World Title was a huge chapter in the lore of the Elite, and he had a wonderful reign as the champion. It was his first world title and he was finally getting the love he deserved, so of course he wanted to give it back in the form of a great title reign. But the belt had taken advantage of Hangman’s personal insecurities. A good and honest man who fought hard to get to the top of the mountain  as he deserved could easily be corrupted. This is why each of Hangman’s title defenses were so violent. He had proven himself to belong with the top guys and he would fight as hard as he could so he could keep that recognition, or die trying. Between title defenses against a veteran who discredited Page’s years of experience (Bryan Danielson) and a former stablemate who told Page he still wasn’t good enough (Adam Cole), Page proved his doubters wrong time and time again... until CM Punk came along.

CM Punk worked his way to the top contender spot in AEW after coming out of a seven year retirement from wrestling. It seemed inevitable Punk was going to go after the title, but the Hangman wouldn’t have it. When the main event for Double or Nothing 2022 was made official, Hangman told Punk he wouldn’t be just defending the belt against Punk, but the whole promotion. And when the match happened, the battle was intensely personal. When it seemed Punk was down for the count, Hangman grabbed the world title belt and was preparing to hit Punk with it when he got back up. 

But he hesitated. He looked back at the belt, back at Punk. He realized he had been corrupted like the champion before him, but threw the belt aside and took the high road. He may have been corrupted, but not as seriously as the belt thought. So he went to grab Punk, who countered Page’s attempt, hit Page with the Go To Sleep... and won. I’ll never forget how Hangman looked at Punk with the title and the call from lead AEW commentator Excalibur because it’s just so perfect: “We just witnessed Hangman Adam Page have a crisis of conscience right before our eyes, and it cost him the biggest prize in our sport.”

Punk - always feeling the need to prove himself as the absolute best in every facet and that burden becoming too much.

As previously mentioned, CM Punk came out of retirement after walking out of the WWE in 2014 (due to low mental and physical health) and debuted in AEW in 2021. (I’ll never forget that day.) So many people were so excited to have Punk back, and Punk himself said he was excited to work with all this young talent. He was consistently on TV and had several good feuds and he proved he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. And then Maxwell Jacob Friedman got his attention. I’ll go further into depth about the CMJF feud when we talk about Max, but that feud played such a heavy part in both CM Punk’s and MJF’s AEW runs as a whole. The fanboy who was betrayed by his idol wished to exact his revenge, and the idol in question took those blows but reminded everyone just exactly who the fuck he is: The Best In The World.

Shortly after the dog collar match, Punk’s status as the number one contender to the AEW World Title. The tension between Punk and Hangman was palpable, almost as if there was real life tension to back it up. During the promo where Hangman said he would be defending the honor of All Elite Wrestling from Punk as well as the world title, Punk responded that Hangman would be nowhere without Punk. The roads The Elite paved were only there because CM Punk laid the groundwork. The house The Elite built was crafted from the lumber of trees that Punk chopped down. Was there merit to his claims? Sure! But Punk wouldn’t let anything or anyone bring him down.

And so he finally won the title. CM Punk, after seven long years of proving his doubters wrong, was once again top of the mountain, where he knew he belonged. Then his worst nightmare came true. Just five days after winning the title, Punk announced he had broken his foot and needed to take time off to get it surgically repaired. It was such an unfortunate turn of events and it kicked off not the Summer of Punk, but the Summer of the Injury Bug. During an appearance for AEW at San Diego Comic Con the next month, Punk spoke about how the past few months had significantly impacted his mental health in a negative manner. When Punk returned to get back the title he never lost in August, the tension with the interim champion Jon Moxley proved too much to wait for All Out at the beginning of September, so the undisputed title match was scheduled for two weeks before the pay-per-view. As mentioned earlier, Punk lost in a spectacularly quick fashion thanks to twisting his surgically repaired foot. 

And so the next Dynamite there was an open contract for any man to face Moxley for the title at All Out. The man who grabbed the contract? Not a wrestler, but one of AEW’s coaches. And it wasn’t just any coach, it was Ace Steel. As in, one of CM Punk’s closest friends, Ace Steel. As in the man who trained CM Punk to be a wrestler, Ace Steel. This will be important in just a bit. Punk addressed the crowd, telling the crowd considering the new limitations because of his broken foot he didn’t know if his new 100% was going to be good enough for him. He let so many people down including himself. Maybe he wasn't good enough anymore. This is where Ace Steel interrupts. He talks some sense into Punk, saying this isn’t him. Echoing thematically what Punk said when he was first injured, “The get back will be bigger than the setback.” So Ace Steel shoved the contract into Punk’s chest, demanding Punk sign it and remember who. the. fuck. he. is. And Punk did. 

Punk recaptured the title in his hometown at All Out. That title he never lost. He remembered who he was, what he’s done, and didn't let an injury he sustained during the match take him out again after fighting for two months just to come back. Then the lights went out. The spotlight was stolen by none other than Maxwell Jacob Friedman, who had been out since the same Dynamite Punk was injured due to contractual issues. And Punk. Was. Furious.

(Not going to talk too much about this incident.) After All Out went off the air, AEW held a press conference where... Well, a lot happened. Punk took out his anger on EVPs Kenny Omega and the Young Bucks, criticizing them for being awful managers of their company, as well as Hangman Adam Page for making a comment during their feud that was apparently a reference to Punk’s legal troubles with his ex-friend, Colt Cabana. Punk said that if anyone had a problem with him, to take it up with him personally. Of course, Kenny and the Bucks watched what Punk was saying and decided to go to Punk’s locker room and talk to him to see why he said what he said. What ensued (allegedly) was a six minute fight between the Elite and Punk who was assisted by Ace Steel. Kenny got bit by Ace, someone threw a chair at Nick and gave him a black eye... it was a mess. And it was announced on the following Dynamite that Punk and the Elite had all been suspended and their titles were vacated.

So, Punk was right where he was at the beginning of June, but in a much worse situation than before. He once again was deprived of the title he just won back, his tricep was torn (an injury that requires surgery and 6-8 months on average out of action), and he was indefinitely suspended from AEW. By rushing back to work from injury to prove an already made point, the AEW belt capitalized on this and didn’t let Punk win it back so easily. This made him want to prove his point even more. When he finally got the belt back, his spotlight was stolen from him by someone he put down months earlier. This was the penultimate straw that broke the camel’s back (the final straw in question being the question at the press conference that caused his infamous tangent). At the end of the day, the pressure of living up to the self-proclaimed title of The Best In The World proved too much for CM Punk, and he let his narcissistic tendencies take hold as the belt saw CM Punk for what he really is: just another wrestler not good enough to break the curse.

MJF - narcissism at its finest, like the champion before him.

Maxwell Jacob Friedman is many things. And as the man himself has said, a good man is not one of them. The Devil. Better Than The Best In The World. Better Than You, And You Know It. Max makes his hate for virtually everything and everyone known on a daily basis (but as one can imagine, he wasn't always like this). Throughout his run in AEW, MJF proved himself as a massive thorn in the side of each of his opponents. Time and time again, Max would get victories by paying another man to do his dirty work with enough money from those pockets to shut anyone up, hitting the other man with his Dynamite Diamond Ring (the only winner of that ring to this day) or having one of his stablemates cheat for him. Max very rarely lost, and coming off a win at Full Gear, he was cocky as ever. Until he was interrupted by CM Punk. Someone Max looked up to, and for years was his idol. Max held out his hand to Punk, who smirked, turned his back, and walked away. Max wouldn't have that, so for weeks after this first encounter, wars of words ensued and Max sent crony after crony to put Punk down. Punk picked them off one by one until Max just had to give in and give Punk what he wanted: a one on one match, in Punk's hometown of Chicago, no less.

To no one’s surprise, Max cheated to win. Punk demanded and was granted a rematch, but it was to have a twist. The twist in question? Both men were to be connected by dog collars and a metal chain over ten feet long. Punk was a staple of the stipulation, and he knew he needed to humble young Max. So when he announced the stipulation, Punk also brought a photograph. It was a young Maxwell Jacob Friedman meeting his idol CM Punk at a meet and greet. Punk said to Max that was probably the best day of his life, but to him it was just another Friday. Just another day as The Best In The World. The following week, Max said that the day he met Punk *was* the best day of his life. Because young Max saw himself in Punk. Someone who was constantly put down, harassed, told he wasn't good enough. But when Punk walked out of the WWE in 2014, he didn't just leave the fans. He left a young Max without any direction. Max was taking steps to be like his idol, but if his idol quit, what was the point of Max going on? So he went to college like his parents would have wanted. But one day he saw a photo of his two idols, CM Punk and Bryan Danielson shaking hands in front of the WrestleMania sign. This is what motivated Max to drop out of college and once again pursue his dream of becoming a wrestler. And that he did. Wreaked havoc on the Indies and became one of the pillars of AEW. So when the man who turned on him threatened his honor, everything he had worked for, Max wasn’t going to let it go gently.

Punk went out on the last episode of Rampage before Revolution and tried to make amends with Max before their match, and they shook hands and hugged. It truly seemed like Max had taken that to heart. But he hit Punk with a low blow, cut him open, and had him choked out with the dog collar. He vowed to show Punk who the real Devil is. Ultimately, Max ended up losing that match after his bodyguard, Wardlow, gave the Dynamite Diamond Ring to Punk. At Double or Nothing, Wardlow demanded to face MJF so that upon Wardlow’s victory, he would be released from his contract as MJF’s bodyguard. After the hoops Max made Wardlow jump through proved to not be hard enough, the pay-per-view match was set. Max lost in a matter of minutes and was carted off on the gurney. This match almost didn’t happen though, Max almost flew home to Long Island from Las Vegas because he didn’t feel like he was being used to his full potential. So Max took some time off of TV.

The Devil arose from the ashes at All Out, revealing he was signed to an incredibly lucrative contract and winning the Casino Ladder Match that happened earlier in the night. (If you recall, that gives the winner a title match any time they want.) He made it clear that he was going after the newly crowned World Champion, CM Punk. Unfortunately, we never got to see Punk/Max III, due to the... previously mentioned incident. So Max waited to cash in his chip until the next pay-per-view, Full Gear. The champion he would be facing? Jon Moxley. The man who proved himself time and time again to be the man the company can rely on. The man who even successfully defended the World Championship against MJF at All Out 2020. Max said he was a changed man since that day, and he wasn't going to let that happen again.

Again, to no one’s surprise, Max cheated to win the AEW World Championship (the manner by which was actually not the Dynamite Diamond Ring, but a pair of brass knuckles slid to him by Mox’s stablemate, Sir William Regal). Max immediately changed the leather on the belt to match the print of his signature Burberry scarf, and as we enter the 83rd day of his title reign, Max’s self-proclaimed “Reign Of Terror” is well underway. But the effects of the belt’s curse have taken hold more than what may meet the eyes of the viewer. For now, the belt is just stroking Max’s massive ego. Like the champion before him, his idol CM Punk, Max is a raging narcissist. He has an obsession with being the best in the world. He has an obsession with making everyone see how great he is. No matter how much the fans hate him, they will see how great he is whether they like it or not. They. Will. Worship. Him. And the belt absolutely LOVES that Max has this mindset. His hunger for greatness will eventually prove to be his undoing. But how? Will Max crack under the pressure as his idol did? Will the devil’s reign of terror ever truly end? We’ll have to wait and see exactly how the AEW World Championship has cursed Maxwell Jacob Friedman, but the curse has absolutely already been cast.

(If you made it to this point, THANK YOU FOR READING THIS. I love you.)

It's basically canon that the world title drives men mad, right?

[ace-of-zaun]

Pas de Deux: pt. I

Silco x f!reader - SFW

CW: ballerina!reader, obsessive silco, yandere, stalking, kidnapping, voyeurism, creepy behaviour, implied past emotional abuse, referenced murder, swears, reader is almost as manipulative and morally corrupt as silco, slow burn/enemies to lovers/stockholm syndrome?

4.7k words

Summary: As a young ballerina who scammed their way into a life of luxury in Piltover, you find yourself desperately trying to keep the con alive with every performance you give. But when you catch the attention of none other than the Eye of Zaun himself, your life takes an unexpected turn, as Silco decides that he simply cannot let you out of his grasp again…

A/N: something a little bit darker…please mind the tags my lovelies -elsie x

PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9

-

With a stomach full of butterflies and a steadily increasing heart rate, you give your hands a quick shake, roll your shoulders back a few times, and stare up at the ornate ceiling above you. It was always like this before a performance and the one you were about to give was probably the most important of your career so far. 

Sure, as a professional ballerina, you’d performed hundreds of times over the years, but this one was different, because it would be the deciding factor in whether or not you’d be able to stay in Piltover. 

You weren’t born Topside. No, you were born in the Undercity, alongside the thousands of other woeful souls that weakly battled for their survival, one miserable day at a time. But unlike them, you’d managed to claw your way out of the smog and sorrow by stealing a life that you were never truly destined to keep. 

It was quite a funny story really, well, funny to you, as it had worked out rather well in your favour. Costumed in a stolen dress and a necklace full of fake pearls, one night you’d managed to sneak your way over the bridge and into the City of Progress, unaware that your life was about to irreparably change.

Your plan had been to find and crash a party, stealing as much as you could from the stuck-up Pilties, who you’d decided long ago did not deserve to keep their vast wealth and wasteful attitudes. But as you stalked through the streets looking for a house filled with targets, your scheme had quite literally been halted in its tracks by the sudden collision into your future husband. 

Of course, you hadn’t really planned on marrying a man nearly three times your age when you’d begun your night of crime, but, you know, when in Piltover. The crash had caused you to trip and twist your ankle badly, sprawled out on the cobbled pavement with a new tear in your pilfered outfit. 

The man was horrified. He’d insisted on carrying you back to his house- well, mansion, as you soon found out- and seeing to your injuries himself. The least he could do, he’d said, obviously buying into your stolen costume and character.  

As it turned out, he was one of the directors at Piltover’s esteemed Academy of Ballet, which was quickly revealed to be a very lucrative job, given the fact that his house was the most opulent you had ever seen in your life. Chandeliers in every room, paintings that cost more than your entire year’s rent, furniture delicately gilded with gold. 

You’d have been disgusted if you weren’t so awe-struck. 

With your iced ankle propped up on a cushion and leg extended across the velvet chaise longue, you’d decided right there and then that you wouldn’t be going back home to the Undercity. You were going to stay here if it was the last thing you did. 

All it had taken were a few melodramatic tears, an over-exaggerated claim that your ankle was feeling far worse than it actually was, and a well-placed hand on the man’s knee, and you’d trapped him. 

You hadn’t crossed the bridge back to the Undercity since. 

It really didn’t take you long to get the old man to propose to you. It took you even less time to kill him. 

Of course, you’d made it look natural. During your marriage, you’d made sure to play the part of the dutiful little housewife, standing by your husband’s side at every tedious event, putting in thousands of hours of training to become one of his prized ballerinas. When he’d choked his final, pathetic breath, no-one had even batted an eyelid at you, meaning you’d instantly inherited his disgustingly vast wealth and his lavish estate. Just like that. It almost felt too easy. 

The decision to murder your husband had been paramount, because soon after your marriage, he’d begun to subtly and maliciously control every aspect of your life. Really, your only escape was ballet. You found solace in the disciplined nature of the art, comfort in the aching muscles and exhausted mind after hours of practice, relief in eluding his torment for just a few short hours during a rehearsal.

And that was how you’d found yourself where you were now. A young, widowed ballerina, fighting for the opportunity to stay in a place you’d never really belonged anyway. 

You were nervously pacing alone in an empty part of the museum, waiting for your cue to enter the space where the stage had been set up. You’d been asked to perform at the grand opening of the new building, yet another place for the rich to display and aimlessly view their pompous art. They didn’t realise how much of a privilege art was. No, they didn’t realise how many barriers they’d placed to ensure art was a privilege and not a universal right, as it should be. 

The signal comes and with a sharp intake of breath, you straighten your posture, and lift your head high. After years of practice, no-one in this artificial city could tell that you weren't really one of them. That your illustrious life in Piltover had been a scam. 

As you round the corner, finally in view of the large audience, your facial expression adopts a mask of impassivity and elegance. All eyes are on you as you take your place on the centre of the tiny stage, gracefully poised in your starting position. 

The slow, classical music begins and so does your performance. You begin by taking a step and lifting your arms, one in front of your head, the other out to your side, as you carefully raise one leg in a graceful arabesque. It’s simple enough, until you slowly tip your body forward, so your lifted arm is nearly touching the floor, and your legs are almost at a 180 degree angle. This particular move takes a great degree of skill in balance, but as always, you accomplish it effortlessly. 

There are a few little gasps of wonder from the audience, but it doesn’t spark even the tiniest glimmer of pride in you as it once did when you first began to perform. Now, it just meant that you were doing your job correctly. 

Not that anyone could tell thanks to your demure expression, but the reason you were so nervous about this particular performance was due to it being your last chance to retain your faux life in the City of Progress. The money your late husband had left you was running out. Rather recklessly, you’d neglected holding back in continuing his extravagant lifestyle, until you’d slowly depleted his stockpile of riches. 

I mean, who could blame you? As a Zaunite, you were raised on the assumption that every day could be your last, so you’d jumped at the chance to live how you never had done before, in fear that it would be taken away from you at a moment’s notice.

