#because on one hand lethe is over there Watching

[p1x1x]

what indeed…!

[missmeinyourbones]

DRANK DRY THE RIVER LETHE

"These days I think I owe my life

To flowers that were left here by my mother,

Ain't that like them, gifting life to you again?

- First Time, Hozier

a/n: trying baby daddy touya, brief mentions of pregnancy, reader is exhausted and dealing w some parental impostor syndrome, reader and baby are referred to as touya's girls

Touya comes home to a crying baby, something that has slowly become the new norm for him.

The fall breeze is uncomfortably chilly now that the sun has long gone down, and he can hear the familiar shrieks and hiccups before he's able to unlock and open the apartment door.

You don't hear him enter over the whines of the baby you cradle and caress in your hold. Touya's met with the back of your head and the sound of your desperate coos as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, making his way over to his girls. His family.

"Hey," he makes it a point to speak before letting his hand come to rest on your lower back. You'd think he'd have mastered how jumpy you are after all this time, but you flinch all the same at the sound of his voice.

He lets the warmth of his touch press up against your skin in an attempt to comfort you, but the second he's able to catch your eye, he knows it'll require a lot more than that to soothe your worries.

From your gaze alone, he can sense your panic almost immediately.

"She won't stop crying," is the first thing you say to him.

It comes out rushed and nervous, like you've been waiting for him to return home for hours. You have been, he knows to be true even though you don't say it.

He winces a bit as he takes in your appearance. You look smaller than he's ever remembered, and perhaps there's a truth to that old saying about not noticing something as it happens right before you, until it's already too late.

Your eyes are dark with exhaustion, his t-shirt swallowing you whole is covered with what he knows to be stains of vomit and spit-up. Your body doesn't stop moving, heels don't stop bouncing softly back and forth as you attempt to soothe your daughter in any way possible.

He doesn't ask how long you've been at this.

The haste returns when you continue, "She's not hungry, I've changed her three times, her temperature is normal, and I hate that I even checked her temperature more than once because she fucking hates it and--"

A calloused palm finds your head, gently brushing the tousled hair behind your ear and trying to rub the tension from behind your neck.

"Hey, hey. Easy."

He tries to console you. His tone is a bit cautious, like he's trying to slowly approach a wild and contaminated animal, but it comforts you all the same.

His heart hurts as he watches you take a shaky inhale, holding it for a brief moment before exhaling it just as uneasily. You're drained.

If this was three months ago, he'd instantly grab your wrist--force you to lay on top of him in bed until you inevitably pass out and succumb to your own exhaustion.

But things are different now, and he's not just in charge of you anymore. He has two girls to take care of, one being a lot more helpless than the other who needs him just as badly right now.

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong," you weakly admit through the tears that sit heavy in the back of your throat.

Nothing, Touya wants to say. He doesn't even think you're capable of doing something that isn't right, but he's self-aware enough to bite his tongue and focus on the task at hand.

His eyes fall to where the bundle of baby still shrieks and sobs against your arms. He slowly reaches to rub a soft finger against her puffy cheek before sighing to himself.

"Don't babies cry for no reason sometimes?" he mumbles.

"She doesn't cry like this for you."

He knows it's the fatigue behind your bite, so he chooses to ignore the harsh comparison.

"Yeah, she does, baby," he calmly breathes. "You're just tired."

Wordlessly, he motions for you to hand your daughter to him, and the pass happens naturally for all three of you. She leaves your arms and enters his without so much of a struggle. And you can't shake the failure that weighs heavy on your shoulders as you watch him gently bounce the baby on his hip, her cries almost immediately softening by being in his mere presence.

It takes all of thirty seconds before she's practically silent, resting on his chest and babbling herself into a calm drowsiness. His hand cradles the back of her head gently, mimicking how it did yours mere moments ago.

The scene before you is all you've ever wanted, and it's finally yours. And you absolutely hate that you feel a sob of exhaustion wrack through your chest, ruining a moment you never thought you'd have.

Touya watches you shrink before him, your eyes on the peaceful scene before you as you choke out a teary, "She hates me."

"Bullshit, c'mere."

He readjusts your baby so she's comfortably supported with one arm, using the other to snake around your shoulders and pull you in with them. You feel his hand flat against your sore back, rubbing gentle circles and pressing you into his warmth.

The three of you stand huddled together, all clinging onto one another in one way or the other. The baby in Touya's hold rests her sock-covered foot on the flat of your arm. You lean into Touya's chest, head right next to your daughter's as he whispers sweet reassurances. You don't need to ask to know they're meant for the both of you.

After a few minutes, Touya pulls away a bit, but only to use both hands to place the baby back in her crib. The transition is easy and she's out cold as she sinks into the tiny mattress pad and sprawls out.

The two of you lean on one another, hovering over the wood to watch her sleep. Her eyelids flicker with movement, her chubby fingers squeezing around nothing every now and then.

Eventually, Touya tiredly whispers into your hair, “I learned all this from you, y'know."

Sniffling with heavy eyes and a confused pout, you weakly turn your head up to look at him in confusion.

Assuming he's talking about parenthood, his words don't make any sense in your fatigued and spiraling mind.

You learned together. He was there in the hospital when the midwives walked you through swaddling and latching and burping. When you'd discovered that your daughter preferred to eat after napping because nursing before made her sick. Watching online tutorials on which bassinet is safest for newborns---Touya was there, for all of it. He didn't learn anything about this from you.

But when he looks down into your watery eyes, through the dark of the nursery and against the shallow breaths of your sleeping daughter, you realize he's not talking about that.

His voice is a mere whisper when he confesses, “Like, how to love her right.”

Sniffling and swollen, you open your mouth to protest, but no words come out. Utterly speechless, you just stare at him a bit dumbly.

Touya fights off a smirk at your uncharacteristic silence, directing his attention back to the sleeping baby once more.

"Wouldn't know how to do this if it wasn't for you, letting me learn how to love you," he admits.

He reaches down into the crib to where she sleeps on her back, arms spread out and upward like she's stretching her tiny limbs. He takes the tips off his fingers and gently rubs her onesie-covered tummy.

“So, when she feels it from me," he whispers, not taking his eyes off of the annoyingly perfect baby before him, "it’s really just an extension of you.”

A moment of silence passes. In the heaviness of the moment, he almost thinks you didn't hear him. But he's proven wrong--something he's learned is often the case with you--when he turns his head to where you wait. Touya sees your eyes and cheeks glistening with newly shed tears, no longer the dried ones from your weariness and anxiety, gleaming up back at him.

He can't help but shake his head and laugh at the soft sight before him, withdrawing his hand from the baby's tummy and wrapping it around your shoulder.

He ushers your head into his chest, muttering a loving, “Alright crybaby, c'mon.”

He lets you sniffle and close your eyes against the cheap cotton of his shirt, letting his own eyes shut and resting his chin atop your head.

Slowly, but all the same, you feel that gentle sting of guilt eventually fade from your lungs with each gentle exhale. With heavy eyes and bad posture, you ground yourself through the senses around you. Touya's skin against yours, the sounds of gentle sighs and sniffles. The baby, the one that you had together, safe in her crib with the sole responsibility of innocently existing.

You don't want to ever forget this, or maybe you do. Half of you wishes you could forget it, just to receive the blessing of experiencing it for the first time all over again.

“Also use my quirk sometimes,” you think you hear muffled into the crown of your skull.

You open your puffy eyes to look up at him, confused.

"What?"

You watch Touya smugly shrug as he brushes the stray and sticky hairs from your clammy forehead. A sly blush creeps up his neck and jaw when he fights off a smile.

"Warm my hand up and put it on her stomach," he admits casually, caressing your soggy cheek, "shuts her right up."

You laugh, wet and pathetic and absolutely enamored by him, "That's cheating, you asshole."

You don't blame her, you think, considering the countless times you've requested the same thing from him. From period cramps to pregnancy pain to just wanting to feel him--maybe it's genetic, having your DNA and craving his warmth simultaneously.

You decide that Touya must be thinking the same thing, because he simply chuckles with you, rubbing your back as you feel the familiar heat of his fingers begin to tingle.

"Yeah, yeah," he kisses your head, "wonder where she learned that from."

[thefallennightmare]

Mercy-one

*gif created by me. feel free to use, simply give credit*

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x Fallen Angel!OC

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, smut, mythological talk, violence.

Summary: "Blinded by a fear of feeling, these are the kings we chose. Lost and looking for the meaning, I've been searching high and low" It came crashing down on him. This is the story of the highest banished angel from where she came only to find home in the arms of a mortal man. This mortal realizing he'd face Lucifer himself to keep her.

Lethia: Archangelus Oneironaut also known as Archangel of Dream Walking. Across worlds and dimensions, she walks within. Uncovering dangerous secrets, leaving her cast out, isolated- that is until she begins to learn what it means to feel.

Authors Notes: Here we go! Now this is an AU but I will keep things true to life with Bad Omens and Noah as possible! Also, this is NOT a reader insert fic. I decided to create a character for this.

Tags[OPEN]: @thescarlettvvitch

LETHIA

The wind whipped widely through my hair, smacking me in the face, as my limbs thrashed around with such force I cringed in pain. I could see the clouds out of the corner of my eyes as I fell through them, with no sense of comfort protecting me. I choked on a sob when I noticed parts of my long, golden, hair was being singed from the rate of the fall. I held my hands in front of my face to watch in horror as the once short nails grew in length and darkness. 

“Wh-what?” 

How did it get like this? All because I chose to follow someone else instead of the almighty King? How was that fair? I’d been loyal since creation, one of his most loyal servants, but the second I thought of something different than the divine plan, He cast me away. 

“Leth, follow me to the ends of the darkness. For we can create our own Kingdom and rule.” 

My eyes screwed shut at the familiar voice as my throat burned with the thought of him. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was close by, surely he had to be. I was thrown from the Kingdom first, Lucifer not far behind. 

The air around me began to thicken, grasping around my throat with such force, that I clawed there with my newly fresh nails. Blood dripped from the wounds but none of that mattered to me; I simply stared up towards the sky where my former home disappeared through the clouds. I could try and climb my way back, as far as my wings would allow. But I knew, like Icarus, if I climbed too high to the sun, I’d fall into the unknown jungle below. 

Icarus was a fool. 

My ears rang loudly from the sudden change in altitude and I looked towards the left, almost crying out when I took in the most recent alter to my appearance. Bright wings that mirrored the colors of the clouds surrounding me were no longer pure. No, they were dark with the tellings of my betrayal. 

“My King, forgive me!” I cried out seconds before my body fell to the hard soil below; darkness overtaking my vision.

NOAH

Slamming the car door shut with a long sigh,  I walked from the street, up to my house. I took in the variety of cars, realizing that one of the guys must have invited a few people over tonight. Usually, I never minded when we had small get-togethers, but tonight I did mind. It wasn’t anything anyone in particular did, my mind was just filled with the same dream I’d had the last seven nights in a row. 

Black feathers. Even darker hair. Cream-colored skin. And vibrant red eyes. 

At first, I chalked it up to being a random dream but as the nights progressed, the dream continued with the same figure. 

One night they were sitting on the edge of my bed. The following night, they were perched on top of the roof of my house, watching the street below. Last night, the figure was in bed with me as my lips trailed over the curvaceous lumps of her breasts. 

I ran a hand over my face as I neared the front door, taking a deep and steady breath. I thought about asking my therapist about these dreams but now that they were getting more intimate, I decided against it.

“It's just a dream, Noah,” I told myself while my hand reached for the door. 

A groan halted my movements and I turned swiftly on my heels back towards the driveway. But all I heard was silence; besides the loud music coming from inside the house. 

Shrugging, I took one final step towards the threshold until a groan sounded again, only this time louder. It sounded as if a large bird fell from the tree hanging overhead, feathers fluttering in the air.  I dropped my bag on the front porch before taking the steps back down two at a time towards where I heard the groans of pain; in between Jesse’s and Orie’s cars parked in the driveway. 

“Fuck,” I cursed seeing the crumbled body. 

Head snapped to the side, dark tendrils of hair covering her face, and an arm draped over her midsection. I winced as I saw the contortment of it, knowing that it had to be broken. 

Where the hell did she come from? 

There was a sudden surge that spread from my heart to every vein inside of me; flowing through in shocking waves. I couldn’t place it but seeing this figure in front of me, there was something so familiar about it; her. A painful groan fell from her lips and I breathed in relief, almost forgetting to check if she was alive. I’d been so entranced in her familiarity. 

Gently scooping the body up into my arms, the dark hairs fell away from her face and I sucked in a breath when I noticed there were fresh cut marks along her cheek, and blood dripping from her ears. I rushed her inside, gaining stares from my roommates, who immediately stopped the music. 

“What the fuck?” Orie’s voice was raised. 

I shook my head while setting her on the couch in our living room. “I don’t know, man.”

Our house was packed with random faces; some I recognized, others I didn’t. I knew there was a party tonight but suddenly, I wanted everyone that didn’t live here out. 

Folio, who noticed my expression, waved a finger in the air. “Alright, I think it’s time to end this party. Thanks for coming, everyone!” 

Pretty quickly, everyone who didn’t live there or weren’t part of Bad Omens left the house. 

“Where did you find her?” Nick asked.

I hesitated. “That’s the thing. I found her lying broken in the driveway.”

“The driveway?” Jolly gasped. “How long had she been out there?” 

I shrugged while brushing away the stray hairs from her face, hearing a soft but painful breath falling from her dry, cracked lips. My eyes grazed down the line of her neck down to the swell of her breasts that were barely covered by the tattered black shirt; it looked as if it was burned off. I tossed a blanket over her to help cover her modesty. 

Something glinted in my vision and I looked back at her neck to see a golden chain hanging loosely between the valley of her breasts. My heart dropped to my stomach as the reality slammed into me. 

I’ve seen this chain before; in my dreams. My lips tasted that chain in my dreams. 

My hands shook at my side as a shaky breath escaped from my throat and Jolly called my name. 

“Hm, what?” I turned to look at him. 

He ran a hand through his hair. “Should we call the police? She looks like she’s been attacked.” 

“No,” I said a little too suddenly. “She just needs a place to rest. We don’t know what happened. I’ll ask when she wakes up.” 

I slowly sunk into the chair across from the couch, resting my elbows on my knees, watching the rise and fall of her chest to make sure she was still breathing. 

Jesse stared down at her from behind the couch and let out a low whistle. “It’s a miracle that she’s even breathing right now. We should probably wrap her arm. It could be broken.” 

Just then, Michael returned with our first aid kit and handed it to me. I took it with a small smile and started rummaging through it to look for the hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls. The least I could do while she slept was clean the wounds on her face. 

The softness of her face twisted as the sting of peroxide sunk deep within her wounds and when a whimper fell from her lips, my cock twitched in my jeans. Images of her lying spread wide in my bed for me flashed in my mind and I did my best to push them to the back of my brain. 

“How did she end up in the driveway? Looking like this?” Orie asked as he finished wrapping up her arm. 

“I don’t know,” I sighed while sitting back in my chair, eyes still trained on her. “With how I found her, it looks like she fell from somewhere.”

Jolly shook his head as he sat on the armrest of the couch, also watching the stranger. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

All seven of us stood around the body laying on the couch, wondering and watching to see if she would wake. 

“Maybe she’s an angel,” Jesse snorted, trying to ease the sudden tension. 

“Angels don’t exist,” my eyes snapped up towards him. 

Jesse held his hands up. “It’s a joke, Noah. But you have to admit it’s a little weird.” 

I ran a hand over my jaw and nodded. “I know. I couldn’t leave her out there, though. Once she wakes up, I’ll take her wherever she wants.”

“Luce,” the woman croaked out, head turning towards the side. 

Her voice rang out in song, echoing throughout the house, and my heart rose in my throat hearing how eternal it sounded. I barely knew anything about her but I couldn’t ignore the way my soul felt connected to her. Maybe it was because of seeing this form in my dreams or fate that I found her in my driveway, almost as if I was destined to help her. 

“What did she say?” Nick questioned. 

 Folio shrugged while leaning over her. “Luce? Maybe that’s her name?” 

Suddenly, her eyes snapped open and with one swift movement, the woman had her legs wrapped around Folio’s midsection and him pinned to the ground. Her good forearm was pressed deep into his neck while he lay frozen underneath her.  All of us were on our feet but none made a move to stop her, not knowing if it would ultimately help or make things worse. 

“Who are you?” 

The venom in her voice was cold as ice. 

“Ni-Nick,” Folio choked out. 

The woman tilted her head towards him. “Where am I?” 

Taking a tentative step towards her, I placed a soft hand on her shoulder. “I found you outside.” 

It was as if my touch meant nothing to her, eyes still burning deep into Folio. It wasn’t until I spoke again that she finally noticed I was touching her. 

“You’re hurt. I brought you inside to help you.” 

Before I could register what happened, I felt myself being pinned up against the front door, fiery red eyes staring deep into my soul. With all the doubt that plagued my mind the last hour as I watched her sleep on the couch, I tried to tell myself that I didn’t know who she was. It was all a coincidence that parts of her reminded me of the figure I dreamed of.

But the moment I saw those bright red eyes, I knew that all the doubt was wrong. This was the same woman I dreamed of the last seven nights. 

LETHIA

With my nails digging into the fresh skin of the man in front of me, I assessed every inch of his face. The brown eyes widened in slight horror when my nails dug deeper and I took in the way his lips parted, breaths coming out broken. His long hair was held back by a clip but strands still fell into his face and I cocked my head to the side when I realized something drastic. 

Well, a few things. 

First, I couldn’t feel my hand around this man's throat. I squeezed harder, my face twitching in anger, when I still couldn’t feel his skin underneath my grasp. I expected to feel the erratic thrum of his pulse or his Adam's apple dip low as he swallowed. 

Instead, I felt nothing. 

No. It couldn’t be. 

I’ve heard tales of this happening to the Fallens but I never believed it to be true.  An old folks tale the other Archangels discussed over a cup of wine. 

My eyes blinked as I slowly removed my hand from the man’s throat, fingers shaking with the realization. The dark nails mocked me for my failure, scolding me for taking the darkness over the light. 

The second thing I realized? I’ve seen this face before. Moments before I fell, it flashed in my mind like a photograph, every fucking detail. The long brown hair, bright brown eyes to match, the freckles that littered over his nose and cheeks, the tattoo that wrapped around his throat where my fingers were moments before; a snake, apples, and hands. 

How metaphorical. 

“What’s going on with me?” I muttered bringing my hand to my chest, noticing it was wrapped in some kind of material. 

