#asphodel has been here for a very long time. they have always been alone for that time! they had no other characters to interact with until-

[mister13eyond]

OC talk but man it's so funny to me how my opinion of Vin has shifted from "he's a shut in" to "actually he's like a stray cat that is only partially acclimated to living indoors and will bolt for freedom as soon as possible but will inevitably come back when he gets hungry"

and I can't help but think that's because he lives with Asphodel now so he's like "ah, home is safe. home is good. home will be there when I'm done romping through dreams and other worlds and chasing whims and visiting the other demons. I can roam as far as I like because I know there's somewhere to come back TO"

which makes me so fuckin soft about these two, who were both designed as fundamentally lonely characters. both conceived of with their own backstories and reasons for isolation written in, both always designed to be exiles from "home"

and that's still part of them now but they found each other! And the more their world expands and the more they get introduced to new characters the less lonely they get and aaahhhhhh

[lavandula-ipsum]

Those Wistful Asphodels

Asphodels ch. 1/2

Tags: dark!Luke x Fem!Reader, force sensitive reader, reader is injured, death of secondary characters mentioned, porn with plot, no really most of this is plot, angst, smut, cuffs, non penetrative sex, handjobs, edging, light degradation

Wordcount: 7.4k

Summary: Since Luke Skywalker fell to the dark side, the Rebellion has been facing a fast annihilation. In these dire times when lights go out in the galaxy one after another, a rebel captain with the mission of rescuing the survivors of a fallen base finds herself injured and alone. And, on top of that, the worst of her temptations appears out of the blue.

Asphodels is a sequel to Pomegranate, a short smut series that has kinda ended up growing a plot. I do think you can enjoy this part without the previous one, since you can infer enough of their dynamic from context. Feel free to check the previous chapters if you feel like it!

WARNING (or the opposite to it?) Even though this is a dark Luke fic, all that happens during the more intimate scenes is completely consensual. Still, Reader isn't in a good place mentally, hence the angst tag. I wanted to make it clear, there's nothing dubious here in that regard.

Enjoy!

The Empire has a new face, one that has brought unprecedented darkness to the galaxy. All kinds of stories have popped up around the new royal core of the regime. From the old throne of the Emperor now rules he who was his loyal shadow, his most deadly hand. And at his side stands a son. Their combined strength has turned the war into a fixed hunt, a pitiful game in which the Rebel Alliance can't but wriggle like a doomed scurrier in a trap.

Some, those who were labeled as hopeless pessimists, would say it all ended the very same day of the betrayal. After all, the Rebellion could stand to lose a commander, no matter how invaluable the feats achieved by Luke Skywalker were. But it was a blow nonetheless. Right after the news came out countless rebels fled their posts trying to save their lives, but it was for nothing. Nowadays even deflectors get mercilessly hunted down by the Empire. Like marked by a curse, every single person who ever belonged to the Rebellion, or even just sympathized with it, gets found. No tiny spark of resistance escapes, lest it ignite new fires of rebellion in the future. Even those who were hopeful at first seriously doubt that prospect a little more every day with each new of lost squadrons and assassinated leaders. 

General Organa remains as one of the last remnants of light in these dark days, even though she’s faded into obscurity. Her whereabouts are kept a secret, much to her own distaste. But it isn’t the time for her to come out at the front of some suicidal attack, it’s the time for caution. To hide and prepare. Fate has taken down yet another path she didn’t want for herself, but also one she’s starting to dread to be unfit for this time.

And meanwhile, (Y/N) wonders how long will it take for the idea that the Rebellion has disappeared to settle. The rebel captain isn’t one to express out loud how hopeless she’s become, not in front of her dwindling companions. But there is not denying it. Rogue squadron is no more. It lasted longer than the others even when it became the most sought after by unrelenting TIE squadrons. (Y/N) knows who leads that imperial offensive, it’s written in the precise counter attacks that always surprise the rebel pilots  in all of their maneuvers, every evasion. There is only one person who knows them that well, just one pilot with that kind of talent. (Y/N) gets sick just thinking of his hand on the trigger, the aim set on another friend. No matter what the rebels try, they’re doomed to fail. Recently she got the news that the last one of the once acclaimed X-wings was shot down. Kriff, not even Wedge made it. She can just cross her fingers and hope that the Millennium Falcon, the most wanted starship in the galaxy, will remain hidden for a little longer.

Even Han has given up all hope. The captain of the Falcon was never a man of faith, but (Y/N) trusts his resolve to help keep alive those few of them who still survive, scattered across the stars. It’s all she has left now, especially when she’s starting to suspect that she won’t be coming back from this mission.

It was her who insisted on making the effort to come here with the mission to establish contact with the rebel cell hiding in the base of Jolah after it went silent. It was her assignment and it has failed even more spectacularly than anyone could have expected. The ambush hit them as soon as they came out of hyperspace to a system crawling with squadrons of TIE fighters and imperial patrols. In the unexpected dogfight, (Y/N)’s starfighter got hit and her pitiful role in the operation suddenly evaporated as she was reduced to managing the crashing of her craft in the middle of the sadistic fireworks around her, fighting the controls to make an emergency landing on the surface of Jolah. Each vertiginous spin separates further away from her companions while they fall to the imperial cannons.

Her damaged X-wing crashes in the middle of lush woodlands, up in the mountains. She hurries to leave the cockpit, fearful because of the black smoke coming out of the engines that the craft might explode. A sharp pain paralyzes her as she reaches for the edge to prop herself up. Even though she can’t move her leg, suddenly heavy and uncooperative, she still tries to get down the ship, slipping when her limbs clumsily let go of her commands. Hitting the ground brings her all the pain she’s been unable to feel until now. This is when she finally sees a piece of a durasteel lever buried deep in her thigh. 

The stranded captain huffs, turning her gaze up to the barely visible battle going on just over the atmosphere. She’s far from a military genius, but she can see that it’s over for her squadron. Even calling it a battle is generous when they were trapped so quickly, like helpless flies.

But she can’t just sit here and contemplate the butchery from afar, there’s no time to despair in the middle of nowhere. Even in this thick forest the Empire will find her vessel soon, so she better put some distance between it and herself. So she just grabs the end of the lever lodged in her leg and pulls, white pain burning through all of her senses while biting on the edge of her glove to try to drown her screams a little. A shriek escapes her when the durasteel finally flies out of her flesh. Thick blood gushes out until she puts pressure on the wound, bandaging it as best as she can with the sleeve she just tore from her shirt. 

Walking will be difficult, but she can’t do much else other than start dragging her aching limbs through the mud and the pain. The feeling that she might faint soon only grows, blood drenching through her poor attempt at a bandage and dripping down her thigh. The beauty around, threads of light cutting through the trees lighting up a forest floor splattered with little white flowers, all seem to be mocking her. At least she finds a fallen branch she can use as a walking stick. However, the sounds of the search party, the buzzing of speeders echoing through the trees, keep her awake and moving. 

Daylight fades along with the signs of imps in the area. It seems she’s safe for now, but she still doesn’t dare to stop for the rest she so direly needs, since she can’t trust herself to not fall asleep. At least her present predicament is easy enough to understand. Imperials running after her life while she bleeds alone in the cold with nothing but a blaster to protect herself. Those are circumstances that make her forgotten rebel resolve bloom again. The dream might be dead but, this way, at least she gets to die a rebel.

(Y/N) keeps avoiding the distant speeders, wondering how long before she’s found. Her fingers have lost sensitivity due to the biting cold, which she takes advantage of to keep dragging herself forward until she’s alone with the faint echoes of birds and the occasional critter running to hide. And, for the first time in months, she lets her sore mind loosen down a little to graze the currents of the Force she’s been fearfully avoiding. 

At least I get to die a rebel.

She expected the sensation of opening her mind to be uncomfortable, even painful, but the Force takes her right back, as if she never closed herself off from it. Even if she’s forgotten herself, the Force hasn’t. 

Who knows, maybe it’s because of all the blood she’s lost, but she’s never felt closer to its embrace. Ah, it’s all almost over.  

Mixed in with the cool currents filling the dried river beds of her mind another flow enters. Her eyes fly open at the realization of what she inadvertently has done. A single tear falls down her cheek as she scrambles to rebuild the barriers that she so irresponsibly let down. In hiding her signature, her brain complains of being denied from the full expanse of Force once again. The trance she was falling in insists on lingering inside of her as she fights to wake up from it. She was ready to let herself fall in the arms of the Force at that time when she’d close her eyes for good to let herself go in peace.

But it is too late now. He has seen her.

There’s no denying his intoxicating presence, a warmth dueling the cold of the forest and looming death inside of her, getting closer by the second. But how? He isn’t supposed to be in the system. His presence pokes at hers, impatience domineering over any intention at gentleness. Where are you? echoes in her brain, like pliers forcing her mind open. 

The rebel huffs and whimpers when she hears the TIE fighter over her head, its buzzing fading as the darkness throbbing at the corners of her vision expands. Desperation alone is keeping her standing, but she has stopped running now. This is as far as she was able to go.

She doesn’t need to turn around to feel the man wrapped in a black cloak right behind her, or his rushed breath as he quickly approaches, or the bursting heart in his chest. 

At least I get to die a rebel, she repeats.

In spite of his speed, his steps barely make a sound on the mud, but each of them is a jab inside of (Y/N). A shiver runs down her back thinking how all the times she’s tried to prepare herself for this have been useless. She isn’t ready to face him again and, most of all, she hates that he finds her like this, unarmed and defenseless, on the verge of passing out.

For a second, her mind gives out and everything turns dark. Cold climbs into her as she collapses forward, only for her fall to be stopped mid air. Her walking stick drops with a soft splash on the puddle before her, and suddenly she can hear the clatter of rain. For how long has it been raining? While she scolds herself for letting the panic wash over the awareness of her surroundings, her attention focuses on the arm holding her by the waist, then to the silhouette towering over her. Another reason to be disappointed with herself. She’d expected to be terrified by this encounter but, instead, under the hood, she finds a sad gaze she can’t bring herself to hate. 

Her blood drips over the little white flowers growing on the ground, defiling them with dark spots.

The longer she stares into the icy blue more memories flood her good conscience. The first time she saw him in that hangar so long ago, when she mistook him for a mechanic, it was him who looked helpless and alone.

I’m sorry it took so long to tell you, he said the last time they spoke.

Ashamed, she tries waving her childish longings away, afraid to know if they are still shared, and fights to stand up on her own. But her leg screams in pain and buckles, her body betraying her resolve by letting out a pained moan. His arms support her through it all. 

“Are you handcuffing me before I bleed to death or shall we wait some more?” she hisses.

She holds a red hand in front of her face and curses under her breath, which prompts a flare of alarm in his aura as he examines her. Judging by her darkened, drenched clothes, it’s a miracle that she hasn’t lost consciousness yet.

“Who did this to you?” It must be the blood loss, but Luke’s presence didn’t feel fully real before hearing his voice. She has always been afraid of his anger because of the choice that came with each one of those scarlet flares, even if they’ve never been directed at her. But that stopped mattering long ago.

Little raindrops run down his dark hood, dripping over the edge. She fights the urge to fix his hair with her fingers. She offers a bitter answer instead. “What do you think? One of your friends, like the ones waiting behind those bushes.”

“I’m alone.”

“I don’t believe you,” she spits. Lately, being lied to feels more comfortable than the alternative when it comes to him. Luke seems saddened by the comment.

“You need to have that looked at. Where is your lightsaber?”

She isn’t willing to answer either of those questions. Instead, his grip tightens around her. Ah, he’s so warm. She yearns to fall asleep in his arms.

She’s so submerged in his signature that she doesn’t notice the movements around them until a branch cracks not far from them. (Y/N) takes advantage of the split second of distraction to reach for his lightsaber. This is it, the moment she's been dreading. She didn't want to do this, she really didn't. But her desires are meaningless now. If she's to fall defending her companions, she will. Luke gazes at her with a mix of surprise and betrayal, but stays still. From the bushes emerges a group of rebels armed with blasters and fiery eyes sunken in their dirty faces. But there’s something wrong. They’re little more than children.

(Y/N) has found the rebel survivors of Jolah at the worst time possible. The act of tearing herself away from Luke’s arms cost her every drop of will she has left, but she manages to strike what must be a very unconvincing defensive stance. Even if she was ready to give up the fight a moment ago, now she owes it to these people. 

His first reaction is to extend a protective arm in front of her, a gesture that the rebels interpret as an attempt to leverage a prisoner to try and escape the situation. She feels the needle sink painfully into his mind as he realizes they want to protect her from him. 

“Release her, you imp. You're surrounded.”

She can feel the shadows leave her surroundings, leaving behind a pale reflection of the forest, of the kids’ angry and scared faces circling in around them. That darkness gathers into the young man's palms, dancing across his fingers with whispers of destruction. And (Y/N) fears, ready to jump into action down a path she’s been running from. 

After a moment to carefully consider the situation, Luke slowly raises his hands. “It seems I'm outnumbered,” he declares calmly.

The rebel captain is still processing what he just said when he offers up his wrists to his new captors. Soon they’re bound in a pair of stun cuffs. It seems it won’t be her wearing them for now.

****

(Y/N) doesn’t remember when she finally collapsed. Maybe the feeling of being surrounded by allies allowed her body to give out, or the vision of Luke being taken flooded her with that impotence she’s become so familiar with. But the first thought that bubbles up as she recovers consciousness is that she doesn’t think those kids ever let her hit the ground.

When she wakes a gentle fire fills the chamber with orange light. The cool sky of a darkening evening at the other side of the narrow crevice in the rock wall reveals that she’s been asleep for at least a whole day. The chamber around her belongs to a humble abode built under rock, rough but cozy. The smell of the herbs hanging from the ceiling fills the room made up of only crooked lines and handmade furniture. Over the fire, a pot simmers.

Her injuries have finally been stitched bandaged properly, and a strong, earthy smell comes out of them. She doesn’t know what kind of medicine they’ve used on her, but she doesn’t feel the need to distrust it. Her flight suit hangs close to the fire, left to dry, though it still has some faint stains of blood. She's been dressed with a comfortable tunic, long down to her ankles, which her injured thigh is thankful for.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” a raspy voice says. An old man just comes through the door, an axe resting on his shoulder. “You almost bled to death. Does it hurt? 

“Less than before.”

He hums approvingly and, leaving the axe resting against the irregular wall, sits by the fire on one of the mismatched chairs. “Calm down, lass. Anyone that still has the guts to face those pigs is welcome in my home.”

She realizes now that her whole body has tensed up. The thought crosses her mind that the old man, even if he seems fit for his age, wouldn’t probably mean a concerning threat to her now that he’s unarmed. It disgusts her. He saved her life and she can’t bring herself to trust even a little. Then again, she can’t sense any ill intention radiating from him. Trusting the Force has not been an easy task in recent times, but she’s too weak now not to listen to it. 

“I thank you for your help, sir.”

“Imoviah. None of that sir nonsense. Tell me, what happened to you? I’m dying for some good gossip. It’s been ages without news other than that bantha poodoo propaganda they feed the local stations around here. We didn’t know about the battle until it was raging over our heads”

“The base on the moon of Jolah was blown up three weeks ago,” she explains, pointing at the pale satellite hanging in the sky. “A small squad was sent to look for surviving rebels, but we had a trap waiting for us. We were following rumors that spoke about some of the survivors making it to the surface of the planet, but nothing sure.”

“So finally someone came looking for it.”

The face of a scruffy child, with tattered clothes and dirt on his face, pokes shyly through the entrance before coming in. He exchanges a few whispers with the old man and, now that she gets to look at him under the light of the flames, she recognizes him.

“Ab?” she asks. “You’re Elise’s kid, right? Your mom is a mechanic in the Rebellion.”

The kid just nods sheepishly just before the old man slaps his knees and gets up.

“I’m afraid that the ones that made it here are just those who couldn’t fight.  Those up there in the base got them out trying not to get the Empire’s attention.”

“And they didn’t run themselves?”

The old man gives her a knowing stare, “Things are not what they were. This isn’t a war anymore. Come, I’ll show you the rest.”

After finding a walking stick for her, Imoviah guides her through dark tunnels carved in the rock, little Ab holding his hand. As they get deeper, (Y/N) can feel more and more pairs of eyes fixed on her from the shadows. Their fear reaches her through the Force. This is the last shelter for the Rebellion left in the Jolah system, keeping those who were left behind safely hidden in these dark and humid passages. Here survive the children of her companions, most of them fallen now, and a few rebels that were too severely injured to flee or fight, all trapped and surrounded by the enemy, their lives depending on the secret of their existence.

And she’s brought the enemy right into their last refuge.

These old passageways have become their fortress. (Y/N) is received as a hero, the first good news in way too long. She’s warned not to venture far on her own, since they don’t know how far the tunnels go or what dangers might she fall into. The adults keep the living area clean and safe for a functioning community of around sixty people, but there are strict rules not to wander, since those who get lost don’t usually come back. The oldest among those who can still fight, mostly between thirteen and sixteen, have stepped up to lead the group. Roles are carefully distributed, since their survival depends on all of them doing their job right. They live off whatever the forest can provide and the help of some sympathizers living in the town half a day away. But Imoviah, a local who’s lived in these woods all his life brewing ardees, is the only one who knows exactly the location of their hiding spot, since he comes and goes on supply runs. 

The competence the kids display saddens her. The war of their parents has made soldiers out of them. 

(Y/N) is glad that the chance to rest her injuries for a bit came while she was unconscious, or she would’ve had trouble hiding from them like a moody teenager. She feels bad for wanting to be left alone, but each of their constant questions poke at her heart. What battles she’s fought, what heroes she knew. The rebel came to Jolah on a mission to evacuate them, but after the attack that took her companion’s lives she doesn’t have any resources to do so. If she doesn’t figure it out, they’re all lost. They can’t keep hiding forever, since it’s only a matter of time before the Empire finds them, and that’s just they haven’t been found already. 

Her senses timidly tread down the corridors, to where the prisoner is being kept. She doesn't feel strong enough to face him yet, so she can just wonder what kind of trick Luke is trying to pull by surrendering himself.

So she lets her allies show her around and feed her while she yearns for the moment she can finally be excused. Of course, after she goes to rest that night, nightmares don’t take long to wake her. She’s used to it by now so, knowing that she won’t be able to fall asleep for a few hours, she decides to walk the scare off and maybe relieve whomever happens to be on watch duty.

However, as soon as she steps out of the chamber she was sleeping in, a cool gust hits her face. The whisper of a voice follows right after, faintly calling. Can it really be her name? She chases after the exhalation through the passages in the dark, enthralled by a strange tingling sensation in the back of her head.

Then she wakes up in an unfamiliar place. Stars flicker above her head, and the cold air hits her face. She’s outside. The instinct to flee back to safety kicks in, but she can’t help notice the concentric circles carved on the floor, lighting up with a bluish glow that turns brighter with the vibrations in her aura getting stronger. As she tries to put a finger on where she has seen the carved patterns before, the lights continue to vibrate in tune with her own signature. She’s no doubt standing in a sanctuary.The symbols climb up to some sort of table, perhaps even an altar, made out of the same rock. She is known by this place, though she doesn’t remember ever being to somewhere so strong in the Force. It feels like she could reach with her hand and touch it.  The swaying of its currents invites her to stay, promising healing and peace. Oh, how dearly she has missed the light, unambiguous and true. She lets the nostalgia wash over her, one that doesn’t belong to her, a gaze turned to years past before this place was abandoned and forgotten. 

However, she isn’t a stranger to those feelings of loss that fill the carved terrace. Where she once held hope, now she grieves for the loss of her comrades and the future that should have been, one where Jedi would rediscover this place. Now that will never happen, and she can’t help the feeling that she has a hand in the erasure of their kind. Not long ago, she still dreamt of being knighted someday, but that path has disappeared forever. The Jedi are dead.

A dreadful realization creeps over her. She hasn’t just led the enemy into a rebel base, but also into a Jedi sanctuary. It seems to have been built on top of the rocky formation under which the tunnels hide, on a high spot unreachable from the outside. It has probably been thanks to its benevolent influence that the refugees have managed to remain hidden but now, because of her, this sacred place won’t be able to protect them anymore.

She runs down the stairs, back to the darkness, flooded by the guilty need to do something.

***

The guard she finds watching over the heavy door of the cell, a teenager holding a blaster awkwardly, insists that she should go back to rest, but she ignores the warning. She needs to talk to the prisoner, for unselfish reasons this time. 

“Go take a walk, will you?” she tells him.

On the way here she’s been forming the idea that maybe she’ll be able to exchange her precious hostage for safe passage out of the planet, at least for those hiding in the tunnels. Suddenly, these children might stand a chance. And maybe she won’t be responsible for their capture.

However, as soon as she steps into the dungeon she’s shaken by her own body’s betrayal, choosing now of all times to remind her of that embrace from earlier that afternoon. Luke’s warmth hasn’t left her yet, nor the memory of his cloak shielding her from the rain with the promise of more to be found under those layers of black robes. It brings a displeased sigh to her lips.

As the heavy door closes behind her, the rebel finds her prisoner standing next to the tiny opening in the wall that serves as a window, his expectant expression immediately turned to her. Those stubborn wildflowers have made their way down there, their pure white heads shyly poking through the opening in the rock. Instinctively, Luke steps towards her, but quickly reminds himself to stop in his tracks. Good. She finds a twisted pleasure in making him wait and wonder, reveling in the agitation of his contradicting thoughts. It makes her feel a little less alone in her uncertainty. After they’re finally alone behind a locked gate she takes her time to sit on a stool, to try and get comfortable in spite of her injured leg, all while avoiding his gaze. She doesn’t know where to start. 

“What are you trying?” At her question, Luke opens his mouth to talk, but interrupts himself. (Y/N) groans. “We both know it’s not a great military strategy to go after an enemy on your own and let yourself be captured by a bunch of children.”

“I had to see you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Again, doubt. She waves away the whispers of the Force, too angry to listen to his emotions reaching her.

“Actually, no, I don’t. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been a little busy trying not to get killed by your people. Forgive me if I haven’t been considering your feelings while I saw my friends die and starve in the mud. Tell me, how long before your hounds come for these children? Are you gonna kill them? Or do you prefer washing their brains to turn them into soldiers that would go murder their own parents and everything they fight for? The ones you haven't orphaned already, that is.”

In the middle of those accusations, he flinches. One of them makes him angry, then that initial jab turns to a deeper pain. She doesn’t even care which one did it.

“I came here on my own, I swear. No one else knows.”

“Save your promises. I’ve seen how you keep them.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” he insists, his exasperation growing.

“Oh, no, of course not. You’re a saint. I remember you said that, next time we crossed paths, I’d get the rebel treatment.”

Luke raises his bound wrists, like that’s enough of an answer. “Isn’t that what you’re doing? Playing the rebel part?” She scoffs, but he’s not done. “Listen, I understand why you’re doing this. But I hoped you’d realize-” he interrupts himself again.

“What?”

Luke swallows thickly, fearing the storm he’s about to summon. “That this isn’t helping anyone. If you just took the help that’s being offered to you…”

“I can manage perfectly on my own, thank you,“ she spits.

“I see how well that’s working out for you.”

His petulant tone makes (Y/N) stand up from her seat with just the strength of her rage, ignoring the painful flare that runs down her leg. “Listen carefully. You’re free to come fight me, imprison me, even try to kill me and it would all be fair. That's what I get for getting into a war. But I won’t hear this talk about how much I need your protection or pity. You don’t get to disrespect me like that.”

Luke clenches his jaw and just stares at her, visibly holding his tongue. There it is again, the darkness congregating in his hands, making his blood pump with wrath. How far does she have to push before he gives in to it?

“And it tears me apart that you'd treat me as your pet,” she spits, more sincere than she’d like.

Because she would crumble down if she looked away, she bravely maintains contact with his unbearable gaze, seeing in it how he considers making her do what he wants. A rotten part of her wishes to see him try, shattering  in the process all remains of tenderness they might still harbor for each other. And even though it inspires genuine horror in her, her anger makes her swallow it up whole. It’s all because of this dark thread buried deep in her chest, pulling out towards him. Until now, she’s been able to drown that pull as background noise as she carried out her duties, but now that Luke is this close it’s brutal. Like a black hole, deep inside she wants to give into the attraction and disappear in his shadow.

And then she realizes she has stood up. She feels like a fool, standing confused and defensive in the middle of the room, her chest pounding furious as if she just climbed up a mountain. The rebel stares at him up and down as she sits again, breathless. 

“Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything. It’s all you.”

She stares at the floor, shaken by shame. After all the work of hardening her heart, of convincing herself that she hated him, she feels herself slip down again. Luke's voice is but a mere whisper, like he's talking to himself. 

“You can’t lie to me either, can you?”

“It’s just…” As her mental shields come down she can’t help feeling like a lost child. “I didn’t expect this to be so cold.” 

Instantly, Luke has come to kneel before her, eyes raised up to her with a question. It makes it so easy for her to reach for his left hand to softly rest the back against her cheek. Gently melting into each other’s space, she curses herself for letting him in her mind, for having let things go so far in the first place. 

“I bet you regret not killing me when you had the chance,” she says, unsure of why she expects him to laugh. Maybe because it would be easier to stomach than seeing him tilt his head, between horrified and exhausted, and answer earnestly.

“I’m not giving you up. I tried to deny it too at first, before I knew that you felt the same way.”

Luke’s signature wraps around her like a lover’s caress, welding itself with hers perfectly as he delves deeper into her open defenses. It is the warmth, the sweet warmth she has missed, that eases the many loads she’s been carrying on her own. The rebel presses a kiss on his knuckles.

“I hate you.”

Luke offers a soft grin in response, knowing she can pile that on top of all of the other messed up feelings she holds for him. He’s so willing to take them all. “I probably deserve it.”