So you’re hoping, no, desperately praying to whichever god was listening, that this performance will catch the eye of a councillor or another rich benefactor who could be your patron. Of course, you’d eventually marry them after a few years of measured courting and subtle manipulation. And thus the cycle would begin again. 

You were not going back to the Undercity. 

With the allegro section completed, you catch your breath during the slower, adage portion of the dance, your body flowing through the controlled movements with ease. You’d practised this routine so many times, you could now perform it purely on muscle memory, meaning you were able to let your mind wander as your body moved. You take the opportunity to scan the crowd, hoping to spot your new potential sponsor. 

Instead, your eyes land on a lean figure, dressed in clothes that are much darker in colour and much more asymmetrical in style compared to those standing around him. Except it’s not his outfit that catches your attention, but his discordant, striking eyes. 

Silco. The King of the Undercity.

You can’t help the way you begin to panic. 

What was he doing here? His hatred of Piltover and especially their pageantry was infamous at this point, so why would he bother showing up to the opening of an art gallery and museum, no less? 

Anyone with a decent amount of sense knew that Silco was someone to be afraid of. If not for his reputation as a ruthless drug lord, steadily oscillating shimmer into the streets of the Undercity like the persistent thumping of a rotting heart, then surely for the fact that he killed anyone who stood in his way. 

Silco was a man, no, monster, who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. 

You force yourself to focus on the dance instead of the Eye of Zaun, on the combination of steps that make your feet ache in the stiff pointe shoes. 

Do not think about him or the many horrific atrocities he has committed. Focus on the steps. 

Posé turn, posé turn, chassé pas de bourrée. 

Ignore him. Ignore him. 

Ignore him. 

Before you know it, the routine has ended and the music has faded, replaced with the resonant sound of polite clapping from the audience. It startles you back into reality, your mind suddenly transported from its distant state of panic to the scene before you. 

Taking a deep curtsy and bowing your head with the movement, your eyes instantly snap to Silco’s when you rise. 

It feels like he could burn a hole into your head with the way he’s looking at you so intensely. It’s jarring. 

Frustratingly, you can’t read his expression, his face being one of carefully cultivated neutrality. Only his eyes give him away, and even then it’s subtle. You’re pretty sure at this point he’s doing it on purpose. 

Probably spent years practising it in the mirror, the sociopath. 

You climb off the stage as gracefully as you can and notice him pushing through the crowd towards you with an alarming amount of intent. Quite frankly, the look in his seafoam eye is terrifying. You’re certain you’ve never seen a person look so determined before. 

You need to get out of there. 

It only takes a few well-calculated steps of nimbly slipping past bodies, before you’re away from prying (polluted) eyes and through the back door of the museum. Luckily, your driver is waiting for you in the carriage where you’d left him earlier, meaning you can hurl yourself into the backseat and be quickly driven away from the building and more importantly, from him. 

As you’re making your way back to your mansion through the cobbled streets, you take a deep breath and slowly exhale a bitter concoction of relief and exhaustion. 

You’d have to apologise to the museum director for ditching when you’d been invited to stay for the rest of the party, you think once you’d finally calmed down. Ah well, nothing that a good-natured, intimate dinner wouldn’t fix. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t even thought of the consequences when you’d made a beeline straight for the exit. You’d just needed to get away from Silco. One thing you know for sure is that you do not want to talk to him. Not if you knew what was good for you. 

But little did you know, you’d bewitched the infamous Eye of Zaun the very second he’d laid eyes on your beautiful form, and he certainly wasn’t going to let you get away as easily as that. Not if he had any say in it… 

Which he always did. 

-

Despite your best efforts, you’d still not shaken Silco’s persistent look from your thoughts when you found yourself in the dance studio a few days later. You were stood with one hand on the barre, the other slowly moving in time to the music, as you gradually warmed up your muscles with a series of routine exercises. 

Two demi pliés, one grand plié. Three ronds de jambes, relevé. 

Your movements were under careful scrutiny of one of the senior ballet teachers, who’d supervised your training for the past few months. A cruel lady, who hated your guts for the simple fact that she’d been in love with your husband. I mean, it wasn’t your fault he chose you over the old hag, but that didn’t stop her from taking it out on you. 

Her criticisms were relentless, even using a short cane to slap your arms and legs into place, instead of simply telling you the corrections like the other teachers did. Witch. You didn’t really care, she was just a bitter old woman who took her dissatisfaction in life out on you. 

In any case, you had much more important matters to attend to, considering Silco had single-handedly ruined your chances of finding a new patron at the event. Not only had his sharp gaze startled you enough to put you on edge for the past few days, he’d also potentially screwed up your plans for the future as well. Just great. 

Finally finished with the barre exercises, you move into the centre of the room to begin rehearsing the routine you’d been perfecting for the last few weeks, in preparation for your next performance. The music fills the room and you easily slip into the rhythm of the movement. 

Pas de bourrée couru, and turn, glissade, pas de chat, soutenu turn.

A flurry of movement in the corner of the room catches your eye and it nearly throws you off balance, as you push your muscles to complete a difficult step. It isn’t until you turn in a double pirouette that you subsequently notice who has entered the room.  

The Eye of Zaun. Stood in the corner of the studio, watching your every move as you try to continue your dance. 

Oh, fuck.

Silco observes you floating through the space with each graceful step and he swears his corroded heart has stopped beating at the sight. You were ethereal. 

It had been rather easy for him to find you, once he knew your name. And gods above, learning your beautiful name had been a revelation to him. A spiritual, life-changing experience. 

Silco had known the instant he’d seen you on that stage in the museum that you were a divine being. The sheer power in your muscles, yet the light elegance that coated each movement you made. A delicious oxymoron. 

He also knew that he would never let you run from him again. 

He’d wanted to ravish you right there and then in front of all those stuck-up Topsiders, and then gently kiss away every loving bruise and blemish he’d have made on your gorgeous skin. But by the time he’d reached the exit, you were already gone, dust and smoke filling the air as your carriage sped away. Silco had punched the wall in his anger. 

But now he’d found you again and he felt like his soul had been set alight. 

As he watches you, it takes all his strength not to get down on the floor and worship the ground you danced on. He’s never been this obsessed with a person before. It was like a madness had come over him. Like you’d cast a spell on him by simply existing. 

The harmonious music comes to an end and he goes to speak to you, but the old lady who must be your instructor dismisses you from the room. You don’t even look at him fully as you leave, only glancing at him in the reflection of the mirrored wall as you quickly cross the space, into a door that he presumes leads to the changing rooms. 

Silco clenches his fist. The old woman approaches him, probably presuming he was here to speak to her. Part of him wants to spit at her for her grossly mistaken assumption. Instead, he takes a deep breath and releases his grip.

No matter. He has a plan. One that will ensure that once he has you, you will never leave his side. 

-

Hours later, Silco stands across the street from a grand mansion, hidden in the shadows created by the dark, overcast clouds in the night sky. Most Zaunites would be taking advantage of actually being able to see the sky, a privilege not granted to those in the dark belly of the Undercity, but Silco had a much more irresistible view that had captured his unwavering attention. 

You move across one window of the mansion towards the dresser in your bedroom, your figure backlit by the lamp on the bedside cabinet, and Silco wets his lips with his tongue. With your back to him, your top is removed followed by your loose joggers, leaving you in just your underwear. Silco inhales a sharp intake of breath as your bra is taken off and quickly replaced by a loose pyjama top. He waits with anticipation for the final item of clothing to be discarded, but instead you exit the room. Shit. 

It had been a rather productive afternoon, even if he said so himself. As such, Silco is rewarding himself with the beautiful sight of you going about your daily life, blissfully unaware of his presence, like it was a private show just for him. He deserved that much, didn’t he? 

After speaking with your obnoxious dance teacher, Silco had obtained a private meeting with one of the Academy’s directors. An unpleasant man, who had been rather abrasive with the kingpin, until Silco had humbly mentioned that the director’s visits to Zaun’s many brothels were not exactly a secret. Of course, Silco had also insinuated that it would a crying shame if his wife and the rest of the board were to find out… 

Granted, the man had been more than forthcoming for the rest of the meeting. 

Silco’s only demand was that you were to be brought to him. Concerningly, the man had barely protested your removal from the pretentious city. After that, all that was left was for Silco to instruct the director to devise a rumour as to why you had suddenly disappeared from your ostentatious life. 

It wasn’t his problem. No, Silco’s ‘problem’ now was making sure you were happy and fully provided for in the comfort of his own home. 

You re-enter the bedroom after a few minutes, switch off the bedside lamp, and climb into the lofty four-poster bed. The kingpin wishes with all his being that he could climb in after you, pressing his nose into your soft hair, gently stroking his hands along your smooth skin. But he knew he couldn’t. Not yet. 

It wouldn’t be long now. Patience Silco. Just a little bit more time until you were safely in his arms, where you belonged. 

Silco takes one last wistful look at your sleeping figure before he stalks down the street, slipping further into the shadows and back towards his home. One sentence floats ambiguously through the busy stream of his conscious thoughts as he does, until he plucks it out of the river and sharpens it. 

He will have you and you will love him.

-

The next morning, you’d finished getting dressed and were planning on spending the majority of the day cleaning the mansion. Well, as much of it as you could in one day, you reason. The cleaners had been let go once you’d realised you no longer had the funds to pay them, so the job had immediately fallen to you. You’d much rather be taking a nice stroll in the warmth of the sunshine, but it was vital that you kept up appearances if the con was going to continue to work. 

A ring of the doorbell interrupts your frustrations at having to clean such an excessive amount of space and you almost sigh in relief. Pulling the large front door open reveals one of the Ballet Academy’s directors, a man who you’d spoken with often enough over the past few years, but that didn’t mean you knew him all that well. At least, not well enough for him to be standing on your doorstep at nine in the morning. 

“Oswald, what are you doing here?” you ask, confused. 

“I need you to come with me and inspect a new venue we’re thinking of buying,” he tells you, and your gut feeling instantly tells you that he’s on edge. 

But, you had no reason not to trust him, and he’d been a friend of your late husband's for years, so of course, you choose to ignore it. Perhaps he was having trouble at home. 

“What new venue?”

“Get your coat, I’ll tell you in the carriage,” Oswald says, quickly turning his back on you to clamber back into the carriage waiting on the street.

You grab your coat and keys, locking the front door before following him.

Really, you should have spotted the myriad red flags that lined your entire bizarre exchange with the man, but ironically, red flags only seem to gain their colour when it’s too late. It only dawns on you that something may be wrong when the carriage you’re travelling in crosses the bridge over the River Pilt, and into the Undercity.

Your eyes widen in panic and dart over to Oswald, who is pointedly looking away from you. 

“Why the hell are we going to the Undercity?” you demand, furious that he hadn’t warned you beforehand. 

He ignores you and you feel like you’re about to start screaming from sheer confusion and fear. Where was he taking you? Wherever it was, you knew the excuse of going to visit a new venue was a lie. What could he possibly want to do with you in the Undercity?

You desperately try the door to the carriage, but find it locked, probably by the driver after you’d gotten in. Fuck. 

With nothing else to do, you watch in horror as the dreadfully familiar streets of Zaun pass by your window. Your stomach twists as the memories of your childhood begin to flood your panicking brain. 

No, no, no, you couldn’t be back here. Not after everything you’d done to get out of the wretched city. 

After a long drive that takes you deeper and deeper into the city with every turn, the car stops and you assume you’ve arrived at whatever destination Oswald has in store for you. 

You reluctantly peer through the window again and feel your stomach sink at the grim sight.

You’re at The Last Drop. Silco’s headquarters.

You hear a click and soon realise that it’s the sound of the door being unlocked from the outside. You stay seated, stubbornly glaring at Oswald with almost as much hatred as you gave your late husband. It takes every inch of your self-control not to surge across the carriage and throttle him. 

“Get out of the carriage,” he says quietly, still avoiding eye contact with you.

“No.”

Before he can begin to argue, the door swings open and a large, metal arm reaches in, heaving you out of the carriage. You grasp at the sides of the door, kicking against the body pulling at you, but you’re left powerless when another strong arm wraps around your waist and wrenches you onto the street. 

“You fucking bastard!” you scream at Oswald, at the person yanking you out of the carriage, at the entire universe for bringing you to the very last place you wanted to be. 

Now stood on pavement, you watch in dismay as the carriage door is shut and begins to speed off into the distance, presumably taking Oswald back to Piltover. The sight of it makes you want to sob. 

But there’s no time to even think, as the person who hauled you out of the carriage is revealed to be a tall, powerful woman, who was sneering down at you with no small amount of annoyance. 

“Walk,” she demands, giving you a shove through the open front door of the bar. 

Normally, you’d have protested or even tried to fight your way out of the situation, given your ruthless upbringing in the Undercity, but the sheer amount of bodyguards surrounding you would have made it impossible.

Instead, you’re left with no other option but to blindly follow, as you’re led through the empty bar, up two sets of stairs, and finally into a surprisingly sophisticated office. The very first thing that catches your attention is the large, intricately designed window at the back of the room, that allows green light to pour into the room.

Standing in front of said window is a man, whose stylised outfit and wiry figure you quickly recognise from the dance studio. He turns to face you, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Once again, you can’t decipher Silco’s cryptic expression, as he stalks over to where you were now standing in the middle of the room. The first thing that catches you off guard is the way he says your name in a that’s tone so soft, you almost miss it. 

Frozen from shock, you’re powerless to fight him as he reaches out and lightly strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers, letting them trail down the outside of your arm until he reaches your hand. Silco takes your hand, raises it up, and dips his head to give your knuckles the most delicate kiss. 

“Enchanted to finally meet you properly,” he says smoothly, looking deep into your eyes, “I must say, I was enraptured by your performance at the gallery.”

Oh. You weren’t expecting that. Given his less-than-desirable reputation, you were expecting him to simply kill you or, at the very least, threaten you. 

“Uh, thank you,” you tell him awkwardly, before your curiosity gets the better of you, sprouting from the fact that you do not want to stay here any longer than you need to, “Sorry, but why am I here?”

His grip on your hand tightens infinitesimally and his head tilts a fraction to the side. 

“Because you’re mine now,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You think you must have heard him wrong, despite him being less than a foot away from you. There’s no way he said what you thought he just said. 

You shake your head in confusion. 

“What?”

“My dear, I don’t think you understand how captivated I am by you. I simply cannot let you out of my grasp again.”

The room starts to spin as you take short, sharp breaths.

And you must look absolutely terrified because Silco takes a hold of your other hand, gazing at you with genuine concern. 

“Please don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you. I want to take care of you, love you. And I hope one day soon, you will love me in return,” he tells you, his voice full of hope. 

You don’t know what to think. To feel. I mean, how are you meant to react to a perfect stranger telling you that you now belong to him and you cannot leave?

The panic response finally kicks in and your body automatically chooses flight. 

Ripping your hands from Silco’s grasp, you stumble backwards away from him, missing the look of hurt that crosses over Silco’s face as you try to bolt towards the door. But you’re easily stopped by one of the large bodyguards, who grabs onto you roughly. 

“Let me go!” you scream, thrashing about in his grip, trying desperately to get away from him. 

Tears begin to haze your vision. Tears of anger and fear and pure shock that spill down your cheeks and onto the floor of Silco’s office. 

“Take my sweetheart to her new bedroom,” Silco orders, his shoulders drooping dejectedly. He sounds disappointed. Disappointed at the fact that you don’t want to stay with him in forced captivity. 

But you’re too busy attempting to fight your way out of the wretched place to even notice, uselessly slamming your fists against the bodyguard as he picks you up and begins to carry you out of the office. 

Silco watches the scene in front of him impassively and you manage to catch his final, barely-concealed threat to you, spoken in a low, rough voice, before you’re carted off down the hallway. 

“You’ll come around to me, my darling, sooner or later.” 

PART 2

-

A/N: i hope this was an okay first chapter! I wrote this bc i miss doing ballet and i wanted to write something a bit more sinister and complicated. Lots more to come!! (but i’m also still writing fluff for those who prefer that!)

[askthedarksidersfam]

Infandum renovare dolorem

"To renew an unspeakable grief."

Tags: Whump (like really heavy whump), hurt/no comfort, angst, death of a child, graphic violence, taking liberties with the Nephilim, Eden's invasion, mentions of OC, dead dove do not eat, dissociation.

Summary: After War summons the others to Earth, the Four take refuge in Eden where the human survivors have been hidden. Strife is forced to relive his past as he sees the realm he tried to leave behind, and its ghosts. Finally Strife tells War the story behind the dagger he buried, and the heavy sin it carries.

“There are things from before. When the world made sense…”

“You don’t know me, War. I was a killer before this all went down.”

“No, this shouldn’t be here…”

“This deserves to be buried here among the dead…”

“Someday… I’ll tell you everything…”

Those words have long since echoed in the brain of the gunslinging Nephilim all those millennia ago spoken to his youngest brother in arms. In the deep pits of Hell and the derelict ruins of Eden did Strife confess to a deeper confines of his history that he wished he could cleanse from himself completely like dirt in a raging river. But despite how much he suppressed his memories, how much he tried to forget, Strife could not erase the inky blots in his soul of a sin so foul even Death himself would shudder in horror.

Suspended high above the scarred world where the last survivors of humanity lay in refuge, far away from prying ears and searching eyes of the humans Strife once spent his own hiding in as his time as Jones the Deserter. How long had it been since he had seen the very bones of the realm he had long since set fire to in the name of Balance?

