#and wonders if god will ever allow his bones to rest among them

[tema-makes-art-sometimes]

if france isnt being really weirdly morbid about death and its beauty then whats the gosh darn diggity dang point.

[random-imagines-blog]

Shame {Harry Potter x Reader One Shot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 2328 Summary: After being tortured at Malfoy Manor, you find a little peace and quiet with Harry. Warnings: A bit of Bellatrix torture, a Mean Girls reference.

You refused to cry in front of your cousin Bellatrix, no matter how much she scared you. And she was absolutely terrifying. Girl to girl, she had said, as she pulled your friends away from you. She had you on the floor in seconds, writhing and screaming in pain but you still refused to cry. The only tears that you let go were from relief when the crucio spell had been pulled from you, and she tried to get information.  Her wand threateningly brushed against your face, and you could see her lip twitching, just wanting to cast more cruel spells. Being family meant that she was treating you rougher than she would anyone else - you were more of a disappointment. You were born with that on your shoulders just because your father was Sirius Black. Traitor to wizardkind because your father was said to have worked with Voldemort and sold out the Potters. Traitor to The Death Eaters because it was known among them that he didn’t. At least when he was proven innocent, you were able to make friends with Harry, Ron and Hermione, and attempt to aid them in bringing down The Dark Lord.

You didn’t answer any of her questions. You weren’t crying. You weren’t giving her any of the reactions that she wanted to badly out of you, which was just irritating her more. It got to the point where she brought out her favorite knife to use on you - which actually calmed you down. Even if she were to cut you, or stab you, it would still be better than the cruciatus curse.

But it still hurt. Bloody Hell, it hurt. You were screaming in pain as she tore through your flesh, having to stop and wipe viciously to get the blood away to see where she could put the next letter. You didn’t watch. You had your head turned to the other side so you wouldn’t have to see. But your mind was putting together the letters that she was making.

T R A I T O R

“Please - stop - please,” You said as she dug in for the O. Curves were very hard to make on skin with a knife. And she was really trying to make it perfect. You were screaming now. She was going in and in, making it deeper. You were sure at this point that it was written on your very bones. No amount of healing spells would be able to erase it completely. It was carved into your soul.

She finally left you, but you were too tired and in pain to move. Your arm was splayed out, the blood drying and starting to flake off, a puddle of it beneath you. You stared blankly at the ceiling ahead of you, watching the shadows move through the corners like dementors. You wished they were dementors. You’d give anything not to feel.

--

“Y/N, come on,” You felt someone shaking at your body. Thinking that it was Bellatrix, you hid back inside of yourself. You tried to isolate your mind from everything. You couldn’t take any more pain. You just couldn’t.

It took you a couple of minutes to realize that you were no longer on a cold, hard floor but you were laying on what was a soft bed. You opened your eyes, them feeling like they were swollen shut from the crying that you had done after Bellatrix had left, and through the tears and the dried eye gunk, you faintly saw light beige walls. You blinked slowly. This had to be a trick. Some kind of mind game. Lull you into a false sense of security.

Your name was said against and this time you rolled over to see who it was, expecting it to be one of the Deatheaters, or their sons. But it wasn’t. It was Harry, and he looked more frazzled than you had ever seen him. His hair was always a mess and it seemed like his glasses were always askew, but right now, he was just a mess. He looked like he had been crying, and hasn’t slept for days. But of course he wouldn’t have been able to sleep. You all had been taken by Death Eaters and tortured.

“Harry?” You asked, wanting to make absolute sure that it was him. Polyjuice Potions were a thing after all. “What was the name of Sirius’s dog form?”

“Snuffles,” He said, without the least trace of humor. So it really was Harry. You wiped at your eyes, feeling the dried on traces of eye gunk and tried to get them off. You sat up and looked at him, sitting over your bed, like he was holding some sort of vigil over you.

“You look like you haven’t slept in ages, Harry. Where are we? How did we get out of there?”

“I haven’t,” Harry admitted, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his own eyes, then put them back on. “We’re at Shell Cottage - Bill and Fleur’s place. It’s a long story but ... Dobby saved us. And Bellatrix killed him. We buried him already.”

“I’m so sorry,” You said, reaching for him and took his hand. “Come on, lay down with me, you look like you need this bed more than I do.”

Moving triggered a pain in your arm - you had almost forgotten about what Bellatrix had carved on you but the memories came flooding back. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.  

“Thanks,” Harry said. He had a second’s look of hesitation, like he wanted to protest, but he did look like he was going to fall over from exhaustion at any second. The bed was big enough for two, and he fit in nicely against you, putting you between himself and the wall. You rolled onto your side, your good side, your hurt arm falling over him. You were wearing sleeves, which made you wonder who dressed you. Oh, you sure hoped to God it was Fleur, and that none of the boys had seen what was written on you.

“How long have we been here?” You questioned, softly. The cottage was quiet, save for the faint noise of someone moving around in the kitchen. You could hear the waves outside. It was a very soothing sound, and it made your body relax. That combined with Harry next to you, laying on his back, his chest rising and falling with his breath. You felt somewhat safe for the first time in weeks. And you chose to enjoy it by reaching over with your painful arm, and removing the glasses from Harry’s face. He allowed you to without a fuss, and you folded them up and set them on the nightstand.

“Since yesterday,” Harry explained, and told the tale of the grand escape - including how he had been the one that had scooped you up after you passed out from Bellatrix’s torturing. You inched a little closer to him as he spoke, eyes wide as you listened to how he had covered your arm with one of Bill’s sweaters before anyone else could see.

“Why?” You asked, self consciously pulling the sleeve down over your hands. The sweater was one of Mrs. Weasley’s, you realized, as you caught a better look. A big B on the front. It was cozy, and warm, and it had a big hand in making you feel safe. “Why did you hide it from everybody?”

“Thought you’d want to tell the others about it on your own terms,” Harry said. “At least you’re able to hide it. Not like it’s in the middle of your forehead or anything.”

That almost made you smile. The closest that you had been to it in a while. You moved closer still, placing your head on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat through the fabric of his own clothes - another Weasley jumper, another B. It seemed they were all that Bill and Fleur had to spare that were warm enough for the foggy weather outside. You didn’t mind at all, and apparently Harry didn’t either. It smelt of laundry detergent. Clean soap.

“Thank you,” You hummed into his sweater. “Are you alright, Harry? I can’t imagine what they must have put you -”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said, sharply. You were used to these tones coming from him, and hardly stirred from your position. In fact, you brought your hand onto his chest as well, to try to comfort him.

“Okay. All that matters is that we’re out now. And ... and we’re safe for a little while.”

“We’re never safe,” Harry groaned. Hesitantly, he put his arms around you, resting his hands on your sweater, keeping you close.

“I know you feel like you have the world on your shoulders, but we can’t take this for granted. This is the only chance for a breather that we have. Let’s just ... enjoy it for a couple of minutes.”

You held him even closer, and turned your head to kiss his chest through the sweater. He was your savior right now, and you were so very thankful. Your angel with messy black hair and bottle green eyes. You, like many other girls, had a crush on him during school, but you were lucky enough to actually get to know him, which made it grow. You just never said anything because of the stress that he was always under. He didn’t need to know. But this was your moment to breathe, the safest you two had been in a while.

“You got your scar because of me,” Harry said, quietly.

“Stop it,” You said, lightly smacking his chest. “Don’t you dare put that on yourself. I was a traitor to her long before I even met you, Harry. It’s Bellatrix’s fault, no one elses. Why do you do that to yourself?”

“Do what?”

“Take responsibility for everything. I know what I signed up for when I joined your cause, when I became your friend. I can take the burden for what had been to me, honey. You don’t need to do that. You already keep enough on your plate.”

He rubbed at his eyes. You thought you saw some tears there, but it could have been from exhaustion. And then his arms were around you, hugging you. You felt him kiss the top of your head.

“It’s just hard not to,” He admitted to you. And you could understand that. He felt like a lot of the things that went bad were his fault - and he probably blamed himself for Dobby as well.

“I know. But when all of this is over, and it will be over because good will always win, Harry, we’re all going to take the victory together, just as we take the hurt together. And you wouldn’t dare try to take that from us, would you?”

Harry chuckled, and you could feel his chest moving beneath your head. It was a nice sound, because as long as there was a bit of laughter still in the air, there was still hope in the world. There was a moment of silence, only gulls being heard from outside now, as you two held onto each other in there. You could almost believe that there was barely a world out there beyond the beach, and that’s just what your mind needed in order to let your body fully relax against Harry. Your fingers played at the collar of the sweater, feeing how it must have been an older one since it was a little stretched out.

“Are you going to stay with me?” Harry asked, breaking the moment.

“Of course,” You answered, thinking that it should have been obvious. “Haven’t I always?”

“I could never tell if it was because you were stubborn or if you felt obliged.”

“Definitely stubborn,” You said, chuckling. “I don’t do anything that I don’t want to do, Harry. That especially extends to trying to protect the people that I care about. And save the world. The bragging rights are going to be insane.”

That even made Harry laugh a little, his arms resting on you, squeezing you just a little bit. “Is that the only reason?”

You thought for a moment, and then decided - tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. You could get grabbed by the Death Eaters again at any time. And there was the final battle that was upcoming, when you and your friends would have to kill Voldemort once and for all, once all the Horcruxes were destroyed. “Love is the main reason,” You told him, fingers clinging onto his shirt now. You were scared he was going to push you away. But he didn’t. He just held onto you a little tighter.

“That’s a good reason,” He said, and you relaxed against him. He must have been thinking of his parents, you thought. You had heard how his mother’s love had protected him from the Killing Curse in the first place.

“Best reason for anything,” You agreed. “Hey Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“After we save the world and go through all of the celebration parties and stuff - do you maybe want to have dinner with me or something? I think the Leaky Cauldron will probably remain standing, even after this war is long over.”

Harry chuckled at that, a soft and breathy sound, just enough to not disturb the air too much. “Yeah, sounds grool-”

You felt him pause at that. You licked your lips and tried to hold in your laugh, knowing that the shaking would give you away.

“I just tried to say great and cool at the same time,” He groaned.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I think it sounded pretty ... grool.”

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Sacrifice Part 5: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: A Festival turns into a *festival* (sort of)

wc: 1.7k

tw: drinking and tomfoolery

masterlist

a/n: y'all. I have been worn out by today and just needed something fun and light to write. I will be adding a 5.5 tomorrow since I couldn't do what I wanted to do with this chapter originally. (sorry, loves) Stay tuned! See you all soon.

“Have you ever been to the Festival of Dragons?” Serena asks, wrapping herself in a black dress with silver bits of glitter scattered about.

“No,” you admit, examining your own black silk gown, and then looking down at your golden slippered feet. “What is it like?”

“Don’t spoil the best parts,” Cly warns, draping a silk shawl around her shoulders before braiding her black hair behind her ears. She gives you a wink, then turns back to the mirror, and you tilt your head at Serena.

“It’s full of food....”

“And fireworks,” Helen interjects, wiggling her mauve fingers around.

“Dancing,” Ariadne adds, and you laugh, wondering if your two left feet would make it through the night.

“Oh! And ambrosia.” Danai breathes, her eyes going wide.

“Ambrosia…” The girls sigh dreamily, and you bite your lip, waiting for someone to explain.

“Ambrosia?” you finally ask when no one says anything, and Clymenestra turns back to you, fully dressed, and proceeds to adjust your dress slightly.

“Ambrosia is the drink of the gods. But since you’re still mortal, I’m not sure that you can have any.”

“I’m sure now that she’s been spending her nights with His Holiness that he’ll allow--” Serena jabs Ariadne in the ribs at the sight of your embarrassment, and she hisses in pain.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine if that’s what he wants her to have, right, Cly?” Serena asks, and Cly nods, smiling at you.

“You’ll be fine.”

_____________________________________________________________

The Festival of Dragons would be held in the realm of the God of Wind, which was a short trip by dragon ride at sunset. Gojo and Geto both waited for you all, fully in their dragon form before you got there.

Your fingers still feel sore (and your head aches terribly) from when you clutched so tightly onto Geto’s mane as he ascended, climbing into the sky with Ariadne and Danai behind you. And yes, you screamed all the way to the Sky Realm, which looked like an open-air marketplace filled to the brim with stalls of food, games, and musicians playing the same song at the same time.

“Toji won’t be attending,” Geto confirms to the group, and you all collectively let out a sigh, then disperse into the crowd eagerly. You look to Geto, who lifts his arm for you to take, and once you loop your arm around his, he leads you along the path of stalls. As you marvel at the vast array of foods, sounds, and people that look somewhat like humans - but if one were to peer closely, they would find small differences from normal human faces - your eye catches on a colorful array of bracelets, and you pull Geto in that direction without words.

“FIve strands to protect you from evil,” the man behind the wooden counter smiles, and you finger a rainbow-colored one, then turn to Geto excitedly.

“Can I get one for all of us?” you ask, and he chuckles, waving his hand at the display.

“Have your pick, my lady.” You choose six more, and then - upon realizing you have no money to pay for the things - you set the back on the counter, much to Geto’s confusion.

“I have no money,” you reply when you see his face, and he blinks twice, then whispers in your ear,

“Y/n, everything is free.” You frown and squint your eyes.

“But how…”

“I’m the Dragon God, remember? This festival is for me and my counterparts.” The stall owner seems to have tuned you both out, focusing on weaving his strings and minding his business while you two discussed the logistics of the unnecessary payment.

As you take your prizes to the next stall, the scent of something meaty catches your nose and you sniff about, which makes Geto laugh earnestly. “I think you’re smelling kamuth.”

“What’s that?” you ask, looking at the spinning wheels of meat in the booth.

“It’s a delicacy among the immortals; it’s said that this rat-like creature first crawled from the bottom of the Earth to the highest mountain in order to reach the Sky Realm.” Geto plucks a slice of meat from the wheel and presents it to you, placing it in your open mouth. “But now, it’s just a rodent we fatten up to cook for festivals.” The salty meat slides down your throat easily and you hum in delight, reaching for another piece.

“Ambrosia?” a woman offers, and as you consume another slice of kamuth, Geto secures two cups full of yellow, shimmering liquid.

“Drink it slowly,” he warns, and you take a sip of it, letting the sweetness of it wash away the salty aftertaste of the meat.

“This is delicious,” you mention before you hear two voices call out behind you.

“Suguru!” The pink-haired boy from before and a man with black hair and a red stripe over his nose appear out of the crowd, beaming at Geto with admiration.

“Yuji, Choso,” Geto begins, smiling widely. “You two look like you’ve had your fair share of ambrosia.”

“Fifteen glasses before Choso here upchucked all over the floor,” Yuji states proudly, thumbing over to the unsteady Choso, who hiccups and covers his mouth. Choso’s eyes slide your way, and when he looks at you, you feel as if he’s looking into your soul.

“A human?”

“For now,” Geto holds out his hands to stop his protests. “Toji has already--”

“There you two are,” Two hands float out of the crowd and yank on the collars of both Yuji and Choso at the same time. “I look away for one moment and you two go staggering off into the crowd like dogs without leashes.” Megumi fades into view and you watch as he drags the two off into the crowd after muttering, “Sorry about these two idiots, Your Holiness.” You bring the cup to your lips again as you watch them disappear, then swallow the ambrosia for courage.

“Shall we continue?” Geto holds out his arm again, and you take it happily.

_____________________________________________________________

You had to admit, you were having so much fun watching the boat races, the dancers, and the speed-weavers that you forgot to drink your ambrosia slowly. By the time the cup is empty, you’re slightly unsteady on your feet and feeling sluggish. Geto immediately notices your slight impairment and frowns at your empty cup, gripping your arm tightly.

“Oooh,” you drawl, head tilting to the side slowly as you examine the colored lanterns around the grounds. “I want some lanterns like those,” you state. “All around the bedroom. Will you do that for me, Geto?”

“I’ll get you whatever lanterns you like, my lady,” he replies, and finds a place for the two of you to sit away from the crowd. You try to sit up straight, but your body keeps angling back slightly, so Geto has to catch you and sit you upright each time. “Y/n, do you feel tipsy?”

“I feel…” You stop to think for a second. “I feel warm and fuzzy all over, like a blanket,” you laugh, and Geto has to catch you again.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, and you straighten up, trying to make yourself appear more alert.

“No! The fireworks haven’t happened yet.”

“There will always be next year, my love.” You grasp his hand abruptly and tug on it once.

“But I’ll only be human for a few more weeks,” you plead, but he doesn’t look like he’ll give in. Not with that concerned look on his face.

“You’re under the influence of ambrosia; I’m taking you home, y/n,” he states, scooping to pick you up easily and walking back to the field where he landed as a dragon earlier. You watch him go to the edge of the cliff and step off, and for a second, panic sets into your bones as you scramble to see where he's gone. But a massive dragon shoots up from the edge as you peer over, landing on the grass with precision. A soft snort means “get on”, and you shakily do so, clutching onto his mane with all you had.

When you settle onto his back, he slowly begins his ascent, lifting off into the sky easily. One circle around the Sky Realm and then you’re off, speeding through clouds and air, the wind sailing past your face and making your once-tidy hair unkempt. At some point, you feel the overwhelming fear pass and you look up at the sky, reaching a hand up to touch a small cloud. Despite the cloud feeling like nothing, you contain your disappointment and yell,

“Why did you go so fast earlier? Did you want me to scream my head off?” The choppy growl Geto gives sounds like a laugh, almost, and you roll your eyes, sinking back into his mane as you descend to the palace. He shifts back into a man when you dismount, and then scoops you up again, carrying you past the front doors and to his bedroom.

“This is so romantic,” you croon jokingly as he places you back down, then begin to fiddle with your dress so you can slip into bed. But as your fingers slip on the clasps, Geto takes over, brushing your hair to the side so he can see the back of your gown. When his fingers ghost on the exposed skin, you shiver slightly. After the dress slides down your figure, you step out of it and turn to face Geto, covered only in a silk slip that reaches the top of your thighs.

Even under the influence of the drink of the gods, you don’t miss the way his eyes roam over you appreciatively; drinking in every curve, dip, and slope of your skin. His inventions are clear when he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, and you’re not sure if it’s the ambrosia or the newfound confidence that makes you bold, but your fingers drift to the tie at his waist, undoing it deftly. You walk back to the bed, Geto still pressing kisses to your skin and you the same, articles of his outer clothing being left behind in a trail leading to the large mattress. Once he’s down to his pants and those alone, he speaks softly.

“I want you to be fully sober when we…” He leaves the rest up in the air, and you pull away from him, blinking slowly.

“But--”

“I need full and enthusiastic consent,” he asserts, and you nod once, understanding his meaning.

“Then just kiss me until I fall asleep,” you counter, and he gives you a half-smile, his hands coming back up to your face and his lips pressing against yours as you sink into the pillows and sheets.

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @nostaren @sunfloweroranges @jibe-gajima @jotazinha @brownskinnedgirll @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9 @fuegy-fuegy @ambiguous-something @kontentious @missbonekitty @fyotituti @honouredsatoru @sandyscastle @flare-on @sasahime @ggotgame @just4readingfics

[scarletarosa]

Anubis

Egyptian god of death, mummification, embalming, tombs, and burial grounds

Anubis (Egyptian: Anup, Yinepu, or Anpu) was the original King of the Dead until he changed roles and Osiris became King of the Underworld in his place. Because  of him being born by Nephthys, Anubis was raised by Isis in order for him and his mother to be protected from Set, who was enraged by Nephthys’ act of adultery against him. When Osiris became the new King of the Underworld, Anubis evolved to be more of a guardian and a psychopomp (one who guides spirits to the Underworld). Anubis is said to have fathered the goddess Qebhet with his wife Anput (Anubis’ feminine counterpart). He is most often depicted as a man with the head of a black Egyptian hound, holding an ankh and a flail (an agricultural tool of a shepherd), or in the complete form of an Egyptian hound. The colour black is significant due to it being associated with rebirth in Ancient Egypt.

The Journey through Duat: Anubis is the god who guards the gateway to Duat (the Underworld) and is one of the deities to assist in judging souls in the Hall of Ma’at, making certain that no one wicked can pass on. It is said that once a mummy was sealed up, Anubis would come with the god Wepwawet and the two of them would guide the soul of the deceased towards the Hall of Ma’at, where they would be judged. While the soul waits for their turn, Qebhet, goddess of cool waters and the daughter of Anubis, is said to come and attend to them. She would be joined by other goddesses such as Nephthys and Serqet, who all comfort and provide for the deceased person. 

Once it is their turn, the soul then comes before the fourty-two judges and has to recite the Negative Confessions, claiming to be free or guilty of certain sins (which would change depending on the person). The spirit’s heart would then be placed upon the golden Scales of Truth to be weighed against a feather of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice. If the heart was heavier than the feather, the spirit would be given the chance to justify any of their misdeeds, then the judges would deem whether the spirit should be allowed to move on. Anubis is then the one to guide the pure towards the paradise of The Field of Reeds, while the souls of the wicked would have their heart devoured by the goddess Ammit, causing them to be unable to move on and would then be subject to severe punishments.