The one that weighs more now, though, is the void of his absence finally filled again. Her tears for it dried so much suffering ago. His bound hands trace up the shapes of her neck, a reminder that this weakness is shared. She tastes this irresponsible consolation for her sins as her fingers delve into his hair. One defeat after another, loss after loss, (Y/N) has grown small and spent, too tainted with hatred to try and bring him back. She has filled all the time away from him with a half hearted search for hope, and she hasn’t found it.

His breath on her throat relieves her cold skin.

“What are we going to do?” 

“You talk as if there was an option we weren’t to regret.”

“Is that what you want? Something regrettable?” Luke offers, his closeness alluring as she grabs the collar of his tabard and brings him closer. However, they only dare allow their lips to brush lightly in passing. “We could escape from everything. Disappear to some remote place where no one knows who we are.”

“We both know we won’t do that,” she chuckles. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Seeing you consider it for a second was nice, though.”

What’s out there still finds the way to invade their intimacy, much to (Y/N)’s growing feelings of dread. “I can either be a good rebel and take you prisoner or fuck you and go on pretending nothing happened afterwards. Not both. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m in a bit of a predicament at the moment.”

Even now, she finds herself playing the twisted game of seeing how far she can take him, maybe in the hopes of finding something ugly to punish herself with. Instead, Luke opens up to her. 

"Alright. Use me then.” Luke lets out a brief laugh, though a certain bitterness can be felt through it, as if even he resents his own impulsive streak. “Ask for any ransom you want and you will have it."

"Like I'd trust the Empire."

"You wouldn't have to. You'll use my personal code to talk directly to the person you need.”

(Y/N) stands up from her seat, too exhausted to feign dismay, and takes clunky steps around the room. She really hadn’t woken up contemplating that she’d be ending her day with a chat with Vader. Luke stays down, next to the stool, as if he didn’t have the upper hand in this in spite of being captive.

“Same issue.”

“Whatever I promise to you, he will honor it. I swear.” Heavens, he’s a brat. “I get it, you loathe the idea. But I also might be getting a feeling that you have some urgent demands.”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“The Jedi sanctuary.”

Her jaw tightens. “Not really mine to give away, is it?”

“Then it won’t hurt, will it?” Her nostrils flare at the comment, but she keeps silent. Even if she doesn’t fully comprehend its importance, she’s not keen on the idea of letting this sacred place be potentially defiled. However, it’s true that she really doesn’t have much of a choice. 

“There’s something else I want,” he continues.

“Spit it out.”

“I just want you to answer some questions.” Her eyes narrow. That is too vague and she has too many secrets she’s not willing to give away. “Don’t worry, they won’t endanger anyone’s life.”

The rebel snaps her tongue and shifts in her seat. But nods. “Alright. You’ll have them answered.”

Well, as much as she hates the situation, maybe she has the chance to take this to good port. Do something good. Hell, she can’t remember the last time she thought of herself as a good person, back when she was so eager to struggle for reasons she can’t even remember anymore. Acting in hopes of making her dead master proud, like he could see her, feel foolish now. However, there’s one thing she misses from her past righteous little self, and that’s knowing how to fight. Yeah, perhaps she was too hard on herself back then. Maybe she was good. However, that illusion fades as she voices this one command.

"Put your hands against the wall.” This is far from wise and she hates herself for it. However, her common sense has been taken captive by the lovely confusion blooming on Luke’s face. “You can either do it or wait for me to change my mind."

That candid expression she’d missed so much in him dissolves into a bratty smirk. "Yes, ma'am."

She doesn’t appreciate the attitude, not when she’s this angry. There’s a second when he’s with his back turned to her, handcuffed wrists against the wall of the cell, that she considers listening to reason and leaving. Instead, the challenge becomes appetizing. Afraid to let her doubt be read, she steps closer. Luke inhales sharply as she reaches around and, carefully at first, palms over his trousers. She quickly finds what she’s come looking for. 

“Is this your usual reaction whenever you come chasing after me? No wonder you put so much effort in hunting me down.” 

Luke shudders when she presses on his erection more boldly this time, revealing the prolonged aching he’s been hiding. Exactly what she needs to hastily undo the fastenings, eager to make most of the little time they might have for this. The rebel lightly rakes down the soft, light brunette hairs of his happy trail, making him sigh. Satisfied with her first little incursion and desirous for another one, she gives a generous lick to her palm before sliding it into his pants, while her other hand tugs down on the waistband of his underwear before digging her fingers into his hip. She rubs wet circles around the sensitive head of his cock, already painfully swollen and pink, and takes delight in the soft whimper she gets in response to her slightly aggressive and sudden attentions. But she decides to be merciful and softens the touch with the first stroke down the full length. She intends for this to be quick but she still wants to enjoy it a little.

“Here I come to talk business while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely,” she teases. Luke hums something that’s meant to sound like an apology. It succeeds at softening her tone. “Don’t worry about it, I got you. Next time, just ask.”

While he leans against the wall, he can get a good view of everything she’s doing. It’s only fair, since she loves to watch his enthralled face progressively let go of that put together facade he exhibited at first, the red deepening across his cheeks and his eyes brimming with filthy pleas, like he doesn’t believe this is happening to him.

Suddenly, a gloved hand grabs her collar and brings her up, her back hitting the wall. Before she can protest her lips are captured in his, needy and warm and sloppy, as his palms cup her cheeks, one burning hot and the other cool leather.

“Please, love. Faster,” Luke begs through the tiny gap he allows, making the grip between her legs tighten around nothing. The mere touch of her own clothes there has her already burning for more. The rebel melts at the sight of need painted in the glossy eyes of her enemy, at being held so sweetly after so long, and realizes that she can’t get angry at him. 

“That’s it. Ask me anything,” as she happily complies, her hand dancing with soft movements of his hips, a low moan forms from the back of his throat. “I can’t get enough of your pretty face when you do.” 

Whispering more praise, she covers Luke’s throat with open kisses. Her free hand climbs up his torso, hard fingers tracing the toned shapes under the black robes. Upon reaching his chest she pinches and twists slightly, stealing a surprised whimper that tells her that she's succeeded at finding a nipple 

Suddenly, rustling on the other side of the door freezes them both in place. Her hand suddenly stops, but she keeps it tightly wrapped around him.

“(Y/N),” Imoviah calls, “are you alright in there?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” (Y/N) answers, enjoying the sudden shame spreading all over her lover’s face. “Negotiations are going well.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

Luke’s hips start rolling with short, irregular movements. He’s tried, but he can’t help himself any longer. She covers his mouth and gives his dick a light squeeze and twist that brings out a delicious, hot moan to be muffled against her palm.

“Not for now. The prisoner has proven to be quite cooperative.”

“Alright, then. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Imoviah. I’ll be with you shortly” 

As the steps walk away, she slowly resumes her thrusts, slightly opening the fingers over Luke’s mouth to trace over his lips. Not before long, he’s sucking on them. 

“Suddenly worried about your reputation? That's cute.”

He just whines through her fingers, a glint of hurt pride in his teary eyes. Slowly, his hands descend from the wall to sweetly stroke down her face, down her throat. However, as soon as they reach her collar, a violent flare of fear blares inside her brain, bouncing through every corner that makes her abruptly grab his bound wrists and return them to their original position, over her head and against the wall.

Luke calls her name with visible concern, but before he can voice it she grabs the back of his hair and increases the pace until he’s out of breath and out of words. And she’s not done yet, because then she retreats her hand so she gets to watch him grow desperate, throbbing miserably, shameful pleas molten into incoherent whining.

“See? You know how to behave.” Finally, she decides it’s time to reward him with more stimulation, swirling the precum around his pink head with thorough fingers before resuming the long awaited strokes. “I’m so in love with your cock.”

The answer is little more than a sighed strain of clumsy thank yous. Pleased with how cute he’s become from just fucking her hand, she brings him closer now, and allows him to rest his head in the crook of her shoulder. No one knows, not a single soul, that the deadliest man alive becomes a squirming mess both when he’s touched and when he isn’t. Her hand answers to his desperate motions with the fast pace he’s begging for, set on bringing him over the edge this time. While words seem to be escaping Luke right now, the soft whimpers in her ear confess how close he is, how hopelessly he craves for his own undoing by her hand.

However, her attentions are suddenly interrupted by the sound of steps outside the cell again. They’re faster this time, with a sense of urgency to them.

“Miss,” the guard, again. “It’s the Imps! They’re scouting the area. They haven’t found any of the entrances yet, but there’s talk of running away.”

“No, that would be more dangerous. Round everyone inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Luke drowns a frustrated whine in her shoulder. The rebel turns her head back to the man panting against her neck, and gently runs a hand through his hair.

“You gotta go,” he groans.

“Luke…”

“It’s fine, really. Go,” he insists, gently pushing her hands away. The pain travels through their bond to her in the form of an unbearable thirst, as if it wasn’t perfectly visible to her already. She’d hate leaving him like this, so he distracts her with a hasty, breathless kiss. “There’s no time now, sweetheart. You gotta run or you’re gonna regret it. And be sure to bring my comlink, quick.”

[taesspark]

A Normal Friday Afternoon

drabble #1 from the Spellbound series

pairing: Jungkook x reader

genre: enemies to lovers (but mostly enemies so far oops), hogwarts au

word count: 2.2k 

warnings: violence (oc punches jungkook in the face), swearing

It’s a normal Friday afternoon at Hogwarts, meaning everyone is going insane. You wonder why Professor Snape even bothers teaching Potions right now since it doesn’t look like anyone is paying the slightest bit of attention. He even chose a hard potion for the class to make, individually this time. As if making it an individual assignment could stop a group of annoying 17-year-olds from wreaking havoc. 

You flicker your eyes in annoyance at Jeon Jungkook and his rowdy group of friends. They had created a game where they launch the ingredients into each others’ cauldrons, giving each other points based on how close it got. Usually you try to get along with your classmates, especially fellow Gryffindors, but Jungkook has always been the sole exception. There’s something about him that grates all of your nerves like a carrot. Maybe it’s the way he’s good at all the same things you are, but he makes it seem more effortless. Maybe it’s the way everyone thinks he’s so innocent and kind, when he’s been metaphorically (and literally) pulling on your hair since first year. 

It started with the little things. You were friendly to him, like you are to everyone, and as an 11-year-old, you had nothing to complain about. Something changed one day when you were walking past him in the hallway to class and he hit you with a hex that he hadn’t mastered yet. You remember falling to the ground in pain, watching your stinging flesh go boneless. And Jungkook? He was laughing.

You’re no less of a witch or a Gryffindor though. With your limp arm, you cast the strongest dancing hex you could muster. It worked, of course, and Jungkook was known as “Happy Feet” for at least another year for the way he danced around Hogwarts that day. 

It’s a memory you keep close, as a reminder to never trust the sweet smile and starry eyes of Jeon Jungkook. 

If you looked at all of the detentions you’ve served in your 6 years of being a Hogwarts student (and there are plenty), you’re sure 99% would have been from fighting with Jungkook, whether it’s yelling at him, cursing him, or swatting him with your broomstick in midair during Quidditch practice. Because of course he would join the Quidditch team at the same time you did. 

You’re not in the mood for fighting today, though. You’re exhausted from a frankly awful week, and you just want to finish your stupid potion, get your stupid grade, and go to your stupid dorm so you can sleep. 

Your only good friend in this potions class is a Ravenclaw girl named Nina. For a Ravenclaw, she’s chatty, and she flits around you while you grind up asphodel root for your potion. With a quick slide of your knife, you dump the crushed root into your potion. It bubbled. Beside you, Nina bubbled even more, her personality like soda that had been shaken too hard. 

“-and then Emilia told me that she asked Irene if she would go with her to Hogsmeade next weekend, but Irene said she’s already going with Jieun, but Sam told me that Jieun is going alone, so what’s even the truth? You’d think that she’d at least-” 

“Maybe you should mind your business.” You give her a sour look, and you hope it isn’t too harsh. “Just a thought.” 

Nina’s mouth curls into a rueful smile. “You’re spending too much time with Yoongi lately.” 

You crack a smile at the thought of your best friend and his (only partly true) reputation. No one dares cross Min Yoongi, a 7th year Slytherin with a killer poker face. As one of his best friends, you can see right through it. 

“There’s no such thing as too much time with Yoongi,” you grumble. 

Nina leaves you alone after that, thank god. You usually have a higher tolerance for her chattiness and gossip, but today your patience is running thin. Luckily, she knows you well enough to not seem upset at your attitude. 

You sprinkle a serum into the potion before stirring it clockwise ten times. It’s the last step of the potion, and yours is already turning the perfect shade of mint green. You count to yourself as you stir: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-

You don’t make it to ten. You were so goddamn close. 

“Oh, shit-”

You don’t register who curses. All you can see is a bottle of serum—someone else’s bottle of serum— being launched straight into your cauldron, and your entire potion splattering onto your front. Your robes sizzle where the potion hit them. 

“Oops.” 

You recognize that voice. How could you not? You almost want to laugh. 

Fucking Jeon Jungkook. 

The leech lumbers up to you sheepishly, scratching at the back of his head. “My bad. We were playing a game, and I missed pretty bad.” 

He chuckles a little, surveying the green ooze all over you. “Green is your color, Y/N. Maybe they should’ve put you in Slytherin.” 

You’re seething. 

A temper is not one of the traits associated with Gryffindor, but at that moment, you think maybe it should be. Lions do roar, after all. 

And roar is exactly what you do. Roar and knock Jungkook the fuck out. 

The room is in chaos: Professor Snape is yelling, Nina is telling you to calm down, Jungkook is on the ground in front of you, more shocked than hurt, and half the class is chanting “Fight!” because the adolescent urge to create violence never truly dies. 

“Take this outside!” Snape shouts at the two of you, grabbing you both by the collar of your robes. “Fight in the hallways, I don’t care, but this is not going to happen in my classroom. When you’re done, head to McGonagall’s office. I’m sure she’d like to have a word with you two delinquents.” 

Jungkook stares at you, rubbing at the bruise blooming on his cheek. 

The door swings closed, slamming in your face. With a huff, you turn around and vanish the potion residue still left on your clothes with a quick spell. You barely spare a glance for Jungkook. He stands several feet away, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. 

“Do you have something to say?” You snap. 

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. 

You roll your eyes. “Listen, Jeon. I know you did that on purpose. Very funny prank, absolutely hilarious. Truly, I’m rolling on the floor laughing right now.” 

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the floor as if he expected to see you there, laughing. 

“Let’s just go to McGonagall’s already,” you say, posture slumping at the thought of being yelled at by the intimidating professor.  

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says. Jungkook rolls his shoulders, and you see him gain some of his usual bravado. “We were playing a game, I already explained this to you.” 

You bark out a laugh, just one. “I’m not stupid.” 

He cocks a brow. “Are you sure? I bet my potion was better than yours even though I was dicking around for the entire class.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Hit a nerve?” 

“No.” 

It’s like this, for the long, long, long trek from the dungeons to Gryffindor tower where McGonagall’s office is. 

“You know, you don’t have to be such an asshole all the time,” you say, turning the corner. Jungkook jogs after you to keep up. 

“I don’t? No way, all this time I thought it was mandatory.” 

He sounds more upset than snarky, and in your present state of blind rage, you don’t have a single clue why he would be upset. He’s the one who ruined your potion and got you sent to McGonagall’s office. He’s the one who has been a splinter the size of Greenland in your thumb for five years and counting. 

“Besides,” he adds, as if you wanted to have a conversation with him, “you’re the one who fucking punched me in the face. It’s kinda hypocritical to call me an asshole in this situation.” 

“That’s a really big word, Jungkook. Did you finally learn how to read?” 

Jungkook’s face crumples into a frown. “Shut up.” 

“Hit a nerve?” You mock. 

You think getting to McGonagall’s office is a relief until you’re finally there. McGonagall is all but screeching at the two of you. You’ve heard the same lecture several hundred times, but never in such a high pitch. You offer to make her some herbal tea for her throat, and she only gives you the evil eye. Jungkook snorts beside you. You ignore him, nudging him in the ribs with your elbow. 

“Never in my days…”

“...Such stupidity from my own students!”

You fade in and out of consciousness during the lecture, and one look at Jungkook tells you he’s doing the same. 

“Detention for both of you. I will see the two of you here at 9 pm sharp every day for the rest of the week,” McGonagall finally says. 

Jungkook groans. 

“I’m being generous,” McGonagall says. “If I see the two of you acting like violent animals again, I can and will suspend you both from the Gryffindor Quidditch team.” 

You and Jungkook both make sounds of protest, only to be drowned out by McGonagall. 

“I hate to see my own team lose, but it has been five years of your childish fights. You two will learn to be civil to each other, and I will make sure of it.” 

The tone of her voice makes you uneasy. Jungkook beats you to the question that’s on both of your minds. “What are you going to do to us?” 

The fear in his voice would make you smile if you weren’t practically shaking in your boots yourself. 

“As you know, in Transfiguration, I am going to be having everyone work in teams this year. I was going to let you choose your partners, but you two have not earned that privilege.” 

You turn to face Jungkook. He’s staring back at you in wide-eyed horror. 

“You both are now partners in Transfiguration. Sit by each other and complete the projects together. I will not tolerate any misbehaving in my class, and if you don’t work as a team, you will be risking your own grades.” McGonagall stares at the two of you with the smallest of smiles, disgustingly smug. She’s enjoying this, and you hate her for it. 

“But-”

“Professor!” 

“I won’t hear it!” She shouts. Jungkook recoils. “This is final. If you have a problem, you should’ve thought about that before brawling like wrestlers in Potions.” 

You hang your head, staring at how the end of your robes skims your shoes. You don’t like to be dramatic, but this sure feels like the end of the world. The rest of your year is probably ruined, thanks to McGonagall essentially sentencing you to Jungkook duty. Not to mention Transfiguration is your hardest class, even without having to compete with Jungkook. You don’t doubt that this would make everything so much harder. 

“That’s all I have to say to you. Please leave,” McGonagall says, pressing a thumb and index finger into her forehead. 

The two of you file out of her office, stumbling down the empty hallway. You walk in silence, thankful that classes aren’t out yet. You stop a few corridors down, and Jungkook stops next to you.

You look at him, really look at him. Other than the bruise on his face a la you, he has a sweet face and kind eyes. You remind yourself that it’s fake. 

You take a step closer to him, and he tilts his head at you, nonplussed. 

“Y/N?” 

You brush a hand on his cheekbone, where you hit him. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask. 

The hallway is empty, but Jungkook still looks both ways before responding to you, as if you were a car hurtling towards him on the street. He gulps at your proximity to him, how he can feel your breath mingling with his own and your fingertips’ gentle pressure on his face. 

“A little,” he says, quieter than you. “You really know how to use your fists, huh?” 

He laughs. To your ears, it sounds forced. You smile. Checkmate. 

Without warning, you grab his tie and jerk his face down to yours, leaving just a breath of space between your noses. You lean even closer to Jungkook, and a smile ghosts your lips when you feel him moving closer to you at the same time. You wait for one more moment, letting your warm breath hit his skin. The moment he closes his eyes, you whisper, “Good.” 

His eyes flutter back open, confused, and you take your foot and slam it down on his. He all but howls in pain, nearly knocking his head into yours as he hops away. 

"What was that for?"

"If you still don't know, then maybe I need to step on you again." You narrow your eyes at him, still close enough to register the clean linen smell of his clothes. “Do not cross me again. I need a good grade in Transfiguration this year, and I won’t let you ruin that for me.” 

"McGonagall is right there. I could go tell her," he threatens. His eyes are wide, and you pick up on the slightest fear under his façade of arrogance. 

"Okay, do it. See if I care, asshole." 

You spin on your heel and storm down the corridor, leaving a stunned Jungkook in your wake. 

[river-bottom-nightmare]

when jason todd was thirteen years old, bruce bought him a collection of dusty old novels from a dingy little bookstore as a christmas present. their spines were wrinkled and their pages were musty and jason read each one fifteen times over in joy. his favourite was a no-name florist’s personal journal, in which each flower they carefully cultivated was laid out in the page with watercolour, information along with the meaning of the plant was scribbled out in ink. it still rests on the top shelf of the bookcase in jason’s old room, gathering dust and losing memories. 

vines grow all along the abandoned end of wayne manor gardens, vines that alfred doesn’t touch because he knows bruce finds the purple hyacinths beautiful. the frustrating part of these flowers, however, are that they refuse to bloom until late, when all the other flowers have blossomed and withered and died. only then do they slowly peek out of their buds, as bruce runs a gentle finger over them. please forgive me, are the words that line their petals, and bruce wonders who exactly he’s begging for forgiveness. damian, cass, for breaking all his promises for a new life? tim, for turning a smart little boy into a battle-hardened weapon? jason, for never loving him as much as he asked for? dick, for placing a responsibility on his shoulders simply because bruce can’t bear to bear it alone? or alfred, for breaking the man’s heart with every move he makes?

roy let dick borrow his pickup truck and kori was the one who lugged everything up the stairs to dick’s apartment, but dick was the one who transferred the dropping zinnias from their cracked plastic case into painted and patterned pots. they’re common, easy to grow, so dick knows he won’t mess up too badly, but their multicolored hue fills dick with a lightness that he cherishes. never forget the absent, they remind him constantly, and he never does. the orange pot on his kitchen counter makes him think of all the times wally had laughed while stuffing his face, the magenta cluster on his windowsill brings back memories of donna’s hugs. the pink pot on his coffee table is the same colour as lian’s favourite hairband, and he wishes the white flowers in a jar near his bed good morning and good night every day, twice, one for his mother and one for his father. sometimes a butterfly will come into his open window and land on the bright petals; that always makes dick smile.

jason wakes up screaming from nightmares more often than not, but he realizes too late that the screams are only ringing inside his head. the spines of asphodel flowers rake up and down his throat, scraping him raw until he drowns in his own blood. taking his rage out on anyone who crosses his path doesn’t stop them, breaking down sobbing and drunk with artemis and bizarro doesn’t stop them, staying up all night with coffee doesn’t stop them. so he visits his grave instead, and he wonders why the hell bruce keeps coming back. those ugly white flowers are always there, gently placed in front of a lovingly carved tombstone. my regrets follow you to the grave, they taunt him, and jason wonders what exactly bruce regrets: letting him die or finding out that he couldn’t love jason anymore when he came back?

janet drake’s favourite flowers were hollyhocks, and tim didn’t have the slightest idea why. he only knew this because during a birthday festival, hollyhock petals were flowered over the cake. still, he knew his mother loved them, so maybe if he became them, she would love him too. they’re hardy and they require very little care to bloom, so tim taught himself everything he needed to know and, bit by bit, clawed up a rock wall until he was entirely independent, and didn’t need his parents anymore. they came in every colour of the rainbow, so tim learned how to slip on masks as easy as a wish. the perfect partner batman could mold him into, the lightbulb of a disorganized team, a little brother for dick to love. most diseases cause minor cosmetic damage and can be disregarded, so tim took the beatings from criminals and let the scars decorate his skin without a single complaint. only years later did tim discover that hollyhocks mean ambition, and by then, tim’s ambition had far outgrown janet’s. 

how difficult is it to become a symbol of hope after years of training to be a symbol of darkness? not that difficult, cass discovers, because darkness doesn’t necessarily mean death. chrysanthemums need light to bloom, but they’re at their most beautiful in the dark. bruce may need his family’s light to stay afloat, but he’s at his most powerful in the dark. so cass steps into the dark with him, knowing that batman is learning to turn his darkness into a protective cape instead of a smothering cloak. cass wields out death darkness fear without hesitation to criminals, as ominous as chrysanthemums at a funeral. but then she flips to friendship loyalty joy with her family, holding her hands out and waiting for someone to clasp on. she can be both, she discovers. she’s allowed to be both. 

everything had a purpose. everything can be used. that’s what mother told him while applying her lipstick in the mirror, with damian sitting cross-legged on her bed, flipping a knife in his hands in coordination exercises. the lipstick was the same dark pink shade as the oleanders she ordered planted in nanda parbat, despite them not being native to the area. a single leaf could kill a man, she told him, so wield them wisely. she taught him to wield many other things too, everything from a sword to a poison to his own name. a glorious destiny, the plants whispered to him, and damian held those words up with pride until that destiny had been ripped out from underneath him, his mother abandoned him, and he was left alone in a place where he had no purpose. it was richard grayson who had smiled, tiredly but surely, and had picked him up and placed him back on his feet. “didn’t you know,” he said, “that oleanders were the first flowers to bloom after hiroshima? oleanders mean survival.”

okay so in case you missed it (because i spent wayyyy too long looking these up) here is each person, what flower i assigned them, and the flower’s meaning

bruce: purple hyacinth - please forgive me dick: zinnia - never forget the absent jason: asphodel - my regrets follow you to the grave tim: hollyhock - ambition cass: chrysanthemums - death, darkness, fear, friendship, loyalty, joy (this flower has a lot going on) damian: oleander - a glorious destiny, survival

tag list: @woahjaybird @birdy-bat-writes @anothertimdrakestan @catxsnow @pricetagofficial @screennamealreadyused @subtleappreciation @bikoncon @bonkybearjpeg @maplumebleue-blog-blog @sundownridge @thatsthewhump

[bringbackthebastard]

Bring Back the Bastard Daily Prompts

Hello, folks! I'm posting these two weeks before we begin our fest, on September 1st, to give folks some inspiration on what to write each day as we celebrate Severus Snape's pettiest, most dastardly moments. I specifically picked out moments Snaters always harp on, that Snapedom personally enjoys--from any moment with Trevor to bitching at Lupin at Sirius, to the moments that Lily turns away and Dumbledore's face flashes with disgust--sure, he's a bastard, but he's our bastard, and that's what we like about him. You don't want him? Good. We'll keep him. Here are 30 scene prompts for 30 days--it's a long list, pulled chronologically from all seven books, but I found that it reminded me of everything I love about this character. The moments where he's called deranged, the moments where he slips into all-caps, the ugliest moments of the soul. Hope yall enjoy. Excited to kick off the fest starting September 1st, and absolutely excited to see what Snapedom will do. Let's Bring Back the Bastard! The prompts are below the readmore.

