#but I think it was great practice for … future things *evil laughter*

[strawberri-draws]

Experimental comic page I liked 💫

[jimblejamblewritings]

riddle means misery | part 1.

Summary: Y/N Riddle. Not much more has to be said. Everyone hates her. She’s evil... she has to be. 

Warnings for the Series: 18+, this series is dark. Manipulation, dubcon verging on noncon, abuse of power, violence, ed mentions, death, blood, 

Pairing: unknown yet x black!reader

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N I: Hopefully this goes without saying but neither me as the author or my readers condone these acts in real life. We enjoy these scenarios in fiction to explore dark thoughts or for escapism or for whatever reason. If this makes you uncomfortable then please protect yourself and do not read BUT any hate towards my readers who enjoy this story will not be tolerated. Once again, fiction is fiction and we do not condone any of this disgusting behavior in real life!!

A/N II: This is the (hopefully) final, darker version of Sunshine/Princesse de Mort. Hopefully, y’all enjoy and we reached the proper darkness of the fic. Obviously it can only be so dark since this is supposed to have a happy ending but I’m confident we will all be pleased with this.  

A/N III: Vote on your guy for the future pairing. A post about the poll can be found in an answered ask posted before this post. 

(Series Masterlist)

A little grunt escaped your mouth as you tried to grab your book that was currently floating away. It wasn’t even your book. Standing up from the table, you went to chase after it. You were all but three steps past your table when you tripped over your suddenly untied shoelaces and your hand landed conveniently on some lionfish nettles. Hissing, you sat up to pull the nettles from your now bleeding hand. The book wasn’t even in your sight by the time you picked them all out. 

You could hear laughter from far away when you ran outside to catch up to your missing item. So it was a Ravenclaw messing with you this study hall period. You needed the book. You couldn’t afford a replacement. Money wasn’t something that ran abundantly. The little money in your family’s vault was frozen by The Ministry. Not that it mattered to your father. Lord Voldemort didn’t pay for anything. Most of your things, you never liked to think about where they came from and tried to get rid of them once you quickly found a decent replacement. 

Everything else came from money you earned helping the house-elves at Hogwarts. You lived at the castle year-round. You had ever since you were eleven. Voldemort didn’t make his presence known— you were escorted to Platform 9 and ¾ by one of his followers with a wand and a letter in hand. Hogwarts was where he grew up. He still saw it as a place to hone magical talents and wanted you to go. He also requested— demanded— that Dumbledore keep you there. His heir wasn’t meant to get herself killed in a war.

You were meant to become the second most powerful wizard, after only your father, and rise up to take his place in the new wizarding world order when the time came. Dumbledore couldn’t have denied you if he wanted to. The moment The Ministry found out, you were practically forced to be there. They couldn’t throw you in prison when you hadn’t done anything but house-arrest at Hogwarts until you were an adult was good enough for the moment.  

You crawled under the table to grab your wand before going to chase the book out of the Great Hall. The book kept flapping like a bird, just out of your reach. You thought you might be able to grab it as you headed outside before hitting a body and falling to the ground.  A boy grabbed the floating book. 

“Here— oh, here you go, Padfoot. Riddle’s little book.”

You pulled yourself up from the ground to see some of your least favorite people. The Marauders were the oddest puzzle to you. Their torment was tame in comparison to everyone else. It felt more like bullying than torture. But, everyone seemed to respect them despite it. If they made you their target for the day then no one else did because they hoped they would be there to see your humiliation. You looked at James as you smoothed out your scarlet and gold tie. He watched your hands, noting one bleeding slightly. 

“Still not sure how you tricked the Hat into putting you anywhere but Slytherin.”

“I didn’t tri— can I please just have my book back, James?” 

“What book? Wormtail, do you know what book she’s talking about?”

“No clue, Moony?”

“Haven’t seen a book, Padfoot?”

“Are you talking about that book over there?” 

You looked behind Sirius to see a small fire. You ran over to try and put it out but it was too late. Sirius must’ve set it on fire the moment James handed it to him. You groaned in exasperation. It was a library book. The librarian already looked at you with so much disgust for even daring to step foot in the library. She’d be livid. You realized, as you still patted at the book, that you’d have to give up some shopping money for it. A hot sensation creeped close to your skin before a sharp bit of pain. You looked down to see the bottom of your skirt on fire, quickly scrambling to put it out. The Marauders laughed and high-fived Peter as they walked away.

You gave the boys a look as they left. Your first stop tomorrow would be to buy the book at Hogsmeade and give it to the librarian. In the meantime you went back to the Great Hall to try and get all your stuff. It was covered in ink that you suspected wasn’t coming off easily. Another night of staying up late to complete homework. You weren’t even sure why you bothered doing your work. It wasn’t like you were on anyone’s nice list. Even Dumbledore, who once had faith in Tom Riddle being a good wizard, didn’t care much for you. But multiple school years later and you still had faith. There was still a chance for everyone to see the real you before you all went out into the world. 

The book was the first thing you bought in Hogsmeade. A small meow garnered your attention as you left the bookstore. You looked in the bushes to see a tiny kitten that seemed abandoned. The little thing that you immediately named Finnegan made no protest to you scooping her up. You walked through the village and back towards the castle. You needed to get back before everyone else woke up and went down to the village. When you made it to the front doors of the castle, you could hear four sets of footsteps behind you and sighed as you waited for one of them to say or do something. 

“Princess!” That would be James. 

He took to taunting you with the Slytherin’s Princess nickname. Peter and Sirius both preferred Little Dark One. Remus liked Ring Leader. You turned to face them, wrapping your cardigan around you. 

“Yes, James?”

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to go back to my room. I don’t wa—”

“Potter!” 

You closed your eyes at the voice behind you. It was Evan Rosier which meant Severus and Mulciber were definitely with him. The cackle behind you let you know that Bellatrix and Narcissa were with them. They were the Death Eater posse— everyone had no doubt that they would join your father’s side. You tried to stay away as much as possible but they always found you. They made it a mission to be your personal bodyguards and whatever else they thought you needed.  

“Bloody hell,” you whispered. 

“Rosie!” James sneered. “What do we owe this pleasure?” 

“Fuck off, Potter” Evan whipped out his wand. 

You scurried out of the way as Evan practically threw himself to take your place in an impromptu duel. That was always the scariest part for you. Dueling. You didn’t want to think about what would happen if the school found out you were a squib. It just looked like you refused to perform spells— and none of the teachers ever bothered to make you try. No one really wanted to see you perform magic anyway. You had more magic than most squibs but it still wasn’t enough to get past second, maybe third year of school. It certainly wasn’t enough magic now.  

You could still hear footsteps following you. The stride sounded so calm compared to your scurry. A hand grabbed your shoulders and pulled you back, almost slamming you against the wall but stopping just shy of doing so. Remus gave you a smile that would seem so sweet if it was on anyone but him. 

“You know they’ll just duel you later, might as well just stay and take it now, Ring Leader.”

“So you can dangle me from the ceiling like you all did to Severus last week?”

“Snivellus came up with that jinx, not everyone else’s fault if it caught on with all of us. I’ll let you down after a few minutes, won’t be nearly as long as Snape was dangling from that tree.”

“I'd rather not have my knickers shown to the entire school, it’s the one thing you haven’t made fun of yet.”

Remus eyed the skirt of your dress, one hand moving to grab the bottom of it. “They have little hearts on them?”

You wormed your way out of his grip and kept going towards Gryffindor tower. Remus laughed. 

“So they do have hearts on them!” 

You acted like you didn’t hear him as you walked. You silently cursed as the staircase moved, giving the Marauders the opportunity to catch up to you. 

“Princess got herself a kitty. Rosie and Snivellus were not nearly as fun to duel,” James started as he boxed you in between the four of them. “Let’s set a date for it, Princess.”

“I’m not Princess, stop calling me that.”

Peter laughed. “I think all the little Slytherins at your beck and call say otherwise.”

“I don’t ask them t—”

“It’s not like you have to,” Sirius cut you off. “Why wouldn’t they follow the head Death Eater?”

“I’m not, how many times do I have to say I’m not a Death Eater?”

“Y/N Riddle. I think that proves everything we need to know.” 

You felt a gust of wind and found yourself pushed down, holding out a hand so you wouldn’t squish Finnegan. Peter pushed you back down as they walked past you. If you weren’t in the same House, you would walk in the opposite direction but you had no choice aside from continuing. 

Skirting past everyone in the common room, you practically ran towards your room. Finnegan seemed to like your space. It was weird. Your bed was surrounded by enchanted things and runes to stop your roommates from ruining your stuff. But Finnegan didn’t care about all the weird shit, hopping right over one of the cauldrons that was always filled with a bright blue liquid. You scratched between her ears and hung up your cardigan on the little jacket hooks near your bed. Sitting at your desk, you finished a few essays for Defense Against the Dark Arts until it was time for lunch. Your cat came with you when you grabbed your blanket and left your room. The hallways were empty as you walked through them.  

It was safe to go outside. Moments like this were your favorite. They made you think of summer when the castle was almost completely empty, even Dumbledore didn’t stay around all the time. It was the most peaceful time of year for you. 

The Marauders spotted you as you quietly walked into The Great Hall holding a blanket and your cat. They weren’t going to mess with you, having had their fill earlier. But they did stare as they watched you grab some finger food from the serving tray closest to the door and then make a quick exit. Peter snorted.

“It’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?”

Remus mumbled an agreement through a mouthful of food. You ate in your room, splitting some with Finnegan. Before any of your roommates could come back, you decided to take a nice shower. Only once did you ever use the bathtub. It took too long and left you too vulnerable and naked no matter how many locking enchantments were put on it. You quickly got ready for bed and stayed up reading a fiction book until you were tired enough to go to bed. The curtains were drawn around your room in hopes to make your roommates forget that you existed.

Sunday was your reprieve. Everyone had to take a break from messing with you at some point. You grabbed your journals and headed to the Dark Forest. It was technically forbidden without teacher supervision but no one ever stopped you. You had two main expertises of magic— Darks Arts and Potions. 

Your magic wasn’t strong enough for dueling but it was strong enough for simple charms and spells needed to make potions work. You figured that you were pretty good at Herbology but that was only because you had to be for Potions— same for being decent at Care of Magical Creatures. Your journals held studies for all your work. 

You wanted to head into the forest to collect samples of unicorn blood and compare it to various saps from fairy fruits. The goal was to see how much the fruit could mimic unicorn blood. You were expecting the blood sample to be ready in a few days— two unicorns were about to give birth and two were almost dead. If you couldn’t get the blood from the birth, you could collect it from the dead unicorns without hurting them or cursing yourself. The fairy fruits could be collected today. You wanted to sketch them and then mark the saps in the journal. You nearly jumped out your skin when you made it back out the forest. 

“Is this the Charms homework from Thursday?” Sirius grabbed your journal.

You scrambled to try and get the book back. 

“What’s so good that you get top marks?”

“Hand it over, Padfoot.” Remus stuck out his hand. 

Your eyes widened in horror at watching the journal be torn to shreds. It might have been a new journal but it still had three months worth of research in it. Studying for new potions and dark arts didn’t just happen overnight. Quickly, you shoved the other journal into your bag before they could go after it. James twirled his wand in his hands as he stared at you with a tilt of his head. 

“You ever consider a haircut?” 

You shook your head as you started to run back towards the castle in a zigzag fashion. The Marauders laughed at how ridiculous you looked. Being bored for the day, they decided to follow you. You were headed to the owlery anyway and see if there was a letter. You hadn’t responded to your father after the last two which meant you should respond to this one. As expected, there was the letter. You read it over. It wasn’t very different from the last one. 

He hoped you passed your last homework assignment and were studying hard for your OWLs, he’d send you something for Valentine’s Day to keep up with the tradition that your mother started before she wound up in prison and then died, and the marriage list at the bottom was updated. You hated that list more than anything. Arranged marriage and specifically with a man your father chose was absolutely horrid. 

You frowned at seeing Lucius Malfoy now at the top. It must be because of the rally he’s planning on having. Your father really liked Lucius. He was pureblood, rich, and just as arrogant. He liked how Lucius didn’t hesitate to hex someone in your first year of schooling if they tried to mess with you. You hated that the eleven year old you did used to cling to Lucius when you didn’t know if you could handle everybody’s bullying. He probably told that story and it got back to your father. You would have to correct that right away in the next letter that Lucius shouldn’t be at the top of his list. You wanted to put that there should be no list. Two names that frustrated you to no end were also back— 

“Why the fuck is my name there and Reggie?” Sirius had snatched the letter out of your hand. 

You hadn’t even heard them coming because of how loud the owlery could be. Peter pointed at the letter. 

He smirked. “You should start dating, Pads, won’t that make dear Daddy happy?”

The other boy scoffed. “Wouldn’t even fuck her with a bag over her head.” 

“I want my letter back.”

They laughed when you tried to snatch it back, Sirius quickly pulling it out of your reach. 

“Why?”

“Please.”

Sirius whistled and his family owl came flying to him. “Dump it wherever, maybe somewhere in London.” 

The owl took the letter in its beak. You could do nothing but watch the owl fly out of your reach and through the window. You purposely shouldered the boys as you walked past— your back quickly slammed into Remus’ chest as you pulled you back. The arm around your throat, pinning you to him, got a little tighter. He pulled your wand out of your back pocket and held it right in front of your face. The wood looked like it was bending a little under his grip. 

“Try getting bold again and I’ll break this into pieces. Understood?”

You caught the wand before it landed on the stairs. Quickly, but not too quickly so no one else would notice you, you made your way back to Gryffindor Tower. You penned your father a letter telling him about your new cat and your classes. You only left to return to the owlery when you knew that James started quidditch practice because all of them would most likely be there.   

The four boys caught you looking at them on Monday morning. You tried to sit at the end of the table closer to the professors specifically because of Mondays with the Marauders. Normally they messed with you by this time of day. They had made sure of that. Monday morning, every morning since second year was there spot for taunting. Their favorite joke was making every bit of food or drink you tried to put to your mouth disappear. Lily and Marlene scoffed when you squinted your eyes. 

“Do you want something, Riddle?” Marlene yelled. 

Your head immediately ducked down as snickers started from around the room. You kept eating your breakfast until suddenly your face was slammed into the bowl of porridge. You looked up to see Dorcas putting her wand away. It was clear to you that the students decided your breakfast was over. You didn’t even bother getting something else before leaving even though you were still hungry. 

McGonagall didn’t even look at you as she entered the classroom. You were used to being ignored by her. Floating you scroll to her desk with one of the few spells that you could do, you waited for her to grab your homework. McGonagall simply looked at it and didn’t bother picking it up. Her entire demeanor changed when Lily walked in followed by the others. She, and surprisingly the Marauders, set their homework done and McGonagall simply beamed about how lovely it was that they did it early. 

You sunk down in your seat. No one sat at your desk. The only time you ever had a desk partner was if Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins and one of the Death Eater posse had the same class period as you. 

Your nose scrunched at the smell of burning fabric. In a panic, you were fishing all of your supplies out of your schoolbag. The bag was ruined. It wasn’t just burnt but there was a giant hole in the bottom of it. You knew that you should’ve soaked the bag in the fireproof potion before you used it right away. You had to carry your books to your next class, waiting until your free period to go back to your room and turn a headscarf into a sack to carry everything. The only thing getting you through the day was the idea that in two days it would be Valentine’s Day. 

Was it wrong to look forward to getting presents from your dad and the Death Eater posse? Yes, but it was the only nice stuff you ever got. The real question was when would you get the presents. The posse would probably just show up at Gryffindor Tower or escort you to Slytherin but you’d have to go to The Great Hall or the owlery to get the gift from your dad. 

In the end, you figured that you’d have better chances in the owlery. The one thing no one would do was push you out the tower so it was infinitely safer. You got the parcel left before anyone else could show up. You went to the library to browse for some books. It was funny. You didn’t even like reading all that much but it was all you could do. Read and research for potions. You had no friends to talk to, no sports to play, no clubs to attend. It sucked because you really wanted to play quidditch but the old captain aimed a bludger at your head. She was graduating and would be here next year but you were too scared to try-out again with James as captain. 

The books on the romance shelves called to you as you passed by. They were some of your favorites to read. Romance and found families. Sometimes you wanted to roll your eyes at yourself because it was sort of sadistic to keep reading about what you were never going to get. You grabbed a few and debated what to do next. Safety was found in your bed. But you really hated being cooped up. You weren’t meant to stay inside and cramped up all the time. Finnegan poked her head out of your old tote bag that you patched up until you could buy another school bag. 

If your cat wanted to be outside then you would be outside as well. The Black Lake pier seemed nice enough. The wind was a little biting but still nice when you sat down. It blew at your long red skirt that kissed the top of the water. You were in red and pink to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Finnegan was walking up and down the pier, sometimes swatting at a merperson that wanted to look at her, while you went to look at your presents.

Regulus, Bellatrix, and Narcissa all chipped in for fancy chocolates. The Carrows got you a small pad of parchment that was covered in hearts. Others got you cards. You opened the parcel from your dad to see another stuffed bear, some chocolates, and nail polish. There was also a bracelet, earrings, and a necklace. Your mouth dropped open. It was some of the most beautiful jewelry that you ever saw which made you upset. 

If it wasn’t jewelry that you bought, you always sold it to the second-hand shop. You couldn’t wear something that was potentially taken off someone he murdered. Your hand paused when you saw the letter. The earrings, bracelet, and necklace were from Lucius. A pout crossed your face. You didn’t want to really have anything from him— especially because you were positive he knew he was top of your father’s marriage list. But at the same time, if Lucius got you the jewelry, then you knew for certain it was bought and not stolen. You never really owned pearls before. You loved pearls but they were always stolen or you sold them for money. The set was too pretty to give away. You’d probably write to Lucius just once to thank him. 

You were putting in the earrings when your head practically spun from getting hit with something hard. You felt warm liquid run down your face before the metallic taste hit your tongue. Before your hand was in front of your face you already knew that what you were touching was blood. Sitting in your lap was a bloodied stone. You almost screamed as another rock hit you. On the side shoreline, a group of students were throwing rocks. You scrambled to get up and grab your stuff to leave. 

Suddenly, you felt yourself hoisted into the air. Your screams to be put down were cut off by a mouth full of water. Panic ran through you for a moment when you found yourself sinking instead of floating because of the abruptness of landing in the lake. Your lungs burned when you reached the small sandy shore by the pier. 

Water and vomit hit the sandy ground. You rolled in the other direction to avoid getting in it. A hand ran over your face. At least the bleeding stopped although you had a headache that you would need to get something for… if Madame Pomfrey actually listened for once. Fingers flitted to your ear. You sat up immediately and crawled back towards the water, pulling out your wand. 

“Accio earring! Earring! Accio! Acci…” 

You gave up. One of the merpeople must have grabbed the piece of jewelry. Either that or it was too far down for your magic to work. Considering the summoning spell was supposed to be useful no matter how far away an object was, you figured this was probably the limitations due to your squibness. Giving up, you went back to the pier to gather your things and leave. Finnegan, who had been hiding in a bush, followed behind you as you left wet footsteps through the castle. Coming outside fucking sucked.  

You continued to read in your room until it was time for the feast. You wouldn’t go but holiday food tended to be the most delicious so you would suffer through all the hearts if that meant you got nice food. The book, chocolates, and nail polish all came with you. Dinner was calm for the first half. No one could do too much with the adults around. 

The professors never protected you but even they knew that they had a responsibility to laws which meant you couldn’t be hurt with them watching or they’d have to step in. All bullying was relatively harmless at meal time. You charmed your book to stay upright and flip when you were finished reading a page. It gave you the chance to eat and move on to eating your chocolates and painting your nails. They were all painted pink except for one on each hand that was red. You switched to smaller brushes so you could paint heart details. You gasped when the nail polish bottle was tipped over, panicking when your book started to float away as well. It was impossible to stand up. Only your eyes could move as you watched the book leave. They really petrified you at dinner? You were used to it happening at lunch or breakfast so you could be made late to class. You felt a hand grab your face and turn it to look at them. 