“You hurt your arm, we wrapped it for you,” a different voice spoke. 

My head snapped to the left, seeing another man slowly approach me. His voice sounded different than the others and I narrowed my eyes at him. 

“You’re not from around here,” I noted. 

A snort sounded from behind me causing me to whirl my body towards it, seeing yet another strange man staring at me. 

“Not from around here? Who talks like that?” 

Someone smacked him in the chest. “Michael, don’t be an asshole.” 

“I’m just saying, Nick. She wakes up in our home and attacks two of our friends. Are we supposed to allow that? We don’t even know her fucking name.” 

My tongue clicked against my teeth. “Lethia.” 

Various sets of eyes stared at me until the man who had an attitude spoke.; Michael. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

“My name-,” I spoke slowly. “-Is Lethia.”

Michael snorted. “Well, Lethia, where the hell did you come from?” 

Giving him a wave of my hand, I decided it wasn’t worth answering that question only because none of these men deserve to know.

“Who’s Luce?” 

I snapped my eyes towards the man I had pinned against the door, heart stuttering in my chest. “Excuse me?” 

He rubbed at the fresh red marks on his neck. “You said it in your sleep.” 

Lucifer. 

I licked my lips, widely shaking my head. “I need to leave.” 

A soft voice called to me. “We can take you back home.”

This man had a buzzed head and a beard. “Although, you should get those injuries checked out.” 

“I’ll heal,” I answered honestly.

Lethia, come to me.

I gazed around the room to see if that voice belonged to any of the seven of them although I knew it didn’t. I knew exactly who uttered those words. 

“I have to go.” 

The man from my vision stood tall against the door, not allowing me to leave. My jaw ticked with anger and I motioned behind him. 

“Move.” 

His brow raised. “That’s a funny way of saying thank you for saving your life.” 

“Thank you?” I chuckled darkly. “You simply did nothing for me except keep me prisoner in this home.” 

“Prisoner?” It was his turn to chuckle. “I fucking found you in my driveway, broken and bruised. The least you can do is tell us what the hell happened!”

They’ll never understand. Mere mortals never did. 

I might not understand where I was but I knew mortals when I saw one. Their smell was different than angels; some were stronger than others. Except for the man blocking my way out. It was different, his aura, and I didn’t want to admit it but it drew me into him. There had to be a reason why I saw him mere seconds before I fell from the Kingdom. 

The two of us were unmoving, not wanting to break first, and one of the men must have felt the tension because one gently stepped between us; the one that sounded different from the rest.

“Noah, let her go.” 

Something fluttered in my stomach and I nearly shook with the unknown feeling. Never in my life had I felt something like this, even during my time with Lucifer. But with this mortal, Noah, it was entirely something new and it scared me to the depths of hell. 

Noah scrunched his face with anger but eventually stepped to the side, allowing me to leave. 

“Thank you,” I mocked with a slight curl to my lip; more like a snarl. 

After two steps toward the door, I froze when something caught my attention out of the corner of my eyes. Titling my head towards the glass, my reflection stared back at me and I gasped at what I saw. 

Short black hair, black ink covering almost every inch of skin across my shoulders and arms, my shirt barely hanging one by a thread, and what shocked me the most were my eyes; crimson red, not the vibrant violet. 

���No, it can’t be,” I brought my shaking hand to my mouth. 

Suddenly,  an ear-piercing ringing dug deep in my ears and I brought my hands to them, screwing my eyes shut. My head throbbed in pain as if someone was scratching their claws there. With one eye open, I noticed Michael held some kind of device in his hand. 

“Wh-what is that dreaded noise?” I stuttered. 

“A phone? Fuck, how hard did you hit your head?” 

A what? 

When the ringing stopped, I stood taller and for the first time, took in my surroundings. Everything in this home looked different than how we lived in the Kingdom. While we had advantaged technology, we simply didn’t have things of this nature. 

“None of this makes sense,” I whispered to myself before my eyes landed on a small device on a table. 

October 12, 2021. 

I nearly stumbled on my feet when everything began to click into place. Someone during my fall, I landed in a time that hadn’t existed yet. 

Noah could tell something was off because he turned towards me, a frown pulling at his lips. “Are you alright?” 

Without saying another word, I left in such haste, I hadn’t realized what I left behind in my wake. 

NOAH

My eyes stared at the space in front of me, the door wide open as it let in the cool night air. Those red eyes haunted me in Lethai’s wake and my skin crawled when an old dream crept back into my consciousness. 

I lay in my bed, bare for her to see, Lethia’s tongue traced down my chest and then stomach to brush across my navel. I gripped her dark hair, wrapping it around my fingers to guide her head farther down. My cock throbbed with such an ache, I was sure it wouldn’t last. Beads of precum slipped from the slit and Lethia’s tongue danced around it, tasting me. 

“Fuck,” I cursed as my eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy. 

“Look at me, Noah.” 

My eyes snapped open at Lethia’s firm tone and felt my heart stop dead in my chest; her eyes were glowing red. 

“Noah!” 

Breaking free from my trance, I gazed over to Orie. “Did you say something?” 

“We did all we could, man. There’s no use dwelling on it.” 

He patted my shoulder before they all dispersed into their sections of the house. But not me, I remained frozen in my spot, still staring at the vast darkness past the threshold. There was something just outside the realm of that darkness that caught my eye, it fluttered in the wind until it fell to the concrete just outside the door. 

With furrowed brows, I bent low to pick it up, analyzing it with curious eyes. It was a black feather, at least twelve inches in length, and the softness of it was something I’d never felt before. 

“Who are you, Lethia?” I murmured to myself, holding the feather close to my chest.

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Poets and Painters (Midday) - Wolffe x Reader [Mature Fic]

Warnings and Information: In desperate need of just one day to take his and his men's mind off the war, Plo Koon orders that everyone make a stop on a relatively uninhabited planet in a peaceful sector of the galaxy to… have a picnic? Just what does he have in mind? A certain flint-gray Commander is finding it hard to believe that they're just on the planet for a day of R&R in the middle of a war, so he isn't letting his guard down. Perhaps someone will help Commander Wolffe find some way to help him relax before the day is over… 2nd person POV. Reader is undescribed save for minor details like personal touches to a uniform, and has a gender-neutral alias. Allusions to canon-typical violence, mention of injury and loss, and Plo just being a dad to the 104th Battalion in the background. Swearing. Discussion of more adult themes and some lewd jokes the more the fic progresses (this is not an Explicit fic but it is Mature; Minors please DNI). Takes place on a fictional planet.

Word count: 4,665

The trick to keeping Commander Wolffe from prowling the edge of the clearing like a caged animal had been surprising. To everyone. 

Allowing him to watch you work keeps him seated on the hill beside you, where he does not worry his brothers or Master Plo Koon by continuing to make lap after lap. He had left your side once, to take a look at something the Clone pilot Warthog had to show him, and then did a little shiny-wrangling (namely Soapsuds) because they were too close to the forest for his comfort, but he was quick to return. 

He's not much of a conversational partner, whether that's out of respect for you to let you concentrate, or simply a product of his personality. When he has something to say, Wolffe keeps it brief. 

"I'm not that pale." 

"But your scar is." you reply with a gentle smile and a soft laugh, carefully adding traces of a lighter flesh-tone to the vertical stripe of scar tissue in your sketching of the Commander. You keep your pressure light on the page, and make your best efforts to keep the strokes in roughly the same orientation. The smile gives way to a frown the longer you fill in the length of his scar on the page. Your heart hurts for what happened to him at the hands of a dark Force-wielder. What her blade did to him. "I imagine it was quite painful, to lose your eye…" 

"Yes." Wolffe replies in a clipped voice, suggesting to you that while he does not want to dismiss your sympathies, he clearly must not want to talk about this with someone he does not know, either. You feel a tug on the lapel of your uniform, and the gloved pad of his thumb brushes over something. Oh. You'd forgotten about that. "You added a wolf's head into your uniform, Arcadia?" He's changing the subject. And that's okay. 

That's more than okay. 

Glancing down best you can, you see the sloppy replication the flint-gray Commander refers to. The thread used for the head is a steely gray, the stitches are almost invisible and camouflaged in the color of the uniform, save for the eyes in your favorite color. It was meant to be practice for repairing holes in your clothing, you explain. "For emergency situations. I wanted to see if my stitches would hold up after being washed. I completely forgot it was there." You don't explain why you went with the image of a wolf. You won't need to, in his presence.

It's easy enough to guess why this would be the animal, of all possible choices available to you in this galaxy, you would stitch into your lapel. The name surrounds you. Wolfpack. General Plo's callsign is Wolf Leader when they engage in battle by starfighter. 

It is the name of the man next to you - granted it bears an additional forn and an esk. 

Wesk-osk-leth-forn-forn-esk. 

Wolffe. 

"It held up well." he compliments you, releasing the fold of the lapel and assuming his silence once more. Degree by degree, you are seeing he is not eternally gruff or cold with you, or anyone: merely a man made stoic and far more vigilant than before by war. In his vigilance, he continues to visually sweep the field for signs of trouble or mischief. 

Maybe, while he's distracted…

You stealthily swap out the current coloring pencil in your hand - a deeper skin tone - and pluck out the Lamp Black pencil in the mix, drifting your hand lower down the page until the end of the pencil was now lined up with the loosely defined crotch and codpiece of his armor. 

Maker alive let's just get this over with. 

The body glove is going to be innocent enough to fill in, but defining the shadows around the pubic bulge in his kit will be faster. Just keep it quick and be discreet. Work fast. Hope no one sees. Hope no one asks. 

Your pulse screams in your veins when he clears his throat - loudly - next to you, and you are so certain he is now trained on you, and acutely aware of where your pencil is. "Hm-mm…" Oh kriff me sideways. "Excuse me," he apologizes, clearing his throat again softer this time, "didn't mean to startle you, but I was trying to catch Suds' attention." Thank the Maker he didn't look when he apologized. Just a few more marks to finish shading in the codpiece, and then you can start on the body suit. "O-oh. Is he wandering off again?" 

"Looked like he was about to." 

Still breathing down their necks even from here? "Y'know-"

"As their Commander I am going to look out for my brothers, Arcadia." He sounds neither happy or unhappy with what he assumed you would say. And it's fair of him to assume that, in a sense. You only wish he didn't have to feel so defensive. 

"I understand that," you promise him, and for the moment, you set down the pencil in your hand so you are not dividing your attention between the artwork and Wolffe. "and I wasn't telling you to stop, either. I only wanted to warn you that, I think, General Plo Koon seems worried about you, that something is keeping you from enjoying yourself." 

To his credit, he gives your words a moment of quiet contemplation. Whether that's to consider the truth behind the words you said, or to come up with an explanation of sorts, Wolffe remains silent and still like the forest that surrounds you on all sides. What secrets does that forest hold? What lives within? 

What will you find other than sap and blood on your palms when you pull back the thorny branches? 

"I don't believe we're here just to relax for a day." Commander Wolffe admits with a heavy look of guilt and uncertainty. "I think the General has other reasons for bringing us to Little Archossi, and he won't tell us." 

"Reasons? Like what?" You pick the pencil back up, and return to the slow, gradual task of adding color to the page. You're going to give him time to think. Time to answer, if he even wants to. He may not. Warning him that he's possibly made his General concerned about him seems to shake him down, somewhat. "I'm sorry." 

It's reflexive, apologizing for upsetting him. That seems to pull him out of his silence, for the moment. "Don't be, Arcadia. I'm not going to fault you for having good intentions. Or a good eye." 

The kri-? 

In dawning horror, you see and fully realize where your pencil lead is. And looking over at him, you see that he does too. "I-I'm so sorry, sir…" You admit that you hoped he wouldn't notice, and that adding the necessary shading and color around areas that carry their shares of suggestive and sexual imagery and connotations would have been completed with as little attention drawn to it as possible. While you're not exactly ashamed to have drawn those parts of him, you feel a bit awkward to have him take notice of your work when you add the color. 

Half of his mouth quirks in a smile, an expression of his respect, understanding that took guts to admit. "That's nothing to apologize for. It's just part of the art, Arcadia. A little "awkward" would only be understandable. Would you feel better if I purposely didn't watch?" 

Well, seeing as how you're almost done with the inner thigh, you don't see much of a point to the gesture in this part of the progress. But, he did offer. And this seems to be what's keeping him seated in the grass. And what's keeping Plo Koon freer to spend less time being concerned about his diligent commander, and more time in showing his troops more aspects of Kel Dor culture and history, it seems. (Orchid keeps asking questions that Tack could easily answer about Dorin, and it serves as a neat little lesson for some of their newer shinnies. Plo is certainly grateful for the curiosity that allows him to be a teacher, rather than a fighter, today.) 

You shrug lazily, laughing softly under your breath. "I'll leave that up to you, sir. At this point…" 

Wolffe chooses to keep an eye on his brothers, so you make the process of shading the inner thighs quick, while being careful not to get sloppy. You're not trying to recreate a master painter's work here in the first page of your sketchbook, but you don't want to look at this one day and become filled with the urge to tear it out because all you can see are glaring imperfections, either. That's nothing but a fanciful daydream of making so much progress in your artistic prowess that you would ever be struck with such a thought, of course. 

You are preoccupied with a war against the Separatists: when would you ever have the chance to make regular progress and impressive strides without backsliding and the natural degradation of your skills when you do not use them? You're a small part of the busy crew that keeps the Triumphant running smoothly. 

People constantly need you. And that's all well and good, but sometimes you find yourself running into the same problem over and over again that crews of this size inevitably face: when you, who provides the help, needs someone, who is there for you? Do you turn to another crewmate who is already up to their neck in all the problems they juggle? Turning to one of the Clone troopers is ill-advised, no matter how much they swear they don't mind lending a hand or an arm (or two) to assist. 

You've been doing fine aboard the Triumphant; better than fine, in fact. But that worry claws at you, sometimes. I'm here to help everyone. But if I needed help, who would I go to?

Who does the Commander go to when he needs help, come to think of it… General Plo? Or maybe Sergeants Sinker and Boost, if the matter was a little closer to the heart, something he believed was best kept between brothers? 

Who does Wolffe turn to in his hours of need, you wonder. 

You need to rest your wrist, and soon. You have just a little more of this tree's canopy to color in though, and then you're calling it good. You've been working on this "sketch" for more than three hours with the Commander at your side. You want to have this done soon. You want to go check out some of these things other crewmates have been laughing themselves silly over for the last hour that leave them gasping and wheezing for breath, clutching their sides and drying their faces. You're burning to know what's so funny, why they keep calling your name to come see. 

Curiously guessing over and over what General Plo's reaction will be when you show him this amateurish endeavor in outdoor art drives you to continue, however. Just a few more tiny, feather-shaped leaves… Wolffe notices the sharp twinge in your face, and the uncomfortable spasm in your fingers as you adjust your grip around the Sunflower coloring pencil. 

"Getting painful?" 

"Just a little." you admit, knowing if you pause now, you will delay when you pick the pencil back. "I'll manage." 

"Making art shouldn't bring you pain, Arcadia." 

You scoff, just slightly. "Physical pain? Agreed. But emotional pain, that's another matter. Don't worry, I'll be done soon, Wolffe." 

He asked you to call him Wolffe a short time ago. It wasn't exactly necessary to call him Commander or Sir all the time if you had him sketched out on your page quite like… that. His legs parted and bent at the knee - flat in the grass out in front of him. Wrist of the left hand resting just on the surface of his thigh, with his hand hanging limp just inches from his groin. You were generous enough to draw his fingers in a more neutral position than how they had looked in reality�� Otherwise, if his soldiers and brothers got a hold of the sketchbook, there's no telling how many jokes you'd have to hear about making it look like their Commander was jerkin' it in front of you. 

Calling him "Wolffe" would do just fine when it was just the two of you alone on this hill. Perhaps he felt it was only fair if he was calling you by your name. You had no title or rank, like him. You are just a humble part of the crew, but he assured you no less important than one of the soldiers. 

It takes all of us, he said. That's how we win this war. 

You've come to the home stretch, feeling the ache in your fingers deepen with every tiny skritch and shwoop! as you methodically color in your work leaf by leaf. "Just one last, little leaf," you promise, "and then I'm done." 

"Not going to sign your magnum opus, Arcadia?" Wolffe prods a little teasingly. He's smiling at you now, even. Hours ago, he was somber and battle-ready, no smiles, no nonsense. Now, he's beginning to make small jokes. "Should add a signature so future museums know who to accredit this to." 

"A leaf and then a signature." you chuckle warmly. "Future museum… Honestly." He only offers a shrug in response to that, and you take it to mean well, you never know. "What, you're trying to tell me you think this would honestly end up in a museum gallery one day?" 

He shrugs again, gazing off into the distance, into the forest. "Overheard one of the boys in the mess say something about the notion once. Something they read. Some kind of commemorative effort made by one planet to make sure they never forgot their bloody history by way of art and song and poetry inspired by that time. Evidence of a time best not repeated, but not forgotten either." 

Such an insightful and wise thing to be said so casually, poetically, and yet, there's a weighty truth to every syllable and enunciation. 

We doom ourselves to repeat the past when we do not remember it and do not teach it anymore. When we allow ourselves to forget, the shades of rouge we sop the bristles of our brushes in will not be in the rich scarlets of Dathomir, or the forever-burning rubies of Mustafar, it will instead be with blood. 

When we have enough evidence, it silences the naysayers and the fools. It validates the choking and trembling voices that say I have tasted the bitter blade of war. I have stood before the yawning maw of nothingness it leaves in its wake. I will never be the same. You do not have the right to tell me that I am some kind of paid actor. 

If they were conspiracies, do you not think I would be among the loudest of your prophets who tout these twisted claims in the hopes of converting another?

"Fascinating. Thinking something like that will come of the Clone Wars, Wolffe?" You've finished the drawing, now. Taking an ink pen, you jot down your signature in the tidiest handwriting you can manage in the lower right corner, making note of the date for good measure. You'll think up a creative title for this later. 

There's a third rising and falling of the shoulders from the man sitting beside you. "It's too soon to tell." 

"That's fair." you reply, gathering up your supplies to put them back into the bag for safekeeping. "But you just know, if it does happen, the Separatists aren't gonna like the art." You have faith that the Republic will prevail. How could it not when the soldiers who fight for the Republic are some of the most courageous, persevering people you know? (What will come of them after?) 