Day 1: The Scar Professor Quirrell, in his absurd turban, was talking to a teacheer with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin. It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes--and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead. "Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head. "What is it?" asked Percy. "N-nothing." The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look--a felling that he didn't like Harry at all. "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy. "Oh, you know Quirrell already, do you? No wonder he's looking so nervous, that's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to--everyone knows he's after Quirrell's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape."

Day 2: Bad Impressions Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry's name. "Ah, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new--celebrity."

Day 3: Potions Class "Potter!" said Snape suddenly "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of what? Harry glanced at Ron, who looked as stumped as he was; Hermione's hand shot into the air. "I don't know, sir," said Harry. Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Tut, tut--fame clearly isn't everything."

Day 4: A Horrible Sight Snape and Filch were inside, alone. Snape was holding his robes above his knees. One of his legs was bloody and mangled. Filch was handing Snape bandages. "Blasted thing," Snape was saying. "How are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?" Harry tried to shut the door quietly, but-- "POTTER!" Snape's face was twisted with fury as he dropped his robes quickly to hide his leg. Harry gulped. "I just wondered if I could have my book back." "GET OUT! OUT!"

Day 5: Maybe He's Ill "Hang on..." Harry muttered to Ron. "There's an empty chair at the staff table...Where's Snape?" Professor Severus Snape was Harry's least favorite teacher. Harry also happened to be Snape's least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except the students from his own House (Slytherin), Snape taught Potions. "Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully. "Maybe he's left," said Harry, "because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!" "Or he might have been sacked!" said Ron enthusiastically. "I mean, everyone hates him--" "Or maybe," said a very cold voice right behind them, "he's waiting to hear why you two didn't arrive on the school train."

Day 6: Slytherin Takes the Field "But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "But I booked it!" "Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"

Day 7: No Quidditch For You! "I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter is not being entirely truthful," he said. "It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest." "Really, Severus," said Professor McGonagall sharply, "I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong." Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed. "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly. Snape looked furious.

Day 8: Expelliarmus! "Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny little bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry--you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!" "Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in Harry's ear. Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at *him* like that he'd have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them. "As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart told the silent crowd. "On the count of three, we will cast our fist spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course." "I wouldn't bet on that," Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth. "One--two--three--" Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: "Expelliarmus!" There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet. He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

Day 9: Only Bite Him A Little Bit, Please "Don't move, Potter," said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with the angry snake. "I'll get rid of it..."

Day 10: Poisoning Trevor The end of the lesson in sight, Snape strode over to Neville, who was cowering by his cauldron. "Everyone gather 'round," said Snape, his black eyes glittering, "and watch what happens to Longbottom's toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don't doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned." The Gryffindors watched fearfully. The Slytherins looked excited. Snape picked up Trevor the toad in his left hand and dipped a small spoon into Neville's potion, which was now green. He trickled a few drops down Trevor's throat. There was a moment of hushed silence, in which Trevor gulped; then there was a small op, and Trevor the tadpole was wriggling in Snape's palm. The Gryffindors burst into applause. Snape, looking sour, pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his robe, poured a few drops on top of Trevor, and he reappeared suddenly, fully grown. "Five points from Gryffindor," said Snape, which wiped smiles from every face. "I told you not to help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed."

Day 11: Insufferable Know-It-All Everyone sat in motionless silence; everyone except Hermione, whose hand, as it so often did, had shot straight into the air. "Anyone?" Snape said, ignoring Hermione. His twisted smile was back. "Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between--" "We told you," said Parvati suddenly, "we haven't got as far as werewolves yet, we're still on--" "Silence!" snarled Snape. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are..." "Please, sir," said Hermione, whose hand was still in the air, "the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf--" "That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger," said Snape coolly. "Fire more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."

Day 12: Your Saintly Father "I would hate for you to run away with a false idea of your father, Potter," he said, a terrible grin twisting his face. "Have you been imagining some act of glorious heroism? Then let me correct you--your saintly father and his friends played a highly amusing joke on me that would have resulted in my death if your father hadn't gotten cold feet at the last moment. There was nothing brave about what he did. He was saving his own skin as much as mine. Had their joke succeeded, he would have been expelled from Hogwarts." Snape's uneven, yellowish teeth were bared.

Day 13: Don't Talk About What You Don't Understand "KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!" Snape shouted, looking suddenly quite deranged. "DON'T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" A few sparks shot out of the end o his wand, which was still pointed at Black's face. Hermione fell silent. "Vengeance is very sweet," Snape breathed at Black. "How I hoped I would be the one to catch you..." "The joke's on you again, Severus," Black snarled. "As long as this boy brings his rat up to the castle" --he jerked his head at Ron-- "I'll come quietly...." "Up to the castle?" said Snape silkily. "I don't think we need to go that far. All I have to do is call the dementors once we get out of the Willow. They'll be very pleased to see you, Black...pleased enough to give you a little Kiss, I daresay...."

Day 14: A Great Disappointment "He must have Disapparated, Severus. We should have let somebody in the room with him. When this gets out--" "HE DIDN'T DISAPPARATE!" Snape roared, now very close at hand. "YOU CAN'T APPARATE *OR* DISAPPARATE INSIDE THIS CASTLE! THIS--HAS--SOMETHING--TO--DO--WITH--POTTER!" "Severus--be reasonable--Harry has been locked up--" BAM. The door of the hospital wing burst open. Fudge, Snape, and Dumbledore came striding into the ward. Dumbledore alone looked calm. Indeed, he looked as though he was quite enjoying himself. Fudge appeared angry. But Snape was beside himself. "OUT WITH IT, POTTER!" he bellowed. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" "Professor Snape!" shrieked Madam Pomfrey. "Control yourself!" "See here, Snape, be reasonable," said Fudge. "This door's been locked, we just saw--" "THEY HELPED HIM ESCAPE, I KNOW IT!" Snape howled, pointing at Harry and Hermione. His face was twisted; spit was flying from his mouth. "Calm down, man!" Fudge barked. "You're talking nonsense!" "YOU DON'T KNOW POTTER!" shrieked Snape. "HE DID IT, I KNOW HE DID IT--" "That will do, Severus," said Dumbledore quietly. "Think about what you are saying. This door has been locked since I left the war ten minutes ago. Madam Pomfrey, have these students left their beds?" "Of course not!" said Madam Pomfrey, bristling. "I would have heard them!" "Well, there you have it, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly. "Unless you are suggesting that Harry and Hermione are able to be in two places at once, I'm afraid I don't see any point in troubling them further." Snape stood there, seething, staring from Fudge, who looked thoroughly shocked at his behavior, to Dumbledore, whose eyes were twinkling behind his glasses. Snape whirled about, robes swishing behind him, and stormed out of the ward. "Fellow seems quite unbalanced," said Fudge, staring after him. "I'd watch out for him if I were you, Dumbledore." "Oh, he's not unbalanced," said Dumbledore quietly. "He's just suffered a severe disappointment."

Day 15: Haven't You Heard? "Blimey, haven' yeh heard?" said Hagrid, his smile fading a little. He lowered his voice, even though there was nobody in sight. "Er--Snape told all the Slytherins this mornin'....Thought everyone'd know by now...Professor Lupin's a werewolf, see. An' he was loose on the grounds las' night...He's packin' now, o' course."

Day 16: I See No Difference "And what is all this noise about?" said a soft, deadly voice. Snape had arrived. The Slytherins clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Malfoy and said, "Explain." "Potter attacked me, sir--" "We attacked each other at the same time!" Harry shouted. "--and he hit Goyle--look--" Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi. "Hospital wing, Goyle," Snape said calmly. "Malfoy got Hermione!" Ron said. "Look!" He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth--she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape's back. Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, "I see no difference."

Day 17: The Dark Mark Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He struck out his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled. "There," said Snape harshly. "There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff's too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord's vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eater to be sure of a welcome back into the fold."

Day 18: If You Are Ready...If You Are Prepared... "Severus," said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, "you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready...if you are prepared..." "I am," said Snape. He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely. "Then good luck," said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius.

Day 19: Obviously "Now...how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?" she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard. "Fourteen years," Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable. His eyes on Snape, Harry added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise to orange. "You applied first for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?" Professor Umbridge asked Snape. "Yes," said Snape quietly. "But you were unsuccessful?" Snape's lip curled. "Obviously." Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. "And you have applied regularly for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?" "Yes," said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very angry. "Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?" asked Umbridge. "I suggest you ask him," said Snape jerkily. "Oh I shall," said Professor Umbridge with a sweet smile. "I suppose this is relevant?" Snape asked, his black eyes narrowed. "Oh yes," said Professor Umbridge. "Yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers'--er--backgrounds...." She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson, and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked around at Harry and their eyes met for a second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, which was now congealing foully and giving off a strong smell of burned rubber. "No marks again, then, Potter," said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry's cauldron with a wave of his wand. "You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?"

Day 20: Very Like His Father "How touching," Snape sneered. "But surely you have noticed that Potter is very like his father?" Yes, I have," said Sirius proudly. "Well then, you'll know he's so arrogant that criticism simply bounces off him," Snape said sleekly. Sirius pushed his chair roughly aside and strode around the table toward Snape, pulling out his wand as he went; Snape whipped out his own. They were squaring up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape calculating, his eyes darting from Sirius' wand-tip to his face. "Sirius!" said Harry loudly, but Sirius appeared not to hear him. "I've warned you, Snivellus," said Sirius, his face barely a foot from Snape's, "I don't care if Dumbledore thinks you've reformed, I know better." "Oh, but why don't you tell him so?" whispered Snape. "Or are you afraid he might not take the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother's house for six months very seriously?" "Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he's delighted his lapdog's working at Hogwarts, isn't he?" "Speaking of dogs," said Snape softly, "did you know that Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform...gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in future, didn't it?" Sirius raised his wand. "NO!" Harry yelled, vaulting over the table and trying to get in between them, "Sirius, don't--" "Are you calling me a coward?" roared Sirius, trying to push Harry out of the way, but Harry would not budge. "Why, yes, I suppose I am," said Snape.

Day 21: Wormtail's Whine "We...we are alone, aren't we?" Narcissa asked quietly. "Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are we?" He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen. "As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests," said Snape lazily. The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was encased in a bright silver glove. "Narcissa!" he said, in a squeaky voice. "And Bellatrix! How charming--" "Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them," said Snape. "And then he will return to his bedroom." Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him. "I am not your servant!" he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eyes. "Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me." "To assist, yes--but not to make you drinks and--clean your house!" "I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous assignments," said Snape silkily. "This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord--" "I can speak to him if I want to!" "Of course you can," said Snape, sneering. "But in the meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do."

Day 22: A Loving Caress Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view. "The Dark Arts," said Snape, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible." Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his voice? "Your defenses," said Snape, a little louder, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures" --he indicated a few of them as he swept past-- "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse" --he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly shrieking in agony-- "feel the Dementor's Kiss" --a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall-- "or provoke the aggression of the Inferius" --a bloody mass upon the ground.

Day 23: Better People "What does it matter?" said Malfoy. "Defense Against the Dark Arts--it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like an of us need protecting against the Dark Arts--" "It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!" said Snape. "Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle--" "They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!" "Then why not confide in me, and I can--" "I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!" There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, "You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but--"

Day 24: Revulsion and Hatred Etched on His Face "Severus..." The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading. Snape said nothing, but walked forward and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed cowed. Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face. "Severus...please..." Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore. "Avada Kedavra!"

Day 25: Don't Call Me Coward Mustering all his powers of concentration, Harry thought, Levi-- "No, Potter!" screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his hand. He could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang howling as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he lay, wandless and defenseless as Dumbledore had been. Snape's pale face, illuminated by the flaming cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been before he had cursed Dumbledore. "You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them--I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you'd turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, woudl you? I don't think so...no!" Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of sight. "Kill me then," panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. "Kill me like you killed him, you coward--" "DON'T--" screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly deranged, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind them-- "CALL ME COWARD!"

Day 26: The Guest Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy's wand, pointed it directly at the slowing revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds. "Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" asked Voldemort. Snape raised his eyes to the upside-down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as thought they had been given permission to show curiosity. As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, "Severus! Help me!" "Ah, yes," said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.

Day 27: I Regret It "All this long night, when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here," said Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, "wondering, wondering why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner...and I think I have the answer." Snape did not speak. "Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen." "My Lord--" "The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine." "My Lord!" Snape protested, raising his wand. "It cannot be any other way," said Voldemort. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last." And Voldemort swiped the air with the Elder Wand. It did nothing to Snape, who for a split second seemed to think he had been reprieved: But then Voldemort's intention became clear. The snake's cage was rolling through the air, and before Snape could do anything more than yell, it had encased him, head and shoulders, and Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue. "Kill." There was a terrible scream. Harry saw Snape's face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake's fangs pierced his neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. "I regret it," said Voldemort coldly.

Day 28: You Hurt Her! "Tuney!" said Lily, surprise and welcome in her voice, but Snape had jumped to his feet. "Who's spying now?" he shouted. "What d'you want?" Petunia was breathless, alarmed at being caught. Harry could see her struggling for something hurtful to say. "What is that you're wearing, anyway?" she said, pointing at Snape's chest. "Your mum's blouse?" There was a *crack*. A branch over Petunia's head had fallen. Lily screamed: The branch caught Petunia on the shoulder, and she staggered backward and burst into tears. "Tuney!" But Petunia was running away. Lily rounded on Snape. "Did you make it happen?" "No." He looked both defiant and scared. "You did!" She was backing away from him. "You *did*! You hurt her!" "No--no I didn't!" But the lie did not convince Lily: After one last burning look, she ran from the little thicket, off after her sister, and Snape looked miserable and confused....

Day 29: Save Your Breath "I'm sorry." "I'm not interested." "I'm sorry!" "Save your breath." It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. "I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here." "I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just--" "Slipped out?" There was no pity in Lily's voice. "It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends--you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?" He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. "I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine." "No--listen, I didn't mean--" "--to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I any different?" He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole....

Day 30: Anything "If she means so much to you," said Dumbledore, "surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for the mother, in exchange for the son?" "I have--I have asked him--" "You disgust me," said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape seemed to drink a little. "You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?" Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore. "Hide them all, then," he croaked. "Keep her--them--safe. Please." "And what will you give me in return, Severus?" "In--in return?" Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Harry expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, "Anything."

[babybatscreationsv2]

if you’re taking prompts;

so; tony is the devil. Or hades? Although hades isn’t technically “evil” so idk. And peter’s very literally made a deal with the devil. Only he couldn’t keep up with his end of the deal and now his soul he belongs to tony. aND THEN, tony kinda likes pities him and it turns into a beauty and the beast sorta thing where tony has his undead servants make feasts n all that sorta stuff so peter feels comfortable. And then they fall in love. And then they screw 😌

Thank you for this because I've been looking for an excuse to write a Hades and Persephone story. This ended up so tender and romantic that you can't call it smut. These beeches be making love. Also this ended up full fic sized so here's the details.

Eat the Fruit

Summary: When Peter's lover dies in an accident, he offers his soul to the God of the Underworld to save him, but when he is unable to fulfill his end of the deal he finds himself in the Underworld. Now Peter is left tending to the pomegranate grove where the only balm for his loneliness is Hades (aka Tony), a god with a prickly edge.

Rating: Explicit

"Oh, thank you, my lord!" The soul sobbed with gratitude. They bowed low again and again. One of Tony's soldiers came to lead her away so the line could continue.

You must love him to offer your soul to me this way.

Please, you are lord of the dead. If anyone has this power, it's you.

I am not cruel, Peter. I will restore your lover's soul. In return, you must stay with him in life until he dies a natural death.

I promise.

So be it.

----------

The agony of heartbreak still echoed in his mind. His mind replayed the moment as Harry told him goodbye and turned away, closing the door as he went. He wished he could try again. Despite how he had pleaded with Harry not to leave, had promised him whatever he wished, he felt that maybe there was something he could have done. Harry did not love him anymore. He left him.

And so Peter fainted... and he awoke in a vast orchard.

He sat up in the grass and looked around at the low trees each baring heavy red fruit. Pomegranates. They looked beautiful, delicious. Peter stood and brushed himself off. He looked around feeling unsure how he had gotten here. Then he remembered and a sob escaped him. Not only had he lost the love of his life, he had broken his deal with Hades. This beautiful grove must have been a part of the Underworld.

"So soon," said a voice. Peter turned to catch sight of a man. He was handsome, a bit older than Peter, with wrinkles around his eyes, yet those eyes shined with livelihood. When he last saw Hades it had been a shadow of his true form, something massive and hulking and terrible. He seemed almost kind now. He had been kind enough to him then.

"Please, Lord Hades, send me back. Let me try again."

The god plucked a fruit from a tree and examined it. "Sorry, kid. That was a one time offer. No take backs." He looked Peter over, then he placed the pomegranate in his hands. He walked past him and Peter followed along, afraid to be left alone in such a place.

"Please. I'll give you anything. Lord Hades-"

The god huffed and turned on the spot. He held up a finger. "First of all, there's no need to call me that. Hades is more of a title and I'm over it. Call me Tony."

"Tony?"

"Yeah, Tony. Now, listen up because I've got a short temper." Tony looked him in the eye. His hand held Peter's chin. "You will never leave the Underworld. Do you understand? Your soul belongs to me. You belong to me. This is where you will stay. Forever."

"Forever," Peter repeated. Not a question, but a realization. He had given everything for Harry. Everything.

The god took hold of his arm and turned him to look across the orchard. "Do you see the river there? You are never to attempt to cross it. If you try, its current will drag you under and you will drown in its waters until I see fit to retrieve you. The river Styx will not allow a soul to leave so easily."

Tony patted his shoulder. "Got it?"

Peter nodded. "I get it. Don't cross the river." It sure didn't sound fun to drown in a river until this oddly blase god decided to have mercy on him. "What happens now?"

Tony shrugged. "Tend the orchard or something. What do I care?"

Peter looked at him like he had grown a second head, which maybe he did have two heads, this probably wasn't his true form. "You let me sell my soul to you so I could just hang out?"

Tony's face shifted and Peter shrank back. His sudden anger was sharp and cold like a dagger made of ice. He encroached on Peter's space and with a clenched jaw he tried not to back away further. "Listen up, kid. You made the deal you wanted to make. You wanted to sacrifice yourself for what your heart desired and I gave you the opportunity. Life isn't the fairy tale you thought it was. Now, tend the trees and keep out of my hair."

Peter watched him go. He stared off in the direction that he went a while longer. Then cold began to seep into his bones. He sat down under a pomegranate tree. He wrapped his arms around his legs. Then he cried, wet tears staining the clothes he had died in. It could have been a lifetime that he cried, but when he finally got up he was numb.

Harry was gone and his life was over, but there was no going back. Peter turned in a circle, looking at the orchard. It was beautiful. If he had to spend the rest of eternity here it certainly wasn't the worst place to be. Sometimes when a breeze kicked up, he thought he heard screaming off in the direction he had decided to call south. There were certainly worse places to be even in the Underworld.

Peter walked to the edge of the pomegranate grove. Several feet from the edge, the ground began to slope down until it reached the edge of the Styx. A boat floated along the water. A man with a scraggly goatee and messy, curly, hair rowed along while a woman with red rimmed eyes sat in the seat. When she looked up, she looked right through him as if he were glass. A chill went through him. Once the feeling passed, he tried to wave at her, but she didn't respond. Was she in shock? Did she know yet that she was dead? Where was she being taken, he wondered. He hoped it was somewhere nice like his pomegranate grove and not the place where the screaming came from.

He kept walking, following the tree line, never passing the trees on the very edge. The orchard was vast, but not endless. On one side was the river Styx. On the next, the river Lethe. Or he assumed it was as the mist that came off of it made his head feel hazy. When he reached the third side is when the screaming grew louder. He walked faster until it grew distant again.

The fourth edge of the orchard stretched on into a garden. Peter stopped himself at the edge of the trees. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to leave the orchard or not. He hadn't been explicitly told not to. So he did.

He followed along low hedges and passed through clusters of hydrangea. Then the ground began to change from grass and plant life to cold gray stone. Peter looked back at the garden and the orchard beyond it. Was this allowed? He couldn't tend the trees without any tools. He'd need baskets if he were to collect the fruit and if they got sick he'd need medicines. He wasn't sure what else one could possibly do for trees. Perhaps Tony could tell him.

He found the god in question sitting a top a throne of slate. He looked far larger than he had before, but he still took the same form. He seemed bored, or perhaps indifferent was the word, as souls lined up at his feet. One soul grovelled on his knees.

"Please, my lord. I am meant for Elysium. I was a good man in life. An excellent one. I always gave to charity, I swear!"

Hades, for that's what he was a top this throne, waved his hand. "That does not make you special nor important by any means. You are not exceptional by any measure. To the fields with you." He snapped his fingers and two souls, each with hollow, black eyes and wrists wrapped in cuffs of slate, came forward and dragged the pleading soul away.

Another stepped forward and their plea was the same. They wished for Elysium and Hades waved them off.

"Won't you even listen to their stories?" Peter asked.

The god looked down at him. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I wasn't sure exactly what I was meant to do."

"The trees will tell you when they need," he said, but Peter noticed that he did not wave him away as he did the pleading soul so he assumed he was allowed to stay.

The next soul pleaded not for Elysium, but for their lover. They begged to be reunited with them in Asphodel.

"It is not my job to see that lovers unite. If you are soul mates you will find one another," Tony said with a terribly bored voice.

"Please, my lord. I has been a hundred years-"

"Be grateful I do not drop you in the River Lethe before you are returned!" he snapped. "Be gone with you."

"You are too harsh," Peter said as the soul was dragged away

Tony glared down at him. "You don't have to listen to the same nonsense for eternity."

"You are a god. You should be grateful for that."

"You should be grateful I don't sick my hound on you," Tony growled. "Now go."

Peter hesitated, not wishing to be alone again, but the look on Tony's face was far from kind. With a deep frown, Peter turned and walked back to the orchard.

The trees weren't much for company. Peter walked through the boughs, lonely and with too much time to reflect. He thought about the life he had lost and all of the things he had given up. He thought about Harry. Did he regret leaving him now that he was dead? Did he miss him? He wondered if Harry would go to his funeral and if he would ever bring flowers. After a long while of wandering, he couldn't take it any longer. He made his way back to the place where the grass died and became stone.

There were no souls there now, only a massive dog which sat at the foot of the throne. It opened one big eye as Peter came near. When he didn't stop it raised its head only for Peter to realize that it had not one, but three. A growl rumbled in its throat.

"Sorry to bother you, big guy. I was just looking for the other big guy." Peter reached out a hand inviting the dog to smell it. It lowered its heads suspiciously. Then it sniffed.

"It's okay. I'm not up to any mischief, I promise. I was just lonely. You look like you might be lonely, too."

Peter smiled as the dog allowed him to pet his hairy nose. It watched him curiously as he came closer so he could scratch behind his ears.

"You're sweet aren't you?" Peter cooed. "Sweet boy."

"Peter?" Tony's voice called. He turned his head to see him coming up the path. "I wouldn't bother him if I were you."

"He seems to like me," Peter shrugged. "I was just looking for some company."

Tony stopped and looked at them both. He tucked his hands behind his back, watching silently while Peter pet the happy dog. His giant tail wagged into the gray dirt.

"You were lonely?" Tony finally asked.

"Trees aren't the best company as it turns out. I'm not used to be alone. Harry and I..." Peter took a breath. Just mentioning his name made his chest burn. "Well, we were always together."

"I see..." Tony stared off toward the orchard. "Come and see me tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. It doesn't always get dark here, but night will fall in a few hours. Come back here then, but not before."

Peter looked at the man, but he didn't seem likely to divulge what he was up to. "Alright... I will see you then."

He gave the dog, Cerberus, one last pet. Then he turned away and walked back to the orchard.

As promised the sky above began to darken. Peter watched it with fascination for a moment. There were no stars in the Underworld. The sky was a deep navy, almost black. Yet, Peter could see perfectly fine. He walked back through the trees to where the ground became stone and there he found a grand table set with candles and silver platters.

"Peter, glad you could join me," Tony greeted. The look on his face was almost a smile.

"What is all this?"

"You said you were lonely so I thought we could share a meal together. If you'd like."

Peter smiled. "Of course! That sounds great."

Tony looked relived. He pulled out a chair for him. "I don't know what you like, but I had nearly everything I could think of prepared."

Peter sat down, offering his thanks as Tony pushed his seat up. He sat down on Peter's right. He flinched as Tony's dead soldiers melted from the shadows and began to serve him from the many plates and platters. When his plate and cup were full, they took a step back waiting to serve him again.

"This all looks amazing. I thought you couldn't eat the food in the Underworld."

Tony picked up his glass, the only thing in front of him. "If it is grown here, then it is true. Eating food grown in the Underworld can have undesired effects." He stared into his wine. Then he looked up and gave Peter a smile. "Eat," he said.

Every bite was divine. Sitting together with Tony helped chase the loneliness away. They talked about Peter's happy memories in life, his time in college, holidays with his Aunt May, being Uncle Peter to Gwen's twins. Harry wasn't there for most of the good parts. Peter couldn't help but find that strange. Harry had felt like such a big part of his life, but had he? Maybe the Underworld was making him forgetful.

After dinner, they stood together and watched the light return. Tony's odd little soldiers cleared everything away.

"Thank you, Peter," Tony said. He gave him a smile. Peter admired the way it made his eyes shine.

"No, thank you. That was a lovely dinner. I'm feeling a lot better, too."

"I'm glad." He paused for a moment and they stood simply looking at each other as the sky changed above them. "You're welcome to return here whenever you please."

Peter's smile widened. "Are you saying you enjoyed my company as well?"

Tony shrugged. "It's wasn't the worst dinner I've been to."