Eden. The birthplace of humanity, now the only place they can call home. If this sad hovel of a place could be called a home.

Earth was in ruins, and worse for wear in the near century that had passed. The Destroyer’s armies had ravaged the planet, even as nature tried to take back the land. In the ten years Strife had abandoned his mission given by the Council to hide as the Human by the alias of Jones, he had seen firsthand the irreparable damage done to the species. Families and friends ripped apart, the grief of a parent losing their beloved children, and oh Creator, the innocent confusion of children wondering when their parents will find them again.

It made him want to scream.

Even though Strife did what he could to help the survivors in any way he could, it felt as if it wasn’t enough. Hunting and scavenging to provide for the encampment, his poor human medical expertise provided little in the way of a higher survival rate than doing nothing at all.

One thing stood above others though, something so painful to him, yet it brought joy to another. His care for the young ones who’d been placed in the Haven tree, for the children without their mothers or fathers. What made his heart ache was how young everyone in Haven really was, the oldest barely reaching their third decade. The children are a true testament of humanity's youth, and not just about those who survived, but in the eyes of the Universe. So young and to have been destroyed so soon by those who hold the power they don’t.

What a bullshit fate.

In Haven, Strife truly learned the unfairness of it all. The distant memories of humanity’s infancy trudged back up in his brain of when he so stupidly lead the humans to a metaporical slaughter, the tarnishing of their innocence and corruption by demon magics. He was responsible, so caught up in his grief, in his self loathing he didn’t recognize the signs of something greater afoot.

And look where that got him instead.

No less guilty as before. Those stained hands that wish they could wipe his ledger clean by “good deeds” in a dead world.

“There’s a reason you’re named Strife…” something utters in his brain, hissing vehemently as a serpent, slithering in the deep caverns of his dark psyche. He wishes he could disagree, but deep down he knew this was true, try as he might to deny. He’s meant to bring forth chaos in his path and upset the waking world with each breath he takes.

He’d have better chances of sprouting wings and flying than bringing peace.

Whether he meant to or not, Strife didn’t stop thinking of one of the young ones that he had come to raise. A young girl with a gentle manner and an even shyer disposition. But behind those eyes of hers, he could see a fiery spirit most admirable. She had a desire to live, to fight and do things even other humans feared to do. She saw beyond her instinctive fear and saw the beauty where others found an foe, and with time she convinced those around her to trust in those feared creatures. From strangers into beloved friends and companions.

She reminded him so much of…

‘No!’ Strife shakes his head, the chin of his avian helmet scraping against his chest piece as he tries to lose that treacherous thought. But it clings to him like a limpet to a rock. He can’t no- he won’t about them, not now at least.

‘It doesn’t hurt to still grieve over the past.’ Something more gentle whispers, soft as rain, the more sentimental, bothersome half of him tries. He recognizes the voice as one of the humans who’d been adamant on consoling him in his time as Jones, ‘Grief means that you loved, and it’s not wrong to love.’

But that’s just it isn't it? Strife, Rider of the White Horse, the Spirit of Discord and Enforcer of the Council, er- rather just Spirit of Discord, shouldn’t love. He’s supposed to be one of the most feared creatures in existence, there’s no room for such a dainty, silly concept of “love”. He’s a pillar, not a person.

Then why, despite all the eons of being who he is, does it hurt so much?

“Something troubles you brother?” The unmissable voice of War sounds from behind him, he can feel his heavy steps tromping through the grass. The soft ground partially muffled his strides which was probably why the gunslinger couldn’t hear his approach.

The back of Strife’s boot knocks against the little cliff he’s nestled on, curling in on himself now conscious over the fact his concern is so easy to read even though he’s faced away from the world. Damn War and his stupid concern.

So desperately Strife wanted to lie to War, brush him off with a well placed stretch and claim he’s “just tired”, it worked so well with the humans when things got too quiet. Deflect the conversation into something else, but that beautiful arctic already was mastered by Death and not him with his clumsy tongue. He couldn’t lie anyways for War in all his stubborn nature would try and pry it out of him somehow.

Still doesn’t make it any easier to tell him, even if there’s a lift of an invisible weight from his sagging shoulders. “Yeah, you could say that.” Brushing his hand through the stiff spikes for hair akin to that of spines rather than luscious hair humans or even War possessed. A demonic trait.

Either from a rare treat of sentimentality or from being away from prying eyes, War places himself to Strife’s side before gently settling beside his brother, a leg pulled flush against his chest whilst the other tucks under the gap of the bent leg. War keeps his arm propped on his knee as the other supports his immense weight. War seemed relaxed enough to put himself in this position, and secretly Strife appreciated that from him, as it gave him a false sense of security that this was a place to be fully vulnerable.

Tapping a claw on his armored thigh, Strife pretends to ignore the inquisitive raised brow War sends him, instead feigning interest in the distant ruins of Eden currently filled with the huts and houses of the refugees. The sunset painted the sky a heavenly hue of gold and oranges that seemed absolutely lackluster when compared to the bursting colors of Earth’s own sun. Eden may have been the magnum opus of the realms made by the Creator for His treasured humans but here it felt as if Eden were a cheap copy and Earth the masterpiece. ‘Not anymore’ he thinks bitterly, an acrid taste left in his mouth.

“Tell me,” Strife began, the faint creaking of leather telling Strife his younger brother in arms is listening, “did you ever think we’d ever see this place again?” He gestures to the place before them, recovering from the age-old battle with the lush overgrowth of Eden’s native flora that can be seen nowhere else. Although he knows the answer, it won’t do any harm in getting the old lug to talk a bit. Creator knows War almost never speaks, let alone about feelings.

Maybe the humans have rubbed off on him a bit more than he suspected. He never would’ve talked about feelings before, it's more likely he would rather put a bullet to his head before talking about his past. The present him however, is more… different from the one from millenia ago.

“No,” War starts, looking at the spanse of land before him, “I never imagined I’d ever set foot in this place after the war. This realm was supposed to be lost to the Universe, and its ghosts left behind.” Strife huffs, resting his elbow on his knee. “Doesn’t seem so lost to me,” he snarks, but the humor is lost on War as he solemnly stares in the distance, silent. The elder of the two then sighs, deflating like a popped balloon, “Though, I supposed it’s for the best. The humans need it more than anything. Even if we don’t like it, we have to just… deal with it.”

‘Though it still doesn't sting any less.’

“Strife, if I may be direct, Eden isn’t the only reason for your mood is it? There’s something else…” War trails off, prodding the metaphorical beast enough to elicit a response. He doesn’t answer immediately, feeling that War’s question hit him head on as if he were in battle and not just speaking. The silence in his hesitancy to answer is nearly suffocating. He doesn’t even pretend to hide his apprehension, his hand coming up to rake through his hair, turning his head away until War was no longer in his peripheral.

“It is, the humans you saw? The ones who greeted you and Fury when we arrived?” There it is, hitting the head of the nail.

Of course War didn’t know, being imprisoned for nearly a century, away from all that transpired on Earth. In the short amount of time the Four had been reunited, there was a lot to catch up upon. But it was rather hilarious to watch War and Death’s face when the survivors came to Fury, and she didn’t reject their greetings with a snide remark.

So much has really happened to everyone involved.

“Or perhaps, it was that one young human girl, the one who embraced you. She was especially fond of you. May I inquire as to why? You’ve been quiet ever since you saw her.” Strife nearly wishes the ground beneath him to swallow him up. A nice cozy grave where all the rest of his people lay. Ironic.

Strife can feel those blueish eyes trained right on him, waiting expectantly now that a can of worms has been opened and he can’t shove the proverbial worms back in the tin confines and throw it across the cliff. Try as he might, he doubts War would appreciate the notion of him trying to toss him off the edge to avoid this topic he was at the best, hesitant to speak about.

“She was from, when I was on Earth. When I was Jones. After I abandoned the mission from the Council,” he spat that word out as it were rot on his tongue, “I went incognito, made a glamored disguise as a human and became a refugee.” He can feel War’s icy stare bear into him, likely not truly understanding his motive completely given his viewpoints of always going through with what he must do. But he continues anyway, “After a while, I found Haven, a safe space made by Ulthane and some other Makers who took in any survivors. That’s when I met the kid.” Something akin to tenderness washes over the old Nephilim as his golden eyes glaze over with memories.

“She was so young, War, I still can’t believe she survived on her own for months before she found others. I saw here and I just, Creator, I was reminded of…”

It’s then does Strife’s tongue glue to the roof of his mouth, his throat clamping up to near suffocation to stop the words from escaping. His own body protects him from saying the next few words that bring back the worst of his memories, the lowest a Nephilim can go. He wishes- nay prays he could swallow those words that fly into War’s awaiting ears, but it’s too late as the younger tilts his head, opening his lips to ask yet another, damning question.

“Remind you of who?” Those words were a blow to Strife’s black heart, and it felt as if the breath in his lungs was forced out in a brutal punch. His skin felt hot, yet freezing under the sweat that broke all over his body.

There’s no going back now.

Heaving a weary sigh, Strife puts his heavy head in his clawed hands, composing himself into something less of a train wreck. Maybe something shy of the verge of running head first off the cliff would be better before he finally opens his mouth once again, tongue dry as cotton as he rasps.

“Remember what I told you, the last time we were here. That one day that I’d tell you everything from before we met?” He can still hear the echoes of the past reverberate through the land the more he feels the memories bubble up from the deepest crevices of his eternal past he long since locked up. It’s so powerful he can almost feel the tickle of hair and the sweet smells caressing his nostrils. He hates that he can almost see their faces in the dying light.

“Yes, you did.”

“Well,” Strife sniffs, looking up to the retreating sun and the stars that peek through the growing darkness. “You remember that knife I’d buried…” his heart lurches in his throat, as does bile rise, the acrid taste coming to taint his tongue, Strife swallows down the last of his worries, as he lets the last of his resolve dissolve, thankful for the darkness that covers the sight of tears freely falling down his cheeks.

“That knife wasn’t for some assassination gig. It was personal.”

_______

The order of the Council echoes in his head, it’s as if he was hearing it for the first time and not countless hours ago.

“As your first mission as the Horsemen, you must eradicate the Nephilim from Eden! They invade the realm and slaughter defenseless humans in their wake! Not one soul is to be left unclaimed!”

Four pairs of hoofbeats galloped through the bloodsoaked battlefield, leaving behind nothing but carnage and death in their wake. Souls shriek and wail as they are ripped from their weak bodies and redirected into Death’s awaiting Amulet, sealing them away in a restless cage. The cries of the thousands strong army ring past the lush vegetation caked with human and Nephilim blood.

The heart of the battle wasn’t where the White Rider lay his gaze, but to the outskirts where stragglers, possible runaways fled for their own self preservation. His hawk-like sight honed in on the retreating figures, mostly those tasked with spreading word to those in other stretches of the realm, warning to either take arms or run. Not that they lived long enough to have the chance when he raised his pistol and eyed them through the sight before pulling the trigger.

None escaped the Sharpshooter.

The job was far from done. Strife knew this well, as his head swiveled to the far horizon where more and more Nephilim marched in a huge wave, splitting off into two huge groups around him. Likely attempting to outflank his brothers in arms as they forced their way through the defenses.

He’d let the others deal with the army, as they wouldn’t miss him too terribly as his orders were given. It’s for the best that he gets to the encampments Death had mentioned where all the others lay, those who didn’t join the fight. The very few who stayed behind that is.

“It’s for the best.” He utters to no one in particular. But he can’t find himself to believe those words as he sends his horse, Mayhem into a frenzied gallop, charging onward to reach one such encampment miles away.

Everything was a blur, as if peeking through a layer of thickly woven wool. All he could remember were the screams and the gunpowder as he reached the site, laying waste to all who charged forth in challenge. It wasn’t until Strife ventured further into the heart of the grounds did he realize that those left were nothing more than soldiers tasked with carrying out Absolam’s orders when more warriors poured in, given the scrolls of scrawled out messages. Warnings of their counterattack and a call to arms for all able bodied Nephilim to march forward in the name of “claiming a home”.

What a lie.

Lifting his head from the strewn corpses, he turned his attention to a most familiar sight. A Nephilim portal. The swirling mass of bluish purple magics, ripping a hole in the air enacting as a doorway. If doorways were meant to warp space-reality that is…

This is it. The gateway for the endless masses, or at least, one of them given Absolam was no fool.

As Strife commands his steed to move towards the portal, Mayhem snorts from underneath, unsure about this as he paws at the ground nervously. Pulling at the reins, Strife sucks a breath through his teeth to soothe his own galloping heart.

“Easy now.” But it’s unknown if it’s to the horse, or the rider as they both stare down the awaiting doorway. Shoving down the last of his nerves, Strife does his best to keep his brain from fogging up as he orders Mayhem forward, slipping into the swirling magic, the darkness enveloping them both.

_____

Although he’s done this thousands of times, there’s something that’s different about jumping into this portal. Strife had long since ignored the pulling apart of his cells, the electric buzz that floods his nerves and the kaleidoscope of sounds and colors that ensue traveling across the Universe. But this time, he can feel the pain in his atoms, the tingling leaves his body numb yet shaking and the cacophony of sound and sight that sends his brain into a frenzy. As if the Universe were punishing him for his actions against his own people. However, he attempted to ignore those thoughts that plagued his mind.

It’s until the pull of gravity weighs him down does the Sharpshooter open his eyes.

Dead ahead, a large village lay vastly deserted, the fires between several degrees of extinguishment, smoke filtering through the air. Golden eyes scanning over the expansive stretch of the land, searching for any signs of life to extinguish before he has to move on to the next mark.

Clicking his tongue, Mayhem obediently marches forward to the site’s outskirts, making wide berth to avoid an abandoned smoldering fire pit, plates of cooking food thrown aside and deep footprints in the slightly wet dirt. Likely those who were here heard word of them coming and rose to arms, even if it meant to disregard dinner.

Within his chest, Strife’s heart clenches as if it had been squeezed by a thorny hand. Even though so many Nephilim marched to Eden, not all had been alongside the Firstborn during the raid. Instead, they were just living their own lives, the very few who didn’t yearn for bloodshed. Which makes the sorrow in him rise like great tidal waves as those orders keep repeating from Death’s lips from over the battlefield.

“Ride on past the battlefields and to the old settlements. Eliminate everything and return.”

He hated how within Death’s tone, it had never been so steady yet strained.

Maybe he’s just reading far too much into it.

A piercing neigh tears Strife from his thoughts, forcing his eyes to refocus from the blur that they fell into to see Mayhem has stopped at the first set of huts surrounding them on both sides. Rising high above their heads, the sharpshooter takes the time to stay still in the ghosttown of a settlement, yet he can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Muscles quiver under pounds of metal, loosening the tension of tense tendons. Hopping off his horse, Strife pats Mayhem on the neck before sending him away with a mental command, and he dissipates in a cloud of purple mist leaving the rider alone. “For the Balance” he tries to chant like a mantra as his feet carry him forward into the first house.

It’s what he tries to convince himself is right as he points Mercy’s muzzle right in between the eyes of two bright eyes that innocently gaze back, full of youth and promise.

He tries to not think about anything else, eyes trained to the floor as he squeezes the trigger, a resonating bang silencing the question that passes by the young Nephilim’s lips.

___

Deeper into the village, Strife kept his hands on the pistol’s handles in the case of an ambush should any who remained got brave enough to do so. Then again, the only he’d encountered so far were old warriors and a few children.

These facts did not sit well in his stomach the more he thought about it.

Near twenty souls he had claimed by the hands of Mercy and Redemption, but the job wasn’t over as he still had a few more homes to search before he had to inevitably ride back to Eden to rinse and repeat this process. With each pull of the trigger he can feel something inside of him be ripped apart.

But he must carry this out. Humanity needs a protector lest they all be slaughtered before the night ends.

There’s something that sends Strife’s heart dropping to his feet and tumbling down into the center of the planet. A most familiar gentle tinkling sound of a windchime in the soft breeze, and he knew who this belonged to as no other Nephilim in existence owned this peculiar object.

No, no, no, no! This can’t be!

Eyes wider than saucers, Strife’s gaze turns to the suspect of the sound and prays, he’s on the verge of getting on his knees and begging the Creator from this not being true. Golden eyes land on a strung up stick tied with delicately made clay bells decorated with wooden beads and teeth. The rungs clink peacefully against the clay domes, but to Strife, it feels like a death toll in his ears. He not only recognizes this home, but he knows it like the back of his own hand.

This is the home of his family.

He’d rather shoot himself in the head right now than step in there with the malicious intent he’s carried alongside him with every cursed step he took.

He could just… turn tail and leave. Run as fast as his legs could carry him until he collapsed or was killed. Anything but turning his own pistols against his mate Kasos. Yeah, he could just pretend that he got everyone, tell Death that everyone was taken care of and live forever without seeing her again. He’d rather live with that guilt than carry out some stupid mission.

‘But I’d never see Toka again, my sweet girl…’ Something moans.

‘You need to carry out this mission, or the Council will let them suffer the consequences of his actions.’ A sterner, more serious voice commands, tough and sharp as steel. It eerily sounds like War’s authoritative tone than his own.

‘Who’s to say they’re even here?’ another argues, scrabbling between the infighting of his psyche.