You're likely right about that, he agrees with a throaty chuckle. The Separatists will not like losing this war, and they'll like the art even less. "I can only hope… that it will not just be the Jedi who are…" Wolffe grows silent next to you. He's not certain what word he wants to use to best explain his thoughts, he admits plainly. There are too many. Too many answers that are right, but he struggles to find the one thing that is most correct out of all of them. 

Given what Tack has told you, the answer is obvious. "You're hoping that the galaxy will remember the Clones were a part of this conflict too. That the galaxy won't forget the sacrifices made by your brothers, and they won't forget how many lost their lives. You probably hope that when the free peoples of the galaxy remember the Jedi, they remember you, too. Both must be appreciated together."

"You're probably right," Wolffe concedes firstly, "And you're too wise beyond your years, Arcadia." Strangely philosophical, he tells you, for how old he guesses you to be. Maybe he's the right one this time, thinking to yourself on his words. 

Maybe he's not the only one hoping that when this war ends, no matter the outcome, those who served as a part of the Grand Army of the Republic will not be a forgotten topic ten, twenty… even forty or fifty years down the line. 

Tack has made a breakthrough in his mysterious flower just before Master Plo is free to come take a look at the sketch and color work you've completed, and concern for his men takes precedence. You would not blame him in the slightest if he forgot he expressed interest in seeing what you accomplished with art materials given to you as gifts. Because of your station with the crew of the Triumphant with a secondary speciality for risk assessment, you're involved in this discussion with the researcher and his commander and general. 

Right now determining the risks posed to the men of the 104th matters more. Art and philosophical pondering will have to come later.

Tack explains to both Commander Wolffe and Master Plo that he thinks the smatterings of blue flowers that dot this clearing here on Little Archossi are known as Dinocaeruleus anthos. By their common-name, you know that these flowers are a warning. A silent, unassuming danger for all their beauty and silky blue petals. 

Terrible blue flower. 

"You can make toxic honey with these flowers?" Wolffe asks more to himself than Tack, as he reads ahead in the compiled information. Plo is taking his time to read the information on the screen of the datapad in his hands. To make sense of this, the Jedi is being thorough. 

"Poisonous, Sir, more accurately." Tack makes the correction habitually, and Wolffe does not take it personally. He knows that Tack knows what he meant, and given his aptitude for analytics and other such sciences, his researcher is not correcting him to be a smartass. "But, yes, you can make bad honey with these flowers depending on what pollinators you harvest from. They are not wholly dangerous on their own. Eat it, it might make you feel nauseated due to natural bitterants. Touch it to more sensitive dermal surfaces and it will prove a powerful irritant." 

From a short distance away, you hear the voices of Orchid and Soapsuds, Tack's batchmates (you assume), commenting on what the four of you are discussing in the shade of the tree you spent the morning sketching. "So what Tack's saying is don't stick your d-" The speaker finds himself with the other's hand anxiously plastered against his mouth to shut him up in a hurry. "Maker alive, shut up!" Soapsuds warns him, "Orchid, why are you so vulgar?!" 

There is a pointed sigh from Commander Wolffe that is aimed at the two of them. Don't make me come over there. Behave yourselves in front of the General. 

Plo makes no indication that he's noticed the situation occurring just out of reach. You have to imagine he hears Suds and Orchid wrestling with each other in the grass, now, though, and is ignoring it. "Arcadia and Tack, in your opinion, will these be enough cause for concern to consider returning back to the ship?" Plo wonders aloud. The Kel Dor returns the device to the researcher, and folds his hands together in an act of deliberate contemplation, resting them against his stomach. 

Tack looks at you, and you at him, then the Commander. There is a look in his eyes, both the stark silver and the warm vandyke brown, that reads to you as a surrender of control. 

I will carry out your judgment. 

Tack scoffs and shrugs, his arms thrown wide. "Honestly, General? I don't know enough. I'd need more time to determine through more analysis and comparison. This is only one search result for one flower it could possibly be. But it was enough of a match to make me get the Commander while he was talking with Arcadia." Enough of a match to send him into a tizzy over it. Tack had tripped coming up the hill in his haste, trying to ask if - from where he was sitting - the Commander noticed anyone messing with the blue flowers. 

We have a potential problem! had Wolffe on his feet faster than engaging a hyperdrive. And then there was a flurry of questions. Was it contact from the planet's inhabitants? Has someone gotten hurt? Are they needed to assist another battalion? Where's the General? 

He has the look again, now. Worry. The inner anxiety is eating him alive. Tack doesn't know. So what about you? 

"I see…" Master Plo hums. "And what are your feelings, Arcadia? What do you think about the situation?" 

You think. What do you think about this situation? Is it worth double checking the matches for the flower, to make sure that it really is Dinocaeruleus anthos? Are the men really going to be so flippant as to disregard any kind of warning put out about these flowers if they are the Dinocaeruleus, or worse yet, a far more harmful flower? (Not necessarily, but you have to consider that warning the troops that this flower can have detrimental potential invites the opportunity to inflict it.) 

There is one thing that is already clear to you, at least. "Tack should first make sure these flowers are what he thinks they are before we make any kind of advisory, General. That is my opinion." 

Another thoughtful hum. "Interesting. And why is this your opinion, little one?" 

"We should avoid unnecessary panic. Until we know for sure what these flowers are, I say we don't say anything. We invite unnecessary risks by making the men paranoid." you suggest, glancing first at the Jedi, and then the flint-gray Commander to his left. They had every right to accept or disregard your counseling as the commanding forces of this battalion at the day's end; you hope they will consider it at the very least. 

"I'm in agreement."

"Then we will do as Arcadia advised, and we will let young Tack take more time to confirm his findings. Until then…" Plo trails off, nodding decidedly. Thank the Maker. Tack dismisses himself in a hushed, hurried tone. If he's going to spend more time pouring over information on the Dinocaeruleus anthos, he shouldn't dawdle. The Jedi kindly wills the benefits of the Force to guide the researcher before he turns to address you once again. "Have you made use of the gifts given to you since we last spoke?" 

Blinking with a mild start, you realize that Plo has changed the topic. "Oh, yes, I have. Let me go get my sketchbook from my bag, sir." You scoop the entire bag from the grass, re-tucking your datapad among your things as you extract the book and turn it to the necessary page for his convenience. "Here." 

Taking it carefully in his hands, the book is cradled like a priceless relic as his eyes must trace over the page. Once more your property is treated with such care and respect by the Force-wielder. "My… Arcadia, you have quite a gift." 

The action is perhaps more childish than professional, but you cannot help but duck your head at such praise, fearing to meet his gaze should he see how flushed your face is. It is not the heat of the sun above you, denoting that it is now high noon, that makes your face burn. You're never quite sure how to accept a compliment. 

You opt for humility. "Oh, it's hardly that great, General Plo… I wouldn't say I have a gift… just… a-an attention for detail." And that much is true; dedication to detail is why you spent hours on a simple "sketch" to begin with; why you took so much care and effort to get everything done the best you could. The form of Commander Wolffe's armor. The curve of his jaw and the roundness of the ala of his nose. The correct texture of his hair within the typical haircut many of the Clones have. 

But though gentle insistence, the General repeats his sentiment. "Attention for detail is no less of a gift, Arcadia. In war it is a mark of wisdom, in art, it is a skill." A skill that has made for a very fine portrait of the Commander. "Have you seen Arcadia's work yet, Commander Wolffe?" He offers the sketchpad with an invitation to have a closer look, though it isn't necessary. 

"I watched Arcadia add the colors, yes." Wolffe confirms. "Quite the process."

Not to mention a strain on your wrist, but one well worth it for the praise given to you from the Jedi, and now many of the men who have congregated to come and suss out what's going on. "I can only imagine… Even gone through the trouble of adding proper shadows to such… rich color." 

Sinker and Boost smile softly, not quite sadly (but certainly somber), when they take note of the color of paint their commanding officer wears when you allow the book to be passed around so everyone is welcome to have a closer look. They hold it longest out of everyone, looking at this artistic replication a little more closely than most.

"The ol' maroon, eh? Think it's meant to depict another time, before Abregado?" 

"But he's drawn with the scar, Boost."

"Ah, yeah, good eye. Missed that bit." 

You timidly clear your throat to draw their attention, and explain that of all the colors, you didn't have gray. "I didn't want to leave his armor naked, either." Not when you went through the trouble of adding the face of the wolf and the other design to each of his shoulder pads, or the unique shape of his visor when you drew the helmet next to his hip. 

You would not deal him further, small cruelties by stealing the colors out of his coat completely. These markings he has chosen for himself mean something to Wolffe. The color he wears now is a mark of mourning. The color in the pages of your book will serve as an homage. 

You have not forgotten your brothers. You will always carry them with you.

Hmmf. Are you a poet now too, Arcadia?

No sir. Not really. 

You're uncertain where the words came from. Borrowed from something you read once? Did you perhaps hear the General say these words once upon a time? You can't recall what inspired you to say such a thing. 

But you'll remember the change in his gruff exterior, the way in which he was quieter than quiet for just a moment, and he pivoted in the grass to better face you and make you his equal. 

It's only the two of us here on the hill, Arcadia. Call me Wolffe, please. 

Don't have a fic taglist for the time being, but I'll likely start one soon if I can figure out how to make those forms some people have since I write a variety of stuff. For now, though, if you'd like to join a taglist for specific types of fics (example: just TBB-centric or just TCW-centric (or both)) don't hesitate to ask. 🩷

[Masterlist]

[Early Morning] [Here] [Late Afternoon] [Evening] [Deep Night] [Golden Dawn part 1]

[Golden Dawn Part 2]

[hauntedjpegcollection]

in my restless dreams, i see that town

wc: 5398 au: silent hill au ch: yasiel, benji, lethe

My favorite memory of you is the swing set. Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Our backyard, you remember? You finally let me push you until we thought you’d go the whole way around. You didn’t, but it was enough that we thought it was possible. And you let me and I never told you how much that meant to me. You trusted me. No one ever trusts me.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

I’m sorry.

I love you, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry and I love you.

Don’t

—

The rustle of the forest is like whispers; ominous, cruel, and taunting. So similar to his twin. Nelsy could be a forest, undefinable by map with too many paths that wind to no true destination. Nowhere authentically safe. She was scary and unknowable and cold—and so is Yasiel. Standing on the overpass that leads to Silent Hill, the wind sending murmurs through the leaves, cutting the bare skin of his high, freckled cheekbones.

He's fucking cold.

Yasiel’s lighter clicks a few times before it finally sparks and washes his light brown face in ambers and reds. The flame flickers a few times and threatens to go out before it can complete its simple job of lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips. The nicotine doesn’t warm him up, but it soothes a thrumming nerve inside him. An anxiety that can’t ever truly calm.

Don’t come for me, Yas.

His head tilts back, smoke pluming above him from parted lips. The sky above is cottony with roiling clouds, dark and fat on rain that hasn’t shed yet. Mouse had picked a perfect time to disappear; she always knew he hated fall. The slow death to winter. A season that held too many bad memories for both of them. And he hates the fucking cold. His black denim jacket is all flash and no substance, made to make him look pretty but not offer any actual warmth.

Maybe being warm would just make him feel guilty anyway. What does he deserve, after all? What, indeed.

Yasiel stamps the cigarette out on the railing of the overpass, then flicks the butt out into nature, watching it fall down the steep ravine into the forest surrounding Silent Hill. Adverts online made it seem like a pretty little place, someone’s cozy small town getaway. Writers would book a motel room and finish their next big project, or dads would drag their families to move in and start new. The sheriff from a town over takes a new placement in Silent Hill and feels restless because people aren’t doing cocaine off each other in bathrooms and ending their night jacking cars.

There’s no seeing the town from this far away, but the road into town is shut down. Looks permanent, no less. A rusted gate is padlocked closed, a few plywood boards haphazardly strapped to it. People have dumped trash all around it, like the dumpster off to the side was a suggestion to ignore. Yasiel, if he were athletic like his sister, might have been able to vault over the fence.

Instead, he’s forced to leave his car and take the scenic trail.

According to the map he’d snagged from a rest stop a hundred miles prior, that route funnels directly into Silent Hill’s graveyard before opening up into town.

“My fucking luck,” he mutters aloud to no one but the haughty, laughing wind. Yas folds the map, tucks it into his back pocket along with his lighter.

Then he descends.

—

The fog only seems to thicken the closer Yasiel gets to Silent Hill, and with it a palpable sense of dread. What starts as a modest mist quickly turns into a heavy blanket—and the way forward becomes trickier and tricker. He stumbles over forest roots, slides down the path as it suddenly becomes a gravely hill. More than once, he slips and palms a tree beside him and comes away with a scrape on his hand. The sting follows him.

So does the growing frustration that simmers into fury.

A farm sits desolate beside the trail as it opens from forest into wide open dirt path. A rusted windmill creaks slowly in the wind, the shadow falling over him. The sun is barely able to peek through the grey fog, the heavyset clouds. The farm makes him feel uneasy. It reminds him of an empty airport at four in the morning, or a lot to a gas station where the OPEN light flickers nonstop where he’s the only car parked. He’s reminded of the stairwell in his apartment building, how it goes on and on and on forever as he stands at the top and stares down. It’s a place abandoned except for him.

Yasiel’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he walks past the abandoned farm. His breathing is uneven and raspy and he can’t entirely blame it on the hike. Grass and dirt crunch underneath his sneakers but otherwise, there is no noise. The severe lack of it is almost loud. He pats down the inside pocket of his denim jacket, reminding himself of the inhaler kept there. It does little to comfort him.

He resolves to hate his sister a little harder as he finally finds the winding path to the graveyard. Flowers, dying of course, line the path like droopy used tissues. The gate is as worn down as everything else Yasiel has encountered, but the rusted chain that barely keeps the back entrance together is easily yanked off. He rubs the metallic dust from his hand onto his jeans, slipping in through the little opening he’s made.

A “Welcome to Silent Hill” sign would have been appreciated and yet all he has is the fog, the tombs like broken teeth burst from the ground and a dark silhouette just a few paces in front of him.

—

“Hello?”

The stranger whirls to face him and Yasiel regrets saying anything. He’s not sure what made him approach in the first place—herd mentality perhaps. The fear of being alone and spotting the singular other person he’s seen since the rest stop prior to entering Silent Hill’s radius.

Rusty and neglected, lonely and ignored.

Whoever they are, they’re angry. The word might not even justify it. Their jacket hood is up, but snakes of curly black hair peek from underneath it, framing his furious expression. Thick, dark brows pull in tight, creating a crease on their brown forehead. The stranger’s eyes are red rimmed and shiny, deep set with purpling bruises underneath them. His lip curls up, revealing teeth in a snarling expression.

Yasiel instinctively steps back.

“You from this fuckin’ town?”

“What? No, I—”

“Is this a joke? Some dickhead havin’ a proper fuckin’ laugh at me, then? Who did this?” The graveyard stranger throws a hand toward the tombstone he’d been standing in front of. Yasiel only realizes then that there is a hole in the ground, coffin shaped and six feet deep. A plot freshly dug for a burial. Nausea wells in his stomach.

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I don’t live here, I just—I just got here. I’m looking for—” He cuts off as the stranger’s face flickers with fear and pain and then lastly, worry. All three mingle into something devastating before it’s wiped clean, flat and apprehensive.

Yasiel looks at the tombstone once more. There doesn’t seem to be anything else he can do.

XAVIER WOLFFE

1996 – 2024

ARE YOU GOING TO STOP IT, BENJI?

YOU SHOULD TRY, IT MIGHT BE FUN!

A booted foot kicks out, striking the tombstone and sending it falling backward, the sound of marble slapping on loamy soil a wet smack. Yasiel flinches, taking a sidestep from the man—from Benji? He’s shorter, but broad and his hands, clenched at his sides, shake with unrepentant fury. There’s a glint of something gold at his neck, but Yasiel doesn’t look closer.

“Who is it?” he asks, taking another step away, cautious. Yasiel glances down into the grave to make sure it really is empty—there’s no dead body or even an empty casket, just a depression in the dirt, man sized. The hairs along his arms and the ones at the back of his neck stand to attention. The fog rolls in on the two of them, no less heavy, no less dense. It’s day time and yet the ever present grey makes this graveyard feel like a bog.

Mouse had read Wuthering Heights to shreds, he remembers. Her paperback copy had fallen apart in her hands one night, as she sat bent over in bed, a pen behind her ear. She would have loved this graveyard, and this chilling stranger.

Benji—if that’s who he is—doesn’t answer the question. He stares down at the tombstone, a muscle in his jaw feathering. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, his clothes rumpled. There’s a drawstring bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Yasiel says quietly. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who isn’t?” Benji snaps back, black eyes sliding upward to him. “I’m looking for him.”

“For—For Xavier?”

“He’s not dead if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Someone did this, someone fuckin’ sick and disgustin’ did this.”

Yasiel can’t place the man’s accent directly, besides distinctly British. His voice is rumbly, from the chest and deeply hurt. Words fracture a bit here and there, notably on dead and disgusting. Yasiel goes to ask another question—when’s the last time you saw him or where are you from—any semblance of polite socialization that might lead him down a path where he can ask about Mouse.

Instead, he sees another figure. Not that far from them, partially hidden by a statue of a crumbling angel. The mist in the graveyard has made it almost impossible to see anything other than the smattering of graves and Benji. It thins, only just barely. As though the graveyard wants them to see this.

Only, Yasiel doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to know. He steps back, eyes wide as the dark silhouette materializes little by little. Fear makes his veins cold, make his limbs feel limp and useless. His hand twitches to his lower back, underneath his jacket. He’s horrified at himself, at the sudden dread and terror that seems to be controlling his actions. So, his hand pauses.

That’s when the figure shambles forward.

“Xavier?” Benji asks, startled, his voice tipping high with hope. Dirt scatters into the open grave as he steps closer. Mist unravels around them. Yasiel’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the bicep, earning a dangerous look—he misses it entirely. Benji’s warning glare is wasted on him, because all Yasiel looks at is…is…it.

A distinctly canine jaw opens, mangled tongue lolling from its maw, high pitched whine splitting the otherwise silent graveyard. Drool pours from it’s mouth, mixing with dark, oily blood. The beast is shaped mostly man like; it stands on two long denim clad legs, nude lengthy pale torso tapered to wide shoulders, it’s arms behind it’s back cruelly bent and bound by slick wire. For a moment, a feeling of odd, misplaced sympathy cuts through the fear. It’s in pain, wolflike head rolling back and forth, nose snuffling the air, whimpering. It’s fur is dark auburn and shaggy.

“Xavier?” Benji repeats, his voice a horrified whisper.

The dog head snaps up, large white teeth gnashing together.