Peter rolled his eyes as he walked away. He returned to the orchard where the boughs were heavy with fruit. He spent hours, maybe days, picking the fruit and collecting it into baskets that he couldn't recalling seeing before. There was a pail and some tools as well.

He stuck to picking fruit for now. That is until his arms grew tired from reaching and legs grew tried from carrying him. He left the orchard to return to the throne. There was Hades, sat atop, looking terribly bored as he dealt with the unending line of souls.

"Please, Lord Hades-"

"Shoo," the god wave the soul away and they were dragged off. Peter went and took a seat, cross legged on the ground beside him. Tony spared him a glance.

"Come to watch the show?"

"I like being with you."

Tony stiffened, but said nothing in answer. Another soul stepped forward. A sort of gray tone clouded not only their skin, but their clothes as well. Peter wondered why he wasn't the same way. Was it because he Tony's soul, belonging to the orchard, while this soul belonged somewhere else? The souls from the Fields were all a bit gray.

"Please, Lord Hades, it has been one hundred and fifty years since my death. I wish to be united with my daughter. I walk the Fields endlessly and never find her," the soul pleaded.

Tony sighed. "Fine," he said. Peter blinked, sitting more upright. "When you return to the Fields, your daughter will await you at the gate."

"Oh, thank you, my lord!" The soul sobbed wjth gratitude. They bowed low again and again. One of Tony's soldiers came to lead her away so the line could continue.

"That was kind of you," Peter said.

Tony huffed in response, but he continued this way. Whenever a soul made, what seemed to Peter, a reasonable request Tony honored it. Souls were united with family, friends, and lovers so long as they walked the fields together. And when it was done, Tony walked with Peter back to the orchard.

They walked beneath the trees, the smell of pomegranate in the air.

"What changed your mind about the souls?"

Tony stood and examined one of the trees. He ignored Peter's question. "They seem happy with you here," he said.

"You were right. They do tell me what they need."

Tony smiled. "Of course I was." He turned and took Peter's hand. His heart fluttered. They kept walking until the Styx came into view. They watched the river pass by in silence. Then after a long while Tony said, "I have to go." Then he disappeared.

Peter turned in a circle, but the god was truly gone. He smiled to himself and turned back to watch the river pass. Tony left him feeling warm. He missed his company already, but he was glad to have had it in the first place.

He went back to his trees, tending them with a smile. Time as usual, without measure other than a weariness in his legs from standing. Then the trees began to ask for water.

It made sense. It never seemed to rain in the Underworld. Certainly trees would need water. He had a pail he could collect it in, but where would he get it from? The only water source nearby was the Styx. He looked around for Tony, but the god was not nearby. So he took it upon himself to get the water.

Peter carried his pail down to the riverside. He placed his feet carefully to keep from slipping into the water. Then he leaned out and scooped some water up with the pail. He set the full pail up on the bank, but its weight unbalanced him. His feet slid in the rocks and he was pulled under the water's surface.

While the Styx looked steady and calm, there was a current beneath its surface. It claimed him easy, dragging him under and pulling him far far away from the orchard. Peter tried to swim up, sometimes his hands breached the surface, but never his head. His lungs burned with lack of air, then with water. Then he was drowning. Drowning without dying.

There was never any telling how much time passed in the Underworld. But finally, finally... he was pulled from the river.

He vomited what felt like gallons of water, coughing the rest from his lungs. The pain faded quickly. Peter laid on his back and blinked wet eyes at the man standing over him. He was a shadow, blocking out the light above.

"Tony?" he rasped. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall in. The trees needed water and I slipped."

Tony knelt beside him. "I know. I saw the water pail by the river." He scooped Peter up and pulled him to his chest. Instantly, he was dry. "You're safe now."

"Thank you." Peter's body shook in fear and relief. "That was horrible."

Tony pet his hair and held him close. "Come and get me next time the trees need water. I will call the rain to water them."

Tony helped him stand. With slow steps they walked back together to the orchard. Tony seemed far more quiet than usual. Peter couldn't place just what was wrong. He'd been warned not to try to cross the river. Was he not allowed to go near it at all? Or did Tony think he had tried to leave. Why would it bother him so much if he did?

They passed under the first branches of the orchard. Without thinking, Peter plucked the first pomegranate he saw. He stopped and admired the round, red, fruit in his hands. Tony stopped and turned, looking back at him.

"I've never tasted one of these." Peter laughed softly. "All this time picking them and caring for them, but I never eat them."

"If you eat the fruit in the Underworld, you can never leave," Tony reminded him.

"You wouldn't let me leave anyway."

"Maybe I would." There was a vulnerable honesty there in his eyes. He was right, wasn't he? This time he was right. Harry had never loved him. He had been young and foolish and naive. Tony didn't just show him desire and adoration in the way that Harry had, no. From Tony he received respect, admiration, trust. Because Tony loved him, truly.

"You thought, even if it was only for a moment, that I had tried to cross the river. Were you relieved when you realized it was an accident?" Peter looked at his face. He said nothing, gave nothing away with his expression.

Peter looked at the fruit in his hand. He dug his thumbs into the skin and pulled it apart. It bled pink onto his skin. Tony watched him in silence, seeming to hold his breath. Peter examined his face searching for one last reassure that he was truly wanted. Then he brought the fruit to his lips and bit into its seeds.

It was perfectly sweet. The taste of it coated his tongue. Juice dripped down his chin. When he swallowed, it was heavy in his stomach. He dropped the fruit and looked at the god.

His gaze was adoring, worshipful.

"Allow me a taste," Tony said. He reached for him, pulling him in. Their lips met and Peter moaned at a taste that was far sweeter than the fruit.

His hands held Tony's face, staining his cheeks pink. Strong hands held his back, guiding him to press in closer until they were flush. Peter moaned as a tongue slipped over his own, exploring and claiming his mouth. He felt high on him, willing and receptive to any of Tony's desires.

They stopped, only for a moment, and gazed at each other's faces. Then Tony took him and laid him back in the soft grass beneath the trees.

Tony stripped away his clothes. Each article was removed with gentle care and hot kisses pressed to his newly exposed skin. Every inch of him felt sensitive to the softness of his lips and the scratch of his beard. When he was naked, Tony returned above him to kiss his lips again. Peter let his hands roam over his chest and found that his clothes were gone, revealing a muscular and scarred chest. Tony caught his hand, holding it above his heart.

"Do you mind?" he said. His eyes shined.

Peter shook his head. "You're beautiful, Tony," he said. Tony caught his mouth in a kiss that was ripe with need.

Peter spread his legs apart and Tony settled between them. His kiss were soft and tender as he pushed slowly inside him. His mouth captured the high pitch whined that escaped Peter's lips. Slowly he was filled until Tony was fully inside him. His hands clung to Tony's shoulders and he stared up into gleaming brown eyes.

He dragged his fingers over his skin to cup his face in both hands. "I love you," Peter whispered.

Tony's smile was joyous. "I love you, Peter."

Peter gasped, head falling back into the grass as Tony moved inside him. The friction felt so intense that he could form words but that didn't stop him from whining and babbling. Tony kissed his lips, his bared neck, his chest. His lips sucked his nipples, tongue flicking and teasing over them. Peter's nails dug into Tony's shoulders. All he could do was hold on as his cock dragged over his prostate and Tony fucked him fast and deep. Frantic, like he was starving. When his mouth returned to Peter's, he held him tight, kissing his lips as if they dripped ambrosia. He refused to let, kissing him deeply and desperately until he could hold on no longer. His nails cut scratches into Tony's back as his body ached and shivered beneath him. His cum splattered, sticky and warm on his skin.

He panted hard, looking up at Tony again with nothing but adoration and love. He held Tony's beautiful face.

"Cum in me, please," Peter begged.

"Anything you want is yours," Tony pledged.

He moved him again, cock deep inside, body screaming with sensitivity. A tear rolled down Peter's cheek and he whimpered painfully, but he was euphoric. Tony kissed away his tears. Peter tasted the salt on his lips. Then Tony moaned, holding him tight. Peter covered his face in kisses. He felt him cum, making him sticky and wet inside.

Tony's cheeks were red and his smile was bright. Peter couldn't help but smile, too, and pulled him down into a deep unending kiss.

[your--isgayrights]

Hi!! for the ficlet thing, would you do Kim Dokja and Na Bori, if they meet in the underworld?

Oooh this is a good one... Like a little niche but I really like Na Bori and feel like there's good stuff there... hmmm. I haven't read underworld arc in a while, so apologies if it's hard to line up with cannon!

The fields of asphodel were a cornerstone of the Underworld's landscape according to greek myth. Or, at least, according to the cursory web browser search he has performed upon reading that phrase in Ways of Survival for the first time.

That chapter came out when he was around eighteen years old. It was easy to remember, because in January he would be legally old enough to visit his mother in prison without the consent of his relatives, and he was thinking about it at the time that Hades had put his hand on Yoo Jonghyuk's shoulder, and called him 'son' as they looked over the Underworld kingdom together.

Kim Dokja idly wondered if Yoo Jonghyuk would gain the favor of the underworld in this regression, too. He hadn't in the original third regression, but at this point who could say what ideas the crazy bastard would get into his head...

Regardless, finding the answer to such questions wasn't why Kim Dokja had traveled to the Underworld today.

Nor was it why he was halted in his tracks, stood still in the middle of the fields of asphodel at that very moment.

Kim Dokja had stopped not because something written in Ways of Survival, but by something that deviated from that very text.

In the novel, the fields of asphodel were described as crowded with faceless, unremarkable souls that blended into a general misery of having once been alive.

Yoo Jonghyuk had seen every face as generic, and unrecognizable, as if the souls were so lost in death that even their physical forms were forgotten.

But Kim Dokja swore that he recognized this young girl standing next to him in the crowd.

She was about the same age as he had been when he read that chapter about the Underworld. Eighteen. An oversized school uniform. Bruises from hand prints splayed across her neck.

Then, Kim Dokja saw the emblem on her uniform was the exact same as Lee Jihye's. And in that instant, he knew who this girl was.

This was Na Bori, the girl who always died in the first ten minutes of the scenario.

And she was looking right back at him.

"Do you know me, sir?" She asked him a question that she wouldn't know the answer to no matter how he responded.

"Do you even know who you are?" He asked back, almost reflexively. After all, the shades of Asphodel were always described as having walked through the river Lethe, forgetting everything about themselves in the process.

This girl, however, tilted her head to the side, as if considering his question intelligently.

"My memory of myself is defined by the form I took here." She told him eventually.

"When I look down at these bruise marks on my neck, I feel sadness, and how scared I was." The girl's hands went up to her collar, as if going to defend her neck from future assailants. "But I also feel a little something like love, and like pride."

Kim Dokja could now recognize in her gesture not only an instinct to protect herself, but also a need to cherish and carefully hold this mark that served as her only memory.

"I Just don't know why. I can't remember her, I-" Something flashed in Na Bori's eyes, as if she was trying desperately to hold onto something. "Her, I-."

And then in an instant it was gone, and that mild melancholy once more came to reclaim her features.

"I don't remember anything." She told him. "That is why the only thing I know for certain is that I am in hell."

Kim Dokja frowned at that remark. "You know this is the Underworld, not the Demon Realm, right?

"It doesn't make a difference." As the girl spoke, Kim Dokja saw that her eyes started to go past him, as if she couldn't even recognize a person in front of her anymore, or remember why they were speaking. "Because that is what it means to die."

She looked back down at her neck.

"You don't make a difference, anymore." The girl said. "You can no longer do anything else for the ones you love. And you can't even remember that you loved them."

With that final word, the ghost's hands fell from her neck, and she looked down at her feet. As if speaking to him hadn't even been worth the effort of trying to remember herself.

Kim Dokja found it hard not to be disturbed by her final words, but his feelings about it were easy to settle down into something milder.

This sort of injustice in death... It didn't originate from this world alone. It existed before everything changed into the world of Ways of Survival. It was natural, and would continue to happen. Getting too bogged down in the details would only slow his progress.

That's right, Kim Dokja told himself these things as he continued through his long trek through the fields of asphodel, no longer stopping to look at shades, even if he thought he recognized them.

After all, he had a mission here in the Underworld, and plans for the future, that hinged upon not heeding that young ghost's words of warning.

[farmhandler]

Spoken, Not Said

Rating: T (for now)

Pairing: Theseus/Asterius/Zagreus

Warnings: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Banter, Bickering, Theseus being Theseus, Slight spoilers            

CH: 1/?

WC: 3K~

Read on AO3

Summary: Asterius is taken by Hades as punishment for Theseus' inability to defeat Zagreus. Zagreus feels guilty that he's caused the shades around him so much pain, but he's unwilling to give up on his quest. Instead, he suggests they find Asterius together. What could possibly go wrong?

A/N: Tumblr got rid of line breaks, which is mighty inconvenient and means some parts of the story may seem abrupt. Sorry about that! Anywho, enjoy. Love this game!!! 

Theseus does not realize something is amiss until he’s been left standing at the gates to Elysium Stadium alone.

When they are not bound by the duty of reducing the monster endlessly attempting to escape their halls to blood and gristle, it is often the case that Asterius will bide his time in his own quarters or wander the halls of Elysium on his own, ever the watchful guardian; however, rare is it so that Asterius does not meet him at the gates of the stadium once they have received word that the daemon is making his way towards them.

Today—though there are no days, nor nights in fair Elysium—Asterius has not shown himself. Theseus at first does not take it upon himself to grow concerned over his dear friend’s lateness, but as the hour passes, his impatience grows.

Eventually, a messenger shade informs him that the daemon is entering Elysium once again, and Asterius still has not shown.

“You there,” he says, addressing a messenger shade before she can return to her post. “Have you seen Ast— the Minotaur? He has yet to meet me at our assigned post here to face that terrible daemon. Surely you have seen him while delivering your messages?”

The shade hesitates, her eyes flicking off to one side before returning back to Theseus. She shakes her head and apologizes profusely until Theseus dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“Stay on guard for any sign of him,” he tells her evenly. Theseus does not allow his concern to show. For the shades of Elysium, he is their King, and he must never show weakness.

And how many times have I bested you again? a traitorous voice echoes in the cavern of his mind.

Theseus grinds his teeth together, fists clenching and unclenching at the thought of him. Since being recruited by Lord Hades, Theseus has spent an inordinate amount of time in his presence—far more than he would prefer. Theseus had never expected that his time in eternal paradise would become tainted by the constant clashing with this particularly egregious foe.

He would much rather continue to spar the heroes and champions he is well accustomed to, but he continues with his approach, no matter how often they dispatch of him.

Oh, I think we are long past you dispatching me. I can’t remember the last time I died to your spear.

You wretch! he thinks, imagining a conversation held with him, as he often does. What he wouldn’t give to impale him on his spear one final time—were that he not an immortal, a god—

Theseus stills his thoughts before they can go further. It doesn’t matter what he says, he is no god in his eyes. Compared to the real gods, he is puny. His voice is unbearably grating in every possible way. Elysium is a wondrous and enchanting resting place for those deserving of it, yet that stain continues to enter its impermissible halls, tainting the very ground under their feet with his daemonic presence.

Theseus steels himself with a breath and turns to look for Asterius. He will find him himself, and then they will have a rousing discussion about just how inadequate a foe the daemon is.

Theseus begins to feel concern when, after scouring all of Asterius’ favored resting places, he still cannot find him. He even goes so far as entering into his chambers to see if perhaps somehow he has become ill, despite the impossibility. No other reason would explain his sudden absence when just the night before, they had been discussing battle strategies to increase their chances against the daemon.

With Asterius still not found, Theseus is forced to return to Elysium Stadium to face the daemon himself. He does not vie for the prospect, but he will have to make do.

He is the former king of Athens and the current champion and King of Elysium. He will not fail!

“Oh.”

It is the first thing out of the daemon’s mouth when he approaches Theseus at the center of the stadium. He is looking around, shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the lookout for Theseus’ comrade in arms. Despite having said nothing else, just that single word is enough to ignite the flames of fury from within Theseus.

“You!” he spits, with more vehemence than he usually reserves for their battles. “You dare step foot in Elysium once again? I shall drive you away once more; as many times as necessary until you learn your lesson, foul wretch.”

The daemon appears unconcerned by his very real threat. He cast his gaze about the stadium, turning his back to Theseus briefly while he looks in all directions.

“Is it just us today?” He sounds disappointed, a delicate frown on his sof--horrible features. “Where’s Asterius? Did he finally get tired of being beat by me?”

His humor is lost on Theseus. He slams his spear into the ground and braces his shield as if he is about to charge like Asterius would do during one of their fights.

“Do not invoke his name! You have no right to dare speak it! I will defeat you here and now!”

“Okay,” the daemon drawls, raising one hand in placation. “Fine, have it your way. He’s the one that makes these flights difficult, anyway. After I wipe the floor with you, please do send him my regards.”

“The only thing that will be sent today is your body to the depths of Tartarus, with my blessed spear buried within your midsection!”

The daemon nods, having expected no less, and he shifts back, sliding his horrid flaming foot back and sizzling the grassy plain under their feet while he braces his hands in front of him. He is wearing the Twin Fist of Malphon this time around. Theseus recalls the feeling of it pummeling his lower back until it gave way, but he does not waver.

He slams his spear into the ground again and then points it at the daemon.

“Defend yourself!”

The crowd of shades that have been waiting for this moment abrupt cheers. Theseus feels their spirits embolden him, but just as he is about to lift his spear and aim it, the air shifts.

A familiar presence settles over them. Theseus can feel its oppressive nature almost immediately.

He balks. Since being recruited, Lord Hades has not made himself known more than a scant few times. And never once during one of their great matches, when all of Elysium gathers to watch.

“Father?” Theseus hears the daemon say. He hardly gives it another thought, because in the next moment the Lord Hades words threaten to knock Theseus right off his feet.

“Ahh. I see you’ve made it to the exit gates of Elysium once more. How many times is it now? How many times you failed to defeat him, Theseus, king of Athens?“

His voice booms all around them. Several shades shrink back, while others look up in awe. Theseus feels his grip on his spear loosen.

“Lord—Lord Hades,” he responds. “I…cannot say for certain that I have counted. Rest assured that this time I will—"

“Enough,” he booms. “You have failed me one time too many. It was by my hand that the Minotaur joined you in Elysium, and it is by my hand that he will leave it. Perhaps if you can manage to do your job, I may consider returning him to you.”

The words barely sink into Theseus before Lord Hades’ presence is gone. He stands there for several long seconds, the stadium deathly quiet.

Then the daemon says something to him, approaching on those hellspawn feet of his, but Theseus doesn’t hear it. All he can think about is Asterius.

Asterius. His comrade; his partner. He vouched for Asterius when he came to Elysium so he could have him there. They have been with each other now for so long. To have him torn from him like this is—it is—

“Theseus?”

He is broken from his reverie by him. The daemon. It is always him.

“I’m…sorry about Asterius. I know he was your friend.” Then, lower, to a register Theseus can barely hear, “Maybe despite his better judgment.”

The fists lower, and that hideous, terrible glowing, daemonic eye is cast upon him. Fury course through his veins like divine nectar.

Asterius. Asterius. By the gods, what torture must he be under? A punishment by Lord Hades is to be feared. He could be anywhere in the realm. He could be in Asphodel, or even Tartarus…

“My father will do anything to stop me, but I have to do it. I have to reach the surface again.” The daemon’s face is cast in the shadow of sorrow. His features soften further, shoulders drooping before he raises them and lifts his chin. “My mother—"

“You!” Theseus roars. “This is your fault! You miserable—” he burst into motion, tossing his spear in a single fluid and powerful move. It goes sailing forward, but the daemon shifts out of way “—horrible, forgotten monster. On this day, your death is assured.”

“Forgotten? That’s harsh,” he quips, sailing once again out of Theseus’ way. He has yet to strike a blow, but Theseus is prepared for anything he may try. “Look, Theseus—“

“Speak my name so flagrantly no more! While once I would have encouraged your admiration of me, the sight of you fills me only with disgust! Because of you, Asterius has been removed from my side, and I shall make you pay for it!”

“I think the point was more that the both of you couldn’t beat me,” the blackard points out.

“Because of you—” Theseus continues, undeterred. He is humiliated to find there are angry tears in his eyes. It is no shame for a warrior to offer his tears to his comrades, but this is no warrior. To show any weakness in front of him makes his blood boil even hotter.

He swipes angrily at his eyes with his forearm, clearing his vision quickly before he can be overtaken. But when he blinks, the daemon has not moved, still staring at him with an expression Theseus dare not name.

“I’m…I didn’t know he meant that much to you. You always seem, well.”

The insinuation stings. “Your fiendish attempts to insult me won’t work here! I shall” he sends his spear flying, but the daemon dodges “vanquish you here and now!”

This pattern continues for a time. Theseus attacks, but the daemon, for some reason, does not. He weaves in and out from around the pillars of the stadium and occasionally delivers onto him a glancing blow, but he does not attack with his full vigor. It is almost worse than the times when they are beaten within minutes of the fight starting.

At least in those instances, he is a worthy opponent.

Eventually, Theseus loses steam. His arm begins to tremble and ache, and his grip on his shield is less fortifying the longer that it weighs him down. He has gone on longer before, but with the fresh wound of Asterius being torn from him, he feels weakened.

His anger, instead of fueling him, feels as though it drains him. The daemon does not react to his rage other than to shoot him looks of pity, and the shades watching them aren’t cheering as loudly without the two of them there fighting him together, and with Theseus making no headway.

Eventually, the daemon stops in the center of the stadium and addresses him directly.

“Theseus, I…I think I can help you.”

“You?” Theseus laughs, loud and boisterous although his strength flags. “What a weak attempt to sway the battle in your favor. You cannot help me! Now kindly stand still so I may aim my spear at you!”

“I’m serious,” the daemon says. “I want to help you. Well, I want to help Asterius, but you’ve been looking so pathetic over there I can’t help but feel bad for you, too—”

“Silence!” Theseus shouts. His cheeks flush more than from the heat of battle. The nerve. “Raise your foul weapons and fight me!”

“Why do I even bother?” he hears him say. A sigh, and then the daemon lowers his weapon fully to his side. “Theseus, I know where Asterius is.”

At that, Theseus—in the middle of prepping another toss of his spear—freezes.

“Speak those words again.”

“Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but I’ve been everywhere throughout my father’s realm, so I have an idea where he might be being held.”

“So you lie!” Theseus cries, aghast.

“Will you be quiet and listen to me for one second?” the daemon snaps. The embers on his feet flare up, sparks flying. “My father, Lord Hades, has been doing what he did to you to everyone that I fight. He’ll take them away to punish them so that they fight harder the next time. I don’t think it’s very effective, but until now…” He shakes his head, sending a few stray petals floating down. Theseus has only just now noticed the crimson laurels adorning his hair. “The point is, I like Asterius. He doesn’t deserve to be punished for doing his job. Besides, I’m sure none of you here are well used to torture like those down below.”

At the mention of torture, Theseus stills.

He is no stranger to what man is capable of, but in Elysium, death is impermanent. And even in combat, their pain is dulled, easily remedied by taking a bath in the river Lethe. If Asterius is in Asphodel or Tartarus, he is certainly being subject to torture of some kind or another.

Theseus drops to one knee. In a single second, his breath has left him, even though he no longer breathes.

“Let me help you find him.”

Theseus lifts his head, lips curled into a snarl. “You are the reason he was taken, monster!” He stands again, abandoning his weapons and approaching the daemon with a single-minded focus. He takes him by the shoulders and shakes him, once, giving no second thoughts to the warm, soft skin resting under his fingertips. “You are the reason all of this has happened! Have you no shame?!”

The daemon stares at him, stonefaced. He says nothing at first.

Then: “I’m doing what I have to do. I’ve already disobeyed my father by embarking on this quest. I can disobey him some more and help you find Asterius.”

His expression shifts then. He looks away, and when his eyes return to Theseus they pierce him even deeper than before.

“But I can’t do it alone. A part of what makes this work is that I can avoid most of the realms if I work fast. I don’t usually go poking around too long, lest my father find ways to reroute me.”

Theseus steps back, the words finally registering. “You ask me to leave Elysium. Blackguard,” he spits, “I will not be tricked!”

“No trick,” he replies. “Trust me, the last thing I want to do is drag you around my father’s realm while everything tries to kill me. I have my own mission.” His shoulders dip slightly, still held in Theseus’ firm grasp. “But you’re right: it is my fault. So I’m going to do what I can to make it right.”

Theseus stares at his foe, attempting to truly consider what he is saying. Assuming there are no lies coming from his wretched mouth, he can find Asterius. He can save him.

But he would have to leave Elysium. Anyone would be a fool to want to leave absolute paradise, and furthermore, it is strictly forbidden by Lord Hades, a god that could smite him on the spot if he so chose.

It would only be temporary, says a voice. That same, familiar voice, the owner of which is standing in front of him.

“You have been enjoying yourself,” Asterius told him once, long before the daemon had begun to beat them consistently. He had heaved his axe from the pillar it had been lodged in and used it to rest his arms upon, peering down at Theseus with a certain glint in his eye. “The short one has given us quite the challenge.”

“Ha! Hardly a challenge,” Theseus replied, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. He would need to reapply with a fresh layer of oils after a bath. “We dispatched of him with haste, and the next with even more!”

Asterius chuckled, a low, deep sound that worked its way into Theseus and sat there, warm. “You are enjoying yourself,” he repeated. “We have not fought this hard in some time.”

“Perhaps, my friend.” Theseus grinned. He clapped Asterius on the shoulder, taking a moment to feel the size of his biceps. “What do you say we make to the bathhouse and discuss our strategy?”

Asterius had nodded, Theseus’ excitement bleeding into him. They had never felt so alive together in many years.

Theseus looks at the daemon now and feels his resolve begin to waiver.