Other roles: Anubis was also thought to be the inventor and guardian of mummification; watching over the embalming process of every mummy and granting permission to the priests who cut open the bodies. In the myth of Osiris’ death and resurrection, he can be seen assisting Isis and Nephthys in rebuilding and preserving the corpse of Osiris until he could be revived. He is also seen as the god of lost souls, including orphans, and is the one to help guide them towards peace since he is the “shepherd of the dead”. Another role of this god is to watch over the resting places of the dead, punishing anyone who would dare desecrate the area. Thus, Anubis earned the epithet “He Who is Upon the Mountain”, as he was believed to protect the graves and tombs from high above where he could see all. Images of Anubis would be stamped on many of the seals to tombs in the Valley of the Kings, symbolizing the protection of Anubis against raiders and ill-wishers upon the dead. He was even known as the god who had knowledge of the mysteries of the afterlife, including the secrets of magic.  

Personal experiences: Anubis is one of the most noble gods I have ever had the honour to meet. He is deeply compassionate, just, diligent, protective, and patient; among the finest of the Netjeru. He is also quite serious and withdrawn, and does not like stupidity or most jokes. Despite what Egyptologists have assumed, Anubis states that he does not actually take the form of a jackal, but of a black Egyptian hound. This is because he guards the dead with stern protection, whereas jackals eat the dead (and he doesn’t look like a jackal at all either). Anubis is also one of the deities who strongly values their own evolution, so he travels through the dark in order to seek the light, and gradually changes for betterment. For this reason, he had stepped down from being the king of the Egyptian Underworld in order to evolve under a different role. It is true that he is the son of Osiris and Nephthys when these two gods had an affair; though despite this, Isis adores Anubis and does not hold anything negative towards him. The goddess Ma’at also claims Anubis to be one of the most wonderful souls in existence due to his noble and generous nature. In addition, Anubis is to be treated with great respect (as all deities should) so do not call him anything insulting or refer to him as a dog, as this can invoke his wrath. 

Some of his Epithets:

Guardian of the Scales

Chief Physician

Counter of Hearts

Beautiful Guardian

Chief Healer

Guardian of Souls

Guide of the Two Lands

He Who Checks the Scales

He Who Makes the Corpses

He Who is Hidden

High and Mighty One

Immense Strength

Keeper of the Keys to the Underworld

Lord of the Coffin

Lord of the Underworld

Lord of Purification

Master of the Secrets of the Underworld

He Who is Upon the Mountain

Pharaoh of the Underworld

Ruler of Eternity

Lord of the Sacred Land

Offerings: red dry wine, rum, apple juice, coffee (mochas, Ethiopian), hot chocolate, rye bread, rhubarb, red grapes, figs, lemons, limes, parsley, cooked chicken, curry, hummus, olive oil, dark chocolate, almonds, pinecones, beetroots, eggplants, ivy, chrysanthemum, amaranth, henbane, obsidian, black onyx, smoky quartz, tigers eye, jet, cat skulls, wild dog skulls, bones, fossils, papyrus, linen, leather-bound books, balancing scales, cedar essential oil, bronze incense burners, smyrna resin, black olibanum incense, oud incense, statues of Anubis

[systlinsideblog]

Part 4

I still lived. 

I was, I thought, greatly in the minority. The woman Systlin had judged warrior after warrior, and warrior after warrior had met his end at a quiva's blade. 

A great many of the sentences were carried out by the hands of the freed slave girls of the warriors. The number of these astounded me, as did the ferocity with which many of the girls fell upon their masters. 

It is a Gorean saying that a woman cannot be free until she has been a slave. It is said that a woman wishes to be conquered, that she cannot respect any man save for the man who can reduce her to nothing. 

The girls fell upon their masters with a fury I have rarely seen, and blood flowed until the grass was slick and red with it. 

A few girls did not take up the quiva. These men, once sentence of death was passed, the she-sleen on the Ubar's robe killed herself. Her face was untroubled by this, unworried, and there was even a hint of vicious pleasure in those cold eyes as she swung the sword to remove their heads.

Those warriors who had taken Free Companions and who had children, the she-sleen ordered all material goods be split equally between the  Free Companions, the children, and the freed slave girls. There were many sour faces among the Tuchuk women at that, but to my shock many more who accepted it without question. 

When night neared, scarce three dozen warriors of the Tuchuk still lived, myself included. It was us and only us who had not admitted to owning slaves, and who had no slaves to call out our names. 

A very few men..two or three, in all...had been spared by the request of their slave girls. These men were whipped, and the she-sleen commanded ash be rubbed into the whip wounds. 

"I would have them remember." She had said, eyes cold and face passionless, even as the warriors held back cries of pain. "I want them to remember their crimes, and to remember me." 

Those of us who had survived the slaughter had been unchained and taken to wagons, and allowed to eat and rest. 

"So." Kamchak had survived the culling, and his face was set and cold. "We are free, then?"

"You are not slaves." Systlin had smiled a little, a cold smile that did not reach her eyes. "But if you seek to flee, or to move against me...well." 

Behind her, I could see women chaining hunting sleen outside the wagons. Each was given clothing to smell; I noticed with a start a discarded tunic of my own among the items. The sleen began to pull and hiss, eyes bright. 

"Say, rather, that you are prisoners for the time." Systlin continued. "I've much to do, and I've no time to be worrying about one of you burying a knife in my back in my sleep." Another humorless smile. "I'm not fool enough to think that all...or any...of you are paragons of virtue. I'll get the truth in time."

Kamchak spat. "You," he informed her, "Are the most disagreeable and wrenched wench I've ever had the misfortune to meet. There will come a day, where you meet a man to bring you to heel." A smile. "I wish to be there to see it."

I felt my heart sink; they were unwise words, but then Kamchak was Tuchuk. 

To my surprise, the woman Systlin threw back her head and laughed, as if at a wonderful joke. 

"Ahhh!" She wiped tears from her eyes at last, as I stared, stunned. "When I find my way home, I will tell Foicatch that." Another laugh. "A woman isn't brought to heel. We can choose to be a partner, or to bide our time and pretend until the time is right, but brought to heel? HA! You saw that, I think, today." Another terrible grin. "I saw your faces, when the women turned on your warriors. You did not expect that, did you?"

"Foicatch?" Kamchak, ever keen, inquired. 

"My husband." Systlin said this lightly, easily. "Father of my daughter."

"Good god, you are married?" The words were out of me before I could think better of them. I tried to imagine what bedding such a woman would be like, and thought to myself that it would be much like the risk taken by the male of the praying mantis of Earth; what sort of man would marry such a creature?

"Yes. Goodnight." She shut the wagon behind her. 

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kamchak spoke. 

"It is probably a bad time, Tarl Cabot," he said. "To mention that Kutaituchuk was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks." 

"What?"

 It was surprising, Systlin thought, how many of the Tuchuk women had been willing...eager, even...to take up weapons and stand guard at her wagon. 

Not to her. No. On Ellinon, the children of the Lady would have found the ideas of the men of this 'Gor' incomprehensible, unlawful, hearsay, and downright suicidal. But to many of the women of Gor themselves, Systlin thought, the sheer thrill that came when picking up a blade or spear was new. 

She tried to picture what would have happened had Stellead found herself in this shithole of a world. Death, absolutely; her aunt had little talent in any form of Power, but she had won her place as Arms Master of Stellas Keep and as a Commander of the Bloodguard through sweat and skill. 

Even now, Systlin could only best her aunt blade to blade perhaps two matches out of three. 

If anyone...man, woman, even the gods themselves...had tried to bring Stellead to heel, she'd spit in their eye and disembowel them. 

Systlin smiled to herself. It was a stubbornness and force of will that she herself shared, and that her aunt, mother, and father had always fostered. 

The women did not know quite how to hold a spear, of course. Systlin had tried to gently insist that she didn't need an armed guard, more because she knew full well that they'd not yet be up to a fight than because she believed that. But they had insisted, and in the end she had simply advised them to stick to knives for the time being. 

The rugs and cushions and furs in the wagon were quite comfortable, and she was quite tired, but sleep was elusive. 

All of this...the rugs and furs, the sound of animals outside, the sound of low voices from the camp, the smell of dried dung fires...it was too similar to her time with the Rabi, with Sura, before Sura had become Queen of the Sands, when she'd simply been the leader of her clan. 

Sura's laugh, bright as a bell, and the taste of pomegranate wine. The light of the brazier catching glints of copper and red off of Sura's black hair, which gleamed almost blue in sunlight. 

The rugs beside her were cold, and she suddenly felt very alone. 

Her throne would be empty. She'd held the North together through sheer grit, guile, charisma, and the edge of a sword, and beaten it back into working shape after the War of the Crown had nearly destroyed it. 

Her daughter was only a girl. Foicatch, dear Foicatch, would do his best, she knew, but he was at heart a soldier, not a monarch. 

Her sister would step in, at least. 'Sina was capable. But she didn't have the fear and respect of the lords of the realm and the love of the common folk the way Systlin did. 

"Why am I here?" She whispered this in the dark, at the roof of the wagon. 

No one answered. 

"I have my own place. People who will miss me." She scowled at the dark, and anger rose hot and furious. "Responsibilities! I've not got time for...this!" She waved a hand randomly, indicating everything about this strange place. 

No one answered. But Systlin had met gods in her time, and she knew that if they cared to, they could hear. 

"Send me back!" She hissed this at the darkness, not sure who she was angry with. "Have I not done enough? Send me home! I do not want this!"

Nothing. 

Exhaustion, at last, won out, and she slept. 

She was, in her dreams, not surprised at her visitor. 

The Lady's face could never be seen. The most that could be gathered was an impression of poise, of stately calm. It was impossible even to place what color Her hair was, or her skin, though the hair floated around her like a cloud and she was nude. 

"You?" In her dream Systlin could still feel her anger, though it was a hollow ghost of what she'd felt while awake. 

Me. It wasn't a spoken word; it was felt. 

"I should have known at once." Systlin growled. "Have I not done enough? Can I have no peace?"

A laugh, chiming and musical, but which shook the very bones. You were never made for peace. 

And that was true. Systlin knew it, felt the truth of it in her soul. It was impossible to deny it, not before the Lady. 

She felt an answering whisper in her soul, as the slumbering power of what had once been the Lord of Night and Void, the God of Endings, the Fallen One, God of Conflict, Lord of Justice and retribution, stirred within her. 

Sister. The word was pointed, and almost mocking. Who denies still that you are. 

"I saved my world. It needs me; you know that damned well. I don't want to be a god."

Want. This word was definitely mocking. There is no want, sister. There is 'must'. My brother failed his duty, and corrupted it. You hold it now. In time, you will realize. Goddess of War, Goddess of Justice, Goddess of Protection, Goddess of Night, Goddess of Death, Goddess of Endings and rebirth. I do your duties for now, sister...but not forever. 

Systlin clenched her fists, and pointedly ignored this. "My people need me, damn you."

They are safe. 

Systlin closed her eyes. "You'll not send me back until I finish here." It wasn't a question. 

You could send yourself back whenever you wished, if you accepted your new place.

Systlin glared.

Another smile. So stubborn. No, I will not. Good luck, sister.

She woke. 

Within her, the power of the god she'd killed stirred again, and was once more silent. 

It was morning. She could see the sunlight under the door, and could hear the cheerful bustle of camp outside. 

"Gods damn it all to the pits." She muttered.

 The hardest thing about training the women of the Tuchuk in combat, Systlin soon found, was ingrained survival habits. 

Her aunt, in the long-ago days when Systlin had been a lanky youth still growing into her arms and legs and new to a training sword, had always said that the hardest thing about training older students was fixing ingrained and detrimental habits. 

Stellead had been referring to habits picked up from lesser arms masters...letting your shield drop, footwork that was less than flawless. Systlin wondered how her aunt would have dealt with this, as she interrupted a woman to correct her form and the former slave cringed and dropped at her feet, begging forgiveness. 

"I am sorry!" The woman was almost tearful. Systlin had been angry since she came to this cursed place, and she felt that knot of red rage flare. "I am sorry, I forgot..."

"It's all right." Systlin squatted, propping her elbows on her thighs. "Hush. It's all right. Here now." She offered her hand, and the girl hesitantly took it. Systlin stood, drawing the girl back to her feet, and then bent, picked up the dropped wooden sword, and offered it back hilt first. The girl took it. 

"Do you know," Systlin said, keeping her voice light and conversational, "how long it took me to become good with a sword?"

The woman blinked. "I...no, Ubara." 

"I started training at thirteen." Systlin smiled fondly in memory. "I first killed a wraithen at nineteen. I first killed men in battle at twenty five. that was two and a half decades and three wars ago." She tossed her own wooden sword in the air; it spun precisely one turn before she caught it again by the hilt. "Training takes time, and practice. You will make mistakes. I will never fault you for them; you simply correct them and keep training." 

The girl nodded slowly. Systlin had given the same speech to many girls over the last three weeks, but the habits learned to survive the men of this Pit of a planet went deep. It would be slow going yet; she knew that. 

"Fifty?" The question was unexpected. 

"Hm?"

"You are fifty?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Your world then has brews of youth as well?" The girl seemed curious. 

Systlin blinked. "I...no. But we're descended from the Lady, the goddess and mother of all. We live long." She considered the woman before her; she appeared to be perhaps in her late twenties. "How old are you?" 

"Oh. Sixty, I think? My masters have given me the brews of youth three times." 

The yawning pit of cold fury in Systlin's soul howled. 

"How many years of that," Systlin kept her voice carefully level. "Were you kept as property?"

"Since I was...oh, sixteen?"

The world went abruptly white before her eyes. The yawning spectre of the power she'd pulled from the soul of a slain god roared; goddess of justice, goddess of protection....

Fury, she was furious, and for a moment she knew, knew that it would be so, so easy, to rise on the wind and come down on the people who had done this. To become a storm, a furious reckoning, to scour this world clean in a night...

...No. No no NO. I will not. I have to teach them. They must take it themselves, for all I might lead them. Or it will all be for nothing...

By the time she fought it down and came back to herself she was on her knees, clutching the trampled grass with white knuckles. Sweat was soaking her, as it never did even if she fought all day. Her breath was coming short and sharp. 

"Ubara!" The voices were panicked, and she realized dimly that there were at least a dozen women around her, patting at her cheeks, offering water. 

She looked up, and saw worry, and fear, and as the god-soul inside her stirred, she saw more. She saw desperation, and so, so much pain, oceans of pain, seas of injustice, rivers of innocent blood spilled. 

And as the women of the Tuchuk looked at her, worried, she saw deep in their eyes hope. 

"Ubara?" It was  Sabra , the brave girl, who'd taken quite well to a spear. "Ubara?"

"I'm all right." She wasn't, not quite; her voice sounded rough to her own ears. "I'm all right. Keep practicing."

The hovered until she got to her feet, but once it was determined that the Ubara was not about to die, they slowly went back to their drills. 

Systlin moved a bit away, absently climbed the nearest wagon, and sat cross legged, looking out over the makeshift training grounds without really seeing. 

She'd always been a protector. Since they'd been children, and her sister's dreams had driven little 'Sina to cry and scream in her sleep. Since her father had nurtured that, and taught her that a Queen's people were her children, that her sacred duty was to protect and serve them. 

Since she'd torn the North back from the hands of the greedy and the corrupt, who'd sought to carve it apart for power and profit. 

Since she'd faced a god, putting her own body and soul between her people and the Fallen Lord himself. 

Since she'd faced a second goddess, and demanded the Lady return her daughter from beyond death. 

It was who she was, in the end. She knew it in her bones, even as she looked down at these strange people in this strange world, and felt it, that what she must do. 

"Pitting hells." She muttered this softly, and somewhere felt the Lady smile. 

 For some weeks now, the routine had been much the same; Kamchak and I, and the other men, were kept chained and carefully watched. Some men, after a measure of time should they demonstrate a contrite enough demeanor, had their chains removed and were allowed to move about the camp; they did so, casting their eyes aside from those of us who were still chained. 

I watched one man brush a bosk one evening, and oil its hooves. A slave girl should do such work, and he was clumsy at it. A girl was watching, wearing the leather trousers that had become fashionable among the women. Her hair, which was very long, was braided up and pinned in a coil on the top of her head; it was unflattering, I thought. She corrected him, and showed him how it was done properly, and he meekly listened. She smiled at him, and I thought that in silks and with hair loose she must have been quite a beauty. He smiled back, a bit tentatively. 

I snorted in disdain. There are always men that are so, those that are more akin to women than true men. 

She heard, and turned on me. There was a fierceness in her eyes. 

"See." She pointed at me, mocking. "He thinks himself better than you, Sarthak. He thinks himself too good for work about the camp, thinks it should be done only by women in chains." She laughed, and spit in my direction. "And yet he is still a prisoner in chains, while you are a free man. So who, then, is the better man?"

Sarthak grinned at me. He wore no scars, and scant weeks ago he had likely been unregarded utterly by the Tuchuk. 

"You speak true words, Lena." He agreed, and turned his back on me. She gave another laugh, and she turned back to their task. I realized with some surprise that the looks Lena was favoring the unscarred young man with were warm. 

"Disgraceful." Kamchak was chained to the other axle of the wagon, and he too was regarding the young man with distaste. "Have they made a slave of you already, boy?"

"He's a free man." Lena didn't look around. "All free men and women of able body must do their share of work. You shall too, should you ever be trusted and set free." 

Kamchak spat again, and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel. 

"It was a sad day," said the Ubar of the Tuchuk, "That that she-sleen came to the Tuchuk, Tarl Cabot." 

"Yes." I agreed. I wondered still how many she had slain in that night, through sorcery. The pyres had burned for two days and nights. 

We watched the girl teach the young man to grease the axles of the wagon. We had little else to do. 

As the evening meal was brought, we were finally given some surprise to rouse us from the deadly tedium that had marked the weeks. 

The she-sleen had a cloak now, made of red larl-hide. She wore it pinned at a jaunty angle, thrown back over one shoulder. She was wearing a leather vest over her strange scale armor today. She regarded us for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. I'd examined that weapon many times now, and I still could not place the make of it; it was no Gorean style I knew of, and the silver-blue of the blade was unlike any alloy I knew on Earth. It was somewhat shorter than most blades I had seen, perhaps thirty-six inches in all in total length. A great polished amethyst was set into the pommel, the most darkly violet stone I'd ever seen. 

It was viciously sharp. I knew this. 

"You." She said to me. The word was said in Gorean; she was learning quickly, it seemed, for all her strange magic did seem to translate for her. "You'll come with me." She nodded at the girl following her...I recognized her, I realized, it was the girl Dina I had seen around camp before, the slave reputed to be the best at the running game...and Dina brought out a ring of keys. 

Dina's hair was braided, as was Systlin's. Dina wore leather trousers, as did Systlin. Dina wore a quiva, as  Systlin wore her long dagger, and had stood and rested her hand on the hilt of the quiva in conscious imitation of the strange woman. 

It seemed to be a fashion, I noted, that many of the freed slave girls and even many of the Tuchuk women had taken up. 

I said nothing.  It had not been a request, of course, and I had little choice. My leg was healing, but I was far from my top form.

My chains were let loose. I stood, with some difficulty, and Dina's help. She was, I noticed with some surprise, quite strong. There were muscles through her shoulders that I'd never before seen so developed on any Gorean woman, and her hands were tough. 

I knew that well; my own hands were callused thus from the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. It was surprising that a slave girl had developed such in such a short time. 

I was led to the great wagon that Systlin had claimed as her own; the wagon that I knew, now, was not the true wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks. 

Inside, a meal of roast bosk had been laid ready for us. Systlin sat cross legged on the cushions; the maleness of the gesture still grated at my sensibilities. Seeing it preformed by one who might look quite well kneeling in silks was wrong, quite wrong. Dina helped me, somewhat ungracefully and with some pain, to sit. 

Systlin did not touch the food at once. She was watching me, and the gaze was keen and direct. I said nothing, but examined her in return. 

I am an observant man. It is one of my strengths. But I could gather little from her, save that which I had already deduced; she was strongly built, for a woman, all solid wiry muscle. Her hands were tough, those of a swordsman. Her gaze was intelligent, and I could not place her origin; the bone structure and shape of her eyes was subtly foreign, but not of any place I knew. She could have been beautiful, perhaps, were she arrayed instead in silk. She never, I noted, let her weapons stray far from her hand. 

She was used, I thought, to fighting. Used even to being attacked in the most secure of surroundings. She had said before that many men had tried to kill her; what sort of creature was this that sat before me?

"You're wondering why I brought you here." She broke the silence. Her tone was crisp, and it was not a question.

I said nothing. 

"The answer is because you are not of these people. I know that the Wagon Peoples usually slay outsiders. That means you are unusual, and I'm wagering it means you're quite skilled at arms." She examined me again, much as I'd examined her, and I saw her noting the callus of my hands. "Your accent is not like that of these people, as well. They say you are Koroban, wherever the fuck that is. I've heard that you have, apparently, traveled."

I said nothing. 

"That makes you potentially useful." She informed me of this without a hint of emotion. "I know very little of this world, and while I'm learning, I suspect that you know more than most."

I had heard her say such things before. I am quite well acquainted with such matters, of course, being once of Earth. "Of this world?" I said at last. 

"Of this world." A horrible humorless smile. "You know full well I'm not from here. This whole place is a nightmare and a travesty. You're lucky my aunt Stellead is not here; she’s less merciful than I. She'd have castrated the lot of your slavers and rapists, slow roasted the genitals, and fed them back to you a bite at a time. And to be honest, I did consider that." 