Yeah, don’t get too far ahead. Just check in there, and if they’re in there, I’ll figure it out later.

Though he doubts his options will be very glamorous for him either way.

But if he can take the wrath in exchange for their safety, he’d gladly take it.

Sucking a breath through his teeth, he finally takes a step towards the house’s curtained doorway, his legs felt as if they’re tied by lead weights, each more heavy and hard to lift than the last. Stepping in the domain feels as if he’s violating sacred grounds with his very presence and not returning to the home that is his.

Brushing the curtain aside, Strife sucks in a shaky breath as his hands begin to tremble. A million possibilities run their course, each scenario worse than the last as he steps into the familiar structure of the main room. Everything left the same as he could remember, or as well as it can be considering the Nephilim being a nomadic people left little in the way for permanent placement of furniture or anything else.

This hut, unlike some others, was larger with extra rooms, and left many possible places for his mate and child to be hiding. If they’re still here that is.

Letting his guard down in the form of his shoulders slackening and his hands falling to his sides and not hovering over the hilt of his twin pistols. He almost falls into a sort of trance as his eyes glaze over with the memories that litter this domain, the ghosts of the past practically dancing before his eyes behind a misty veil that only he can witness.

As his eyes follow the invisible child dancing through the den, the dopey grin across his face drops as he takes in the sight before him. A small, expertly crafted doll next to a well known, at least to Strife, knife. The weapon lies harmlessly in its leather sheath, but underneath, Strife memorized every curve and detailed carving engraved in the rare metal as it was his knife. A gift from his mate for when they officially decided to live as permanent partners, a rare and near unheard of practice. He had used it plenty of times in the past so much it never left his side, not even in sleep. Until today that was.

He had ultimately decided to leave it behind as to completely sever himself from all sentimentality when he came before the Council. They would like to see a cold blooded killer who flinched at nothing he put himself to be instead of a fidgety, loose cannon of a Nephilim who smiles at the thought of his partner and daughter. They needed iron handed enforcers, not silly fathers.

Boots thumping as he traverses over to the two near sacred items to Strife, his hands come to shakily pick up both the weapon and doll that seems near tiny in his armored hand. Two bead eyes black as coal peer innocently back at him, the head flopping cutely to the side in a questioning tilt. He’s never felt more mocked in his life. Those eyes kept glaring into him unblinkingly, casting a judgement only he would be under, weighing the potential of his crimes.

“Will you do it?” It screams at him.

Something within him snaps, as his clawed fingers clamp together in a tight fist, squeezing the doll into a near inch of its little inanimate life. The fabric strains to hold in the stuffing, those little eyes pointing to different directions, near to the point of popping free of its sewing. Just as Strife’s hand starts to quake with an unnatural amount of strength, he lets it go. He watches the little doll return to its normal, not squished state, save for a little distortion from his strangling.

He can’t stop the guilt that creeps up on him, as he thinks about the loving gentle hold the doll had always been subject to in Toka’s embrace.

Toka… Kasos…

He has to get them out of here.

Damn everything to the deepest depths of Hell’s lowest caverns and pits. In fact, who’s to say that what he’s doing is right? Absolam’s to blame, not those who didn’t march to Eden. Yet that didn’t stop him from slaughtering the others.

“You must eradicate the Nephilim!” The order echoes, leaving a foul taste in Strife’s mouth.

“RRRRAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!!!!”

A feminine shriek sounds off from Strife’s side, and just as quick as he is to hear the scream, he’s tackled from the side, tumbling down to the ground in a graceless heap. The wind is knocked loose from his lungs, stealing any sound he can make as the attacker begins her onslaught of brutal punches and clawing, scrabbling away to peel his armor off. In his own panic of blurred vision and no air, Strife began his own retaliation by dropping the doll and bashing his assailant on the head with a fist.

Despite the solid punch, she remains determined as she keeps tearing into him, even though the efforts are useless as claws do no damage on steel. In an attempt to throw her off, Strife attempts to lift his hips as to buck her off, but her heavy weight keeps her steady as her legs are locked onto his. He can’t reach his pistols this way, not without giving her an opening to either claw his helm off and scratch his eyes out or wrestle the knife out of his hands in order to kill him properly.

The knife!

Completely at the mercy of the woman, Strife lets his free arm come up to enact as a brace as he lets the other dagger wielding hand fll aside to fling the leather hilt off. But by doing this, she’s able to see what he’s attempting to do, and clamps her own hand over his, wrestling him for the weapon.

“You filthy traitor!” She bellows, digging her claws into the softer material of his armor does Strife unintentionally take pause as his brain goes into overdrive.

It’s Kasos. His beloved mate.

In just the few seconds he is still, Kasos wrenches the dagger free in one fell swoop, and points the tip downwards before readying for a strike at his throat. In record time, Strife’s reflexes catch up before his brain can comprehend anything else, saving himself from metal piercing his esophagus, even just barely.

“You tratious bastard! Think you can just come into my home and kill us like you did everyone else here?! I’ll have your head on a pike after I tear that disgusting mask off your wretched face and see who you are!” Kasos bares her sharpened teeth, green eyes glittering with rage as she watches him in power, huge arms straining to push the blade down.

His eyes widen as those words finally dawn on him. Kasos doesn’t know it’s him. Of course not, as the Nephilim never knew who exactly the Four are, or were beforehand, save for Death. They’d all been given new identities as Horsemen, abandoning their past completely. To Kasos, he’s but a stranger.

It makes his heart drop.

But he still had to stop Kasos, lest he end up dead and her heart full of regret. In a desperate attempt, he swings his leg up until the tip of his boot meets with the back of her head, momentarily stunning Kasos enough for Strife to scramble free from under her. He keeps the weapon in his grip as he puts space between the two of them. Kasos screams fiercely at the loss.

What he does next, Strife will never know what possessed him to do so. Before Kasos could properly charge at him again, the gunslinger rips his avain helm off in one fluid motion, and casts it aside as he stares Kasos down with wide eyes. Now there’s nothing between them.

It seems to work like a charm as Kasos stops her stampeding, nearly tripping over herself as she stares at him with those glowing eyes of hers, so bright and full of horrified confusion. In his years with Kasos, she never seemed so vulnerable until now. He watches the terrified look on her face turn into confusion, then realization.

“Serjal?” She whispers.

Strife flinches at the name. ‘Not anymore.’ He thinks mournfully, not meeting her eyes.

“Serjal, w-what are you doing?!” She cries out, voice cracking. He never wished until now for the floor to eat him whole. He can only offer a pitiful glance, lips tugging downwards, not even able to form a half assed explanation. Shameful.

He can only stand there as Kasos slowly connects the dots, her eyes darting between him, the helmet and the pistols strapped to his hips. Her beautifully rugged face morphs from her befuddlement to unrestrained fury he’d come to love and just as equally fear. And even now, he still felt the same.

“Serjal you… WHY?!”

He tries not to choke on his next words. “The Nephilim… are a threat to the Balance. Eden is being invaded by Absolam as we speak. It’s my mission to ensure no one else is left.” Oh Creator, her eyes never have been filled with such agony.

“No one?! Including me?! Including our daughter?!?” Kasos roars, shoulders heaving with each raging breath she takes.

“I don’t want to kill either of you.” He confesses simply. “I thought about whisking you away somewhere where you can’t be found-”

“THAT DOESN’T MATTER! YOU TURN AGAINST US, AGAINST OUR PEOPLE!! I saw you in the village, the people you slaughtered. The children you slain! They did not deserve what you did!” Each word is filled with more and more venom and hatred that seethes in her very being. Deep down, Strife agrees with every word.

“You will not touch Toka. Because I’ll kill you first!”

Kasos launches herself forward with a newfound hellish need to kill and maim, unleashing the most primal and raw scream Strife had ever heard. Jumping into action, Strife falls into a familiar sensation of combat, his years of training catching up before his emotions can logically stop him. His feet brace for the oncoming impact, and he awaits for the right moment to strike, and he gets it.

Just as Kasos wraps her arms around his abdomen and reach for his pistols he comes to raise his armed hand and strike at her. Piercing her vulnerable neck with the very dagger she so lovingly carved and gifted for him as a present. Is most treasured possession in Creation. When cold metal stabs into flesh does Strife break out of his reverie does he realize the greatest mistake he can make. Even worse than accepting the Council’s invitation to take the mantle of the White Rider.

All he can do is collapse to the floor, right on his backside as Kasos lands atop of him, gurgling on blood. Blood is colder than ice, it ceases all movement as the male can only wrap his hands around Kasos’s head, cradling her so gently it’s as if she’d break. She doesn’t even struggle in his hold as the life in her is rapidly draining from her dying body. A wet warmness snakes down the sides of his face. Tears he realizes dully. Here, he lies still as the dead, apathetically wishing he could join them.

“Da?”

No…

Can’t for once the Universe grant him a break? He’d do anything other than hear that quivering, well known voice. Bile rose in his throat as the dark haired Nephilim pathetically turned his head over to see the visage of his young daughter at the door leading to his and Kasos’s shared bedroom. Toka’s eyes are wide and he can see their green tint behind her black bangs that she inherited from him. A tiny hand is covering her mouth as she trembles like a leaf in the wind.

He wished he could wipe those tears away.

“Da… what did you do? W-why did you do that to Mother?!” More tears fell down as he pushed himself up, ever so delicately he laid Kasos down, but not before removing the dagger out of habit. He wouldn’t give Toka such an impersonal death with a bullet, if he had to resort to it.

“Toka, dearest. My Sweet, I didn’t mean to-” he takes one step forward, but Toka steps back, afraid. It hurts more than any pain he experienced. “Please, let me explain…”

“No! NO! You hurt Mother!!” Then turning on her heel, Toka breaks into a dead sprint right past him and into freedom. Strife follows suit, keeping pace with the child as she tries to navigate through the village.

Even as he keeps on the chase, what’s stopping him from just letting her go as far as she can go? Give her a chance to live, even if she ends up alone and the last Nephilim beside him and the others. Sounds absolutely cruel, but is it more barbarous to slay her with his own hands? And rob her of the life she’d just begun to live? A life of what? Killing and conquering that he’d so carnally enjoyed? Constantly on the run if he decided to let her go?

If the Council found out, they’d hunt her down and she’d pay a terrible price. That’s if the bastard Angels don’t find her first.

It all was so hard to choose, but the more Strife put thought into it, the more obvious the answers became hate it as he does.

As his feet come to a still, he doesn’t look up as he unholsters Redemption and lines up the shot as Toka continues to run. Leagues ahead of him by now. But she can’t outrun a speeding bullet. He squeezes the trigger, feeling the recoil rock through his arms as a single sharp explosion cracks the quiet, a shrill whistle rockets past the air before meeting its target. Toka’s distant scream sounds off, sending Strife to hurdle into some unknown downward spiral. Just as he heard the scream, everything around him felt as if it were a vivid hallucination.

He doesn’t even recall commanding his feet to carry him forward, nor does he even seem to comprehend that the world around is moving when his vision is blurred and suspended in time. All Strife is ale to pick apart in this haze is the sky is slowly growing black with approaching dusk and the downed figure of Toka is gradually growing larger.

At last Toka is in full view, laying on her belly as a bullethole is marked in his backside, just at the thoracic vertebrae where her ribs start. Though her upper body frantically strains to carry her forward, her legs are completely useless, dead weight. ‘Paralysis’ he numbly notes.

In a great heap of clunking metal, the regretful father collapses beside his agonizing daughter who can only sob as he places a hand on her back. Right now to him, they are the only two people who exist in this very moment. Him, Toka, a sky full of stars and full twin moons. Actually quite a beautiful sight.

“Toka,” the girl stops her fighting to wearily sniffle and raise a heavy head, “look at the sky full of stars. It’s beautiful isn’t it?” She weakly answers as two hands come to envelope her torso, lifting her up into a seated position, leaning against her father’s chest as they both look to the sky together.

“It is…” She meekly responds, tears falling down her cheeks as one hand comes up to caress her hair, fingers carding through her locks as the other hand slowly raises with the dagger.

“Toka, my Sweet, my whole life, do you know your Da loves you so much?” Faintly, Toka chokes on a sob as she nods her head. Internally, he’s crumbling into dust. Nephilim never confessed about love, but here he was spilling it out, plain and simple. Why hide this away any longer?

“Da loves you so much. I love you more than there are stars in this Universe, I love you more than you can imagine. You are my everything, and you always will be. No matter what. I will look to the stars and always think of you and your mother.”

“Da…” Toka croaks, one arm weakly reaching out to the one that’s entangled in her hair, her fingers intertwine with his as the blade's edge comes to kiss her throat.

“I’ll miss you Da…” She squeezes his hand one last time.

“Me too.”

The blade meets her throat. After a few moments of Toka’s struggling, she finally slackens, her hand letting go of his as she stares into the starry night. Half lidded eyes void of their bright life that once brought pride to the old Serjal.

Bowing his head, Strife places a singular kiss on Toka’s forehead as he finally lets the dam within him burst.

Even after night turned to morning, Strife hadn’t left from his spot. Not caring for the eventual questioning to follow after he returns to Eden.

[fat-rolls-frictions]

🌏👁️💤(DO they sleep) kavtha, 🔥☄️♥️💔sabel, 👑🌠🌌🙉kim. 3 page essay on my desk by noon!!!!!

dipsses and kisses sorry this took a while. AND! im even on destktop for this!

Kavtha ( no pronouns / OG) pinterest

🌏 EARTH - will they give up the world for someone they love? is this decision easy for them?

No :^) Kavtha doesn’t go by it by virtue of the world not having these distinctions, but aromantic would fit the bill. Love is freely given, and given generously, but it’s not exactly the kind of love people would understand; Kavtha simply does not perceive the world in a way that lends itself to a human understanding of it, despite having a closer ‘awareness’ of human sensibilities than other entities. And no matter how much love is granted, Kavtha cannot change Kavtha’s nature.

👁️ EYE - what colour are their eyes? do people notice their eyes? is there anything special about them (shows emotion easily, literally magical…)?

Man oh man I need to sit down and finalize the design, but right now Kavtha’s ‘eyes’ are just empty sockets on a horned skull. The kind where you aren’t sure is a head, but there’s too much connective tissue to be a mask. In a non-literal sense, Kavtha possesses many Eyes, which right now is a measure of power, the ability to look through the dark matter of dimensions and interact with it. Mold it. In a more magic-physical sense: the horned skull sockets rain flowers known and unknown in correspondence with emotions. An eternally weeping god.

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep? (DO they sleep?)

I would say Kavtha doesn’t sleep, just. Look Away for moments at a time. Less a blink, and more like, unfocusing your eyes when there’s nothing particular to look at. I’m thinking these entities do rest, just not like us, and it’s not as often that you stumble across one resting.

Sabel (The Northern Passage IF) no tag yet

🔥 FIRE - do they have any self destructive tendencies? what habits do they have that hinder them from becoming their best self?

For Sabel it may be pride… very much someone who would double down to defend their backsliding or fuck-ups. She’d find it hard to admit her mistakes out loud, rather tries to fix them quietly and pretend that she has everything under control.

☄️ COMET - what do people assume about them? are they right?

Hmmm maybe that she's cold and impersonal. Unaffected most times, dismissive otherwise. Which is wrong; she's quick to disengage, and reserved with her emotions, but that doesn't mean she's cold or uncaring about others. In fact she almost always prefers to bottle confrontations up. She's decisive in cutting people out, but also prefers to split ways civilly, and so acts accordingly.

❤️ RED HEART - their love language(s)?

How she prefers to show it: acts of service. How she would prefer to receive it: words of affirmation, acts of service

💔 BROKEN HEART - what could their partner do that would absolutely break their heart?

Control. Autonomy is important to her, and partners trying to infringe upon it by virtue of their relationship would be a huge violation of trust

Kim Nguyen (Greenwarden IF) tag

👑 CROWN - what does your oc want to be remembered as? why?

Kim has a negative self image that bleed into assumptions of what others think; thoughts she both rails against and believes to be not far from the truth. She isn't fully aware of this and doesn't examine it because it hurts, but deep down she would want to be remembered as someone helpful and protective, because at her core she wants to protect others. She just believes that she's been irreparably, fundamentally corrupted, and all her attempts are too little too late considering the rest of her.

🌠 COMET - what do people assume about them? are they right?

Answered this on the discord so just a copypasta: "some think she’s ill-tempered and antagonistic, some pity her. she looks like she hasn’t got a good night or her life together in years, just overall haggard and worn. u know when she isnt puffing up like a cranky cat. and no they arent wrong so 💁"

🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them?

Kim was an old OC revived for IF so! I gotta say I don't really remember her original inspiration very clearly anymore, either "19th century-ish poverty child soldier so SUPER short" or "suitcase that gets transformed into giant battle axe" came first. Evidently the axe is not applicable for GW haha. Other than that its the dog themes, but after a while they have kinda transformed into cat themes…

🙉 HEAR-NO-EVIL - what is the worse thing your oc could hear from someone?

"It was all for nothing. There's no point to your atrocities or your suffering. You're just one more thing making the world worse."