Without Asterius, the paradise of Elysium is a weak and pallid place. Asterius is like no other. Upon imagining the soul as wonderful as his being tormented because of the daemon’s—because of his own failure, he feels a new level of fury rise up within him.

“We will find Asterius, quickly. We will find him and then Asterius and I together shall send you back to the depths of Tartarus where you belong.”

The daemon rolls his eyes. He hefts his fists and shrugs off Theseus’ hands, which had not left his shoulders that whole time. Theseus does not think about its implications.

“Wonderful. Now can you—" he breaks off, sighing deeply before continuing. “Blood and darkness, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Theseus, I need you to kill me.”

“What?” Theseus barks. “What sort of trickery—”

“I want my sword, Stygius,” he says flatly. “It’ll be faster if you just kill me. I’ll work my way back here and then take you with me.” He pauses. “Come on, don’t act like you haven’t been aching to do it this whole time.”

“Of—Of course!” Theseus answers, taken aback. He moves to grab his spear and shield, only just now reminded that they are surrounded by shades still waiting to see them fight. The crowds look anxious, and they cheer when Theseus picks up his spear.

“Defend yourself, daemon!” Theseus calls with renewed vigor. “Prepare your body for my spear!”

The daemon laughs, though Theseus hardly finds the situation amusing.

“Right. Well, let’s make this look good.” He rolls his shoulders, flexing his admittedly admirable muscles. “And by the way, I’m not a daemon. Call me Zagreus. Zag, even, if you prefer. Though I’m sure you don’t.”

Theseus grins and throws his spear.

[seavoice]

Horse Trading

(link to ao3 on title, or continue reading after the read more)

“Octavian was an asshole,” Reyna said, a contemplative look on her face as she laid on the floor of Hazel’s Praetor Villa, “but sometimes I think, can you really blame him?”

“Yes,” Hazel said, from her position on the floor next to her, where she was trying to sketch Reyna, a task made inordinately difficult by the older girl’s constant moving around. “I really can.”

Reyna sighed. It was a long and contemplative sigh. It wasn’t unusual to see Reyna with a brooding, thinking look on her face, but the relaxed and content expression added a new dimension to it. It was something structural; it somehow made her look younger yet more self-assured at the same time. “Octavian,” Reyna repeated, “was an asshole. But this Villa, Hazel. This Villa. I can see why Octavian was so desperate for praetorship. This house almost makes up for the stress of leading a child army.”

“It does not,” Hazel said. “It really does not, Reyna. Distance has just made your heart grow fonder. And delusional.” She sighed as Reyna shifted her position yet again. Reyna winced as a wordless apology. “Also,” Hazel said, reaching for her eraser, “Octavian didn’t want the praetorship for the house. He wanted it because he was a power hungry and blood thirsty politician.”

“At least you agree the bed is worth it?”

The bed was very nice, Hazel had to admit. Californian King, which seemed excessive, but was appreciated, and the fluffiest pillows Hazel had ever laid her head on. “Maybe. But I’m not agreeing with you when you literally opted for laying on the floor instead of the bed.”

“Fair enough,” Reyna said. She stretched on the floor, some complicated starburst. Hazel decided to give up her endeavour at drawing Reyna and flipped to the previous page in her sketchbook where she had been working on a drawing of Arion. It was half completed, and it was an attempt at drawing purely from memory, but Hazel enjoyed the challenge. “But it’s good for your back, believe me.”

“You’re an immortal Huntress now. Does that really matter?”

“Also fair enough,” Reyna agreed. Reyna rolled over to prop herself up on her elbows and peeked at Hazel’s sketchbook. She raised a single eyebrow. “Oh, that’s certainly more...horse-y than I usually look.”

“I gave up. You move too much.”

Reyna inclined her head in acceptance. Still on her belly, she folded her arms and laid her head down on them.

It was weird to see Reyna so carefree. Weird in an undoubtedly good way, but weird nonetheless. Immortality had, perhaps ironically, taken years off her shoulders.

Hazel hadn’t invited Reyna to New Rome to draw her, but inevitably, that was what the visit had come to. She had written to her asking for advice — advice on running an entire city, advice on leading a quote unquote “child army” in times of peace, advice on not going crazy with stress ��� and Reyna had accepted so readily that a ventus spirit had brought her letter the very day Hazel had sent hers. Hazel had prepared for the visit with a single minded focus; she had brought a notebook for note taking, three different colours of pens, a highlighter, and her firmest handshake.

But then they had skipped the firm handshake and instead had hugged, tight, and Reyna had snagged a bowl of jelly beans from the Praetor office, and for the next few hours they had done nothing but lay on the floor of Hazel’s newly acquired Praetor Villa, swapping stories after stories, lazing around and sketching. Reyna had told her about the Hunt’s newest undertaking, some mythological boar or the other, and also about Thalia’s new obsession with 80’s rock. Hazel had told her about Lavinia’s latest shenanigans, and Gwen’s new job as a much valued mental health counsellor for the Legion. No notetaking had taken place. No praetor advice had been shared.

“It’s very good,” Reyna said, gesturing to Hazel’s drawing of Arion. “The likeness is stunning.”

Hazel beamed. “Really?”

“Of course!” Reyna scrambled to sit up. “It’s uncanny. This is really, really good, Hazel. It’s like…” Reyna made a hand gesture like she was pulling something; Hazel recognised it as an unconscious tick that Reyna had, one usually employed in Town Hall meetings when she was struggling to find the correct words to use for convincing reluctant denizens. “It’s like make a career out of it good,” she finished.

It was a warming compliment. Hazel’s smile grew wider; this was a pride unlike any other, something simple and easy and painless. Hazel had convinced herself to take pride in the smaller things more often. It made a dreary life just a little bit happier and easier when she could take pride in mastering her mist magic, in baking a sweet cupcake to perfection, in a good sparring session, in making a friend smile. But this pride in her artwork was somehow—brighter. It was something she’d dedicated long hours to.

“Horse artist?” Hazel said. “You think there’s a market out there for that?”

“Are you kidding me? Pet artist! Lucrative as they come.” Reyna laughed, an easy, lovely sound, and this too was unusual, this too was good, this too warmed Hazel. “People go crazy when they get pets. Put them in all cute little kinds of outfits and hire professional photographers, artists...I’m serious, Hazel. Business idea.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hazel said, with a laugh of her own. Then she sighed and set down her pencil. “I appreciate the business advice, though honestly, what I need more is Praetor advice. I feel I’m going insane.”

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Reyna said. “You don’t need my advice, Hazel. You’re a force of nature.”

This was a sweet sentiment, and Reyna probably meant it, but it didn’t help Hazel’s case. “Thanks,” she said. “Like—genuinely. But I do feel...I do feel like I’m going insane. It’s—it’s a lot.”

Reyna’s eyebrows furrowed. She looked older at once, older in all senses of the word. Like the Reyna of before the Hunt, and the break from her duties—Reyna in charge, Praetor Reyna, sixteen year old Reyna with the world on her shoulders. She sat up straighter. “Is someone giving you trouble?” Reyna asked. “I was joking about Octavian earlier, but gods, if someone’s coming up to take his spot as Asshole of the Year—“

“No,” Hazel said quickly. “It’s nothing like that. That’s nothing. I could deal with someone like that no problem. It’s just—like you said...child army.”

Reyna exhaled softly and closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

Hazel hated bringing the mood down, hated evaporating Reyna’s good cheer, but she set that uncomfortableness aside for the time being. She pulled up her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. And there was solidarity in this too, acknowledgment. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything’s—okay, now, for the time being. Doesn’t mean it’s going to stay that way forever.”

“That’s not really ever in your control,” Reyna said with a rueful smile. “But I do...I do get what you mean. I understand.”

“I thought you would,” Hazel said. “That’s why I wrote to you.” She’d thought of going to Frank with these thoughts too, and she was sure he’d give good advice, and be kind about it, but a part of her—a stubborn part, maybe, a conscious part, sure, but a valid part, nonetheless—hadn’t wanted to show a weakness to her co-Praetor, even one as familiar as Frank.

“I don’t know if I can give you any great advice,” Reyna said at last. “I don’t know if I can tell you anything you don’t already know, and you are doing a great job.”

Hazel tried to keep the sadness out of her smile. “Hm.”

“What I needed?” Reyna said. “What I needed when I was a praetor was...gods, just a ear. Just someone to bear it with me. Someone to understand. Jas—he was gone, and it was just me. For the longest time. But then with Frank, it wasn’t as hard again, because we could...we could switch off. We could share. That’s the only thing I can really tell you, Hazel. Only advice I can give you. Share. Share it with me, always. With Frank. Lavinia. Nico. Your friends. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re alone. You don’t have to be.”

“I know,” Hazel said. She’d been alone for so long in Asphodel she had thought she could survive loneliness, if she had to. But she didn’t have to. And she didn’t want to. “And you sold yourself short Reyna—you do give great advice.”

“Sounds like I didn’t say anything you didn’t already know.”

“But I think I needed to hear that from you,” Hazel said. “From someone else. You said it yourself—I just needed to know someone else understood. Otherwise it gets...it gets lonely.”

Reyna’s smile was soft. “You’ve got good instincts, Hazel. You’ll be just fine.”

Gods, she hoped. “Thanks for coming out here on such short notice. You probably were busy with the hunt.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Reyna said, and there was that strange new lightness to her again, a relaxed happiness. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve got time now.”

Hazel picked her pencil back up. “You know, if you try sitting still, maybe I can still do a quick sketch. Before you leave.”

“Actually,” Reyna said, and was Hazel imagining things or did she actually look self-conscious? “I have a sketch request, if you’d accept.”

Hazel was intrigued. “Oh. Oh. Sure. Who?”

Reyna smiled a little sheepishly. “Don’t laugh okay? I miss him. Scipio.”

Pet artist...Hazel let out a small giggle. “Oh, so when you said people go crazy when they get pets, you meant—“

“I told you not to laugh!” But Reyna was laughing herself. It wasn’t sad, but it was sort of wistful. “I never dressed him up or whatever, but he’s been on my mind lately; I’ve been wondering when he’ll reform. Pegasi reform slow, apparently. I thought I’d never see him again in this life, but now that I’m a Hunter—holy Pluto, I can. And you drew Arion so well—“

“I think it’s sweet,” Hazel said. It was, exceedingly so. Hazel was trying to recall Skippy in her memories, and she felt a pang of sadness as she remembered him soaring above them during the War Games. It had been a long time since she had seen him, but she thought she remembered enough to manage a sketch for Reyna. “It might not be a perfect likeness—“

“I’ve got a photo.”

Now, Hazel absolutely couldn’t control herself. She smiled wide, a fond laugh bubbling in her chest. “Oh, Reyna—“

“Will it, or will it not make it easier to draw him?” Reyna asked, tips of her ears a faint pink.

“It’ll be perfect,” Hazel promised. “Where have you got it? In the Praetor office?”

Reyna reached into her pocket and brought out a worn out photograph. As much as it was hilarious, it was also heart-warmingly sweet, a touch melancholy. Hazel sympathised with her—she couldn’t imagine losing Arion. She probably would start carrying a picture of him everywhere too; it wasn’t a bad idea.

“Sure,” Hazel said, studying the picture. “I can do a drawing for you no problem. You can carry it everywhere along with the picture. A horse drawing in exchange for solid advice. My first political quid pro quo as Praetor.”

“That’s a terrible deal, Hazel. I can literally commission you, if you want.”

“I’ll settle for a refill of my jelly beans,” Hazel said, gesturing at the now empty bowl of jelly beans. They’d made fast work of it. It hadn’t survived the first hour.

Reyna sighed and stretched out on the floor. “Oh, I forgot,” she said glumly. “One more piece of advice, Praetor to Praetor.”

Hazel looked up. “Yeah?”

“Stock up on those beans,” Reyna said mournfully. “And never let anyone break into your stash. You’ll need them.”

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 14

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 13 - Chapter 15

Chapter 14- Asphodel

~~~

They’re both idiots. Emotionally stunted idiots with only concern for the world and never for themselves.

~~~

The viewing had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock had to admit, whoever patched the hole in the back of Maxwell’s head had done a spectacular job.

Amelia hung back, chatting politely with family, and Sherlock noticed that she never went up to the casket before it was sealed up and the memorial was moved to the gravesite outside.

Hugging her cousin as the family moved, she whispered something in Ruth’s ear that made the other chuckle quietly.

She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, and when Sherlock arrived at the graveyard, Amelia was gone.

He realized that in all the fuss and bustle, she must have slipped away before the actual memorial began.

She hadn’t been missed, the focus falling on Ruthie and her family, occasionally Lydia. Once the body was in the ground, and people began lingering around for condolences, he went for the gardens. He was positive this time he would find his friend there, as the house was being prepped for a large dinner.

Sure enough, Amelia was sat up under a tree, bundled in her winter jacket, with a sketchbook propped in her lap. She didn’t notice him approach, and barely reacted when he sat down next to her,’ glancing at the picture she was drawing.

“Asphodel,” she explained without looking up. She shaded in the stems, pausing with the end of her pencil between her lips. “A bundle means ‘my regrets follow you into the grave’.”

“Seems appropriate,” he commented.

“Burials freak me out,” she admitted. “And I couldn’t listen to the priest talk about what a great guy he was. I mean, maybe he was for a while, but he did nearly kill John.”

“And you,” Sherlock reminded her. She made a noise under her breath, dismissing his commentary.

“It’s so permanent,” she continued, her sketching a little more intense as she spoke. “Buried in the ground.”

“Flowers sprout from the ground,” Sherlock reminded her quietly. She didn’t react immediately, considering his words before she furrowed her brow in thought.

“Exactly, they spout and grow and become beautiful things,” she lowered her sketchbook to look at him directly. “A coffin just sits there. The body bloats and decays, contributing nothing and warping and bleh.”

“I’ll be sure to plant some nice roses over your body when the time comes,” he smirked.

“But that’s more productive,” she pointed at him with her pencil. “Roses thrive with bonemeal and blood. They love it.”

“I can assure you comfortably,” his smirk grew wider. “You’ll be very much unaware of your surroundings when your time comes. Dead people tend not to complain about their accommodations in my experience.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she poked his arm with her pencil. “Otherwise I’ll haunt you.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, but I’d be willing to see you try and prove otherwise.”

She snorted a laugh under her breath, folding her sketchbook shut.

“Did you see my great-aunt Marge?” she asked in a low voice.

“Is she the one who threw herself over the body?” he questioned in amusement.

“Yep,” she nodded. “She’s been complaining about not getting a cent in my grandpa’s will for decades now. Seems to think Ruthie’s gonna cut her a check today. Her son’s been playing boo-hoo all day too.”

“He called Tommy, ‘Johnny’,” Sherlock supplied, earning a fit of giggles from her. It was far more peaceful in the gardens, even if the plants were mostly bare in anticipation of the upcoming winter weather. There were certainly fewer fake criers.

“Should we even stay for dinner?” she asked, cringing at the thought. “I think I heard Mycroft and my mother are leaving soon.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered, visibly relieved. He was not looking forward to holding his tongue around these people for a few more hours. Aunt Marge alone was enough to provide him snide comments for the next few weeks. “I can be packed in ten minutes.”

Amelia hopped up eagerly, offering a gloved hand and pulling Sherlock to his feet.

“Make it five and we can stop for Indian on the way back.”

~~~

Returning home was uneventful. Both Amelia and Sherlock agreed that it was a bit of a relief not to be staring danger in the face the whole time. It’d been a long few hours, but immediately upon passing the threshold of Baker Street, they were energized again.

Home was home, after all.

John and Mrs. Hudson greeted them with homemade chicken soup, the pair dropping into the kitchen chairs and devouring the meal.

“How has Ruthie held up?” Mrs. Hudson inquired, pouring tea for everyone once they’d finished eating, and moved to the living room.

“As well as you did during your husband's trial,” Sherlock replied briskly. “Favouring the grape, so to speak.”

“To be fair,” Amelia cut in, scowling at Sherlock. “She’s had a chaotic few weeks. I’d be drunk too.”

“But you haven’t been,” Sherlock pointed out. “Comparably, you’ve had a chaotic few months.”

“I have some old whiskey in the pantry. Is that your blessing, Sherlock? Or shall I start spending the nights in the pub with Jessica Reynolds?”

“You two are always at each other,” Mrs. Hudson tutted. “After what John told me, I thought you’d be like honeymooners when you got back.”

Amelia immediately turned her focus to John, who was doing his best to avoid the Auburn-haired woman’s gaze.

“Oh? And what did John tell you?” she squeaked out, face red.

Sherlock even had to admit, it was an amusing response.

“I’m not getting in the middle of this,” Mrs. Hudson stood up and retreated for the stairs. “Forget I said anything. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Clever girl,” Amelia muttered after the landlady had closed the door to her flat. She kept her eyes on John, waiting for him to break. It was bound to happen. He always broke with that look.

“Really?” he set his tea down, looking between Sherlock and Amelia impatiently. “Nothing happened?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question, John,” Sherlock crossed his legs, taking a slow sip of his tea. “Would you please expand on what you mean?”

Scoffing, he turned to Amelia.

Smart, Sherlock relented. Her every expression read like a book. Perhaps they’d all gotten too familiar with one another, each roommate reading the other so easily.

“Mia?” he asked.

Amelia shrugged, mumbling something non-committal about there only being one bed.

“We didn’t bang!” she finally snapped under John's scrutinizing look. “Stop being childish John. Honestly.”

“Just shared a bed,” Sherlock hummed. “Pressed against one another the entirety of the night.”

“Fully clothed,” Amelia supplied with a huff. “You’re both enjoying getting a rise out of me and I won’t have it.”

“I think, you wouldn’t be worked up if there wasn’t something you were concerned about being taken out of context,” John reasoned, leaning into his chair smugly.

“Yeah, you thinking I’d sleep with Sherlock,” she scoffed.

“And what’s so bad about that?” Sherlock poked the bear a little further, his face stretched in feign outrage.

Between embarrassment, frustration, and panic, Amelia looked like she short-circuited at the question.

“I’m going to bed,” she stood up, grabbing her blanket, and hobbled down the stairs to her room.

“You’re enjoying this?” John asked with a chuckle.

“Immensely,” Sherlock admitted, smirking to himself.

“And how did you feel about sharing such an intimate space with her?” John quizzed, brow arched expectantly.

How on Earth did he turn it on him?

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock scanned John over. What was his goal here?

Personal satisfaction? No, John wasn’t vindictive like that. He wouldn’t cause trouble for the sake of trouble, he was trying to figure something out.

“Don’t be a busy-body, John, it’s unbecoming,” he rolled his eyes, pulling his phone out and pretending to browse the web.

“Mhm,” John tapped a finger to his chin. “And how did it feel to be ‘pressed against one another the entirety of the night’?”

“I was just teasing Amelia,” he countered.

“You’re not a robot, right?” John sighed.

“I don’t understand what you’re implying?” Sherlock huffed. “What a waste of time.”

He went to retreat for his room when John finally spoke up.

“Amelia,” he caught his friend by the wrist before he passed him. “Do you have feelings for her?”

What?

“What?” Sherlock gaped at him. “Are you mad?”

“What’s her favourite colour?” John waited.

“Marigold yellow,” he replied quickly. “I know yours too, an embarrassingly boring shade of taupe.”

“Favourite book?”

“Anything by Ernest Hemingway.”

“My favourite?”

“John, you’re not proving your point by quizzing me on basic facts about the people I surround myself with,” he pulled his hand free. “She’s a friend.”

“Would you spoon me tonight, then?” John challenged to Sherlock's back.

“Sod off!”

And so John had his answer.

Now to help Amelia and Sherlock to figure it out. He was a good friend after all, and they were a pair of emotionally stunted idiots.

~~~

Sherlock, for his part, truly didn’t believe he had feelings for Amelia Brenner.

For starters, he didn’t know her middle name. Only that it started with “O”. He could have easily gotten her birth certificate but remained convinced that would be cheating.

So how could he have feelings for someone he didn’t fully know?

Of course, John was the one pressing it. The guy who falls in love after one date, clearly confused by two close friends. Just because they were of opposite genders did not mean they automatically were attracted to one another.

And while Sherlock was attracted, a little bit, to Amelia, that didn’t change his stance. That was physical attraction, not anything deeper or meaningful and he was too much of a gentleman to lure her down that road.

He knew Amelia got flustered when it came to romantic entanglements. He didn’t actually believe she had any real feelings for him. It would have been obvious. Most people were obvious, and she’d slept with him, hugged him, touched him, without any hesitation or second thought. That’s just how she was, and that’s why it was so easy for him to tease her.

None of it was genuine.

Grabbing a book off his nightstand, Sherlock was disappointed to find it was a novel he’d finished before leaving for Sirenshore. Not willing to sulk back into the living room to grab something new, he started flipping through the pages until he found a section he’d enjoyed.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long it’d been, but at some point, John went to his bedroom upstairs and the flat was silent.

Aside from the thud of Amelia’s boot and a string of curse words in what Sherlock imagined was her attempt at being quiet.

Setting his book aside, Sherlock crept toward the kitchen, watching from the hall while Amelia made peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She’s changed to her pajamas but clearly hadn’t been sleeping, as her fingers and arms were covered with paint.

She leaned against the countertop, biting into her sandwich and reading the ingredients on the peanut butter container.

He knew she had to have been exhausted after the long trip back and the funeral. Why hadn’t she fallen asleep yet?

He glanced at the kitchen clock. It’d been nearly three hours, and it was considerably late in the night.

Then he remembered.

The basement flat. She didn’t like it down there alone, not recently.

But, with John home, she couldn’t very well sleep on the sofa as she had been. Amelia likes pretending things were fine, even when it was obvious she was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Is the bread stale?” he asked, announcing himself before stepping into the light.

“What?” she chewed a bit, confused at the question. “I mean, no? It doesn’t taste like it.”

“Right,” he nodded, moving to the same countertop and mimicking her lean. Lots of paint on her arms. More than usual. She was being sloppy, which confirmed his theory she was tired.

“What time did you wake up today?” he asked, trying to stay casual.

“Around six-thirty... you were there...” she lowered her sandwich. “Why are you being weird?”

“You’ve been up painting,” he commented, lifting her arm toward the light. “Can’t sleep?”

She tugged her arm free and took another bite of her sandwich.

“Inspiration struck,” she answered. “It’s not very good, but I needed to get it out of my system. Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I never sleep,” he replied. “If you’d like, I was going to do some reading by the fire. It’s warmer than in my bedroom. You’re welcome to come back, John shouldn’t be up until morning.”

She ate the final piece of the sandwich, watching him suspiciously.

“Is this about what John was going on about earlier?” she asked. “Because I know I got weird but seriously, intimacy and whatever freaks me out and he’s totally reading into things.”

“I know,” he stood up. “He’s John. He’ll get over it soon enough. The injury probably is making him bored so he’s coming up with fantastical ways to entertain himself.”

It made sense and Amelia seemed content with the answer.

“That’s...” she laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Let me grab an extra blanket and something to do. I’ll be back.”

When she returned for the evening, she had a sketchbook under her arm and a blanket was thrown over her shoulders. Settling in, they both worked quietly until Sherlock no longer heard the scratch of her pencils against the paper.

Sure enough, she’d passed out, the sketchbook set aside and the blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She looked relaxed, the same peaceful expression on her face as she’d had at Sirenshore.

Sherlock tossed another log into the fire. He wasn’t planning on sleeping any time soon, his mind still reeling over everything from the last weekend. He needed to find Moriarty before he enacted whatever it was he was planning.

He needed to keep his friends safe.

Chapter 15

[foreversillythings]

with the taste of pomegranate on our lips chapter 3

part one kore chapter three a goddess’ prayer

Sometimes thoughts of Gale kept her up at night, sometimes the loneliness, but when she couldn't sleep, Madge sat at her window and peered out at the moon.

Marvel's twin was Katniss, virgin goddess of the hunt, the moon, forests and protector of young girls. Every night her chariot pulled the moon up into the sky and during the day she hunted through the forests with her companions, freer than Madge could ever dream of. What must it be like to have no master at all? To be able to do whatever one liked? Katniss had her responsibilities of course, but Madge did not want to shirk her duties either. She just wanted to feel foreign grass between her toes, to meet new people and learn of the world outside. Yes, the world was not always safe, yes there were monsters and wicked people, but there was also so much beauty to be seen, so much life had to offer. Katniss was a goddess just like Madge and if she could look after herself, couldn't Madge learn how as well?

Madge stared out at the moon and oh, what she wouldn't give for a just a taste of its freedom.

*

Gale was excited. 

When was the last time he’d been excited about anything? Anticipation too thrummed inside him and it had been ages since he’d last felt like this. So long ago it almost felt like a dream rather than his life. It had been before he’d become lord of the underworld, before the lots had been drawn and he’d been sent down into the dark. Before before when he was only Gale and he would laugh with his brothers and charm pretty girls, when he lived above the earth and knew nothing of loneliness. He’d been happy then, he can remember that (if only barely), and the whole world had been stretched out before them. They’d just overthrown the Titans, freedom was intoxicating and the idea of being king of his own realm had been exhilarating. He had descended to the dead with bravado, too young and foolish to foresee how things would change. It had been chance that had seen him draw the underworld as his realm, Gloss the earth and skies and Brutus the seas, and it was chance he had cursed for so very long.

He’d eventually given up cursing fate, given up wishing he’d become ruler of any other realm than his. Resignation, somewhere in all the years yearning for what had been, crept in and made him hollow. This was his lot, the one he’d drawn that long ago day flushed with their victory over their parents’ generation, and there was nothing to be done about it. He would rule alone in the dark, disliked, feared and unwanted. 

Except, maybe it wasn't his lot.

Maybe, just maybe, there could be something else.

*

Madge had held her tongue for days, but eventually curiosity got the better of her. She plied her loom as she did everyday and when her mother passed by on the way to the kitchen she blurted “So when do you think the next meeting at Olympus will be?”