I could not help but cringe at the thought. 

"From what I have gathered," she continued, "No part of this world is not at the mercy of monsters who hold humans as livestock and use them as they please. It's that, I think, that I've been brought here to end. And you, Tarl Cabot, are going to give me information as I do it." 

The shock of her words was immediate. "Sent? The priest-kings...."

The wave of a hand, dismissive. "I've heard of them. No. Gods, no. I don't care a whit for them. If they interfere I'll deal with them. No, it's a power higher than them that's sent me." 

I blinked at her in shock. The priest-kings are feared and worshiped as gods on Gor, with reason. They are advanced beyond any human designs, and are exceptionally powerful. Yet I saw not a trace of fear in her. 

"They are very powerful," I said. "And your powers may bring their wrath yet." I hoped it, of course. They can burn a man to ashes on a whim.

A laugh. Another cold, humorless laugh. "Maybe." She said. "But I've slain gods before. What are a few more? No. You are going to give me information, Tarl Cabot, on this world. And then I am going to conquer it. Every last damned corner of it."

I stared at her in horror, and she simply smiled in return.

[captainkurosolaire]

Faith X

 Shortly after a beam of light dawned onto the vessel, connected by aetheryte waypoints and also diverged aetheric insignia’s imbued into the Crew’s signets. A tremendous stoic Wildwood Elezen surveyed the sea-vessel in complete chaos. Bodies, sheep, a gory bloodbath all surrounding. A back-holstered staff carrying a bell rang signalling his undeniable presence. Which, to the polymorphed sheep, they drew thinking they were being herded and began munching at his majestic lock’s that flowed to his ankles, but to the sheep, it looked like golden hay. “Halt that!” He winced with irritation, and tugged and resisted before drumming his bottom hilted staff to put them asleep. Closing powerful almighty rich emerald’s hues. He commenced with invoking a spell that asked for nature to tend to them. Arteries nicked were being temporarily channeled through a new stream of branches to flow them again for replicate function. <Light-of-before>, allowed injuries to be timely rejuvenated gradually, each progressiveness to their well being sprouting a petal until a full bloom was made. He could not physically or surgically realign bone fragments only reinforce them with temporary temperance, they would still need the Surgeon. Which meant a lot of the Crew was in for a strict recovery before they saw consciousness. The worst offenders would require him to rechange the shroud plywood and planks into a temporal cutesy sentient little ent who would see to conjuring and keeping their vitals maintained alongside fluids and pumping aetheric compounds into them, the entire sea-vessel, was life support. Scenery didn’t convey emotion from him, despite the Crew being broken by havoc, among the entire roster, he was only here for a divine purpose. Only fulfilling his side of an unlikely pact. The ancient wildwood Elezen was a disciple of the Twelve and in faith aside oath, swore to never use his boundless magical prowess in an offensive manner or inflict severe harm. Despite knowing rituals, seals, wonders of all cultures from somehow, early eons. He carried the languages and teachings of many dwellers of Eorzea. How quite possibly could such a polarizing indifferent person find himself upon the sail of a pirate? As evident that particular treasure hunter had defiled and attained all the Voidal series relics, before they were transferred between him to Shiro, cause, Captain couldn’t maintain their safety. Whilst the Noble had a perfect defense… This outcome was unforeseeable with a lecherous Father using and witnessing all his vaulted secrets, memories to only fulfill, even further levels of resurrecting through accursed blood. If however there was a series of collective occult relic’s of predated times, than of course there remained more, from Sacred Items hidden in Desert Seas, to Beast Tribe heirlooms, but as well the most difficulty dangerous to attain, Relic’s of the Twelve, of his dedicated deities they were owed them returned to their rightful places. Captain had acquired one of them, only to lose it, right after the battle with Shiro who found it. Many left remaining, each hidden, surrounded with mysteries and drawn by varied forces. These journey’s were only catalyst’s to reacquire the belongings of the gods, a sworn duty, only an ancient disciple could undertake. As did the pact between Captain and this Historian. His interest’s and allegiance to the Captain, if there was ever a direct requirement or being led astray from divine purpose, then Zieton would always choose god over mere man. Oldest of fashion he carried all the forebears of his sacred and the eldest ancient race’s burdens. Also, though, inside Captain lay’s strangely a half-soul of Amdapori origins, which also, was his major study, he after-all created the binding rune that allowed Captain to not only contain another soul, but interact with it and bond with it, to contain control, to make a forged pact or find understanding of conflicted halves or possessed farers.  To have such staggering wisdom was the crown of the Goldbrand’s crest. With a brief salving of days Captain recuperated before asking for a transported warp to the showdown, under Zieton’s specialty to nearly on touching contact could take others around effortlessly as long met the criteria of the Twelve resting stone’s nearby. A channeled veil of holiest light was placed upon the crucible of certain demise by Zieton when reaching the Elune Estate’s exterior. This not only prevented escape of a portaling dark sorcerer, but also prevented whatever evil intentions he concocted from spilling out to the innocent denizens. They knew Silv’a possessed a majority of the Voidal Relics, with one being already used against wickedest intent; there was no-telling if they’d all be used. “I shall remain and erect this field. You’ll have little less than Three Bells, pirate. Afterwards, I cannot sustain it. I can choose what to let in, but nothing may leave once you tread forth. The Crew injured, and scattered in the Retrieval mission, were all foretold our destination prehanded. From my detection of quantifiable influx aether being drawn here, it’s imminent and likely, you will die.” Giving a realistic callus assessment. Cheeky the rogue mockingly pitched, “Fantastic pep-talk, ye really know how t’ sell it. Listen, I’ll let ye enjoy your erection. All this that transpired is my fault, so I’ve to see through this storm... even disregarding, I’m most certainly going t’ die” Nonchalant soft leather began marching to the entrance of devastating oblivion. A scowling golden skin elf sighed with an exhale. “Captain. One last imparted wisdom, regarding your forearm. You may feel that ‘half’ is empty but with death comes a new ushering of life, it’s a cycle which we live.  Now whether what forecomes from that, is decisively up to your nurturing. Should you act upon irrational rage or selfish-serving goals, a carnivorous beast will consume you, aside all others, worse than heretofore. -- Action’s of care will have the opposite effect and give birth to a beast that mirrors… Beyond this veil is a Trial that’ll decide your outcome and judgement of everything.”  The Seeker halted and searched his inked forearm which became transparent from the runic binding nearly obsolete. “Just admit ye will miss me. Otherwise got t’ find someone else to undergo your endeavors. Which won’t work or compare, cause I'm th’ stupidest to traverse any wave...  And oi’…. When I come back, we’re getting you laid.” So much seriousness wasn't always needed. Truthfully the Elezen could use it, being underground from the current society of things, so his education was limited beyond anything primordial. All the advanced changes were beyond his comprehension. Leaving the Elezen flabbergasted aside a shaken head. He followed and began levitating in meditation with purest concentration to his mighty glamoring shell.                                           The Immortal Age                           (Previous) << (Voidal Relics) >> (Next)                                   

[jaskierswolf]

A Thirst Like Flames

Part 4/6  (1, 2, 3, -  5)

Ship: Gerlion - Rated: E (for smut) - Also on AO3

CW: (for this chapter only) canon-typical violence, animal death

Summary: There was an itch prickling over Dandelion’s skin, a constant ache in the pit of his stomach and his mind felt hazy at all hours of the day. He watched the sun creep behind the horizon, quill in hand, the long feather brushing against his cheek, willing for some kind of inspiration, anything to distract him from the never ending lust. He couldn’t help it, he was a young man in his prime and he’d spent the last few months in the wilderness with a rather gorgeous witcher.

Dandelion had forlornly watched Geralt leave the room, his afterglow sufficiently shattered even as Marie curled up next to him, her hands resting on his chest. He felt hollow. He hadn’t meant to say Geralt’s name, but the habit was hard to shake and, with the witcher watching him so intently, was he really to blame?

Dandelion sighed, his own fingers dancing along the length of Marie’s spine. She was beautiful and very talented at her profession. She hadn’t made any move to continue their activities once Geralt had left the room, which Dandelion was surprisingly grateful for. He wondered what Geralt had been thinking when he left. Did he resent Dandelion? Had he just ruined everything?

His adventures with the witcher were probably over before they’d even truly begun.

And yet, Geralt had reminded him of when they were due to meet. That had to mean something. He sighed dramatically and stared up at the ceiling. Sharing a whore had seemed like a great idea at the time but now he was really starting to wonder whether he’d irreparably damaged their budding friendship, he’d grown too greedy too fast.

“Why don’t you follow him?” Marie asked.

“Excuse me?” Dandelion stammered, blinking down at her. He hadn’t expected her to talk but he supposed he was being rather miserable company. Not at all up to his usual standards. He knew that whores talked, and he knew he had a reputation… and this really wasn’t it.

“Instead of moping in bed with me, why don’t you follow him?” Marie asked again, poking him in the chest.

“Ah, yes, well. I really don’t think that’s a good idea, my dear,” he sighed, eyes flickering back up to the ceiling. He scoffed haughtily and rolled over in the bed, turning his back on Marie. Yes, he was sulking but he was a poet and he was allowed to be dramatic, especially after he’d destroyed the best thing that had happened to him since he’d left Oxenfurt.

He heard Marie sigh behind him and that was the only warning he got before he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He squeaked as he landed with a thump, and he was sure he’d bruised his coccyx, he hoped that it wasn’t broken. He’d never broken a bone before but he was sure it couldn’t be more painful than this. He hissed and turned to glare at Marie who was smirking down at him, still looking as lovely as ever, and if he wasn’t so furious he would be tempted to go another round.

“Get out, poet,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for arguments.

“Well, excuse me?” he gaped at her. “I thought…”

“The witcher is waiting for you, we’re done. Get out, before I call for help.” Dandelion went to grab his clothes, quite adept at getting dressed quickly before climbing through the window, but Marie stopped him. “Out!”

“My clothes!” he whined, only just managing to swipe up his small clothes before he was booted out the door.

He stared, pouting at the door, one hand on his hips and the other running through the mess of curls on his head. The door stayed shut, despite his silent prayers and he really didn’t want to face the witcher with no clothes on. He’d humiliated himself enough for one day. Before he managed to turn and walk way, the door finally flew open and his poor, very expensive, clothes were flung from the room and he had to scramble to catch them.

“Oh bloody hell!”

It was only when he’d reached the street below the brothel that he realised his precious lute was still inside. With a pathetic whine he turned to head back inside but the window above him slammed open.

“You forgot something, bard,” Marie yelled down to him and his eyes widened as he saw his lute in her hands.

“No, no, no, my lute! Careful she’s fragile!” Dandelion cried, dropping his clothes and stumbling forwards to catch his darling instrument as it was dropped from the window. By some miracle she didn’t break and he cradled her in his arms until he noticed the strange looks he was getting from the surrounding villagers. “Oh, bugger off.”

He scooped up his clothes and darted into an alley to get dressed. The sun had set before he managed to flee the town, luckily avoiding the thugs that were lurking by the gates. Having mud covered clothes had probably helped, he looked much less like the noble he was born to be.

“Blasted whore,” he muttered as he tried his best to brush down his clothes but they were a lost cause.

Dandelion sighed, adjusting his hat on his head. It would need a new feather, but he would look for one in the next town. For now, he just needed to find Geralt… wherever he might be.

___________

The woods were dark and unforgiving, nothing like the warmth of the brothel, but it suited Geralt’s mood just fine. He stared into the fire, watching the flames dance, licking at the air and swirling into nothing. The heat prickled against his skin, a comforting feeling that kept him grounded as his emotions brewed into a storm in his chest.

Dandelion had wanted him.

And Geralt had left him.

Roached snorted from the edge of the camp, stomping at the ground. Sometimes Geralt wondered if she was more human than horse, she certainly seemed to have opinions on every choice he made in life. He rolled his eyes and cast her a withering look. “I know, I fucked up.”

Her tail flicked and she whinnied loudly.

“I know, I’ll wait for him, even give him until noon. Gods know he won’t be up at dawn,” he sighed and turned back to watch the fire once more.

Geralt wasn’t sure how long he watched it, but a familiar scream pulled him from his thoughts.

“Dandelion?” he jumped up and grabbed his swords, making sure Roach was secure before running towards the sound of the poet. His brain was supplying images of the very worst scenarios, Dandelion cold and bleeding out on the ground, bandits or monsters looming over him.

And it would all be Geralt’s fault. He hadn’t been there to protect his friend.

“Geralt!” the poet yelled again, “Geralt help me!”

The world sharpened around him as he focused his senses, the sounds and smells of the forest almost overwhelming but he was skilled at blocking out what he didn’t need. A familiar lavender and chamomile scent caught his attention and he turned his head towards  the vibrations of Dandelion’s heartbeat, the sticks and leaves crunching underfoot as he tried to scramble away from his attacker. Geralt sniffed, picking out the scent of wet dog among the trees, a low rumbling of growls filling the air.

Wargs.

“Damn it!” he cursed as he ran, his steel sword ready to strike. Time slowed as he burst into the clearing. Dandelion was on the floor, his doublet covered in mud, tears ripping through the fabric but Geralt noticed with relief that there was no trace of the poet’s blood. The rips seemingly from his rush through the trees.

Geralt’s sword swung through the air just in time. The warg yelped as steel slashed through fur. Dark eyes met golden, snarling and growling as it bared its teeth. The witcher and the warg danced a lethal dance, sword versus brute force, steel versus claws. Geralt tried to ignore Dandelion’s whimpering, focussing on the task at hand. Pirouetting, dodging, lunging, a blur of white hair as the final blow hit. His sword buried into the creature’s brain, and the warg whined as it fell to the ground.

“Oh gods,” Dandelion groaned, arms wrapping around his stomach. His face had gone a ghostly pale white, resembling the wraiths that haunted the realm.

Geralt squatted down beside his friend, cupping his cheek and brushing the matted blond curls from off his face. “You’re safe, Dandelion.”

Dandelion just sobbed, gripping onto Geralt’s armour, his long fingers  scratching at the leather. It was so rare to see his friend so distraught that Geralt wasn’t sure what to do. He tentatively wrapped his arms around the poet, closing his eyes as he let Dandelion cry himself dry. Witchers don’t feel, it was the thought that had been plaguing him ever since he’d met the poet. Witchers don’t feel, and yet Geralt’s heart felt like it was bleeding, aching for the fragile human that he held so close.

“My lute,” Dandelion whispered, his usually soothing tenor cracked and hoarse. “Oh gods, Geralt my lute.”

Geralt frowned, scanning the forest for the bard’s instrument, but he found nothing. That was strange, the lute was normally strung round Dandelion’s shoulders or tucked safely away in their room at inns. Geralt gripped the poet’s shoulder, tucking a finger under his chin so that watery cornflower blue eyes were shining up at him, his bottom lip quivering and looking every part the delicate flower that he played.

“What happened, Dandelion?” Geralt asked with a cock of his head.

“I- I- I tripped, when- when I first saw it,” Dandelion choked on his own sobs, stammering over the words where he would normally be streaming poetic nonsense with very little effort. “The wolf, monster, whatever the bloody hell it was!”

“Warg,” Geralt answered without thinking but Dandelion’s answering glare made him wince.

“Yes, thank you, my dear. That is not the point!” Dandelion snapped, wiping the snot from his nose.

“I know,” Geralt said softly, swiping his thumb along the poet’s cheekbone to brush away the tear that had fallen. “I’m sorry, your lute?”

“I fell on it, shattered by my own hand!”

“Where is it?”

“Oh, does it matter?” Dandelion whined, waving his arms wide.

“Yes, now show me.”

They walked cautiously through the trees, Dandelion hanging off Geralt’s arm, sniffing as he went, and the scent of his misery permeated the air. Geralt knew they were close when Dandelion let out a pitiful whine, and his fingers gripped tighter onto Geralt’s arm. The lute lay splintered on the ground, the neck only attached to the body by the strings.

Toruviel’s lute, broken beyond repair.

Unless…

Geralt gathered up the pieces in his arms, ignoring the whines and cries from his companion as they walked back to camp. The lute was tucked into Roach’s saddlebags and they settled down for the night. There was a chill in the air but not enough to warrant sharing a bedroll, and yet Dandelion curled up close to him. Neither of them questioned it, content to hold each other close after the long and emotional trials of the day.

[nicketynic]

Prompt: Jon Snow falls in love with Sansa Rivers, Brynden's bastard.

Catelyn Tully Stark had never forgotten the strange, painful parallel of watching her uncle walking through Riverrun’s gates, her lord father’s bones in tow, cradling a babe bearing his look, imagining it eerily similar to Eddard’s return to Winterfell, the return that brought his bastard son inside the walls of his ancestral seat before his trueborn heir had ever graced them. 

Her feelings for Jon Snow aside, Sansa Rivers was her dear uncle’s only child, bastard-born or not, beloved enough to be brought with him to RIverrun as he took up regency for Edmure. Through letters, Catelyn watched her grow, transitioning from sweet, spirited girl to kind, dutiful young woman, thoughtful and grateful toward every bit of advice Catelyn offered. 

By twelve, Sansa had stepped so naturally into the role of Riverrun’s surrogate lady, just as Cately had before her, and remained so at sixteen when Robb’s march south saw armies and lords aplenty descend on the castle. Then Ned was gone, and sweet Sansa was a steady source of comfort and support in a sea of grief and loss. How could she not love this wonderful, giving girl, everything she would have wanted in another daughter if the Mother had seen fit, for all she never regretted helping Ned secure his bloodline, for all that Arya was a willful, spirited, irreplaceable gift?

Ned was lost to her, and a solemn specter of his likeness stood stalwart at their son’s side. While loss and his unwavering loyalty toward Robb had eaten away at the bitterness toward the bastard, nothing could stop her hackles from rising the first time she saw Snow’s eyes land on Sansa, widening with surprise and interest. So intent was she on diverting that attention, she nearly missed when Sansa began to return his gazes, until she was as moon-eyed as the boy. It was only the march into the Westerlands that relieved Catelyn’s vexation with the whole affair, and as the war raged on and months became a year, then two, she became certain the infatuation had long passed. 

Now, Jon Snow was a Stark-born bastard of a different variety, no longer a political unknown but the last scion of a dead dynasty, poised to have his pick between several noble seats. Some argued Dragonstone was his right so long as he let the name Targaryen die, Robb stood eager to see him landed and titled in the north, and Uncle Brynden himself had mused whether Harrenhal would be an acceptable compromise (granted to House Tully by way of Whent blood), if only to keep his daughter close by. 

Catelyn was wrong that time and distance would kill the attraction between Snow and Rivers, for all that Sansa had never spoken of or inquired about him within her hearing. Sansa herself had presented her desire for Jon Snow’s hand in marriage, and Brynden was showing no signs of refusing. Feeling the weight of his niece’s gaze upon him, Brynden raised his head, bushy silver brows over Tully blue arching expectantly. 

Catelyn hesitated for a moment, straightening subconsciously in her chair before she spoke. “Uncle, are you certain this is the decision you wish to make? The boy has prospects now, but the Targaryen legacy is liable to haunt him for the rest of his days. His children as well. Is it wise to subject Sansa to that?”

Brynden studied her for a long moment, deep wells of Tully blue full of something impossibly sad and wise. “Trust me when I say, little Cat, there can be no better judge of that girl’s happiness than Sansa herself. Her life’s already been hardship enough since the day I gave her the name ‘Rivers.’”

For the first time since his fateful decision, Brynden Tully was fully certain he had made the right choice when he plucked up a little red-haired waif from obscurity all those years ago, Tully auburn a beacon to draw his eye among a group of war orphans at Fairmarket’s motherhouse. All the evidence he needed was the soft, besotted look in Sansa’s eyes, the confidence in the way she spoke of Jon Snow’s love being true. That was all he could have possibly wished for the child who held his heart even if she wasn’t born of his body, much like the clever Cat sitting nearby. 

Let it never be said that the Blackfish of Riverrun didn’t look after his own. 

xx

Contrary to their elders’ assumptions, Sansa Rivers and Jon Snow hadn’t been blinded from the hardships of their world by infatuation or innocence, and had long since forged their own path ahead together. 

This day, Jon sat quietly in the shadow of several large old elms in Riverrun’s godswood. His eyes were closed, whether in prayer or sleep his audience was uncertain, only that he paid her approach no notice until he felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder, warm breath tickling against his skin with a whisper in his ear. 

“Perhaps it is improper to interrupt a man in such serious contemplation, but the solemnity on your face should be far removed from the beauty of this day.”

He jumped at the initial touch, glowering. Sansa allowed herself a few giggles at his disgruntled expression, leaning against his shoulder and letting her lips tease against the sensitive place below his ear. 

Jon looked at her sharply, and she responded with a soft reassurance and a firmer kiss to his neck. “I circled this clever spot you found from every direction I could conceive of, love. I only saw you since I knew where to look. We’re safe.”

Jon relaxed, turning in her arms to shift her closer, Sansa settling comfortably in his lap. She circled her arms around his neck, drawing his mouth to hers in a lingering, adoring kiss. She drew back at the need for air, giving him a cheeky smile. “Husband.”