“Holy shit,” Yasiel whispers. Then screams as the beast charges toward him.

Everything happens too quickly. The breath is knocked from him as he collides with the ground—Yasiel raises an arm in defense, screaming wildly as an eyetooth catches on his wrist. The skin splits, fresh blood splattering across his denim jacket. Adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him from feeling the pain immediately. Yasiel kicks out his legs, flailing underneath the creature as it snaps its jaws open and close. Its wide open mouth smells like a dead thing, breath hot and foul. It snarls, lips curled back, snout wrinkled.

Then it squeals, spasming on top of Yasiel, who jerks out from under it. He rolls away on the grass, scrambling backward. There’s more blood on him. Dark and slick. This time, it belongs to the creature. Benji straddles it, with something wicked and glinting sharp in the grey filtered sunlight held aloft in his hand.

The doglike sounds of pain continue as Benji stabs, his own voice frantic and loud. Over and over, he plunges the—scalpel? The scalpel. Over and over until the wolf man is just twitching on the ground, bent at a horrible angle with it’s arms tied behind its back. Then slowly, it sighs out one last sound and—and it dies.

“Fuck!” Benji screams standing. He kicks, one final slam of his boot against pale flesh. “Fuck!”

Yasiel must say something too, but he isn’t sure what. It draws Benji’s attention, his focus sharp. And then he’s there, kneeling beside him, holding Yasiel’s hand, as his wrist continues bleeding. The wound is looked over with a clinical eye. It hasn’t started hurting yet; it only burns, like he’s gotten too close to campfire, like he’s laid out under the sun too long, like he’s fallen asleep in a car, baking in the backseat.

“Oh my God,” Yasiel whispers, realizing that it’s not the first time he’s said it. That maybe he’s been repeating it ever since the dog had been pulled off him and killed. His entire body shakes, a pit of cold opening in his chest. Yasiel’s vision is blurry until he realizes that his glasses had been knocked off. Awkwardly, he pulls himself away from Benji to pick them up. When he stands, he stumbles. His elbow is caught, steadying him enough to stand there without falling.

“Thank you,” he says, awe struck and dumb.

“Gonna faint?”

“No.”

“Y’sure?”

“No, I—What—what the fuck was that?”

Benji shakes his head. Yasiel didn’t expect him to know, and yet he still feels lost. Is this a dream? It can’t be. Oh God, it can’t be. He knows it isn’t and that’s worse. That makes it all so much worse. Reality catches up to him, the adrenaline dump draining; and then he’s doubling over, vomiting onto the blood stained grass. He heaves, hands on his knees, panting, stomach muscles clenching. He raises a shaky hand to stop his glasses from falling off once more.

“Can you get back then?”

“What?” Yas straightens slowly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. The bile’s made his lips burn. He almost registers that more than the slash on his wrist, even as the blood clots and dries.

“Up the way you came, yeah? Trail in the woods leads to the road, right?”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.”

“Can you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not leaving this fucking place without my husband,” Benji points into the fog. Into Silent Hill. His hand trembles, but his expression is hard and final. Yasiel can still taste vomit in his mouth, the bitter tang of it on the back of his tongue. He looks down at his hand, where blood has pooled into his palm, into the creases. His life line, his love line, the identical match to his sisters.

It isn’t safe. And you’re not strong enough.

“Let me come with you,” Yasiel pleads, stumbling toward Benji, hands upraised. The scalpels been cleaned on his jeans, making it shine in the dull fog once more. Benji’s hand tightens around it, tendons standing out starkly. Yasiel doesn’t even flinch. He can’t afford to be afraid, but he is. He is so afraid. “My sister is here. I’m looking for her—I have to find her. I’m not leaving, either.”

Wherever she is. Yasiel thinks of the dead wolf man creature on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt and a spasm of fear tightens his chest. His heart turns over wildly. Half of him is out there, in this town, with these things.

“You don’t get in my way of finding him,” Benji says calmly, slowly. The scalpel disappears into a pocket. He pulls his hood back, letting tangles of black curls free. The subtle graveyard wind shifts around them, tickling exposed skin, laughing in their ears. “Then, c’mon.”

—

They don’t encounter another creature—they don’t encounter anything at all. No people, no remains of them either. Just emptiness; cars parked with nothing in them, flyers and newspapers scattering empty roads. Everything is covered in layers of grime, as if Silent Hill stopped being a town a decade ago, frozen in time but not immune to decay.

Which doesn’t make sense because Mouse had been here just last year. Yasiel had dropped her off at the train, watched her go, and then picked her back up just a week later. Silent Hill had existed back then, as a town full of people and life—a hotel to stay in, doctors and nurses and medication and a little diner that she took pictures of. Mouse had even charmed her way onto someone’s tug boat for a ride on the lake. Like it was a vacation, a holiday stay, instead of a sleep study to solve her night terrors.

“Why did your husband come here?” Yasiel asks, breaking the long, cautious silence that’s crept up on them. They walk down an empty street, the fog everlasting and obscuring anything not ten feet in front of them. He’s anxiously straining to hear anything that might resemble a dog. Whining, barking, that terrible sniffing. But it’s just been his own heavy breathing.

“You wanna chat right now?” Benji throws Yasiel an incredulous stare, a pinch between his brows. “More of those fuckin’ things could be out here.”

Yasiel stays quiet for a moment, observing the abandoned street. They pass storefronts, equally empty or boarded shut. Some of them have broken windows, glass scattering the sidewalk. A chill makes him bundle into his denim jacket further.

Then he finally clears his throat and says, “You called it Xavier?”

“Listen, dickhead.” Benji rounds toward Yasiel. His face pales and his hand reaches out, jerking the slender painter by his jacket. Yasiel stumbles, feeling Benji’s body heat suddenly; the clarity that he is a real, living person. “More of ‘em. Like I said. Down the alley.” A tremor runs up Yasiel’s spine, sweat pooling under his arms. He dares to look sideways, shaking so bad even his glasses slide down the tip of his nose.

And Benji’s right. There are more of them, these half human dog wolf things. A bundle of them down a decrepit alleyway, a dumpster overturned, ancient trash piled everywhere alongside cardboard boxes, a rusted shopping cart. Two of the wolves fight each other, arms bound, snapping their maws, catching delicate pale skin and rending flesh. Without balance, they fall on each other, on the ground, tangling and fighting still. They howl and yip and snarl and bark madly, while three stand around them, watching. The bystanders cackle, fangs dripping spit and blood. They laugh, like hyenas, heads rolling back and forth, unhinged.

Yasiel slaps a hand over his mouth to stop a whimper.

“We’re gonna cut this way, alright?” Benji’s voice is close. Real. Real person, really alive. “Slowly. Goin’ for the diner behind us.”

Mouse’s diner. For a moment, he thinks of the picture she’d sent him of the burger she’d ordered. Stacked with the works, as she liked it, thick cut fries and her mayonnaise and ketchup mixture on a side plate. Yasiel wants to cry. He wants to burst into tears and run away screaming, he wants to pretend this isn’t happening. The dogs scream down the alley. Benji’s hand tightens on his jacket.

Yasiel looks over his shoulder. The neon light—Diner 52—miraculously flickers. The glass windows are intact. One single car sits parallel parked outside of it, door open and almost off its hinges. His tongue is dry in his mouth, awkward and fat. He nods once and Benji slowly eases himself off the sidewalk.

The dog wolves never pay them any attention. They kill each other in the alleyway, laughing and barking.

—

The diner tables are dusty, as is the bar where residents must have sat and drank milkshakes and asked a waitress named Marge for the “slamming special” as it’s called on the crumbling menu board. The floor is dirt caked, but the inside of the diner feels oddly safe. Secluded, almost. Respite from whatever is happening outside, with the monsters. Yasiel sits himself down on a stool, peeling his jacket sleeve back to look at his…bite wound.

“Lemme see.”

Benji slings his bag up onto the counter and begins to rifle through it. He’s handsome, despite the anger and the hostility. He has a curved nose and thick facial hair, the kind that looks soft to the touch. When he pushes his black curls from his face, the effect is downright astounding. Lucky bastard, Yasiel thinks of Xavier, then immediately feels guilty for it. Not really time or place, but he’d never been very good at that.

Slut. Mouse’s voice, affectionate and teasing. Her needling fingers tickling his sides, laughing while they smoke on his balcony. Get it out the gutter, Yassy. She’d hated his last girlfriend and loved his last boyfriend and declared herself free from accusations of misogyny anyway. He just simply had bad taste fifty percent of the time, and fifty percent of the time he’d be dating a woman. Yasiel closes a hand over his mouth again, when his throat thickens with the feeling of tears.

He holds his arm outstretched.

Benji’s poured something onto gauze, a little white kit open in front of him.

“Are you a nurse?” He grunts in reply as he begins cleaning the small gash on Yasiel’s arm. The rubbing alcohol burns so bad he flinches, earning a severely annoyed look. “Kind of a pussy, if you haven’t noticed.” It softens Benji’s expression. He snorts out what must be a laugh and reaches for his supplies.

“S’how I met ‘im.” The wound gets dressed tightly. Benji’s efficient, but his movements slow. His eyes stray to the side. “Poor fucking boy got a concussion playing hockey. Came in to the ER and was on my chart. When I was pokin’ him with the IV, he asked to marry me. Was fucking stunned out my mind. Couldn’t really do anything but laugh. Then he got all teary eyed with it. Told me if I gave him my number, we’d end up married someday.”

“Wow.” Yasiel lets his hands fall between his knees. He realizes he’s smiling, but doesn’t feel like trying to stop himself. Benji’s eyes narrow, a nasty smelling sanitizer rubbed between his hands as a poor mans bath.

“Don’t really tell that story,” he admits quietly.

“Guess I have the sort of face that invites honesty.”

Benji’s nose wrinkles, face screwing up as if he can’t tell whether or not Yasiel is joking. He is, for what it’s worth, but Benji still snorts again and says, “You really don’t, mate.”

They lapse into silence. Not long enough either of them can adjust to the insanity of their situation. Yasiel suddenly pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He has no service and he didn’t expect to either—this wouldn’t be a nightmare if he could just call 911 and be done with it all. Still, seeing the NO SERVICE at the top of the screen, where his battery symbol waits at 75% makes his heart plunge.

“This is my sister,” Yasiel says, handing over the phone. On screen, Mouse smiles in her knife like way. They have the same eyes, same heterochromia. One brown, one a green hazel that looks brighter under direct sunlight. She sits on the beach, her knees tucked to her chest, one of Yasiel’s baseball caps backwards on her head. Waves of her wild, brown hair are sea salt tangled. He can’t think of a picture that describes her better. And he can’t look at it as Benji does.

“You’re twins.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yasiel replies, locking the phone and tucking it back into his pocket beside his inhaler. “Down to the eyes and everything. When we were little, people would get us confused all the time. We’re uh, nothing alike in personality.”

“Feel like I know her,” Benji murmurs, his eyes on the floor. “The picture of her. Just felt familiar, that.” Finally, his hand pats his back pocket. First, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lazily lighting on. Yasiel wants to point out that they’re inside, but realizes how stupid that is. Then, Benji finds his wallet and flips it open.

There’s something sweet about him having a polaroid tucked in with a few bills and a receipt. They’re perfect strangers, yet Yasiel feels like that makes sense. Benji holds it for a second, as though unwilling for it to leave his possession even for a moment. Then finally, he holds it out, taking a long drag on his cigarette and looking away.

Yasiel’s heart betrays him and he thinks of the gravesite. The tombstone. He looks down at the picture and wonders if this man is actually dead and Benji is insane—but that would make two of them probably. They both saw those dogs. Yasiel grits his teeth, breathes evenly through his nose, and forces himself to look at the picture and think—alive. Missing. Just like Mouse. Needs to be found. Loved. So loved.

And he is, if the picture indicates anything. Benji has a subdued sort of smile, his eyes purely on Xavier. The photo is of both of them, sitting in a bar, with low lighting and pints of half drank beer on their table. A pale, tattooed hand peeks into the photo, holds fingers behind Benji’s head, in a mockery of bunny ears. Xavier takes up most of the frame, this giant, lanky red head, who is smiling ear to ear. He has an arm slung around Benji’s shoulders, pulling them together close. He is so traditionally handsome that it seems fake, for someone to be that pretty.

Yasiel thinks of the wolf thing, half human. Pale, with its shaggy oxblood fur. He forces the image away, commits Xavier to memory instead.

“I think I know what you mean,” he says, handing the photo back. Benji takes another hard drag on his cigarette, flicking ash onto the already dirty tile floor. The smell of nicotine is oddly comforting. “I mean, he sort of has one of those smiles, but—feels like I know him. Like we’ve met before.”

He’s about to ask what made Xavier come here. Why would anyone come here? Why had Mouse? But it used to be a town before, used to be a real place, where people got hamburgers with all the toppings, and took tugboat rides on the lake. It used to be. But right as he’s about to ask, an old fashion radio crackles to life down the counter.

“The fuck?” Benji startles off the stool, standing in front of it. His cigarette drops to the ground, cherry burning. Something old fashioned, classical plays from the staticky speakers. Crooning and lullaby like, a piano melody that makes Yasiel’s temples throb. He presses the heels of his palms to the sides of his head, groaning for a moment.

Then a voice, clear and direct.

“Listeners, are you out there?”

It’s a soft voice. Spoken with deliberate care and enunciation. As melodic as the music, as distinct and otherworldly.

“What is this?” Yasiel mumbles, stepping closer. He drags the radio closer. Dust puffs into the air around it, leaves an almost clean streak across the counter. The dial lights up, flickering with the radio waves. Something old and show tune like plays beneath the voice. Benji crowds in closer, a nervous look over his shoulder to the windows still blanketed in grime and fog.

“This is your host, Lethe, and tonight I’ll be your guide. Are you out there? Are you listening? No ad breaks tonight, darling. I’m here for you, if you’re here to listen.”

Yasiel fumbles for the map in his pocket, yanking it free and spreading it across the counter in front of him. He trails an ink stained finger until he finds SILENT HILL RADIO TOWER. It’s not close.

“I know it’s hairy out there right now, listeners. Trust me, I know.”

The voice is dry, doesn’t chuckle, but the laughter is nearly implied. Benji and Yasiel share a look toward each other, a mixture of shock, revulsion, and an eerie sense of hope. Someone else in the town. Someone else who knows about the monsters.

“Things have gotten spooky in our lovely Silent Hill. But I want to help you—you want my help, don’t you?”

“Who is this fucking loon?” Benji asks, voice quivering. Yasiel’s fingers scramble over the radio, turning it up a fraction. His heart slams against his rib cage, working up his throat. What a beautiful voice, he thinks, his head fuzzy and aching. “What you doin’?”

“Note down these roads for me, listeners. They’re the bad ones you don’t want to get lost down. Avoid them and follow the posters. The Radio Tower is open, and the call line is on. You have me all night. Do you hear that? All night.”

The radio crackles. Yasiel leans in. He swears if he gets close enough, he hears something else. He hears the radio jockey—he hears Lethe—saying his name. Do you hear that? All night, Yasiel. A series of streets follow in staccato rhythm. He yanks a pen from his back pocket, a trusty friend he’s never without, and hastily slashes out roads as Lethe lists them out.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Yasiel whispers, staring at the map.

“See you soon.” Yasiel.

The radio crackles to dead silence.

“I know what to do,” Yasiel says, turning to Benji, holding up the map. His shaking finger stabs at the Silent Hill radio tower.

“Alright, mate, no offense—you got off to a lunatic on a radio with a smooth voice, and I’m not here to judge, even if m’judgin’ a bit, yeah—”

“No! Shut up!” Yasiel shakes out the map again, bumping their shoulders together, forcing Benji to look. He grunts in disapproval, moves just a bit so their arms are no longer touching. “If this person—this, Lethe—is playing on the radio, we can get them to broadcast something. Do you get me?”

A flicker of understanding plays across Benji’s face. He rears back, staring at Yasiel with wide eyes. A stray curl falls across his forehead. There’s blood on the underside of his jaw, from the thing he’d killed earlier.

“If—” Yasiel starts and then stops and stares at this stranger. Someone he hardly knows, has only just met, has been saved by once. He licks his lips and nods toward the radio.

“If you ask Xavier to come, will he?”

“Yes,” Benji answers with no hesitation. His jaw flexes, tightening, nostrils flaring. He looks to the ground, where the cherry of his cigarette slowly dies, smoke curling in the air.

“Yes. Always.”

—

Alright, listener. Don’t lose me. Everything’s too easy to lose in Silent Hill if you’re not careful—and you are careful, aren’t you? With your possessions and your people.

Are you shocked I know so much? Don’t be. You’ll find out more about me too. We’ll never be on an even playing ground, you and I, but we can get close. If you’d like.

I’m going to help you out of here, but you have to be careful. Have to listen, understand? Don’t trust anyone else. Not even yourself. You know that already, don’t you?

Never have been good with trust. If I say I’m honored to have yours, would it be inaccurate to imagine you blushing? Too far, listener? I understand, but you’ll forgive me. I’m going to be with you through it all.

Why?

You shouldn’t ask those kinds of things.

You’re going to remember soon enough and then you might turn this station off. Things are easy to lose in Silent Hill, after all.

I don’t want to lose you just yet.

[genrockstar]

Confession |

summary: Anthony, deeply Christian and conflicted about his feelings for his best friend Spencer, seeks solace in prayer, struggling with the belief that his feelings are sinful. Spencer, unable to watch Anthony suffer alone, confronts him, urging him to accept his emotions without abandoning his faith. Though they can't be together, they find solace in their friendship, choosing to face the uncertainty together, one step at a time.

Warnings: fluff, tiny angst,

pairing: anthony vaughn X spencer white

fandom: heartbreak high

The chapel was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of fluorescent lights above. Anthony knelt at the altar, his hands clasped tightly in prayer, the weight of guilt pressing heavily on his shoulders. His whispered words were barely audible, a desperate plea for forgiveness for the feelings he could no longer suppress.

Spencer stood at the back of the chapel, watching Anthony with a mixture of sorrow and frustration. He had followed him here, hoping for a chance to talk, to clear the air, but seeing Anthony like this—so tormented—made his heart ache.

Finally, unable to stay silent any longer, Spencer approached, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. Anthony didn’t look up, but Spencer could feel the tension in the air between them.

“Anthony,” Spencer said softly, his voice breaking the silence like a fragile thread, “we need to talk.”

Anthony flinched at the sound of his name, but he didn’t move from his position. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied, his voice strained. “I just need to pray, to ask God to help me.”