Her mother turned to look at her with a perplexed raise of the eyebrow and Madge smiled in what she hoped was an entirely unsuspicious manner.

“Soon I suspect, it’s been a while since the last. Why?”

“Oh, well, I...just love hearing about what everyone’s been up to. The other Gods always seem to get up to all sorts of incredible things,” Madge said and it wasn’t even a lie, the tales of her fellow gods’ shenanigans had always provided ample entertainment. Seeder snorted.

“You might love it, but try actually being face to face with them when you hear all about their nonsense. You know how difficult it is not to make a face when listening to Gloss brag about his latest ludicrous infidelity or you have to watch Darius and Cato have a wrestling match in the middle of the room to prove which of them is the manliest? Nearly impossible. Or when Beetee catches Cato and Glimmer in a net in the midst of one their many illicit rendezvous and invites us all to go humiliate them? Not that Glimmer was humiliated, she just wanted to carry on. It was Cato who looked as if he might expire from embarrassment. Or how about that time Gloss suspected a man was interested in Cashmere and to prove it created a Cashmere made out of clouds and sent it to seduce the man? And that’s not even getting into all the love interests of Marvel’s that have wound up as plants. That’s our jurisdiction and yet you’d never guess with the amount of plants he’s made due to his broken heart.”

Madge laughed, just as she always did at how outrageous the stories were, and her mother joined in, the two soon tossing out all their favourite crazy tales. The nymph that tricked Gloss into promising her whatever she desired when he tried to woo her and then promptly told him she wanted him to leave her alone. That time Cato got himself trapped in a jar. When Lyme looked in the mirror while playing the aulos and was so offended at how silly she looked that she cursed the instrument and anyone who played it. And more and more, until they can barely breathe through their laughter. 

The loneliness would come back, the desire to see the world and be free of this house, but for a moment at least, Madge didn’t want to be anywhere but here.

*

Gale had never enjoyed his visits to Olympus, but never had he wanted one to be over as badly as he did this one. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, tapped his foot and earned many a frustrated glare from whoever was speaking, but for the first time in so long, Gale had something to look forward to. Today their displeasure couldn’t touch him. The anticipation could though and it nearly drove him mad, especially as the meeting went on and on and on, long past its usual end. The other gods talked and talked of nothing, argued and huffed and bragged and Gale had to restrain himself from banging his head against the back of his throne. He just wanted this to be over, more than ever before, but the sun was sinking low before he was finally released. He was up almost before Gloss was finished dismissing them and he didn’t even wait for his brother to make his customary invitation for refreshments before he refused it. 

“Sorry brother, but I have to go. So much work to do,” he called over his shoulder and then he was in his chariot, charging swiftly down the slope of Olympus and across Greece. The others would surely speculate about his haste, but he didn’t care. Let them talk, it no longer mattered. His chariot flew across meadows and fields and then he was in their copse of trees, his shadow form already dropping. His eyes searched eagerly, tension in his chest and there she was. Madge was waiting in pale, misty blue with flowered vines woven round her arms. She leaned against a tree, her head tilted back to absorb the dying sunlight falling through the leaves. Her hair shone golden and spilled against the brown bark behind her back and Gale stopped his chariot short to admire her. They were the antithesis of each other, how could she be here? If anyone was to pull away from him, shouldn't it be her?

Life and death are intimately connected; one could not exist without the other 

He felt a grin tug at his lips as he stepped off his chariot and ran a calming hand along Nyctaeus's flank. Madge rolled her head to the side and saw him, her welcoming smile pooling warmth in his stomach. She pushed slightly off her tree and waited, the blue of those eyes drawing him in. He walked towards her and the bitterness he was so used to did not touch him here, his anger left far behind. 

"Hello Gale," she said and he smiled a little wider, her voice turning his name into something wonderful. 

"Hello Madge."

She beckoned him closer and he went, though not nearly as close as he wanted to. She beamed. 

"I'm so glad you're here. Now tell me of the Underworld," she said, her eyes lit up with eagerness. Gale grinned and forced his mind to straighten, even as her proximity drove him to distraction.

"You don’t wish to hear of today's meeting?" he asked and she laughed, her eyes dancing merrily.

"I would but I know better than to ask you," she teased and then lowered her voice to a mocking grunt. "It was the same. Nothing happened, we did nothing and everything was the same."

Gale laughed and shook his head, her giggles meeting his. When was the last time he'd laughed like this? He couldn’t even think of it. Madge pressed a hand to her mouth and fell back against her tree, her eyes twinkling. 

"So no," she said, "I don't wish to hear about Olympus. Tell me of your home."

Home? Was the underworld home? He lived there certainly, had for so long he could barely remember when he hadn't, but had he ever felt at home there? He shook his head; Madge was waiting for an answer, not a philosophical crisis. 

"Well, there are three layers to it. The highest is Elysium where the best and greatest go," he began and Madge nodded, a dreamy look coming over her face.

"Mother has spoken to me of the Elysian Fields, where heroes rest in paradise. Is it truly so lovely?"

"Yes. It is the smallest section of the underworld's realms, but by far the most beautiful. The weather is always golden and warm, the land verdant and lush, the food rich and savoury. They want for nothing nor do they know any hardship or discomfort. It is the land of the blessed and so they delight in whatever pastimes please them, without worry or concern."

Madge sighed. "How wonderful. But where do the rest go? They cannot all find homes in Elysium."

Gale shook his head and moved a step closer, his legs growing bold.

"No, the truly righteous are few. The majority of people go to the Asphodel Meadows. That is the land for those who have done no great evil, nor any great good. They are not so blessed as those who dwell in Elysium, but it is not an awful afterlife. The sun is weaker there, unable to reach so far down and mist hangs ever upon the ground. It is the largest realm of the underworld and the most populous. And beyond that, there is-"

"Tartarus," she breathed and he nodded.

"Yes, Tartarus. Only the most wicked of souls are sent there and they spend their eternity punished for their crimes."

"And the Titans? They're kept there too, aren't they?"

Gale nodded and came closer again, filled with a bravery he hoped was not misplaced. He leaned against her tree with folded arms and tilted his head to look down at her. They were very close now, barely inches between them and she pushed off the tree and turned to face him, her shoulder leaning into the bark just as his was. The wind hummed through the woods and blew hair into her eyes and Gale's hand itched to reach up and brush it from her face. He wanted to be that bold, wanted to woo as Gloss or Marvel would, but caution told him not to take the chance. He did not want to risk this.

"Yes. The Titans are kept prisoner in Tartarus as well, guarded by their half-siblings the Hecatoncheires."

Madge bit her lip. "Hecatoncheires. Do they truly have a hundred hands each?"

"Yes and fifty heads."

Madge's mouth popped open and he grinned, his fingers still yearning to touch her. She let out a breath, her head shaking in disbelief. "I can't imagine such a person. But I suppose the world is full of such things, isn't it? The plants tell me all sorts of stories of giants, monsters and heroes, but it is so hard to believe they’re true."

Gale laughed and slid a little closer, his feet brushing her toes. He felt the contact like a jolt of Gloss' lightning and Madge turned pink, though she did not pull away.

"You are a goddess," he teased and it felt so good, "is it really so hard to conceive of other such beings?"

Madge ducked her head and tucked stray hairs behind her ear, a self-deprecating laugh passing her lips.

"It’s silly I know, but they are only stories to me. I have never met them, have never felt their impact. My world is small, even mortals do not seem entirely real."

Gale frowned and Madge looked out over his shoulder at the meadow beyond.

"My mother will be home soon," she said in a flat voice and Gale did not mean to wilt, but wilt he did.

“I do not want you to get in any trouble,” he said and Madge let out a soft hum.

“And I wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble either.”

Gale looked up and met her wry grin with one of his own. “I suppose you should go then,” he said even though that was the last thing he wanted. She nodded but did not move away, her eyes staring searchingly into his own. 

“I just…I just wish I didn’t have to. I wish there was some way I could stay and talk with you.”

Gale did not know what to say to that and Madge bit her lip, vulnerable eyes waiting for his response. How lonely she must be locked up in that house all day. I know that feeling well, don’t I? That stray lock of hair against her forehead twisted in the breeze and without even really thinking about it, Gale reached forward and brushed it from her face. She inhaled softly, her cheeks reddening, and his fingers burned where they’d grazed her skin. 

“If…if you say my name, if you invoke it in prayer, I will hear. If you call, I will come,” he whispered, the words falling from his lips without thought. She stared at him and he pulled his hand back, the tingle of her still living in his fingertips. 

“Alright, I will. I will call on you as soon as I’m able” she breathed and Gale nodded. They stayed like that for a moment, uncertain, the sun dipping all the way below the horizon. The first of the stars began to peek out and Madge surged up and kissed his cheek, her lips warm and soft on his skin. Gale stiffened, her feather light fingers touching his other cheek and her eyelids fluttering closed. She smelt of fresh earth and wildflowers and a voice in his head screamed that this was foolish, wrong, would never work, but for once, Gale didn’t listen. He rested his hands on her hips, her warmth bleeding through him and burning away his every shadow. Madge clung to him for the single brightest moment of his life and then she was gone, only the sweetest hint of flowers left in her wake. She ran back to her home as the moonlight flooded the meadow beyond the woods and Gale watched her as she went, her hair turned silver and streaming out behind her. He touched his cheek and he could feel her there still.

Madge…

*

Madge was breathless and giddy as she sped home, her feet skipping through the moon drenched flowers. She had never been out this late before and Gale hummed inside her blood, the warmth of his hands upon her, the feel of his skin beneath her lips. She almost laughed to the night, freedom and joy buzzing through her bones. She fell into her front door and slipped inside, her hands pressed to her heart.

Gale, oh Gale, I will call you back to me soon

“Madge?”

She turned and suddenly the warmth left her, an icy chill settling on her shoulders.

“Mother,” she whispered and Seeder stared at her from across the room. Her mother’s eyes widened, her mouth trembled and oh no, oh no oh no no no.

“You were outside,” Seeder accused, fury mingling with the fear in her gaze. Madge opened her mouth but could find no words to answer. She backed into the door and Seeder strode forwards, her face covered over in rage.

“What were you doing outside?” she demanded and Madge shook her head.

“Mother, I-”

“I told you not to go outside!” she shouted and Madge shrank back. Seeder reached for her and Madge gasped as her mother gripped her shoulders.

“What were you doing, what were you doing? Do you want to be lost? Do you want them to take you from me?”

“No,” Madge said, struggling in her mother’s grasp, “no, of course not. I just…I just”-

“How could you be so stupid? How could you?” Seeder cried and Madge felt something desperate building inside of her. 

“Stop it,” she pleaded but Seeder didn’t listen.

“Do you want to be lost? Do you want to be abducted?”

“No, stop it.”

“How could you be so foolish, so reckless-”

“STOP!” Madge shouted and Seeder was stunned momentarily speechless. Madge shoved at her mother’s chest, pushing her away and Seeder went, stumbling as she did. Madge breathed heavily, her heart pounding.

“I was outside because I can’t live like this, I can’t! I’m a prisoner, I’m trapped and I need to get out. I never go anywhere, I never meet anyone. I can’t live like this anymore,” she said raggedly and Seeder shook her head in disbelief.

“Madge, my Madge I am trying to keep you safe.”

“I know, I know. But I’m not safe, I’m miserable. I’m going insane staying cooped up like this, I want to live,” she said, angry tears burning at the corners of her eyes. Seeder’s face began to darken, a violent wind began to howl outside and Madge felt frustration mount within her.

“You are living; a good, safe life. How dare you be so ungrateful? I have done everything for you. I will not listen to this. You will go to your room and you will stay there. Do you hear me?” Seeder demanded and Madge felt like the walls were closing in on her. She’ll never let me go, I’ll never leave. I’ll live forever, and I’ll be trapped here for all that time. No, no, I can’t. I won’t.

“Madge-”

“No! I won’t be your prisoner! I won’t!”

Seeder reached for her but Madge was quicker. She yanked open the door and fled into the rising tempest, the wind tearing at her hair and dress. She ran as fast as she could, her mother’s shouts drowned out in the gale. Madge did not stop, could not, her legs carrying her deep into the woods and away from that damned house, far, far away. She needed to get away, she had to get away, but to where? Where would she go?

If…if you say my name, if you invoke it in prayer, I will hear. If you call, I will come

Madge fell to her knees in the dirt and dug her hands into the earth, even the voices of the plants lost in the creaking of trees and the screaming winds.

“Hear me Gale, answer my prayer lord of the underworld. Take me away from here, take me away,” she begged and in the time it took her to blink, he was there. A traveling cloak whipped behind him, his hair blew in every direction and his horses pawed the ground, tossing restless heads in the storm. Moonlight hit his eyes and made them shine, the breath stolen from her lungs. He held out a hand.

“Are you sure?”

Madge did not hesitate and placed her hand in his.

“Yes.”

end of part one

*

Just a heads up, the next chapter should be up in about two weeks, rather than the usual one. I'm almost done the next chapter of roses are red, roses are white and I want to focus on finishing that up, which means I probably won't have time to the next chapter of this one done for monday. Sorry!

[neonnhoney-rec]

Min Yoongi

Here are a few yoongi recs, most of them I've read and love, some are in my TBR. Tbh most of them are smut, but some are fluff and angst mostly angst. I will keep updating this woop woop.

I hope you enjoy tehee!

revenge- @lustfuldevils

fuck boy yoongs

request: yoongi teaches you to give a bj- @kpurereactions

says it on the tin

Theres no need to be nervous around Yoongi, he’ll take care of you and make you feel good no matter what it is you’re doing.

sangria- @minstrivia

a day at the beach has yoongi hornier than he’d like to admit.

missing link- @drquinzelharleen

You catch Yoongi playing with himself before a night out and some part of you wants to join him. That’s crazy though, he’s your best friend… Right?

talk- @httpjeon​

you walk in on yoongi on the phone with a customer

act on it- @dom-joonie

You learn that the cute barista you’ve been crushing on might have an…otherworldly disposition after you accidentally cut yourself.

too sweet- @justoneday-namjoonii

you smell so sweet to them the best they’ve ever had (vampire au)

moving to a university with a few secrets, has you falling for these boys who need your help

too hot to sleep- @gamerguk

“ Umm can’t wait to get rawed in our kitchen when I’m living with the love of my life ” 

can you turn off your phone- @btssavemylifeblr

Yoongi’s alarm clock wakes you up at 6 am on a Sunday and you are not happy about it.  At least, not at first…

grey area- @blushoseoks

and just like that, your fate was sealed - because min yoongi was absolutely going to destroy you. but hell if you weren’t going to let him, or bask happily in the flames as he did so. 

and sadly, at the time, you didn’t think that your thoughts would become so literal.

dancing with the devil- @minnpd​

suga daddy suga

asphodel- @hayjeon

A series of drabbles and moments surrounding Hades, the god of death and Persephone, the goddess of nature

lifeguard yoongi- @gukgalore

who knew making eyes at a hot lifeguard would get you what you really wanted.

yoongi cums in his pants- @hobiorbit

dry humping yoongi till cums in his pants cause its hot

boy .girl- @floralseokjin

Boy. Girl. It’s as simple as that. Girl can’t get a good date—scrap that—girl can’t get a good lay, and boy is willing to help out with that… Friends with benefits seems the perfect solution, except for the fact, it’s not. It never is. Not when boy already has feelings for girl…

Evil- @littlemisskookie

Your life is pretty boring, apart from being the Alpha of your pack. But it gets a bit more exciting when you discover Yoongi wants to spend his heat with none other than you.

Bet i can make you cum without touching your cock- @cyphertrip

says it on the tin

boseong breakfast- @honeymoonjin

it may be misfortune that brings you to min yoongi’s door looking for a place to stay, but luckily holly lodge has a vacancy.

Love is for birds baby- @mininky

You refuse to believe in love. It’s a concept created by big corporations like hallmark to get sad saps like you to buy their shit. But it’s all fake. You’re convinced of that at least until a series of events with a certain tattoo artist who you loved to hate makes you question everything you’ve ever known.

Hands- @moonlightchildz

hand fetish? is that a thing?

Producer!yoongi- @matchakoo

where yoongi’s song plays over a really serene and domestic smut scene 

Please be naked- @floralseokjin 

ou find it’s easy to become addicted to a distraction…

Lonely hearts club-  @joonbird

 “In this world, currency is not money but life, and those who cannot repay their debts have no choice but to submit for the Separation - a procedure in which the soul and mind are extracted from their bodies, leaving behind nothing but an empty shell. Jeon Jungkook is an underground tattoo artist hiding from the outside world. She has been waiting her whole life to be Separated. They were never supposed to meet - let alone fall in love.”

- or -

“Two lonely hearts collide.”

Rose garden dreams- @glossgf

you, a princess not yet betrothed, and your knight, Yoongi, have fallen in love. But what happens when a prince asks for your hand in marriage? What will you and Yoongi do then…?

single parent au- @yukheii​

your daughter is very fond of yoongi

Us, plus two- @deathbyyoongi

You and Yoongi sharing a moment, relishing in the glow of your growing family when your daughter has a nightmare, and Yoongi has to take care of those pesky monsters.

When the power goes out- @inkjam-moon

When a storm causes the electricity to go out, it becomes to dark in the apartment to study, so you and Yoongi have to find another way to pass the time.

Conveniently- @baeseoul

you live above a convenience store with your daughter, owned by a rather attractive yoongi. this is the story of how u and your daughter gained another member to your little family.

Destruction of a muse- @baeseoul

you’re in your last year of uni doing literature and lose your motivation, and it’s not till you meet a talented musician you get your ambition back. a. lot. of. angust.

Long distance-  @miss-noo-na

Yoongi misses the sound of your voice.

Conjecture-  @writingsofmyimagination​

Your management refused to renew your contract unless you collaborated, so you ending up working with Min Yoongi. A guy you’d disliked from before both of your debuts. There is more to their past than meets the eye.

Photoshoot tease- @shooting-stars-library

“Min Yoongi is a sexy little shit and he knows it.”

What if-  @blameblamebts

Being in a gang wasn’t a good thing, and it never would be, always looked down upon. But it isn’t what people think it to be. It’s worse. Much worse.

Aawake at night- @softyoongiionly​

You can’t sleep. Luckily, your boyfriend can’t either. 

Clair de lune- @yoonia

You were ready to leave a part of your life to move on to the next, and he is willing to give you a chance to end it glamorously. But at what cost? And will he be a part of the life you are leaving behind or will he be there for the next part of it? 

Reflections- @yoonia

“How could I ever forget about you" parent au

Faded- @yoonia

You were his soulmate, that part he knew well. Until one day he didn’t want you anymore. He couldn’t, when all he could see from you was light and all he felt within himself was darkness. Your love has gone cold as he retreated from you, burying himself deep in the dark. But what happened when Yoongi had to watch you start over with somebody else, when Yoongi let his selfishness gain control on him of you.

Monday- @strwberrytae

It’s that special time a month that brings you great pain yet great joy. Sure, there’s cramps and absolute uncomfort but your little monthly friend makes you insanely horny. Needy and desperate for a release that only your boyfriend can provide, will he cave and give you what you want?

Makeshift chemistry- @jungblue

Fleeting lust was all you’d ever known, nothing serious or long lasting, just a temporary fix to satisfy your needs. That is until you meet Min Yoongi who is determined to put an end to your binge of makeshift relationships.

What you did last summer- @winetae

Yoongi was fine with a lot of things—you maxing out his credit cards to buy ridiculously expensive items of clothing that you never wore more than once, you taking out his newest ride for a spin without permission, you spending an extra thirty minutes on your hair and makeup when he was running late for a dinner function. 

What he was not okay with, however, was you sharing your pussy with barely-out-of-college boys who were incapable of going five seconds without creaming their pants.

No, that was where he drew the line.

Bad boys bring it to you- @yuengi​

tattoo artist yoongi

Fortuna- @readyplayerhobi

300 years ago, half the world’s population died when the experimental Fortuna virus escaped. The remaining male population has been rendered infertile with one loophole that has meant polyamorous relationships have become the norm.

Crescendo- @dreamyjoons

after hours of waiting for the grumpy pianist to leave the stage, you finally have it out with him in a way better than you could have imagined. 

Restraint-  @writingsofmyimagination​

As Jungkook’s best friend recently moved to Seoul, there is one of the boys you have yet to meet. This one has a dark secret and has to use all the restraint he can to control himself around you.

Curious- @honeymoonjin

Taehyung confides in you and your boyfriend Yoongi that he might be bi, and the two of you offer to let him experiment with you to find out. 

Gingham- @ropeseok​

There’s no place like home! At least, that’s how Yoongi felt after a long night of taking the little one trick-or-treating. He can’t wait to take his costume off - however, he seems to insist that you keep yours on.​

Somebody else- @jamaisjoons

yoongi doesn’t want you anymore. but he can’t stand watching you with someone else. post break up au.

Do you love me-  @caribbeanempressblog

Yoongi is bad at feelings

Love well done- @oraclemarie

You are the executive chef of your very own fine dining restaurant. A big company makes you the offer of a lifetime, setting you on a path straight to Min Yoongi-your drunken hook up. 

Pepero day- @kittae

Valentine’s with your best friend, yoongi

The last- @kittae

When the world’s gone to shit and you’ve taught yourself to stay alive while danger lurks around every corner, the last thing you need is another mouth to feed and extra “dead” weight. Yet you can’t bring yourself to leave another human being behind, and it might as well have been your worst decision ever… or was it the best?

Baby’s fist christmas- @hobisbeautifulass​

3 months after you give birth to your first child, you and your husband start putting together the perfect first Christmas for your new family of three.

This is just to say  – @btsiguess

To say it’s unusual to have a soulmate is an understatement, and most people desperately wish to have an elegant name scrawled upon their wrist. In reality though, you’d have to say it causes much more issues than it solves.

I like you – @iq-biased

A surprise visit from a friend leaves Yoongi with a night to remember, and something to say

Small things- @floralseokjin

you and vamp yoongi have an argument

Daddy diaries- @bts-reveries

yoongi started blogging his life on his social medias to prove everyone who thought he couldn’t raise a child alone wrong. but as his daughter’s birthday draws near, what happens when she wishes for a new mom?

Drink me- @njssi​

Your vampire boyfriend refuses to bite you in fear of not being able to stop himself. But you always get what you want.

Rule of thirst- @prolixitae

vampires were just folklore until yoongi became one. now he’s got only two emotions: you and hunger. and tonight, you let him feed off you.

A ticket to the sun- @seokeros​ (ao3)

In a world where a person's life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. But there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

Alt: yoongo gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

Wildest moments- @joonbird

“Min Yoongi is forbidden territory. And although you both know better, the two of you just can’t seem to stay apart.”

Breakfast in bed- @joonbird

“Min Yoongi, a grumpy Ikea employee, is wondering who you are and why exactly you’re sleeping in the display bed at his Ikea.”

Hyung, open the door- @gotmetalkinginmysleep

You’ve been keeping the boys awake with your moaning for months thanks to Yoongi. Tae and Jungkook want to find out why.

The singularity theory- @dovechim

in your last year of undergrad, you find out what a gloryhole is at the expense of your final year thesis. it’s a classic example of a psychology experiment that went way, way wrong. 

You look like you need a drink- @dark-muse-iris

After a bad week with the worst luck imaginable, you happen upon a local dive bar run by an attractive young bartender who livens up your evening.

The married life- @jungnoir

being married is never a bore when your husband is a vampire king + inspired by  “Stop calling me Princess!” “I apologize, my Queen.”.

Taxi- @honeyedhoseok

 ❛  Drinks at a bar + a rainy night + a single taxi to share with the bane of your existence, Min Yoongi = one interesting car ride back to your apartment.  ❜ 

First love- @writing-in-ivory

You first saw him in the multi-purpose room. Later learn his name, and on your third year, as he becomes your neighbor, you discover his lifestyle. Knowing your crush on him was nothing but that, you wanted to find the courage to look for love. Asking your friend for help, you’re pointed in the direction of the expert. Your neighbor, Min Yoongi. 

pugna- @jungwoohoos

he showed up at your doorstep one day, covered in cuts and testing your patience. you don’t know why, but you felt compelled to help him. you just don’t realize how deep that runs

Mean yoongi- @jjkpls

Min Yoongi asks you to take care of his plants when he’s gone. It doesn’t go as planned and well, he has to deal with your misbehaving ass.

Sour skittles- @softyoongiionly

WELCOME TO GLASSCLAW! The only city where you can get a homecooked meal and a hitman all on the same street! You moved to GlassClaw for a fresh start after a group of raiders invaded your previous compound. Unbeknownst to you, the city has its own collection of riff raff and, at the head of it all is your neighbor Min Yoongi. The mischevious merchant with one hell of a sailor mouth is known for swindling the rich and, serving the poor. The world has become convoluted and chaotic since the apocalypse but, two things were certain: You were so much more than pretty face and, Yoongi was so much more than just a thief.

Life’s little joys-  @littlemeowmeowschimmy

getting pregers with yoongi

Fear and dumplings-  @softyoongiionly

You’re in your final semester at University when your Abnormal Psychology professor assigns you a partnered project surrounding your greatest fears. Lucky for you, your partner just so happens to be a cute boy named Min Yoongi.

Min yoongi, library services- @kpopfanfictrash

When you accept the the offered research position at Bangtan University, you are well aware of your partner’s prestige. The only problem is - so is he.

Behind the stick-  @randombtsprincessa

Your bartender for the night and you take an interest in one another.

Mic drop- @ve1vetyoongi

when underground rapper min yoongi uncovers the dirty secret behind his biggest rival, your brother and hip hop champion kim namjoon’s success, he is determined to take home this year’s mic drop contest trophy no matter who he hurts along the way. you’re behind the camera, content with capturing namjoon’s picture perfect persona from the sidelines but when his hard-faced enemy Gloss, makes you realise you could be more than just the point and shoot, you start to feel your loyalties shifting.