James chuckled. “You were wrong, Moony. She likes the hearts on her nails, not her knickers.”

They laughed as you went wide-eyed and felt your face heat up. They walked off but didn’t remove the charm. No one removed the charm. Slowly, students and professors alike exited the hall. You would just have to wait the few hours it took to become unpetrified. Little by little, you felt control of your limbs. A large sigh left your mouth as you practically flew away from the table. You desperately needed to use the bathroom. You didn’t even care that the closest bathroom was Moaning Myrtle’s stomping ground.  

“Petrificus Totalus!” 

The last word that left your mouth was no before you hit the floor. You heard Dorcas’ voice and felt yourself turned over to see her as well as the rest of the Marauders and their friends. They were sitting on the steps just watching you. Sirius was holding your cat and you weren’t even sure how he got Finnegan from your room.

“That was a very large glass of water, Y/N. And the pumpkin juice and the tea. We have a bet. Me, Lils, Wormtail, and Griff don’t think you’ll last more than two minutes. The others say five. Do us a favor and go quickly. We’ve got some galleons on the line.” 

If you could shake your head you would. Peter brought out a timer. You just had to make it past five minutes and you’d be let go. That was easier said than done. Your eyes shut as you heard the scoffing laughter and felt a puddle forming underneath you. Peter tapped the timer. 

“Three minutes and twenty seconds, pay up.”

(part 2)...

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[kusagrasskusa]

Michael Myers X Murderer! Reader - Headcannons - "Death Card"

Also, thank you (Wattpad Person) for requesting this :) I know your the last request I got, so I prolly should have done someone else's request first, but your's was just easiest to find. (Also, I have it bad for Michael so )

Have fun reading this! I'm writing this on my laptop instead of computer so sorry if the formatting turns out worse than usual :/

Also...someone made fun of me for putting, "eight," and, "11," in the same sentence. I guess not many people know this, but anything under ten is supposed to be written out unless their fractions or decimals.

By the way, these basically aren't headcannons lol. It's just me wanting to write out a story but not being good enough to so I just write it down in simpler terms.

Enjoy~

Not only is Y/N just another famous murder who casually takes the lives of people, but she's amazing at hiding

..........until-

Y/N was an abusive home after her parents died when she was a toddler. Her aunt and uncle neglected her but karma came back at them when their car fell off a bridge, causing the pair to drown. The downside for the young Y/N was that she was put into a foster institution. And we all know by now that foster care are full of fights, drugs, weed, alcohol, and shitty employees.

As a young girl entering such a bad place, she was always a target. You know that sense of fear, worthlessness, and loneliness fucked with her head to where she felt lashing out felt great.

She would be unable to stop herself as she plunged a sharp object in and out of this prick that held her down for so long. But once she heard voices from other kids, she ran.

The story made headlines as the next big attack from yet another child. That's right, next. There was someone who inspired her to do what she did.

Of course, she always had that memory in the back of her head. That boy's violent actions filled her with immeasurable awe when she saw the news. However, she always had something more important to think about.

With so much dissatisfaction with her past, she could only fill herself up with adding things on to her in the present, and more in the future.

Y/N would steal Poker cards from people and always use the Ace of Spades to mark her kills by sliding the card into a wound. After all, betting games were the highlight of her day in the foster institution. She was always so good at it that it became her pride.

All these headlines and stories about how evil she is became such a big deal in her head. Such an overwhelming feeling of adrenaline every time she heard the name people would call her.

"The Death Card," is another name for Ace of Spades in most English countries. It was the perfect fit for Y/N.

(Ya'll, I feel like a fucking genius for coming up with that lol)

She was so good at hiding, truly. Kill someone in Kentucky, then move to Missouri. Killing someone there and move to Georgia, and so on.

Only in her hometown was she caught.

Michael was the one who started it all for her, as their same age and hometown made her feel connected to him, and finally where he got caught would be the same place she did.

14 years of hiding and killing led her to meeting him

Michael spent these 14 years sitting in complete silence. No talking, no humming, no singing, nothing. It's like he was always in his own world of thought, too busy in his imagination to interact with the real world.

Of course, there was times when he did pay attention to what's around him.

The news was the only thing he'd really pay close attention to. After all, what if something happens to Haddonfield while's he's stuck in there, and that causes plenty of people he once knew to move away?

But per usual, there was nothing about it

But there was something that caught his attention even by a little

"After 14 years, the notorious Death Card or Card of Death has finally been caught," says the Haddonfield Police Department. "While we're unsure of her motives thus far, we have been able to learn of who she is. Y/N L/N made the headlines once in 1980 at the age of eight as one of America's biggest crime cases with children as the culprit, having brutally stabbed a 15 year old boy. This happened just two years after the Michael Myers case, when a six year old boy stabbed his older sister in 1978. All else the HPD are saying is that her frantic behavior may lead her to a mental institution rather than letting her make legal decisions in court."

Michael paid attention to all the details of the report. For this report to be made about Haddonfield, chances are they'll be meeting each other soon.

The Death Card was a violent killer Michael heard of plenty of times however he never paid close attention to.

(Holy shit these are just headcannons so why am I writing long paragraphs)

He had to say, hearing about her violent stabbings were the highlight of his week. Even if he never felt strong about hearing other people having fun with their lives like she was, he couldn't help but almost feel pushed to do what she is. Living freely and ending those who cross his path...

Saying he was jealous or inspired would be a stretch though

He would spend his days painting paper mache masks while thinking of doing what she was for sure but he hated how she would show off by using those cards as if she didn't have a goal in mind, which was annoying to him. If you have nothing to live for, then kill yourself was his mindset.

Michael watched as Y/N stepped into court. He know hundreds- no thousands- of people watched as this woman of pure evil stepped into the courtroom. Her H/C hair flowed as she walked passed everyone, glaring at them with her cold E/C eyes.

A look of slight intrigue replaced his normal dull expression as he watched the girl stand up before the judge, smiling sassily at the cameras as to tell them to fuck off. Michael can recognize that look of intrusion on her face as she was practically interrogated. Clearly, she hated it there.

He watched contently as all the mystery surrounding the Card of Death was revealed to everyone in this world. Days went by of this court case before finally, she pled insanity. After all, she was known to have some underlying mental conditions as she remained so calm when talking about the varies of ways she would kill.

It's easy to see that many felt bad for the girl. Such trauma growing up led to the creation of this unfortunate human. But Michael? He didn't feel bad at all.

He never was sad or truly sympathetic however...he did feel pity. Somewhere in his soulless eyes held pity for this sad, sad girl he was soon to meet. Not exactly sympathy, but simply pity. And with that came respect.

The day that Y/N stepped foot into those doors was the day the two would meet for the very first times. Over 63 counts of first degree murder in 14 years led to the meeting of these two serial killers. At the time, they were both only 20.

Tables were scattered across the room with people talking or simply sitting alone by themselves on them. There was TV in a few different places around the room and board games in a couple of shelves. In the back of the large room was windows that showed the outside that felt so out of reach forever.

As the metal doors slammed behind her, she felt eyes on her immediately. Y/N slowly scanned the room as she gulped back the intense fear gathering in her stomach. Her lips parted open as she began to breath heavily and press her back on those metal doors.

She was so trapped and scared when she first entered that foster institution. She couldn't help but think of karma when her aunt would hurt her so badly for those five years before she died. But 63 murders are so much worse, so what could karma do to her to balance her evil deeds with punishment?

Laughter and giggled filled her ears as she shut her eyes tightly and covered her face with her arms. Her vision was going blurry; she was having a panic attack. Tears fell from her eyes as she whimpered quietly to herself.

She may be the Card of Death however she never had to be in a large group of people in so long.

Her body jerked as she was suddenly pulled away from those metal doors. She cried out when she saw a large man, around 6'7 (204cm), pull her away.

In just a few seconds, she was pulled to a metal table and forced to sit as the large man stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

Her body tensed unimaginably as they remained still for a few seconds, quiet aside from the occasional sobs of Y/N.

Then suddenly, the pressure on her shoulders disappeared. She heard nothing until the sound of creaking from the seat in front of her interrupted.

Y/N felt eyes on her. They were so intense over her.

A minute passed before her own eyes fluttered open, meeting the man's eyes in front of her.

A shiver ran down her spine when she came face to face with stone cold blue eyes that seemed to hold nothing within them. No light, no soul, and no sympathy. Not only that, but a orange mask made of paper mache covered the rest of his face as well.

The man tilted his head before lifting his hand onto the table, sliding something over to her. Y/N looked down at what he gave her.

"Don't speak. Write."

Michael had given her a paper with these words. His handwriting was hard to read considering he nearly never wrote anything so it took a moment before Y/N got the message. When she did, she looked back up at the man and nodded just a little so it was barely recognizable.

Obviously this conversation was to be secretive so she knew to barely show signs of interactions. The camera couldn't pick up on such a small nod to what evidence is there of them even interacting?

Michael slid the paper back to him and brought a pencil to the paper after erasing the original text. When he slid it back to her, it read, "Don't let anyone know what we say Y/N. They watch everything." When Y/N looked back up at him, she saw him dart his eyes from something behind her to something on the wall between them. She turned her head slightly to the side, noticing a camera on the wall. So she understood.

Michael had dropped on the pencil on the table, meaning it was her turn to reply. She erased the previous text before writing down, "Who are you? How do you know me?" When she slid it back, Michael took the pencil in his hand again.

"Michael Myers. I was a well known case two years before you. We heard a lot about you on TV."

"As in the boy who killed his sister at the age of six?"

"Yes. You know me?"

Y/N's eyes widened slightly as she frantically wrote down a reply. Without even noticing, the knot in her stomach had completely disappeared without a trace.

"I remember seeing your case. I thought about everyday."

Michael didn't reply immediately after reading. Instead, he waited a few minutes and stared down at the table. A look of confusion remained on Y/N's features as she impatiently waited. Then suddenly, Michael erased what was on the paper and simply drew a masked person looking somewhat like himself with a knife in his hand. He drew dead stick figures around it with blood splattering everywhere.

Michael knew that this picture would cover up all the eraser marks and writings that were still slightly visible. So when the guard that walked up behind Y/N without her knowing popped up, he didn't see any text.

Of course, this did lead to the paper being taken away. Then minutes after that, both of the pair was taken away.

If there's one thing as scary as analyzing The Shape and caring for him, it's that person who cares and analyzes him finding him interacting with someone else for the first time.

Whenever Y/N got sat down in her cell, she knew what was about to happen. She was sat down in her bed as a man she'd never seen before sat down in the chair that came with her little desk in her cell with a guard next to him.

Have you ever spoken to Michael? Are you related to him? How do you know him? How does he know you? Have you ever met his family? Why did he interact to you? Why was he drawing things for you? Does he like you? Does he hate you? Did he write to you? Did you hear him talk?

So many questions were asked by this Dr Loomis in such short amount of time. "No, no, I don't, no, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, no, no," and mostly these were your responses. No matter how many times Loomis asked, you dully replied.

You simply said he sat you down and you began to draw together, both filling in a piece of the drawing together.

And eventually, you got out.

Another day went by of "talking" to Michael.

And another.

And another.

The talks were nice and casual. What goes on in the asylum? What goes on in the outside? Who should I avoid? What's the reputation of the HPD?

Do you want to escape?

But it was only a matter of time before finally the two were friends.

Y/N was kinda just in her cell one night in bed. Then she just gasped and widened her eyes. Wait, are we friends? We're friends, right!

Michael already knew of their friendship like two weeks before she did. It felt so...wrong for him. He had always been alone and silent. How could someone like her even be so likeable to him? He didn't really understand it but he knew he hated it.

One day, the two were writing to each other per usual. Michael unintentionally added a pun in one of his comments, causing Y/N to giggle. Michael cocked his head to the side in confusion, strangely feeling heat rise his face and his heart speed up. It was air conditioned so he suspected he may have gotten sick.

Whenever the two had to go back to their cells, that feeling suddenly disappeared. Then it hit him. Oh fuck-

Hell, only a week later did Y/N feel herself experiencing the same symptoms. Michael notices that Y/N would shake and fidget a lot when they interacted, making him wonder of she was cold. As a friend, it was only right for him to sit next to her and hold her close to keep her warm, right? Y/N's face went red and damn that was embarrassing. But of course, that didn't mean Y/N wouldn't hug him back.

Eventually the two were basically cuddling. The two hugging each other warmly as Y/N rested her head on his chest, struggling to stay awake as they got more comfortable by the second.

But of course, Dr Loomis caught eye of that.

The doctor had been looking deep into al the interactions these two evil beings have had. They act so casual, so normal with each other, surely more than just drawing is happening between them, right?

The doctor had pulled them into his office separately to interrogate them. While Y/N bluntly answered his questions to make him just shut up as quickly as possible, she couldn't help but think to herself. She knows that she and Michael are mentally ill, but he should definitely be fixed by now. He's smart and creative and can casually talk to people, so it's like the only thing keeping him here is that the doctors are so ill-equipped that they can't make the necessary breakthrough to save him.

Of course, just a month later, another incident happened like this. Y/N was having a bad migraine so Michael got her to just sit down and wait for him during lunch. He brought over two trays of food for them and was sure to trade with Y/N so she can eat the things she likes and he could have the things she dislikes.

Another time, a bipolar guy ran into Michael and shoved him as if it was his fault. Michael shoved him back instinctively, causing a fight to disperse between the two. As security guards took notice, Y/N was quick to push Michael away softly and ball a fist to punch the fuck out of that guy- like a, "YO WHATCHU SAY ABOUT MY MAN?" type shit. Y/N did this to seem like she was hitting back and that Michael hadn't done anything wrong.

And when each other's birthday's rolled around, they had their own celebration. Y/N was given her own paper mache mask as a gift and a small cupcake from the cafe. Michael was given stolen art supplies that were taken from other guests and also a cupcake.

Y/N slowly stopped having panic attacks, but she definitely had her moments. Of course, Michael sat with her through it.

Dr Loomis recorded all this shit so he can gather data on Michael. Then the question hit him: How would Michael react if Y/N was gone for a few days? Does he truly care about her or is he just using her?

If you think Michael hated Loomis before, wait til he pieced together the disappearance of girlfriend and the extensive eyesight on him from security guards. For the hell he raised about it, he had to get sterilized and put into a cell without being able to get out for a few days.

Y/N remained bored in her cell for days. So what better could she do than annoy the guard watching her? She would just talk nonstop for what felt like hours and hours. The dude watching her was just getting more pissed off by the second.

"Would you shut up? Crazy bitch," he hissed, hitting the cell door. Y/N giggled cockily, shaking her head. Even if she deserved to be yelled at for continuing to talk, the Card of Death refused to back down. But when the guard went inside her cell and locked the door behind him, she got a bit worried.

Y/N got off her bed and threatened him cockily, to which he responded with physical force.

Of course, Smith's Groove is ill-equipped so even with proof of being hit and tazed, Y/N couldn't do anything to get the guard fired. But Michael?

A full month without seeing each other was like a slow suicide. But when they finally got to see each other again, the two was sure to write so much about their time alone as if they were teenage friends discussing their fun weekends. However, things turned dark whenever Y/N brought up the guard.

Michael didn't show any emotions at all, no matter what happens. But Y/N learned to guess how he's feeling depending on how long he takes to respond. Slowed blinking as if he was in thought, and slower reading as got analyze her writing closer were typically bad signs.

About a year had passed since they met at this time. A year to plan to escape. By now, the two were both 21 and fully prepared to leave once and for all.

Whenever that security guard had walked passed Michael's cell one night, Michael had knocked on the door to signal him. Michael slipped a paper through the doorslot, as he was given paper since he doesn't talk, saying he found a dead mouse in his cell. The guard just huffed and let himself inside. Michael pointed to where the mouse supposedly was; and that was a mistake for the guard.

Right as that guard went to look, Michael got behind and covered his mouth before stabbing him in the neck with a paint brush that's but carved into a small blade. Within moments, the guard dropped dead onto the floor.

Taking the keys from the guard, Michael was able to let out nearly every single prisoner to this hell out of their cells. Including Y/N.

The world sister was the only thing left of the pair as it was engraved into the door of Michael's cell. And just like that, the two were gone.

How they got there so fast doesn't matter but eventually Y/N and Michael found an abandoned house to station at until the search around the area disappeared and they could move around quicker.

"I can't fucking believe it," Y/N cheered as she felt tears run down her face from happiness. She swayed across the room, taking in the smell of dust and air. Even something dirty felt so new to her that couldn't help but love it at the moment.

Michael would watch her as he sat down in an old wooden chair, cocking his head. His body was in complete shock as the realization of all that's happened in the past years came crashing down on him. This was the real world? This is what dust smells like? This is what shattered glass and broken wood looks like? This is what trees look like up close? This is what things look like without glass tinting the color?

This is what it feels like to celebrate with someone you love? Michael reminded himself that the girl in front of him changed his life so much. His urge to harm all around him was always so strong, but the thought of her being hurt felt a bad taste in his mouth.

He stood up from the chair, walking towards the ecstatic girl as she cried happily to herself and picked up random things to remind herself of what they feel like and all she takes for granted. She turned her head to him, smiling, "Michael, look, I found a-"

Y/N gasped as Michael gripped his mask and slowly moved it. Y/N watched in awe as for the first time, she saw her only friend in this world's real face. That pale skin and soulless eyes that she grew familiar with became so new to her again.

"Michael..." she whispered, stepping closer to him. Her face heated up as she felt the weight his eyes staring down at her. She lightly bit her lip, a shiver going down her spine.

He took a few steps closer as well, making the two remain inches away from each other. Now at this point, Y/N is questioning if Michael is gonna kill her or is gonna kiss her as he awkwardly put his hand to her cheek, brushing her hair away. She leaned her head into his hand, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

In just a matter of moments, the two came together in a soft kiss. The moment was quiet as the two did their best to remain calm and together as this moment that was little way's overdue continued.

When the two pulled away, Y/N was quick to wrap her arms around him. Now she wasn't going to cry about it, but damn was that contact she needed so badly. The Death Card and The Shape were basically Yin and Yang with how one is emotional and the other in emotionless but their need for pain and each other is what kept it healthy.

Just imagine how much suffering families went through since the two got out.

[janetbrown711]

Much request for seeing how Angelina would have acted the moment Yakko was born and how invasive she would have been/controlling and all the bickering it would have caused. I just think it's neat.

Lena was locked in the tower for six agonizing weeks. 

She was only given food and water once a day by some servant who slid it under the door. Lena was sure the only reason her mother did that was that she needed her alive, otherwise she was sure she wouldn’t waste her time. At first, Lena was... well... not happy but accepting of her food rations, but after two weeks passed very little food was able to stay down. 

So... Lena found out that she didn’t lie, and she was pregnant after all. 

In any other circumstance, Lena would’ve been overjoyed. If she weren’t in a tall, cold, dark tower high up in the castle, with William only available to visit and comfort her at night, she would’ve been excitedly planning everything out. She would’ve set aside a nursery and would’ve decorated it immediately out of excitement. She’d go into the town and look at little baby clothes from the local businesses and pick out the cutest ones. She wouldn’t have to worry about what her mother would do when they were born, or if they would end up having to be born in this dark and horrible place...

There was a moment there Lena feared she wasn’t ever going to be allowed to return, doomed to live there for the rest of her life. 

However, after six weeks a servant came up and unlocked the door, telling the princess her mother would allow her to come down. She wasn’t surprised her mother was either too much of a coward or too angry to free her herself. Still, Lena was extremely happy to be out and in the familiar clean halls of the palace, making sure to avoid her mother as much as possible, but it seemed her mother was avoiding her just as much, so at least the feeling was mutual.

Once down though, she and William quickly got to baby planning, as he was over the moon at the prospect of being a dad. They read and studied and decorated as much as possible in preparation for their little bundle of joy, perfectly fine with Angelina staying out of their way.  