[elliemarchetti]

The Most Macabre of Scenes, The Most Terrible of Nightmares

As I hope the few souls reading this have already guessed, requests are open for anything on LOTR and The Hobbit. However, in this chapter the journey of the Fellowship continues, but various shadows loom over their safety and the hearts of its members.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Words: 2643

The attack was short and violent, but fortunately no one was injured. It was about midnight on their eighth day of travel when the Orcs stroke, a raid planned down to the last detail, one might say, as they had took advantage of the current, the crescent moon that lit up the sky and the abundance of strangely bright stars, reflecting like torches on the River’s surface. Their black-feathered arrows had fallen like lethal rain upon the Fellowship, but except for a few torn cloaks, there had been no damage. Hidden among the ferns of the western shore, as awake as they could be, everyone thought about what they saw in the sky after their enemies had unexpectedly retreated, trying to give a name to the great winged creature, blacker than the pits of the night, which had emerged from the south. Fierce voices rose up to greet it from across the water, and Elva could still feel the chills running through her and clutching at her heart, deadly cold like the memory of an old wound. She had killed it, with a single shot from the bow she had received as a gift in Lorien, but she was sure there were others, and she wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from that irreparably corrupted land. After that vision, Haldir had no longer spoken, but he was frowning and his mind was probably in Lothlorien, lost in calculating how long such a beast would take to reach the ends of the mallorn’s forest. Lying next to him, Elva wished she was able to say out loud that he could return, if he wished, that no one would’ve wanted him any harm for placing his homeland before a mission that didn’t even belonged to him, and that Galadriel herself would’ve probably been grateful for the warning, but selfishly, she couldn’t, so she hugged tighter her knees under the cloak, a reassurance and a way to fight the changing of the weather. When the day came, the mood of the world about them had become soft and sad. Slowly the dawn grew to a pale light, diffused and shadowless. There was mist on the River, and white fog swathed the shore, making the far bank impossible to see.

“I can’t abide fog,” said Sam, “but this seems to be a lucky one: now perhaps we can get away without those cursed goblins seeing us.”

“Perhaps so,” said Aragorn. “But it will be hard to find the path unless the fog lifts a little later on, and we must, if we are to pass Sarn Gebir and come to the Emyn Muil.”

“I don’t see why we should pass the Rapids or follow the River any further,” said Boromir. “If the Emyn Muil lie before us, then we can abandon these cockle-boats and strike westward and southward, until we come to the Entwash and cross into my own land.”

“We can, if we are making for Minas Tirith,” said Aragorn, “but that’s not yet agreed, and such a course may be more perilous than it sounds: the Entwash’s vale is flat and fenny, fog a deadly peril for those on foot and laden. I wouldn’t abandon our boats until we must, for the River is at least a path that cannot be missed.”

“But the Enemy holds the eastern bank,” objected Boromir, “and even if you pass the Gates of Argonath, coming unmolested to the Tindrock, what will you do then? Leap down the Falls and land in the marshes?”

The tones were heating up, and Elva thought it was time to intervene: “It’s not the way of the Men of Minas Tirith to desert their friends at need, and we’ll need your strength, if ever we are to reach the Tindrock.”

The mortal seemed satisfied with those words, and decided he would go as far as the tall isle, but no further.

“There I shall turn to my home,” he announced, “alone if my help hasn’t earned the reward of any companionship.”

Elva prayed that someone had decided to pursue that mission, but in order to keep an army as powerful as that of Boromir's father, if everyone chose to follow Aragorn, she would be the one to separate from the rest of the companions, this decided a long time ago, perhaps at the very moment Gandalf had chosen her for the Quest. That gloomy possibility, which was so far from her ideals, prompted her to wait for the mist to rise in silence, even as she and Haldir went exploring forward along the shore, while the others remained by the boats. She hoped to find some way by which they could carry everything to the smoother water beyond the Rapids, but even if the elven boats wouldn’t sink, that didn’t ensure they could come through Sarn Gebir alive, for none ever done so yet, and no road was made by the Men of Gondor in this region, for even in their great days their realm didn’t reach up Anduin beyond the Emyn Muil.

“There is a portage-way somewhere on the western shore, if I can find it,” revealed Haldir, so softly that for a moment Elva hardly noticed.

"I didn't tell the others," the elf went on, "because I was afraid they wouldn't believe me, after my miscalculations pushed us towards the Orcs attack; besides, I fought those creatures for a good part of my own adult life, and I could’ve imagined their simple but ingenious plan."

"No one was injured, that's the important thing," Elva replied, thinking that if anyone had risked being hit, it would’ve been him, as an arrow had ripped off both the cloak and the skin of the jacket from his shoulders.

"But if that had happened, the fault would’ve been mine alone, and whoever had accused me, even if only in grief, would’ve been right: you have already lost the Istar, and before I should’ve warned Aragorn it wasn’t wise to continue at night as he suggested, but I didn't, and now I don't want to deceive anyone until I’m sure that my memory doesn’t deceive me," he replied, resolute in the bitterness of someone who can't forgive himself.

"Why are you telling me, then?" Elva asked, unable to stop.

"Because I'm sure I can trust you, and I know you’ve faced the guilt, same or not, even if I still don’t know what you’re carrying it for,” he replied, with a naked and vulnerable honesty, which hit right to the point. She didn't like talking about her past, much less what she felt about it, yet he must’ve seen a difficult life in her eyes, a life that perhaps could’ve been more like his, if only she had been born in another realm. Like Lorien, Mirkwood was a wonderful but tricky place, where growing up as a half-breed wasn't easy at all, especially when you needed to do it by yourself. Getting to know Legolas, and later becoming his confidant and friend, had been a blessing, and she kept telling herself that her true life had begun the day a young prince was bewitched by the ability of a simple recruit with a bow and with words. She hadn't treated him well, weary as every orphan is, and perhaps that was precisely what had intrigued him, since at court no one spoke to him as an equal, much less had the courage to say what they really though, too busy trying to win the future king’s favours, since with the one in charge was so hard. Speaking of Thranduil, he had welcomed her as if she were his own daughter, instructing and having her instructed in the best possible way; but the king was a cold and distant father, rigid in his manner and limited in his displays of affection, not exactly what a girl without parents desires most. If loving Legolas as a brother had been simple, as natural as breathing and almost a matter of survival, the same couldn't be said of the oldest of the Greenleafs, but she had learned that too, and with it the art of concealing her heart, although with Haldir it was so difficult.

"And how can I know I should have the same trust in you?" she asked, her heart heavy. She needed to believe that he wouldn’t leave the Fellowship, even if she followed Boromir and everyone else went by water, and she needed to know if he would understand her decision, or if he would end up misinterpreting it.

"You can't, but to convince you otherwise, I'll tell you something that I'm sure should’ve remained a secret: Galadriel's Mirror showed me three visions, three possible futures, I find myself believing. I still don't want to talk about two, because it doesn't seem wise, but the most macabre of scenes, the most terrible of nightmares that I thought I could have, I feel like sharing: I don't know if the Fellowship had failed in its intent, or if it's the fate that awaits my homeland anyway, if events should take that turn, but darkness had fallen over the forest of golden trees when a flock of huge winged creatures, like the one you killed last night, swept over Calas Galadhon. The Lord and the Lady fought side by side with every common citizen, and a shower of arrows capable of obscuring the stars was sent from each talan towards the sky. I don't know how the battle could end, as my vision was limited to that, but I have seen you fight with us, and defend our young and old as if they were your own. I don't pretend to understand what those images meant, and why the Mirror decided to show them to me, but I believe it was the beginning of Lorien's Winter, the first day of a downhill road to inevitable ruin, yet you were there by our side, and I don't think you'd fight for the land of someone you don’t trust,” he concluded, just as enigmatic as his ruler. Did he meant he understood her malfidence towards the Galadhrim, or was it really just his way of assuming that she would always trust him, to the point of risking death for a place that did not belong to her? There was no way of knowing but asking, and it didn't seem appropriate, fearing that he too might ask her what the Mirror had shown her. Death, she might’ve replied, no matter it was the mallorn’s, his people’s or Haldir’s himself, but she didn't want to talk about it anymore, she just wanted to forget his pale skin in the moonlight, the dust, sweat and blood surrounding her like a sea that smelled of the Enemy's wickedness instead of salt, so she fell silent.

“It cannot yet have perished,” muttered Haldir under his breath, after a while. “Light boats used to journey out of Wilderland down to Osgiliath, and still did so until a few years ago, when the Orcs of Mordor began to multiply.”

“Even if we find the path, peril will grow with every mile we go forward, for it lies ahead on every southward road,” replied Elva

They found what they were looking for just before noon, with the head of the Rapids half a mile below them: a track leading to a good landing, a little more than a mile long, was still serviceable, not far beyond the stream clear and smooth again, though running swiftly. The hardest task was to get the boats and baggage to the old portage-way, lying well back from the water-side near which they were camped, and running under the lee of a rock-wall, a furlong or more from the shore. “I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here,” said Haldir, once back.

“That wouldn’t be easy, even if we were all Men,” said Boromir.

“Yet such as we are we will try it,” Aragorn replied peremptorily.

“We will!” confirmed Gimli, and although the task was difficult, it was nevertheless completed, the goods taken out of the boats and brought to the top of the bank, where there was a level space, and the boats themselves drawn out of the water and carried up, proving to be far less heavy than any had expected; at last, all was removed to be laid on the portage-way and with little further hindrance, save from sprawling briars and many fallen stones, they moved forward all together. Fog still hung in veils upon the crumbling rock-wall, and to their left mist shrouded the River: they could hear it rushing and foaming over the sharp shelves and stony teeth of Sarn Gebir, but they couldn't see it. There the portage-way, turning back to the water-side, ran gently down to the shallow edge of a little pool scooped in the river-side, not by hand, but by the water swirling down from Sarn Gebir against a low pier of rock that jutted out some way into the stream. Beyond it the shore rose sheer into a grey cliff, and there was no further passage for those on foot. Already the short afternoon was past, and a dim cloudy dusk was closing in. Sitting beside the water, they listened to the confused rush and roar of the Rapids hidden in the mist; they were tired and sleepy, and their hearts were as gloomy as the dying day at the thought of spending there another night, even if it seemed inevitable, given the general fatigue. Luckily, nothing worse than a brief drizzle of rain an hour before dawn happened, and as soon as it was fully light and the fog was thinning, they started. Keeping as close as they could to the western side, they saw the dim shapes of the low cliffs rising ever higher, shadowy walls with their feet in the hurrying river. In the mid-morning the clouds drew down lower, and it began to rain heavily, forcing them to drew the skin-covers over their boats to prevent them from being flooded and drifted on; little could be seen before or about them through the grey falling curtains but it didn’t last long, the sky above growing lighter and suddenly opening, dismissing fogs and mists too. Before the travellers lay a wide ravine, with great rocky sides to which clung, upon shelves and in narrow crevices, a few trees; as they sped along with little hope of stopping or turning, whatever might meet ahead, Elva peered forward, seeing in the distance two great rocks approaching. Like pinnacles or pillars of stone they stood, tall, sheer and ominous, creating a narrow gap among which the boats could only pass one by one. They were the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings, vast grey figures silent but threatening, shaped and fashioned as two great kings of stone with blurred eyes and crannied brows frowning upon the North. The left hand of each was raised palm outwards in gesture of warning, while in each right hand there was an axe and upon each head there was a crumbling helm and crown. Great power and majesty they still wore, the silent wardens of a long-vanished Kingdom, instilling awe and fear in the Fellowship travelling in boats frail and fleeting as little leaves, under the enduring shadow of the sentinels of Numenor. Passing into the dark chasm of the Gates, sheer rose the dreadful cliffs on either side, while the black waters roared and echoed, and a wind screamed over them. What a horrible place it was, but it must’ve been even worse for Aragorn, a king in exile who was finally returning to his land only to see it filled with the noise of wind, rushing water and echoing stone.

[aforrestofstuff]

Garou struggles with cognitive dissonance and his 87th near-death experience: a small collection of word vomit by yours truly :]

Tbh, this latest chapter has really showed just how naive Garou is. I know calling him dumb isn’t up for debate because it’s basically canon that he’s stupid as all hell, but this kid must’ve spent all of his formative years after age ten trapped in the dojo because he really doesn’t know shit about damn. Mf has never even had a job, or went to any school above elementary (which isn’t really a super bold assumption to make because it’s implied that he spent 24/7/365 in the dojo perfecting his mortal kombat levels of kickassery before going bonkers). This dude has no real world experience and it shows.

So this shithead feels himself turning into a monster... and in his top tier 400iq concussed brain he cracks a plan.

Apparently he thinks that if he just scares humanity into irreparable levels of fear and despair, they will come to feel grateful for their lives and EVERYBODY ON EARTH will just... love each other. In this hypothetical world he creates in his brain during this 15 second timeframe, he thinks that survival will be the one uncertainty (we’re just not gonna think about how survival is ALREADY an uncertainty with monsters running around and there being a global scale attack every five minutes). What’s his plan to carry that out? Is he just gonna pick names from a hat and make an example of the few humans he kills just to keep up this level of uncertainty and continue peddling along this steady stream of fear? Is he gonna sic monsters on these unlucky people?

Come to think of it, if “weak” people are deemed not fit to survive (a running theme in OPM) in his little fanfic world, then he himself shouldn’t even be alive because he was a diddly little twig as a kid and the only reason he isn’t currently twitching in a computer chair wet with tears is because Bang took in his sorry ass. In this hypothetical place, he’ll be inflicting the very hell he despises. On innocent people, no less. Or, “weak” people that are just as he was. I don’t know if this is because he hasn’t thought things through yet or if becoming a monster is actually corrupting his brain and already weak sense of morality.

I could be wrong, but to be honest that’s my only viable interpretation of this because I have zero fucking idea what these panels are even trying to say. I guess Garou’s one true goal is to become Evil Supreme Leader of the World(tm) and inflict love on the general population via controlled doses of fear and trauma. Stupid fucking dipshit WHAT ABOUT THE ECONOMY ASSHOLE

[concubuck]

two guys going 🙃 and being awkward (9/10/21 chat log)

A conversation between Alastor/Buck (hi there) and Alastor/Alexa (@furby-organist/@killstreaming). So remember when Alexa said “you should turn your junk into a fan” and Buck said “one time i turned my junk into a garbage disposal wanna see” and an hour later Alexa went “I can’t believe I told my alternate to turn his junk into a fan” and Buck went “I can’t believe I showed my alternate my garbage disposal junk”? In a stunning and unprecedented display of mutual emotional maturity, they decide to mutually apologize instead of silently pretend it never happened.

concubuck

"Hi! Hello, am I reaching Alastor? This is your alternate speaking! The one that, uh..." AWKWARD PAUSE. "... The one from last night!" That was the only non-horrible way to identify himself, wasn't it.

killstreaming

Oh. Oh God. Alexa wanted to die significantly less today than he wanted to die last night after the post-clown clarity hit, but the feeling immediately SPIKED. Oh no. (Keep calm.) “Hi! Hello, alternate! Yes, speaking! What can I do for you?” He’s going to get chewed out, he knows it.

concubuck

Oh he answered. Buck had been braced to spend five minutes talking to dead air and never be sure if his alternate was silently listening or just not home. He sort of thinks this might be worse?

"Yes? Well!" Clears his throat. "I thought I ought to address last night before it festers. You see, I, uh..." A nervous pause; and then he sighs. "I—okay, look. Cards on the table: I haven't been human for several years. I'm doing a poor job of remembering human etiquette. Even the basic things, like 'don't send an unsolicited film starring your genitalia to a near stranger.' So—I—wanted to apologize for driving you to drink yourself to sleep."

killstreaming

Oh god, they were talking about last night. /Oh./ He wasn’t being chewed out. “I see. Alright. First and foremost, I appreciate you reaching out.” That meant /Alexa/ didn’t have to reach out. “Understandable and fair on all counts, apology accepted. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re entirely in the wrong here. What I’ll /mostly/ take you to task for is putting me in a position where I’d have had to deal with the awkwardness of declining /publicly/. But ultimately, moot point.”

“It was on topic, though, wasn’t it? I /started/ it, and for that, I owe /you/ an apology. I shouldn’t have roped you into that conversation to begin with. Admittedly, this sort of absurd lewd banter has become the norm on hotel grounds -- but with /friends I’ve known for a while/. I don’t know you well enough to bring up your genitalia, absurdist meem or not. I was out of line, and I apologize. I didn’t drink because of /you/. I wanted to exit consciousness upon realizing my social ineptitude, for which I have no excuse, as I’m currently human. So.”

concubuck

Apology accepted. Silent BIG sigh of relief. "Yes, I—I do recognize I put you in a no win situation, there. Modern etiquette hasn't yet provided us with a gentlemanly way of saying 'no, sir, I do NOT want to see your #### live and in color!'"

HE was owed an apology? He blinked in bewilderment, doing several rounds of mental gymnastics before he worked out WHY. "Oh! Oh. Yes, that's—right—well, I— Well that's—there you have it, just what I was saying about the difference between succubi and humans. It never even dawned upon me that the subject matter was unusual. In fact, I'm /sure/ I thought something to myself like 'oh! Dismemberment! How refreshing, a conversation that isn't sexual.'" Hi don't mind that slight edge of hysteria to his laughter, it's barely noticeable, hardly there, really. "Well—apology accepted, naturally. No damage was done, didn't even chip the paint."

killstreaming

“Pff--” Alexa cackled loudly, one hand uselessly covering his mouth. Live and in color, indeed. Alright, point made, looked like he and Buck were on the same page. “In retrospect, tuning in with no hesitation wasn’t the most grandiose display of decorum.” /Was/ there a correct way to have handled that? Alexa didn’t think so, so, no apology offered.