Pinewood and poetry- @spicykoreantatertots

After getting closer to and developing a crush on your friend over the summer, you want nothing more than to cozy up to him as the seasons start to change. That is until your ex-boyfriend, Jung Hoseok, returns from his summer study abroad program. Will Hoseok stand in the way of your budding romance with your mutual friend, Min Yoongi?

His hands- @nahfamily

You hadn’t ever paid much attention to Min Yoongi until a stupid icebreaker at your office. Now, you can’t get him, and his hands, out of your head

Birthday boy- @btssmutgalore

Yoongi wants to give his best friend Jimin the perfect birthday gift… And it just so happens to be you.

Happy valentine’s day- @sweetwritertanya​

You have a very special idea for this Valentine’s Day, focused completely on your boyfriend Yoongi who comes home to an unexpected surprise. 

Happy birthday- @parkmuse

Your boyfriend Jimin has a bit of a surprise for you on your birthday, and he goes by the name of Yoongi.

Arranged-  @minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong

Y/N is a struggling student in Seoul: working multiple jobs, living in a broom closet apartment, and often sacrificing her dignity for the sake of her livelihood. What happens when a handsome stranger presents her with an offer she cannot refuse at the moment she needs it most?

This tiny space-  @ubemango

Yoongi was always attractive—your sexy piece of ass, as you like to remind him often—and seeing the tight skin of his back when he undresses further makes the insides of your stomach churn in want: the kind that made you want to fall to your knees, grovel. You love having a kid, but it’s been too long.

The boa constrictor-  @tatertotthethot

You’ve always had a bad habit of drinking copious amounts of water just before going to bed every night, and for some reason, you always seem to forget that it’ll eventually lead to you having to wake up a few hours later with a dire need to pee. 

Dope- @honeymoonjin

The HSD is a branch of the South Korean government tasked with taking down the most infallible criminals in Seoul’s underbelly. Kim Namjoon, or RM, is their next target: the extremely well-spoken and careful leader of a cocaine dealing gang.

Listen closely- @avveh

Unintentionally, you stumble upon something that makes you view your coworker Min Yoongi in a whole new light.

The truth between us- @jimlingss

a book deal should be the most exciting time of your life, but there seems to be a constant and omnipresent damper on your mood in the form of a certain min yoongi, who you would just cut out from your life, if he weren’t your editor. but then, the world shifts beneath your feet, and you begin to wonder if maybe you’ve always been looking at life from the wrong angle. 

Surround me- @minflix

after a very unfair and unjust firing from his bartending job, yoongi just wants to soothe his sadness by spending some quality time with his best friend - who he is very much in love with.

Cockwarming – @gukgalore​

Ngl the thought of cockwarming Yoongi is the only thing keeping me going at this point

Havana- @inkjam-moon​

You’ve spent the last six years following in your parents footsteps all the way to Cuba, trying to make them proud by finishing their research, but when you join forces with a snarky boat owner who knows more than he lets on, will things play out the way you planned them?

The equation of  love- @kookingtae​

When you met Yoongi in a club, you thought it was fate that brought the two of you together. But after you walked into your college math class for the very first time, you weren’t so sure anymore.

Workaholic- @hobiwonder​

Yoongi needs to relax and Hoseok has many tricks up his sleeve to make him. None of them Yoongi thought included hiring a hooker to pay him a visit one stormy night. 

Different- @satisfractions​

in which tattooartist!yoongi meets floral!reader because he needs to practice drawing flowers for his job

Salud- @yukheii

ninja yoongi (Naruto au)

Toke temptation-  @strawbxxymilk​

You accidentally confess your feelings to Yoongi during a smoke sesh

Accidents- @jungxk​

dad!yoongi makes me soft and also h*rny

Fists- @badbhye​​

reader’s first time

The early shift-  @hobidreams​

your coworker yoongi is always infuriatingly late. except the one time he’s much too early.

Mixtape- @jungblue​

Two mystery students from your college run the podcast dubbed ‘mixtape.’ It’s become a sort of phenomenon around campus, listened to by almost everyone. In their most recent episode they discussed various study methods… One of them being oh so tempting.

Three squeezes-  @nomnomsik​

Yoongi is notorious for his grumpy and emotionless behavior as director of an upcoming company. Yet, it’s a mystery to everyone how manager Hoseok always seems to soften him up. The truth is that the two are actually engaged. Unknown to this fact, you happen to take an interest in Hoseok… and he does too. 

Yoongi cums in his pants- @gukgalore​

where u and yoongi are making out and u start grinding on him, and he tells u to stop bc he’s gonna cum his pants. But u don’t and he acc does cum his pants

Kitten- @yminie​

Yoongi’s focus on work has subjected your relationship to having a dry spell, and with a little prompting from your best friend, you tell him exactly what he should do. But you don’t make the rules kitten, and the game you’re choosing to play is a dangerous one.

Wine- @junghelioseok​

he makes staying after-hours absolutely worthwhile. restaurant au

Renatus- @mininky​

(y/n) finds herself in a very unusual situation where her fate seems to be woven with Hades himself, who’s too much of a jerk for her to even admit that sure okay he’s kind of really good looking.​

Cobalt and charcoal- @tayegi​

soulmate au

Touch of silk-  @floralseokjin​ 

In a world where vampires coexist with the living, there are many humans looking for a cheap thrill…you’re ashamed to admit you’re curious too, putting to good use a dating app you find…but Min Yoongi is nothing like you imagined a vampire to be…

[buttercup-of-kaer-morhen]

Of Thorns and Buttercups

~Ch 4/?~

(Beauty and the Beast AU, Kiiiinda. It has definite elements of the original story cause I’m a sap for Fairytale AUs. I hope you enjoy. Also shout out to @sophiakuso1 for being my beta. Here you can find Beginning or Previous) I asked my beta for help writing this chapter's summary and she gave me "Jaskier has an ADHD day". Thank you my dear. Very helpful. Or Jaskier tries to help figure out how to break a curse with nothing to go on while Geralt is nowhere to be found. 

Primary Tags: Beast! Geralt, Belle! Jaskier, Memory Alteration Via Curse, It really only affects Jaskier right now Also on AO3!

————————-

“Does this mean I can stay?” Jaskier called after the retreating beast. The only response he got was a door closing in his face, metaphorically speaking seeing as he was a few dozen yards away from it, which was as good as a yes in his books. All in all though, the situation had worked out remarkably well. He wasn’t dead or likely to be maimed and the Beast had the bard’s company to keep him entertained now that it was apparent Jaskier couldn’t leave. It was a win-win as far as he was concerned and, seeing that there was no one else in the present company, he could continue to occupy the room he had chosen last evening. Which reminded him, he was only mostly dressed and still standing dumbly at the edge of the garden with all his things in his arms. Right. Well, as lovely as the crisp winter air was this fine… dawn, he’d rather be inside where it was a little cozier or at least fully dressed. 

Hurrying back inside, he decided his first few tasks should be to put his things back in his room and finish dressing, as well as tidy the room so as not to be rude. He may have been a surprise and maybe even an unwanted guest, but he wouldn’t be an unkempt one. Upon entering the room however, the hearth was lit, the curtains to the bed drawn, and the linens were made up neat and tidy. Which surprised Jaskier, but the beautifully tailored cornflower blue doublet with cutely embroidered little yellow buttercups, matching breeches, and a delicate white lace chemise completely baffled him. He couldn’t help the soft smile that played on his lips. For as gruff and cold as the beast was, it would seem he was awfully kind and sweet. Perhaps the sudden insistence on the bard’s departure had to do something with concern over his well being. Perhaps the curse? He had felt like he had been watched all night but the Beast wouldn’t have let him sleep soundly for as long as he had if his reaction from earlier was anything to go by. 

Jaskier thought over several ideas about the curse as he got redressed in the new clothing but nothing settled right with him. He needed more details but he was now fully determined to help the gentle beast. Getting information out of his stoic companion may prove to be tough, however, so there was always the second option. Snooping! He was terribly good at it, almost as good as he was at fooling people into believing he was a bumbling buffoon before ripping the rug out from under them for his own personal gain. He may be foolhardy with a dislike of bodily harm but he was quick witted and silver tongued. Both were qualities that could prove useful now.

Once dressed, he was ready to go find answers. He briefly debated whether or not he should grab his lute, but the constant itch to play had dulled as the pain in his heart grew, so he left without it. Knowing where to start was rather tricky, however. The gardens were enchanted ,but obviously there was something going on in the keep as well. Then there was always the tail from the night prior that disappeared around a corner further down from his room. It couldn’t have been the Beast’s Jaskier thought. The pelts were different. His Beast’s pelt was white as lilies or fresh fallen snow while the tail had not been. It was silver like a moon lit lake with dapples of gray and black on the surface. 

He decided a strange creature was always the way to go and if he got into trouble, he knew he could call for help. If the beast wanted him dead then he would have killed him already. Letting a monster or wild animal kill him seemed rather contrary to his actions. So, off he went down the hall. He looked high and low, squeezed through broken doors and under debris, as little as there was, but came up short. No magical looking artifacts, or sigils on the walls or floors, and certainly no other living beings to be seen. He couldn’t even find a measly journal or letter to boot. Just dust, old lavish rooms, and literature that was rather unextraordinary. He huffed as he scuffed the heel of his boot on the stone floor in disappointment, backtracking the way he had come. The Beast was also nowhere to be found which made his spirits drop further. The bard hoped he wouldn’t be avoided the entire time, it would be awfully lonely.

Deciding his next stop was the magical gardens, he picked himself up and bolstered his thoughts. The day was far from done, and there were still places to look and time to ingratiate himself with the other fellow. Now Jaskier realized that it may take a while to look through the grounds but he had underestimated just how big they were. The front was already large as it reached from the house to the treeline in a few dozen yards, but the garden around the back was almost maze-like and he wasn’t sure he could see the treeline from near the back entrance. The back also held a variety of flowers that hadn’t appeared in the front but there was no rhyme or reason to what was planted. Most nobility had an aesthetic they wished to achieve with a very particular color scheme, which the front gardens had, but which the back garden lacked completely. There were only fourteen flowers, as far as he could see, that bloomed all over the place. No others. No order. It all proved to be a very odd sight. Perhaps they had some kind of use or significance? Off hand he knew the blue hydrangea symbolized a frigid heart apologizing and the yellow Asphodel meant I’m sorry, which he may or may not have made use of, but he couldn’t remember the others off the top of his head. The only reason he bothered to learn the symbolism of botany, which was not a popular art across the continent but it did exist and was rather interesting, was because it was an aid to lend depth to his prose and lyrical tales… and it came in handy when trying to charm a person of higher status than he, but their magical or alchemical properties still eluded him. There wasn’t much need for that knowledge earlier in life, which he was regretting now. There were some books inside if he remembered correctly so he could gather a sample of each flower and see if any lady squirreled away a journal with writings of flowers which he could use to look them up. Thankfully, the canary yellow cloak he grabbed, which had rested conveniently by the entrance, had rather deep hidden pockets. So, away he went, carefully collecting flora for later use. 

In the middle of the collecting specimens, a nasty little thistle caught his finger as he went to pluck it. A drop of scarlett welled up on his fingertip before he placed the finger in his mouth and used the other to pluck the offending sprig. The shock of the sudden pain was only matched by the surprise that nearly stilled his heart for a beat as he righted himself. To his right, a lynx with a pelt that shined like liquid silver stood just down the path leading into the garden maze. If that wasn’t a big sign screaming freaky magic or cursed creature, then Jaskier would eat his fucking lute. As strange magical things often did, it didn’t seem inclined to make things easy for him. It suddenly took off down the footpath away from him, and he was forced to inelegantly scramble after it. “W-wait!” He tried to call after the animal but it either didn’t understand or it elected to ignore him. He skidded around corners and stumbled over gravel to stay within eyesight of the fur ball of energy. It felt equivalent to the time he had tried to catch the wayward family cat of a countess he had been rather fond of at the time and had instead made a rather marvelous spectacle of himself. He had felt like he was finally getting some of the ground between them to shorten but in his excitement, his foot caught a patch of ice that sent him toppling over and by the time he scrambled to look up, the beautiful lynx was gone. A well of disappointment filled his ribs as he knelt there in the snow, trying to regain his breath. Why couldn’t he be of any use? The thought had something in his heart twisting in old pains. Would he really be of any help to the Beast or would he just be in the way like he was back home? There was another time in his life that he vaguely remembered of him trying, fruitlessly it would seem, to be of help but it was so muddled in his memory that he couldn’t fully recall.

Disheartened, Jaskier eventually got his feet under him and slowly picked his way out of the maze from the way he came with only damp, cold clothes to show for his efforts. With how heavy the snow fall was, he couldn’t even find any mark or indication of which ways he needed to turn to come back, if he so had the desire. In the spring, it might have been a lovely place to spend hours wandering through with a beloved or chase one another through in the way of a romantic overture, but now it just felt like a cold tedious exercise in futility. It was like if you were trying to navigate the cold heart of the one you knew would never choose you. At first you have hope but with every dead end, your heart breaks more, and you eventually have to give up because you’re cold, wet, and alone, with no one to hug you better. Sadly this seemed more common than not in life. The heart always yearns for something it could not have, so to soothe it, you settle for cheap thrills and single nights of sweet lies. Oh how terribly morose he had become in life and obviously these were observations that had nothing to do with him personally. So lost in his mournful rumination, he had not realized how late in the day it had gotten until he finally emerged from the maze. The sun was already past the middle of the sky and Jaskier wondered if he was just going daft or if the days and nights were also magical in how they passed. He doubted he could unravel the complex mysteries of every magical occurrence found in the place. Not that he wanted to, since he had already had his hands full with the curse. He pushed the thought away to question at a different time. 

With low spirits, Jaskier trudged around the other side of the keep he had not taken earlier and stumbled upon a stable that looked to be in good condition. Curiosity once again pulled him forward and had him peeking inside. To his surprise, there was a lone beautiful chestnut mare, which brought a smile to his lips. Ducking in and closing out the cold behind him, he went to the horse's side. “Oh Roach!” He found himself happily exclaiming as he pet her neck which earned a soft whinny, only to stop short puzzled. Did he just call the lovely animal by a fish’s name? Why on earth would he… And now that he thought about it, how would he recognize this horse out of all the others he had seen or met in passing? He did not own a horse but still something about her pulled up memories that he couldn’t seem to reach out and touch, but which carried a fond feeling nonetheless. Perhaps she reminded him of another horse from his past that was connected to whoever he was currently having trouble remembering. If the way his heart strings tugged tighter at the thought was anything to go on, he assumed he guessed correctly.  But why would he remember the horse instead of the human…? Unless the horse was the more pleasant of the two but he doubted it. Regardless, this could not be that horse. Just one that looked similar. “Oh my dear, I do truly apologize for calling you by another’s name.” He whispered as he continued his gentle stroking and slowly rested his forehead against her. The sweet thing huffed before leaning into him. Slowly he furled his arms around her neck lightly and hugged the wonderful companion who indulged him in his need of comfort. “My darling, I fear that I may not know what to do now… I’m not even sure if I can win over the dear beast of the keep…” He sighed woefully, his voice unusually small for how he was. The mare however seemed to be having none of his self pity as her head bobbed and she nickered reproachfully, but in what he assumed was an encouraging reproach. He huffed a short laugh and looked up at his new friend with a smile as he pet her neck in thanks. “You’re very right. I can’t give up after only the first day! I have plenty of time to figure things out and hopefully get the Beast to accept my help.” He said with new conviction, his spirits rising once again with the new encouragement. As a side thought, the bard never expected a beast would need a horse for any reason but perhaps it had gotten lost and was given a home here by the kind gentleman. It looked to be well taken care of though; clean stall, full fresh food, and blankets to keep away any chill that came with the fall of night. As Jaskier made his way to leave, he promised to visit again soon and he made a mental note to bring a treat of some kind as thanks. 

Crossing the courtyard to the house reminded the bard of how his clothing was soggy, and his elbows and knees were stained from the fall. He felt guilty because the Beast had left the lovely garments out just for him and he had yet to thank him. Not wanting the embarrassment of running into the other in such a state and having to explain that he had already ruined the kind gift, he quickly made for his room to get changed. Once he was inside then he could breathe freely again. Safely in his own chamber, he draped the borrowed cloak over the chair belonging to the small desk in the corner beside the fireplace and turned to find his pack to rummage for something decent to put on. To his surprise however, an outfit of midnight blue fabric with silver trimming laid on the bed. The fabric was thick but soft to the touch, and had a lovely brocade pattern of astrological symbols on it and small pearls dotting it like stars in the pattern of constellations. The chimese was a soft, dove gray, there were new boots of black, buttery leather, and fleece stockings to pull the whole ensemble together. It was such a beautiful set and he felt a little choked up at the thought that the Beast was giving him such nice things. Perhaps there was an expectation he would wear it for dinner? That meant the Beast wanted to eat together! It had the bard all the more resolute in trying to help. It was nice to receive something though. Usually he was the one always trying to give gifts to buy even a fraction of attention from young ladies of higher breeding. The only gifts he ever got were coins, or food and drink in exchange for his performance, or the threat of injury for having chased away his woes with the wrong person in one night of lonely passion. Ah, there were those sullen thoughts again. Jaskier waved them away as he washed up a bit at the small wash basin in the room and folded the soiled garments, putting them to the side to deal with later, before slipping on the lovely new clothing. He checked himself in the mirror before heading for the discarded cloak again. Intent on unraveling their secrets, he drew the cuttings from the pockets and carefully, thankful for the fact that they were mostly intact. If there were none to be found though, he supposed he could always just put a bouquet together for the Beast. Perhaps the gentle fellow just adored those particular blooms. Perhaps that was why the flowers were everywhere. The thought had Jaskier chuckling. The great big beast hunched over the flowers in the spring as he gently tended to them. The bard wondered if he would be there come the next spring to witness it. It almost sounded idyllic. He could see himself in a simple life similar to that. A cottage by the sea, flowers filling the garden, and his loved one tending to the flowers as he played soft music. A silly dream for a hopeless romantic, he would admit, but everyone was allowed just one, weren’t they?

With a sigh, he looked at the arrangement in front of him. He had grabbed the devilish little thistle that had snagged him. It looked to be a zinnia, though he knew nothing about the flower. It was a purple cluster of flowers of some kind, and a pink flower that went from soft pastel at the tip of the mouse ear shaped petal to a darker pink near the base. His knowledge of flowers was lax compared to his other, finer artistic knowledge and lessons of etiquette but he thankfully had the ability to name some of the flowers. Oddly enough, he felt like he had some practise identifying and picking medicinal flowers but he once again came to a wall in his own memory. Realizing it wouldn’t work well to try looking up flowers he had no name for, he added a plant identification reference book to his list of texts to find. He hoped in the vast space there would at least be an equally vast library of some kind that would conveniently have what he was looking for. Leaving the florets carefully laid across his desk, he left the room once again for his next search. The rooms in this upper part of the wing were particularly useless once again, aside from the small pocket journal of The Language of a Gentle Heart: Secrets of Floral Arrangement which was most likely written and titled by a starry eyed lady who needed a hobby. He found it questionable at best, but upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be a compilation of notes which were cross referenced from other sources with the meaning of flowers. Then the second small journal was more like a manual which the writer entitled The Art and Language of Flora for the use of Assassination and Deception and found under a mattress, also dubios but eye catching regardless. There was also still no sign of habitation of any of the rooms, which meant the Beast really didn’t live in this wing, or he had not been to his room at all and was hiding somewhere in the castle. Both scenarios were equally as likely at that point. Deciding to check elsewhere, he debated if there was anything of actual use in the other, more decayed wing of the keep before figuring that it’d be his last place to check if he really could not find everything he needed in the lower rooms of the fortress. 

On the lower level, Jaskier first found the kitchens all the way down past the dining room he had been in  the night prior and down a set of stairs. The kitchen was obviously well used but maintained and cleaned. The kitchen led to packed larders and pantries, brimming with food which, astonishingly, all looked fresh and not in the slightest bit old. Giving up on the kitchen, he briefly ducked his head back into the dining room and found his memory was correct. It only held the partially set long dining table, the fireplace, and occasional bits of decoration to liven it up. Next to the dining room was a private cabinet for the men and a boudoir for the women. Why they had the need of two separate, gender specific rooms to let honored guests relax in was beyond him. The only mildly interesting things held within were a smattering of tapestries, trophies, and ceremonial/decorative armor pieces, as well as various apparatuses to toil away time with, such as looms and such. All of them were nice, but not so useful. Jaskier moved onto the final room on this side of the main staircase. All he wanted were books. Just give him books! The door had been stubbornly shut but he had managed to wiggle through the crack he had opened. Beyond the large opulent doors a great hall, or at least what was left of one, laid. The throne was overturned, tables were splintered heaps, and the tapestries and banners were sliced to ribbons, rendering the crest unidentifiable. It sent a chill down his back so he quickly departed from that venture. 

Crossing to the other side of the stairs, he ventured on, undeterred by the lack of progress he had made so far. Starting at the far end again, he was surprised to find a servants passageway that led up and down. Going up, he found himself in his wing of the castle and huffed before heading back down. The pathway down looked dark and damp, which didn’t seem very appealing, but he was committed so he grabbed a nearby light source in the form of a candelabra and descended. It was as damp and uninviting as he expected, but he did find a small room in the dark undercroft, obscured slightly from view, which had him wondering whether that was intentional or not. Opening the aged door, he found a stillroom of sorts. Dried plants that looked like they were left and forgotten, hung neatly around the room. There were suspicious jars and vials Jaskier specifically did not touch, but more importantly there were hand drafted journals and reference texts on medicinal plants and alchemy. He grabbed The Botanist’s Companion to The Identification of Flora, and something that had no real title but inside was filled with alchemy and lists of ingredients with their common uses. Elated to find something hopefully useful, Jaskier headed back up with his bounty and used the servants passage to drop off the books on his desk before continuing his search of the lower rooms. He also replaced the candelabra in its rightful place, of course. Next to the secret stairs, there was a large bathing house where the tubs were stored, and hot water flowed into basins for collecting. He guessed the warm water was just another magical occurrence of the place. There was enough space in the place however to just set up a bathtub and designate the room as a place to clean up if he so wished to. It was definitely a place of interest for a later time, but practically useless to his current venture. There was then a solar specifically used by the private family to withdraw to, if Jaskier remembered correctly, but about as interesting as the boudoir or the private cabinet. With only two doors to go, Jaskier felt some anticipation even with how tired he was becoming from all the running earlier and the searching.The first of the two, to his absolute delight, was a grand music hall filled with instruments of all kinds and collections of scores he could plunder through at another time. There was even a massive harp of artistry far beyond any he had seen, that was hard to find today. Most wanted them portable for ease of use but this one sat squarely where it was. He had never played a harp like it and would mostly spend hours slowly easing his way through learning the beautiful piece but it looked majestic where it stood. He didn’t have the time to mess around though  but he did swear he’d be back. The sound of a string being plucked in the empty room behind him as he turned to leave only hastened his exit. The final stop--at last--revealed a library. How he managed to not find this place sooner was beyond him. He was here now though, and that's what truly mattered. The one issue, however, was that the library was in fact intimidatingly expansive. Not only could someone not read all of these books in a lifetime but it was also a major fire hazard in the bards eyes. 

Sighing in the face of his daunting task, Jaskier first tried to figure out if there was any kind of categorical system similar to what was back at the Oxenfurt College Library. To his luck, there was, but it was nothing like the complex system he had to learn. Whoever built and organized the library went with the simple method of organizing it by genre which made finding the reference texts all the easier. Although most scholars would sneer at such organization, Jaskier found it charming as he strolled through to find the reference texts and educational tutoring books for young nobles. Sifting through that section of shelves proved tedious but prolific. He found a wide range from books on the upbringing of a proper young lady to more academic texts on plants taught to young women and men alike. What he had been searching for however were books he had seen at Oxenfurt but never touched. The Herbarium and Antidotarium which were nestled amongst the rest of the books. All the books were handwritten and illustrated obviously, but these were beautiful in comparison to some. 

Gathering the two books he found, he brought them back up to his rooms. It was a start, and a very good one at that. Sadly, he wasn’t able to find any nefarious magical looking grimoires, but he could get somewhere with this… Hopefully. He set the new books neatly down with the others on the desk, and was meaning to take a seat to get started, when two thudding knocks came at his door. They weren’t so hard as to be a furious pounding, but not gentle either, and it had him only the tiniest bit concerned. He went to the door after a moment of hesitation, intending to open it, when a familiarly rough voice called out. “Are you not going to eat, Bard?” Displeased confusion had Jaskier almost panicking just before he yanked the door open. Right! The beast had left the outfit as his intention to dine with Jaskier! He had been so busy searching that he had completely forgotten. 

“Very kind of you to worry and come fetch me.” He responded, trying to flash his most charming ‘I totally didn’t forget plans’ smile up at the Beast. 

The Beast grunted and shifted from one foot to the other, directing his gaze away. “...It was getting late. That’s all…” 

“Not to worry, I was just on my way down. Got caught up with something, is all! It is nice to head down together though.” The smaller man smiled, enjoying the opportunity presented by the Beast to start a good friendship between them! He grabbed hold of the darling fellow’s arm and tugged him along to their awaiting dinner, not giving him a chance to reconsider after Jaskier’s unfortunately rude tardiness. By the heavens above him, he will break the ice between them.

Getting him there and seated was easy but as they sat at opposite ends of the ridiculously long table, Jaskier suddenly found it hard to find the words to start the conversation rolling. Who needed a table this long?! Dinner looked lovely, however, and he could easily use it as a way to fall into a comfortable food induced silence. However, yet another problem presented itself in the form of all the food being in the center of said ridiculously long table and the lack of servants. Jaskier considered options of how to fix this dilemma when the food suddenly started coming to him, or at least the dishes with the food did. Jaskier may or may not have yelped but in a very dignified manner if he did say so himself. He would admit it was not on the list of his finer moments, but it did seem to get an amused snort out of the Beast, although his mask of stoicism was still firmly in place when Jaskier looked at him. Nevertheless, the amusement still danced in the other’s gem-like eyes, and Jaskier almost wanted to clap happily at the small victory, but was smart enough to refrain. “Everything’s enchanted.” A deep rumble pulled Jaskier out of his mental victory celebration.