And so, nine months later, Prince Yakko of Warnerstock was born. 

“I could look at him all day,” William said, admiring the sleeping newborn in Lena’s arms. 

“You’re telling me,” Lena chuckled, moving the blanket around him a little so she could better see his face. However, their moment of hypnosis was broken off when the doctor entered the room once more.

“The queen would like to speak with the two of you,” He said. Lena and William looked at each other, before looking back at him and nodding, and before they knew it, Angelina entered.

“Mother... how polite of you to ask permission before entering,” Lena snarked coldly, holding her son a little bit closer. 

“It wasn’t my choice, the doctor said he’d have to see if you were asleep or not,” She rolled her eyes. 

“What do you want?” William asked. 

“My you’re snappy. That’s no way to talk to your queen,” Angelina gave him a look. 

“Just get to the point, mother,” Lena sighed. 

“Fine,” Angelina huffed. 

“I figured I would make things easier on you two and make my intentions with your child clear from day one: I will be in charge of their education and training and his preparation to become king,” She declared. 

“What? No. Absolutely not. I won’t let you near him,” Lena shook her head and practically shielded Yakko away from his grandmother. 

“You don’t have a say in the matter, Angelina. I was simply informing you,” She said. 

“I won’t let you. I won’t let you try and mold him into the monster you wanted me to be,” Lena fought back. 

“It is not your place to tell me what to do.” Angelina raised her voice. 

“You aren’t his mother!” Lena nearly shouted, but realized she was holding a sleeping infant just in time. 

“You forget who you are speaking to!” Angelina shouted. “I am your queen, Angelina. I have the supreme authority to do whatever I want with Warnerstock’s future king.”

“If you didn’t want this to have happened, you wouldn’t have married a bastard. You’re lucky I’m letting the little creature live,” She spat, and Yakko was awoken and began to cry. Lena growled, baring her fangs, but William placed a calming hand on her shoulder, though he was clearly mad himself.  

“My decision is final. Do what you will with him in the meantime, but he will be learning under my instruction,” She smiled before exiting. 

“Shhhhh, it’s okay Yakko, she’s gone,” Lena quickly focused on her crying baby and tried rocking him. 

“This is bad... isn’t it?” William put a hand on his forehead as he tried to process. 

“William I don’t want to think about that right now,” Lena sighed and continued rocking. “I just want to enjoy having a baby, is that too much to ask?” She closed her eyes. 

“Of course not, my love,” He wrapped an arm around her. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it, don’t worry. It’ll be several years before he’s ready for proper schooling, we’ll practically have him all to ourselves.”

That did make her feel a little better, but she was still angry. Her mother had no right to insult her precious baby boy like that, or William for that matter- and the audacity to just burst in and declare that she’d be taking over his education- who did she think she was?

The queen. 

Her mother was the queen, and there was nothing she could do about that.

Lena sighed as Yakko’s cries finally ceased. 

“Well, then we’re going to make sure none of her lessons get through to him. We’ll make sure he’s kind, brave, and fiercely intelligent, won’t we William?” She said to Yakko. 

“Of course,” William smiled tiredly. “We simply won’t let her get away with this.”

“He’ll be such a good person, her corruption won’t stand a chance,” She smiled down at Yakko too. 

She wasn’t going to give up hope, not now. They were going to be a happy family despite her mother’s influences- somehow. She and William were going to figure it out, just you wait. 

And so Lena and William did their best to raise Yakko to be the kindest, bravest, and most intelligent little kid he could be. Behind the queen’s back, William would read him stories of brave knights and evil queens and teach him how to read said stories, and Lena would teach him compassion with all forms of life in the gardens. There were times Lena thought that perhaps the day her mother would begin her lessons would never come and that it would just be the three of them forever, but the day after Yakko’s fifth birthday Lena and William were summoned to the throne room and were told it was time. William wanted to put up a fight, but they both knew it was useless, and so they pulled Yakko away from playing with his baby brother, and walked Yakko to her mother’s private study. 

“Remember Yakko, what did I say?” Lena asked, holding his hand. 

“Sit still, listen, and answer questions,” Yakko beamed at his mother. Lena nodded. 

“And remember, if there’s anything you disagree with, you can ask us about it after the lessons,” William reminded. Yakko nodded. 

“Then can I play with Wakko?” He asked his father. 

“He needs to take his nap, as do you when this is done,” William chuckled.

“Just remember, your grandmother can be wrong about a great number of things, though she doesn’t like to have it pointed out,” Lena explained for the millionth time. William gave her a sympathetic look. 

“Well- here we are,” Lena said, as she realized they had reached their destination. 

“Fancy,” the prince said, admiring the craftsmanship of the door. Lena chuckled, but the laughter was suppressed when the door opened. 

“There you are. You’re almost late,” Angelina looked at them. 

“Almost late is on time,” Lena shot back. 

“Barely,” The queen scoffed and stepped aside, motioning for Yakko to come in. Yakko froze, looking back at his parents. 

“It’s alright dear, we’ll be right here when you’re done, we promise,” William got on his knees and gave Yakko a hug. 

“We don’t have all day,” Angelina cut them off. 

“Good luck honey,” Lena gave Yakko a quick kiss on the forehead before Yakko then scurried inside the study. 

The queen gave them a look before closing the door and shutting them out. 

“You will sit there, at the center table,” Angelina pointed at the seat, and Yakko ran to it. 

“A good king takes his time, no need for running around when you have servants to do so,” Angelina remarked. 

“Running is fun. So is jumping, and skipping, and dancing, and-”

“A good king is also quiet, and listens to his superiors,” The queen interrupted Yakko, which got him to shut up. 

“M’sorry,” He said. 

Angelina scoffed. “Well at least they taught you something useful,” she said as she went to her chalkboard and wrote down those two ‘lessons’. 

“Why is running bad?” He asked. 

“A good student raises his hand before speaking, and waits until he is spoken to,” Angelina didn’t even look back before writing. Yakko lowered his head in embarrassment, making sure to keep note. Yakko raised his hand. 

“Yes, Yakko?” She sighed. 

“Why is running bad?” He asked. 

“It’s improper and wild. A good king is orderly, and in control at all times,” She explained.  “Take for example... your father. He isn’t king, so he runs around all the time. It’s because of that he isn’t king, understood?” She asked. 

Yakko thought about that. 

He didn’t think there was anything wrong with his dad playing chase and tag with him, but he wasn’t king, unlike him someday. 

He nodded. 

“Good,” She smiled, before something Yakko’s pocket caught her eye. 

“What is that?” She pointed. Yakko’s face lit up as he dug it out. 

“That’s my toy! It’s a bunny I named Bu-”

“Kings do not play with toys, especially toy rabbits,” Angelina held out her hand. Yakko blinked. 

“I’m not king yet,” he said. 

“Not yet, but you will be one day, so you must prepare. Hand it over,” She said, raising her voice slightly. With an eep, Yakko handed it over, and she took it away. 

“Good, the last thing you need to be is distracted,” She said, putting it into a pocket in her dress. Yakko raised his hand. 

“Yes?” She sighed, raising an eyebrow. 

“Can I have it back after?” He asked. 

“No, Yakko. This training is of the utmost importance. The fate of the kingdom will soon rest on your shoulders, and it’s important to prepare yourself for that reality,” She explained softly. Yakko thought long and hard about that. 

“Okay...” He ultimately agreed. After all, it did make sense. 

In all of the storybooks he read, kings were shown as strong and stoic, never playing with dolls or toys or even little brothers. They were brave and did what was best for others- though Yakko wasn’t sure he wanted to give up all of that just yet. He liked those things after all. 

But if it would make him a good king...

“Good, let's carry on then,” Angelina said with a smile, and they continued their lesson.

And they did. Angelina told him tales of kings of old, and what traits they did and didn’t have, and which ones Yakko should aspire for, and Yakko listened and kept notes in his head. After all, nothing she said felt wrong, it made sense, so Yakko saw no need for alarm. Plus, it was fun learning about the history of his family, and the legacy he was to carry on. 

Yakko knew he was going to like his grandmother’s lessons. 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

[blu-joons]

DATING SUPER JUNIOR A⇴Z HEADCANON ⇴ Cho Kyuhyun

A ⇴ AFFECTION

On most occasions, Kyuhyun is very affectionate, but there are also times when he appreciates his own space. More often than not he’ll like to have you by his side, he’ll cuddle you endlessly no matter what he’s doing.

B ⇴ BEFORE DATING

He was quite shy to approach you backstage at his musical, he knew the two of you would be working together for some time, so he needed to say hello. After the initial conversation, he couldn’t help but be intrigued, he’d always ask for you or come to you when he needed help, mainly so he had the chance to spend more time with you.

C ⇴ CONFESSION

It was at the end of the run of the show he decided to confess to you. He wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance to see you again as he went back to Super Junior, so he made the decision to confess his feelings before he had to say goodbye. When he asked to speak to you as you began to tidy up, you knew something was going on, but you never expected for him to tell you that he was falling for you and didn’t want to let you go.

D ⇴ DATES

Most of your dates included food, Kyuhyun loved to cook for you and try out new recipes with you, and you loved to learn from him too. He loved to take you to entertainment events, he often supported other SM groups at concerts, and he’d always invite you, or watch some of his colleagues in their musical theatre shows. He never really settled on movie dates or lazy dates, he loved to be able to do something, so the two of you could be seen often at the recreation centres around the city or walking along the Han River.

E ⇴ EXPERIENCE

There had never really been any time for Kyuhyun to date having joined the group at such a young age, even when he met you, he just thought you’d be good friends. But as he began to listen to his heart, he realised for the first time you were someone that he wanted more with. He was quite nervous to begin dating, he didn’t want to upset the fans by doing anything wrong, but they trusted him, and knew that if he’d taken the time to get to know you first then you must have been someone that he saw a future with.

F ⇴ FIGHTING

Kyuhyun wasn’t someone who lost his temper often, sure plenty of little things niggled at him, but he’d never make a massive deal about things. His cool head meant that arguments were rare between the two of you, he was quite good at thinking logically and weighing up a situation to decide whether it called for the two of you to start arguing. If you did argue, you’d tend to take some time apart before things blew up, and then when the two of you were calm again, you’d talk about things properly. It was a very rare occasion for that to need to happen, but sometimes using the distance helped you to understand each other better.

G ⇴ GETTING TO KNOW HIS FAMILY

You met his nephews before anyone else as the two of your babysat them one afternoon. After seeing how good of a job you did, and how much they loved you, his family loved you before they even met you. And when they did, all of their expectations were met and more, they knew you were perfect for Kyuhyun.

H ⇴ HOME

He prided himself on being at the dorm all this time, and as much as he loved you, he wasn’t quite planning on moving out just yet. You spent quite a lot of time at the dorm with him anyway, and whilst you never officially moved in, it practically became your home. When the two of you began to think about a family and settling down, maybe then would Kyuhyun think about moving out.

I ⇴ “I LOVE YOU”

Kyuhyun was the first to say I love you at the end of a show. Going back into the theatre without you working this time was strange, but as you surprised him on his opening night, it made him realise just how much you meant to him and how much he relied on you ever since the first moment he met you. As he greeted you with a hug, that was when he uttered those three words.

J ⇴ JEALOUSY

There weren’t many occasions when Kyuhyun would get jealous, he knew he was funny and popular amongst other people, so he’d never really feel threatened. If he was feeling jealous in a situation then he’d turn very quiet. When you spotted him not laughing at a joke then you’d know that something was going on, slipping your hand into his. You’d only talk to him about it when the two of you were alone, he hated admitting when he felt jealous, but you could always tell when he felt that way.

K ⇴ KIDS

Having spent the past couple of years with his nephews, Kyuhyun was quite keen to start a family of his own. He made no secret of the fact he wanted children with you, the sooner the better really for him. Knowing that he wanted children of course, made you happy too. Seeing how he treated his nephews always made you smile, allowing you to see for yourself what a great dad he’d make when the time came.

L ⇴ LAUGHTER

As a presenter and variety star of many years, Kyuhyun knew exactly how to get a laugh out of someone. Never a day went by when he didn’t make you smile, he’d always try and crack a joke, especially when you least expected it, as he loved getting a reaction out of you. It was one of the reasons you loved being around Kyuhyun, he always knew how to make you smile. At the end of a day, being able to go to the dorm and listen to him tell a joke or tease you always made everything feel so much better.

M ⇴ MISSING

He’d always pretend as if he were fine, in front of both you and the rest of the boys, but everyone could see straight past the act he put on. Knowing that he missed you always made you feel better about missing him too. Even if you tried to convince him you were fine too, he’d worry endlessly. It didn’t matter where he was, he’d always try and find at least five minutes in his day to sit down and call you, even if it did end up being at three in the morning on the other side of the world. The boys were very understanding of the fact he struggled, even if he didn’t want them to see that he was, and always promised you they’d take the best care of him.

N ⇴ NICKNAMES

You were very basic, usually you’d just call him ‘Kyu,’ as it was something he always recognised. He’d tend to call you, ‘jagi,’ it rolled off the tongue for him having been the first nickname he ever used on you.

O ⇴ OBSESSION

Kyuhyun is obsessed with your body, he just loves to cuddle you. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, he’ll always make time for a hug and enjoy being able to hold you nice and close.

P ⇴ PDA

He isn’t massive on PDA with you, he’ll tend to limit himself to just holding your hand or keeping his arm around your waist. There are few occasions when he’ll push things a little further, but as much as he likes to joke, he’s very respectable of the people around him. Whenever he kisses you in public, it always comes as a surprise.

Q ⇴ QUESTIONS

With doing a lot of streams these days, Kyuhyun will often ask you questions on behalf of the fans. His comments are often filled with things that the fans want to know about you, which you’re more than happy to answer.

R ⇴ RANDOM FACTS

Whenever he gets the chance, he’ll steal a few items of clothes from your wardrobe, replacing them with one of your own. He’ll never wear your clothes, but he loves to see you wear his clothes. He can’t help but smile whenever he watches you open up your wardrobe to see your shirt replaced with one of his. As much as you want to hate it, you love wearing his clothes and the way they fit, so you’ll usually put them on.

S ⇴ SEX

He very much likes to be the dominate one during intimate moments together. He won’t necessarily be rough with you, but he’ll like to be in control. He prides himself on knowing what you like and how you like to be treated, making sure each time is special. He’ll treat you with a lot of respect, but also will definitely make sure you’re where he wants you, don’t even try to dominate Kyuhyun, because he’ll put you back in your place.

T ⇴ TEXTS

There aren’t many occasions when he texts you, he much prefers to hear your voice through a call. Usually, texts are for when he’s letting you know he’ll be home a little later than usual or if he’s made plans for the night.

U ⇴ UNIVERSE

The best way to describe your relationship was tolerable. Everyone knows him as the evil maknae, and whilst most people ended up finding him very annoying with all his jokes, you’d always brush them aside and give back as much as he gave you.

V ⇴ VACATION

He hated how little time he got to be able to take you on holiday, so he’d usually bring the holiday to you. He loved cooking, so he enjoyed trying out different recipes from different cultures, and after decorating the dorm with a few dodgy decorations and flags, he at least hoped it could go part of the way to making you feel like you were abroad.

W ⇴ WHINING

Kyuhyun will definitely whine if he wants something, it’s not necessarily a loud noise, but a pout is very common with him.

X ⇴ XXXXX

He’ll love to kiss you when he cuddles you, he’s not someone to walk over and just kiss you and walk away, instead he’ll love to press his lips to your cheek or neck when he has you nice and close. He’s a little less affectionate than some of his other members, but he still makes sure to kiss you whenever you’re nearby so that you know that he’s thinking of you. When he comes back off tour, prepare especially for a lot of kisses.

Y ⇴ YOU

You were his best friend; he could never get enough of you.

Z ⇴ ZZZ

He loves to sleep with you nice and close, when he’s sleeping is when he’ll get most affectionate. If you so much as think about moving away from him whilst you’re resting, he’ll quickly pull you tighter and refuse to let you go.

---

Masterlist

[vislorrturlough]

Scaramouche!

"Of course, this assumption of responsibility does not mean that we are not conditioned genetically, culturally, and socially. It means that we know ourselves to be conditioned but not determined. It means recognizing that History is time filled with possibility and not inexorably determined-that the future is problematic and not already decided, fatalistically."

- Paulo Friere

For as long as Loki can remember, tapestries have lined the walls of Asgard's palace.

When Loki was a child, the Allmother sat by his bed one night and explained the significance of the tapestries that lined the walls of their home.

“The Norns weave the tapestry that assigns our roles,” she told him. “So that we may fulfill our fate and serve Midgard as we are meant to.”

The tapestries stretched across all the walls of the palace, covering vast miles of golden wall with breathtaking imagery depicting life and death and love and hate and everything in between. They pictured Loki too, who moved from boy to tragedy to a vicious and cruel man.

“So I have a role too? And Thor?” he asked. She smiled at him with fondness. The Thor on the tapestries seemed brave and strong - Loki could never imagine his brother, still a boy himself, to become that hulk of a man someday.

“Of course, Loki,” she said. “We all have roles. I am a mother, and a magician. Thor will be a great hero. Your father, a beloved and wise king. This is what is sewn into our destiny, to be enacted until Ragnarok and again after that. In a cycle, unending and unwavering.”

He yawned, obscuring the nervousness bubbling in his chest and curling the silken covers around his shoulders. He knew what the tapestries said Loki would do. He had hoped that maybe - “What’s my fate, mother?” he asked quietly.

Her smile, previously relaxed, became firm and serious. His heart was racing, thinking of that man, and of the awful cruelty that was depicted to come at his hands. “We all have a part to play, my dear. And every story has a villain for a reason.”

--

Despite common misconception, Loki Laufeyson never lived in the moment. In fact, Loki found the moment particularly difficult to pin down. Once you begin to think “Hey, I think this is the moment!” it wasn’t the moment anymore, and Loki already had four tabs open on his phone about the relativity of time and he didn’t need anymore.

Loki lived in the future, which was why he was that very moment getting his fair share of serotonin from the Schrödinger’s Night Out with Sigurd and Lorelei he was planning. 

“Sigurd definitely won’t come out if Lorelei isn’t,” he explained to Verity as he paced hurriedly around their absurdly fancy flat, which he paid for entirely and in return, Verity didn’t ask where he got all the money. “Which means I need Lorelei to agree first. One problem with that!”

“Lorelei hates you?” Verity asked, as she planted an orange tree in Stardew Valley.

“Lorelei hates me!” Loki agreed. “Which means I need to sweeten the pot.”

Verity glanced up at him suspiciously. “How are you going to do that?”

He grinned, and picked up a pen so he could start dramatically gesticulating. “Bisexual women! They’re always fascinated with me. And by the end of the evening, I’ll have established a system where I transport their attention from me to Lorelei and get her many dates. Like a Ford factory.”

She glared, turned back to her game. “You’re a walking hate crime.”

“Was that a lie, Verity?” he teased, collapsing on the couch and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She tried just barely to shrug him off. “Was it a lie when I said bi women are fascinated with me? Was it?”

Verity narrowed her eyes at him, but didn’t say anything, and in response he burst into cackles of laughter.

—

Lorelei claimed to be very insulted that Loki thought bisexual women liked him more than her, but he knew well that she knew well that she looked like the straightest girl alive and really, that was her own fault. Once Lorelei was a confirmed booking, Sigurd swiftly followed, because he’s nothing if not a simp, and thus Loki had now established the perfect evening. A pricey club, two people who could barely stand him, and himself. 

Although he never really enjoyed it. He’d never planned to.

Anticipation was a drug, really. And as previously established, the moment was very boring indeed. And this moment, Loki found himself crammed against Sigurd, who while very attractive and an owner of some very firm abs, was covered in sweat, and only slept with Loki when he was desperate anyway. Loki squinted up at him, and tried to figure out if he was desperate tonight.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Sigurd shouted over the music. 

Loki smiled at him genially, and proceeded to turn quickly around and elbow his way to the smoking area.