“Wife.”

xx

For weeks, Sansa had felt the weight of eyes on her. Over the years of men coming and going from Riverrun, she had become accustomed to the hard, lustful stares thrown her way, unabashed in their audacity given she was bastard-born with no noble title to protect her modesty. The only thing that kept their stares as only stares, their hands from never daring to pinch or grope, rip or bruise, was the power of her father and cousin’s affection for her. Nothing more, certainly not through any virtue of her own, as barbed, gossiping tongues saw fit to remind her every season she was forced to play host to the ladies and daughters of Cousin Edmure’s bannermen. 

When she finally distracted herself enough for the chaos of preparing for war, she was shocked to discover the owner of these particular eyes. King Robb’s bastard half-brother, taciturn, solemn Jon Snow. A man who seemed too serious, too stoic, too devoted, for any woman to draw his eye away from his intense focus on duty. She puzzled over his interest, and several times she felt the burn of his gaze, she turned around to seek the source. More often than not, his expression was carefully composed into a sullen frown, and he was quick to turn away, but once or twice, she caught him unguarded. 

His expression naked and open, wistful yearning laid bare for her to see, unique to the entitled vulgarity she’d reluctantly grown used to over time. His was a quiet longing, appreciative and warm every time his eyes landed on her. Still he wouldn’t approach, not even as she began to return lingering looks of her own, not even when her smiles grew soft and inviting. He never came. 

So she went to him herself.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, my lord. Please tell me if my presence is unwelcome, and I’ll leave you be.”

“Your presence could never be unwelcome, my lady. And I know we’ve discussed that I’m no lord. Please, call me Jon.”

“Then you should remember I’m no lady, but I know from experience you’ll demure. So be it.” She smiled, slow and enigmatic. “Jon.” She drew his name out, testing out the sound, and Jon could have died from shame at the flash of heat it caused him. 

“Jon,” the sound of her voice, soft, husky, and alluring, was intoxicating, his name slipping from her tongue sweet as honey. “Jon, I’ve felt your eyes on me for weeks. Always watching me. Never approaching, Why? Am I wrong”

He couldn’t remember a time when his tongue had ever felt so thick and at a loss for words. “N-no, you’re not wrong.”

“Do you want me, Jon?”

She’d bewitched him, surely, how else could he justify actually giving voice to his next words? “Yes,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “Gods help me, do I ever.”

Her beautiful face hardened, something in her eyes growing cold. “So I’ve often seen, more through the years than I care to count. You’ve been kind, Jon. Courteous to a fault. Do you feel you have more a right to me because you haven’t resorted to slobbering and pawing?”

“No!” Jon went milk-pale, horrified at the very implication. “I would never dishonor you! I was never going to tell you, I swear it. Never belittle your worth with a delusion that I’d have any hope of your hand.”

“Hand?” In her confusion, something softened, peering at him with a puzzled, considering expression. “You mean to wed?”

Jon looked ill at the very idea of continuing to discuss his feelings, but he resolved to finish if only she could feel some measure of safety in his presence again. “A boy’s dream, my lady. I know that. I would never hurt you. Please believe me.”

“Oh, Jon.”  She drew closer, and closer still, panic rising in him as he saw faint tears glistening in her eyes. “I do. I so wished I was right, that what I saw in you was true. You just proved that.”

Hands on his shoulders, lips a breath away from his, Jon trembled, fists clenched at his sides to keep from touching her. “I won’t dishonor you,” he ground out. 

“Then wed me. But don’t leave me without knowing your love.”

“You can’t mean-”

“But i do. You return to war in a few days.”

“And you want to make yourself a landless bastard’s widow?”

“The hope is that I don’t become a widow at all. But where’s the stigma in being a bastard’s widow when I’m a bastard myself? I adore you for your honor, Jon Snow, but it’s not your honor I want to know before you ride into battle.”

“Gods help me. Gods help us both.”

It was the gods he prayed to save them that they wed themselves before later that night, kneeling before the sad-faced weirwood, then bedding down beneath its red-dripped branches. 

He kissed his love with the virility of youth, with the guilty passion and love he’d been harboring. They separated only before the need for breath became too great. He exhaled softly, not daring to open his eyes as deft fingers threaded through his dark hair to pull him into another kiss. His arms tightening around her, his hands grew restless, aching to explore further. Desire raged through him in a sudden storm of longing, tantalizing him to the point of desperation. 

He groaned, a low rumble resounding through his chest. At the sudden sound, they pulled away, each regarding the other with shy, darkened eyes. 

It was Jon who broke through the tentative silence. “I cannot leave you with child, Sansa,” he whispered softly, touching his hand to her cheek. 

She leaned into the touch, gently sighing at the contact. “There are ways around it, love, for all that I would love to have that piece of you with me.”

“I want that as well. Someday.”

“Then come back to me.”

Jon shifted closer, dipping his head to press his lips to her ear. “Always, so long as I am breathing.” He kissed her again, allowing his lips to linger for just a moment before descending in a trail of soft kisses down her jaw and neckline. Sansa responded with a breathless gasp, her hands working up into the folds of his tunic to meet bare skin. He groaned as she touched him, aiding her in allowing the garment to fall away from his shoulders. Drawing her into his embrace, her body molded into his as he pressed close. She gazed down at him, brushing heavy hair away from his eyes, tracing her fingers along the strong features of his face. The intensity of his dark gaze followed her every movement. “Love me, Jon. Please?”

He did not hesitate, his hands beginning to stroke and caress, his mouth seeking hers in a gentle, lingering kiss. Locked in a lover’s embrace, he pressed her back against the ground, the soft earth and the fragrant grasses of the garden floor cushioning their fall. Their world faded to the touch of mouth and skin, passion overwhelming every sense but that of each other. 

Jon sighed contently as he gave into the moment. “I’ve missed you so very much.”

“I missed you as well. Thank you for keeping your promise.”

He kissed her softly, his eyes so warm and full her heart swelled with feeling. “I promised you always, as long as I breathe. I wasn’t certain you would still want this, knowing I’m not who you thought.”

“Nonsense. Jon Snow, Jon Waters, Jon Blackfyre, it doesn’t matter, as long as you remain Jon at your core. And Jon loves me still.”

“As long as I breathe,” he repeated softly, this time catching her mouth in a deep, soulful kiss. Sansa’s arms twined around his neck as she opened beautifully to his passion, his ardor, his devotion, fingers burying in his hair to drag him impossibly closer. 

She pulled back just enough to speak, only a breath’s distance between their lips. “And if my kisses steal your breath away?”

“Then we’ll share it. We did promise to share this life together.”

“Then i can’t wait to share that journey with you.”

[vintage-squid]

Vulture Culture

Summary: Remus loves living in his little cabin in the woods with his two gorgeous, snarky partners. Coming home from another scavenging adventure to Virgil and Janus being their wonderful selves, Remus has a very important question to ask them.

Pairing: Virgil/Janus/Remus Rating: G Warnings: Animal bones, use of scavenged bones for art, a whole truck load of fluff

Huge thank you to @rosesisupposes for beta’ing for me! 

-----

“Ohh honey-bunny-bums! I’m home!”

The front door slammed against the wall, echoing through the house as Remus stomped inside, a wide grin spread on his face and his backpack heavy over one shoulder. Bracing the toes of one foot against the heel of the other, he aggressively yanked his feet out of his boots, laces still tied. He haphazardly tossed his jacket and toque over the back of the nearby armchair - on top of other outdoor outfits that had already received a similar treatment. With much more care, he set his bag on the floor.

“We’re in the kitchen, Re!”

“And I swear to the gods, your boots better not be on your feet when you get in here, because I am not mopping up after you again!”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to get your knickers in a twist,” Remus snorted, grabbing his backpack by one strap and slinging it over one shoulder. He made his way further into the house, following the sound of his loved ones' voices. “I’m still wearing socks, though, so no peeping at my toes for you! You’ll have to wait ‘til later for that treat.” Coming around the corner into the kitchen, Remus gave an exaggerated wink to his partner standing on the step-stool by the window.

Virgil rolled their eyes, shaking their head and setting aside the small scissors they had been using to tend to their plants. “I offer to give you a massage one time for your sore feet, and suddenly I’m the one with the foot fetish, I see how it is.”

Smirking, Virgil turned to face Remus, but before they could hop off their stool, a pair of burly arms cinched around their middle and swept them into the air.

“Remus!” They shrieked, dissolving into laughter as their boyfriend held them close and spun them around the room.

“I’ve got a Virgil!” Remus hollered, bouncing them both as he giggled. Even in play, Remus was cautious not to spin too fast and actually upset Virgil’s nerves; it was a delicate balance, one he had perfected over the years. Both of them were snickering breathlessly when Remus finally came to a stop and set Virgil’s feet back on the floor, though his arms remained snug around their chest. The pair faced Janus, who was smirking at them with a raised brow.

“If the children are done playing in the kitchen where I am currently working over a hot stove?” Despite her tone, Janus’ smile softened fondly as she flicked her wrist to cut the heat. The fire witch stepped forward and planted a smooch on Remus’ nose, her hand following quickly to cup his face and smooth her thumb over the boisterously grinning chub of his cheek. “Welcome home, possum. I’m glad to see you’ve returned safe and sound, and not covered in pond scum.”

Remus only grinned wider and hugged Virgil a little closer, much to their grumbling delight. “The grime feels so good, though! Oozing between your fingers and squelching when you bend your knees! Come on, you have to admit that my skin was so soft for, like, a week after I fell in last time!”

“I will admit to nothing, other than that you smelled like a rotted fish for that week too,” Janus retorted. “I still think you did that on purpose; there’s no way a water witch wouldn’t be able to bathe himself properly to get rid of that odor.” Pushing up onto her toes, she pressed a tender, lingering kiss to his lips. “I, however, much prefer your natural musk.”

Leaning in to Remus again, Janus yelped as Virgil suddenly grabbed her by the front of her shirt and tugged her into a searing kiss that made bursts of colour flash behind her eyelids. Melting against their mouth, she gripped Remus’ forearm with one hand while the other ran through Virgil’s long hair over and over, dragging them back for more when they tried to pull away. When the pair finally parted, panting heavily, Janus couldn’t help the lazy satisfaction that settled over her when she was greeted with Virgil’s smile.

“What?” They asked innocently. “You gave Remus kisses, and I wanted some attention too.”

Janus rolled her eyes, thumb tenderly rubbing the back of their neck. “So needy, I swear.”

Remus snorted, gently depositing Virgil into a dining chair and scooping his bag off the floor where he had left it in favour of his favourite tiny plant witch. “You’re one to talk, mixter-”

“Ah, she/her now, darling, changed about an hour after you left this morning. I just haven’t had the mind to swap out my necklaces while Virgil and I have been working in here. Sorry, possum,” she murmured, fiddling with the sparrow’s skull resting at the hollow of her throat from a braided rope.

“Well, princess,” Remus adjusted smoothly, kissing the top of Janus’ head and petting over the buzzed side of her hair. “First off, you have no grounds to complain about me being needy, Miss clings-with-all-four-limbs-every-night. And secondly,” his voice softened, “you never have to apologize for expressing whatever gender feels best for you, ever. Okay? Do you want me to grab Trip for you?”

Laying her hand - slimmer than his, but still larger than Virgil’s - atop Remus’, Janus nuzzled into the calloused warmth of his palm. “I would appreciate that, possum. I think I left her on the smaller bookshelf in the bedroom.”

“Anything for you, dandelion. Lemme take Kee, too.”

Obligingly, Dee lifted her hair, long only on the right side of her head and curlier than a pig’s tail, to allow Remus room to remove her current necklace. She glanced up, feeling a tingle down her neck that had nothing to do with her boyfriend’s wandering fingers. Virgil was seated at the table across the kitchen, their cheek propped on one fist, a dreamy haze over their normally snarky features.

“See something you like?” Janus asked with a snort.

“Only the loves of my life,” Virgil replied, grinning wider when Dee scoffed to hide her fluster. “Ohh, you thought I meant you two? No, no, the coffee machine and a bag of chips are on the counter behind you, babe.” They cackled as both their partners squawked in indignation, hiding their wide smile behind their sleeve.

Janus rolled her eyes, stepping away from Remus and lightly kicking the leg of Virgil’s chair before sitting across from them. “Ha ha, you’re so funny, V.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you recognized my true genius.”

“Alright you gaggle of gossiping gophers,” Remus cut in, dropping his bag on the table between them. “Why don’t you have a look through what I found today while I get Janus’ necklace and change into something a little more cozy.” He exaggerated a wink at his partners, taking their snorting laughter with him as he swaggered off in the direction of the bedroom.

Virgil and Janus shared a look before diving for the ties on the bag. Janus worked the flap open, allowing Virgil to reach their hand in for the first discovery. Their eyes lit up, with a sparkle that had nothing to do with the green magic flowing through their veins, as they pulled out a neatly tied bundle of watercress, the pale roots intact and cleaned of any potentially parasite carrying soil.

“Ah! Where did he manage to find this!? I’ve been needing more since that doe and her fawns have started coming by,” they murmured, bringing the bundle up to their face and inhaling deeply. “Mother Earth, there is no better smell in this world.”

“And of course you’re selflessly going to plant it all outside in the pond for our little ungulate neighbours without keeping some as a snack for yourself,” Janus drawled while reaching into the bag herself.

Virgil finally looked away from the watercress to smirk at their girlfriend, plucking a plant free from the bundle and nibbling on it like a rabbit. “I never said anything of the sort.”

Heart throbbing fondly, Janus snickered and pulled out the next of Remus’ finds. Her fingers wrapped around a small burlap bag and she squealed. Pulling it out, she eagerly opened the drawstrings and carefully dumped the contents onto the tabletop: a grey, spherical rock, seven small vertebrae of assorted shape, and three colourful, river-polished stones. Janus cooed, smoothing the tips of her fingers over her new treasures, eyes wide with wonder and ideas for her latest art project.

When she looked up to share her excitement with Virgil, they were already rifling through the next of Remus’ gifts, a collection of plucked flowers spread out across their side of the table. Their wide smile softened as they glanced up and made eye contact.

“Reme really went all out today, I can’t believe some of these blooms he managed to find at this time of the year!”

“I wonder what we did to deserve such a spoiling?”

“You two were absolutely perfect, that’s what.”

Virgil and Janus perked up, turning to look at their returned third. Both seated witches felt their stomachs lurch with affection as Remus stood in the doorway dressed, for once, in a clean shirt the same colour as his intelligent blue eyes. It was buttoned up only halfway, his burly chest exposed to the warm air of the kitchen and his partners’ hungry gazes. Both hands were held suspiciously behind his back.

Virgil recovered first, trying to appear nonchalant by tousseling their fingers through their shaggy bangs. The effect was betrayed by the glowing vines that had begun to creep up their forearms like living tattoos, pulsing in time with the rapid fluttering of their heart. “Whatcha got there, possum?”

Biting his lip, Remus couldn’t stop himself from breaking out into a wide grin as he shrugged one shoulder in a not-answer. “We all know that Janus is usually the sappy one among us-

“Hey!”

“So, I’m sorry sunshine, but I’m about to borrow your role for a second.”

Virgil and Janus exchanged a glance as Remus paused again to exhale slow and deep, almost as if he were running through one of Virgil’s breathing exercises. What could have made their fearlessly boisterous possum so uncharacteristically nervous? Their attention snapped back to their third as Remus stepped forward, stopping at the head of the table between the seated pair.

“Most of the people I meet in my life haven’t been overly enthusiastic to meet me in turn. Lotsa people don’t want to put up with my magic or my brain, or really anything about me, and even among those who do, most of them just don’t really get me, y’know? But... but you two...”

Remus looked from Virgil to Janus, love welling in his eyes like the rising tide he so adored. His hands tightened on the objects still hidden behind his back.

“You two not only understand me, but you encourage me to be myself and are actually fucking comfortable being around me? Like, holy shit. I don’t even have the words to explain to you what that means to me - and I usually have no problem describing anything! Like how some sharks are so gluttonous they will gorge themselves and then throw up everything they just ate so that they can keep eating! Isn’t that so cool!?” As he got more and more excited, his shoulders began to hunch and roll in a mimicry of his usual out of control gesturing. Somehow, he managed to hold onto enough sense of mind to keep hidden his hands, and the precious cargo they held.

Janus leaned forward, tapping one manicured nail on the table to draw Remus’ attention back. “C’mon, possum, you can tell us all about vomiting sharks after you finish our surprise speech.”

Shockingly, a faint blush coloured Remus cheeks. He cleared his throat and glanced to the side with a sheepish grin. “Ah, right.” Looking back to the loves of his life, Remus set his shoulders square and dropped down to one knee, delighting in his partners’ gasps and widening eyes.

“What I was trying to say, is that I love you two so fucking much, and I wanna spend the rest of our lives together. So…” Remus brought his hands out from behind his back and held them up.

In front of Janus he presented a gaboon viper’s skull, meticulously cleaned with the top few vertebrae still attached at the jaw hinge so the mouth could remain propped open to show off the elongated upper fangs. The larger bones were intricately carved with runes for love, protection, and strength all twined together. Looking closer, the grain of the pattern wasn’t rough, as it would be if the markings had been made with a knife, but smooth and even like a stone polished by the endless waters of a river.

Cradled in his left hand for Virgil was a delicate crested gecko skeleton. Every minute bone was present, complete down to the tiny claw tips on each foot. With the tail slightly raised, and the front right foot lifted in step, the tiny skeleton looked like it was moments away from coming to life and skittering up their arm. Only the skull was large enough for the carved depictions of hyacinths to be visible - Virgil’s favourite flower. They had always favoured constancy, after all.

“Will you marry me?”

Though Virgil covered their mouth with both hands, it couldn’t hide the smile crinkling the corners of their watery eyes. Sniffling, they nodded rapidly. “Y-Yes! A million times yes!” Reaching out to cup the fragile skeleton in their hands, they brought it up to their face to briefly admire the little bones. By the time they had carefully set it aside on the table, Janus had already slid out of her chair and into Remus’ arms on the floor. She was pressing kisses all over his face, and the snake skull was resting on the countertop above them.

Quickly dropping to their knees and squirming their way up under Remus’ free arm, Virgil joined Janus in covering their third in smooches. The flurry of joyous affection softened as lips finally met in languidly. They traded off, kissing what they could of the other two when their lips were free.

Both smaller witches suddenly squealed with laughter - though they would aggressively deny it later - as Remus cinched his arms around their waists and rolled to his feet, easily hoisting them up and spinning them around.

When he finally slowed to a stop, Remus was speechless at the sight of their flushed cheeks and wide smiles.

“I love you both so much,” he whispered.

Janus smiled and leaned up to kiss his cheek once more with a loud smack of her lips. Virgil was quick to mirror her on the other side, tucking their face into the crook of Remus’ shoulder and neck afterwards with a content hum.

“We love you too, possum.”

“Always and forever, Reme.”

----

Janus' pronoun charms are three necklaces, each a different skull on a rope chain that Virgil braided. Sparrow skull - Kee - they/them Salamander skull - Trip - she/her Squirrel skull - Riz - he/him

[acertainsomeone]

Finding us- EdSer one shot

If he had any doubts before, this incident cleared them altogether. Eda Yildiz had not only taken over his holding and life but his dog as well. He couldn't come to terms with the fact that his best friend, his dog, whom he had brought up since he was a baby, had turned his back on him. Ever since he proposed to Selin, Eda had asked Seyfi bey to get Sirius back to Bolat place. Not that she didn't love him anymore, she found it appropriate that the dog was returned to his rightful owner. She didn't wish anymore for Serkan to treat her worse, if fate planned, his memories will come back otherwise she was not going to desperately beg him to choose her over Selin. It wasn't about pride. Her love was much more than self-respect. She realized that Serkan was scared of her because she managed to strike chords of his heart that were nonexistent for him. If she pushed him further, if she hovered over his head, he would be irked and god forbid if something serious happened to his health, she won't be able to forgive herself.  

Sirius wasn't home, this was twice in the last three days that he had managed to escape. Serkan's pride was too much to call Eda and ask her to pay a visit to Sirius. Usually, he came back wagging his tail, it wasn't hard to spot him around but this time Serkan panicked. He checked the entire neighborhood and every possible place where Sirius could've gone. He had lost his memories; he couldn't afford to lose him.

"Where are you oğlum ?" He drove across the seats of Istanbul in apprehension. His heart skipped a beat thinking of a much worse possibility. Sirius wasn't among those dogs who get along with people, forget strangers.

What if somebody tried to harm him?

It wasn't hard to come across such crackheads, who would hurt animals for their pleasure.  

"Alo" Serkan answered his phone in panic upon seeing Eda's name on the screen. She was going to chide him enough for being so careless.

As if he wasn't to be blamed in her eyes already

"No need to wander around the streets, Sirius is with me. I'm sending you the location. Hadi gel." Her voice was devoid of any emotions, she didn't let him speak and hung up asap. 

 Did he make a mistake?

What was this place? And why would Sirius come here? He wondered while climbing the steps of the apartment. He entered and found a wounded Sirius lying in Eda's lap. He was asleep, and Eda was caressing his head.

"SIRIUS!" He cried in panic, and Eda glared at him for being so loud. 

"Shhhh you're gonna wake him."  

'What happened?" He asked incredulously. Sitting beside Eda, caressing his only best friend with affection.

"I think he ran from your place - to find me. He would've expected me to be at the park. Few children hit him there. Thankfully, I was there for a walk and spotted him immediately."

"What park? I checked all places where he could be."