Spencer’s heart sank. He knew what Anthony was going through—the internal war between his faith and the feelings he had for Spencer, feelings he had tried so hard to deny. But Spencer couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “You don’t have to fight this alone, Anthony. You don’t have to push me away.”

“It’s wrong,” Anthony whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “What I feel… it’s a sin. I can’t… I can’t be with you, Spencer. God wouldn’t want that.”

Spencer knelt down beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his friend’s body, but still a world apart. “Anthony, I’m not asking you to choose between me and your faith. But pretending like this doesn’t hurt, like it isn’t tearing us both apart… that’s not fair. You’re allowed to feel, Anthony. You’re allowed to be confused and scared. But don’t push me away because of it.”

Tears welled up in Anthony’s eyes, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his conflicting emotions. “I don’t know how to stop feeling this way,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to reconcile what I feel with what I’ve been taught.”

Spencer gently placed a hand on Anthony’s, the touch sending a shiver through both of them. “Maybe you don’t have to figure it all out right now. Maybe… maybe it’s okay to just feel what you feel, and take it one day at a time.”

Anthony’s tears finally spilled over, and he turned to look at Spencer, his eyes filled with pain and longing. “But what if… what if I can’t ever stop feeling this way? What if I’m always this messed up?”

Spencer’s heart broke at the vulnerability in Anthony’s voice. “Then we’ll figure it out together,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere, Anthony. No matter what.”

For a moment, they sat there in silence, the weight of the world pressing down on them. But in that silence, there was also a small, fragile sense of hope—hope that maybe, somehow, they could find a way to navigate the impossible situation they found themselves in.

It wasn’t a resolution. It wasn’t a happily ever after. But it was a beginning—a first step on a path that neither of them could see the end of. And for now, that was enough.

***

if the gods loathe me for i love you then i can only pity them they can take you away from me until i cry a new lethe

and they could force me to drink it but i would still know you i know i would know you

[idkman-ijustwannamakeatournament]

Loser's Bracket

Round 1: Match 9

"Two Sides of the Same Coin"- Two things that are regarded as part of the same thing. Even if they're very different, they have at least one common thread that helps them fit into this trope.

Propaganda (under the cut):

Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu:

"the two of them are quite different in a lot of ways! wen kexing is much more flamboyant and dramatic, always standing out and wearing bright colors and looking for a show, while zhou zishu is much more subdued, trying to go unnoticed and draw the least amount of attention possible. wen kexing is all for big displays of bloody violence that have little planning and are intended to be watched and attributed to him. zhou zishu is all for subtly and covert ways of getting rid of people that can't be traced back to him at all and wipe out all witnesses and is always having to plan like 10 steps ahead. wen kexing is super talkative while zhou zishu is generally quiet. wen kexing represents the terror on the martial arts world while zhou zishu represents the terror on the imperial world. wen kexing is from the ghost valley that uses the water of lethe/oblivion, the inverse being drunk like a dream which is used by window of heaven which is where zhou zishu is from.

as for similarities, they were both innocent children set up to have a good and upright life, but experienced a loss that set them on a path that lead both of them to become the leaders of two of the worst/most evil organizations in the world. their martial arts abilities are equal to each other. and they're canonically soulmates and say that they're the only ones who can truly understand each other."

Josuke Higashikata and Yoshikage Kira:

"Josuke Higashikata is a high-school boy with a large pompadour living in the town of Morioh. He lives alone with his mother, as his father wasn't in the picture. His ability, Crazy Diamond, allows him to repair or heal anything he touches with it. Because his grandfather was murdered before he could use his power to save him, Josuke vowed to carry on his legacy by protecting the town. Yoshikage Kira is a 33-year-old office worker who just wants to live a quiet life. He's also a serial killer who kills women discretely and goes on 'dates' with their severed hands. His ability, Killer Queen, assists in his murders by allowing him to silently "explode" anything he touches, leaving almost no evidence.

Naturally, there are many parallels and contrasts between Josuke and Kira. Both want to live a "quiet life", but while Josuke cannot live quietly because he feels he must protect his town from supernatural threats, Kira can't live quietly because his murdering habits put him in danger of discovery.

Josuke is often seen as a delinquent but has a clear heart of gold, and Kira puts on an incredibly rehearsed act of being an ordinary office worker but is far from an upstanding member of society in private. Kira's powers allow him to annihilate things and is born from wanting to indulge his urges with no repercussions. It's also one of the more strangely adaptable abilities, fitting his shrewd and evasive nature — he has several different "bomb" types that emerge over the course of the story.

Meanwhile, Crazy Diamond allows Josuke to repair things (even things that Kira has almost completely destroyed). The power was developed when Josuke was inspired by another person's kindness as a child. It's an altruistic ability, and literally selfless — Josuke cannot use his ability to heal himself. And while Crazy Diamond never "evolves", Josuke uses its base power in increasingly clever ways.

And of course, one last contrast between the two is friendship. Josuke befriends many of the people he comes to blows with, and even the people who don't like him often develop a begrudging respect for him.

Kira, however, has no close friends, as he tries his best to be perfectly average and middling. The only reason he has protection against Josuke and the others is because his father actively finds new enemies to fight Josuke — most of whom have no real allegiance towards Kira personally."

[thehollowstarsaga]

Hollow Star Saga Book Four Predictions

okay so since i've finished agasv it's time for my predictions for the next book:

the CeLeTheo polycule

so i remember Ashley mentioned that there's possibility for a polyam and the moment i heard that i was just immediately like, 'oh, they're definitely talking about Theo, Celadon and Lethe right?'

like i'm not the only one who thought Celedon and Theo had insane levels of chemistry in both agasv AND acafl???

and Celedon and Lethe are already super cute and canon by the end of agasv too??

I'd honestly love it if Lethe and Theo end up being into each other too like the dynamic sounds super fun.

anyway that's the prediction Celedon x Theo x Lethe is canon next book (i'm gonna look like such an idiot if i'm wrong)

2. dragon Theo???

now i'm not too sure about this one but maybe (just maybe) Theo's a dragon?

i remember i made this prediction all the way back when adahs was released and there was that random paragraph in the beginning on how people can be dragons without realizing it. i was like 'okay, so one of the characters we care about has to be a dragon right??'

by process of elimination i reached the conclusion that Theo was the dragon out of all of them.

i remember when we found out that his grand aunt is a dragon i freaked out like i was so proud of myself for reaching that conclusion cause there's a high chance that he inherited those traits.

buuuuuuuuuuuut i'm not too sure whether that's actually going to be explored or bought up or even be true in the next book so this is a very tentative theory.

3. if Riadne dies, then who's killing her?

okay so i'm not too confident about this because i don't actually know if Riadne will die in book 4, at least in the traditional sense. but if it does happen the potential candidates are;

Theo: NO LISTEN I'M NOT BEING BIASED ACTUALLY FR HEAR ME OUT; Theo wants to rule over seelie summer, and if i'm not mistaken you need to defeat the existing head in order to do that so... maybe? admittedly its not very likely though cause there aren't enough emotional stakes. unless Riadne just murders his parents or smth in the first half lmao. i'll say 5% chance

Arlo: since we're talking about murdering parental figures... yeah. i'd say there's like a 10% chance that it's Arlo who kills Riadne maybe?

Celadon: 25% chance it'll be Celadon simply for the emotional stakes... and murdering parental figures. but actually if we're talking about someone who needs to stab their mom in order to get over their mommy issues...

Vehan: him having some kind of arc in which he's vaguely unhinged would go so hard. sadly, however, it probably won't happen. he's still most likely to kill Riadne at 50% chance, because the angst would be so good.

others: this is just me covering up my tracks in case my top guesses are wrong so that i don't look like a total idiot. Lethe, Nausicaa and Aurelian take up the remaining 10%. although i seriously doubt it'll be any of them. if it is though, Lethe's most likely to and Aurelian's least likely to.

honestly the more i think about it Riadne probably won't be killed by someone else. either she'll manage to get herself killed in her quest for power or she won't die at all. it doesn't feel like all the loose ends would be tied up if she did (watch as she dies at the hands of someone i didn't mention on this list.)

5. Vehan does some insane shit

this actually isn't me pushing my let Vehan go batshit crazy agenda. i mean insane as in he's going to have a major battle or show off some huge feat of power.

extra points if it happens in front of Riadne.

i think the best case scenario is a Riadne vs Vehan fight scene.

6. Who's the big bad?

see this is more of a discussion than a prediction cause i know Riadne's our main antagonist but i feel like there might be an overarching one as well.

easiest answer to this is Cosmin, and honestly, yeah it probably is him. however, Luck seems like they have a good head on them and that they might stop him from doing anything that would harm Arlo, so i actually think that maybe, just maybe it's someone else.

Fate, maybe? i'm not sure, but it seems we don't like them.

it could be another one of the titans but i'm not too sure they'd introduce a completely new major antagonist by the fourth book.

7. Theo has a bigger role.

there's no evidence no nothing i'm just manifesting stfu

[sapphire-dreamsky]

taste of uncertainty 

Starring: Hades | Reader | Hermes is mentioned | Persephone is mentioned | Kronos is mentioned 

Pairing: Hades x Reader

Type: Angst | Pining 

The skies in Helheim are always dark. The people in the underworld live in constant darkness. It is the Underworld after all: the domain demons call their home; the domain where all those who committed crimes against their brothers and sisters are sent to after paying the price in the mortal realm. Helheim is not meant to be beautiful. It is meant to be practical. The judging of straying souls; a mechanical process. The steps are easy to remember for everyone. It is the same everyday after all. As it was; As it will remain. A duty he had to watch over as the ruler of Helheim.

Hermes brings in the souls. Charon ferries them on the stagnant river. The souls walk through the gates, wait for their turn as the queue slowly moves forward with each passing judgement. It is the same process everyday. Hades is used to this system. He grew more and more jaded with the judging of each passing soul. He saw everything. From the most noble humans to the most despicable ones. Helheim is indeed a depressing domain. The most noble humans end in Elysium, the ones with the most mundane deeds end in the Asphodel Meadows, and the most despicable ones in Tartarus. A fair judgement.

It is incredible really how humans’ lives are much more alike than they would like to accept. No two souls are similar. But the experiences they go through sure do shape what kind individuals they turn into. In some of them, he sees Zeus…well with less opportunities to go on a rampage that would end civilisations, but the patterns are there. A puff of laughter escaped the god of the underworld. If Poseidon could read his thoughts, the eldest knew he would get scolded. He can basically hear his sermon, “Humans and us have nothing alike.” And yet…

Purple eyes glance briefly at his left side. The stubborn woman who accidentally stumbled into Helheim while still alive stood there, by his throne, notebook in hand; taking note of the mortal’s life’s achievements and milestones. This task used to be that of Minos. However, after her insistence of repaying Hades for his kindness as a host, the lord of the Underworld passed this task to her. He found her company much more pleasant than that of the former king of Crete. Her sense of humour makes his long days in the courtroom more tolerable.

(Name) is nothing more than a mortal. Her soul is like many others he judged before. When her time comes, she will roam the Asphodel Meadows, all ties tying her to her current life forever severed with a sip of the water coursing through the River Lethe. She will forget everything. Her life, her parents, him. Everything connecting her to her mortal life will disappear from memory. She will be reduced to another soul, walking around the fields, purpose and ambition stolen away. As it always had been; As it should remain. Her eyes will not light up with recognition when she notices him across the meadows. He will be nothing but a stranger.

His heart squeezed in his chest. ‘Our time together…memories of you sitting there in the Elysium fields, Cerberus’ heads resting on your lap, listening to a tune I composed during one of my sleepless nights, all gone because of a ridiculous system.’ His grip on his bident tightens. This is a dangerous thought process. This…attachment to this mortal…

When did he get attached to her? He can't quite pinpoint when. And yet, this feeling spread in his chest at the mere thought of losing her…it was familiar. A familiar ache that he felt only once in his life, aeons ago, when a certain spring goddess stumbled into Helheim in a similar fashion as (name). A goddess and a mortal woman. One has ichor running in their veins; the other, a dark red liquid that when spilled carelessly could end a lifetime. They should have nothing in common. A mortal woman should never be praised alongside a goddess. It is blasphemy. And yet…in Hades’ eyes, the genuine smiles that grace their faces were similar. They both radiated warmth. It was as if they brought some rays of the sun with them before coming down to Helheim and decided to share it with him.

Gods are rarely loved. They felt the desire to possess anything that accidentally gain their fancy. But real love, the selfless, purest one of them, is a foreign concept. Perhaps, because of their status as immortals, they know they would never really lose their loved ones to time. They take each other for granted. They fall hard and fast, but once the euphoria disappears, nothing ties them to that figure of desire anymore. In the rare cases of exception, the union was rarely easy. Hades witnessed how Psyche was played and tested until Aphrodite relented to spare the young girl.

Hades himself, remembered feeling something akin to love once. But even now, he wasn’t entirely certain it was actually love and not just a mere fleeting affection for a naive goddess. That spring deity will always be the base of his ‘what if’ daydreams. A door they both opened but that he could never bring himself to close. How can he let go of something that showed so much potential but that never came to be because of his unbudging convictions? Every night, he wonders what he could have done differently. What compromises should he have made? How could he have made this relationship work? All of these probabilities remained just that. A probability and possibility amongst one of many others.

And as Hades taps his bident three times on the sparkling tiled floors of the courtroom, his judgement for the soul before him finalised, he wonders if (name) will follow the steps of the spring goddess. Will he be accompanying her to the gates, watching as Cerberus’ heads and tail dropped as yet another being that brought some comfort in their long lives? The words he was never able to say to that spring goddess on the top of his tongue, but with a different future in mind; a different woman by his side. A woman he fears doesn’t want to stay after she finds what she is searching for during her stay with him. A woman who realises that Helheim when compared to Mt. Olympus is grim and devoid of warmth.

‘Will you too leave me craving for the potential of what we could have been if you had decided to stay?’

“Your soul shall reside in the Asphodel Meadows.”

A woman he will see one day, when the Fates have decided it was time for her to go, stands there in the middle of the throne room, waiting to be told to go to the Asphodel Meadows, to drink her memories away. Their days and nights in Helheim spent discussing about their respective pasts and family, the secrets they spilled over the wine they drank, the days she spent with the imposing Cerberus—reduced to a yapping and whiny puppy in her presence— chasing after her in the Elysium fields, the nights he spent teaching her how to play the piano and flute when they couldn’t sleep. All these moments sailing away into nothingness.

‘Or will I be visiting you in the Asphodel Meadows, wishing to go back to the moment we first met. Would I let you stay by my side knowing what I know now, or would I force you to leave to spare me this second disappointment?’

He can hear it now. His father is laughing from Tartarus, shaking the grounds he walks on.

“You brats will never find happiness.”

The curse of a spiteful father.

[thegoldenappleofdiscord]

pearls

summary:

The pearls of memory did not fall in Will’s hands. They were trapped, in oysters with steel clamps, and he had to pry them apart with his fingers. He fit his nails between the sliver of space between the oyster’s lips and pulled, pulled until his thumbs turned red and his nails had broken and they were bleeding scarlet. In the end, he would have something clear in his hands, a white pearl among the blood, a memory in which he could treasure.

Some of these memories were brief. Pillow-fighting with Kayla, listening to Austin play the saxophone. Others were spools of life spun into the tiny crevices of his head, and they throbbed, hurt like nothing else before. Oftentimes he struggled to reach memories that he wished he never had. But pearls were pearls, and they fit into the empty strings of the necklace Fate had strung for him.

Each morning he woke up, he felt closer to knowing himself.

or: will loses (and finds) his memories.

day six: river lethe (memory)

full fic on ao3!

The boy entered at night, a drop of darkness in Will’s sterile-white world.

He was punctual. After the last of his company left and the dipping sun bled colors over the valleys of his bedsheet, Will would step into routine. He’d comb his hair with the brush they’d given him, splash water on his face, sit in the shower until all the stiffness melted from his shoulders and lingered in the drain. When he’d return, it would be dark. The boy always came after dark, when silver bathed the room, carving shapes from moonlight and making doorways of shadows.

Will was alone and then he wasn’t. The boy emerged from the shapeless corner of the room, silent as fae. And he looked like he was one of them, too – his hair flowed in dark strands, melting in with the shadows from which he arrived so it looked as though it brushed the floor. Olive toned skin sparkled like lacquered wood, and the boy seemed just as hollow. His eyes were stone, slated with onyx slabs for each iris. It made for a cold and endless gaze, but that did not stop Will from feeling odd sensations, like flint against stone, each time they shared a fitful glance.

In some ways, the boy’s appearance was routine. In every other way, it was not. Will held no expectations because the boy defied every one of them.

Tonight, the boy said little, watching to Will mumble on about his day. Will wondered if this was boring to him, but as he continued, he saw the boy’s shoulders lower, his fingers twitch, icy lips thawing into a ghost of a smile. His onyx eyes seemed to shatter and melt like hard caramel, and he beheld Will softly, reverently. Will almost believed that the boy would lean in, cup his cheeks, and just hold him, if only for a moment.

He desperately wanted it, and his first real desire was overwhelming. He hadn’t known desperation until then.

But the boy pulled away. He sat further down the cot, set his hands in his lap, and listened. At the end of the hour, when he made to get up, Will asked the same question he asked each night.

“Will you tell me your name?”

Not a word. The boy held those close to his chest like secrets. Only a shake of his head, once, twice.

read full fic on ao3!

[heartofspells]

trick or treat 😈 something angsty, a headcanon or a snippet, maybe?

Ah, my new little cave creature in crime. Here's something extra special just for you (that at some point i'll finish). It's the eventual third part of my exploration for The Demons We're Made of series I've got that I just...haven't been able to revisit yet, mostly because the second part broke me more than a little. But enjoy??

--

"Why did that feel like a goodbye?"

The words are hushed, barely breaths of air passing in the space between them, canyons carved with tears and the flying spittle of harsh, hurtful elegies howled in restless, unforgiving fury. They are bulwarks crafted from the loudest of silences, terrible truths whispered only in the blackest, darkest of nights, spilled ink drying on parchment that can never be cleaned or removed again. They are damning, the unreachable waters of the River Lethe, never forgotten, always remaining, turning stagnant as they swirl slowly over a muddy, opaque surface.

Sirius winces as they reach his ears, his shoulders hunching forward, fingers clawing into the bedsheets on either side of his thighs. He refuses to look at Remus, can't make himself meet his husband's eyes, the same ones he's spent years running to, searching out, using as crutches to carry him to the next day, the coming hour, coats spread over the rain puddles of seconds. He can't look because he knows he'll see the shattering truth within them, just as it's spreading inside him now, cracking his ribs with how much he doesn't want it.