The initial smack of fresh onto his face was divine. He closed his eyes and smiled in satisfaction, continuing to move forward. The music was more muted out here, and the sound of voices and laughter blurred into itself until nothing was anything anymore. Peace! The lights were all different shades of pink and green, and they cast an ethereal glow over the throngs of young people with cigarettes in their hands, all here, all living now.

Loki bumped into someone.

“Shit!” he yelped, watching in horror as  her cocktail spilt down her crop top. “I’m so sorry! Oh my God!”

She’d flinched a bit during the incident itself, but the alcohol had seemingly tempered any stronger reaction than that. Lightly brushing at her (now soaked) top, she only laughed lightly and smiled at him. “No worries, dude!”

He pulled out his best prince charming grin (practiced in the mirror and finely tuned). “Please, let me at least buy you another drink.”

“I’m not going to say no to a drink!” she laughed shyly, and they traipsed inside to the bar. Sigurd seemed to have vanished, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Lorelei getting very close to the DJ, so maybe if Loki had any luck he was crying in the gents or something. Usual affair, really.

He bought them both mojitos, and they fought their way back through the crowd to return to the smoking area. “I like your necklace,” he said, because his mother had always said women liked having their jewelry complimented. Sif had later said that they didn’t, but Sif was as much a woman as Loki was a man, so her opinion didn’t count.

The girl giggled. “Thanks, it’s a crucifix.”

“Oh sorry!” Loki said. “I’m not from around here. That’s the catholic thing right?”

“Do you guys not have catholicism in Britain?”

Ugh, mentioning Asgard would dance a bit too close to the possibility of ‘Oh man, anyone ever told you you look like Thor’s evil brother?’. Loki chuckled instead and rolled his eyes. “I was pretty sheltered. It was like, a weird cult?”

“Oh wow! That’s so interesting.” She had a sympathetic sort of look on her face, and Loki quickly buried the irritation that bubbled up in his chest. The sympathy wasn’t for Loki anyway, just some fake man who grew up in a cult. Did he think Asgard was a cult? God, he was glad he didn’t have a therapist

“Yeah, I don’t really believe in it now, you know?” he lied easily, smiling at her. “It’s hard to have faith when it’s like, you never see any proof.”

She nodded understandingly. “Yeah, lots of people say that nowadays, what with superheroes and Asgard and all. I don’t know, I kind of think the fact I don’t have proof makes it more important.”

“Oh yes?” Loki asked. “What do you mean by that?”

She looked up at the lights, placed her free hand on the crook of the elbow of the hand holding her drink. For a second, Loki saw ancient and revered philosophers! He decided that they’d had it all wrong. Screw the forums, they should’ve done all their philosophising in smoking areas.

“It means something, you know?” she explained slowly. “Like, of course we believe in the ground and the sky and all. Those are right in front of us, we can’t deny that. Same with science, or aliens, or Asgardians. But believing in God requires a certain kind of faith. I’m going beyond seeing and believing. I’m just believing. God has a plan for me, and I believe in that.”

Loki nodded slowly. A fate? One set, but controlled by a benevolent creature and entirely unknown? It wasn’t true or real of course, but there was a beauty to it, that Loki, who’s path was clear and determined, appreciated. The alcohol (he and Lorelei made a habit of spiking drinks they bought on earth with Asgardian liqueur, so they’d, you know, work) was beginning to blur his awareness anyway. “That’s beautiful,” he said kindly.

She giggled, quickly touching her necklace and looking at the ground. “Haha, sorry! I study theology, it’s kind of a thing.”

“No, no!” Loki laughed, giving her a wide grin. “It was very interesting! Where do you study?”

They got into a long conversation about Sarah’s (her name, Loki found out eventually) degree, NYU dorms and a guy she hated in her seminars, before he noticed Lorelei making a beeline towards him, her hand around Sigurd’s wrist. 

“Hey,” she said, before frowning at him and glancing at Sarah. “I’m going home with a girl named Angelica. She’s goth and plays bass. So you need to take Sig home.”

“I’m literally an ancient hero. Of legend,” Sigurd interjected.

Lorelei turned and glared at him instead. “Well, you need to take Loki home.”

“Oh well, come on then Sig!” Loki said loudly, ignoring his scowl. “Thank you for such a lovely conversation, Sarah darling. Have a nice night!”

“Thanks Luke!” she laughed, not being not obvious about checking Sigurd out. Oh God, she probably thought he was dating Loki. Yuck, how mortifying. “See you around!”

“Go get a taxi,” Lorelei told him, before wandering off to a girl with a septum piercing and docs, which Loki considered quite basic, especially for Lorelei.

They didn’t get a taxi. They walked five minutes until Loki ducked around a corner, ignored Sigurd saying “Aren’t we getting a taxi?” and grabbed his arm before dragging him through the spaces in between the universe and dropping him on the bean bag in his living room. A solitary pringles can rolled quietly and hit Loki’s foot.

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” Loki muttered, kicking it away.

“I hate you,” Sigurd growled, pinching his nose and clearly trying not to throw up. Loki didn’t know why, it wouldn’t be any major downgrade from how the room was currently. “And I hate that. You’re such a fucking prick Loki.” 

Time to make his exit before Sigurd regained enough strength to cause him bodily harm. “Bye honey!” he trilled, and Sigurd’s growl was cut off as he made his way to his own apartment. He didn’t wake up Verity, she had work tomorrow, so he just kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed, surrendering to unconsciousness.

--

Verity and Loki had moved in together for two reasons. 

1) Loki spent most of his time at Verity’s. He had a separate shelf in her fridge for his energy drinks and his salsa, and a special place at the bottom of her spice cupboard for his snacks. He told Verity she had full ownership over all the snacks and could have them when he’d left, but she never did. Instead she got the little clip things she used and pinched the bags closed carefully, putting them to the side for the next time he came over. It was thoughtful, and Loki didn’t know what to do with it, so he never mentioned it. He got bored quite easily anyway, and most of his ‘friends’ had a very limited tolerance of him, so most days he found himself on Verity’s couch, playing Uno and eating Oreos.

2) Verity’s flat was bad and small and Loki’s was perfect and expensive, and if he spent all his time with Verity, they may as well hang out in his sketchily acquired penthouse. Plus, paying her rent made him feel useful. It was like a payment for all the little clips on his packets of Doritos.

He didn’t regret it. Except he thought that perhaps he might be as close as he could get to regretting it as he lay in bed listening to her pounding viciously at his door. 

“Are you alive?” she yelled through the mahogany. He groaned just loudly enough to be heard, and she banged one more time for good measure before her footsteps quickly petered off towards the kitchen.

He sighed in frustration, rolling off his bed with just enough basic athletic ability to land on his feet. His vision blacked out for just a second, and his head very much rejected the idea of being on his feet. Had he shifted through space while drunk? That was so dangerous. He should have gotten like, a driving ticket. A magic driving ticket.

He stumbled into the kitchen and stared blearily at Verity. “What are you cooking?” he mumbled.

“Eggs,” she replied without turning. “Want some?”

“Hmm.” He stares at the clock. One in the afternoon? That wasn’t too bad. Verity must have just gotten in from work though, which made him feel bad. Oh, how he missed the days when he had no shame and also no friends. “No thanks, I don’t want to throw up.”

“I thought alcohol didn’t affect you?”

“Human alcohol doesn’t.” He sat down on one of the tall swivel chairs at their counter and spun around. Ow, oh fuck, that wasn’t a good idea. He grimaced and placed his pounding head in his hands. “Lorelei and I spiked our drinks with something we got from Asgard.”

“Huh.” Verity sat opposite him, eggs piled onto the plate she set down in front of her. She’d cooked the yokes, the heathen. “Did you have a good time?”

Loki stared at her. “I feel like I’m being interrogated by my mother.”

“Oh honey,” she teased, grinning through a mouthful of eggs. “Oh sweetie. Wear protection!”

Loki dramatically re-enacted retching, and she choked on her eggs. A just punishment for her crimes, he thought.

“Ew,” he moaned. “I had to see Sigurd’s flat last night. It was disgusting.”

“I wasn’t being serious?” she stared at him. “I didn’t know you actually slept with-”

“Ew, ew, no,” he interrupted. “I was just detailing how he’s far too disgusting to ever consider as a sexual object. I would probably sleep with Lorelei though.”

“As if she’d sleep with you.”

“I’m forever alone!” he cried “Like the meme!”

“If you think referencing memes from 2008 is going to help you get laid-” she got up, pulled the dishwasher open and put her plate in without washing it off. Awful dishwasher etiquette, and Loki was from a place where they washed dishes with magic, so she had no excuse. “-then I think you might be beyond help.”

“I’m waiting for the right person,” he mumbled, squinting in the light streaming in from their egregiously large windows. “Like America. I ship America and myself.”

“America’s a lesbian,” Verity said.

“I’m a woman sometimes!” He got up and opened the fridge. “It’d be perfectly possible if she could tolerate me.”

“Which she can’t.”

“Yeah,” Loki said in faux-disappointment. “Ergo, forever alone, I’m mister lonely, involuntarily celibate, and sent to the friendzone.”

He shut the fridge, no bacon in sight, and stared at the front of it trying to consider his next move. He could head down to the store, but also he couldn’t, because he couldn’t imagine bringing himself to put on something other than the shorts he was currently in that said ‘BAD WITCH’ in bright green, metallic lettering on the back (a gift from Kate) and also he was pretty certain a drink had been poured on him the night before, judging by the smell of lager and the way his fringe had congealed into a hard point overnight. He wasn’t in any fit state to walk down the street. He had standards to maintain.

Yes, he was an illusionist, but he was a hungover illusionist with a headache, thus he opened up DoorDash and ordered McDonald’s. 

“Vee?” he called down the hall. “Do you want anything from McDonald’s?” 

“Ew,” she called back. “No.”

He placed his order and looked back up at the fridge. They had a shared calendar printed out on that kind of slippy photo paper so they could use whiteboard markers on it and make sure to not double book having people over. Last time it had happened, Verity’s cousin had to top-and-tail with Thor on the couch, which was a weird experience for everyone, but mostly for Daniel. Currently, the calendar was pretty sparse, since it was early April, but Verity had written something in for Sunday. ‘Easter - Mom’s House’.

He stared at it, confused. He didn’t turn when he heard Verity’s feet pattering back into the kitchen. “Hey, I didn’t know you were religious.”

“Huh?” Verity had flopped onto the couch and was fiddling with the remote control, probably trying to turn on Dr Phil. “Not really, what do you mean?”

“You’re going to your Mum’s for Easter?”

“Oh I guess.” The Judge Judy theme song streamed from the TV. Loki stood corrected. “I don’t believe in it or anything. It’s just tradition.”

“Huh.” He glanced out onto the street. It was lively. They were in pretty central Manhattan, and usually when you looked onto the road it was hard to see a part of the path that wasn’t covered in black throngs of city goers. He sometimes wondered where they were going, had they plans, or were they just wandering, aimless and free? Loki had always thought it would be night to wander off and see where his feet would take him if he didn’t walk with direction or intention. “Had an interesting conversation last night.”

“Yeah?” Verity responded mindlessly, staring at the TV. 

“About religion. With a girl in the smoking area.”

“Dude.” Verity leaned over, effortlessly butch. “Conversations about religion in a smoking area? I’m putting my foot down. Either you download Grindr or find a therapist.”

“Both of those options are severely limited by the fact that I am a divine being and a world renowned criminal,” he replied. “Do you think guys on Grindr are into my evil vibes, actually?”

“Guys on Grindr are definitely into your evil vibes.”

“Thanks Verity,” he said, turning and heading towards the door. “You always have my back. Maybe I’ll find a bae after all.”

He grinned at her sounds of indignation and headed to his room to sleep his headache away.

--

Loki had always been rather a superior child. He had no need for childish matters of ‘bravery’ and ‘heroics’, instead favouring his intellect and insight. His mother said he was a bright young man, thank you. So he cared little about Thor informing him he was too small and weak to spar with him and his friends. However, he had in return let Thor know that he would be instead spending some time with his very close friends, who Thor did not have an acquaintance with and who thought Loki was very cool and interesting indeed. Thus, appearances had to be upheld.

He peered around the corner of the great, awning entrance to the Bifröst control room. Lord Heimdall had his back turned, but Loki was not a fool. A child, but not a fool.

“Your Highness,” the Watcher called out, turning to face him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inched forward, the tips of his fingers trailing the chilly gold-plated walls of the gate. “I was bored,” he lied.

“Very well.” Heimdall set down the Key and sat heavily down onto its platform. “Would you be able to keep me company during my break?”

Loki lifted his chin, glanced around himself and headed to sit beside him. “I suppose I can grace you with my presence, for some time at least.”

“Have you a full schedule, your Highness?”

Anger and indignation built in his chest. Loki whipped around and scowled at him. “I’m very busy.”

Heimdall’s playful expression sunk with practiced ease into something serious. “My apologies. Of course you are, my prince.”

Loki crossed his arms. He knew that Lord Heimdall knew all his business, all of everyone’s business, but it struck him like a spear to his chest to have been mocked over his… lack of desirability. How dare he? Loki may be a boy, but he was his prince. It was not Heimdall’s place to mock him. 

He struggled to think of something dignified to reply, and the pressure of the silence between them built into a garotte that tightened around his neck. He daren’t look at Heimdall, imagining a mocking grin staring down at him. It was unlikely, and would be utterly out of place on the man’s face, but Loki would rather avoid the possibility altogether.

“How is your brother, your Highness?” Heimdall said to break the silence.

In a fit of rage, Loki slammed his palm against the platform. His eyes watered with the pain of it. “Why does everyone only care about what Thor is doing? How Thor is? I am not a vessel through which people may be updated about my brother’s status!”

In his anger he’d turned to glare at Heimdall, and was horrified to find the man’s face transformed by pity. Loki scowled in disgust, and stared at the wall in the opposite direction.

“I did not mean to imply anything as such, your Highness,” Heimdall explained carefully. “I merely asked out of having nothing else very interesting to say. Perhaps I should have asked how you are?”

Loki hesitated, glanced back up. “I’m well,” he mumbled shortly.

“That’s good to hear,” Heimdall replied, staring ahead, out the gates and down the Bifröst. Loki wondered if he saw that which lay in front of him with more clarity, or if what his tangible eyes caught was nothing different to everything else he saw. “Is there anything in particular you would like to speak about?”

Loki was silent for a moment. A topic had been weighing on his mind, one he hesitated to bring to his mother. A heavy topic indeed. “Heimdall?” he asked. “Why am I destined to be a monster?”

It had been a burden to bear, acknowledging what was written upon the tapestries spun deep in Nornheim. When mother had first told him of his destiny years ago, it had seemed like a childhood game, but everyday the gravity of his situation held him just a little firmer to the ground. All has its place, his mother had told him, and your place is important. It is against you that others will shine.

It coloured everything he did, and how others treated him. Thor still loved him as a brother, but everyday his pride in his own journey grew and Loki could only stand and watch as he looked on his brother with a little more suspicion, held him at a slightly further distance. Loki’s cruelty had been encouraged, not in a direct way, but in the ways in which his parents and carers were cruel towards him. Like a knife being sharpened. 

Heimdall did not move. “Everything has its duty. Our world is not much but an elaborate play, and we act according to our roles so that the other realms may live in our image.”

“But why me?” Loki pressed. “Why can’t I be the hero?”

Neither mentioned what lay between them. A man and a child and a destiny for two corpses, having slain one another, to lie in the middle of their world as it burned.

“I’m sorry, my prince,” Heimdall said quietly. “Perhaps take some relief in the fact that you needn’t worry over who you will be. The Midgardians in particular struggle with virtue.”

“Really?” Loki muttered, head in his hands. “Isn’t it very freeing for them?”

“Not as such,” he replied. “In return for their agency, they are burdened with the duty to be ever kind and charitable to one another, or be damned for their failure to do so. It's simpler for us. Our fate is predetermined, and while you may be the villain, you are doing your duty as such and can rest easy knowing that it is a moral and just thing for you to be.”

Loki was silent for a second, staring morosely ahead. “But I don’t want to be the villain.”

“I’m sorry, Prince Loki,” Heimdall replied, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But the tapestries have already been spun.”

--

The Allmothers, in their omnipowetful ability to be incredibly annoying, always called him when he was in the middle of doing things. In this case, a lovely girl named Amelia who had told him he looked like Timotheé Chalamet.

She screamed, causing Loki to whip around with a curse only to find Gaia staring at him through his mirror, disgust on her face and her right eye covered by Loki’s Blondie postcard that Verity had bought him from some emo shop.

Gritting his teeth, he looked down at Amelia, who seemed to be sinking into some form of shock. “Oh man,” he said. “I’m so fucking sorry. Uh, I kind of have to take this. Another time maybe?”

She looked up at him in speechless horror before turning quickly and climbing out from under him. Before he could even look up at her he heard the slam of the door. He glanced up. Huh, at least she’d taken her shirt with her. Loki was a feminist after all.

With a sigh, he turned to face Gaia. “My Lady!” He greeted with gritted teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She held his gaze for a few awkward seconds.

“Okay,” he said. “I would say, if anything it’s your fault that you decided to just turn up in my mirror without any prior warning. Really? You can’t expect me to be celibate. I’m Loki.”

She graced him with a performatively regal sigh and a significantly less regal eye roll. “The Allmothers have a task for you to complete, Loki.”

“Don’t you always?” He grumbled, pulling a hoodie on to cover up some of his nudity. Amelia may have only lost a shirt, but Loki was already down to his boxers. He was a feminist, after all.

“There is a great treasure in the belonging of one of our own, one who dwells in the realm of Midgard.”

“In English?” 

The Allmother paused. Her eyebrows furrowed. “Your first language is the tongue of Jötunheim.”

“It’s just a-, it’s just a phrase, okay? Anyway, can you get to the crux of it? I was busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

He threw his arms out dramatically, making sure his irritation was painted clear on his face. “Thanks for that, by the way!”

“We would like-,” she continued, gathering her composure. “-for you to retrieve the ancient sword, Gram. It’s power is too great for us to allow it to remain out of our grasp. We have waited too long already, and time is of the essence.”

“Gram?” Loki asked. “You mean Sigurd’s sword?”

“The legendary sword Gram does indeed lie in the hands of the hero Sigurd-”

“But Sig loves his sword,” he interrupted. “He’s going to hate me if I take it for you. That’s narc behaviour.”

“This is your duty, Prince Loki, to your people,” Gaia said sternly. “You are, and have always been, a narc.”

“Hey, fuck you-”

She was gone in the next second, and Loki was left staring at his face in the mirror, and the way the skin underneath his eyes was grey and sunken, which made his eyes pop in a sort of consumption-chic. He looked a bit like Maleficent, he thought in an attempt to distract himself from the dread of the task that now lay before him and the inevitable broken friendship (he didn’t have many to break left).

But without all the milf energy. Loki didn’t have any milf energy, which was probably the source of most of his problems

--

Often, Loki found the easiest way to avoid all of his issues was to pretend he was a funny, quirky little guy living a funny, quirky little life. Oh Loki, he’s the token evil teammate, the funny comic relief in stories about other people, relegated to side character (but hot enough that all the fan art and fic was going to centre him). This allowed him to get away with his faults, which were many and numerous, by playing them off as the work of that darned scamp, Loki. This situation however, was one that worried Loki, as Sigurd was nothing if he wasn’t two things; 1) absolutely unenamoured by Loki and everything Loki had going for himself, and 2) in love with that fucking sword.

Loki sat down cross-legged on his bed and contemplated the choices he could make here. He could take the sword, and try to manipulate the situation to make Sigurd look like he was overreacting. Take the sword to the flat and mess around while he showed it to Verity. But, he knew, Verity wouldn’t play along, because her moral compass was ever on the straight and narrow and anyway, she’d know he was lying. 