"There are places that became Sirius's preference, if not yours." She rolled her eyes

"Anyways Serkan, tell me in all honesty, can you take care of him or not? I can't risk his life like this."

He was about to fight back with a 'he's my dog' but he knew that would've turned into a nasty conversation. He owed a thank you to Eda.

"Teşekkürler Eda."  

Eda looked at him plainly. It was hurting him to see her eyes without that love he was used to seeing ever since he came back. Why was it bothering him?  He pushed her away, that's what he wanted.

"You stay with him tonight. He needs to rest."  

"What is this place?" Serkan asked

"Home." She sighed in reverence. "I mean your home, you shifted here."

"Neden."

"I'll leave that story for your fiancé to tell after all she had been telling you everything, and you only believe her."

Eda picked her bag and stood up. "There's food in the fridge. Sirius's food is by the coffee table. And-        your room is upstairs."  She seemed in a hurry. He felt she was only telling him this to fulfill an obligation. He could feel her restless. But why? He had no idea

Serkan examined his room carefully. He was amazed Selin hadn't told him about moving out. The bedroom screamed that he was in a relationship with her Eda Yildiz.

Yok, the bed was made and broken lamps were fixed.

It had their memories. Her memories and belongings. Belongings that he would've never allowed in his premises.

Her clothes and undergarments were piled up along his. Her toothbrush and other toiletries were neatly placed in the bathroom. It didn't seem that they were placed there recently.

A weird sensation was pulling him towards those things. He ran his fingers through her belongings, having flashbacks. They were vivid.

For the first time, he heard her cackling voice too. It was blurry but even his bones could tell that they were in bed, and – he was doing things to make her laugh.

It can't be me

He shook his head in denial.

Serkan opened a drawer and found a USB. It wasn't the USB that grabbed his attention but the flower and note attached to it. That was his handwriting

"For us to remember all the good times- just in case."

***  

"Serkannn!! Would you stop? Look at my state." A sleepy yet annoyed Eda shrieked at Serkan, who was prolly filming a video. He chuckled at her words, not paying attention to whatever she said.

"Eda I know how you look like without clothes." She threw a pillow at his head, and the video disrupted. "Watch out!"

"Are you filming us naked in bed?"

"Hayır, I'm filming this for us to remember that you can't stay mad at me for long." He replied in amusement. This was one of those nights when she had been mad at him but they made out in less than a moment.

"You think too highly of yourself Serkan bolat."

"I've got the brightest star for myself. Shouldn't I?"

"Can you stop this? I have to get up Serkan!"

"How about first you record a message for an 80-year-old Eda, who might've forgotten me?"

"How are you sure that it can't be you."

"I love you way too much to forget you. More than you could. We can bet on that." He winked at her shamelessly

"Tamam." She wasn't going to fight him on this. Eda moved forward cautiously wrapping her naked self with the duvet and kissed Serkan on the tip of his nose.

"This message is for old, yet madly in love Mr. and Mrs. Bolat! No matter how hard the times are, no matter how grave misunderstandings can be, no matter how bleak the road of hope is, we will find our way back, together." 

"Always." He said with a smile and pulled her into a kiss. The video was for them so it didn't matter if it was all being recorded in that state. 

*** 

We don't choose our parents, we don't choose our family, and at times life doesn't allow us to choose our partner as well. He would've never in his right mind made an illogical choice of falling for Eda Yildiz.

Yet he did

Did he make a mistake?

Because all that he had given her in this relationship was pain, so far.

The video brought back a bunch of memories. Their first kiss, first fight, first night, and the last goodbye.

Serkan was mercilessly driving on the empty roads of Istanbul. It was raining heavily and he was drenched. This rain could've made him sick, terribly

But did he even care anymore?

He had hurt the most important person in his life. He ruined everything

How could he forget her of all people? Serkan always claimed to love Eda more than she could. His love was fragile

He sobbed mercilessly, wishing to hit the car somewhere and end this pain. Events of the past few weeks circulated in front of his eyes. The way he was indifferent towards her. The way he resisted her touch and broke her heart all over again.

I never deserved her

He smacked his head against the steering wheel. His tears blocked his vision and he had no idea that he was driving beyond the speed limit with an absolutely insane state of mind.

Suddenly it grew all dark. He couldn't see anything. It felt that the steering wheel was moving in its own direction

All he could hear was noise. Eda's cries and his broken promises.

He was sitting in the police station absentmindedly. Eda was completing the formalities. They hadn't had any eye contact so far else he would've started crying right there. She took him by his arm as if he was lifeless.

"Serkan noldu? You were absolutely fine when I left." She asked him apprehensively, careful not to touch him. "Do you want me to call someone? Selin-"

She stopped immediately. He looked at her for the first time. 

The gaze

Eda caught her breath. It was him. 

It was really him

She knew that man 

Those eyes, they weren't of a stranger. Those eyes recognized her, and she had seen love for her in them. But why was she seeing something stronger than love right now? Anguish

"Serkan!" She gasped unbelievingly. Her hands wrapped around his face possessively as if he'd leave this time if she didn't hold him tight

"I-" he was struggling with words. Should he tell her how scared he was when the pilot told them that the plane was going to crash? How he cursed himself for leaving her behind? Or how much he loves her? Where do I begin

Eda sobbed with happiness. She did not know what to say anymore. He was there, right in front of her. Her Serkan. Her robot bolat

The man who loved her

They were sitting at the shore. Looking blankly at the sea. The waves were calm but their hearts weren't. He had held her hand, and the grip was so strong that it was hurting her a bit but she didn't complain۔

"Eda" he broke the silence

"I don't even have words to ask for your forgiveness. I made another mistake, I broke your heart once again, didn't fulfill my promise, and became the reason for your tears." He was stuttering۔ words weren't leaving his mouth easily whereas Eda kept on looking at him with tears in her eyes

"What I did in the last few weeks can't be forgiven. I've hurt you. I won't beg you to return back to me. I can't make mistakes repeatedly and expect you to stand by the road waiting for me. I-" He stopped and his voice broke further

"Eda you might not want me back in your life but can you please forgive me? One last time? I won't be able to live with the fact that you hate me. Just don't hate me please"

He was begging her, his hands joined together in front of her pleading for forgiveness. His eyes were screaming in pain. He won't be able to bear that hate in this heart. If she stopped caring for him, he won't even bat an eye, but accepting the fact that she despises him? Serkan Bolat would die.

He knew he was being selfish. Yet again, he was thinking of himself. But he was selfish, he never deserved someone as selfless as Eda Yildiz. He disgraced their love, he ruined their relationship, and now if she wished to discontinue this fragile relationship, he won't subject.

"I failed our love Eda. I failed you." She could tell that he was not able to breathe properly. Eda's heart sunk the moment he adjoined his hands in front of her. With each pleading, it felt as if someone was squeezing her heart mercilessly.

"Fate failed us Serkan." She sniffed between her sobs. Her hands cupped his face immediately. She wanted to protect him, she wanted to curl his masculine self among her soft frame. She wished to provide him that comfort and safety his heart seek for the last few months.

He was asking her to forgive him. He feared that she hated him now. How could she?

Serkan had become more than a partner for her, he was a part of her. We don't detach ourselves from what lies within us.

He looked at her disbelievingly. Eda wiped his face with her palms. No more crying. They had enough, more than enough. The pain they had endured was enough for a lifetime.

"We'll leave. Somewhere far away, nobody could find us. Away from this mess, this hate, this chaos. Serkan we have each other. We are not going to let them ruin our happiness."

Was she for real?

"Tamam?" Eda pestered. He nodded in return, unable to say something.

"Seni cok seviyorum." Serkan mumbled only for her to hear as she adorned his face with delicate kisses.

"I have so much to tell you." She sighed in between.

"Where are you taking us?" He did not know why he was asking this. It didn't matter, the question came out of his mouth involuntarily.

"We are going to look for phoenixes." He did not know what that meant but he need not ask. As long as she was there, he didn't have to worry about anything. Eda embraced him protectively like a child. He was in his safe haven.

He was finally saved from the crash. 

[docholligay]

In The Desert

My second of three eventual Passover fics, finally done, if literally nothing else. 4,500ish words, and I hope you enjoy it at least somewhat! 

Moses never saw the Promised Land. He guided others to it, but he died before he ever set foot in that promised space, before he ever was allowed to know the feeling of safety and peace and home. To reach the goal he had longed for. 

Mercy tried not to think too much on this, and told herself often that the Promised Land was only a place, and maybe it was Moses’ short-sightedness that did not allow him to see that the Promised Land was had while he wandered, in the arms of his wife, in the giggles of Jewish children knowing what it was to grow up free, in knowing that he had guided his people to something far more frightening but far greater. To inspire them to live a life of uncertainty, with great risk, but great reward. The Promised Land was where you found it, Mercy would say, often. 

Sometimes she even believed it. This year was harder. 

Was he ever resentful, she wondered, absent-mindedly setting the low table, for the punishment? That for one moment, he reacted in anger and bitterness instead of in patience and grace, that he lashed out, and so was barred from the doors of promise forever? Mercy thought on these things, and her own trespass against God, wondering which had kept her wandering all these years, without the promise she had so hoped for. 

Sitting in Canada with her small second Overwatch, the way forward had seemed so simple. She had escaped the bondage of loneliness, and now there was only to keep going, to increase that family around her, to grow in love, even to hope for that thing she had imagined might be lost to her for so long, something she hadn’t dared hope for. She loved her Overwatch family. She loved her wife. She loved for a child. Now she could see it all growing further away, a golden land that she, like Moses, would only ever see others enter. 

Tears filled her eyes as she considered it, blurring the fork she set down on the table. The day was rainy and cold, even for the general London April, and it went all the way through her, darkening and covering any warm space she may have been able to find within herself. 

It was a year of failures. The same ones, over and over again, of bodies as quarrelsome and betraying as the Israelites, of ground being lost and joy being further and further away. This was meant to be a day of celebration, of freedom, but it all felt so empty, the freedom of a stray dog without home or comfort. 

There was a knock at the door, and Mercy stood up straight, adjusting her sweater and tucking her hair behind her ears. There was no reason to ruin the day for everyone else, even if she could not find the joy for herself. When one is happy, it is easier to serve God and your community, she had read, from some rabbi, somewhere, and she did not deny that this was true. 

Why then, had God denied her so much? 

“Ang!” There was a bright, high peal through the entryway as Tracer sat on the small chair next to the door, taking off her shoes slowly, “Sorry, took us a bit--” 

“We’re on time, Lena.” Emily smiled as she hung up her jacket. 

“Oh. Right then, me planning is as bang on as ever,” She laughed merrily, “Entirely didn’t assume I’d missed the mark, exacting as I am.” 

“You’re early.” Mercy touched at the edge of the couch. 

“Someone tell Fareeha, she’ll want to note this in the official Overwatch ‘istory.” 

Emily took her shoes from her and set them in the rack. “She’ll only be telling you you’ve no excuse hereafter.” 

Tracer shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Bloody fucked every which way, I am.” 

Yes, Mercy’s mind answered, you are. 

 It’s clearly degenerative and aggressive, whatever got set off. The seizures will get harder to treat, and the tremor, not to mention we have about a whack-a-mole’s guess at what it’ll start going after next. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think it’ll affect her cognition, luckily. Or unluckily, I guess...

She heard Pradeep’s voice echoing in her mind, and did her best to shake it off. She hadn’t given up yet. Things weren’t so bad that they could give up yet. There was still a chance, however small, wasn’t there? Even if they could just arrest it, just stop it where it was--her eyes flickered to the brightly colored cane Tracer’s hand reached for, more commonly carried than not now--she could live out the rest of her life in relative happiness. She could see it, in her mind’s eye. That golden strip of promise just beyond the horizon. 

But she hadn’t been able to touch it, no matter how many specialists she bullied into consulting with her. No matter how many papers she read. No matter how long she walked and how fervently she prayed. 

“Ang?” she looked up, and realized that Tracer was now standing in front of her, a puzzled look on her face. “You alright, love?” 

Mercy shook her head. “Of course, only I am lost in my mind. Tired, I think.” 

Tracer looked at her for a moment in that sharp way she had, eyes flitting like a hummingbird across Mercy’s face, but she was saved by a knock at the door, and the further entrance of Dva and Winston, chatting amiably as Winston carefully sidled into the apartment, McCree a short but meaningful distance behind them. 

There they were, an assembled party, still crossing the long desert, signs of promise beginning to pop up around them. Since the battle for London, the world had taken a different view of them, an altogether kinder one. Pharah had her office building, constructed where she had always hoped. McCree had gotten a pardon from Interpol itself. Tracer had been offered damehood, which she had rather aggressively rejected, and the Victoria Cross, which she had aggressively accepted. All of them where heroes worldwide, their work seen for the long journey it had been, and honored. Mercy should have every reason to be pleased. 

Professionally, her life had never been better, or the way more clear. 

“Angela,” her wife’s voice pulled her out of the thought, “the family, I think, is assembled.” 

She said it with a half-smile as she looked over to the strange assembly that filled the room. Mercy nodded, and watched as Pharah walked over to the table she had built with her own hands, in the center of the living room. There was a bubbling sort of excitement among all of them, and why wouldn’t there be? It was the first Passover in Pharah and Mercy’s new apartment, the one built on the bones of the old. Life had been destroyed and life had been rebuilt into something more suited for them, something better. Renewal. Hope. Mercy could see it all, and reminded herself of it, as Pharah playfully bickered with Tracer before grabbing her by the armpits and thumping her to the floor, back up against the couch. The rest of them settled in their own spots, on the floor, looking over to Mercy from time to time. 

A perfect Seder, with the people she loved, and yet her eyes wandered to the corner next to her seat, the one she hadn’t even realized she had left clear. There should have been something, someone, there this year. She had prayed for it, she had pleaded for it, she had given and fasted and hoped for it. And yet the corner stood empty. The promise was for other people. 

”It’s not surprising given your advanced maternal age,” she said it gently, but Mercy still winced, “and...some of what you’ve been through.” 

Mercy was not now, and had never been, ignorant of certain medical realities. Her entire life since she was a child, had been the understanding of such things, and the painful knowledge that very often what we wish was true directly contradicted what was on the chart. The doctor kept talking, and Pharah squeezed her hand. 

Pharah. She’d offered to be the one to carry a child, despite it not being her immediate inclination. Mercy had never been able to find the words to tell her that she needed to be the one to do it. That she had lost her entire family all those years ago, and needed to be related to one other person on this earth, and to know that. Even she didn’t understand it completely, only knew that it had driven her onward. Only knew it kept her coming back to this office to be told that the best they could do was keep going. 

The best she could do was ignore the chart. 

She should have filled that corner with something other than her own empty hopes. She blinked back the bitter saltwater of her own affliction, and began to walk toward the table. 

“Pesach is a story of the impossible,” she sat herself down next to Pharah, but just kept staring at the Seder plate in the middle of the table, “We were slaves. We could not be bringing forth our own freedom. Only God could do that, and there was no reason to believe he would be doing it at all. We had been in bondage for so long. There was no reason to believe God would be giving us the Torah. There was no reason...to believe that we would be here. No reason there should be any Jews left at all.” 

Mercy wished one of them would stop her, that one of them would recognize the ramble for what it was was. Mercy barely understood it herself, and anger touched the edge of her mind as she considered all the things God had done but also all the things that he had chosen not to do. He had chosen to allow the Holocaust, and where had their deliverer been? He had allowed the Jews to be blamed and pilloried for the failings of AI technology, in both the fringes and, more quietly, in the larger community. He had allowed them to be shot while they worshipped, or bought groceries, or simply lived their lives. He had allowed Mercy to hear every suspicion and cruelty of the others in the labs and offices, who could not imagine the blonde, blue-eyed woman next to them could possibly take offense. And then, he had allowed Mercy’s house to be bombed, twice in her life, he had allowed her wife to be tortured, he had allowed Tracer to suffer, and he had allowed Mercy to remain childless.

“Why.” 

The fifth question, left out of the Haggadah. 

She looked around the table at them. 

“Why did he save us? And then, sometimes, why did he not? I--” she shook her head, “am never understanding the reasons. Why. I am only always asking. Why.” 

It was a why to God, for certain, for all the things she thought but good not bring herself to say, but a why to herself as well. Why had she stayed? Why did she pray every morning, why did she say Shema before she laid down at night? Mercy would have been the first to say that it wasn’t about God, but also she could not have answered what it was about at all. What did she find in her prayers and her study, knowing so keenly that God would not hear her, had not heard her cry for years? 

Perhaps that was what drew the Jewish people together--knowing God will not listen, and saying the prayer anyhow. Knowing that to be a Jew was to live in danger, and to wander, but refusing to be anything else. To never stop asking, no matter how silent God became. 

Even David, knowing God would punish him with the death of his child, had kept pleading, and fasting, and praying, to the very end. There had always been the chance God would turn back. 

“We’re outmanned, outgunned, and those things can keep coming--” 

“Didn’t say we was going to win did I?” Tracer’s eyes narrowed and her voice raised, pulling the attention of the room back to her. “Said we was going to fight.” 

She looked out over the tightly assembled group packed into the room. 

“Some of us will die today. Likely a good number of us. ‘E’s right you know. There’s no reason to believe we can take the advantage over them. Every reason to believe that London is going to be nothing but a pile of rubble and fires at the fag end of it all. But I,” She thrust her finger into her chest, “am not going to give over this city bloody quietly. It’s a part of me, innit? And we’re a part of it. Can’t untie the Oxtons and England, and I don’t mean the bloody Crown, and I don’t mean the bloody government, I mean England.” 

Tracer paced across the top of the bar. “I am fighting for England, and for London, and what that is, is every kid running out the schoolyard, every pissed stumble ‘ome, every day of our lives, THAT is London. And England. We are London. We are England. Not anything or anyone official. Not Parliament. Not the fucking royals. You and me, and your dad, and mum, and this grotty little pub, and me footie team, and the greengrocer down the way, and Alfie’s flower stall, THAT is England, and I won’t let anyone, or anything, take this place I love, while I still draw a breath in this world. I won’t ever surrender. East End gets flattened, East End gets the worst of it, but we don’t roll over and give it up. We never ‘ave.”

She stopped for a moment, then nodded. “And I won’t start now. I can’t win, maybe. But I guarantee you, I can give them the worst day of their lives, and even if they stomp over these streets, they’ll remember my name. That’s what we’re fighting for. Not because we can win. Because we fight for what we are. 

Mercy gave a weak chuckle and shook her head. “We are telling this story not to answer these questions, but to keep asking them. We are telling it, to give our own answers. God--” her voice caught, barely believing herself in that moment, “--God is revealing himself, in us, all the time. We, we are God’s hands, and God’s eyes, and...his words, when we remember. When we can be seeing the midrash in our lives.”

She took a deep breath. 

“Tonight we remember that we are free. Tonight we remember the things that make us slaves.” 

____

The smell of brisket filled the air. Pharah’s timing had become more and more impeccable over the years, throwing herself into the celebration of Passover, a love letter to her wife written with the greatest tenderness in pan sauce and flourless chocolate cake. Mercy had always, truthfully, questioned the wisdom of the most serious of plagues being recounted as they were on the edge of the feast. But perhaps that was the point of it. Perhaps it was about being kept waiting for your desires, your hopes. Perhaps it was about wondering if it would ever come. 

“Aaron said to Pharoah, the worst would be coming. That God would take the firstborn of the Egyptians, but that the Hebrews would be spared, if they were marking their doors with the blood of a lamb…” 

Sacrifice. Something always had to be sacrificed. A lamb. A child. A friend. Perhaps this had been her downfall, that she was unwilling to sacrifice anyone. She would never be Abraham, committing her dearest loves into harm. She wanted to save them all, and she had been punished for this disobedience, all those years ago when Overwatch fell. They had made something ugly of her love. Maybe God had seen her, and decided what the sacrifice would be for her. 

Maybe God would take the firstborn, however Mercy felt about it.

It would be easy to blame God for that empty corner of her living room and her heart, for it was all within his power to give. But the things that happen to us are rarely laid at God’s feet alone, and Mercy imagined her own moments of frustration, of foolishness, and wondered, which one was it that had brought her to this moment? If she had wanted to have a child, why then had she spent so long pursuing her work, running through war zones and long nights in laboratories? She should have known there are some things which still have a time limit. She should have known there was no guarantee. 

But if God had not wished it, why had he sent her Pharah? It was already to already believe her chance lost, but to show her that sliver of what might be, that green and verdant edge at the horizon of the desert, that was crueler still. 

She understood why some of the Hebrews had returned to slavery. It was easier to never know what you were losing. What could be lost. 

Tracer twisted against her back uncomfortably for a moment, but focused herself and shook her head. “I don’t understand why the first-born ‘ad to die, God being mostly angry at Pharoah.” 

“It was no longer a warning.” Pharah took a sip of wine. “There had been nine warnings. It was a punishment.” 

“‘Ardly seems fair to punish the lot of them for a bit of governmental wankery. Some ordinary Egyptian’s not keeping the ‘ebrews enslaved.” 

“But I doubt they protested the murder of the Hebrew sons. It is a kind of blood for blood. That they had so many chances to avoid that is a mercy in itself, God would have been right to kill their children first off. Justice. ” 

“No, isn’t justice. Revenge. Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Fareeha. Think you’d be defending your countrymen a bit more.” 