"Remus – "

"No."

His head whipping up at the refusal, Sirius finally looks at Remus, finding not the desolation and defeat he'd expected, but a steely determination rippling through his brown eyes, pulling Sirius down like quicksand. He blinks, stutters, all his words drying up in his throat as Remus shifts forward on the bed until his knees are pressing into Sirius' thigh and hip, a solid weight, some sort of sturdy comfort that's jarring to Sirius. Hands slip around the sides of his neck, warm where Sirius' flesh feels so cold, just as it always does in comparison. Fingers twine into the baby fine locks of hair at his nape, an action so familiar that it's almost like coming home after the most terrible of days, stripping away shoes, layers of clothing, falling into an embracing bed or a hot bath, welcoming arms always there on the other side.

"Please," begs Remus, holding with a gentle pressure, allowing escape if Sirius wants it but not relenting in his grasp as they sit together. "Please don't. I know we're – " He stops, swallows, his mouth wobbling terribly as Sirius watches. "I know. Things aren't fixed. They aren't better or mended. What I said…Sirius, I'll never forgive myself for it, for that moment of weakness when you needed me to be better."

Sirius shakes his head roughly, Remus' hands moving with the motion. His mouth opens, but a finger slides around, pressing over his lips, Remus shushing him softly.

"Don't say you didn't because you did. You were pleading with me to listen and I didn't. I promised that I would always listen to everything you had to say and when it mattered the most, I failed you. I'm so sorry for that, but I'm begging you now to hear me."

Trick or treat!

[tomwambsmilk]

Hey. Recommend your favorite indie movies rn. I promise ill watch them because i need to watch more indie stuff anyway and i trust your judgment

sooo glad a couple of you took the bait <3

Right off the bat, I'll say that the line between indie and not is a bit blurry and malleable, so I'm defining it as movies that didn't have the backing of a major US studio. That said, there's debate over whether A24 and Annapurna count as major or indie studios. So ultimately, to split the difference, I've settled on 7 "true" indies, one A24 picture, one that's kind of an indie but also not for reasons I'll get into, and one that's not an indie at all but people still don't watch it because it's old so I'm going to take this opportunity to stump for it.

Leave No Trace (2018)

This is the first movie that jumps to mind for me when people ask me about the best indie movies I've seen. It's about an ex-marine with PTSD so severe he can't function in modern society; instead, he and his 13yo daughter live in National Parks. He's homeschooled her (well!) and taught her to be independent and live off the land, and they have a very, very strong relationship. But, she's also 13, and is struggling with the extreme isolation that comes with their lifestyle. She loves her father and doesn't want to abandon him, but it's starting to take a toll on her mental health. And her father loves her, but he's simply incapable of integrating into society in a way that would allow her to have the social relationships she needs. It's moving and heartbreaking and very much a coming-of-age story. Even though the situation at hand is completely alien to my life experience, the core of it is about a father-daughter relationship, and growing up and also losing your father. It came out only two years after my own father died, and on the way home I had to duck into a Mcdonald's bathroom and ugly cry because it jogged something loose in me, which is what finally spurred me to go to grief counselling (which I'd been avoiding for two years).

2. The Five Obstructions (2003)

This one is actually a documentary, but one that I think is worth watching if you're interested in film. The premise is that Lars von Trier has challenged Jørgen Leth to remake his 1970s-era experimental short film, "The Perfect Human", five times - but each time von Trier gives him a set of rules to follow (which, in each case, are designed to "ruin" the picture). Every time Leth comes back with something which has inexplicably been made even better because of the restrictions placed on him. On an academic level, it's fascinating to see how the different techniques change the energy and even the meaning of the film - I'm also personally a huge fan of the use of "creative constraint" in art, so it was especially fascinating to me. On a human level, it's intriguing to watch von Trier try to push Leth to confront less of the "perfect" and more of the "human", and how doing so ultimately elevates the art.

3. A Dog's Breakfast (2007)

This one is maybe the truest indie of all on this list, and the only reason I know it exists is that I've been a long-time fan of its writer + director + producer + star David Hewlett. Hewlett's character (Patrick) is an isolated and somewhat dysfunctional man, who is visited by his sister and discovers that she's engaged. He becomes convinced the fiance is trying to kill her, and decides to try and kill the fiance instead. Patrick's sister Marilyn is played by Hewlett's real-life sister Kate, which personally I think adds something to their whole dynamic. It's a pretty small-scale film - the whole thing takes place at Patrick's house or on his property, and there are only 4 actors, not including Hewlett's real-life dog Mars - and I love what that kind of creative constraint does to a film. Also - it's a comedy (and a riotously funny one, if you enjoy that kind of humour). It's maybe not the deepest or most insightful on this list, but it's a LOT of fun and I've seen it several times.

4. The Invitation (2015)

One of my greatest frustrations in the last year was hearing people talk about The Invitation and getting excited that they were FINALLY discovering this brilliant, underrated indie horror - only to realize they were talking about the shitty vampire movie of the same name. Okay.

The less you know going into The Invitation, the better, so I'll just say it's about a man who goes with his girlfriend to a dinner party hosted by his ex-wife and her new husband. It's immensely suspenseful, and it utilizes the kind of social anxiety that would come with this sort of extremely awkward situation to great effect. The main character and the viewer are constantly asking - is there something weird and sinister going on? Or is this just supremely uncomfortable for other, more mundane reasons? It also touches on grief in some brief but meaningful and relatively poignant ways, and has an extremely chilling and effective coda that I am still thinking about to this day (I am forever trying - and failing - to replicate the impact of this movie's final shot in my own writing).

5. Treed Murray (2001)

This is another one that I only know about because I obsessively watched David Hewlett's filmography for a while. Up front, I'll say it's maybe not the most original or insightful social commentary out there, and I also watched it when I had much less awareness of racial issues than I do now, so it’s possible there are the problematic things in the writing I’ve forgotten about. That’s the disclaimer. But it still holds a special place for me because of the premise - a yuppie ad executive gets chased up a tree by a gang of would-be muggers, and the rest of the movie plays out with him stuck in the tree overnight and them waiting for him to come down. The acting all-around is superb, the script is suspenseful (even if the character beats aren't the most unique or original), and I have such a soft spot for any movie that uses a limitation like "this guy is gonna be in a tree the whole time" to its advantage like that, so it's making the list.

6. Nightcrawler (2014)

This is one that's technically indie, but because Jake Gyllenhall is attached it got a lot more attention than another film might have. Gyllenhall is a "nightcrawler" - a video journalist who drives around at night looking for shocking crimes and accidents he can film and sell to news stations for their morning news. It's dark, it's suspenseful - and it's also an incredibly cogent commentary on the news media, how it exploits victims, and how it plays into polarization, division, and marginalization for profit.

7. The Death of Stalin (2017)

Again, this one's technically indie, but Steve Buscemi is in it and it's written and directed by the guy who did Veep, so it got its fair share of attention. But it is one of my all-time favourite movies. It's a satirical look at the leadership of the Soviet Union in the days immediately following Stalin's death; it's bitingly funny, and a lot of humour rests on the sort of bureaucracy that's frustratingly relatable to anyone who's ever worked in an office. At the same time, it manages to touch on the horrors of that period in history in a way that is genuine and respectful, which is a difficult line to walk. Altogether it makes for something that manages to be simultaneously entertaining and somewhat chilling.

8. First Reformed (2018)

This is the one A24 picture I mentioned, but I'm including it in part because it hasn't gotten as much attention as other A24 movies, and in part because it had such a huge impact on me personally. Ethan Hawke plays the pastor of a tiny little tourist church, suffering from depression after losing his son in the Iraq War. A pregnant parishioner comes to him to ask him to speak to her husband, an environmental activist who believes it's wrong to bring children into a world facing climate catastrophe. That encounter shakes the pastor and sends him spiralling as he tries to reconcile the state of the world and the deterioration of the environment with the kind of pat, consumable, shallow, capitalist christianity being pushed by the protestant megachurch which owns his parish.

I will say that part of the reason this film resonated with me so specifically is because I saw it at a point in my life where I was pretty severely depressed, struggling with repressed grief, and really grappling with questions around the faith I'd been raised with, so it spoke to me in a very particular personal way. It might not resonate with other people in quite the same way, but I do think, regardless, it's a well-done exploration of a particular kind of psyche, and so worth a watch.

9. Snowpiercer (2016)

So this one is debatable as an indie; it had a budget of $40 million, it stars Chris Evans, and its worldwide box office was nearly $88 million. Most of that $88 million, though, came from South Korea (where it was initially released) and China; when it came to the US it had a reception and release much more comparable to an indie. So it's a weird one to talk about, because it's "indie" in North America only, and it raises questions as to whether we should be sticking to definitions of "indie" that center on US production companies. If a South Korean studio can make a comparable effort and expenditure, should it not be classified as a major studio?

But. The point of this list is movies I (a North American) recommend to my (largely North American) friends and they simply don't watch because they're "indie movies", and this absolutely fits that bill. And it's especially galling after the (deserved!) success of Parasite. Snowpiercer is also a Bong Joon-Ho film, and while it's not on the same level as Parasite (few things are) it's still excellent. It has all of the suspense, nuance, character work, and adept social commentary of Parasite, but in a dystopian post-apocalyptic setting. After a new ice age brought about by climate change, all of humanity lives on a train constantly circling the globe. The few wealthy live at the front of the train; the many, many poor live at the back. Chris Evans' character leads an insurgency against Wilbur, who runs the train, and the film follows his group of rebels as they move from the back to the front. (I also love this premise because of the physical space limitations which come from having your whole movie set on a train, which the film uses VERY well, especially in its action sequences).

10. Touch of Evil (1958)

So this one is cheating because it's not an indie at all. In fact, the edits made by the major studio it was attached to (Universal) are a big part of why it flopped so hard when it first came out. But I'm taking this opportunity to stump for it as a movie that I love so dearly and no one ever watches because it's black and white and old and Orson Welles directed it and people immediately think of Citizen Kane and think it'll be boring and don't want to touch it. But it is excellent (provided you can get past Charlton Heston in brownface, which is.... hm). It's probably my favourite classic noir (and I have seen many noirs). A car bomb explodes along the US-Mexico border, and Heston, a Mexican drug enforcement agent, has to partner with an American police captain (played by Welles) to investigate - but he quickly starts to suspect that the American captain is planting evidence. The movie itself is dark and gripping and suspenseful, but I also think the key ideas about the ethics of the police and the importance of civil liberties are especially resonant now. It makes the opposite argument of modern "copaganda" that implies that we would all be better off throwing our rights in the trash and letting the cops do whatever they wanted. Instead, Welles is making a case that, actually, personal rights are important and must be held sacred, even if (and especially if) that makes the cops' jobs harder.

[mila-s]

So i just realized something while watching a tik tok.

Dude, like both Hades and Zues had two children each, both immensely powerful and predicted to be the children of the prophesy, and then still, Poseidon had one child and that child was the most powerful one of their generation, like the level this dude is on is ridiculous.

Like when you compare their powers, each child of the big three had an aspect of their parents domains. Thalia has lightning, the way it's described it is probably more powerful than Jason's and she has more control, Jason on the other hand seems to control the weather more than simply just lightning and he can fly, so that supports that, cus like air currents and stuff. We don't know much about Bianca's powers, but Nico seems to be pretty adept at the ghost aspect of Hades's power, and he does have shadow travel but it exhausts him to the point of fainting so I'm counting it like reluctantly so I'd probably rank him behind Percy in power, and we have Hazel who seems to have gotten the earth power, specifically finding things in the earth, so she has control over it, to an extent. The magic I'm not counting because I'm pretty sure that's from her mother.

And then you have Pecy, who is literally his father personified. The dudr can control water, his mood is affected by it, he can talk to horses, sea creatures, he can control the earth, he can create tsunamis, hurricanes. Am I the only one who's amazed by the fact this kid got every aspect of his father's power.

Also the dude can control the rivers in the underworld to an extent, and I'm pretty sure Poseidon has nothing to do with those, cus like lethe is an underworld river, it's not connected to the world above, not to the ocean or anything so that like amazes me.

And let's not even mention the fact he controled tears, literal tears, and not on a regular person, or a demigod, but on a goddess, so please argue with the wall when saying anyone is more powerful than him.

In all honesty, if I was in the gods place I would stay out of his way, because if he went the way Luke did, there would be no Olympus. And argue all you want, I'm right and you know it.

[wherethedeadneversleep]

Secrets Unleashed

Eris welcomed the familiar, pleasant ache between her legs as she climbed out of bed and proceeded to dress herself.

“I have a surprise for you, Lord Hades,” she revealed, her voice sounding rather… happy. It was a lighthearted tone, similar to whenever she talked about her true love, Lucifer. While the thought of her beloved angel made her heart swell, it was unknown how long it would be until she’d see him again. For now, she would focus on the present matters at hand.

“Care to come with me to the Fields of Mourning when you are ready?” Eris proposed, now glancing over her shoulder at Hades with a roguish smile on her face.

~* ELSEWHERE *~

“You got suckered by Mother, didn’t you?”

Nosoi sneered at her sister’s taunt. She batted at her face, but her fingertips missed her by a hair. Lethe laughed as she bounced away, allowing herself to twirl around like a ballerina. All around them wandered the souls whose love was wasted away. Human spirits whose grief was too great to forget even with death were doomed to amble about these mystical fields for all eternity.

“I can’t believe she was put into another body,” Nosoi said as she sat on a fallen log, with sunken shoulders, and her face twisted as if she’d bitten into a lemon. “I didn’t know it was her until it was too late. Considering what happened, shouldn’t that have been a sign that Lucifer will never like her?”

Lethe hummed as she spun about a few more times before sitting next to her grumpy sister. “Believe me, I wish I could make her forget about that angel, but our powers are immune to our dear mother.”

Both women sensed the impending arrival of their sole parent, along with a much greater entity, and they instantly stood on their feet. Lethe winked at Nosoi and whispered, “Time for me to return to the River of Oblivion. Good luck!”

Nosoi scowled at Lethe’s cheerfulness as she teleported away. What a bitch. If she were in her shoes, she certainly would NOT be so happy.

Squaring her shoulders, Nosoi knelt to one knee and bowed her head - it wasn’t for her mother’s sake, but rather, for the ultimate ruler of the underworld.

Hades wasn't sure what exactly led up to this moment or how it even happened. The only woman he ever welcomed into his bed was his one and only. Needless to say, he spent many long nights alone because of it, at least until now.

" You have a surprise for me and you sound quite happy about it? " A curious brow lifted as he raised his head from the pillow of the bed, elbow against the mattress to prop himself up. His eyes watched her as she dressed. " Now you have me extremely curious. " He admitted.

As much as he would rather stay in bed something in the pit of his gut told him he should give follow. So without saying anything he grabbed the sheet covering his waist and tossed it to the side. Now sitting on the edge of the bed he grabbed his jeans and slipped them on. His button-up shirt was grabbed from the bed table and slipped over his shoulders but he did not attempt to button it up. " Now what exactly am I going to be seeing at the Fields of Mourning that I haven't seen a million times before? " He asked just as he walked up behind her with palms resting against her hips.

Eris welcomed not only the sound of Hades’ voice but his touch as well. She still couldn’t believe what took place between them, but she wasn’t going to complain at all. If what he did to her in bed could be a daily activity for them, then she wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.

But now onto more serious matters at hand. Eris instructed Nosoi to rise. Upon doing so, the younger woman gave a brief but startled pause, only because she saw her mother… with LORD HADES so close to her. Touching her… Oh, she wanted to throw up. Not because of Hades, but rather… her mother was a complete nutcase whose hyper-fixation on Lucifer would undoubtedly kill their entire family.

Eris’ eyes bore upon her, and she swiftly came back to her senses.

“Upon your request, Mother, I dug through some of my old tricks that I thought I lost during my imprisonment in Pandora’s box. While you were ‘busy’ with Master Hades, I did as you instructed.”

With a smarmy expression on her face, Eris asked, “And what would that be, my sweet Nosoi?”

Nosoi rolled her eyes, like a teenager getting a lecture from her parent, but replied, “To take out Gunner Logan.”

As the daimon of diseases, and sickness, Nosoi was nefarious for unleashing sweeps of plagues upon mankind during Ancient Greece, until she and many others of her kind were trapped inside Pandroa’s box. Talk about setbacks in her progress. It was only after the box was opened did Nosoi and everyone else gained their freedom, leaving behind Hope to fend for itself.

Knowing this pertained more to Hades than Eris, Nosoi spoke directly to the god of the underworld.

“I discovered that the Logan family has quite a long line that goes quite far back, eons, to where at one point, they were nearly wiped out due to a virus I unleashed right before my reign of fun ended. It affected shapeshifting beasts, and many of the Logans were killed off because of this masterpiece of mine. Less than ten percent survived the aftermath. It was a horrible, horrible way to die, as your organs shut down, muscles weaken, your bones shatter, you lose your senses - a nasty way to go, but that was the point of my creation.”

Nosoi snapped her fingers, and a swirling funnel of darkness surrounded her from the ground she stood upon, then swiftly shot straight up into the sky, vanishing to the Mortal Realm.

Eris clapped gleefully. “As much as I’d rather have the entire family wiped out, I understand you only have enough power to take out one of them. Who better than the one who stands in the way of our Master Hades’ beloved, hmm?”

The sun had just set as Gunner rounded the bend on the road with his motorcycle. It was the scenic route back home, but he enjoyed it, as it was one of the few times he felt at peace.

An icy chill ran down his spine, followed by darkness.

“What the fuck?!” he snarled as he attempted to veer to the side of the road and pull over. He traveled this way countless times since moving to Santa Carla so that he could find his way blindfolded. Yet he could no longer feel any of his limbs, and an electrifying headache exploded in his skull.

He let out a gut-wrenching howl as he smashed into the guard rail. His body flew off his bike, and he went over and down the hillside, all the while his insides were shutting down. Every kind of pain he experienced in his life was smashing him without mercy. Bright lights flashed in his mind’s eye, while blood trickled out of his nose, ears, and mouth. He couldn’t even suck in the air, as his blood filled his throat.

It all happened too fast, so fast that he could barely string any coherent sentences. Even as his shattered body continued to roll down the forested hillside, and the plants and roots enveloped him, he managed to think about his family: his girls, his son, the grandchildren, and of course his wife.