Lorelei would side with Sigurd over him, because she didn’t trust the Asgardian establishment and they all knew that the tentative little bit of control that let them languish in something resembling a real life on Midgard rested on Sigurd having enough power that Asgardia would rather leave him alone than bother. Losing Gram would put that in jeopardy, and Lorelei wouldn’t trade a shoelace for Loki, nevermind her happy ending. He knew well enough that this theft would be unjust, would put all of the power into the hands of the already powerful. He knew this, and he knew that Sig and Lorelei? Wouldn’t hurt a fly, really. For all the three of them pretended to hate each other, Loki knew they were good people, and they just wanted to live their lives in peace.

He could simply refuse. Not take the sword, let the Allmothers deal with it some other way. He could say it was above his pay grade, which it was.

Except, he couldn’t. Not really. He had duties that Sigurd and Lorelei couldn’t possibly understand. That idea couldn’t push its way forward from the back of his mind, as if constrained by something, writhing back and forth to break free. Or was it? Or was that an excuse, a claim to someone that he was trying, still, to do the right thing, and that it wasn’t his fault when he failed to.

He sighed, and stood up. His wardrobe was a mess, but it was an organised mess, and anyway it was a bright, sunny day outside and he could find his dragon scale armour easily from the way it glinted in the light at the back of his slogan t-shirts. 

--

Sig had moved all the dirty washing from his desk chair. Loki didn’t have high hopes that it was for any reason other than playing PC games though. Sig was really into, like, Call of Duty and Halo. Were they PC? Loki didn’t know. He preferred superior gaming experiences, like Professor Layton.

Lo and behold, Loki found the mysteriously disappeared dirty clothing on Sig’s couch. For a guy whose feats and adventures were written down in legend, he really had some drab taste in furnishings.

Loki moved silently through the flat, letting just a little bit of his seidr seep into his steps to cushion the noise. He didn’t turn on any lights, instead relying on a little bit of patience to let his eyes adjust to the dark. His Jotunn heritage, dare he say it, came in handy at times like this due to the Jotnär having pretty decent night vision. This was in order to do crimes and eat children, his nursemaid had informed him when he was small. Well, Loki was doing crimes, but the jury was out on the eating children bit.

Loki was an expert catburglar, tales of his stealthiness were scribbled on the walls of ancient Midgardian caves, the remnants of long extinct societies, all of which he had outlived. Thus, he cleverly noticed the Guitar Hero™ plastic guitar and stepped over it.

Loki knew one thing about Sigurd. He was paranoid. Thus, Loki had a suspicion about where he would put Gram, and if he was correct he knew this job wouldn’t be easy.

He eased open the bedroom door, and watched as the hero of the stories he had been told as a babe snored while laying on his front. Huh, great ass.

Loki mentally smacked himself. Bad!

His attention was then quickly snatched by the gleaming sword that lay against the left bedpost. Ding ding, we have a winner! Sigurd both expected his sword to be stolen and expected to have to fight off home invaders, and so he kept his greatest asset (other than his ass) right next to him in his most vulnerable times. Loki was his worst nightmare, well usually, but even more so at this moment.

He crept forward, stepping carefully over strewn clothes. Wait, was that Lorelei’s blouse? Ugh, he didn’t want to think about that. He’d much rather they remain entirely celibate in his mind.

Loki crept closer, and reached out to grasp the hilt of the sword silently.

“...What the fuck? Loki?”

He should have run, probably. Teleported, gone invisible, maybe should have even jumped through the window. That might have thrown Sigurd off the scent right? Prince Loki, God of Trickery and Harbinger of Ragnarök wouldn’t have just leapt through a window. Well, the window was seventeen floors up actually, so maybe a regular burglar wouldn’t have either.

Anyway, what happened was he stood stock still, unable to move a muscle or turn to face Sigurd, as if he were labouring under the delusion that Sigurd was a creature that tracked prey by movement. He looked like something out of Looney Tunes, which wasn’t fantastic for his dignity.

“Loki,” Sigurd snapped again.

He turned, and winced at the look of outrage on his friend’s face. Sigurd was sat up on his elbow, his other arm on his comforter. He looked like he was ready to attack someone. Loki was pretty sure he hadn’t expected it to be - well, Loki.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he said. “Were you stealing Gram? Why? For who?”

Ouch, that hurt. He may have been stealing it for someone else, but it was a bit upsetting that Sigurd had immediately disregarded the idea he was working in his own interest.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. “The Allmothers send their regards,” he finally admitted drily.

If anything, Sigurd’s outrage grew. “How- How could you?”

A bit dramatic, Loki thought. Sigurd leapt out of his bed, and Loki didn’t have the chance to step back before his shoulders were in Sigurd’s bruising grip and his back pushed hard against the wall. “You know what this means,” Sigurd said, his disgust evident. “You aren’t stupid, Loki. You know what you’re doing.”

Oh, that was it, wasn’t it? Loki wasn’t evil because he did evil things. He was evil because he knew they were wrong before he did them, and he did them anyway.

“I have to,” he mumbled weakly. Was that a lie? Verity would know. “I have no choice.”

“Yes you do,” Sigurd said, releasing his grip and stepping back, “Yes you do, you’re just too much of a coward to admit it. You’re so desperate to play happy families. I can see it in you, and so can Lorelei. All you want is to be useful to people, even if it’s for the Allmothers, who treat you like shit. You do their fucking dirty work and they kick you around and you love it, because you get to be part of their rotten little story.”

Loki stared at him, suddenly feeling utterly, entirely tired beyond belief. Sigurd could not tell him anything that he did not tell himself.

“You’re a coward. You’re a fucking coward who does everything the Allmothers ask of you. One moment you sneer at them up there, in Asgard, and pretend that you and me and Lorelei are all in the same boat, but the next moment you bare your neck to them. One day they’re going to ask you to hurt someone you really care about, and you know what? You’ll do it. They’ll ask you to hurt Thor, or Verity, and you’ll do it without a second thought because you’re a coward, Loki, and you always will be.”

His breath caught in his throat. “I wouldn’t hurt Verity.”

“Yes, you would. If someone put it on a tapestry you’d do it in a fucking heartbeat.”

“I see, well,” he paused, looked to his right to avoid Sigurd’s gaze. “I’ll let you get back to sleep I suppose.”

Sigurd reached out to grab him, but he was gone before he had a chance.

—

Received FRI 2:08

Verity: hey u coming back tonight or what

Verity: im assuming ur working

Verity: if u are there’s leftover pasta bake in the fridge. Ik you hate leftovers but its on offer. Im off to bed, night!

Received FRI 11:02

Verity: hey called lorelei to check in on you and she says you and sig aren’t talking. She didnt seem thrilled w you either. U ok? 

Verity: call me if you get the chance ok

Received MON 15:47

Verity: yh ok this is cringe but please call. Im worried

Verity: you usually lmk when youre gone this long and sig was being suspicious

Verity: i asked him if hed seen you and he like laughed

Verity: idk maybe hed be more concerned if something had happened but u guys dont exactly have a normal expectation for health and safety in the workplace

Received WED 23:21

Verity: please call i’m worried

Verity: please

Received THU 18:54

Verity: you’re a fucking idiot

Verity: I hate you

Received THU 19:02

Verity: i didn’t mean that

Verity: sorry.

Verity: please do call. please

--

Verity wasn’t the only one texting him, which would have done wonders for his ego if it had been anywhere near still intact, but she was the only one who’s texts he kept re reading, scanning them obsessively and trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

The thing that nagged him though, was how would he know what the right thing was?

All his life, the right thing was whatever was in stride with where he was determined to end up. The path had been laid out for him - all he had to do was walk it. But, though the Norns had written out his beginning, his end, his great misdeeds and stories, they hadn’t written about things like whether he should get KFC or not, whether he’d be good at Mario Party or what dog breed was his favourite (alsatian). They had never had the name Verity Lewis brush their lips.

Because this world was untethered. It simply wasn’t important enough for the Norns to have seen. Did that mean that they were free, here? Was that bad or good? To Loki, who despite everything had spent an eternity comfortable in the knowledge that he knew what would happen, and that the future was clear to him as long as he could stand in the halls he’d grown up in and stare at the tapestries on the walls, the idea of absolute undetermined fate was deeply terrifying. It caught in his throat, wrapped around his heart, squeezed the warmth out of his chest. 

But Sigurd was right, and so he had a decision to make.

There were people walking around under him, where he sat perched on the roof of a Soviet era apartment building in Brno. They didn’t know what would happen to them, how many kids they’d have, whether they’d marry or how they’d die. They didn’t know any of that, and that meant they could decide.

Huh.

--

He stumbled when he flashed in, and his hand reached out steady himself against the wall. The lights were off, but after a couple of seconds he heard a slight clutter from Verity’s room. Taking a deep breath he made his way to the kitchen and sat down at the bar. He didn’t bother to switch the light on, instead just collapsed into the chair and placed his head in his hands.

The lights switched on. “Loki?”

He peeked at her from between his fingers. Verity stared at him as if she couldn’t quite decide whether to be angry or happy. She was squinting (she wasn’t wearing glasses - she must have been asleep). He must have looked suitably miserable because instead of launching into a tirade she narrowed her eyes and slowly moved to sit opposite him, as if trying to tame some vicious creature. Apt, perhaps.

Their silence hung very heavily. “I’m sorry,” Loki eventually said, mortified to hear a crack in his voice from disuse.

She watched him carefully. “I forgive you,” she replied. Not ‘it’s okay’, because Verity found lying, even unconsciously, very difficult. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

By ‘can’, Loki knew that Verity was asking as if this was something related to his work for the Allmothers, but he found that even though this wasn’t any secret mission detail he was forbidden from sharing, he still found it hard to describe.

“I mean,” he muttered, breaking away from her stare. “Where would you like me to start?”

“Wherever you want to?”

He swallowed. “I had to steal something from Sigurd. Gram-” She opened her mouth and he jerked his shoulders defensively. “Please let me just explain. The Allmothers asked me too. I knew that if I did it it would put Sig and Lorelei’s relative safety at a significant risk. But,” he paused, bit his lip, horrified by the lump in his throat. “Even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do, and that all of you, all of my friends, would think less of me because of it, I had to do it. I had to do it because if I don’t do things that are wrong, that are bad, I am not filling the role that I am set out to fill, that I have always been set out to fill.

“There are tapestries, in Asgard,” he explained, a wobble entering his tone. “They’ve been there since before me, before my parents, before anyone. They were woven by the Norns, who see all of the past, the present and the future. They were woven so that we, who will be images of all the people of the Nine Realms and who will serve as a reflection of their large and varied communion, could know where we fit and what roles we are to play. And I’m a villain, Verity. I am the bad guy, because someone has got to be. There are people who actively choose to be bad and evil and selfish all over the shop, and someone has to represent them in the grand scheme of things. And, mainly, I have to keep everyone’s hands clean by making mine dirty.”

Her hands reached steadily out, grabbed one of his and held it between them. They were tears threatening to fall now, and they choked up his voice.

“So I do what the Allmothers ask me to, and I antagonise Thor, and I play my part as the bad guy of the story so that one day that story may be told to children as they are tucked into bed, so that they know that immorality causes you nothing but strife. I am supposed to have that strife, and through this my immorality is good and right, because I am an example.”

He paused. “Sigurd said I would hurt you, if they asked me to.”

“Would you?” she asked.

A second passed. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d rather not risk it, but I thought you at least deserved an explanation for my sudden disappearance.”

She leaned back then, stared out their windows and onto the road beneath them, still busy despite the hour. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Dare I ask?” he chuckled wetly.

Her voice was firm. “I think that’s bullshit. I know you’re telling the truth, that you might hurt me if your Moms asked you. But I think you don’t know that that’s not true, which is why it’s registering as right to me.”

He squinted at her in confusion.

“You believe it,” she explained. “Which is why it’s registering as true to me. But that doesn’t mean you would, it just means you don’t think you’re a good person, and that’s not news.

“You see yourself as some kind of cut-out character with one trait, a yin to Thor’s yang or some shit, but you only think that’s all real because people have told you it is. Who’s to say those tapestries are anything? I think that you - all of you Asgardians - are terrified of being unmoored, so you make up shit like this so that you don’t have to grapple with morality.”

He tried to interrupt, but Verity continued. “You’re all terrified of life, so you pretend it’s one big play you’re putting on for our benefit, with roles and lines so that you needn’t make ‘em up. But you know what? Why don’t you just try? Try to improvise. Break away from it all. Maybe those tapestries do mean something, but maybe they just come true because you all keep doing what they say.

“You’re not the bad guy in a play, Loki,” she told him, her voice full of emotion and her hand rubbing his. It was just enough to keep him tethered to reality, he thought. “You’re my friend. You’re funny, and flippant. You don’t like to talk about your emotions. You don’t have great self-esteem and you kick ass at Jenga. You’re playing a part, but you know the thing about actors? They have lives when they get off the stage, and you could too.”

--

His boots echoed across the ground as he climbed the short hill to his destination. It was dust, not dirt, that he trod on, and the air was stale and cloyed in his lungs. It was the kind of air that felt like it didn’t blow, but just hung in the air for eternity, older than you by indescribable amounts.

No one went here. It was unplottable by some working laid down long before even the beginning of Asgardian history. It had taken Loki four days to crack, because 1) he’d spent all of his non-eating, non-sleeping time in the last couple of days focused on it, 2) he’d already made a groundwork as a teenager before his mother had told him off for meddling in things he shouldn’t have been and 3) he was pretty fucking good. Really, the only reason he hadn’t touched it before was because as he became a man, he grew to respect the Norns. Things had changed.

“Hello!” he called, not surprised to find the three women staring at him, likely well aware of his arrival for at least eternity, or something.

“Liesmith,” Lady Verdandi spoke in a low, powerful voice. “You have come to rattle the chains that you feel resting upon your shoulders.”

“Yep,” he responded, popping the ‘p’.

“These chains,” Skuld said in a tight voice. “Are imaginary.”

“No actually,” he said, beginning to pace around the room. “You see, I don’t really care if they’re ‘imaginary’ or whatever. I actually am just here to let you know that I’m just going to be kind of doing my own thing from now on.”

“Your ‘own thing’?” Urd sneered. “ You do not have your ‘own thing’. The fate we have laid out for you is everything you are.”

“Everything I am is just a mask.  A mask that you put on me!”

“Oh? That implies something on which a mask can be put. Is there anything under your mask, Loki? Do you even know?”

“Well, I guess I’m going to find out,” he ground out. They were sat down, staring up at him, and he felt unnervingly like he was still a child who had been summoned to his father’s study to receive an admonishment for troublemaking.

“You will find out,” Verdandi explained calmly. “That you are mistaken, and that you will play your part in the fate that will become and will end and will begin again, whether you try to fight against it or not.”

“So that’s it then?” Loki said softly, although his voice still echoed across the ancient walls that enclosed him. “There’s no path to grace for me. I’m your villainous fool, cast in this grand play so that your heroes may show their virtue in my vanquishment. I’m good when I’m bad, and I’m bad when I’m good.”

He paused, and stared her down.

“Well, I’m afraid I’d rather be bad on my own terms, actually.”

Verdandi had opened her mouth to say something else, probably something even more patronising, but before she had the chance Loki had stepped between reality and left Nornheim and its frigid, stale air behind him.

--

“Saw you coming,” the Watcher said when Loki stepped out in front of him. 

Loki smiled. “Naturally,”

Heimdall sat tiredly on the Bifröst’s lock. Loki noticed with a sort of jolt that Heimdall was getting old. Maybe they all were. “What is it you would like from me, my prince?” 

“Oh nothing really,” he answered. “I just thought I should let someone know that I will be unable to complete the most recent mission that the Allmothers have given me. In fact, perhaps you could let them know that I’m putting in my two week’s notice, so to speak? Although I’m not really giving them any notice, let alone two weeks.”

“Oh? Might I ask what has brought this on, your highness?”

Loki crossed his arms. “I’m trying this new thing called ‘making your own destiny’. All the cool kids are doing it.”

Heimdall nodded. He wouldn’t have been able to have viewed Loki’s conversation with the Norns, but he would have seen what Verity had said. “I wish you luck, dear child,” he said softly.

Loki’s smile turned quiet and genuine for just a moment, before he turned away and took a few steps. Wait! He had something else to mention.

He looked back at Heimdall.

“By the way, maybe I am going to kill you someday,” he said. “”But I promise that I’m going to try my damndest not to.”

With that, he stepped back into New York, and headed towards Dominoes to pick up their pizza. They were doing movie night, he and Verity. They were going to watch Legally Blonde. Loki thought about - What was her name? Susie? Sarah? He thought maybe she was right, in the end. Maybe it was a gift to believe in what can’t be seen, and thus a gift to follow darkened paths. But the path that brought him home felt warm and reliable, just like it always did.

[remmushound]

Curse of the Clan part 34! @scentedcandlecryptid @hoshisoul

Trigger warning!! PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR! Food horror, vomiting, bugs, blood, suicidal thoughts, gore,

He couldn't take much more of it. Any time he’d close his eyes, his dreams were haunted with nightmare images of snakes and vines reaching out at him with sharp hooks and fangs. He would be running while an invisible force forced him back the other way toward an endless drop, and he would fall, but he would always wake before he hit the ground. If there even was a ground.

Every time he would drink, the once clean water would turn to sludge in his mouth. Thick, suffocating, and bitter— impossible to swallow. He’d have to spit it out, and when he did, he’d find it normal and clear. He had water— he had so much water! But he couldn’t drink. He was so thirsty…

Donatello brought an apple to his mouth and bit it. It tasted okay. It tasted… well— like an apple. The juices relieved the dryness of his throat and for a minute he’d thought he’d actually be able to eat! Then he made the mistake of looking to the fruit. Decay seemed to spread throughout the treat, making it brown and practically melt in Donatello’s hand. He could feel the apple fall apart! He could feel the sensation of writhing, living maggots eating the thing! He gagged and coughed, spitting out his mouthful and tossing the apple as far away as he could. The moment it collided with a tree, the apple was normal, if a little bruised.

The evil laughed.

Was it the next day? Or had several days passed? Donatello knew there was light, but he also knew that he could never trust the light. That it might turn off again at a moment’s notice, leaving him in blackness that swallowed the moon and stars. He was so hungry he had to risk it. It was just a banana, surely he could eat a banana? His hand shook violently as he picked up the fruit and started to peel it. One peel, two peels, and the banana held firm. The third peel, and it turned black, falling to dust in his hand. Donatello sucked in a breath and gave a soft whimper. Then the banana was back again, whole and untouched.

He swallowed his fear and brought the fruit to his mouth to take a bite of it. It tasted okay, at first. But then it started to move, and when he opened his mouth, out came what must have been hundreds of flies. A whole swarm of them! What remained of the banana followed the same pattern. Donatello vomited.

The evil laughed.

It was dark again. Donatello held his bo staff tightly to his chest, so tightly it hurt. But he didn't care. It helped even if he had yet to figure out what its power was yet. He didn't risk going far from the camp; just far enough where hopefully the evil couldn’t watch him as he relieved himself.

There was a great boom. Donatello fell back, hugging his mystic bo tightly and giving a choked whine. The auditory horror had happened so often he wondered how he wasn’t used to it by now. Sounds like grenades exploding or a jet plane flying overhead or an air horn sounding—women screaming in the woods, the yell of wild animals, the roar of fire! Fire? That one was new—and it was eating his campground fast! It had already eaten away at his tent and was spreading to the rest of the campground.

Donatello scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bucket of melted snow and tossing it over the fire! Then the fire was gone. No burns, no embers, no ash. Just a drenched tent destroyed by the water damage.

The evil laughed.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t have been right! This nightmare had to end soon— it had to have been two weeks already, right? If not longer! They should have been here by now! His brothers, Bishop! To take him away from this hellhole that was eating away at his very mind! From that laughter that plagued him night and day without end! He wanted it to stop!

Donatello looked at his weapon. More specifically, he looked at the bladed part. He brought a finger to touch the very tip. It was sharp. Sharp enough to prick his finger and bring forth the tiniest speck of blood. Then he looked down at his wrists and screamed as a waterfall of blood pooled from them! He hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t, he would never— he didn't! The blood was gone in between blinks, and the wounds gone too. And the evil laughed.