Pharah smiled and leaned toward Tracer. “Some of us are not compelled to excuse our country’s imperialism, and violence.” 

Tracer leaned back against the couch. “Alright, fair cop and well ‘it, but I am still right about the firstborn, Fareeha.” 

Her own Hilell and Shammai, ever arguing, ever debating, ever loving each other. She had watched that grow and bloom, too, over the work of years, step by step as they wandered together through an uncertain land. She had doubted, when she first fell in love with Pharah, that anything other than the glue that was Mercy would keep them together, but that had been arrogance. Tracer was more loveable than she seemed at first blush, and Pharah more loving than most would have imagined, and the two of them had grown together, though never in quite the same direction. 

Tracer was right, of course, that there was something unjust in taking something so precious, for a casual sin. Pharah was right, of course, that the sins of the community must be borne by the community, too, and that there had been so many chances to turn back. Did God ever owe them an apology, for such rashness? Or worse, for such calculation? It was one thing to act in anger, it was another to take something so precious so calmly. 

Perhaps the worst of it was that he was not angry at Mercy at all. Perhaps it was only that simple, calculated punishment that led her to this day, to the taste of saltwater and horseradish even more bitter on her lips than she had believed possible. It purged her mouth of the sweetness of the wine and the richness of the meat, leaving only that acrid dryness in its wake. 

Perhaps the worst of it was how angry Mercy was with him. 

The plagues passed. Freedom was had, for some, but even as the meal passed in front of her, Mercy kept thinking only of her own bondage, of the unanswered cry to God. She saw it in the empty corner beside her, the shake at Tracer’s hand as she drew the wine to her lips, in the way Pharah had carefully assigned the seating and set the table, in the way Winston avoided her gaze as they spoke of Yocheved’s baby, in the way Dva spoke to her so gently. The way Emily looked at her and Tracer both. 

In this victory of a meal, Mercy tasted only the failures of this past year. Miriam’s Well kept them alive in the desert, but Mercy began to wonder if it hadn’t been the bitter alkaline of survival, and not the sweet cool of living. 

The blessing over the wine buzzed from her lips without a thought, and the door opened. Next to her, sitting at that empty corner, was Elijah’s cup. The cup filled with the hope and promise that some year, everything she had been waiting for would come through that door. The cup was an outstretched hand to God in the darkness, whispering about trust. Every year, she had held out that hand. She held it out after her parents were killed. Held it out after Overwatch fell. Held it out as she was in exile from the medical community. She kept looking ahead in the dark, trusting what she could not see. 

She believed. 

To believe in Elijah. To believe that hope could always walk right through the door, that it could sit at your table and drink your glass of wine. To believe that there was a chance to see the dream fulfilled, to touch your feet on that Promised Land. 

Next year, in Jerusalem. 

It was too much to ask. It was too deep a failure, this year, marked by all of her insufficiencies, unable to have a child, unable to save Tracer, throwing herself at these same things again and again, the outcome never changing. She’d gotten no closer to getting pregnant. Tracer’s health continued to deteriorate. 

Not even taking the moment to excuse herself, Mercy got up from the table and ran into the small, tight powder room, the one Pharah had barely managed to niggle into the plans. She pulled herself into the bright white of that room, and she cried, and she cursed, in every language she knew, that God had kept everything from her, that God was punishing her for nothing, that God had judged her for her failings and ignored his own. She was angry. She kept that anger close to her like a flame, even as the immense darkness of her own sorrow crept in. She forgot there even was a Seder, in the other room, saw only the burning, everlasting bush that was her that was God that was the anger and love of all her people, all those years. 

There was a knock at the door, and Mercy wiped at her eyes. Pharah had been so tender and good, through all of this, and the last thing she needed was--

“It’s Emily.” 

Mercy had not expected that, and for a moment, it disarmed her so thoroughly that she opened the door. 

There was nothing exchanged, for a moment. Emily would say that she was no great mind, and no great judge, and no great hero, comparing herself unfavorably to the company Tracer generally kept. She would say this never seeing her own gift for knowing the kindest thing to say, for looking at the faces of people as she did her class of children and opening her own heart to them. 

“It’s just this year, Angela.” Emily nodded. “I know.” 

It was not a question, nor a complaint, nothing but an acknowledgment of the thing that had been Mercy’s own plague, sent by God, or, at the very least, not evaded by him. Mercy nodded, tears still streaming down her face. 

“Do you know Moses died, never seeing the Promised land? He was going through...and a mistake, meant God would never let him see it. He was kept from the promise of God.”

“Promised Land. I suppose it would be easy for a place you never see to be perfect.” Emily leaned against the doorframe. “I don’t know much about the Torah, of course, but I remember the story hardly ending with happily ever after.” 

Mercy shook her head. “They were….argumentative, and lost faith, and difficult.” she sniffled. “But they were not in the desert.” 

“It’s hard, to be Moses, isn’t it Angela? You go among people who don’t understand you, you try to lead them in whatever way you can, and for all that, you feel you will never find home. God barely listens to you, but you stay all the same. I think you’re brave for it.” 

“I’m not--” 

“Aye, you are. The moral compass for as long as I’ve known them, and for longer than that, I know. Lena and Fareeha would say so, as well.” Emily sighed. “This year has been forty for all of us, but for you I know most of all. But,” Emily looked back over her shoulder and stared at Tracer, “It’ll end, won’t it? Even Moses stopped walking.” She turned back around and wiped the tears from her eyes. “The Promised Land is just another beginning. But I don’t know the Torah very well.” 

Mercy looked up at her. “You are knowing it well enough.” 

“I’m sorry, about the baby. Cried over that myself, me and Lena never being able.” She sighed. “I just keep walking. What else can we do?” 

“I’m sorry I,” Mercy closed her eyes, “I am failing you both.”

Emily put her arm around Mercy’s shoulder. “No. You could never. You’re taking us on the journey.” 

“I should go back, to the table. I am being--” 

“We’ll keep going, aye. Eventually, we’ll find the end of it, whatever that is.” 

Hand in hand with Emily, Mercy walked back to the table. She was no clearer or calmer on the subject of God, of what he was denying her, of what he was denying all of them. But she saw the faces of her fellow travellers more clearly. It was not only Moses who made the journey. It was not only Moses who felt lost along the way, and it was not only Moses who died reaching for that unattainable goal, who strived and hoped against everything. 

They were together. She did not find the Promised Land, but she found their hands in hers. 

She poured the final cup of wine. All things come to an end. Even the desert.

[the-slasher-files]

DIFFERENT PREDATORS - chapter 4

INCLUDES ANDREI KULOKOVA x XAVIERA LAH-MO

Loving writing for this couple so so much! This literally feels like a movie and it has over taken my life. In this chapter we get to look at feral Andrei in full form, which is so cool to write for. Just a warning it is very gory. Make sure to read part one, two and three.

Also please go read @horrorslashergirl oc Xaviera’s perspective on the chapter linked HERE

MASTERLIST

Soft breathes filled the room as both predators came down gently from their high. Andrei ran his tattooed palm along Xaviera’s naked shoulder she shuddered at his touch, her icy blue eyes were now a calm blue as she watched him light a cigarette with his free hand, blowing the smoke away from her in an unconsciously kind way. The wolf had taken what was his again from the world and it felt so right, better than any time before, and he was comfortable tonight, just laying together.

Looking back down at her his eyes were calm, and jaw ebbed of the tension and control, the wolf was down. She breathed slowly and strong, her soft skin gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat in the low light. She was the perfect prey.

“So… How was your first time?” He asked, taking another drag of his cigarette.  “everything you wanted it to be?” His cockiness apparent in his question.  

Xaviera took a moment with the question, maybe put off but his cocky ways like most but she hummed and replied with a flash of cheekiness “Mhmmm….Always pictured that my first time would be with a wolf. I guess I am more fond of feral beasts.”  

Andrei gave a huff of a laughter appreciating the many sides of her personality, she continued to match him whole heartedly. “Well aren’t you lucky.” He waited for her to continue but was comfortable in the silent pause, but noticed something in her eyes, she was looking at his cigarette that lazily hung from his lips. Andrei took a drag again but blowing the smoke closer to her to see if she liked the taste, “Would you like one?”    

Xaviera perked up at the question, and she took from his cheap Russian pack that he had offered up. Taking a slow drag she sighed contently, allowing the smoke to billow to wisp around her, framing her face. “Haven’t smoked since college. Sleepless nights full of studying.” Xaviera spoke looking up at Andrei through thick lashes and licking her lips.

“Y'know you look hot with a cigarette hanging out of those soft lips…” the wolf whispered, leaning in close to her face blowing smoke directly at her and capturing it in a kiss. He savored his favorite taste of tobacco and her sweetness with a hint of left over cum in the kiss the wolf moaned. Pulling away Andrei took the cigarette from her hand only to put his down in the ashtray and finish hers, a trait of the beasts playfulness. “You shouldn't smoke.. its bad for you” he smiled.  

She smiled in return and rubbed her nose on his own as animals do in affection.  "I know.... That's why I gave up smoking after college." she told Andrei, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.  

Andrei was breaking slowly and surly like a house with a cracked foundation and she was seeping through the cracks. He nodded “you must have a good strong will then myshka.”  

Putting down the cigarette in the ash tray one of his large hands rubbed her side while the other interlocked with her small hand, watching intensity as the wolf engulfed her hand with his. Bending the top of his fingers on hers, pulling away slightly and letting her trace his tattoo. Andrei kissed her forehead, closing his eyes trying desperately to be ok with the intimacy.

“When you lived most of your life among creatures that could kill you in a matter of seconds, you have to be always careful. Never underestimate someone by appearance. That’s what my father used to tell me…” she found herself telling him.

Andrei tightened his grip on the small woman, holding her close and telling her it was ok. He too had learned the same listen; His uncle was a paranoid mess, worried of anyone and putting fear in the hearts of Andrei and his sister at a young age, that absolutely anyone could rip them apart, mentally and physically. Then the fear only grew stronger as Andrei went to the army, undercover with some of Russia’s most dangerous people, no matter that their size. He learned to not be surprised with it anymore.

Humming and listening to the vulnerability, appreciating it. “A wise man” Andrei whispered into her white hair, letting her continue and taking in her sweet smell.

Xaviera bit her lip as she was compilating if she would continue. She was so cute when she bit her lip. Tugging at the stony heart people had created for him, but the way she curled into him, and the soft soothing voice made him feel at home. Xaviera saw through his beastly ways and saw the man underneath.

“Yes, he was. He always knew what to say and how to solve any problem…If it wasn’t for him…I wouldn’t have been here today.” she tells Andrei, curling her body against his much bigger one, seeking protection and comfort in a silent way he was more than happy to provide.    

Andrei pulled in a deep breath, considering to tell her his family life as well, but he paused. The wolf biting his neck forcing him into submitting but he brushed it off. Who knew if he was even going to see her again. What did it matter.

“My.. uh, my dad was killed when I was young boy, just leaving me, my uncle, sister and..” his breath hitched slightly “my mother…. but um.. she was murdered when I was 12” Andrei shifted uncomfortably with his vulnerability, but tugged her close as a form of comfort, something he did with his sister growing up.

“She must have been a wonderful and beautiful woman... My mother... S-She was killed too... A-Along with my father.” she began to tell him with a shake in her voice, a breaking predator in his large hands. “My father was killed by poachers in a trip to Africa….Me and my mother run…B-But….She saved me….Giving her life. T-They killed her too…..She hid me into the hallow of a tree….A-And after they left her body…..T-The hyneas….T-They devoured her….They ripped her face apart.” Xaviera began to cry, walls tumbling down around her and allowed Andrei to pick up the pieces.

“I had to watch until she was a mess of flesh and bones.” she choked on a sob, her face buried into his chest. “I-I was so weak.” she breathed out.

Andrei’s heart was ripping and tearing as she shook, telling him the horrors she had been through. A deep part of his soul sympathizing with her; they had both seen the mangled, broken corpses of their mothers, with a beast looming over them. Unfortunately, Andrei was the beast in his story, but he wasn’t going to tell her now, that was for a different night.  

Feeling the deep sobs and broken words spilling from her sweet lips he held her strong and instinctively, wanting to protect her. “ssssh… little one…” Andrei pulled back slightly meeting her red eyes, cupping her jaw and wiping the tears away. “It was never your fault… Beasts take and take from this world with greed, no mercy… and it is no one’s fault” Andrei’s soul was reassuring himself more so than Xaviera at this point, and he glanced at his tattoo, reading it, the words ‘NO GODS’ screamed in his head. He wanted to blame god for what he did, what had happened, what he took from him, but the true danger was people. Not the beasts. There were no gods to blame.

Her gaze met his in a soft reassurance. “That’s why I hate most humans so much….Humans call animals beasts but they are the ones.” she whispered, letting the last tears fall down her cheeks. “Animals aren’t greedy, vain… They do it to survive…. Humans are conducted by their avarice.” she spoke, taking one of his big hands in both her tiny ones, bringing his hand to her lips, kissing his knuckles, then her eyes drifted to the big scars on her thigh.

Fuck, she was killing him. Speaking his brutal but beautiful language. Her gentle affection was something new for him, something no one had ever shown the wolf, but he liked it, he could learn this gentle nature from her.

“I got this one from a mother Grizzly. Me and my dad encountered the cubs first and because I was young and foolish… She attacked me….. My dad saved me, but the Grizzly left a souvenir.” she spoke, looking from the claw marks to Andrei. “I learned not to be afraid of the wild animals… But also respect them. Respect what can kill you.” Nuzzling into him like a little cat.

Andrei’s eyes widened at the thought of a grizzly coming after her, she was so small but so tough. Xaviera held the quiet power of beasts within her but covered it in a gentle grace, something he was less than skilled at.

He took his free large hand and brought it down to her thigh tracing the scar like it was art, Xaviera shivered at his touch. Bringing his lips to her forehead he spoke “Well thank you for respecting me” he laughed, trying to lighten the deep moment.

She snorted and rolled her blue eyes at his smug joke, "Yes, yes. I respect you, all high and mighty Alpha Wolf." She cheekily told him, one of her fingers scratching under his chin playfully, like one would do to a dog, he just shook his head at the playful endearing energy she had.

"Just don't step on my tail or I am gonna bite your precious jewels off." she whispered against his lips, her blue eyes glinting. Andrei’s eyes went sharp again at her words, ready to pounce at her again. He took her lips in a deep kiss, grinning at the end and pulling away, sexual thoughts filling his head with the mention of her mouth being that close to his manhood.

“Go ahead and try it precious kitten” Andrei rolled Xaviera on top of him now, placing his hands on her hips for a moment until bring them to the sides of her neck, the wolf inside wanted to turn the action deadly but he inhaled and brought her down into a kiss again.

She kissed him back as he did, her small hands moving to touch his bigger ones that were rested on her neck. “I love it when you touch my neck.” Xaviera whispered into the kiss, her thumbs stroking his knuckles.

The wolf wanted to take her over and over again by the way she would speak to him, letting a fire and holding it strong within him, but he needed to relax. She was so small, so tempting, bones so easy to break under his hands.

His jaw tensed as his fingers went tighter around her throat, not enough to choke for Andrei controlled himself. “Be careful with those sweet words baby girl” he whispered back feeling her breath hitch slightly under his fingers.

"You know..... You are the only one who has ever touched my neck and survived." she whispered, looking down at him, cheeks dusted by a furious blush from their position.

His brow raised and the signature smirk came back to his face “there is still time darling” he silently laughed appreciating her wild side. Swiftly and expertly Andrei rolled her again, pinning her beneath the beast of a man. Moving close to her face, cigarette stained breath ghosting over her Andrei kissed her again leaving her breathless once one as he pulled away “Well thank you for letting me live… for now” he smirked and got up from bed going downstairs.

Grabbing the 2 mugs of hot tea Andrei surveyed the cabin one last time for potential threats, an instinct he could never lose. Making it into the bedroom Xaviera had her head buried in the pillow which made him confused, the soft side of him tugging to know what was wrong and the wolf breathing down his neck to strike while she was vulnerable.

“Everything alright?” Andrei asked putting her mug down and getting into bed with his own mug, running his hand down her shoulder.

"Yes... E-Everything is alright... Just... Thinking." she replied, avoiding his gaze at the end and nibbling on her lower lip, a blaze of blush creeping up her features.

Andrei saw that blush again, a sight he could get used to seeing. Then that lower lip bit, ugh, she was breaking him. But he just nodded and sipped his tea watching the snow fall out the windows, his soul still wanting to run free but his heart was being caged by the beautiful woman in bed with him. Another fight to be had within him.

“Thinking… about me?” Smirked turning towards her “Don’t be sly… I’m beginning to know that beautiful blush well baby girl.” he teased with the prey as she choked on the words he spoke. He was under her skin and he reeled in it.  

"I-Its not like that! I mean... You were amazing and I loved every second of it... Its just.... I never shared...a moment like this." she spoke, looking down at the cup of tea in her lap.

He smiled at her innocent nature. “I’m just teasing myshka, it was a joke…” he hooked two large fingers under her chin making her look up at him. “But I was right.” He huffed only for her to glare at him, the blush still present.

“Still a knucklehead.... Don't make me throw your ass in the snow." she told him, taking a sip of her tea to hide her smile. Setting his tea down on the nightstand, the fingers under Xaviera’s chin moved along her jaw sweetly.

“And still a fierce kitten” Andrei’s fingers laced within her white hair and kissed her again. Xaviera closed her eyes as he kissed her, her tongue running along his bottom lip only to shyly start sucking on it, her eyes opened, looking into his own, challenging him slightly.

Andrei’s eyes went sharp again, “well you learn fast.” He grinned licking his canines, the hand within her hair tightened in a fist, he wasn’t gonna be that easy with her anymore. Crashing his lips against hers again roughly his tongue explored her mouth and fought with her tongue, savoring the taste. Without even looking Andrei’s one hand moved down her arm, taking the tea and reaching over her to put it on her nightstand which in turn was pinning her beneath him again. Biting her lip hard enough to draw a little blood he pulled back, knowing what the copper taste would do to him, he moved the kisses along her jaw and to Xaviera’s so sensitive neck.

"T-That's not fair... Y-You know my sensitive spots... A-And I don't know yours." the prey breathed out in a shuttering voice.

He grins against her, brushes the sharp teeth of the wolf along the delicate bruised skin he created. “A predator never just tells you their weak spot..” he pulled away looking her deep into her glimmering eyes “you of all people should know that, darling”

"I-I...." the prey stammered, blushing hot at his words.

Andrei stopped at her stammering words, she was embarrassed and shy beneath the wolf. He moved a large hand to stroke through her white locks and he rested his forehead on hers like animals show affection. “Ssshh.. little mouse… I will not hurt you.” The wolf couldn’t promise that, he knew that, but he never wanted to. She was different, she was an animal just like him.

“I-It’s alright… You know… When I was in Africa I watched as Leopards mate. The males always bite the nape of the females. Not to kill her, but to assert dominance. I suppose that goes for humans too?” she told him in a quiet voice, biting on her lower lip.

His gentle grin appeared again, she understood him even with all his teeth, he hummed at her words “You are mine.” Andrei placed his hand on the side of her neck and deeply kissed her, grinding himself against her, but quickly rolled off and pulled her close to him again. A ever fought battle of animalistic urges and a gentle side.

Xaviera nuzzled her face into his chest, and humming. "All yours, Wolfy. All yours.... Considering half my neck is blue and purple." she said with a smile.

Andrei huffed a small laugh, it was an instinct for him, a carnal desire to go for the neck and it always had been. Her words lit him up, someone accepted it for once that they were his, even if it was just until the snow stopped. Looking down at her Xaviera was beaming with pride.

“What a cute little thing” He kissed her forehead and started to absent mindedly run one of his hands along the giant scar on his chest. Her eyes drifted to the scar his sister gave him but she never pressured him and that he was grateful for.

"Little with enough venom to kill 100 Men." she said with a devilish glint in her eyes, her lips pressed against his big scar.

He smiled at the power she had in those words, she could kill poachers with her gun and arrows but she could also kill a man’s heart, even if it was locked away deep inside. Andrei’s jaw tensed in the gentle affectionate nature she presented him with, no one had kissed his scars in fear of what he might do them, but she didn’t have fear of him. He just looked down at her beautiful blue eyes through her thick lashes.

“It is time for sleep myshka” he leaned down brushing his lips against hers “.. unless you want to go again?” He grinned licking his canines.

“As much as I would love to get frisky with the big bad wolf…. I have to rest. The blizzard will stop tomorrow morning and I will have to go…hunting.” She whispered, her hand brushing against his chest up and down.

Xaviera spoke sweetly but truthfully and Andrei pulled away resting his head on the pillow, his mind finally felt at ease here in the tangled sheets but the way she was rubbing his chest was starting a fire he might not be able to control again, so the wolf roughly grabbed her wrist and spoke “you might want to stop doing that then.. or else I’m not taking your excuses.” He let go of her, controlling himself again and running a large hand down her grizzly scars and settling there.

"Got it, knucklehead." she huffed, rolling her eyes. Respecting his inner demons and roughness. She pressed a kiss under his chin. “Good night, Wolfy.” she whispered, leaning her head against his chest.