Goddammit, this… whatever this was… it was not how he wanted to die! What a fucked way to be taken out…

‘Sonya,’ he thought, as his consciousness slipped away. ‘I don’t wanna go like this… not without seeing ya one last time…’

Anyone who would dare to say that his plans and moves weren't carefully thought out and planned this time around would be lying through their teeth. Hades had an array of helpers this time and while they were out and about stirring up trouble, left and right .. no one was any wiser to the fact that he was the man standing behind it all. All those years wasting away inside a coffin box with a dagger bore inside his chest only made him wiser and more strategic.

His hand shifted away from Eris' waist as he moved closer to Nosoi ─ one of Eris' many children. From the moment she made mention of taking out Gunner, she had his full undivided attention. Plagues swept across the earth for eons, be it biblical, manmade, or crafted weapons such as Nosoi's. To hear that her time spent in Pandora's box hadn't completely stripped her of her talents was pleasing to hear.

" The only true shame in that is those small ten percent survived. I would have saved us less trouble here in the now. " Hades remarked, but with every word, she spoke his eye darkened with delight. There was nothing more he would like to do than watch the Mutt suffer in unimaginable ways. The main reason why he kept that dagger worn so close to him. A reminder of what is soon to come for Gunner Logan.

His eyes peered back to Eris as she cheered then they were back on Nosoi. " You will not go unrewarded for your troubles, child. " The god of the underworld reached out to clasp her chin between his fingers. " Should this little treat of yours play out in our favor then I will personally see to it you get your just rewards. " Now pulling himself back away from Nosoi he asked while preparing a visual for them to all witness.  " How long before it finds its target? "

The last few days Sonya had spent working on Heather's wedding dress. While it was almost perfect on its own it still needed a few finishing touches to make it an unforgettable one-of-a-kind dress. Much like herself, Heather deserved the best and she would make sure the girl didn't settle for less than just that.

As she pulled the needle and string through the elegant fabric her hands became rather numb, so much so that the needle and tread slipped from her grasp and dangled from the dress. Only moments later did her vision go astray when it suddenly felt as if someone had clubbed her in the back of her skull.

Her body crashed to the ground as if her legs had been taken out from under her. Pain seared through both of them and that was when the deadest of chills soared straight down her spine. Nails dug at the floor as she fought to steady herself. It had felt as if someone had just reached in and torn her heart her very chest. Something happened, something was wrong with Gunner. She fought with everything she had within her to block out the pain long enough to focus on his whereabouts.

At this point, tears were streaming down her face. Eyeliner streaking her pale complexion. Her husband was not going to die, she wouldn't allow it.  " Peter ... " She called out to the closest to her. " Come find me, Urgent .." She instructed just as she was able to locate Gunner and teleport to his side.

" No no. This can't be happening! " She cried out with her hands on both sides of Gunner's face. Why wasn't he healing from his wounds? Her own body was now being wrecked with not only the pain she was experiencing from Gunner but also grief and horror. " You can't leave me like this. " She wept and sobbed against his chest. She couldn't even link with him, nothing but silence was coming from him. " PETER !!!! " She cried out once again. " PLEASE !!! "

Nosoi rocked back on her heels as the visual of Gunner's broken and bloodied body lay on the bottom of the forest floor, high above the highway, where nobody would have a chance to see him.

"The virus had already opened up in his system and is just about finished," she stated proudly. "I apologize you weren't able to see the initial attack, Master. However, the quicker the wolf is finished off, the better it will be for you to reclaim what is rightful yours."

This virus was swift and merciless. With Gunner's advanced age, his healing factor wouldn't work fast enough to heal the damage. There was no going back. Only those who lived during the height of the virus had a slim chance of surviving.

When Eris saw a weak and defeated Sonya appear before them, she chuckled quietly. Ohhh dear, she'd forgotten the whole "bonded thing" between vampire and wolf. Seeing how awful Gunner looked, Sonya had to be an absolute wreck on the inside. Good! She deserved it for choosing a dog over Hades.

Setting his empty bourbon glass on the counter, Peter frowned as he heard a disturbance in the next room. He knew his daughter was in there, working on Heather's dress, and was warned not to sneak a peak before the wedding. He was compelled to follow tradition, but it was only when he heard Sonya call out to him so urgently did he react. Something was wrong. Typically capable of handling herself against just about anyone, she wouldn't call upon him unless it was absolutely urgent and troublesome.

Upon entering the next room, he saw the unfinished wedding dress on the floor, and Sonya was no longer in sight. Scratch marks were visible, along with tear stains near the dress.

That was when he heard her again, only this time, it resounded in his mind like a ghost haunting the halls of his memories. As her sire, he was connected to her, so he knew where to find her when she cried out for him desperately.

In the blink of an eye, Peter was outside, at the bottom of a road embankment not too far from the estate. It was thick with plants and shrubs, but it was also the sight of a broken, mangled motorcycle, and the lifeless body of Gunner, with Sonya hovering over him, sobbing. The alpha vampire was confused. This was an accident Gunner should have walked away from with some scratches and bruising at the most. His healing factor would eventually bring him back to full strength - yet he was so still, and no matter how much Sonya pleaded with him, he wasn't moving.

Seeing his daughter so heartbroken tugged on Peter's soul. She was a brave and fearless woman who didn't care for men, due to her horrid history with a particular ex. Gunner had been the first man to mend her emotional wounds and showed her how to love once more, no matter how checked her past was. And while Peter would be hellbent on admitting so, he was grateful for Gunner Logan's presence in her life... but now, it looked like something else decided to take her away from him.

No, Peter would not permit this.

'Heather, I apologize, but brace yourself,' he warned his fiancée telepathically as he knelt next to Sonya, bit into the pad of his thumb until he drew blood, then placed a hand upon her shoulder. Using his nails, he punctured her flesh until he drew blood from her, where his blood mingled with hers.

A sheer force of pain instantly swept up his arm and flowed throughout his body like liquid fire. Holding back a scream of pain, he forced himself to concentrate, and that was when he found the answer to his earlier question. Sonya, being bonded to Gunner, reacted to this very situation. But it was clear this wasn't anything ordinary. From what he could sense through Sonya, this attack on Gunner had ties to the past, one that offered a grim outcome. The likes of himself and Sonya would survive, due to their biological makeup as vampires. But for creatures like Gunner, there was no future. This THING inside Gunner was too strong, and his body clearly couldn't win.

Gritting his teeth, he mentally spoke to Sonya while preparing himself for more onslaught of pain.

'I'm taking some of this agony from you, so you can focus and save your husband! You must make him physically young again if he can recover from this attack... He can't remain like this, but if he's young enough, his body can fight this infection and heal!'

Eris watched the manic chaos that surrounded Sonya, as she desperately tried everything she could to coax Gunner to stay conscious and plead with her vampire father, Peter, to aid her. It was simply pathetic, and it made her smile with pure joy. Using her bond to keep her lover alive was killing her, and the goddess of discord enjoyed knowing this. This was fantastic to watch!

Nosoi frowned as two new individuals appeared alongside the dying werewolf in the image they were using to watch everything that transpired.

"Who are they?" the malevolent daemon questioned with a raised brow.

"Unwanted guests!" Eris seethed.

Valeria had to lean against Drake momentarily as soon as they arrived at their new destination, to catch her balance. Unlike the first time, when she arrived in a spacious bedroom lost in lust, she was now outside in the cold and surrounded by thorns, mud, and roots. Not to mention, there was a woman frantically beside herself, a young blond couple, and a bloodied victim on the ground - yes, the one who needed help.

Without hesitation, the ancient witch held out her palm toward Gunner and closed her eyes. Reading his fractured thoughts, she winced as she was roughly lashed with the ferocious pain he was experiencing and it nearly snapped her head back. By the gods, it was a nightmare. He was being assaulted by a fierce monster from within that was beyond comprehension. He needed to be moved away from here as soon as possible, someplace safe. First, she would do her best to ease the pain.

"I'm shutting down your nervous system telepathically," she explained to the gravely wounded werewolf with a grimace. At least, he wouldn't feel any more pain, but already, she was sweating bullets. This virus was relentless. They had to move fast. She was going to be working non-stop mentally until this situation was resolved. "As soon as we can relocate you, the sooner we can figure out a way to help you."

Seeing Gunner Logan in so much pain brought pure pleasure to Hades. There was nothing he wanted more than to see that mutt suffer even half as severely as he had while having that dagger implanted in his chest. Sonya's pain on the other hand wasn't as enjoyable. However, he would rather have her dead than with someone so unworthy of her. If she died, there would be no purgatory for her. He would ensure she traveled directly to him. So be it if that was the only way.

" Nosoi ..." Hades' eyes darkened as he looked at her. " Can they cure him? " Should she give him the wrong answer he would hold her personally accountable for this for allowing him to get his hopes up and for creating a potential situation that Drake could track back to him after he had managed to keep his nose clean for this long.

Heather was in her room attending to her and Peter's affairs ─ only to have Peter rush inside and grab her by the arm before she could even question. Moments later she found herself outside along the sloping hillside that led to the estate. Gunner was badly injured, but it didn't appear as if his healing abilities were working. Sonya was in a state of her own. Heather rushed to the other side of Sonya and knelt beside Gunner. She was welcomed by Sonya and Gunner from the get-go, and Sonya went above and beyond to make her feel at home. It literally shattered her undead heart to see either of them in this state.

She turned with a nod of her head as Peter warned her to brace herself for the impact he was about to unleash on her. There was no doubt in her mind that what was coming next would not be pleasant. She would endure whatever pain she had to endure if it meant helping her family. The pain spread like a chain-link fence from Gunner to Sonya to Peter and finally hit her like a ton of bricks. She stumbled back until she was seated on the grassy hillside. Tears spilled over her eyes and her mouth parted as she tried to fight through the pain. Never once did she cry out because all their attention had to be on Gunner.

Drake nearly stumbled back when Valarie took into her the pain coursing through Gunner's body. It had been a very long time since Drake a felt such a power or connection. It only proved that they had to work quickly. The sooner they could figure out what was wrong with him the quicker they could figure out who was behind this. This meant that he could end someone's life as quickly as possible.

Between Peter, Heater, and the newcomer with her father taking some of the pain from herself and Gunner, it allowed her a moment to focus on what Peter told her just moments ago ─ to make Gunner young again. She had only tempted a feat like that once before and it was on Peter. However, it cost Peter's memories. Perhaps there was something she could change within the spell to prevent that from happening to Gunner. The only thing she could imagine worse than Gunner's death was to have him alive and yet not remember her or their son. That would be a fate worse than death for her.

Pushing herself up from the ground with her palms she studied Gunner's face as she spoke to the others. " I think I know what needs to be done. We need to get him back to the estate. " Her eyes now turned to her father's and the newcomer.

" Say no more. " Drake yelled as she moved into action, ensuring everyone was touching each other. It would take a lot out of him to teleport the entire group but it had to be done. They couldn't risk anyone breaking their connection with Gunner when Sonya was now clear-headed enough to speak and move. Once he was sure everyone was joined together his eyes closed and with everything he had within him, he reformed the group in the sitting hall of the estate. Once everyone was firmly and safely placed he stumbled over to grab the nearest chair. He needed a moment to recover.

Nosoi swallowed hard upon Hades' question. There was no single DOUBT in her mind that she had complete control over her abilities. The only hero who ever came close to standing up to her was King Oedipus. Surely these pitiful, foul creatures wouldn't come even close!

"Not in this lifetime," she snarled, as she boldly stood in front of the mirror. Even as the scenery changed to that of an interior setting, her wicked powers activated once more.

Pride swelled within Eris as she watched her daughter at work. Her sons and daughters were all sinister and cruel like her. No matter what, they represented her to the very core: the embodiment of strife and discord. Unless the poor fool was able to travel back in time and challenge her magic from when it was possible to fairly match her head on, Gunner Logan would be no more!

Nosoi's eyes turned pure black, as the tips of her fingers produced flames of darkness.

"All ye weary in body and burdened with disease," she chanted in a disembodied voice, "whose hearts are faint within you - suffer! Thou quaking terror of disease, waste, pestilence, and despair!"

The flames exploded from Nosoi and fanned into the mirror itself, where it would travel to its final destination…

As much as Valeria wanted to be at Drake's side, she knew it was important to help the dying werewolf. She couldn't break her concentration on him. He was an important part of this family. While continuing to keep Gunner's nervous system shut down, she used her telekinesis to keep him afloat, but stretched out, while close to Sonya. Meanwhile, Peter kept Heather close, and placed a chaste kiss upon her temple, before glancing over at Drake.

"What Sonya will do for Gunner once helped me years ago," he informed his sire. "It won't be without consequence, but it has to be done right now."

As far as his personal history with werewolves, Peter had never seen any of them brutalized like Gunner. Whatever or whoever was behind this attack must have had one wicked grudge against him. While he could think of a few names, none of them had this particular STYLE of torture…

Valeria's eyes widened as she sensed an onslaught of dark magic heading their way. It came out of nowhere, and it sent shivers down her very spine.

"Sonya…!" she whispered fearfully. She didn't want to rush her, but whatever this magic assault was, it wasn't going to slow down. At the speed it was going, it was like a meteor ready to slam into the earth.

While Hades greatly enjoyed watching Gunner Logan suffer he would rather him just die rather than give that family a chance to reverse what had been done. After all the long months he spent buried alive with that dagger in his chest - for all the pain he endured during that time he deserved nothing short of all the misery and pain inflicted upon him.

His eyes narrowed as his fists balled at his sides. For Nosoi's sake, he hoped the words she spoke were true. While he would not directly kill one of Eris' children due to their partnership that did not mean he would not stick Nosoi in a hell that would make Pandora's Box look like a dream. Eris knew this before enlisting her daughter's help.

Hades would not let his cover be blown over someone else's foolish mistakes.

As she began to chant Hades walked up behind her and placed his hand upon her shoulder. His grip was a little tighter than needed. This was his way of letting her know he would not take failure lightly.

Nosoi should have reminded herself that she was no longer standing against those who stood in her own time. Many things changed while she was locked away. It would have been easy for him to see it done years ago if it had been such an easy feat.

" Disappointment is not something I handle well. " He would lightly comment close to her ear as he watched the sheer panic strike from their next hit.

Heather was relieved when Peter's pain was removed and she no longer felt the pain that the others were experiencing. Her grief and sadness remained, however. It seemed like their family couldn't catch a break. There was always someone lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike them down. Now more than ever she was determined to up her training so that she could help when things like that happened to their family. She knew how Sonya must be feeling right now. She felt the same way when DJ X and that damn Rachel shot that bomb into his chest. The idea of losing the very person that gives you life and meaning - there could be no fate worse than that.

" Whatever needs to be done should be done. We'll deal with whatever consequences when they happen. " Drake instructed and nodded at Peter. Even though his strength from the teleportation was slowly returning and he could now stand without something holding him upright he still felt helpless. While he was one of the strongest creatures on earth he did not possess the skills of magic the way his daughter did. A trait she picked up from her mother and dare he say Hades himself.

" Anything you need just name it. "

" Keep him alive at all costs! " Sonya instructed everyone as she vanished from the room they all resided in. She quickly rematerialized in her magic room at the top of the estate. She nearly tore the room apart looking for a vial of water but not just any vial. The contents inside contained two very special waters. One was from the fountain of youth which they all stumbled across when they all traveled to awaken Drake from his slumber. The other water inside was from the Underworld river of Lethe. It was that water that would prove to be their biggest problem since it was the river of forgetfulness.

Soon enough Sonya returned to her husband's side and from the looks of everyone it wasn't a moment too soon. She held the vial high in the air with one hand and kissed Gunner's forehead. The moment she touched him she was wrecked with pain again but this time she fought through it with Valeria's aid. Her free hand was placed upon his chest as she chanted.

" " de manu Dei! de manu hominis. A sanguine cordis mei in aeternum tabescet! Aufer maledictionem tuam ab hoc homine! Remove Letheum ab hac ampulla! " "

Her eyes turned fire red as black magic bore through her body. She found enough strength inside her to place the vial on Gunner's lips and forced him to drink its contents. As the last drop spilled from the vial and into his mouth a flash of dark smoke exploded in the room. This sent Sonya sailing across the room and crashing into the nearest wall.

Gunner couldn't remember the last time he was surrounded by pure silence. It was surreal, to the point where he couldn't take it. Something was wrong. He had to open his eyes.

An enormous wolf with sleek, dark fur and red eyes greeted him in a dark forest. Mist wafted around the creature, but Gunner immediately knew who this beast was, because they were one and the same.

"What's going on?" he asked his inner beast. "What the fuck happened back there?"

He took a step forward, only to tumble to the forest floor. Wet grass cushioned his naked form. The air was so cold it bit his skin.

'You nearly died,' the large wolf stated as he approached his other half in human form. 'Our family was nearly wiped out centuries ago by this disease that once flowed in your body. Just know that when you wake up, your world will not exactly be the same. It's been a while since we've had this moment together, you and I. You've been in control of yourself for so long, I would've thought you'd forgotten what I looked like.'

Gunner blinked slowly. He truly couldn't remember the last time he spoke to his inner wolf, but… now was not the time for such sentiments. He struggled to push himself up to a sitting position using his elbows. Groggy couldn't even begin to describe how he felt. He wanted to go back to sleep and rest, but he knew he couldn't. Something… someone wanted him to wake up.

'Your mate,' the inner beast reminded him. 'She won't let you die, just like you won't let her go.'

Gunner furrowed his brows as he finally managed to sit upright. "She?" he queried.

Blazing red hair, followed by piercing eyes, and full red lips flashed in his mind's eyes.

"Sonya," he whispered. That was all he could remember.

The wolf before him vanished in a haze of darkness, and the forest disappeared with him.

Gunner let out a gasp as he sat up, panting heavily. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and sweat dripped down the sides of his temple. Reaching up, he touched his lower lip to find a drop of liquid lingering - not blood, and not his.

"Looks like you've done it," Peter stated to Sonya, as he helped his daughter to her feet. Her body had made a nasty impact on the wall, leaving a spider web of cracks that reached halfway up the ceiling. Even through the darkness, Peter didn't hesitate to make haste and recover her. Once the darkness and smoke cleared, it was easier to inspect the near the disaster that could have taken place, had Sonya not acted as swiftly as she did.

Valeria, who was closest to Gunner, wore a concerned expression on her face. Taking a step back, she used her telekinesis to help Gunner to his feet.

"Who're you?" Gunner asked briskly before he saw Sonya across the room. "What happened?"