“Your brothers have forgotten you.” The voice taunted, and it was inside Donatello head. Donatello tried to force it out, hitting himself in the head until his mind spun, but the voice remained. “You’re been here for years, and you are never leaving.”

No. No, that wasn’t true! His brothers would come for him, his brothers would never forget about him. They would come, they could come, they would come…

“The...r...rift is… s-still… closed.” Donatello managed to stutter out, his voice weak from lack of use and terrified, “S….so y-ou’re still trapped…”

“How do you know?” The evil purred, “After the things you’ve seen, how do you know that this isn’t just another illusion…?”

“I-it’s not…” Donatello gasped. “It’s not…”

“How sure of it are you?”

Donatello couldn’t answer, and the evil laughed.

Another day of torture passed like a month. He felt filthy, and he wanted to wash himself. The trails changed day to day, and this was one of the lucky days that he was allowed to go down to the river. He dipped a washcloth into the water and started to use it to dab the grime off of his skin, and then quickly dried it with another cloth so the water wouldn’t freeze. At first, the water was cold, but cleansing. Then, after the third gentle swipe of the wet cloth, it all changed.

The swipe of the cloth started to slough off Donatello’s skin. He couldn’t feel it, but he could see it. Skin and fat and muscles being scrapped off of him and leaving him bare to the bone. He screamed and tossed the rag, not thinking before he used his hand to try and wipe off the remaining water. Where his hand touched, even more of him came off. The flesh on his hand— on his arm!

Donatello collapsed on the bank, hugging his plastron as it also fell apart with his touch. He was never a religious creature, but in that moment, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for this hell to end because he just wanted to go home.

“Why are you sad?”

Donatello opened his eyes. He looked down at himself, and the flesh was repaired. Then he looked up. His eyes met with a golden kirin staring down at him, slitted golden eyes soft with pity. The yokai looked like a centaur might, except his backside was more deer than horse, and more impossible shades of color. His tail was like a lion, long and tipped in a dark red prickle; fur of a similar shade, much longer than the gold of his pelt, was detailed over his elbow joins and his tail. His back was covered in blue and orange scales and his torso was almost human if not for the deer-like ears and animalistic face. On his head, surrounded by the dark red of his mane, was a curved branch-like horn.

The kirin tilted his head again. “Why are you sad? The Sea of Trees is a happy place.”

Donatello didn't care to stick around to hear anything else the yokai had to say— if it even was a yokai and not another illusion. He grabbed his rags and stomped back off down the trail quickly, slouched over and hugging himself to provide some sort of security. He got back to camp, and tried to get through another cold, sleepless night. His stomach gave an unsettled gurgle begging for sustenance that Donatello couldn’t provide.

The tent lit up a bright gold. Warm, gentle and safe. Donatello closed his eyes to enjoy it before his exhausted mind snapped him back to reality. He spun around, gripping his bo staff and ready to attack whatever vision the evil had planned for him.

The kirin was back, eyes just as soft and concerned as before and hands carrying a basket of berries. Donatello didn't lower his bo for a second, not even as the kirin put the berries down in front of him and slid them over with his front hoof.

“Don’t be sad.” The kirin said, “Eat. Your brothers will come soon.”

“I don’t want your food.” Donatello grumbled.

“It’s good.” The kirin insisted, “It is food he cannot touch. It is real.”

Donatello swung the bo at him when the kirin stepped closer. “Stay. Away.”

The kirin blinked slowly, and then gave the slightest laugh, “You should know I am telling the truth. You have the future right there in your hands.”

Donatello looked down at his weapon, and then up at the kirin. “What do you mean?”

The kirin didn't answer the question. “The evil is strong, but it can only lie. The rift is the truth, and the rift is still.”

The kirin left the berries and backed up. When his backside met the end of the tent, it phased out of reality, disappearing slowly as he backed through an invisible rift. Donatello watched the place the yokai had disappeared, waiting for some cruel punchline that never came. Then he looked at the berries, tantalizingly round and fresh, coated with dew drops. Just there, taunting him and his empty stomach until he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a handful of berries and immediately shoved them in his mouth, swallowing them quickly so he wouldn’t have to go through whatever torment the food would bring.

He opened his eyes. The berries were still there, still plump and beckoning. The berries tasted like berries. He took another handful and moved it around, trying to spot any bugs or flaws or mold—anything! But he found nothing, and so he took another mouthful, and another, until the berries were gone.

[lokislittlesigyn]

OG616 : Thor 1 - Pt.6 [The Mourning]

[My masterlist, where all parts of this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: Angst, some.. Hopelessness? And mild flirting.

Author’s Note: Very long one here. Hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath

To be added to the taglist, just ask me here or send a message! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A very distinct, sharp pain washed over Sigyn as she pondered Odin's words. Like a knife plunging into her gut, twisting, pulling - but never leaving. Only hurting worse and worse, the very air in her lungs seizing up.

Loki is dead.

Her throat burned.

Loki is dead.

Tears streamed down her face.

My Loki is dead.

She broke. Her entire body shook with a sob as she collapsed onto the couch she was seated on, weeping. "He can't, he- He's not, he's not.."

"Sister.." Thor wrapped her in a hug, his jaw set firm. Frigga placed a hand on her back.

Odin’s grip tightened around Gungnir. "He's gone."

"No he's not."

"Sigyn-"

"He's NOT!" She screamed, struggling in Thor's grip, who clenched his jaw as he held her. "He's not- He can't be, he.. Loki.." Her body gave way, unable to cope.

Thor helped her stand, letting her sob against him.

"I wish it were true," Odin resumed, forgiving the interruption, "That he could still be with us. But he made his choice."

Sigyn glared at him.

"You made your choice when you lied to him! When you lied to all of us for countless years. We built our life around that lie!" She choked back another sob. "Now our lives are ruined because of it."

Odin didn't respond.

"Sigyn, have care how you speak." Frigga stepped between them, finally composed, though her eyes still glistened. "We need time to grieve, all of us. But perhaps, you most of all." She cupped Sigyn's cheek, wiping a tear away. "Go rest. Arguing will breed nothing but more pain."

Frigga was right. Arguing now would only make things worse - Odin wasn’t exactly known for a cool temper. But her head was still spinning. Loki couldn't be gone. There had to be some other way. Straightening up, Sigyn wrung her hands together. Swallowed. "I-I am sorry, Allfather.. I spoke out of line.."

Odin waved his hand, still looking away.

"Thor," Frigga managed a gentle smile at her son, "Please take Sigyn back to her chambers before you visit the healers."

Thor nodded, and without another word, he and Sigyn left.

~~~~

Sigyn stayed in her chambers for days on end. She ignored the time. Refused to eat. Refused to sleep in her bed - no, their bed - it still smelled like him. She spoke to no one. Retreated into the solace of being completely and entirely alone. Once the dust had settled, the wounded healed, and the palace put back in order, a feast was held for those who defended Asgard and helped Thor return home.

Sigyn was required to attend.

I can't exactly refuse... She reasoned, pulling on an emerald green gown. Putting on her favorite necklace, she gazed in the mirror.

She was pale. Paler than usual. Sickly and thin, with dark circles under her eyes. Hardly the shining goddess she would be expected to appear as. She looked down at the necklace. She’d had it for a long time. A rectangular medallion on a thin, metal chain - the medallion bearing two serpents, intertwined with each other, each biting their own tail. A symbol of Loki’s adaptability and cunning.

"If you should like to...” Loki had murmured, obviously nervous has he offered it to her, “I would be honored to see you wear it.”

It had been a perfect gift, marrying her colors with his symbol. She barely took it off, except of course when she was expected to wear coordinating clothes. Then it lived in a small wooden box on the dresser, safe from dust.

This will be my first meal without you. She ran her thumb over the symbol. I love you. I miss you.

Composing herself, she left her room.

~~~~

Servants and guests alike stared at Sigyn when she arrived. She was late. She adjusted the necklace, ignored their whispering. Ignored the stares, the side glances...

Maybe I should’ve stayed alone.

"Sigyn.." Sif walked up to her. "I am so sorry for your loss.."

Sigyn merely watched the warrior as she spoke. She felt like something inside her had died along with Loki. Something was lost. She wasn’t sure if it would ever return.

Sif swallowed. "Truly, I am."

With great effort, Sigyn spoke, her voice dry from lack of use. "Thank you, Sif." She forced as much of a smile as she could, then took her seat.

Conversation picked back up. Stories were told. Laughter spread.

Sigyn stayed there. Motionless. Expressionless. Staring at her untouched goblet. This wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth it. Nothing had meaning anymore.

She turned to look at all the guests. They were eating together happily, drinks sloshing over their food as they raised toasts and struggled to contain their laughter at Volstagg’s stories.

Their spouses hadn't been taken from them. They hadn't lost someone.

This is life now, isn't it. Sigyn turned back to her empty plate. This is the lot I was cast.

Her vision grew blurry with tears.

The curse worked. Loki is dead. I'll never be loved agai-

No.

She clenched her jaw.

Don't you dare start thinking like that. Don't you give up now. Keep going. Keep fighting. If not for yourself, for him. Do it for him.

She looked back at all the familiar faces around her.

Be strong. Be strong for him.

A tear ran down her cheek.

Make him proud.

"A toast, to Asgard! For the glory of our realm!" Roared Volstagg, raising his glass.

Be strong for Loki.

Sigyn stood and raised her glass with a smile.

"To Asgard. Our home."

~~~~

Time passed. The grief-stricken goddess still wept for her lost husband, still dreamed about him every night. But as the months went on, she wept less. She slowly began healing from the wound deep within her heart. Accepted that for now, Loki was gone.

For now.

She had thrown herself into old books and tomes, determined to improve, to make her husband proud. In the shadows of familiar bookcases within the palace library, she found writings on the Norns. The sisters Wyrd, Veranthi, and Skuld - three powerful beings controlling the past, present, and future. And there in the crumpled pages, she found a familiar symbol: the web of Wyrd.

Three sets of overlapping lines, the it symbolized the inherent interconnections of all actions - and all realities. How the past influenced the present, the present the future, and the future, perhaps the next life.

Our next life... Once the Asgardian twilight comes, and I embrace a final sleep, I will wake up and see him again.

We won’t be alone.

She would remind herself, with each new day, she was another step closer to seeing him again someway, somehow. Alive or dead, they would be reunited. The thought of it inspired a little spark of hope within her. With each passing day, she spent hours pouring over old spellbooks. Studying ancient runes, practicing spells. Mastering them.

She filled books with ideas, charts, musings.

And most of all, she remembered Loki.

She mapped out his entire life, beginning to end. Considered everything that had happened. Asking Thor, Odin, and Frigga exactly what he'd said to them - and exactly how they'd responded. Recorded what they said in books of her own. It helped her grieve.

But it also served her in other ways.

Rumors spread quickly throughout Asgard. Rumors of the prince who was hungry for power. Who stole the throne, and tried to kill his own brother to keep it. Who abandoned his wife in her time of need. Who betrayed his family and his realm.

The liesmith.

Trickster.

Murderer.

Sigyn considered it her duty to dispel false assumptions about him. And as she traded for a new book at the marketplace, she heard one such assumption. A group of ladies stood nearby, gossiping over their goods.

"There she is - that's her, the princess."

"Oh my,"

"Lokiwife, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's her," A pretty brunette leaned in closer to the others, "I heard she and Loki had quite the time before he.. Well," she frowned, earning murmurs from her group.

Sigyn glanced their way, eavesdropping on their conversation, tucking the book into her satchel.

A blonde nodded in agreement. "Anyone would have a rough time if their husband abandoned them like he did."

"Abandoned?"

"Oh yes," The blonde shook her head, "It was just awful. The Warriors Three said he was always envious of Thor, always wanted the throne. And when he got the chance to steal the throne, he took it."

"If only Thor had been crowned in time. None of this would have happened.” The youngest piped up. The brunette shrugged an agreement.

“Such a waste - we waited hours for that coronation.”

“We had such a nice view, too.."

"A nice view of Prince Thor, certainly." The brunette nodded, her cheeks turning a slight pink.

The blonde smirked. "I'd even say Loki was glad Allfather Odin fell into the Odinsleep.. After all, that gave him access to the throne."

"Finally got him what he wanted," Mused the brunette.

The blonde huffed, "Though a lot of good it did him. Abandoned his wife and his honor, and what did he gain? He's likely in Helheim now.." The group murmured again in agreement.

Sigyn couldn’t take it anymore. "Excuse me - beg your pardon, ladies," She smiled, walking over to them. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation."

The women's eyes went wide. They bowed, paying their respects. Sigyn nodded her own greeting.

The brunette was the first to speak. "Yes, Princess, we were discussing your husband.."

"And his life's motivations. I heard." Sigyn glanced at the blonde, who gulped.

"We meant no offense to you, Princess.."

"Tell me, did any of you know Loki?"

They shook their heads.

Sigyn sighed. "You must understand: he was not evil. The Loki I knew had not a single malicious bone in his body."

"But he was jealous, Princess. Lady Sif said so, I heard her discussing it over a goblet of mead.." The blonde fidgeted.

"And she's right."

The ladies blinked.

Sigyn straightened up. "Sif is correct. Loki was jealous. And do you know why? He spent his life feeling less than Thor. How do you think Loki felt, then, when he found out his life was a lie? That his greatest fear was true because he was different, he was lesser?”

The women were quiet. Sigyn paused, then continued.

“Loki didn't want the throne. He wanted to be like Thor. To be equal, not less. So when Queen Frigga gave him the throne - he took it. She told him to make his father proud, and he tried to do just that. He tried to prove to Odin he loved him, he was his son, and - and yes, he tried to have Thor killed." Sigyn swallowed.

"I won't deny that. He likely did it to prevent Thor returning and squelching his efforts. But consider why he did it. Loki was... Mislead. He made the wrong choices. He tried to prove himself by vanquishing the Frost Giants, Laufey among them. And what did he have to go off of?" She laughed a single, sad laugh, "We're all raised to fear Jotuns! Slay them like the stupid beasts they are! Hunt them down, bludgeon them! What else would you expect him to do?"

By now a small crowd had gathered. Curious passersby all stared at the princess.

They probably think I'm mad, Sigyn mused, But I don't care. This isn't about me. It's about Loki.

"So he tried it. He tried massacring the Jotuns - and was foiled. Again. By Thor. Again! He was trying to prove himself! Desperately grasping at the final threads of hope! And on the Bifrost," Her breath caught in her throat, "On the Bifrost, that night, he begged Odin for approval. And how did Odin respond? He said no to his son, to the boy who only wanted to be as loved by his parents as his brother was." A tear streaked down her cheek.

"And he fell. He gave up. My husband died because his hope ran out. He could bear the pain no longer." Sigyn stepped toward the blonde, "So the next time you talk about Loki, I ask you to remember that. I hope you remember how my husband, the most wonderful, beautiful man I knew, lost hope that night. And now he's gone."

Without another word, Sigyn turned. Pushed past the crowd, ignoring their stares and whispers.

"Come, Villeildr," She mounted her horse, squeezing his sides with her legs, "It's time we take our leave."

~~~~

Later that night, Sigyn was in the library when a familiar voice called her.

"I thought you'd be here." Fandral stepped in, smirking, his cape sweeping behind him.

"Here I am." Sigyn's focus remained on the book.

"I heard you had a run-in with some acquaintances of mine today."

Sigyn stopped reading.

Fandral continued. "Gave them quite the talking to. Did you rehearse it, or did it simply come to you?"

She shut the book, peering up at him. "They were lying about Loki."

"You seem to forget he lied too.."

"Of course he did. We all do; that doesn't make it right. They were lying about him, Fandral, disrespecting the dead - spreading false rumors about how he 'always wanted the throne.'"

"Well, he was always jealous of Thor.."

She huffed, "I know."

They sat a moment in silence. Fandral moved closer. "I was hoping you would join me for a drink tonight. You’ve barely left the palace in.. Well, far too long."

"I don't drink."

He looked hurt. "You used to."

"There are many things I used to do." She returned to her book, hoping he’d get the hint.

"And I could help you with more than one, if you so wished..."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Remember that bit about respecting the dead?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing a horrid job."

He chuckled.

"Now, even I can't be the best at everything, dearest Sigyn."

"Oh, I believe it." She smirked.

His brow furrowed. "You were meant to be the goddess of compassion, you know."

"Compassion is like sympathy; I can sympathize with you and still point out the fact you're inappropriate."

"You sympathize with me?" He smirked.

"Fandral, do not twist my words.."

"Even if it makes you smile?" He tilted his head slightly. She couldn't resist a small huff of a laugh.

With a slight sigh, he took her hand and kissed it. "Ah, I may never be anything more than your friend, Sigyn," He lowered her hand, smiling at her. "But even if that's the case, I am honored to be your friend."

She smirked, nodding at him once. "Thank you. You're a good friend, Fandral.. Even if you are rude."

With another chuckle, he sprung to his feet. "Until we meet again, fair Sigyn," He bowed, "I take my leave." Turning on his heel, he headed for the door.

"Fandral?"

He stopped.

"Don't get too drunk. Lady Sif is tired of cleaning up after you."

He shot her a grin, then disappeared around the corner.

He's going to get absolutely ruined. Sigyn thought to herself, shaking her head.

[idkwriteshitdown]

Their Refrigerator Looked Like it Belonged to the Proud Mom of a Six Year Old Child.

Summary: The Hargreeves siblings adjust to living together in the future.

Words: 1229

(ao3 link)

---

It started off as a joke. Diego had drawn a particularly unflattering picture of Five after he flashed halfway down the stairs, fell down the rest of them, threw up and passed out on the foyer.

The picture in question was a crude drawing of a small figure dressed in the Umbrella Academy uniform lying on the floor with a bottle of alcohol next to it. There was also drawn on the ground a puddle of what was probably vomit. To top it all off there were stink lines coming off everything in the picture as well as a speech bubble that said, “I am stupid” written in blocky letters. Diego was very proud of his work. The next morning while his siblings were eating breakfast and Five was nursing his hangover with coffee Diego was finishing his masterpiece.

“Yah know Di,” Klaus said looking over his shoulder. “You’ve got some promise.”

“Thank you.” Diego said tongue sticking out in concentration as he shaded in the background.

Luther looked over the table at the paper. “I like the stink lines,” He said through a mouthful of eggs.

“Ew that’s gross. Close your mouth.” Klaus said as he shoved a piece of toast in his mouth.

“What? You have food in your mouth right now.” Luther pointed. “Do you not see how hypocritical that is?”

“Both of you guys are disgusting.” Allison walked over putting out a plate of bacon. Luther wilted while Klaus laughed snagging one from the plate. “What are you drawing? Oh my gosh is that Five?” Allison giggled covering her mouth.

Five, who had been sipping his coffee and pointedly ignoring the conversation surrounding his more juvenile brothers looked up. “Is that who?” He popped over to Diego before grasping his head in pain. Swearing under his breath he grabbed on to the back of Diego’s chair straightening himself up and looked at the picture. The siblings waited in silence to see his reaction.

Five frowned. “What the fuck.” He lunged for the paper but Diego pushed himself out of the seat and held it out of reach. “Give it here.” He growled. 

“No.” He said backing up. “Dr. Huffman said that I should practice drawing out my feelings. You’ll just destroy it.” 

Dr. Huffman was his therapist. Actually Dr. Huffman was all of their therapists. Shortly after arriving back to the present day Vanya suggested that they all go see a therapist. ‘Dad had done a number on all of us and a therapist would be good for all of us to work out our issues,’ she had said. There was a lot of push back from the members of the family. Five thought there was nothing wrong with him. Klaus thought there was nothing that could be done that court mandated therapy didn’t already do. Luther was scared that they would bring up his now dead relationship with his sister. And Diego really didn’t want to see a therapist again. He had his introduction with the guys in the asylum in ‘63 and while he wasn’t scared he never wanted to see one again. 