It was Alexa’s turn to internally sigh of relief. Good, he hadn’t irreparably weirded Buck out. “Hah, alright! I’m not entitely familiar with succubus etiquette, but I’m glad to hear it cast me in a better light than I otherwise would’ve been!” Oh, wheeze. “Hah, what people are into has never ceased to amaze me. Dismemberment, really. But hey-- I’m fine to say, no harm, no foul. I’m good if you’re good.”

concubuck

"... Mm. Perhaps." Tuning in with no hesitation was, in fact, exactly what he hoped and needed people to do. The suggesting that /watching what he offered to be watched/ was somehow inherently indecorous, as though to consume his content was an act of self-degradation... He shifted uncomfortably and tried to remember whether or not he would have agreed with his alternate back when he was human.

(Did it really matter? Wasn't it a succubus's duty to be a corruptive force? If gazing upon him made people a little dirtier, he was doing his job, right? He told himself that and tried to ignore how uneasy he felt in his skin.)

"It's less accurate to say succubi have etiquette around the topic and more accurate to say they have a near complete lack of barriers or standards. The mere fact I prefer not to cuss on air marks me out as queerly prudish." A rueful laugh. "No harm, no foul."

killstreaming

Good golly, Alexa, how do you eat when you’ve got your foot in your mouth so frequently? And he doesn’t even know this time! He’d intended to strictly critique /himself/, but it did imply something about the person offering, didn’t it? To make matters worse, he was taking Buck’s silence as judgment for being prudish about the matter.

Aaand then he wasn’t. Good, okay, they were fine, he really had to stop getting in his own head. “So you’re telling me it’s absolutely /lawless/ out there!” Dramatic hands to his cheeks. “Humans aren’t that much different -- they find me prudish for it as well. Anyway, my interactions with succubi have been largely business to this point, so I have much to learn about social norms.” There, a shield in case he shows his ass in the future.

concubuck

"Oh, succubi don't have much in the way of social norms worth learning." Which was probably a grave disservice to succubi for him to say, but he wasn't currently feeling very charitable to his own state of existence. "I interact with humans to interact with humans. Don't let me get out of line."

killstreaming

“Right, well.” And /that/ conversational door had been shut in his face. His smile thinned into a tight V. “Understood. Call me out if I’m out of line as well.” (He’d like to think his excuse is that he’s barely resocialized, but he doesn’t think it holds much water.)

concubuck

"I doubt you will be, but—yes. Of course."

He realized, a bit too late, that he'd come across as more dismissive than he'd intended to. He ought to offer /something/ more. "The thing is just that there is, as far as I can tell, nothing taboo to say among succubi. If a complete stranger says 'hi, how are you' and the other replies 'I caught something from this b##### and now my c### itches like a mother####er," of the two, the only one that said something surprising is the one who asked how the other is. So, there's—there's very little that /can/ be said wrong. Actions, /physical/ actions, can cross the line, but words are weightless. Almost meaningless, even."

killstreaming

“I-- pfft.” Buck’s sample of succubus dialogue threw Alexa off for a bit, he hadn’t been expecting that. Okay, give him a second, maybe you can hear him stifle another laugh.

“Really! No boundaries around oversharing whatsoever! Fascinating, and oddly reassuring! It’s not even that lax on hotel grounds!” And, well, Buck had gotten a glimpse of how wild those could get. “Look --all cards on the table, right?-- people think they can talk to my husband every which way because of his profession. Forgive me if I kick myself too easily over doing the same; it’s not a critique of succubus standards.”

concubuck

"Very few boundaries, at any rate. Personally, I think their could stand to be a few more. But when you're walking down the street, some oversexed pedestrian says 'hey there succuc###, wanna s### off my c###?' and you find yourself thinking 'do I have enough time for that?' instead of the more reasonable 'should I decapitate him or just give him a swift kick,' well... At that point you have to concede that the standards you think you should have and the standards you actually have no longer overlap, don't you?"

Which was a far more horrifying thing than he'd intended to admit. So he hurried on, "So—anyway, I appreciate the gentlemanly inclination; but don't beat yourself up too much over a comment that didn't even faze me, won't you? I'd hate for my own alternate to suffer needlessly on my behalf!"

killstreaming

Alexa wasn’t /judging/ Buck -- by what standards does one judge an entire other species & their cultural norms? it is what it is, -- but the divide between them was beginning to feel a bit more /present/. And did he want to hear about an acquaintance contemplating blowing a pedestrian? Not really, but he’d chalk it up to aforementioned cultural norm. He laughed to shake it off, and hoped it didn’t come out too awkward.

“Alright, alright, fair enough! Point taken. Don’t worry about me, then. And /you/ don’t beat yourself up either, alright? I don’t have much reassurance to offer other than that it takes a /lot/ to genuinely offend me, and I’d like to think I’m charitable regarding cultural differences.” He fidgeted, hoping he hadn’t said anything wrong. “I mean, because I /would/ like to keep getting to know you.” Did that sound like a come-on? If that came off like a come-on, he’d eat his whole foot. (The other one, the one he /hasn’t/ already stuck in his mouth.)

concubuck

It kind of did sound like a come on. But of the two Alastors who had watched his video, this was the one who HADN'T offered to fist him, and on top of that Buck didn't WANT it to be a come on, so he was going to take it on faith that it wasn't. "And I'd certainly like to keep getting to know you!" ... He hoped THAT didn't sound like a come on. "Ideally with less amateur pornography this time around."

killstreaming

Alexa almost made that stupid joke about waiting until the second date for that sort of thing (third if he's feeling REALLY old-fashioned), but no. Buck wasn't /in/ on the fact that Alexa was resigned from dating altogether. /That/ would be taken as a come-on.

"Ha! Sure, fair, sounds good. Now, I don't know how you feel about coffee, but if you'd ever like to meet for a cup, offer's on the table." Just whenever was good. (Something something morning afters are only awkward if you make them awkward, let me be a gentleman and handle breakfast -- it made more sense in his head. It was funny in his head. But really, a friendly coffee chat sometime would be nice.)

concubuck

"I'm practically powered by the stuff! Coffee sometime sounds delightful." And then, just because that really did sound like it could be a date, he added, "And since you're a married man, I'm going to trust that it's /only/ going to be coffee!" Little lighthearted joke—what's a marriage worth in hell with a succubus around?—but by God, he was determined to meet ONE alternate in person and keep it platonic.

killstreaming

"Good, that seems to be one thing we all have in common!" Coffee fiends, the herd of them.

This was probably /not/ the time to 'actually, it's an open marriage', oh well, Buck was just going to have to get blindsided next time Alexa wilded on voxblr. "Haha! Yes, yes, that's all, just a friendly chat over coffee. Unless the bakery items catch my eye -- then it's over coffee /and/ a croissant." Scandalous. Hey, some of those places made a mean pain au chocolat.

concubuck

"Well, who am I to say no to a croissant!" Okay, this was okay, they'd navigated this mess successfully and were coming out of it on the same page. Hah. Good. Good job, team.

killstreaming

"Aha! I’ll be looking forward to it. Just reach out whenever's good.” Well done, everyone. Crisis very much averted! The deersasters are going to be okay.

[aaternum-a]

@niaevum​​ said, “How does Ryu define good and evil? Is it just one or the other or she can find that grey area as well? Is she prone to distance herself from 'evil' people? How does she behave around those who are villains? What if she discovers someone she trusted is evil? Will her attitude change?”

Though she makes jest of the advantages being “evil” has, there are very few people she finds wicked enough to deem so. Through her lens most people are inherently good with very human flaws, it’s naivety – a hopefulness that anyone could overcome the wrongs they’ve committed. There are things that would be completely unforgiveable, but it’s typically a blend of aspects rather than a singular matter. I should stress that regardless of what her general position is about others, her initial reaction to things may not reflect that. She would still be angered by betrayal, hurt by unveiled manipulation and her instinct is to express that. While her perspective of an individual may gradually change from good to evil, it would be very difficult for her to change her view from someone evil to good. I should also add that enemies ≠ evil, at least not by default.

She has an all-consuming interest in piecing together a person within her head.  Why do they do the things they do? Were they always like this?  What things have they lived through that have changed them? A junior detective at uncovering the people around her. Sometimes this means she forms relationships with others rather than keep them at arms-length. These would not be good relationships, very much falling into enemy territory. And you know they say you should know your enemies better than your allies. If she were to distance herself, it would be for the very purpose of protecting others. Her own safety may be secondary to her curiosity. (She would be a very funny spy, in my opinion.) Her initial instinct is never to hurt anyone unless they show they have intention of hurting her or others, but around villains she is guarded (slips of the tongue because she talks too much is just a character flaw), far more aware of how what she says and does may be used against her. She is also not afraid to express that she does not trust someone or think they are a good person.

Now finding out someone she trusted is evil? Alexa, play mojo’s top betrayals. There would be no greater hurt than trusting someone and being blindsided by the corruption and hurt they have caused. There would be a lot of grief over the loss, though not physically gone, the image of them that once was and that would cause irreparable destruction to whatever relationship they had prior. Ryu (regardless of verse) has never really dealt with manipulative/evil individuals she had ever been close to, to face that would undoubtedly be a stain to her view of the world. It would not change her overall perspective of people, but it may pose a problem to her already fragile permanence within others’ lives. She would not be less trusting, but she’d be more conscious of the loneliness that eats at her and may be just a little sadder overall. I think it would take multiple instances of betrayal to completely deteriorate her as an individual. She is still very vibrantly and foolishly filled with ambition to see the good in others.

[slightly-nerdy-rambles]

Robstar Week Day 3: A New Life (Prompt: Tamaran)

And now we come to this year’s Royal Family Verse prompt! For those of you unfamiliar with it, this is a special story ‘verse that I set one Robstar Week story in each year; not exactly an AU, but a bit of an unusual interpretation of events that happen post-Tokyo. You’ll see what those events are in this fic (It’s set right at the beginning of the overarching story), but if you’d like to see a bit more, just take a look at the “Royal Family Verse” tag on my blog.

I’d really been hoping for a prompt that would allow me to write something set around the beginning of this storyline, and “Tamaran” ended up being perfect. The following scene is something that had been floating around in my head for quite some time, and it feels good to finally have it set down in the official ‘verse!

A New Life

It was not supposed to end this way.

Galfore was a good ruler. He had spent most of his life in the capital, and he had been one of Emperor Myand’r’s closest confidants. He had taught Starfire – Princess Koriand’r, back then – and her siblings almost everything they knew about guiding, aiding, and defending their people. He was intelligent, thoughtful, loyal, and dedicated, and in the short time since he’d been declared Grand Ruler, he had dismantled the seeds of corruption that had allowed Blackfire to take a stranglehold on Tamaran and brought to it an age of peace and security that the planet had not seen since before the Gordanian invasion.

What he lacked – directly, at least – was an heir.

Starfire had received the news two days ago: Galfore had been attacked by an assassin, and though he’d avoided serious injury, a poisoned blade had managed to cut deep into his thigh. The poison had been discovered and treated immediately, but it was potent, and at the time it was unknown whether he would even survive. The uncertainty of it all was almost worse than the news itself, and she had a lot to think about while she waited for an update. The other Titans had respected her space in this time, while still giving her what comfort and encouragement they could.

Now, though, it was time to talk to them. And she started, had to start, with Robin.

The two of them sat facing each other cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom. Robin watched her patiently, waiting until she was ready to speak. Starfire’s knee bounced a little with nervous energy, and she found herself looking almost anywhere in the room but him.

Finally, she let out a low sigh. “I received another transmission from Tamaran this morning.”

Robin nodded. “I heard. Is… Is Galfore going to be all right?”

Starfire bit her lip, still looking a little to the side. “He is… for the most part. He is alive, stable and fully expected to recover, but the poison has already done some irreparable damage. He will never have full use of his leg again.”

Robin winced – he knew how much value Tamaraneans put on physical strength. “I’m glad he’s… mostly okay, but that still has to be hard. I’m sorry.”

Starfire sighed again. Now came the hard part. “That is not all. If it was, I would have simply considered it a blessing for how much he will recover. Galfore is very resilient, and I know that he will handle the setback well. But not everybody is going to view it that way.”

For the first time, she let her gaze meet his. “My people are warriors, Robin, and the Grand Ruler is expected to defend the nation personally. That is why we allow physical challenges for the throne, such as you saw when I overthrew Blackfire. In his condition, Galfore will have no end of challenges, whether from people who view him as weak and unfit to rule or those who simply see a chance to take the crown for themselves. And though the Grand Ruler does not have to accept every challenge, denying too many of them will lose him the support of the council.

“Galfore is very strong and skilled, but he cannot risk a power-hungry fool taking advantage of an obvious weakness to overcome him. To prevent such a thing, he has chosen to abdicate his role as Grand Ruler… and appoint a successor in his place.”

Robin straightened up a fraction, his eyes widening slightly. “…And you’re the successor.” It was less a question than a statement of fact, a realization of just where this conversation had been leading him.

Starfire gave a shallow nod. “He intended to find another suitable candidate to name and train as his heir, but that would require time he no longer has. I am already trained and proven in the people’s eyes, and I am the only member of the previous dynasty still eligible and available. Tamaran has been through so much turmoil in the past several years… I cannot turn down the crown again.”

Again, she found herself unable to meet his eyes. Slowly, regretfully, she unhooked her communicator from her belt and placed it on the floor between them.

“I am sorry,” she said, her voice soft, “but I must leave for Tamaran soon. It seemed only right to tell you first, especially since… we cannot be together any longer.”

Robin didn’t say anything for several moments. From the corner of her eye, Starfire saw him reach for the communicator and grasp it in his own hand. He held it there for a few seconds, as if afraid to do anything more with it, and then he finally spoke up.

“Take me with you.”

Starfire jolted at that, wide eyes snapping up at him. “What?”

Robin’s own eyes seemed to have widened under the mask, and she got the sense that even he was a little surprised by what he’d just said. Taking a deep breath, he set her communicator back on the floor and went on.

“You’ve already had to leave behind the life you knew before. I… I know what that’s like, and I don’t want you to have to do it again alone. I want to go with you.”

Starfire couldn’t believe what she was hearing right now. “I… I will still have Galfore, and accepting the crown will be me returning to my old life. You are suggesting you move to an unfamiliar planet and leave everyone else you know behind for my sake, and I cannot accept that. What of the other Titans?”

Robin let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “They’ll already be losing you – the team’s going to have to rebuild itself either way. And even though you’re technically going back, you know it can never be the same as it was when you were a kid. You wouldn’t have been so openly upset about this if it could. If I have to leave someone I care about, at least let me do it on my own terms.”

Starfire shook her head and stood up. “Robin, you will be an outworlder. You would need to prove yourself on the testing grounds to be considered anything more than a guest who must stay under heavy guard anytime you are in the palace.” She began to pace the floor, running through the scenario in her head. “And you already know that Tamaraneans do not court for as long as humans of your country. If you come with me, my people will expect nothing less than marriage.”

“…Okay.”

Starfire froze in her tracks and turned to stare at him again. Robin’s face flushed red, and he stood up and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Look, I… You’re right, I do know how Tamaranean courting works. I know how hard it is for your species to give up a loved one and find a new partner. And I know that you’re going to need to get married and eventually… produce heirs of your own, and that you’d want to even if it wasn’t necessary.” The red in his face deepened. “And… I’ve been thinking about it a while, even before Galfore got attacked. It’s a little earlier than I was planning, but I already knew that was the direction we were headed. Both of us.”

Starfire searched his face as his thoughts spilled out in an increasing ramble. She could see no hint of uncertainty or false confidence in his expression, and she murmured a gentle, “Robin…”

With a deep breath, he went on. “I… I know I can’t really propose to the future empress of Tamaran, but if it’s what you want, then so do I. I just… don’t want to lose you.” With a nervous little laugh, he added, “Besides, I seem to remember you saying that Tamaraneans confessing their love to one another is practically how they get engaged, and we’ve already kind of done that.”

Starfire was speechless at first. Of all the responses she’d imagined him taking to her news, this was one of the few she had not dared seriously consider. A part of her, the part that had never lost its ties to her original culture, had been ready to marry since they first affirmed their love for one another a year ago in Tokyo. She desperately wanted to ask – no, beg him to marry her, to join her on Tamaran as consort and be with her always.

But she still wasn’t certain that he would not regret it.

“And… The other Titans?” she asked hesitantly, folding her arms tight against herself. “I know what you already said, but you are their leader, and together we make up nearly half of the team.”

Robin rubbed his arm. “I’ve thought about that too. After you found out about Galfore and I realized you might need to leave, I mean,” he admitted. “But honestly? The Titans have come a long way since our team first came together. I think Cyborg can take over as leader – though that’s up to him, Beast Boy and Raven – and if they need more help, I know a few honoraries are looking for a team to join full-time.”

So this had not been an impulsive decision. Robin had seriously thought about it, and had already made up his mind – and not in that stubborn and single-minded way he could get when chasing some villain he considered his specific responsibility to stop. Even so, some part of Starfire still thought she should say no, that this was her responsibility now and that he would be giving up too much just to stay with her.

But then she remembered when she first came to Earth, scared and alone and lashing out, and the boy who had risked life and limb to calm her down and help her. As a core member of the royal family, she was the one meant to aid and sacrifice for her people. It was one of the first times that someone had gone out of their way for her, not out of duty as a guard or another royal but just because they wanted to help.