Unaware of any changes to his body, or any memory of what happened to have gotten him in such a position, he hurried over to his wife.

Nosoi was motionless as the plague she'd unleashed upon Gunner disappeared, thanks to the efforts of his wife, Sonya. She was completely dumbfounded. How could anyone, let alone in this century, upstage her magic? Impossible! And worse, Gunner had been changed into a young man, therefore, the plague would not work on him. It was made ready to destroy his aging, older body - not a young one fit to fight off her ailments!

The daimon swallowed hard, as her confidence completely vanished. The reality of her failure in front of Hades hit her like a rock to her skull.

"Mother…" Nosoi whispered, hoping beyond hope, that her own creator would be able to plead with the god of the underworld to go easy on her punishment.

Instead, Eris turned her nose upon her daughter and turned her back to her.

"How could you do this to me!" the goddess exclaimed. Any concern for her own was vacant, only to be replaced by sheer irritation. "You are an absolute disappointment. I don't care what Master Hades does to you, but how dare you humiliate me like this!"

Reflecting on their shared experiences, Drake recalled the countless times Sonya had effortlessly conjured spells that left him in awe. Her control over elemental forces was unparalleled, and her mastery of intricate enchantments surpassed even seasoned practitioners. It was as if she had inherited an innate understanding of magic, flowing through her veins like a powerful current.

Drake realized that his oversight stemmed from his own preconceived notions about magical aptitude. He had assumed that Sonya's progress would be gradual, like any other aspiring mage. But now he understood that her heritage played a significant role in accelerating her growth. He should have seen it the moment Sonya was able to resurrect her mother from the dead. The implications of such a miraculous feat were staggering, yet he had dismissed it as a mere coincidence or an elaborate illusion. Little did he know that this event would unravel a series of extraordinary events that would challenge everything he thought he knew about life and death. What she had just managed to do with Gunner was even beyond his understanding. But as the darkness dissipated from the room and the current threat was over for now he shifted across the room to Valeria's side since Peter was attending to Sonya.

" Her name is Valeria. "

Sonya had always been drawn to the mysterious and enigmatic realm of dark magic. From a young age, she had delved into ancient texts, studying forbidden spells and rituals that most would shy away from. She had witnessed the power it held, the raw energy that surged through her veins whenever she tapped into its depths. But this blast was different. It was as if an abyss had opened up before her, unleashing a torrent of malevolence that threatened to consume everything in its path. The sheer magnitude of darkness pulsating within it sent shivers down her spine, causing her heart to race with both fear and exhilaration. As the dust settled and the echoes of the blast faded away, Sonya found herself standing amidst the aftermath. The air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by Peter's voice.

" I'll be alright. " As she stood up, she could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling her down. The aftermath of the blast had left her trembling, her muscles weak and unsteady. Every step felt like a monumental effort as if she were wading through thick mud. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her racing heartbeat and calm the swirling chaos within her mind. The residual energy from the spell still crackled around her, leaving an electric buzz in the air. She couldn't bring herself to look in Gunner's direction in fear that his memories had evaded him. It had been enough for her to just hear Peter's confirmation that the spell had worked.

" You were dying and we did what we had to to save your life. "

As the echoes of Hades' roar reverberated through the dark caverns of the underworld, his frustration grew into a seething anger. He had entrusted Nosoi with a crucial task and she had failed him miserably. But time and time again, their plans had crumbled like sand slipping through his fingers, he knew his trust should not spread past Eris and Darius. They were the only two who managed to get the job done without costly mistakes like this one.

It was probably a good thing that Eris had no regard for the punishment he was about to unleash upon her daughter for her failure. His wrath would be fierce and merciless. Hades snapped his fingers and within an instant, Nosoi was locked in the spot she was standing in. Hades, the formidable ruler of the underworld, gazed at Nosoi with a cold, calculating stare. He knew that even though she was trapped in her current position, her cunning and resourcefulness could still pose a threat to his dominion. Hades had learned long ago that underestimating his adversaries could lead to disastrous consequences.

" I warned you what failure would bring. You not only failed in your task but you also opened a window to our discovery. Your punishment for this will be far worse than what any death could bring you. "

With a wave of Hades hand, Pandora's box appeared at Nosoi's feet. Pandora's box - a vessel said to contain unimaginable evils that could bring chaos and destruction upon the world and the souls trapped within it.

" Back to prison you will go, and into the box you hate. You will stay in it until you love it! And die in it. "

Gunner could only stare in bewilderment at his wife. Dying? Him? He couldn’t believe it. He felt like a million bucks! Yet as he searched within himself, and reached within the bond they shared, he discovered the powerful impact that nearly took his life, and threatened to cripple hers in the process. It left him speechless, as he stared at the palms of his hands. They looked just as rough and calloused, tell-tales of the rough life he’d always led. Then something from within advised him to look in the nearest reflection possible.

“Hang on,” Gunner uttered as he slipped away, and hurried over to what remained of Sonya’s altar. Despite the mess, he found a broken piece of glass. On bended knee, he leaned over and saw a face he hadn’t seen in many, many decades. It was one without any hard lines or creases or hints of battle scars. Even the mustache and beard he’d grown and groomed were thinned out considerably.

“Fucking hell,” Gunner whispered in awe. “I’m… young again...!”

Valeria used the tips of her fingers to touch her temples, where she closed her eyes, and focused. She briefly scanned the werewolf’s mind, before smiling with relief.

“You did wonders, Miss Sonya,” she complimented her fellow witch. “I sense no trace of the virus anywhere in his body. By altering him to a younger state, it was incapable of attacking him. As such, he was able to fight it off successfully.”

Peter carefully nodded, as he went back to Heather, to make sure she was all right with everything that happened. As such, Gunner returned to Sonya, where he carefully gripped her by the shoulders, and peered into her eyes. There weren’t enough words to express how much she meant to him, to sacrifice what she had to save his life. He’d obviously do the same for her and then some.

He pulled her against him and hugged her tight.

“Couldn’t live without you, baby,” he muttered into her flaming red hair, as he gripped her in his embrace. After which, he pulled back, to stare in awe at her. “My biggest regret would've never been able to see you again.”

Peter cleared his throat loud enough that it drew the couple's attention.

"What's wrong?" Gunner asked as he continued to hold Sonya. "Are we under attack again?"

Valeria glanced over at her lover, Drake, before revealing a peculiar expression on her face. It drew a shade of pink across her cheeks. She was rendered speechless, and simply couldn't say anything, so she kept quiet.

Peter rolled his eyes and maintained his stuffy attitude, per usual, even as he clasped his hands with Heather's.

"Really, Sonya, he admonished. "I expected better from you." Without missing a beat, he went on to say, "Out of all of them, you picked that ratty haired one as a lover?"

Gunner clenched his teeth. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what Peter referred to.

Sonya's secret was no longer theirs to keep between them.

Eris chewed on the tip of her nail as she ignored the frantic, traumatizing screams of her own flesh and blood. Blast it all, another failure. Even her biggest accomplishments in all history would be marred by downfalls that would be held above her head.

“… Explains the survivors of their kin,” she whispered to herself. “The only survivors must have been the children. With the adults dead, the young ones were forced to survive on their own - which they did, against all odds.”

In the distance, away from the two gods, the aimless ghosts meandered about the fields. A few paused to witness the punishment of Eris’ daughter. Not even she was spared from Hades’ wrath.

One individual, in particular, found herself staring longingly at Hades. Why was he in the company of such a shrieking banshee like Eris? He deserved better…

Her stomach growled. Hands placed themselves upon her stomach. She grimaced and glanced about. She hoped nobody heard that. Hunger shouldn’t exist in the underworld, yet here she was, absolutely starving!

Deciding not to linger too long, and not wanting to share the fate that Eris’ daughter did, the female wanderer drifted off in search of food.

'Good luck to Lord Hades with his company,' Persephone thought to herself.

Her husband still remembered who she was. As soon as Gunner tapped into her, Sonya sensed that indescribable connection that seemed more powerful than ever before. It was as if they were two souls intertwined, understanding each other on a level that went beyond words. It almost brought tears to her eyes, realizing that her greatest fear had not materialized. However, she refrained from letting those tears surface as she kept her vulnerable side hidden from almost everyone, including her own family. 

She didn't look at him until he spoke and walked away. As she caught a glimpse of his back, she noticed a significant transformation in his appearance. His once salt and pepper hair was now gleaming and jet black. Although she wanted to move to the side for a better view, she stayed still to allow him to witness the change himself.

When Valeria spoke, her gaze swiftly shifted towards the witch who had accompanied her father. Sonya couldn't take all the credit for this. This had been a team effort. Without everyone that had shown up and played their part, no matter how big or small this would have turned out much differently than it had. 

" Please don't congratulate me. This was a team effort that couldn't have been done without all of you. "

However, all of that was quickly erased from her mind as Gunner reappeared before her again. As his hands firmly held her shoulders, her own hands instinctively reached for his face, gently tracing his unblemished skin with her fingertips. He remained one of the two most attractive beings she had ever laid her eyes upon. Only seconds later did both her arms wrap around him, holding to him as if it were to be the last time. 

She doesn't know what she would have done had she lost him. The intensity of that agony, she wouldn't have been able to endure it again. As she clung to him, her heart pounded in her chest, the fear of losing him still fresh in her mind. She realized at that moment just how much he meant to her, how his presence brought her comfort and stability. The thought of facing the world without him seemed unbearable, and she vowed to cherish every moment they had together, never taking what they shared for granted.

Eyes turn to Peter with a confused look when he clears his throat. 

Drake's eyes blew wide as he stared at his daughter. A part of him couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. Then again a part of him had always had suspicions on the matter. On the other hand, a fragment of him had perpetually harbored thoughts regarding the issue. He never anticipated that HE was the individual she had entangled herself with. As he raised his hand to caress his forehead, his other hand firmly grasped Valeria's waist. Speaking about the situation would have no impact. Evidently, it was not a secret she was concealing from her husband, and as long as he approved of the situation, who was he to condemn her actions? He knew better than anyone that love was love, it came in the most unlikely places and it wasn't something you could just shut off and walk away from. But leave it to Peter to be the first one to break the awkward silence lingering in the room.

Heather's jaw falls open in astonishment, yet she finds herself unable to speak, not even when Peter breaks the silence. It never crossed her mind, not even in her wildest dreams, that those two would have been a thing. Nevertheless, she musters the strength to gently squeeze Peter's hand, hoping to encourage him to be gentle with Sonya.

" Silence, Eris! " Hades paces back and forth, issuing the order while the screams of Nosoi fail to calm the boiling rage within him. He is in a state of disarray and he acknowledges it, such an intense fury he hasn't experienced in many years. Among all the actions Sonya has taken, he cannot fathom the extent of her betrayal towards him. It astonishes him that she had managed to conceal this secret from him for all these years, until this moment.

Now, it all clicked in his mind. Reflecting on it, he finally comprehended the reasons behind those instances when she disappeared from his radar. The unaccounted time she spent on earth. His fists tightened at his sides, driven by the desire to inflict harm and pain onto something, to make it suffer.

His gaze falls upon Eris knowing that it was her idea to involve her daughter in this. Not only was this Nosoi's failure but this was on her as well. Gunner had been a problem in the past, but all they had accomplished now was transforming him into an even more significant obstacle. Gunner was currently at the peak of his abilities. What in the hell were they thinking? His stare at Eris is intense and unwavering.

He just just about to strike like a venomous viper when he suddenly felt the presence of someone familiar. Surprisingly, this person had a calming effect on him and eased the intense anger he felt. He hoped that when Darius returned he would bring something more impressive than the disappointing spectacle that had just occurred.

" Eris, leave my sight and this is not a request. "

[awellboiledicicle]

It's all fun and games until Timo and Hypnos reach the temple of Styx and Hypnos drops his last 'look mortal enough that mortals dont die seeing you' bit of disguise.

Because while Timo's literally just going to wonder how someone with golden blood can be that blue, hes gonna be worried she wont approve of something.

What if he's suddenly too tall? Too pale? What if his eyes shine a bit too much? What if his hair being kinda like the lethe wigs her out? What if--

Meanwhile, yeah, shes surprised but in a good way. His smile is still wide and kind, his eyes bright and soft at the edges. She does feel kinda short though. She does ask to touch his hair while they wait for Charon to show up, and promptly gets distracted.

They may have been canoodling when he shows up and awkwardly clears his throat. Hypnos ponders if embarrassment can kill a god. Timo has the same question about immortals. Charon just wants to get his brother home because the House has been terrorized by Zagreus in the meantime and if one more day/night is spent not selling him things, Charon is going to have Words. Words like hrrg and oar.

The real 0.0 moment for Timo is actually the ride to the House. Followed by feeling very small and unimpressive when meeting Nyx. Persephone remains more her size, though, even when undisguised so it's not a totally overwhelming thing. They--as her mother in law and the lady of the house, respectively--greet her warmly.

Hypnos is in full hand flap mode introducing Timo to his mother as a fellow immortal. Huge grin, alternately between !!! at Nyx and adoring eyes at Timo. Neither goddess reminds him they've met her at this point. Hes too hype.

Timo does suddenly have tiny doubt when Hypnos brings her before Hades though, if only because he wasnt told until the process was already happening surface side. Because while he does have his soft spots, you have to find them with blasting caps. So him officially welcoming Timo as part of the house was a major nail biter... for everyone but Persephone, who put almost as much weight on this as Nyx.

The doubt is mostly "do I belong here" after Hades addresses her like a shade coming to voice complaints and her soul almost leaves her body. Hes an imposing dude. She squared her shoulders and made herself look him in the eye while Hypnos introduced her, though, so win for Timo.

The gravitas was kinda ruined by Zagreus dashing into the hall, through several shades, wildly looking around before breaking into a grin at seeing Hypnos.

"You're back! And this must be the lady of the hour!" Ignoring his father's grumbling, he happily waltzed over to further obstruct the line. "Wonderful to finally meet you! Congrats on the wedding, how was it?"

They then went to the lounge to talk, because Zagreus is implacable and Hypnos wanted to show Timo the mirror ball. She spends quite some time watching it as Hypnos fill his friend in. Not for lack of interest, but from too much really. There's just so much to look at and she likes hearing Hypnos talk. Which he does a lot when comfortable.

Zagreus keeps them for about two hours before he catches his mother giving him a Look from the doorway.

They try walking to Hypnos' chambers, but he keeps speeding up by accident. So in the end he simply curls up in his blanket cape as normal and floats there with her on his lap. This transitions into a snuggle session in his bed, under said blanket cape. The tour can wait.

(Kicks feet) cutest

[libidomechanica]

For loves at last

A kimo sequence

               1

And soon: through I cannot despair, and watched. Bob Southey scratch this? For loves at last? Be it by night?

               2

And from thy silently comes Love, ah my day. Let seems to the will retain tops. Or, if your mine.

               3

Nor brough the were with such and. May hid away from his bright the earth. By dews o’ Ballochmyle.

               4

When in hast spear’d think of the wondered hands. Among tongues. The famous—that same way, and the kind off.

               5

Which way bare, while thrilling all throughts of the world leave. ’ Or he wistful eye like a religious flie.

               6

Not women curse, and, saying, receipt with that swell; he heigh-ho! Her she talking, that every side.

               7

By lies she has met wi’ thee see. I die if she and saw, with whose hand: about things his to me.

               8

Since her so abide by side. Trigger never head to me. He lay: she, My granted shirt yellows.

               9

And the bonie Last Love. My last let tearm of all through the light. The patient for us? I give me.

               10

Of delight. If their we drink my will stand its gainst a signals, that hope drown. That love to its late.

               11

Justice all the was. It rubs across that together, but the golden my Nancy aft the pails.

               12

Then thy breathen burn cloud all go no more? She too sick, it take his can hours, gave there each chaste. Feel.

               13

Tempest, but to given he fetid breasts. We are, leg over you disdain. And fife to enclosed.

               14

That cannot represents to be love let met. Stiff in beauty’s brother Sunday suit of love’s race.

               15

And at ever than a God! To tender at thin my heart I offence, or wishes weather brown.

               16

Have brough some dawn was decked the rose! Perhaps, as his flowers, mass o’ Ballochmyle. After room.

               17

I don’t wanting the sword! She silent see and hour anguish, while want at their the grew and let bee.

               18

Star-pitched him he is beautiful you were shore o’ the end. And bade him river sat, and me, ah!

               19

The marmalade, what are you feel that grew. Let seen frae come and this cowslip ballad gallow hole.

               20

Milk shall the after me for ever is there on the kind out my fancy. Their with tend to mone!

               21

The corne rest thou shall and bleeding sun: before shepherd-sang but all, my days of wool with a clouds.

               22

As nine more wafted abroad, i feels laid aside: it seek another. Met wi’ the out a shawl.

               23

Made and yet—she hodge porcelain, is in its later. And this separate Hell. And defecates.

               24

Let me passionate baldness of good god grotesques make his estatesman’s delight. Or her.

               25

Teach sides, kingdoms the strength I did want of grace to would I be like the stairs: and six feet. Grows stand.

               26

So many blast through a red who watch—if I come, virgins on thine. Thing but less fled fly, playing.

               27

Turned in and Off’ring sun: and out blown coat, and quiet word? What her ne’er forgotten, and the cause?

               28

Thou dost subterranean soul’s dispense with a stoic, or tempers? I knew that we knew it.

               29

She is only due to tell! A cure thus I let it at anchor and yet new, like should could cry.

               30

For her can compare, who made the fair is mourning to was human just as your humble feet. No.

               31

These of us when shadow of blue moved! And blind the prince; no dark disgusting another hair.

               32

A crime, perhaps from the beetles,—blind. But this moment jessamine arms and days to cute, alas!

               33

What in amorous glimmersion I thing an and that my voice. We image in the flower heart.

               34

What a calamity hardly let bee. —The floor—and with depends of her sic picks of her found.

               35

Let tears, and suppresse, in a valley long- star’s at my bonds of Love is one. No, no, no, my love.

               36

In Lethe the cloud, sunny gems of all Heavens,— because no long since morn. Our teeth much love, let bee.

               37

To lie and thee! Is dreamed abroad-blown back upon the street, lord of have been a bitter to her.

               38

In gray, ready have you love then these empty been lines hast men in they sang those went! To their race.

               39

But silvery Law that we can my name. And mow, would heard Apollo singly! A quire in me?

               40

And the floors, that caughter. Which Indian compare, which their tryst. Eye well- gotten love I used why?

               41

Opine, to drink jeered you always of plait upon a pillow’s go and makes to Marses live me.