In the end it was Allison who first agreed to therapy. It was the shaming, guilting, and pestering that finally got the others to trickle in after her. Luther was easy to convince. He’d do almost anything Allison told him to do. Klaus was next. Turns out having your dead brother be actually dead did not do wonders for your mental health. Vanya got Five to come, who after finding out over half his siblings were seeing the same doctor, became paranoid that they were talking about him. Diego held out the longest. It took being tricked into a group therapy session for him to agree. It was also the fact that one of his siblings ratted him out to Al who said he’d kick him out of the gym if he didn’t start therapy. 

Diego didn’t like therapy and he found out quickly that his stutter came back full force when ever he had to speak about the events of his childhood, much to his embarrassment. Therefore most of the sessions were spent with him stubbornly not talking. The drawing his feelings thing was a new method that Dr. Williams was having him try.

“Come on Diego. I just want to see a closer look at your drawing.” Five gave what was supposed to be a sweet smile but came off as frighteningly evil. 

“I’ll draw you a new improved one with more detail,” Diego teased. He had slowly relocated himself to the other side of the table. 

Five jumped up on the table and there was shrieking as the others grabbed their plates and saved what food they could. “Give me that picture,” He shouted.

“Never.” Diego ran.

“What is going on here?”

Everyone froze. “Good morning mom.” They chorused in unison.

“Good morning dears.” She smiled at them. “Five, you know you aren’t supposed to be standing on the table. Now what was all this noise about?” 

Five straightened out his clothes and, with all the pose of the 58 year old man he was not acting like, stepped down off the table. “Diego was just about to show me this lovely picture he drew.” he walked over the two.

Grace looked at Diego who suddenly found his shoes very interesting. “You drew a picture? Let me see.”

Klaus snickered and Diego glared at him. “I don’t really think you need to see it.” He said. “It’s not that good.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure you’re a great artist.” She smiled at him and Five smiled smugly as Diego reluctantly handed the sheet of paper to her. “Oh this is a great drawing sweetie.”

“What?!” echoed through the room. 

“Mom? Did you see what he drew?” Five asked incredulously.

“Lay off Five.” Diego beamed. “Obviously I’m a great artist. Isn’t that right Mom?”

“My little Picasso.” She reached up to ruffle Diego’s hair. “I think this would go great on the fridge don’t you think.”

Across the room the three other siblings had descended into poorly concealed laughter.

“Mom. You can’t be serious.” Five followed them to the fridge. “You aren’t going to put that on there are you?” “Yes I am. I love all the things my children create.” She placed a magnet on top of the picture and then straightened it out. Beside her Diego stuck his tongue out at him. “I better not see you remove this either. Maybe with that up there it’ll serve as a reminder for you to watch your drinking.” 

The room went silent. Five watched open mouth as she left the room. Seconds later laughter erupted. 

“Holy shit bro. She got you good.” Luther gasped, hunched over his food.

“Serve as a reminder? Who knew Mom was such a savage?” Klaus laughed from his spot on the floor.

“I’m sure Dr. Williams can help you work through that absolute betrayal you faced.” Allison said between giggles.

Five closed his mouth and glared at Diego who was looking at him with a shit eating grin. “This is not over”.

“Hey guys.” Vanya walked in with a yawn. She opened the fridge pulling out a bottle of orange juice. “What’s so funny?” she asked. She closed the fridge and stepped back towards the table before pausing and turning around again. “Is that Five?”

[writingformymentalhealth]

Chapter 2

Josephine Fawley or as her brother liked to call her the tomboy Princess had a striking romance with Hogwarts very own Pureblood rebel Sirius Black.

Sadly her parents deemed his Brother the so called Slytherin Prince as a better fit and arranged a marriage with the younger Black.

Possible Tw: Arranged marriage, possible smut, swear words, lots of fluff, angst,

Part 1

Part 3

Wattpad book link

Masterlist

The Fawley twins stood on Platform 9 3/4, already having left their parents behind at the station as Isabella Brown came in their direction.

Quentin always described Isabella Brown as the perfect sidekick, and Rory always found that unfair. Quentin’s reasoning was that Isa was pretty average, her dirty blonde hair and dull eyes not making her ugly but certainly not pretty either. Her grades were tolerable and her intelligence questionable.

But despite her brother’s hatred towards the girl, Rory liked to think of her as her best friend. After all, they have been sharing a dorm since the age of eleven...

“Isa!”

“Josie.”

The girls hugged, completely ignoring Quentin, whose eyes were transfixed on a certain blonde arguing with Lucius.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” He mumbled, making his way to the couple, but the girls didn’t hear him already gushing to each other about their Christmas Holidays.

At the time Quentin reached Narcissa Lucius was long gone and silent tears were falling down her porcelain skin.

“C’mere,” Quentin mumbled pulling the girl into a hug.

“You shouldn’t be here he doesn’t like me hanging with you.”

“You aren’t his property, Cissy.”

“I don’t want him to hurt you.” Narcissa’s deep blue eyes met his for the first time today.

“I’m not scared of Lucius.” Quentin said his eyes subconsciously drifting to her lips, the lips he used to kiss so often...

He shook himself out of the trance taking Narcissa’s trunk leading her into the train to find an empty compartment.

Silence engulfed the Teens while Quentin secured both their trunks and Narcissa fidled with her fingers nervously.

“You shouldn’t let him treat you like that.” Quentin said seating himself next to the beautiful girl.

“I will marry him.”

“Cissy-“

“I will do what is right for my family Quentin.”

“But what about what is right for you?”

“What are you saying I should do?” Narcissa asked something desperate in her voice as if she hoped he could show her a way out.

Quentin wanted to say a lot of things, run away with me, he wanted to say, I’ll protect you, but he didn’t have the chance to open his mouth as Lucius entered the compartment a cruel glint present in his eyes. “Fawley, thanks for taking care of my fiancée for me.”

“Pleasure.” the Ravenclaw answered dryly forcing himself to look into Lucius eyes who looked taken aback at the bold response.

“Cissy, Babe, why don’t you tell your dear ex boyfriend what you told me?” Lucius asked a sardonic smile playing on his lips.

Narcissa’s eyes widened in disbelief as she looked at him but her boyfriend just quirked his brows, his stare cold and dominant giving her no other choice than to oblique.

Quentin’s eyes darted back and forth between the couple trying to find out what was going on. Narcissa wasn’t able to meet his eyes as she swallowed visibly a few times.

“I don’t want my clingy ex boyfriend hanging around me all the time.” she said looking at her hands her voice barely above a whisper.

Quentin froze, his jaw clenched and he felt like he was about to cry but the devilish look in Lucius’ eyes stopped him.

“Well,” he stood up, clearing his throat “I should get going then.”

“Oh no,” Lucius faked kindness, “You don’t have to leave.”

Quentin pressed his lips together trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat, “no worries.”

“No really,” Lucius said the sardonic smile reappearing, “everybody knows you don’t have friends because nobody likes you, so we understand that you are so clingy.”

That hit home.

Narcissa seemed to try to disappear in her seat not daring to look up from her hands.

“I’ll go find my sister.”

“Oh yes family, they have to at least try to like you don’t they?” Lucius taunted but Quentin was already out the door.

On the other end of the train to Hogwarts, Isabella filled Joey in on the latest gossip.

“Regulus hexed a student - a muggle born he probably won’t come back to school,” she just said dramatically, wringing her hands.

“I guess they call him the Slytherin Prince for a reason.” Rory answered dryly, not sure what to think about all these rumors about a boy who used to hide behind his older Brother at any given moment.

“He is pure evil! Have you seen his cold stares? As if he is about to kill someone.”

Joey thought about the girls’ argument for a moment, Isa was right, Regulus always had a cold, unreadable demeanor which intimidated even the older years greatly.

“Maybe.”

Isabella just scoffed. She hated it when her friend didn’t take part in her gossiping.

Thankfully, Quentin entered the compartment in this moment, his lips pressed together in a thin white line.

“What’s wrong Quen? I thought you were sitting with Narcissa.”

“Narcissa and Lucius made up.” He said snappily, getting his sketchbook out of his pocket and started drawing, clenching the charcoal so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Quen-“

“Don’t” Quentin interrupted his sister.

“You could help your sister and sleep with Nicolette.” Isabella said, brushing her fingers through her dirty blonde hair, seemingly unaware of the silent conversation the twins held with their eyes.

“Why would that help me?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? Nicolette wants to steal your boyfriend. Which isn’t an immense surprise after she slept with half the school, and don’t you remember the incident with Carter?”

Of course Joey knew the story about how Carter cheated on his long-time girlfriend Dorcas with the seductive blonde, everybody did - Dorcas made sure of it. Some rumors about Nicolette giving Carter a love potion went around, but Joey didn’t know what exactly went down. She only knew that every girl avoided Nicolette like the plaque and she herself surely didn’t want that girl near her boyfriend.

“Where do you get all your information from?” Quentin asked, still sketching furiously.

“Well, Fawley, A is for information and-“

“According to what alphabet?” Her brother scoffed, making Isa pout and look out of the window. But Joey couldn’t bring up the energy to comfort the girl, her thoughts being occupied by Nicolette, and the possibility of her stealing her boyfriend.

-

“You did what?”

“We made Slughorn’s toilet explode.” Sirius explained, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“And how the hell did you make his toilet explode?” His girlfriend asked, trying to sound stern, but the smirk on her face gave her away.

“I can’t reveal all my tricks, love.”

“Aren’t you scared of getting detention?”

“What’s life without a little risk?” Sirius asked, throwing an arm around the petite girl.

Joey always thought of Sirius as a true Gryffindor, he was chivalrous, bold and daring, while she wasn’t a true - anything, known as the longest hat stall in the history of Hogwarts the hat jumping back and forth between all four houses for an hour before reluctantly placing her in Gryffindor. She never felt like she truly belonged there, but Sirius always knew how to make her feel like a true lion, involving her in pranks and bringing out the rebel in her and Joey didn’t want to think about next year when he would be in the Uni sector of Hogwarts - so close yet so far, in a completely different world of alcohol and parties - even more than they already had.

“What’s going on in your pretty little mind?”

“The Future.”

“You don’t look too happy about the future then.” He said, gently pulling her into his lab.

“I don’t want you to go to Uni.” She blurted, and he frowned.

“I’ll still be in the same building, Love.”

“We all know that the Uni students and the school students are strictly separated.”

He laughed his barking laugh, and Joey knew she would listen to his laugh for hours if she could.

“They are separated so some innocent first years won’t see some drunk teens shagging in the hallways, but it’s not forbidden to visit the other side of the castle.”

Joey had to suppress a smile at his crude wording.

“Still, you will live a completely different life with parties and alcohol and-” she paused, hiding her reddened cheeks in the crook of his neck, “girls.”

Sirius had the biggest, cockiest smirk plastered on his face as he turned towards Joey. “You jealous love?”

She tried to hide her face with her hands, but he easily pulled them away from her, exposing her flushed face.

“It’s just with alcohol and pretty Uni girls, I just don’t want you to fall out of love with me.” She mumbled, and Sirius’ amused expression suddenly disappeared, changing into a serious one.

“Josephine Fawley, I’m always going to love you. I’m going to love you in your weakest moments to your strongest ones. Don’t you understand? I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” His grey eyes stared straight into her green ones. “I want you, and only you, every piece of you. And I’m always going to want you, I’m always going to be here loving you with everything.” He said, and a smile tugged at Joey’s lips.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always Sirius” he smirked making her roll her eyes at the overused pun, “but yes I am completely serious.”

“I Love you Siri.”

“I love you more Josie.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Yes, it is”

“No, it isn’t”

“Yes, it is”

“No, it isn’t”

“Yes, it-” his sentence cut short by Joey pressing her lips onto his passionately while positioning herself so that she was straddling him, peppering soft kisses along his jawline.

-

The quidditch game Gryffindor against Slytherin was coming up and you could practically feel the excitement buzzing in the great hall.

“I don’t get all this excitement over a stupid game.” Isabella complained playing with the food on her plate.

“We don’t have to go,” Joey said with her mouth full of cornflakes, “Sirius doesn’t play this year.

“Why? Did he want to have more time for other types of exercises?” Isa asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Actually, I wanted to have more time for my beautiful girlfriend,” Sirius said from behind, seating himself next to Joey.

“Hey Siri.” Isabella said, ignoring Sirius’ scrunched-up face as a person other than his girlfriend used this nickname.

“Hey Isa. Are you guys coming to the match today?”

“No, Isa just-“

“Of course we are coming.” Isabella interrupted, earning a weird look from Joey.

“I thought you weren’t playing this year?”

“I am not playing but McGonagall asked me to be the commentator.” He smirked devilishly.

“She’s going to regret this.” Joey mumbled while Isabella congratulated the boy.

The stands at the Quidditch game were annoyingly full and Isa and Joey stood together tightly, watching the Teams warm up.

“On the one side we have the captain of the Slytherin Team, the always unhappy looking Lucius Malfoy while on the other side we have the much more attractive James Potter as the team captain of the Gryffindors.” Sirius’s voice echoed through the pitch making the Gryffindors burst out in laughter.

The game went on James being the first one to possess the quaffle, “James being slightly distracted by a certain redhead still doesn’t stop him from being a better chaser than Lucius.”

“Mr Black.” McGonagall shouted, and Joey could swear that she could see Sirius smirk right in front of her.

“Mathew McKinnon blocking a bludger while maintaining his ever perfect hair, and I know we all ask ourselves how does he do this? Well, I happen to know tha-...yes Professor I do think this is important informa-...look the people deserve to know...no it’s not irrelevant to the game...see now you made me miss a goal.”

Joey saw a defeated-looking Professor McGonagall walk away from the commentator stand making a dismissive hand gesture.

“James stop laughing. I know I am hilarious but you have a game to win.” Sirius announced and Joey looked up, seeing an almost falling of the broom James potter crying tears of laughter.

“Mulciber here seems to be slightly distracted by the fact his girlfriend cheated on him with Lucius” Joey saw out of the corner of her eye that Narcissa left the stands Quentin following her immediately.

Joey sighed standing up from the stands making her way through the crowds to her boyfriend, as she knew his comments would only get more heated from now on. His body rushing with adrenaline from all the cheers and laughter filling the pitch. That was the thing between the two of them. They balanced each other out; he was fire, and she was water; she cooled him down when his fire burned the people around him and he melted her when her water turned to ice, too stubborn and scared to move in any direction.

Just as she wanted to climb up the commentator stand she saw the Slytherin team erupt into cheers as Regulus Black had catched the snitch.

Sirius hopped down the commentator stand, seeming absolutely content with himself.

“Enjoyed the show, Love?” He asked, grinning proudly.

“You never know when to stop do you?”

“It’s one of my charms.”

“It’s most definitely not. You made Narcissa cry.”

“Everything I said was the truth.” He said furrowing his brows.

“You still embarrassed her in front of the whole school.”

She could see something stir in his stormy eyes but just as he opened his mouth a figure in a short skirt and unmistakably red lipstick approached.

“Nice Job, Black.” Nicolette said smiling coquettish and Joey wanted nothing more than to rip out her just-the-right-kind-of-messy-but-not-too-messy hair.

“Thank you, Nici.” He smiled looking at Joey triumphantly.

Nici.

Why did he call her by a nickname?

“I wondered if you could help me in Transfiguration this weekend? McGonagall says you’re one of the best.” The girl asked, smiling brightly showing off her pearly white teeth.

“We already have plans this weekend.” Joey said through gritted teeth and although Sirius quirked an eyebrow at her he didn’t say anything.

“Oh, Okay Sorry.” Nicolette said clearly, forcing a smile as she turned around, walking away without another word.

“Having a jealous streak are we?” Sirius asked, his grin only widening as he saw his usual calm girlfriend all worked up.

“Shut up.”

Part 3

[thewhumperinwhite]

ATTD: The Hunting Party (2)

ATTD Masterlist

I agonized over this for ages bc everybody knows prophecies rhyme, but i am deeply Not A Poet, so like... be gentle with me lmao

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

Ongoing TW for this series: the Big Bads here are bug related, so tread carefully if you you have any level of entomophobia. It’s mainly referenced here, but it will absolutely get worse. If you have specific bug-related triggers, you can always message me for a more detailed description of what to expect. So.

TW for: body horror (relating to mummification, and, separately, Bugs); blood-drinking; referenced/implied possession (of a sort); captivity; implied magical torture; lady whump; referenced murder. Also, uh... evil flies. Like not giant. Just evil

----

Awake, at least, Middle Sister had seen nothing but this room for three long months.

The room was of a respectable size—high-ceilinged, not wide but long enough to be properly called a Hall—but far enough underground that the air felt close and stale regardless. The walls and ceiling are polished marble, black with veins the color of old bone. The furnishings—richly carved but sparse—were the same. An altar, bare. Two benches, never occupied. A high-backed throne for her to sit upon, slumped and unmoving.

Middle Sister did not know how long this room had been here. The past was her Sister’s business; for all that Middle Sister know, they might have carved the chamber just for her. Her mark, upon the throne—a sun, inlaid in gold, above her head—would seem to show that it at least had been custom-made.

The chains, hammered into the arms of the throne, and ending in manacles around her wrists, were the same muted gold as the inlaid sun. She was held immobile by other, crueler means—could not move without blood in her veins; the gold cuffs hung loose on her dry and leathered wrists—so the chains were just for show.

She was going to kill everyone responsible—from her captors to whatever craftsmen carved the sun and forged the chains—but she could, at least, respect the commitment to aesthetics.

To keep an Oracle in one’s basement, one needed chains. To leave her without them—even as a dried out husk upon her throne—would be positively gauche. Someone might think they’d left her corpse here by mistake.

The old man—the Emperor’s Advisor—who had no other name than that, and who always brought with him the buzzing of flies, right at the edge of her hearing—was the only living thing she had seen in months.

He was halfway through his usual ritual now. He brought a candle and a golden chalice with him from upstairs, and now he was holding the chalice over the candle and half-chanting in his scratchy buzzing voice, a stream of nonsense about the sun, how it knew all and saw all, and now he wished to know and see all as well.

The ritual was exactly as practical as the gilded chains. The chalice was full of blood, and blood was all she needed.

The old man finished chanting, and stepped around the altar, approached the throne. He put the chalice up to her desiccated lips and carefully poured about a tablespoon of blood down her dry throat.

Middle Sister breathed in, as even this tiny helping of lifeblood wet her tongue and throat and lungs enough to take in the first air she’d had since the old man’s last visit, more than a week ago now. The blood soaked into her heart and filled it out, like a raisin turning back into a grape. The first few beats were always painful.

Part of Middle Sister always hoped that he would measure wrong—bring her two tablespoons someday, instead of one. This blood is enough to bring life back into her mouth and tongue and lungs and throat and heart. Another gulp would bring life back into her arms, enough to tie these stupid soft-gold chains into a pretty bow around the old man’s neck, and drag herself upstairs, to find enough blood to fill her wings with life as well, and away from here, at last.

It wouldn’t be that easy, of course. She was going to have to wait. Sit here like so much salt-dried meat, until she’d gathered enough cards to make a meaningful play.

Then, when she was out, she’d spill enough blood to bathe in.

“I hesitate to wake you so soon after the last time,” the old man was saying, with a hint of irony. “However: It seems we’ve had a bit of a setback.”

With a tablespoon of blood, Middle Sister could lift her head, and raise and eyebrow at the old man, too, with a little effort. Her dried skin wrinkled with a sound like old paper, but thankfully it didn’t tear.

Oh, she said, her voice made more of magic than of air. We have, have we?

The old man smirked, and bowed his head. “Your meaning is well taken,” she said. “The miscalculation was not yours, my Lady. We attempted to act on the information you so generously provided—”

Middle Sister snorted. She had been accused of many things, but rarely generosity. Is that what we’re calling it, she asked airily—her voice dry wind against the old man’s ears—I provide you—generously—with prophecy, and you—generously again—replace enough of the blood you stole, to let me move my lips?