She truly didn’t have to do this alone. Yes, the responsibilities of Grand Rulership would be hers to bear – the man she chose to marry would only be an emperor consort, after all – but she could still have someone by her side to support her all the way. And Robin had offered to be that someone. He wanted to.

Starfire didn’t realize she’d started crying until Robin stiffened in alarm. “Star!” he shouted, rushing to her and clasping her arms with a firm but gentle grip. “I-I’m sorry, I came on too strong and you’re already dealing with a lot, I shouldn’t have said anything yet, just forget I –”

But Starfire cut him off by throwing her arms around him and burying her head in his shoulder. Despite all the pain and uncertainty of the past few days, she found herself laughing, just a little, though the tears.

“Do not apologize,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I am… overwhelmed with emotion right now, but for the first time, some of that emotion is good.”

She could feel Robin’s muscles relax as he returned her embrace, and for several moments the two of them just stood there, clinging to each other like lifelines.

Finally, Starfire pulled back and let her forehead rest against his, giving him a watery smile.

“Robin…” she murmured. “…I love you. And in case you are uncertain, I do mean that in the full Tamaranean sense of the phrase.” Her smile broadened. “If you will have me, I believe you will make a wonderful emperor.”

Robin returned her smile with one of his own, and he answered her unspoken question by leaning forward and catching her lips with his own. And for the first time since Galfore’s injury, Princess Koriand’r of Tamaran felt that everything was going to be okay.

[mageicalwishes]

Read on AO3: here

Summary: "If you get lonely," she says, "you can call me. Send up a flare, yeah? I'll feel it"

Years after that fateful night in the White Chapel, Simon fulfils his wish to go and visit Ebb’s grave in the Woods. 

Inspired by Carry On Sparks, Week 12 - ‘Fire’ @carryonsparks​

Tags: Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Canon Compliant, POV Simon Snow, Heavy Angst, Bittersweet, Mental Health Issues, Simon Misses Ebb, Soft Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Pitch

Words: 3,950

Simon

All my life, I never thought that I’d live long enough to see somebody that I loved die - To have to handle that grief. And in a way, I wish that I hadn’t. It probably would’ve been easier. 

I’d been readying myself for my death since age eleven. That fate - My destiny - That was all I knew. And while it wasn’t exactly welcomed, it was inevitable. It was certain. The idea of it made so familiar to me, that I’d almost forgotten how to fear it (Almost). I’d accepted it long ago. So … I never thought that I’d have to know this pain - Never prepared a strategy for coping. 

I’d imagined it time and time again in my nightmares, of course - Losing Penny, or Aggie, or The Mage - but I never truly believed that I’d be here to experience it. If things got that dire - If someone had to die; it would’ve been me (Or Baz, I guess. But I tried not to think about that). 

So seeing it here, etched in cool grey stone is … Well, I’m not even sure what it is. Hollowing. Devastating. A nightmare come to life: 

Ebeneza Petty. 1978 - 2015. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend. 

Crowley. It doesn’t seem real, even now. Even when I’m standing right in front of it. 

It’s taken me a long time to get here. Probably too long. (So many months. So many years). But … I couldn’t face it. Not before. (Probably not even now, really). 

The first few years, I didn’t let myself think about Ebb much at all - Not the good, and not the bad. I made a promise to myself that I’d visit her one day, and that was that. Out of sight, out of mind. 

It wasn’t even really a conscious choice; not like some of the things I don’t think about. I didn’t want to ignore her. I didn’t want to pretend that what happened to her, didn’t happen. I didn’t want to stop thinking about all the good - All the joy she brought me. I just … couldn’t handle it. Any of it. I was already so overwhelmed. Losing her - Really processing the fact that she was gone. That I’d lost her, forever. It would’ve shattered me entirely. Irreparably. So my brain just tucked her into a little ‘Do Not Disturb’ pocket, that even I couldn’t reach, and tried to move on.

My therapist says that it’s all right that I did that - That I ‘repressed’ it. I’m not sure that it is, really. But she’s been right about a lot of things, so far - Like trying to talk to Baz, and being kinder to myself in my head - So, I try to believe her. She’s the expert, after all. 

I started seeing her again, consistently, about a year ago. But it was hard. So hard. (It still is, sometimes, to be honest. I’m not immune to the occasional session skive). I didn’t even really want to do it, at first. To sit there staring at her smiley face, while she pitied me - The sad little blur of pixels and curls in the corner of my screen. But it seemed important. It seemed necessary. 

After everything that happened in America … everything that happened at Watford - What I’d nearly lost, and what I’d nearly given up - I knew that I had to do something. And going back to her seemed like the logical choice. (I even managed to convince Baz to talk to her, too, which I’m glad for. It’s good for him, I think. It’s good for us. And … matching with him in that way, makes me feel like less of a nutcase). 

Anyway … I’m not sure when Ebb started creeping back into my mind, exactly. But it happened. Slowly at first, and then all at once - Once the dam was broken. 

At first it was just the bad: Her cold, lifeless stare. The pool of crimson, dying the ends of her slick blonde hair red. The smell of copper. The heat of magic. ‘Don’t stop. Help her … Help her! She’s dying!’. 

But the good came, too. Eventually: Her words of encouragement, summer evenings spent chasing after the kids, the way her face lit up that first Christmas I gave her a figurine (I’ve brought her another one today. A nanny and her kid grazing. They look at home, nestled amongst the sunshiney bouquets Baz April Showers’d for me). 

And I’m glad that I’ve made it here, now - Back to her. Even if I am a few years late. 

It’s a lovely place for her to rest. She would’ve liked it. In the woods. A soft mossy floor, and swaying willows overhead. Creatures, normal and magickal, scurrying around freely. A simple slate headstone, littered with flowers and photographs - Ebb beaming, surrounded by children I don’t recognise. Her and Nicky back at Watford. Her crouched beside an old woman, petting a Labrador. Tens of tiny windows into the life that was stolen from her. 

I’d always wondered what it was like - Her life outside of Watford. Where she lived, and who she knew. And I’m glad to see that it was clearly one filled with love, just like I’d always imagined. Filled with family and friends, who hadn’t forgotten her. Who’d been there for her, even when I couldn’t be. 

She should’ve had longer. She should’ve had decades more. She’d stepped away from the power she possessed, willingly - From the corruption of the possibilities it afforded her - and chose to live a quiet, simple life at Watford, where she was happy. Where she was safe. She did everything ‘right’ - Everything ‘good’ - and she still ended up dying in a fight that she had no part in. In a War that she didn’t contribute to. Nothing about that is fair. Nothing about that makes sense. 

I’ll never forgive him for what he did to her. No matter what he was to me. No matter how I feel about the fact that he’s gone, too (Miserable. Miserable but guilty. I know I shouldn’t care - He was a monster, after all - but I do). It was him I should’ve been fearful of, all those years. But I was too naive to see it. Too blinded by playing son. And now Ebb is gone. My fault. All my fault. 

A shiver runs up my spine, at the thought of it. My wings shuddering, involuntarily. Baz notices (Of course). Reaching out and taking hold of my hand - Stroking small loops against the side of my thumb. I’m here. It’s okay. I’ve got you. He takes my hand without asking, now. I'm better at not shaking him off. 

“Alright, Snow?” he asks. 

I just nod.

I don’t have the words. 

————————————————————————————

I don’t know how long we’ve been standing here, just staring down at her grave, but everything is starting to get too much. 

My throat pulled so tight that every swallow is a struggle - Air barely squeezing past the knot of emotion lodged there. My clothes suffocating me - Fabric far too constricting against my skin. I can’t move. I can’t - I can’t even breathe. And Baz is still holding on to me - Onto my hand. But it’s too clammy. All warm and wet and uncomfortable. Every slide of his skin, a demand on my brain. Focus on her, focus on him. The once soothing tracing of shapes, taunting me. Say something, Simon. Do something, Simon.

“Simon …?” Baz starts, unsure. “You look - Are you alright?” 

I turn to him, on autopilot. And he smiles over at me - Small, and fake, and forced, and pitiful, and … 

“Can you leave?” I rush, voice manic. “You have to - I need - I need you to leave.” 

He looks a little surprised - Which I can’t blame him for. I didn’t even know that that was what I needed, before the words were spilling out of my mouth - but he doesn't complain (Baz rarely complains, even know. Sometimes I wish he would, though. So I could know what I’m doing wrong - What I can do better ... I should probably tell him that, to be honest. Maybe later). 

“Alright,” he shrugs, dropping my hand. “That’s fine.” 

He’s probably upset with me. He probably thinks I’m pushing him away, again (I guess I am, technically. But not in the way that he may think). He’s probably …

“Simon, love. It’s fine.” 

It’s fine. 

“I’m sorry. I just - I just need a moment alone. It’s not - I’m not bad. I just need …” 

“Yeah,” he nods. “I know. It’s fine. Honest … Want me to go and wait in the car?” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you just - Can you just go home? Or somewhere else, I don’t know. You can go wherever you like, just not … here. I don’t know how long I’ll be, and I’ll feel bad if I’m making you wait. I won’t be able to concentrate.” 

“It’s no hassle.” 

���Yeah, I know but - Please.”

“Alright,” he smiles. I don’t know why he’s smiling. I’m being a complete fucking mess, right now. “Call me when you’re done, and I’ll come and pick you up, okay?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

I feel a bit better now. I don’t know. I don’t feel good, but I can breathe a bit again (I guess, technically, I always could - Otherwise I’d probably need an ambulance. But it didn’t feel like it). It’s still a little ragged. And my head’s all fuzzy. I just - I’m glad he’s leaving (Shit. That sounds awful. But I don’t mean it like that). 

He turns away, to leave me alone, but before he does, he’s spinning back around on the heels of his posh leather shoes. A pained little grimace spread across his face. 

“Snow, just … one more thing. When we were here, I used to go down and speak to my mother in the catacombs. You know, out loud … I’m not entirely sure, but I think that it helped me, a little bit. To talk to her. So I was thinking … maybe you could give it a go? With Ebb.”

I must pull a face, ‘cause then he’s laughing at me. (Not in a mean way. More in a ‘he thinks I’m being cute’ kind of way.) (It’s nice, his laugh. All silky, and warm, and deep). 

“It’s just a suggestion, love. It’s up to you. I know you don’t really like using your words, so if you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine. You’re here. That’s enough. She wouldn’t mind.” 

I scuff my foot along the ground, but then I just feel bad because I’m disturbing Ebb’s area. He’s probably right. But I’m not sure. 

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Maybe.” 

Once Baz is gone, I sit myself down besides Ebb’s headstone, and let the tears come. Sobbing to myself as I trace the line between her dates. That’s it - That’s her whole life. 

There’s nothing wrong with crying. Ebb taught me that. She always nurtured the softer side of me - The better bits (Not like the Mage. He only helped me grow what benefited him - My courage, my strength, my ability to ignore or delay every single fucking human emotion). ‘Allow yourself to feel, Simon. Let those emotions out of your heart, or they’ll drown you.’ That’s what she always told me.

I’m trying to listen. Trying to take the advice that she can no longer give. Trying to let myself cry, or talk, or scream, or crash about. To do whatever it is that I need to do, to get it out. To free myself of it, so that I can be me again. (I think that’s partly why I’m here today, actually. To face it. To loosen its grip on my heart, so that I can begin to learn to live with it. To allow myself to remember her - Who she was and what happened - so that I can try to move on). 

I sit there and I cry. I cry, and cry, and cry. Until I can get the words out: 

“Hullo, Ebb. It’s Simon. Simon Snow -” Stupid. She knows who I am. “Sorry I haven’t visited before now. I meant to, and I did try, but I just … couldn’t. I hope that’s okay … Baz says that I should try and talk to you - You’ll be glad to know that we’re not at each other's throats anymore. Not in a bad way, anyway.” I say, chuckling meekly. I think she may have suspected about Baz and I, to be honest. I was obsessed with him. “I - I don’t really have much to say. Just … I’m sorry about what happened to you. I’m sorry that you got dragged into it. You only ever wanted peace, I know that. But, thank you for saving Aggie, for me. That was my job, really. My responsibility. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” 

I suck in a breath and choke - Spluttering on the ground like a fool (I’m glad I sent Baz away, now, because this is just humiliating. My face must be a wreck - All wet and puffy - and I’m spitting all over the place. Which isn’t exactly the most alluring of sights. Not that he’d really care). 

“Everyone says that I saved the World of Mages, and I kind of did, in the end. But ��� I know I couldn’t have done it without you. Without your help. I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t be half of what I am without you, actually. And I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you. I wish, more than anything, that I could’ve. And … yeah. Thank you for what you did - That day, and before. I can’t ever - You won’t ever know how much I appreciate you. How much you mean - How much you meant to me. But it’s … it’s nice to be able to tell you, finally. I wish I could’ve done it properly … before. But I think that you could probably still tell; even if I never managed to say it in so many words. I hope - I hope you knew how much I loved you. How much I still do.” 

And after that, there’s nothing else to say (Nothing that I can manage right now, anyway). So I hang my head forwards, and let it wash over me. Let the words - My confession - lighten me. 

I still feel like lead, though. Like I’m empty. Like I’m scorched ... I still ache. But I suppose that it’s a start. 

————————————————————————————

BP (20:34): At the gate.  

Picking myself up off the floor, I dust my jeans down and try to relax (I don’t want to make him to worry about me. He always worries about me). 

“I’ll visit you again, when I can, Ebb,” I sigh. “I promise. Hopefully - Hopefully it won’t be too long … And I’ll bring another figure. As a gift. Maybe a sheep, or something. Sound okay?” 

I don’t know why I’m asking her a question (‘Cause I’m a moron, probably). It’s not like she can answer. Even if she can hear me (Which she probably can’t). 

“Alright,” I say, feeling disgracefully awkward. I don’t really want to say goodbye to her just yet, but it's getting cold. And dark. And I want to get back home soon-ish (We're all gonna watch Spider Man together). “Well … Goodbye. For now.” 

And then I turn - Back towards Baz. Back towards the rest of my life. 

I don’t look back - I can’t look back. But I’ll visit her again, someday. Someday soon.

When I get to the gate, Baz is clutching a paper cup, and beaming at me (I think he’s doing it to try and make me feel better.) (It does. A little). 

“Doing alright?” he asks.

I nod, worried that if I try to talk, I’ll just start blubbering again (My hoodie sleeve is already uncomfortably sodden, from wiping at my face. So I’d really rather not). He doesn’t push it, though. He understands. 

“Thought you might be thirsty,” he says, waving the cup in front of me. “Your favourite … I got you a brownie, too. If you want it.” 

I don’t know what comes over me then, to be honest. One second I’m gawping at him and his stupidly sweet gesture, and the next I’m yanking him down into a kiss, by the back of his neck. Crashing against him roughly. Baz’s startled yelp, muffled against my lips. 

I don’t normally like being touched much at all when I’m upset (Probably a residual hang up from the threat of going off), but I need him like this now. So I take it - Because I know he’ll let me. Because I know he’ll want me to. 

He tastes like sugar, ‘cause of that stupid pumpkin drink he likes. But he feels like coming home. 

I pull away, and Baz flushes, in a daze. My heart squeezing at the sight of him (In a good way, obviously). I still can’t believe that I get to have him like this, half of the time. He’s so lovely. And I’ll tell him as much, later … when I can (I like telling him the good stuff. He goes all gooey when I do - It’s ridiculous). 

“Steady on, Snow,” he laughs. “It’s just hot chocolate.” 

“No, it’s - Just … come on.”

We don’t talk most of the ride home; the only meaningful sound, droning out of his radio (He’s playing that Talking Heads violin cover he likes) (He can play this one himself, without sheet music, or anything. It’s proper impressive). 

“Baz,” I mumble, gripping at his thigh. “Is there somewhere we can pull over. A field, or something?” 

Grey eyes dart up to meet mine in the rearview mirror, panicked. 

“Are you going to be sick?” 

“No,” I groan. “Nothing like that. I just - I just need a favour … One that requires open space. A private open space.” 

He grins over at me, then - Tongue pressing against his front teeth, cheekily (Prat. He should be watching the road).

“I warn you, Snow, I will not lower myself to dogging. No matter how much I may want to ravish you.” 

“Fucking hell, Baz,” I snort, thwacking at his arm. “You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“I know. You’re much too vanilla for that sort of thing, darling. Thank Crowley … But, I’m sure that we can find somewhere suitable for your … whatever it is that you’re planning. Do we need to get there quickly? I can cast a ‘Time flies’, if need be.”

“Nah,” I smile, shuffling back in my seat. “There’s no rush. Just … before we get home.” 

We end up pulling into a field, just off of a roundabout, that fills all of my criteria. But I’m a little bit worried that we’re going to get yelled at by some farmer. Or bulldozed by a cow. (Baz assures me that we’ll be fine, though. ‘Country bumpkins and mooing blood bags, are no match for me, Snow.’ That’s what he’d said. The arrogant sod.) 

Now that we’re here, though, I’m starting to doubt myself. Is this stupid? … Probably. I mean … there’s no real purpose to it. But … I can’t seem to get it out of my head - What she’d said to me that last time I saw her. Can she see? Will she feel it? I’m not sure. But I suppose that there's no point shying away from it now. 