Grinning at the new nickname he closed his eyes, this was one night the trauma and memories wouldn’t come, he was safe in his own head tonight and he could finally relax. Tension ebbed from his muscles and jaw feeling himself melt into the bed and into the body next to him. “Goodnight kitten”

Even if it was just for the night, he felt at home, a relaxation he had never known.

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

The winter morning sun cascaded through the old glass of the cottage, his icy blues eyes opened softly and his hand stretched out, only feeling coldness surrounding him. Andrei was alone. Then there was a the closing of the door to confirm his suspicion. Her free spirit eluded him again.

“Motherfucker-” He cursed rushing downstairs and looking out the window, she was loaded up and ready to kill. A surge of protection came over him, and unfamiliar feeling in his heart he just couldn’t place other than he needed her. She didn’t know what else these poachers were involved in like he did, one of them was in the Ukrainian special forces, one similar to Andrei but lower class.

Getting dressed in his winter camo, throwing on his military vest loaded with ammo, knives, first aid and basically anything useful to get himself out of a jam. Placing his rifle over his shoulder and lacing up his combat boots, he finally placed on his mask with a deep growl. The one last thing that made him the beast.  

Stepping out into the cold winter he followed Xaviera’s tracks, leading up the mountain and twining through the forest. The wolf stalked for about two hours and that’s when he heard it a large truck approaching through the clearing just beyond the forest. He was close.

Running through the trees silently he waited, waited for her calling, the sniper rifle shots. Crouching low within the frost covered brush something he didn’t expected happened, the tires of the large truck exploded from a spike strip hidden in the snow. The little leopard knew some tricks, the wolf grinned from behind the mask.  

The first man stepped out of the truck and there was a sudden crack. The sniper rifle. “Xaviera” His trained ears perked as he listened to the sound and the vibrations, she was up on the ridge, hidden almost perfectly among the terrain, white hair flowing perfectly into the snow.

His icy blue eyes fell on the man who was bleeding lifelessly in the snow, the hot crimson melting the ice around him. The wolf’s eyes dilated and he growled with the second crack on the gun. His skin was crawling eagerly, his muscles stiffened and his mouth watered. Andrei tried to shake it off but the desire burned too hot.

Andrei... Breathe... If you go out there you will get her killed... Breathe... Wait..

So the wolf waited and watched from the trees, blue eyes sharp on the woman coming down the ridge closing in on the truck. He breathed. He contemplated showing himself, but her job wasn’t done yet and he could ruin it all. Xaviera broke the lock of the truck and opened the heavy doors with a large metal squeak falling into the forest.

There was her prize, a beautiful large snow leopard leaped out of the truck majestically, shaking its fur and running off just to the right of the wolf, they shared a quick glance at each other. It was a look of respect. Two different predators, one now free while the other was protecting, heart still chained to the woman by the truck.

Suddenly the wolf felt the hair on his neck stand and instinctively his muscles tensed, whipping his head to watch Xaviera. Something wasn’t right. A man appeared behind her. The wolfs eyes were dark, and sharp as the man grabbed her. His prey was slammed against the truck forcefully and she screamed in pain, that was a sound only the wolf wanted to make her make. No one else. She was his.

The wolf stood tall, imposing and threatening. Stalking through the bushes he heard the man talking to her but it was muffled by the blood rushing and the heart that pounded strongly within the wolf. A harsh breath left her sweet mouth as the man kicked her in the ribs. His jaw tensed, muscles flexed and contorted. Each footstep his anger grew and the snow seemed to melt under his fiery path.

This was the man from the special unit force Andrei knew well. Another shriek of pain cut through his ears as the man harshly pressed a boot on her ankle. His prey with downed and the wolf was going to take what was his. The sight of blood in the snow and dripping down his prey fueled the fire beneath the skin. He couldn't hold back the wolf any longer from its true power. It was over. Andrei was gone.

"... I know what you might be useful for" The man was on top of her now, speaking confidently, the prey cried as his disgusting hands ran along her thighs. Along his prey. She reared her head back looking to scream but there was no need, the wolf knew what to do. She was his.

The wolf lunged. Full power of broad shoulders and hard muscles. Teeth bared and claws out he tackled him off her. The man got to his feet but the wolf had power and speed, thrusting a hard fist right into his nose with a crack. The blood poured but it wasn't enough. He stepped onto his territory. Pulling the knife from his holster as the man stumbled back, the wolf stabbed into the flesh with a squelch, and twisted knife sadistically in the thigh wanting to hear the scream of pain. His desire still burned as the man dropped into the snow and the Russian pulled out the blade. He admired the oozing and flowing of the blood.

He wasn't done. He needed want was his. Towering above the man he kneeled on him, pressing his knee onto the delicate ribcage that seemed to crack with ease. The noise made goosebumps form along his skin as his large rough hands pressed around the man's throat. Squeezing and waiting.

Wait.... Wait for it.... Be grateful for the hunt... Wait for the end... It will come... It always does...

The man beneath him thrashed and writhed. Gasping and clawing. Managing to push the wolfs mask down only to have him mimic the teeth pattern. A full snarl infusing fear into the man's heart. The wolf could see it in his eyes. The precious tender fear, he was a master of. He was close. So close to the end as the prey stopped his attempt at life and accepted his death in between the jaws of the wolf. The last look was ecstasy. A sweet and yet bitter taste on his tongue as the soul departed beneath the wolf. He was gone. He took what was his in the snow.

As the pluse under his claws went flat, the attention was put on his other prey. His different type of prey. Dark eyes met her wide icy blues. Andrei was screaming not to dare to touch her but the wolf wanted more. Needed more. The prey swallowed down roughly, breathing slowly as the wolf was hunched and teeth were displayed. She didn't move. A smart one. He wanted to devour her fear but he pulled away and placed his attention back the corpse beneath him.

He wasn't done.

He came into his world and touched what was his. Spilled the blood that was his. He wanted more.

Standing, the wolf towered, large and strong he dragged the body away. Taking his kill how and where he wanted, and stalked into the snowy forest. His rage carrying the wolf where it pleased.

Seeing a strong, sharp broken branch on a pine tree, it seemed to suit the wolfs fancy. Lifting the man with ease and impaling him on the branch in a show of pure raw strength. In an animalistic urge he needed to see everything, hear everything and smell everything. The wolf stripped the prey as he hung. Checking for weapons and ammo that would please him.

The hot blood still oozing from his thigh, the desire ached for more. The wolf grabbed his blade again from his vest and in a swift motion he stabbed the prey in his chest, right in the middle and pulled down strongly to his navel. The hot crimson spraying on the wolf, he tasted it, savoring it sickly as he took the knife out. Intestines fell and melted the snow at his feet. The white ice turned a deep scarlet as the night fell. The metallic smell assaulted the wolfs senses, feeding every desire perfectly. He was grateful for this hunt tonight. He could do as he pleased.

With 2 hands the wolf tore the preys torso open, the sound of squelching entrails and flesh ripped through the forest, signaling the ravens to move in around him. With a thick hand the wolf reached inside the lifeless body, reaching the spine slowly and twisting, ripping it out as the body swayed. The wolf had taken what he wanted. He took rapaciously what he thought desvered with out mercy. Protecting what was his.

Breathe... Be grateful for this hunt.... you took what you wanted.... Breathe... The world made you this way... Breathe..

A sick snarl left his lips graciously as he looked at what he did. Turning to walk away the wolf nipped at his neck one last time and he turned, whipping his knife out and brutally decapitated the prey. The body mangled and wicked left in the snow for the scavengers to eat. He had taken what was his.

The blood was thick on his coat as he marched along the snow path, marching to the cottage, a siren song calling him back, her name in his head over and over again. The wolfs eyes sharp and dangerous as he set his sets on the cottage, warm light looming in the dark cold forest. The blood steamed and billowed around him. The wolf had a hunger. Only one could fill. The trail of scarlet dripped from his canines and claws, melting in the footsteps behind him.

The wolfs weight creaked along the front steps and he slammed the door open. There she was. He's final feast for the night.

"Andrei?" The prey asked, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, she stood there as he licked the blood from his canines.

She was wearing nothing but his shirt. His smell imprinting on that beautiful flesh. The wolf growled deep and low, seeing her bruises. They weren't his bruises, not his marks. He needed her. To make her his again. A carnal desire burned in his core. This would be a different hunt. A different end.

[straycat-writes]

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (oda sakunosuke)

fuubutsushi // 風物詩 (japanese, n.) - the feelings, scents, or images that evoke memories or anticipation of a particular season.

requested by: anonymous

It was spring the first time he saw her, the mild early April air carrying with it the scent of freshly bloomed flowers. She was curled up with a book in a quiet corner of the quaint little café he used to frequent, completely lost as the words on the pages painted a picture in front of her.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Oda must have stood there for a full five minute, wondering whether or not he should approach her and strike up a conversation. With mellow sunlight streaming in through the window beside her and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, she seemed almost too serene, too…picturesque for him to disturb her.

But humans have an innate instinct, a tendency to notice when they’re being looked at. She looked up from her book, slowly taking in her surroundings before her eyes finally landed on him. Oda would have liked to look away, should have looked away but he couldn’t bring himself to. When he blinked slowly, she gave him a dazzling smile, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He approached her, a charming smile gracing his handsome face, “Is this spot taken, ma’am?”

“Not at all.” She smiled, gesturing in front of her, “You’re very welcome to stay.”

He sat down, looking at the blue and gold cover of the book still glued to her hand. On France and Poetry. He raised a curious eyebrow, “Baudelaire?”

“Among others.” She nodded, rather wistfully, “Baudelaire was insanely talented, but it’s a shame he has become so synonymous with French poetry that people barely pay any attention to others.”

“And who do you think deserves more attention?”

“Well, many others.” She said, then smiled sheepishly, “Although I have an affinity for Paul Verlaine.”

Oda laughed, “Ah, one of the romantics*. I must admit they do have a dreamy quality to their musings.”

Her eyes lit up at that, “Right? I understand the appeal of realism and all, but nothing compares to this particular form of expression, and Verlaine definitely did it better than anyone else.”

“That might have had something to do with his muse.” Oda reflected, “They do say he was on love with Rimbaud.”

“He shot Rimbaud.” she laughed, “Twice.”

Oda grinned coyly, “We all have our love languages.”

They sat there and talked for hours, about anything and everything, and each time she laughed at something he said, Oda swore he heard windchimes somewhere in the distance. It was almost evening by the time they realized that they couldn’t stay there forever, curled up in a world of their own that started and ended in a cozy little café. When she left, all Oda was left with was a messily scribbled phone number and beautiful name to go with it. He smiled.

It was summer the first time the thought crossed his mind that he might be falling for her. They had been going out for a few weeks now. It was a stiflingly warm night, and the smell of freshly mowed grass mingled with that of the salty sea breeze as they walked back after having dinner together, his hand intertwined with hers. They had stopped at the docks to admire the nighttime sea for a moment, when he finally plucked together the courage to tell her what he did for a living, telling her that it was fine if she wanted leave after this.

She cried. Each tear felt like a rip in Oda’s heart and he desperately wanted to console her, but he wasn’t sure if she would like being touched by him now. Then she got angry.

“You told me you wanted to be a writer.” She said through gritted teeth, “Tell me, then. Have you ever taken a life?”

The question took Oda by surprise. It took him a while, but he answered nonetheless, “…Never.”

“Why?”

“Because…” he began, then frowned, looking down at his feet, “Because then I wouldn’t have the right to be a writer anymore.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks, “Then why do you consider me shallow enough to leave you now? Do you really think that low of me?”

Oda was dumbstruck, unable to articulate even the simplest of thoughts. He had been ready for anything she might have had to say, but not this. Even after he told her everything…she still refuses to leave?

“Say something.” She frowned, lightly putting a hand on his chest, “You cannot hope to be a very good writer if you cannot even find the words to articulate –“

Oda couldn’t stop himself. He kissed her. The kiss was soft and true, tasting of subtle longing and slightly of the saltiness of her tears. And something else he couldn’t put his finger on, something far sweeter and much more delicate. They were both out of breath by the time he let go, and as he looked at the small smile fighting its way to her lips, at her rosy cheeks and shining eyes, Oda was sure he was in love.

It was autumn the first time he told her he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. It was once again a lazy afternoon, and they were lying on the bed in his small but airy two room flat, limbs tangled with each other’s and a thin cotton sheet the only thing covering their naked bodies. She traced little circles on his chest with her finger.

“Sakura really looks up to you, you know?” he said out of the blue.

She smiled, “Yeah? Well, she’s a good kid. So are the others. You’re doing a great job, Odasaku.”

“You think so?” he murmured, turning on his side to face her, “I just…I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to them.”

“And you won’t.” she said, lightly cupping his cheek. His crystal blue eyes looked even more breathtaking when the golden autumn sunlight hit them like that. “You know why? Because you’re a good man. And because I would never leave you to do this on your own.”

Oda’s eyes widened, a strange kind of warmth spreading throughout his chest. “Do you really mean that?”

“Every last bit.”

For a brief moment, he thought he saw every beautiful version of future flash before his eyes. A beautiful sea-side cabin, where the salty breeze accompanies him as he writes everything he has ever wanted to put down on paper. Stories of people and lives and love and beauty. Stories about the kids, about her and about himself being forever locked in her embrace. It was a beautiful version of reality, one he wasn’t sure he deserved but one he wanted nonetheless.

And here she was, telling him she wanted the same thing.

He sighed, dipping slightly forward to rest his forehead on hers, “Sweetheart…whatever will I do without you?”

“That’s irrelevant.” She murmured, place a small kiss just at the edge of his lips, “Because you won’t ever have to find out.”

It was winter the first time he realized just how out of reach that beautiful reality really was. The world had never been fair. Bad things happened to good people everyday and the pursuit of happiness was utterly meaningless. Everything was meaningless. God didn’t exist, and if he did, he wasn’t worthy of being called one. What kind of cruel, sadistic God allowed innocent children to die at the hands of mercenaries?

Oda Sakunosuke had nothing left to live for anymore.

Or so he thought. If he had put aside the sheer rage coursing through his veins and clouding his eyes for one moment, he would have realized that he had one last solace left in the world. One last chance at salvation, waiting for him to crawl back home to her and into her welcoming embrace. She would weep with him, weep for him and soothe him as he screamed his throat raw and let out every last bit of pain and ache the world had shoved into him. And regardless of the amount of blood on his hands, she would gather him up and piece him back together again.

But rage and hopelessness and sheer, white hot fury had blinded Oda, and he could no longer see anything but red. Gide wanted a reckoning and Oda would give it to him, even if it ended up destroying him in the process. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

There were a few thoughts that crossed Oda’s mind as he lied there in Dazai’s arms, his heartbeat slowly failing him.

One of them was that he wanted a cigarette, which is an odd thing to think as you’re dying, but he allowed himself the liberty. The second was that he would never be a writer now. But that hardly mattered at this point. The third was that Dazai was crying. Oda had never seen him cry before, but he figured it was good for him, because underneath that fragile façade of the horrific ‘demonic prodigy’, Oda knew he was just a scared, broken little boy who just wanted to feel something other than empty for once. If his death was what pushed Dazai out of the darkness, then Oda wouldn’t consider it to be completely in vain.

The last thing he thought, as his vision began to grow darker and darker, was that there was a girl still waiting for him at home. They had had a fight before he left, and he had left her crying on the doorway in the biting evening air that chilled everything to the bone. He had left without telling her where he was going. He wished to God he could turn back time, even for a little bit, and say all the right things to her, or at least a proper goodbye. But it was too late for that now.

She would probably get the news from Dazai. He wondered briefly how she would take it. Would she cry? Would she get angry at his foolishness? Would she despise him for leaving her? If she did, he thought, he wouldn’t blame her.

Gide was dead. Oda had had his revenge, his hollow moment of triumph. But he didn’t feel any better. All he felt was this all-pervading sense of cold emptiness, knowing that his momentary victory came at the price of leaving two people behind to pick up their broken pieces. To clean up the mess he created.

He was very cold now, and too drained to open his eyes anymore. As the last of his strength left him, he only wished…something good comes of his death.

*romantics here refers to being part of the early 19th century literary movement, Romanticism, and has no relation to the present day connotations of the word.

[sloppy-butcher]

Can I get some hcs for Freddy x reader who have like very love/hate reltionship? Like they annoy eachother constantly but still seek each others company. Thanks!

This is the first time I have ever tried writing for Freddy and to be honest, I am quite nervous I did him wrong. Please forgive any ooc characterizations i may accidentally give him - i tried my hardest to make him accurate to the 80’s version (yes, this one will be based on old freddy not the new one (2010 remake), hope that it okay <3) i also hope that you don’t mind if i make the reader a killer as i am only comfortable writing for freddy when the power dynamics are equal

Thank you for the request and i hope these are good enough for you 

Headcanons for The Nightmare (Freddy Krueger) with a Killer!S/O who have a Love/Hate relationship

When you are an obedient little dog, when you kill mercilessly and the Entity grows fat from your bountiful supply of food, the spider-god showers you with rewards. Most forms of these appreciations take a physical appearance (new and terrifying outfits to adorn during your daily workouts or new weapons for you to play with). But there were some gifts that were intangible, and otherworldly and oh so irresistible to you - dreams. The Entity lets you sleep if you do well in trials and sometimes even offers you sweet, beautiful dreams. They were indulging at first, so totally vivid in their detail and color that you could almost lose yourself completely in their daydreams. It was a spider web most wonderfully and intricately made. A labyrinth of the mind. But it did not take you long to notice the spider lurking in the corners of his creation.

You spotted him often hiding under the shadow of trees, just standing there in the corner of your eye - one look and he would vanish without a trace. You would have thought nothing of the strange occurrence had it had only happened once and in only dreams. During your walks in between realms, you’d spot the man through the treeline. He was unmistakable in his silhouette and in the way his eyes glowed a horrid orange. You did not fear him however, he was no worse a monster than you were. Rather you were annoyed by his presence in both reality and dreams. 

You bend down and pick up a rock, turning it over in your hands testing its weight and size. “Hey!” You shout at the man who halted his retreat into the dark, night wood at the sound of your voice. “Stay out of my fucking dreams, asshole!” You throw the rock at him, narrowly missing him and instead, striking a tree.

“Such a temper.” A hoarse voice coos from somewhere behind and you spin around to meet it. It was him, moving faster and quicker than air and appearing next to you, closer than ever before. You got your first good look at him. His skin was a sore pink leather and he smelled like smoke. “Trust me, sweetheart, I would if I could. Your dreams,” He takes out a hand covered in razor-sharp knives and mockingly strokes the hair out your face, “, are so boring.” You snatch his hand away from your face, barely noticing the sting of blades in your soft palm and the trickle of warm blood down your forearm. You did not grimace, did not cower, and did not back down. He grins at your defiant expression. “And here I thought you’d thank me for giving you the chance to live in such a wonderful world. I’m hurt,” He feigns agony, his free hand placed sorrowfully on his chest, “, good work always goes unappreciated.”

You scoff and show your teeth. “I would prefer nightmares if it meant I wouldn’t get to see you.” The man laughed and flexed his knife-fingers, fresh blood oozing out your wound.  

“Oh babe, you and me both. I don’t like this babysitter gig anymore than you do.” He leans closer grinning with his horrible yellow fangs, the scent of a recent kill seeping off his tongue. “I prefer nightmares anyway.” 

“You look like a nightmare.” You spit into his face, finally letting go of his weapon and glaring at him. He laughs again.

“You are a feisty one. I think you and I are going to get along fabulously.”

Of course, he did not heed your warning for that very same night you saw him again in your dreams. Though now, he made it a point, not to hideaway. He approached you and actively talked to you, following you around your dream like a resistant plague. He commented on your shit reality, on all the things you could have wanted to dream of, and yet you only wanted to be in an empty field at the brink of dawn. He shakes his head and degrades your poor taste with even more snarky comments. You knew you couldn’t do anything to him while in his dream but in the physical world - well, that is a completely different story. 

If he was going to bother you while you slept like a buzzing mosquito, you decided to bother him when you were awake. In the real world he was much less intimidating, that aura of cosmic power that bubbled around him while in a dream state, was not present in the night air and you smirked at his weakness. You mentioned his height, asking how anyone could be scared of such a small man. He’d lash out, swinging at you with both his blades and his harsh tongue.  He was easy to toil, easy to wind up but a task to deal with. Freddy could take a punch to his pride and deal out damage times 10. 1 mean-spirited remark deserves 10 more. 

Freddy thrived on this back and forth. Ordinarily, he would turn his nose up at the idea of bickering with another killer - sure, some of them were fun, simple minds with which to bend and manipulate in dreams but most were already so twisted in their own self-delusions that well, he just didn’t find them all that interesting. But your mind was sharp and quick, built in the skull of a hardened murder professional yet dainty enough to still yearn for the sunlight world of goodness. A perfect balance. It had been a very long time since last Freddy had had a conversation of equals - a real conversation where the table was not shifted in the favor of either one. If he said something that crossed a boundary or hit a nerve (a task he sought out to do almost every night) you would turn on him, shoot daggers at him with the sole intent of murdering his little ass. Sure, it never really scared him but there was no denying that in a way, to spare with an equal really turned him on. To be challenged. 