“What?” He questioned dumbly. Good job. Real smooth, he internally berated himself, holding back a blush. 

“All the furnishings… They’re enchanted.” The Beast clarified again, as if he were speaking to a child, but twitch of his brow belied the amusement of the fact that Jaskier had somehow not noticed. 

“Oh...Oh!” Jaskier processed the information before sighing in relief. “I am very glad to know this place isn’t haunted or filled with things trying to frighten me to death.” He joked but the thought had crossed his mind originally. “Why… Why didn’t they just move in front of me? Why only when I wasn’t watching?” He couldn’t help but ask the question out of interest. 

The Beast shrugged. “Maybe the enchantment has some weird rules when it comes to people not affected by the curse… Or they could be shy, although they’re not technically alive. They move like puppets with no strings…” The grumbled explanation was a little stilted and clumsy, but endearing in a way. It was almost as if the other was unused to speaking to anyone. The thought alone made the bard pity the Beast. The idea of ghostly puppeted furniture was still not very comforting though. 

“... Hmmm, unsettling but I suppose it’s good to know. Thank you Beast.” The comment had the other’s shoulders sagging a bit, and Jaskier immediately knew he somehow misstepped. After mentally slapping himself, he tried to salvage things quickly. “Thank you by the way.” He flashed a shy smile but this only elicited a noncommittal hum while the Beast continued to look anywhere but at Jaskier. “For the, um, clothes… It was kind of you.”

The Beast silently seemed to either ignore the words or chose not to comment as he began piling food onto his plate. Well, Jaskier supposed that was his way of dismissing the conversation, so the bard followed his example and began to serve himself. Eating, contrary to what Jaskier had thought before, left them mostly in a stilted silence. Although the Beast was large and disproportionate to the size of the cutlery, he managed to eat cleanly, but with no grace. Many people, Jaskier knew, would have been utterly scandalized by the situation, but he found himself thinking it was charming in a weird way. The bard thought he may have a second chance to reignite the conversation once they finished eating but, to his dismay, the Beast finished before him and promptly left. Now alone, Jaskier berated himself for fucking up. He felt the silence weigh in on him, the comfortable warm feeling that came with the other’s company at the beginning now abruptly gone. It left him feeling woefully abandoned to be honest. Not very hungry suddenly, Jaskier elected to retire early for the evening. 

Back in his chambers, he tried to start his work. The first step being to identify the ones he was unable to, obviously. The pink mousy petaled ones turned out to be cyclamens while the cluster of purple florets were hyacinth after a bit of searching. Somehow, looking at the deep purple of the hyacinth made his already uneasy stomach, from how dinner ended, turn. He frowned, remembering the violet eyes of a witch who, although beautiful, only inspired what felt like terribly negative feelings blooming in his chest. He sighed, pushing back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankle. If he had to guess, it might have been jealousy that took root. It was an unkind feeling and he knew she had done nothing really to inspire such feelings, at least as far as in his mind, but his chest felt otherwise. He remembered the terrible first meeting and the barbs and jabs from early in their acquaintance but he also remembered the playful insulting and occasional companionable chats when they crossed paths later down the line of their affiliation. Then something happened and it only left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the details. He realized it wasn’t jealousy then but a moment of recognition of the fact that he would never be enough while she was. He wasn’t the one wanted, and it left him rather empty and tired from trying so hard. He sighed again as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He was too tired from everything that happened earlier and the low humor he now found himself in wasn’t conducive to work, so he shut the book he had been using and set everything aside so he could ready himself for sleep. He stripped of the handsome garments and folded them carefully into a dresser for another day. He chose out a large black tunic from his pack that seemed too large to be his, but put it on because it soothed him in a way he couldn’t fully understand. Nonetheless, he appreciated it. He drew the drapes closed and settled in for the night, feeling cold even with all of the blankets. The night was deep and long, but Jaskier tried to sleep away the dour thoughts and unease in his heart. 

[ddaenggtan]

from eden | myg + jhs (preview)

you've been in the dark a long time, overworked and exhausted. the only bright point is your gatekeeper, hoseok, your closest friend and the man you love but can't have. you've accepted that loneliness is inevitable for you. when a voice calls to you, though, and moves you so deeply that you rip open the earth to help them, you meet a mint-haired boy that changes everything you thought you knew about your prison.

pairing | yoongi x reader x hoseok

genre/warnings | greek god au, hades!reader, thanatos!hoseok, persephone!yoongi, fluff, angst, smut, mild depictions of violence, mentions of blood (well, blood equivalent, bc gods), pining, depictions of abusive parenting (seriously, I don’t go into a ton of detail, but it’s enough, pls don’t read this if that triggers you at all), love triangle (kind of), polyamory, v v smutty, mutual masturbation, oral (female receiving), face-sitting, fingering, dick-riding, double penetration, unprotected sex (gods can't get sti's but u can! Wrap it b4 u tap it!), creampie, everyone hates Zeus but what's new, demeter sucks and is the literal worst

word count | 15.6k | will be cross posted to ao3

[ coming saturday june 15, 8pm est ]

It's dark when you open your eyes. You've spent so long down here, you're used to it, but the shadows always seem to make the air colder than it should be. Though you suppose the land of the dead isn't supposed to be warm.

You stretch and wince at the crick in your spine. Another night sitting at your desk, greek fire burning through the hours so that you can scratch away at the papers in front of you. Your siblings always enjoy doing whatever they want, using mortals and throwing them away however they please, cleaning up after each other whenever they can spare the time.

No one ever seems to think about you, nor do they remember the chaos up top only worsens your constant migraines.

No, instead they start their wars and slaughter their enemies and are absolutely oblivious about the fact that the Meadow is at 80% capacity as it is, with more souls arriving each day. Thanatos did well at his job, as did Charon, and you were always sure to be thankful to them, but you wish, not for the first time, that there was someone - anyone - to help with your work.

Your brothers have the naiads, the winds, and the lesser gods to help them with their oceans and skies. Gods of vengeance and retribution help with war, while the fertility goddesses and the muses aid the lovelorn.

And yet here you are, still alone after all these years. Millenia, you've been stuck down here, forced to live out your days in the cold darkness and manage the dead mortals. You've always been introverted, even before you drew lots with your siblings, but never like this. You've tried to leave, of course; at first making short visits to Olympus or the mortal realm, just to speak to another living soul again, someone else who understands what it's like to be trapped in your own life. It seems like every time you came back, though, the underworld had gotten smaller and smaller, nearly suffocating you in an attempt to keep its claws in your skin. And then, of course, came the curse.

You haven't felt the sun on your skin in nearly a thousand years, and while you've always been one for the shade, you miss it. You miss the smell of the flowers in the temples, you miss the sound of the river as it babbles past, you want to feel the warm summer breeze ruffle your hair as you stand in the middle of a marketplace. You're tired of the Fields, you're bored of walking the streets of Elysium with the weight of their stares at your back, sick of standing at the steps to the Isles and wondering if it is, truly, euphoric and if any mortal would ever find out. You don't wear your sandals around the palace anymore; you don't want to hear the footsteps echo. It's just a reminder that you are, truly, alone.

Even the other deities in the Underworld have stopped calling on you. The aura that surrounds you is enough to wilt most any plant, unnerve most every animal, and the gods are no exception. The only exceptions are Hecate, who makes it her personal mission to bribe you into visiting the Meadow if only for a moment, and Thanatos when he can slip away for longer than a moment to distract you from your work. They rarely succeed, but it's the thought that counts, you suppose.

You muse on this as you walk, bare feet skimming lightly over the soil of the Meadow as you make your way to the Gates. You could probably just shadow-walk, if you wanted, you do enjoy giving your Thanatos a fright, but you figure the walk would do you good. There’s no one to bother you as go, thankfully. The dead wander aimlessly around you. There's no acknowledgment as you pass; there's never any recognition of anything in the Meadow, the price mortals pay for being so utterly inconsequential and mundane.

You smile when you see that your friend is busy, and you give a silent command to Cerberus not to alert the man to your presence. The dog whines a little, but sits back on his haunches, shaking the ground as he does so. You're silent as you move up behind the judge.

"You wanted me to tell you my judgment and I have," Hoseok says firmly. "You could have gone straight to the Asphodel Meadow and existed in relative peace for eternity, and instead you request a hearing, and then have the gall to question my decision?" You grimace slightly; perhaps putting Hoseok in charge of judging the souls was not the best idea, but he has yet to be wrong about someone.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 

When you emerge from the shadows, you settle at the base of your garden tree. The only living thing that would grow down here, the sole reminder of the world above. Its branches show that it should be close to the harvest soon, maybe a month away at the most. You reach up, weaving through the darkness to pluck a pomegranate from the tree. You don't even like pomegranates anymore, you think as you inspect it. Ripe, juicy, and utterly disgusting; the gods' idea of a joke. The thing that brought about your isolation, your solitude, yet it continues to be the only thing that grows in this wasteland.

You laugh bitterly before tossing the fruit up in the air, letting it fly through the shadows to land beside Hoseok, whatever he's doing. He always appreciates your little gifts, the only real thing you can do to show that you aren't cross with him and are glad for the work he does. He's long been stuck here with you, but the fruit doesn't turn to bile on his tongue the way it does yours. Perhaps the willingness he had that first time made a difference.

Please.

You glance around, looking for the voice that suddenly echoes around you. It's soft, a memory of a whisper. It's not rare for you to hear the voices of the dead in your realm, but this is different. This one strikes you to your core, for this…

This one sounds hopeful.

The prayers that make their way to you are never hopeful. They are sad or angry or scared, always filled with tears and regret and more than a little hesitancy, but never do they have any shred of hope in them.

You stand, eyes narrowed as you look through the darkness for whatever soul may be calling to you.

Please. I don't want to go back. Don't let her take me.

Without thinking, you reach into the shadows. The blackness swirls around your fingers, unsure where you're trying to go. You don't know yourself, and you wish you did. You aren't sure why you're doing this; you rarely answer prayers, least of all the ones that don't mention you specifically, but something in this voice calls to you. It resonates in your chest, shakes your very being because you remember that feeling. You remember the way it felt to be free, standing in the sun and clawing at the earth as Gaia dragged you back down to your post, tears mixing with the dirt as you pleaded, begged her not to take you back down there.

With a jerk, you pull the shadows apart, and the ground quakes above you. You watch, anxiety pooling in your gut, and it's only the intensity of your focus that lets you see it: a figure, falling limply through the earth that you've opened. The string of curses you let out would make even Ares blush, and it's with a rush you haven't felt in millennia that you weave the shadows together into a net and toss it upwards. The figure falls into it with ease, shadows wrapping around the body to glide gently downwards until they can deposit the person with ease at the roots of your tree.

Your breath catches in your throat as the darkness recedes, revealing soft mint hair with flowers woven into it, pale green robes that are sliced nearly in half at the back and caked with mud. The man is beautiful and soft and bright, every inch the antithesis to your own black and grey clothes. You hesitate to even look at him, too afraid of dulling that sun-kissed skin with the death you carry on your fingertips.

His brow furrows and he winces, though his eyes remain closed. You blink owlishly before guiding the shadows around him once more; when you're sure he's secure, you pull him along behind you until you reach the only spare room you have in the palace. You situate him on the bed there, fluffing pillows and smoothing blankets until you can almost pretend he fell asleep there of his own accord. With pursed lips, you assign three of your Bones to watch him; one just inside the door and two outside of it, just in case whatever he was running from attempts to come for him.

You don't want to leave him, but you have work to do, and the land of the dead cannot rule itself.

[baby-bearie]

Flames - T.H.

for @starksparker‘s summer writing challenge!

summary: The ruler of the Underworld isn’t supposed to be soft on anybody, except he kind of is.

genre: some fluff, angst

warnings: blood, the piece is about the Underworld, so.

pairing: Hades! Tom x Persephone! reader

word count: 2k

a/n: the plot doesn’t exactly follow the story of Hades and Persephone, so don’t expect the same story. and thank you, @blissfulblake and @peachyosterfield for beta reading parts. this is the second upload because the tags got screwed the first time. 

She really didn’t mean to end up in the Underworld. Nobody really means to end up in the Underworld. She had been exploring her mother’s land, picking flowers as beautiful as she was to tuck into her hair, wildly blowing behind her. She had gone far out into the fields. farther than ever before. She didn’t know, okay? She couldn’t be blamed, there really should have been something to signal that a certain hidden tunnel would lead to the Underworld. But she didn’t know.

And so as she walked farther into the fields, much too far for her mother to see her, let alone call out to her to tell her not to go there, she stumbled upon it. She had only been curious. Anyone who comes upon a flaming blue tunnel leading out of a peaceful field of flowers would be curious. She swiveled her head around, looking for anything else out of the ordinary. But nothing was.

She could see only as far as the fields went, which seemed to stretch out as long as the ocean. She turned a bit, checking to see whether her mother had followed her out to the fields. But when she turned back around, he was standing in front of her. 

It was clear he hadn’t been expecting her. It was clear he wasn’t looking for a disruption from whatever it was he attended to down there. His hair was ruffled, his dark suit and navy blue tie seemed pristine, although if you really looked, the cuffs were stained with blood. The fire that burned behind his eyes was the same blue as the fire that made the Underworld, his Underworld, the burning hell it was. 

As she turned around, that same fire sparked with a new intensity, a somehow gentler intensity. His breath hitched.

“Y/n.”

She took a step back.

“Tom, you scared me.”

Of course she knew him, everybody knew Tom. He was known for all the wrong reasons. He ruled over the Underworld, of course they knew his name. However, they knew his name, not him. They knew what he did, not who he was.

“I get that a lot.”

Everybody knew Y/n. They knew her as Demeter’s daughter, a real beauty. She was known for who she was, not what she did. People smiled when she was mentioned. When she was around, you could smell flowers and some said they tasted sugar water. She knew everyone by name, and even the rudest people couldn’t hold a single flaw against her.

“What, uh, what are you doing here?” Tom crosses his arms over themselves, suddenly needing to cover up the blood. He was always so careful around her. He couldn’t be the one to introduce her into a much, much darker and scarier world than the one she lived in.

Y/n’s hands fiddled with each other. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She had come the wrong way. This was the field her mother had told her not to wander to, and never to go to alone.

“I, uh, I was just looking around the fields.” She smiled. Tom couldn’t help but smile back. But it was different. Usually when Tom smiled, it felt dark. It felt malicious, crude. This felt light. He felt bashful under her eyes, which had never seemed to leave his face since she had arrived.

Her hands moved to the hem of her dress, fiddling with the linen hem. The material had stopped flowing. Anywhere else, the wind blew her dress around her knees. Here, in front of him, it fell against her.

She leaned over, peeking around Tom.

“What’s down there?”

“Uh, that’s, uh,” he stopped as you began to giggle and Tom swears he’d trade all the sounds of the Underworld just to hear it again.

“I’m messing with you. I know what the Underworld is, I’m not that stupid,” you smiled, peeking around his body again, “But I’ve never been down there.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to.”

You smiled sweetly, stepping around Tom.

“Mm, I think I do,” You peered over the edge. Tom turned around.

“Y/n, I really don’t- “Oh, come on, Tom. It’ll be fun.” You slyly spoke over your shoulder, and before Tom could protest again she slipped down the tunnel, and Tom stared at the tunnel for a second before rushing down after her. The hole in the ground widened for him, and he descended into his kingdom. He hurriedly stumbled onto the cool floor. He swiveled around, and caught sight of her white dress turning the corner towards his palace. 

“Y/n, wait!” He ran after her, shrugging as spirits gave them both very odd stares.  He ran past the guards, who had seemingly already let the girl inside. 

“Idiots,” He spoke through gritted teeth as he walked past them, following Y/n. He found her in the main hall of his palace, looking very out of place in the middle of blue fires and dark statues. She took a look around, before she saw Tom. He stood at the entrance to the hall. She smiled at him. 

“You know, you could really lighten up this place up a bit.” 

He walked towards her. 

“Y/n, I’m going to be in a lot of trouble if-”If my mom finds out I came down here. I’ll deal with it, I came down here on my own. I love my mom, but she can be a little overbearing.” 

She looked past Tom before grabbing a hold of his hand, causing his eyes to widen before she pulled him out of the room, asking him for “The greatest tour of the Underworld he can give.” 

Tom did his best, but the smoothest, merciless, most mysterious man in all the three worlds stuttered over his words and couldn’t keep his mind straight around Y/n. He complied to her wishes, leading her to the Asphodel Meadows were souls wandered and to the Elysian Fields where they could rest. However, Tom did his best to keep her away from the Fields of Punishment, not wanting Y/n to see the part of his work he was most known for. When she had seen enough, he walked her to the entrance to her own world. 

Five star tour, Tom. I’ll have to come back sometime?” Her voice was almost hopeful.

“Oh no, Y/n, you really can’t, don’t, you can’t.” Tom struggled to articulate how much he wanted her to be here, to stay here, to come here all she wanted while he struggled to tell her how she couldn’t come back, how it was bad for her, how she didn’t belong in a world like this. 

Her face fell, and Tom’s voice stopped.

“I get it. It was really nice of you to show me around.” She bit her lip, wanting to say more, but stopped.

“Bye, Tom.”

She turned and ascended up the tunnnel into that same meadow.

Tom stood there, helpless, watching her leave. He barely noticed the Fate that came to rest next to him.

“You love her.” She whispered.

“I just met her.” Tom scoffed.

“You forget I can see your past, Tom. You’ve already asked Demeter for her hand.”

“So has every other suitor. She said no, anyways.”

“For fuck’s sake, Thomas. Go!”

Tom turned to look at the Fate but she was gone. He ran a hand through his hairs before very ungracefully scrambling up the tunnel. He shot up and straightened out his suit.

“Y/n! Y/n, wait!”

She turned to look at Tom.

“I take it back. Come back, come back anytime you want, I really want to see you soon. Please. I’m sorry.”

She smiled, a simple trace of a smile, almost non-existant. She bit her lip, about to tell him how much she wanted to come back, how she’d be back very soon, how she hoped he’d let her do at least a bit of redecorating-

“Y/n! Is that you?” She heard her mother began to call her, the voice getting closer.

She turned to Tom, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. Tom watched her run from him, mouth slightly parted in shock.

She tasted like honey.

And she did come back. Every day, in fact. She told her mother she was going to the market, or to the ocean, only to wind up in the same meadow in front of Tom. And she did redecorate. All the inhabitants of the Underworld began to see her touch in every corner. Even the Elysian fields somehow became lighter and happier as her time in the Underworld grew and grew. Eventually, Tom often let her wander around alone as he attended to a few things.

Which was a mistake on his part.

She didn’t really know her way around yet, it was an entire world she was exploring. 

One day, she had taken a turn she usually never did. She continued her walk, but she no longer recognized anything around her. As she walked, the blue flames around her grew hotter, enclosing around her. The sound of screamed pleas became louder and distinct. The blue flames turned to red and danced menacingly around her. She saw the chains, the tops disappearing into smoky clouds. 

Then she saw the blood. 

She froze.

He was in front of her in an instant, but it wasn’t her Tom. It wasn’t the same Tom that made sure she was comfortable in his palace. It wasn’t the same Tom that re-furnished his Great Hall because she was excited to. It wasn’t the same Tom that trained his three-headed dog to bark quietly whenever she was around. This Tom had red fire for eyes. He was wearing the same suit he was the first day she came to the Underworld, but there was so much blood. His hands were on her arms. 

“Y/n, what are you doing here? You can’t be here!”

He was right in front of her, but his voice sounded like he stood at the other side of a room. She took a few steps back, stumbling out of his grasps. She looked down at her arms, now tinted with blood. She scrambled away from him, desperately trying to rub the red off of her, to get rid of every last trace of whoever’s blood had been spilled away from her, to convince herself she had nothing to do with this, with them. She looked back up, eyes locking with Tom, who was unfortunate enough to see the absolute terror in her eyes. He reached out to touch her, but she all but leaped back, the flames tickling her calves. She turned and she ran. She ran all the way back to the blue flames, ran past Cerberus, who lifted his head in wonder as she dashed past, ran through the palace, collecting everything of hers she saw, and she ran back into the meadow. She ran all the way home, and not once did she turn around to see if he would come after her. He wouldn’t. She knew it and he knew it. If she didn’t want to see him, he wouldn’t go after her. 

She didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that. Or the next. Which was actual hell for Tom, who lived in Hell. He had made the stupid mistake of letting her touch be on everything. The palace, the fields, his dog, and stupidly, his heart. And she had left her trace on everything she touched, and it all reminded Tom of her, and how stupid he had been to have let her in, to have told her to come back, to set himself up for the inevitable. 

When she ran, she took with her a bit of Tom. She took with her most of the sanity he kept. She took with her his gentle words. She took with her a part of Tom that everyone was just getting used to. He was empty.

She’s never coming back.

And neither is he.  

tags: @blissfulblake @kvd963 @seaveyssparkle @tigerreece @peachyosterfield @tigerreece @jonahmaraisstuff @bibbybittersweet @katie-avery @zachheroin @babyzacharyy @0totally-tubular0 @annabseavey 

[bookenders]

persephone reuniting w hades? for both the 800 follower prompt + storyteller Saturday :0 -@writevevo

[Help me celebrate 800!]

Oh, man, @writevevo, I got very carried away with this one. Very carried away. 

This is the second (technically third if you count the poems that were published in a Best of Teen Writing book when I was 16) Greek Mythology thing I’ve ever written, and I must admit, I really like playing with existing stories and lore. 

Here’s your reunion! 💜

He was the only one who knew what her name meant. And, in knowing this, he was apart from the rest of the world.

***

It had been ages since he had met her at the gates. That was an old tradition, from a time when she was still hesitant about her power and position in the dark. Now, as she steps beyond the boundaries of the River Styx, handing Charon a sheaf of golden grain as she goes - an old gift, a memory from her first return - she basks in the damp air and sourceless wind, its fingers twirling her hair around her shoulders.

A wayward soul, still bright and burning at the edges, strays past her. It carries a song in its heart. Persephone reaches out, brushes the backs of her fingers over her cheek, nearly warm in the dark and dim, contact like swirling dust in fading sunlight. She glows, just for a moment, glances at the Queen of the Underworld, looks into her eyes. Then takes a phantom breath, lets it out with a ghastly sigh, her skirts swirling in and out of the low mist, and carries on.

Persephone watches her go, bare feet barely touching the ground, and turns to pass the Judgment Court. She has no need to visit them now.

Between a high craggy cliff and the side of the palatial edifice, she slips through a crack in the obsidian and finds herself at the far edge of the Asphodel Meadows. Gray wheat stretches for a seeming eternity, scattered with wavering souls stripped of their light. Her first time in these fields, she tried to walk around the edge so as not to disturb the dead, but found herself walking on and on, no curve or end in sight. So she learned to walk through the fields as she does now, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the wheat stalks as souls part before her like the mist. 

Persephone still marvels at how her touch brings color to the gloom of this world, ruffling the wheat with a phantom wind and a shock of sun-gold before it fades with the absence of her touch. The dead drink the heat of the sun from her skin, bloom, and fade back to dust.

She always thought it to be a chilling irony.

The orchard marked the end of the Meadow, one of the few places she felt truly welcome outside of her grove and their palace. Though the fruits hang heavy on the branches, they do not bow or bend before their heft. Persephone approaches the smallest tree with the fewest fruits and plucks the largest from its boughs, pressing her palm to its trunk. Cold seeps into her hand and snatches at her heat, curling it into the bark and through the plant’s veins until two ripe pomegranates drip down before her. Smiling, she cracks the fruit in half and scoops out a small handful of seeds, opening her mouth and letting the tart red burst on her tongue.

The chill of Hades blooms from the bottom of her throat to the soles of her feet, a flush rushing to her cheeks as breath is pulled into her lungs. A laugh tears forth from her chest, a staccato chandelier lighting the dusky groves with tinkling glass and cloud-parted sunlight, and she spins, hands reaching for the unseen heights of the world, dress flaring as her feet dance grooves into the dirt.

Persephone buries the half-eaten pomegranate away from the rest of the trees and kisses the dirt. A shoot of green presses through to greet her.

In the waking world, far above her, the land begins to wither in her absence. Crops fail. Water freezes. People are easier to die. The light fades and the days grow shorter.

Because that is her name. Persephone. Destroyer of light.

But Hades, he takes what is left and makes a home of it. Souls find their rest. Fruit grows even in the most choking darkness. The Rivers are frigid but never frozen.

He lives in the echoes of her ruin and holds her hands when she tries to pick up the pieces. She doesn’t need to do that for him. He gathers them up, and the king of shoal and hoary stone smelts them into something greater than their broken shards ever were alone. She may help things grow, but Hades is a builder. They both rise in their own ways. She from her roots, and he from his foundations.

All that is bright falls before her, as she fell before him, her darkness, when he appeared before her on the other side of the river. She had flowers in her hair. He pulled her from her roots and she went all too willingly.

He brought her down and she pulled him under.

She blinks from her waking dream as she comes to the long path up to the palace. Their palace, he insists. A long time ago, when she was still young, he helped her grow nightshade and hemlock around the great doors that opened for none living but her, his wife.

This time, it’s different.

The great doors open, silent, looming, and the King himself strides out, alone, eyes bright as the sun under his heavy spiked crown. The only light she could never dim.

Without a second thought, Persephone runs into his arms, knocking his crown to the dirt, and buries her face in his neck. He was always so warm.

She feels his soft smile press into her hair.

“Welcome home.”

***

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Also taggin’ every-book-has-a-secret. Here’s the other myth piece I promised!