“Do you know how to spell a flare?” I ask. 

“A flare?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” He drawls, squinting suspiciously. 

“I don’t know, I just - Do you know how?” 

“Yeah. Should do. Hold on,” he says, fiddling with his cuff, and retrieving his wand. Pointing it skyward, before booming out an ‘SOS’. 

Blinding hot fire, shooting from his wand - Lighting the sky a menacing shade of red, before falling and fading back to black. 

It’s beautiful. And eerie (Kinda like a forest in the night). 

Finally satisfied, I drop down to the floor. Baz following, wordlessly (Even though he’s wearing those fancy, light pink trousers, that’ll definitely stain). Sitting besides me, crossed legged in the grass - His knee bumping purposefully against mine. 

“Another one?” he asks. 

“Nah,” I breathe, tilting my head over to rest against his shoulder. It feels far too heavy today. “Not yet. It’s … it’s Ebb.” 

I don’t really know why I feel as though I owe him an explanation - I mean, he hasn’t asked for one - but I do. He’s privy to all of my little secrets, these days. So he should be allowed to know this one too … I know he won’t judge me for it. 

“What’s Ebb?”

He’s hovering his hand above my waist now - A question. I tug his wrist closer, and lay his palm against me - An answer. 

“The flare,” I say. “Or, well … Ebb is why I wanted it. The last conversation we had, before I came to Hampshire. She said that I could send up a flare, if I needed her. If I got lonely. She said that she would feel it. I know - I know that it’s stupid. I mean, she can’t - I know-”

“It’s not stupid, Simon,” he interrupts, voice as soft as anything. “I understand. You don’t have to try and justify yourself to me.” 

“Okay,” I smile, pushing myself up and pressing a kiss to the crest of his hairline. Fucking vampire. How he manages to make a widows peak look fit, I’ll never know. “Thank you.” 

“It’s alright,” he says, laying himself out on the ground, and tugging me down with him. Grabbing a hold of my hand, and kissing the centre of my palm.

Feeling entirely safe, I close my eyes, and I let myself miss her - Her wise rambles, and her soft touch. Her unashamed tears. Her friendship. Her love. Her care. 

‘You’re not alone, my lamb,’ she’d told me, the Easter holidays of third year. ‘Even if you can’t always see it, there are people here who love you. Who’ll always love you. Even if they can’t be with you, right now. And … I'm still here, aren't I? Whenever you need me, you just come a’knocking, and I’ll be there. Promise.'

She couldn’t keep her promise, in the end.

I can knock all I want … but nobody will come. Nobody will ever come again. Her shack is empty now. Abandoned. Forgotten. 

But I know that she’s still there for me. In a way. 

I won’t ever forget her words, or her lessons. The way she made feel - Happy. Accepted. Understood. 

She’ll be there in my heart, always; whenever I need her. Along with the rest. 

And … she was right about one thing - I’m not alone. I’ll never have to be alone again. 

Because I have Baz - Who brings me my favourite foods, and holds me close at night. Who didn’t give up on me, when I pushed him away. Who cherishes me. Who loves me. 

And Penny - Who is always there for me, fighting my corner. Who leads me forwards, and steers me right. Who wishes me every success. 

And Shepard - Who indulges all my crazy theories like they mean something, and binge watches terrible reality TV with me.

And Aggie - Who sends me a text every now and then to check how I am. 

I can’t ever replace what I lost in Ebb, but I can try and focus on what I still do have. Friends. A family. A home … Far more than I ever even allowed myself to want back at Watford. 

And I think that she’d be happy if she could see me now - Could see us now. I hope that … she’d feel like her sacrifice was worth it - That she’d be content with her choice. Because Ebb deserves to find peace, more than anyone. 

After all … that’s all she ever wanted. 

[fantastic-rambles]

I just watched ep. 11 (so SPOILERS) and am now praying that Tadashi isn’t as stupid as he seems and has some super secret plan in the works bc the path he’s going down will clearly do the opposite of help Adam. He literally used the right equation, but got the wrong answer 😑 He said “Oh abandonment + isolation issues?? Lemme just abandon our shared endeavor (again) so that you rely upon only one person who dislikes you and doesn’t give two shits about you beyond your skating skill 😃” Ah yes how lovely that’ll work out. I’d never blame Tadashi for all of Adam’s issues but why does he keep dropping the ball?? Please sir, I beg you to consider showing a crumb of emotion/commitment so that Adam knows you care and will be less of a hilariously terrifying menace. The change in the end credit sequence gives me a little bit of hope that Tadashi will figure out how to be there for Adam the right way (caring about his person more than his image). Honestly surprised how much content we got on Tadashi and Adam. Highlighting their relationship and how much Tadashi wants to help Adam, makes Adam falling so low in this episode much sadder. The parallels between them and Renga hurt so bad. And the way they explicitly explained one of them to us for the ppl who think Tadashi does/should hate Adam 😶. I was honestly hoping for more chronologically clear backstory, but I’m still surprised by how focused this ep was on them and seeing the contrast between them as blushing little kids to now.

And I know you said you see Tadashi as closest to the God figure with the references. But look how the race with Reki (apple) further corrupted Adam, but provided a moment of enlightenment to Tadashi (snake [og Eve? Lilith?]). While the Snake brought the apple to the garden, wasn’t it also Eve who gave into it? Idk I’m starting to feel like Tadashi is misnomered bc of the backstory and how he has no malicious intent in taking him down. And even though Lilith is known for not being subservient to Adam, in a way Tadashi fits by hurting the relationship when making the one big stand siding with Adam’s father (possibly the devil in Adam’s POV) and what Adam would probably consider to be the sin (giving up skateboarding). This is kind of confusing bc I definitely think that Adam sees losing skating as the ‘sin’. But Tadashi views skating as the ‘sin’. So while Tadashi sees himself as the snake (fundamentally lower and a negative influence) Adam could have seen him as a Lilith (With him in the garden first and equal with him until he fell [down into his subservient role]). I think this ep highlights that bc of Tadashi’s contrasting teacher and servant roles, when in childhood they were somewhat equal. I think the only way Tadashi truly falls into the ‘God’ role is if he really does go through with forfeiting and basically offers up Langa (Eve) to Adam. (Btw I have virtually 0 bible knowledge so I am very under qualified to be making these inferences lmao)

I was so worried when it seemed Reki was gonna win bc it would’ve seemed so unrealistic to me. I totally blocked out that outcome until he did the cliff jump and I got nervous lol. I do like that the reason Reki pulled ahead and the reason he lost are the same thing. Reki does have a unique strength of innovation with boards but it doesn’t automatically get him to the levels of those more skilled.

Also very happy about the 🍵🌸 moment of Joe not even arguing about pushing Cherry. Did Cherry purposefully not use his Carla wheelchair just so Joe would have to help him?? I guess we’ll never know. Also Joe’s face watching Cherry laugh at Adam (I think showing Cherry moving on from his admiration of him). Idc what anyone says, Joe is totally pining for Cherry and it’s so sweet.

Oh and!! The investigation is doing a raid?! Jail for Adam ig bc there’s no way they’ll include that as a plot point for everything to come back clean. (And if Tadashi takes the fall not just bc the order but bc he actually thinks that what best, I will never forgive his dumbass 😤 Adam probably wouldn’t even function without Tadashi anyways since he takes care of so much)

I don’t remember if I mentioned it to you or someone else, but I didn’t think Adam would end up ultimately skating against Tadashi because their relationship is irreparably broken (at least right now), so Adam isn’t willing to listen to anything Tadashi has to say and wouldn’t really be able to learn anything if they raced since the only thing he seems to feel towards Tadashi is resentment: long-term resentment from when he was younger, and a stronger sense of it now after Tadashi tried to use it to force him to quit. So Tadashi forfeiting and giving the race to Langa makes sense to me in terms of Tadashi realizing that he really screwed up and that the only person who can really save Adam at this point/revive his “pure” love for skating is Langa, because Langa’s the only person Adam considers an equal. Because if Adam can return to that state of “innocence,” then he could simply enjoy skating for the sake of skating, and he would be able to skate with anyone regardless of their skill level, rather than needing someone at his level. In other words, he would no longer need an Eve, a perfect partner just for him.

And I will never say no to more Adam backstory. Even though it didn’t really show us anything especially novel. xD

Uh. So... I’ve got even less Biblical knowledge than you, lol. I have no idea who Lilith is and what she does. -goes off to do some research-

Okay, so based on The Alphabet of Ben-Sira, I personally don’t think that Tadashi is Lilith, since he clearly is considered inferior to Adam by pretty much everyone, including himself. Between Eve and Lilith, he strikes me as more Eve. The incident with Adam’s father (glad to know that he’s actually dead, lol) was also him taking a passive/subservient role to his “master.” And even as a child, he understood that he wasn’t Adam’s equal, even though he taught Adam how to skate. Again, in terms of skill, yeah, they’re on the same level, but socially, they weren’t/aren’t. So to me, Langa actually fits the idea of Lilith better, because Adam does see him as an equal, and Adam will most likely end up losing to Langa, who would refuse to “lie below” Adam, and who rejects Adam and runs away (with Reki). But yeah, Tadashi literally giving Langa to Adam (whether Langa is “Eve” or “Lilith”) definitely reinforces my Tadashi as God thoughts. (Though again, with a duality of also being Eve, at least originally.) xD

Absolutely agree regarding the really close result of Adam/Reki. Yeah, there’s an explanation for why Reki could get ahead of Adam (and Adam’s got a longboard, which has less maneuverability), but even with those taken into account (and Adam’s really weird/kinda OOC imo moment of self-doubt), I still don’t think it should have ended up as a photo finish given their vast difference in skill level. If Adam can catch up even after giving Reki a half-course head start under normal conditions, there’s no reason for him to not be able to easily beat Reki, even after taking everything into consideration, other than protagonist plot armor/drama. Though my dislike of Reki is also lessening (thankfully) now, regardless. Like, Reki isn’t a bad kid. I get that. I just found him to be super obnoxious and toxic in a typical teen way. ^^;

I was pretty sure Reki wouldn’t win, but I was annoyed that he lost by such a small margin, because yeah, that seems unrealistic.

Cherry absolutely ditched Carla to make Joe push him around. <3

But yeah, Adam is absolutely getting in trouble and more than likely going to jail. I’m still holding out hope that he’ll have an epiphany and turn himself in rather than make Tadashi take the fall, but I’d be equally happy if he just continued spiraling into madness. Either way, his character development would be fantastic. xD

[foxrp]

member groups

our site’s member groups include seven character groups that are based on goals, allegiances, and where the character best fits in the political grand scheme of our plot. this is what they support, what they think, where their thoughts lie. they do not have to be members of that group - which is to say, they can be a coalition supporter and not be in the coalition, and same goes for death eaters and the order and every where else. or, they could be a civilian. where they fall, it's all based on the political grand scheme. please keep this in mind!

( under the cut, all of our information is laid out as needed. but... want a sneak peek of our guidebook? check out this screenshot of our groups page! )

additional notes

please remember our member groups are what their political alignment is. our member groups are based on the political grand scheme, with the different sects pulling the world in all different directions. where your character aligns, and why, is entirely up to you.

maybe they just support the coalition's efforts to fix the ministry after watching them struggle to keep control for so long, or maybe your character is a full blown high ranking member of the order, or maybe they just agree with the movement the rebellion is starting - whatever that may be, that is your choice. and that is where they would fall, member group wise. they do not have to fully be a member to be included, we leave this decision up to you as you know your character best, and we trust you to choose the best route.

now, for characters that may be playing the role of spy within groups, we do ask that you keep in mind that the chosen group should show as what they would appear most as in an outward fashion, i.e. peter pettigrew as order of the phoenix or severus snape as a death eater in canon. thank you!

Nº1 CIVILIAN

the civilians, caught between each of these groups and being pulled this way, that, the other until surely they just might rip apart, until surely they will be forced to pick a side, pick a side and pray you made the right choice.

the civilians member group works as a catch all - those who haven't yet aligned themselves, or who haven't yet fully aligned themselves. they are sure to lean in different directions, have pulls in different directions, but they haven't formally joined the fight just yet. our civilians are those in the in between, those caught between all the lines in the web that has been woven, and those who have not quite yet for whatever reason chosen a side to truly stand on. be that because they are waiting to see where pieces fall or just unsure they want to be involved or any other reason, they're caught dead in the middle and the clock is ticking as it begs the question 'if you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?'.

Nº2 COALITION

the coalition, an international group put in place to watch and to rectify and to ultimately do what the ministry cannot and finding that list to grow each day as what they deem as anarchy and other deem as revolution grows in numbers, all while their need to take control matches that growth over and over.

they waited and watched as people died, as the dark lord grew in power, as a rebellion was started that threatened to shake the way of the outreaching world as they knew it, and the ineffective ministry did nothing. eventually, the world could watch no more and the coalition stepped in. the coalition are an international body who have been tasked with restoring peace, headed up in britain by their liaison, robards, they are working to mediate, provide safety, and restore infrastructure to the ailing country. but at what point does assistance become a takeover? the stubborn british ministry is almost as much of a problem as the squabbling factions and anarchists, revolutionaries and monsters run rampant in the streets. sometimes tact and diplomacy is no longer enough, and there are those who see this and support their appointment readily, so long as something is finally done.

Nº3 DEATH EATER

the order of the phoenix and the death eaters, facing off in a war that is about to come to a head as the world around them grows ever darker, ready to descend fully into the madness they had all begun to unravel, to dip their toes into the insanity like a tidepool, unknowing the tidal wave that awaited them.

led by lord voldemort, the death eaters (and those who align with them, who could be found here as unmarked death eaters or simply death eater aligned characters) have a focus on blood purity and/or the dark arts. a mixture of the weak, the ambitious, and those who simply enjoy inflicting hurt and causing suffering, they are radicals with no regard for the law, order, or morals that tie wizarding society together. they are the disillusioned aristocracy, the fearful scared of their tenuous grip on power, those who wreak violence in your community, the ambitious lesser clutching at strength, respect, fear by any means, romanticizing their ‘clean’ bloodlines and ardent in their belief that magic is might and anything muggle is mud.

Nº4 ETHER

the ether, printing hard truths that no one wants uncovered and calling out any that stands in their way, a media insurrection that is asking for transparency the likes of which their world has never known.

the world has been murky for so long, the water constantly stirred up by those factions hiding in the shadows, afraid to come out and be seen in the light of the day. the ether advocates for transparency, tired of how groups like the order and the death eaters have been allowed to run amuck seemingly without any kind of resistance. they are those working to uncover the truth, no matter its ugliness. they are the radio hosts sorting out facts from fiction, they are the brave sources risking all to expose the ministry’s corruption, they are in and out of the media themselves but using that resource to tell stories that need to be told. they’ve had enough of the years of no accountability, of the people suffering for the egos of a few. war is not only fought on battlegrounds. it’s fought in the pages and on the airwaves too.

Nº5 MINISTRY OF MAGIC

the ministry of magic, faking control over a situation that has long since gotten out of hand and grappling with how to take the power back now that so many eyes are upon them.

for as long as anyone can remember, the ministry has been there. people come and go and times change, but the foundations endure. except what happens when there are cracks in those foundations? when papering over them no longer hides the problems and the situation is spiraling? the ministry is the government and all the employees and supporters that fall under its shadow, the all-powerful authority, and what they say goes… right? except the coalition is here now, undermining the little power the british ministry has managed to hold onto. and every day it seems there’s a new faction complicating matters. and how long, really, can they retain support and the waning semblance of control? and what happens should they lose it?

Nº6 ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

the order of the phoenix and the death eaters, facing off in a war that is about to come to a head as the world around them grows ever darker, ready to descend fully into the madness they had all begun to unravel, to dip their toes into the insanity like a tidepool, unknowing the tidal wave that awaited them.

led by albus dumbledore, the order of the phoenix was formed to directly oppose the death eaters. they are the tragic heroes, the light in the dark that can’t be snuffed out. they’ve lost so much, so many, and still they refuse to be moved. how much can you lose before it changes you irreparably? before it makes you into something worse? the order are our ragtag lovable group of do-gooders, or so they believe themselves. at times, they are all that stands between life as you know it and the death eaters gaining control. vigilantes to some, rebels to others, they are your teachers, your daughters, your sons, the people you pass in the street and think nothing of. all walks of life and all fighting for the greater good as they believe it. but who is to say they are right? and with secrets being uncovered and new groups making waves, how long will that belief remain unshaken?

Nº7 REBELLION

the rebellion, an uprising some would call it, a godsend others would cry, making waves even as they just begin and calling for change in the treatment of those seen less than human.

kindness is not something often shown when you’re different. whether you be a werewolf or a vampire, a half-creature, anything less than human - you are seen as lacking, as lesser. and some have had enough of being belittled, being treated so poorly by the society that shuns them, of being persecuted for things they cannot help and cannot change. maybe they’re wizards themselves, who’ve grown weary of watching creatures suffer under the current regime, of watching people who mostly look like them be treated with disdain and prejudices they know they did not earn. they want more, want rights, want safety, and they are angry that they’ve yet to get it. they're angry that they have to fight for it at all, that at every turn they’ve been told no. it’s burnt for so long in their chests and now they howl for change, baying for a revolt, an insurrection. a rebellion. there is no clear hierarchy. yet. only whispers and ripples and more and more realizing that if they want change, they’ll have to take it. by force, if necessary.