There were times when he would become too much. Like the static on a dead radio station, he would drone on and on about a certain topic he knew would heat your blood. Always poking his stick deeper and deeper into the bear until you’d bite. Luckily it was quite simple to turn him off - just don’t sleep. You never really needed to rest in the Fog anyway, tiredness never made its claim over your bones even after a long day at work. Sleep was merely a reward, after all, a gift that could be refused if so desired. If time could be recorded within the Entity’s world, then the longest you had gone without sleep, and without seeing that little creep, would have been 2 months. He had really pissed you off when in a dream he produced a small songbird and made you watch as he melted its skin off - all for sport. A sight that did not necessarily make your skin crawl but one that irked you. It was always a game with him, a competition to see who would break first and try to strangle the other. And, to be dead honest, it was starting to annoy you more than anything he could say or do. So you stopped seeing him, stopped dreaming, and stopped seeking him out in the woods. You were tired of always trying to be bested and frankly, his childishness was wearing you thin.

But there was no denying that in that quiet that ate up the space where Freddy used to stand, a strange loneliness would grow incredibly heavy and dreadful. You missed his rather repulsive company, his witty and sharp tongue always keeping you on edge and on your toes. There was no way you could stop your head from turning around to look for him, seeking out his small frame among the dark wood. It was lonely without the flies, silent and decaying slowly.

For the life of him, Freddy tried to move on. He had never tied himself to one person before, never allowed himself to latch on to anyone save for his favorite little toys. But with you it was different. It was fun to annoy you, it was fun to torment you in dreams. It was even fun when you reeled at him, hackles raised threatening to kill. It was exciting, it reminded him of the joy of being powerful and alive (in a sense). And when you never took his bullshit sitting down, when you'd raise to meet his call, oh how it set fire to his heart. To be challenged. He could feel himself wither away, the interest that you had sharpened only seemed to dull and break off in your absence. He’d hate to admit it, but he missed you. Missed your noise and missed that sweet dream of yours.

Both of you are too prideful to confess to the other that you were lonely. But when, one day, you find yourself dreaming a familiar vision, that built-up residue of solitude melted and you turned to face Freddy eagerly.

“Did you really think you could not sleep forever?” He crossed his arms over his gloating chest, a snake tongue flickering victories in between teeth. “I always get my prey.” You smirk, not surprised in the slightest by his rather rude welcome back. You look around at the grassy field surrounding you both shining a brilliant emerald, the sun feeling warm on your back, and the fresh, clean air carrying with it the scent of spring flowers. 

“Aw, you missed me, Frederick?” You tease him with his unused full name, casting a devilish side-eye to the dream-demon. You see a flicker of panic, alerting you that you had hit the nail on the head before he spits and loudly proclaims,

“Don’t be so far up your own ass!” His golden eyes gleamed pure hatred at you. “It's not a hat.” You laugh at the face of the fuming man, knowing that despite how his actions appeared malicious and distasteful, there was no feasible way to deny that the dream he had made for you was spectacular and expressed something deeper than just surface-level annoyance. 

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Say It Anyways

Cursed (Tv 2020)  Rated: M  

Lancelot Centric Crossed posted on Ao3.

TW: Suicide, Depression, Self Harm, mentioned/implied Defenestration Additional tags and warnings: Major Character Death, Greif, Self-worth issues, Self Deprecation, Sad ending, Graphic descriptions, religious imagery and symbolism, author is sleep deprived, author regrets nothing, author regrets everything.  SUMMARY:  It only takes a moment for a decision to become permanent. A moment for a thought to became a plan and for that plan to become action.  Lancelot has a lot of dark moments, and one night it’s to much. 

The guilt weighed heavy in his gut. It was his constant companion, one he could never be rid of. He had tried and still the weight lingered, dragging him down, preventing sleep and laughter. It was as if someone had filled him full of river stones and he couldn’t be rid of them. A millstone around his neck.

How could he ever hope to atone for his actions?

For every Fey he now protected he had killed 10 there was no way to offset that count. He could give his body over and over as supplication shielding others from harm. He could give himself comfort and protection. He could give himself as company, and in acts of pleasure and still it would not be enough. Gawain called it love and perhaps it was but could one such as him ever return that feeling, or hope to understand it, least of all know it? He certainly didn't hate Gawain for not understanding. And he certainly didn't hate that moment afterwards wrapped in his arms when he felt safe, maybe loved, at the very least allowed to breathe comfortably. If only for a moment.

He looked over at the man sleeping softly beside him and smiled sadly. He always slept best after days like this. They had battled back another group of paladins and Cumbers men. The last of them according to Arthur and Guinevere. They had celebrated with the others over the victory and retired early to celebrate just the two of them. Slowly he lifted a hand and ran fingers through coarse unkempt hair and smiled softly. Leaning in he pressed the ghost of a kiss to Gawain's temple and stood from the bed. He should leave a note but nothing he says will matter. It won't change anything in the end. Besides, what would he possibly say?

He dresses in the dark silent as the assassin he is. He slips from the room, leaving his swords behind, and makes his way down the hall of the keep they occupy. Gently he pushes Percivals door open. He can smell wine on the boy and knows he wont wake, not that he would have anyways. He watches as the boy turns in his sleep. He isn't a boy now, a young man full of life and having seen too much in too short a time. Just another atrocity he is guilty of causing. He reaches out a hand and pulls the blankets up against the chill and let's his hand linger a moment on Squirrels shoulder, caresses it gently with his thumb. He fights back the urge to shed tears and tears his gaze from the serene face blanketed in shadow. He closes the door softly behind him, footsteps echoing lightly down the halls as he heads toward the stable. He has one final stop.

He steps into Goliaths stall and the horse nudges his shoulder. He does cry now, but not for himself, not for fear of his actions, but because he is overwhelmed and cannot hold back the ache that's been building and building in his chest. The relief at knowing what he is doing and that it means he will be free. He raises his hands and strokes Goliath's muzzle up his cheek and down his neck. He buries his face into the familiar scent and speaks lowly to him.

"Take care of them Goliath of Gawain and Percival. They'll take care of you." He sniffs and wipes at his face pulling back to look him in the eye. Goliath nuzzles his face and he stands there enjoying the quiet comfort of his stead. Finally he turns from the darkened stable and heads out into the snow. Newly acquired item in hand. The snow is falling hard and fresh and he vaguely wonders if his footsteps will be visible come morning.

He enters the woods not as a hunter but as prey. He's unafraid of what he might find here. The dark doesn't frighten him, it has long since been his ally against Fey and Man and Beast alike. Which of those it will ally against with him tonight he dare not imagine. On he walks until his legs ache from the cold and his fingers have long since gone numb. He had not dressed appropriately, there had not been a point.

He looks around absently. He can't see far, the moonlight and the starlight cut off from him by the canopy of trees. A fitting metaphor for a demon cut off from the love of God and man alike. He strips out of his cloak and lays it in the ground. He uncoils the short riding whip and kneels on his cloak and removes his tunic. Grasping the whip in his hands he looks towards heaven one final time. The first strike is unfamiliar. It's been some time since he'd done this and if Gawain found out…. It didn't matter now, he wouldn't. As he continued to strike at his back the ache returned a familiar comfort to his person. On instinct he recited the Lord's prayer as he worked. And then laughed mirthlessly, blood running in rivulets down his back. He was a creature from hell, spawned to kill. Born in the fire and blood of conquest, famine, war, and death to devour the souls of the living and save the damned in doing so. Reciting a prayer he had been forced to learn on his knees with bloodied hands wouldn't save him from the fires if hell. Surely that's where he was going, there was no chance he would be accepted into the afterlife of the Fey after all he had done. He winced, the whip coming into contact with a particularly nasty split in his flesh. How many was that now? It didn't matter, he could still feel them. The wolves howled near by and for a moment he reconsidered his plan. Ultimately though, there was nothing to change.

He would not be missed. Beyond Gawain and Percival only Arthur, Guineveir, and Merlin accepted him. The rest of the Fey regarded him with unveiled mistrust and thinly hidden hate. And he wondered more often than not about the motives of the five he called friend. It was in his nature to wonder, to ask questions, to be mistrustful. He knew what trust could earn him, he had known it at the hands of Carden and the other paladins as a child. It was broken bones and bruised skin, sore muscles and degradation. He was nothing. Nothing more than a killer bathed in blood and irredeemable.

He blinked spots from his vision. Lifted the whip again and let it fall with a splitting smack that echoed around him. The snow around him was now pink with blood. His fingers were growing numb again and his thoughts hazy. He smiled, finally they would be free of him. Free of his stoic attitude and bloody hands, the mistrust his presence brought and pain he reminded them off. This was a blessing he could give them. It was a blessing he was happy to give. They could move on, be well loved and adored by their people and he would be forgotten to the rivers of time.

He blinked tears from his eyes only to feel them freeze against his cheeks hidden by the mark of his kin. The switch fell from numb fingers and he lay forward in his ruined cloak. His vision swam with darkness, the howls of wolves nearby. It wouldn't be long. He would die as Jezebel had. Perhaps it was fitting for one such as he. He closed his eyes and remembered Gawain's smile, that image let him drift to sleep in the cold.

Arthur retched.

How? How could this have happened. Lancelot was a trained warrior. One of the best among Fey and men alike. And yet, here his corpse was, torn apart by wolves. It was bloody and gruesome and he couldn't bear to look upon it any longer. He turned his back and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. What was left of the body was shirtless, the garment folded neatly to the side under a layer of snow. His cloak soaked with his own blood, and the whip beside it too. He presses his eyes closed and rubs at them with the heels of his hands. This had been intentional. What was he to tell the others? Never had he been so grateful that Percival had stayed with Gawain, or that he had told them to check the castle and town instead of the woods.

Nothing had been out of the ordinary. Nothing accepts his swords having been left in his room. None of them had grown concerned until supper time arrived and they hadn't seen him. Now the dark closed in around him as the others gathered his remains and wrapped them in that same familiar old cloak. How was he to tell the others? Why hadn't he seen this. He was king now, Lancelot to be one of his knights. And he missed this.

The trek back to the keep is the longest one Arthur had ever made. They move in slow, sombre steps through the woods. On the edge he stops and takes a deep breath Percival and Gawain are coming to meet him. He's frozen to the spot.

"Any luck?" Percival asks chipper and hopeful. He stares at the boy, too far still to see him clearly. To see the bundle the men behind him carry. He doesn't respond. Voice stuck in his throat. He swallows and straightens his back.

"Arthur?" Gawain inquires, voice sharp and on edge. He's a wizened old soldier he knows what silence like this means. He's sat beside too many sickbeds, sought out to many wives, and mothers, and brothers, and husbands not too. He quicken his steps and passes Percival and still all Arthur can do is stare at him.

"Arthur! Damnit, did you didn't you find him?" He looks away from Gawain who is boring holes into his skull. All he has to do is look behind him, accept the silence for what it is but he isn't. So steeling himself Arthur makes eye contact and speaks,

"I'm sorry." It's barely a whisper, a breath on the chilled night air. And now the famous Green Knight looks past him. He steps to the side and puts a hand on his shoulder. There's nothing more he can do. This would have been better inside where it was warm and they could be safe from the cold. Not that it would take the pain away.

Gawain stares at the bundle. He knows it's a body. Knows its Lancelot's body and still he stares. He ignores the looks on the faces of the men carrying him. He can't stand the pity he knows he will find there.

“NO! No. No. nononono Gawain. No it can’t he can’t. No.” Percival shouts behind him. Instinctively he puts out his arm and stops the boy. Pulls him close and forces him to stop struggling.

“No. Please no. Why? Why HIM!?!” Percival screams into his chest and what is he to say to the child they had trained, that they had raised? He looks over Percival at the soldiers,

"Inside then."

He hears a voice say, hollow and far away. It's not until they've marched inside that he realizes it was his own. They set Lancelot down surprisingly gently. He wonders idly if it's because they think he's likely to go off on them. He doesn't blame their fear. It's Percival that ultimately returns him to reality. The boy is trying to stop his crying and falters. Sobs wrack his frame when Gawain turns to him. Instinctively he opens his arms again and Percival steps into their protective embrace. He looks over his shoulder and stares at the blood soaked cloak, the ice is melting in the warmth of the room. A puddle of pink forms around it spreading outward in a mockery of a battlefield death.

"How?" His voice is empty to his own ears, but he needs to know.

Arthur meets his eyes again and shakes his head.

"Wolves. He went out there without a weapon." King Arthur sounds very small, smaller than he had when they first met, and Gawain thinks bitterly that it’s finally time the man showed some humility.

"What are you leaving out?" He can see there is more in the way that he shifts on his feet, flicks his eyes away from them and back. Arthur looks pointedly at Percival and shakes his head.

"Say it anyways." He says, voice breaking. He knows what’s gone unspoken. What's coming.

"Gawai--"

"SAY IT ANYWAYS!" He roars and Percival flinches in his arms.

"His back was bloody. Whipped bloody. He went out there to die." Arthur holds his gaze until he drops his head to Squirrels shoulder. They cling to one another desperately, attempting to stay standing amidst the crashing of their world. He closes his eyes and pulls Squirrel closer. They stand there in the flickering light of torches for hours. The only thought in his mind "why?"

It's two days before they can gather enough wood for a pyre. They give him the burial of a knight at Arthur's command and Gawain agrees. More people attended than he thought would. No one has been told the truth. Those who recovered the body are sworn to secrecy. It is not the way a knight should pass, nor is it something they can accept yet. Gawain cannot bear the way the others would speak of him, nor does he wish for Percival to hear it. It will be hard enough with them all so happy that he is no longer around.

"Why did he do it?" Percival asks no one in particular when only the five of them remain. His eyes red and puffy from crying and lack of sleep.

"The same reason we've all thought about it." Merlin answers looking at Gawain and to the others in turn.

"He believed himself alone and unworthy."

They watched in silence as darkness came and the flames burned until there was nothing but embers to remind them of the man who had saved them.

[squiggle-dragon]

Faded

Lightning flashed, lighting up the dark sky for but a moment as the rumble of thunder echoed through the land. It had yet to start raining, though it was only a matter of time before the storm would arrive in its full glory.

Labored breathing could be heard as a tall figure stumbled through the vegetation of the countryside, trying to escape from some threat. Pale hair could be seen, though what would normally have been the color of fresh snow was currently dirty with tinges of blood and soil.

The man's foot caught an upturned tree root and he fell forward, shutting his eyes tightly and hissing in pain upon making contact with the ground. His abnormally sharp teeth were gritted as he twisted his body to clutch at his chest, where blood stained his clothing.

Of course, it would choose to start raining at this point and the figure let out a shuddering sigh, "Figures… this is stupid. Damn gods…."

The injured fox demon stared at a particularly large blade of grass several inches away, mulling over his predicament. He was injured - and severely so. It was unlikely that he'd make it out of this alive, especially if those infernal gods were still trying to track him down. 

What did he do to deserve this? Ah, right - killed a bunch of people. It's been at least a couple of centuries since the last massacre, but apparently they aren't willing to forgive and forget. At least a dozen were gods… or was it two dozen? 

Hell, no wonder they were pissed.

The wind kicked up and buffeted against his fallen form, causing him to shut his eyes. ‘Crap!’ He wasn't sure if it was from the storm or one of his attackers had managed to find him. He needed to keep moving…

He needed to hide.

The demon clenched his jaw, hating the thought of having to flee like some coward. The great and powerful Soul Eater, who has taken on great entities and overcame them despite being at a major disadvantage, having to run away. Until now, they feared him….

With a quiet sigh of resignation, Soul closed his eyes again and focused. His physical form shifted and started shrinking. Where there once was a more humanoid figure now laid a small, white fox. Well, mostly white, given the dirt and blood currently staining his fur.

Soul pushed himself to stand, staggering slightly and wincing as more blood dripped from his wound. He couldn't succumb to his injuries now; he had too much to prove to those high and mighty gods. Weak and injured was not how they were going to last remember him.

Ignoring the pain the best he could, the small fox trudged through the grass. His large ears swiveled at another rumble of thunder, trying to also listen for anything unusual. Not that he could exactly present much of a challenge in his current state. Maybe give them a nasty bite on the face….

Soul paused to shake out his fur, sending both blood and water flying. He immediately regretted it, nearly losing his balance and flopping over. 'Smooth move, idiot.' Apparently, the horrid sensation of damp fur outweighed the pain from a bleeding gash in his chest. 'Ew. Ow. Ew…'

Could his situation get any worse? 

It was almost as if the Universe responded with a resounding "Yes!" 

The rain became a torrential downpour, which soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds. 'Since when did I stumble into an active hurricane? At least this damn rain should wash away my blood trail. The last thing I need right now is-'

He froze, hearing movement in a nearby bush. The fox youkai slowly turned his head to see a hulking silhouette. It was obvious to him what it was and he glared skyward, as if his torturer was among the clouds. '-a bear? Seriously, who is screwing with me right now?! What kind of karmic bullshit is this?!'

Soul arched his back and bristled, red eyes flashing angrily as the bear ambled closer. Once the large beast got within ten feet of him, the white fox bared his teeth and growled lowly, 'You really want to mess with me, you thick-headed nimrod?'

The bear paused and seemed to think things over, which gave Soul an inkling of hope that his tough posturing worked. Not that some 'dumb woodland animal' could ever hope to get the better of him when he was remotely close to full strength. However, the fox youkai was about as weak as an average fox at this point. 

Once again, fate was clearly not in his favor as the bear bellowed and charged at him. With a snarl, Soul ducked as massive claws barely missed grazing his head. The adrenaline was fortunately numbing the pain for now, which allowed the fox to spring upward and latch onto the bear's neck with his jaws, 'Gotcha!'

With an enraged roar, the mighty ursine thrashed about as Soul clamped down harder, holding on for dear life. Unfortunately, being tossed about burned through his already fading strength faster. With one final shake, Soul came loose and flew several feet before making contact with the ground. Due to the force, his body tumbled another foot or two before sliding to a complete stop. 

Soul laid there, stunned and in even worse pain than he had been initially. Hearing heavy footsteps, he mentally screamed at his body to get moving. It obliged, albeit very slowly and not without a large amount of agony. The battered youkai pushed himself up into an awkward seated position, drawing his lips back in a defiant snarl up at his encroaching killer.

He had thought his end would come by one of those pieces of shit claiming to be gods - likely from them raiding him because they sure as hell couldn’t seem to do it on fair terms. But here he was, about to be killed by one of those ‘dumb woodland animals.’ It was so pathetic that he felt bile rise in the back of his throat - or was that a side effect of having the shit beaten out of him? 

Despite his (pathetic) attempts at intimidating the bear, the large creature grunted before taking another swipe at the small fox. Adrenaline and moxie could not save Soul this time and the weakened youkai went flying again, bleeding from the side of his neck where the bear’s claws raked him. He let out a gasp of pain upon making contact with the ground, shutting his eyes tightly. 

His small form laid there, curled up and shivering in pain as the threads of fear wrapped themselves around him. Soul could not remember the last time he felt like this, though he had never before been skirting so close to death. Despite being so long-lived, he really did not want to die here. Not just because of his ego and his soon-to-be-killer being a simple bear, but for whatever reason… the thought of ceasing to exist terrified him.

His ears twitched slightly upon hearing the bear’s heavy breathing getting closer, likely as it moved in for the final blow. Try as he might, Soul could not get his limbs to move at all outside of the shivering. He felt a breath ruffle the fur around the back of his neck and stiffened, holding his breath….

Suddenly, there was a loud raucous that was enough to cause him to fold his ears against his head in an attempt to muffle it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it sounded like someone was hitting something repeatedly and shouting at the top of their lungs.

*Clang!* *Clang!* *Clang!*

“Go away! Back off!”

Soul belatedly realized that he no longer felt the bear breathing down his neck and dared to turn his head to look behind him. The bear could be seen running off, disappearing into the nearby bushes. ‘Huh.’

Faintly hearing other footsteps, the fox youkai’s eyes slowly drifted in the direction he made them out to be from. He was quite tired and was more than ready for a nap - even if that nap turned out to be permanent. He’d lost a fair amount of blood and had been in two fights almost back to back. If this new development was how he was going to leave this world, then so be it.

Instead, his eyes trailed up to the form of a human girl as she hurried over to him. He couldn’t make too much out between his fading eyesight and the darkness. There was some artificial source of light, but it only worked to further obscure her. He felt a hand rest on his side and lightly ghost across his wounds, but he found it strangely reassuring.

His ears caught whispers, mostly in regards to her assessment of his sorry state of being at the moment. Soul’s eyes once again traveled up towards her face, but couldn’t make much out aside from a strange - almost childish - hairstyle. Normally, he’d be alarmed in such a situation, but he felt strangely at ease.

There was a peculiar rustling sound and he saw her taking her outermost garment off, which seemed almost like a hooded cloak. Soul winced and squeezed his eyes shut again as he felt himself being scooped up and wrapped in the article of clothing. Everything hurt so badly that he almost wished he was killed by that stupid bear. He apparently let out a whine, because he felt her grip on him tighten before she stood with him in her arms.

“Don’t worry little fox - you’re safe. Rest now and please stay alive….”

The fox youkai was confused by the tone of her voice and picked up the faintest quiver in it. Soul also realized just how cold he was, even while being wrapped up in whatever she had been wearing. Despite his usual pride, he found himself unconsciously snuggling up against her for warmth and let out another small whine from the effort. He could feel them moving - and judging from the motion, she was running. 

He struggled to stay awake and succumbed to his exhaustion shortly after - lulled to sleep by her heartbeat.