The old man almost laughed. “Again, Lady: Your criticism is understood. I apologize once more for the lack of—creature comforts.”

She didn’t waste energy on rolling her eyes, however much she might have liked to. It’s true that I am accustomed to indulging in pleasure such as blood, and life. She sighed, tipping her head back to see him better. What is this setback ‘we’ have suffered, My Lord Advisor?

“We’ve lost the boy,” the old man said.

Middle Sister blinked at him. Then she half-crumpled forward, using up most of her borrowed blood in painful, dry-heaving laughter.

Lost the—you lost him? You found the boy from Future’s Rhyme and then you lost him?

The old man watched her laugh with bland amusement. Middle Sister collapsed back against the throne, wheezing, already half a corpse again.

Oh, my lord Advisor, she croaked, almost with affection. Your masters mustn’t be very pleased with you, eh?

The old man’s mouth twitched slightly. “They are not thrilled,” he allowed. He did not sound especially distressed.

He was a funny old riddle, the Emperor’s Advisor. There were flies in his head, certainly. But they seemed to have left behind an unusual amount of brain.

The old man bowed his fly-ridden head, with his wrinkled hand over his heart. “Thus, I am instructed to ask you for further direction, my Lady. Any further words from you would be a blessing.”

I’ve none to give you, Middle Sister said, with real pleasure. And I am hardly in a position to be offering blessings, my dear, she added. She was fading fast now, but there was just enough blood left in her dried-up veins for another pointed arch of her brow.

Advisor squinted at her. Clearly he was thinking hard, and—though maybe this was wishful thinking on Middle Sister’s part—he seemed to be looking with own old man’s eyes, and not with the faceted compound ones hidden behind their sockets.

“Perhaps,” the old man said delicately, “in return for further prophecy. I can persuade my masters to come up with some sort of reward.”

And then he gathered up the chalice—empty, now, of blood—and gave her a sly little smile.

The offer was clear enough.

I’ll see what I can do, my dear, Middle Sister told him, and that was all she had the blood to say.

For now.

----

The dream, when it comes again, goes like this:

There is a hall, with carved alabaster columns and tile the color of the sky, or the Wolf-Killer’s eyes, beautiful—but blown open at the sides, to reveal a sky that is not blue, but is a roiling bloody red as though the clouds themselves were cut open and bleeding to death in the dust.

In the center of the hall there is a tree, and the tree grew from a seed, and the seed was born in blood.

Will be born in blood.

The problem with riding Little Sister’s dreams is that it is hard to keep track of one’s tense.

The other problem with Little Sister’s dreams is that they are starting to repeat, which Middle Sister has never known them to do before—

In spite of herself, she thinks of Little Sister, watching this, over and over—how Little Sister always hurt, how it always hurt Little Sister to dream.

(Middle Sister breathes out, in her sleep, relieved: last time, Little Sister was wild with fright, the dream patchy and confused, as Little Sister snatched fitful minutes of sleep; Little Sister was always frightened of small spaces, and the cage was much too small, twisted her wings in around her little body; now she is sleeping out under the air, and her wings are sore but whole, and at least one of them is free.)

Focus, now, Middle Sister tells herself.

In the center of the hall there is a tree, except that now it is not a tree, it is a door, and the door is shut, but—

(a flutter of fear in Middle Sister’s dry and bloodless chest)

She is not sure the door is locked.

Behind her she hears the fluttering of enormous wings and whirls toward the sound, jealousy sour in her belly; she wants to fly again so badly—

Black birds scatter everywhere; although she is not really there she imagines they kick up quite a breeze.

She watches them go, and thinks that as omens go, this is not traditionally a good one. Last time she rode piggyback on Little Sister’s dreams, when she squinted to see past Little Sisters real-life-present fear, it was almost the same—the hall and the tree and the door—but instead of crows she had heard the howling of wolves, about a thousand great grey monsters with sharp teeth and sharper eyes, and ugh, why can’t Little Sister’s dreams just say what they mean.

As she is thinking this she hears, behind her—the clearing of a throat, simple and quiet. She turns on her nonexistent heel to follow the sound.

There is a girl standing in front of the door-that-is-closed-but-is-not-locked. She has long black hair, covering blunt human ears, and—behind the hair she does not have a face.

The words, when she speaks, are the same as last time, but last time Little Sister was too frightened to properly see the speaker. And Middle Sister can see nothing Little Sister doesn’t see.

The black-haired girl speaks solemnly, although she has no mouth. Her voice is full of—sympathy, perhaps. Middle Sister isn’t sure who for.

She says it again—the same rhyme—which seems to so excite Advisor, or at least the bugs that live inside his skull. It doesn’t mean much to Middle Sister, but she listens carefully.

She wants to know what the words mean, properly, before she gives them up.

----

Fatherless brother

Where did you go?

Does your mother miss you?

Does your sister know?

Little boy lost,

Little boy lying,

Little boy scared,

Little boy hiding.

Little boy hurt,

Little boy crying,

Little boy cold,

Little boy dying.

In two worlds a brother,

In one world a son:

You’ve opened the door, boy.

How fast can you run?

[michaelbogild]

Quotes by Benjamin Franklin

A false friend and a shadow attend only while the sun shines.

A friend in need is a friend indeed!

A learned blockhead is a greater blockhead than an ignorant one.

A man of words and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds

A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.

A Penny Saved is a Penny Earned

A place for everything, everything in its place.

A slip of the foot you may soon recover, but a slip of the tongue you may never get over.

Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.

After the signing of the Constitution, Benjamin Franklin was asked by a woman on the street, What have you given us, sir? Franklin Responded, A Republic, if you can keep it.

All mankind is divided into three classes: those that are immovable, those that are movable, and those that move.

All the little money that ever came into my hands was ever laid out in books.

An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Be at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let every new year find you a better man.

Be civil to all; sociable to many; familiar with few; friend to one; enemy to none.

Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned. Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sober and temperate, and you will be healthy. Be in general virtuous, and you will be happy. At least you will, by such conduct, stand the be.

Being ignorant is not so much a shame, as being unwilling to learn.

Beware of little expenses; a small leak will sink a great ship.

but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.

But on the whole, though I never arrived at the perfection I had been so ambitious of obtaining, but fell far short of it, yet I was, by the endeavour, a better and happier man than I otherwise should have been had I not attempted it; as those who aim at perfect writing by imitating the engraved copies, their hand is mended by the endevour, and is tolerable while it continues fair and legible"

By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.

Chess teaches foresight, by having to plan ahead; vigilance, by having to keep watch over the whole chess board; caution, by having to restrain ourselves from making hasty moves; and finally, we learn from chess the greatest maxim in life - that even when everything seems to be going badly for us we should not lose heart, but always hoping for a change for the better, steadfastly continue searching for the solutions to our problems.

Clean your Finger, before you point at my Spots.

Content makes poor men rich; discontent makes rich men poor.

Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of.

Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

Eat to live, don't live to eat.

Educate your children to self-control, to the habit of holding passion and prejudice and evil tendencies subject to an upright and reasoning will, and you have done much to abolish misery from their future and crimes from society.

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.

Energy and persistence conquer all things.

Fools make feasts and wise men eat them.

For every minute spent in organizing, an hour is earned.

Genius is nothing but a greater aptitude for patience.

Genius without education is like silver in the mine.

God helps them that help themselves.

Great beauty, great strength, and great riches are really and truly of no great use; a right heart exceeds all

Happiness consists more in the small conveniences of pleasures that occur every day, than in great pieces of good fortune that happen but seldom to a man in the course of his life.

Happiness depends more on the inward disposition of mind than on outward circumstances.

Haste makes waste.

He that can have patience can have what he will.

He that falls in love with himself will have no rivals.

He that lieth down with Dogs, shall rise up with Fleas.

He that lives upon hope will die fasting.

He’s a Fool that cannot conceal his Wisdom

How few there are who have courage enough to own their faults, or resolution enough to mend them.

If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.

If Jack's in love, he's no judge of Jill's beauty.

If Passion drives, let Reason hold the Reins.

If you would be loved, love, and be loveable.

In reality, there is, perhaps, no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as pride. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it, perhaps, often in this history; for, even if I could conceive that I had compleatly overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.

It is the first responsibility of every citizen to question authority.

It takes many good deeds to build a good reputation, and only one bad one to lose it.

Life biggest tragedy is that we get old too soon and wise too late

Little strokes fell great oaks.

Lost Time is never found again.

Love your Enemies, for they tell you your Faults.

Make yourself sheep and the wolves will eat you.

Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.

Many people die at twenty five and aren't buried until they are seventy five.

Money has never made man happy, nor will it; There is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more of it one has, the more one wants.

Motivation is when your dreams put on work clothes

My refusing to eat flesh occasioned an inconveniency, and I was frequently chided for my singularity, but, with this lighter repast, I made the greater progress, for greater clearness of head and quicker comprehension. Flesh eating is unprovoked murder.

Never confuse Motion with Action.

Never leave till tomorrow that which you can do today.

No one cares what you know until they know that you care!

O powerful goodness! Bountiful Father! Merciful Guide! Increase in me that wisdom which discovers my truest interest. Strengthen my resolution to perform what that wisdom dictates. Accept my kind offices to thy other children as the only return in my power for thy continual favours to me.

One today is worth two tomorrows

Originality is the art of concealing your sources.

Reading makes a full man, meditation a profound man, discourse a clear man.

Savages we call them, because their manners differ from ours, which we think the perfection of civility; they think the same of theirs. "

Search others for their virtues, thyself for thy vices.

Serving God is doing good to man, but praying is thought an easier service and therefore more generally chosen.

Speak little, do much.

Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.

The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is a knowledge of our own ignorance.

The only thing that is more expensive than education is ignorance.

The people heard it, and approved the doctrine, and immediately practiced the contrary.

The person who deserves most pity is a lonesome one on a rainy day who doesn't know how to read.

The Proud hate Pride – in others.

The way to see by faith is to shut the eye of reason.

There are three things extremely hard: steel, a diamond, and to know one's self.

there will be sleeping enough in the grave....

They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.

Thinking aloud is a habit which is responsible for most of mankind's misery.

Those things that hurt, instruct.

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

Tis a great confidence in a friend to tell him your faults; greater to tell him his.

Tis easier to suppress the first desire than to satisfy all that follow it.

To all apparent beauties blind, each blemish strikes an envious mind.

To cease to think creatively is to cease to live

To find out a girl's faults, praise her to her girlfriends.

To lengthen thy life, lessen thy meals.

To succeed, jump as quickly at opportunities as you do at conclusions.

Tricks and treachery are the practice of fools that don't have brains enough to be honest.

Trouble knocked at the door, but, hearing laughter, hurried away

We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.

We do not stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing!

Well done is better than well said.

What you would seem to be, be really.

Whatever is begun in anger, ends in shame.

When the well is dry, we know the worth of water.

When you are finished changing, you're finished.

Who is wise? He that learns from everyone. Who is powerful? He that governs his passions. Who is rich? He that is content. Who is that? Nobody.

Whoever would overthrow the liberty of a nation must begin by subduing the freeness of speech.

wine [is] a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.

Wise men don't need advice. Fools won't take it.

Wise Men learn by other's harms; Fools by their own.

Without Freedom of thought there can be no such thing as wisdom;and no such thing as public liberty, without freedom of speech.

Women are books, and men the readers be

Write to Please Yourself. When You write to Please Others You end up Pleasing No one.

You may delay, but time will not.

Your net worth to the world is usually determined by what remains after your bad habits are subtracted from your good ones

[alleiradayne]

LONG JACKET A DESTIEL-ISH SERIES

Over the last few years, I’ve seen some of the craziest shit hunting with the Winchesters and their angel, Castiel. But this story right here? This isn’t about monsters. This isn’t about the battle between good and evil, heaven and hell. I understand all that.

It’s people I don’t get. People are crazy. And we do crazy things when we’re in love.

PART VI - PLAID

Summary: The showdown. Warnings/Tags: Again, awkward flirting, mentions of rape, violence, sexual innuendo, blood, small description of sexual assault. Characters/Pairings: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester/Female!Reader Word Count: 6,875 (whoops)

Darkness encroached on the parking lot’s dim lamplight, the vast, endless nothing oppressive, suffocating. As we stood behind the Impala, that great void loomed, and yet, a tenuous sense of resolution settled in the pit of my stomach. Stuffed to the gills, Sam’s duffel bag—endearingly coined the Bag of Ouch—thumped into the open trunk.

“Isn’t that… a little overkill?”

“It would be if we’d ever actually fought a succubus before,” Sam said with a resigned sigh.

“You know,” I started as I squinted up at him. “Sometimes, I wonder what is wrong with you.”

He pointed to his head. “Don’t worry. I know there are too many screws loose. I didn’t mean to scare you. I don’t want you going into this with any illusions of grandeur. We have no clue what we’re doing when it comes to these bastards. Books, hunter’s notes, the internet. Sure. But that’s why the bag is stuffed beyond full.”

When I looked from him to the bag and back, he shut the trunk. “So, we just have to try something and hope?”

“Essentially, yes. My bet is on decapitation,” he said. “No matter how fast you heal, you really can’t recover from that.”

“Bronze stake through the heart, Y/N,” Dean interrupted. “You know, if you don’t get a clear shot at…” he motioned to his throat with an execution gesture. “Plus, bronze doubles down on ancient metals. They’re not close enough to vampires or werewolves for silver to work. It’s—”

Castiel exited the motel then, and Dean’s teeth clicked shut mid-thought. Angular shadows played tricks on my eyes until Castiel stepped into the light, and I gasped. Blue, white, and gray plaid enveloped his shoulders, paired perfectly with his black jeans, black t-shirt, and Dean’s ill-fitting boots.

Beside me, Dean turned around, and his brow furrowed. “Is that—”

“No, this I bought myself,” Castiel explained. “I like blue. I think.”

Even in the near darkness, Dean’s cheeks reddened noticeably. “You should. Looks good on you.”

I imagined that, if angels could blush, Castiel would have. “Thank you.”

“Get a room.”

The back of my hand met Sam’s stomach as I scolded him. “Sh! Leave them alone.”

Dean’s eyes rolled so hard he gave Sam a run for his money. “What is it with you two? The man looks good in blue, and he should know that. Nothing even remotely suggestive.” He continued grumbling to himself as he rounded for the driver’s side of the Impala.

“Maybe that was too far,” I suggested as I glared at Sam.

He merely laughed as he turned for the car. “I disagree entirely, but I’ll back off. At least, until after this hunt.”

I turned to follow him, but then realized Castiel stood by himself. “You coming?”

Hand to his chest, he smoothed the plaid as he tugged it straight. “Do you agree?”

“With?” I asked.

“Dean. About blue plaid.”

Stuttered words stumbled from my mouth. Had he not seen the way Dean stared? Blushed? A brisk shake of my head cleared my thoughts. “First off, I think you should wear whatever makes you happy and comfortable. If that’s plaid, great. If not, that’s fine, too. Second, you can only control yourself. That’s something you probably already knew, but for some reason, humans take way too long to learn that. And third, blue looks great on you.”

He smiled then and followed me to the car. “This is much more difficult than I had anticipated.”

A bark of laughter burst from my chest. Before responding, I reached the rear passenger door and popped the handle. “Do you want my advice?”

“I abide by your expert wisdom, Y/N,” Castiel replied.

I clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Talk to him.”

Behind schedule, I allowed Castiel no time to respond and sidled into the backseat of the Impala. Once Castiel seated himself, Dean backed out of the lot, and the Impala roared to life as he laid into the accelerator, heading towards the grocer.

“I hate this plan.”

Sam situated the bronze stake up the right sleeve of my newly acquired leather jacket. Dissatisfied and yet resigned to the situation, he moved on to the machete holster concealed beneath the jacket. “I really hate this plan.”

“Do you keep saying that to make me feel better or to convince me to bail?” I asked as I shot a nervous glance down the hill. There, sandwiched between the grocery store and a craft store, sat Madam Drina’s Visions, an eerie purple glow emitting from the partially curtained windows.

Sam grunted under his breath. “I think it makes me feel better,” he replied as he shifted the machete on my back. “Practice reaching for the handle. It’s a very weird holster. I hate wearing it.”

In one smooth motion, I reached behind my hip, grasped the handle, and pulled. The blade freed from the scabbard in a sharp ring of steel that sang between the stone buildings surrounding us. “Okay, I’ve never done that before. That was really fucking cool.”

“It sure as hell looked cool,” Sam laughed, “And it makes me feel better. Now, we’ll be right outside, so you give us the signal if you get the slightest hint shit’s going sideways. Please do not hesitate to call.”

I lowered the machete back behind my hip to re-sheath it. A solid clunk thudded through my chest as the hilt met the scabbard, the blade concealed once more. “Looks like I won’t be going in anytime soon.”

Down the hill, no more than a quarter-mile, the distant ring of Madam Drina’s door chimed through the silent night air. That sound caught Sam’s attention, and he turned to the source where we both watched a woman lean into the darkness of night from her shop’s door. She greeted a patron as he approached, and without delay, invited him inside.

Sam turned back to me and said, “We’ll give it an hour. If he doesn’t leave by midnight, we’ll send you in then.”

Before I could say anything else, Dean burst from the car and stomped to the trunk where he planted himself on the bumper. His folded arms and crossed ankles warned me enough, but my boldness won the battle against caution.

“Hey,” I started as I neared the trunk. “You okay?”

Sam slid into the Impala’s seat, and Dean waited for the door to shut before he responded. “No. I’m not.”

Okay, I hadn’t expected that at all. “Alright, that’s refreshing. Keep going. What’s got your goat?”

He scoffed half a laugh at that, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and shook his head. Though he remained tightly wound, his arms eventually unfolded, and he reached for the hem of his shirt. There he found a familiar threadbare corner, and he continued to worry at it as he had so many times before.

“You ever…”

Silence. Only the chirping of real, honest-to-god crickets broke the still night air. A thousand-mile stare settled in Dean’s gaze, and though the darkness shrouded us both, a familiar conflict roiled beneath the surface of his outward façade.

“Do I ever… what?” I asked. “Catch myself thinking about someone for hours on end? Imagining the things I would say to them under different circumstances? Wondering how they would feel or what they would say in return?”

His eyes snapped to me, glaring from the corner while his head remained still. Another shiver ran up my spine, but the sensation vanished as soon as it had come. Dean looked back up the road, staring straight ahead. The start of a few sentences stuttered on his lips, his tongue. Each time he swallowed his words, he remained silent longer. Until he finally said, “Yes.”

“Which one?”

He plucked a stray string from the hem of his shirt and tossed it out before him. A gentle breeze caught the tuft of frayed cotton and carried it off to the sidewalk where it landed and stilled. Dean, too, sat still as stone for what felt like hours, staring straight ahead at nothing. But the gears churned between his ears, so loud I swore I could hear him thinking. All too familiar, I knew the imaginary situations that played out in his mind, scenario after scenario. Endless torture, that. No good in ruminating, in worrying what response you might get. I wanted to tell him all those things, but how much of a hypocrite would that make me? 

I wavered on the precipice of futility, that precarious knife’s edge where on one side, an infinite future spread as far as the eye could see and on the other stretched complete and utter nothingness. And yet, the longer I balanced on that deadly razor, my untimely end neared. Dean’s predicament had drawn out the worst of my subconscious. As I turned to regard Sam through the car, I swore a solemn oath, if only to myself, that I’d finally come clean. 

I stood then to do what I should have done months ago, but the moment my boots touched the concrete, the bell above Madam Drina’s door twinkled again, and Dean startled. He grabbed my shoulder and turned me to face him as he spoke, an insistent furrow to his brow.

“All of them,” he stated.

So lost in my head, I asked, “All of what?”

“What you said earlier,” he replied. “I’m constantly thinking about him, and I don’t know why. Besides you and Sam, Cas is my best friend, and I… I don’t know what to do.”

When I opened my mouth to reply, Sam exited the driver’s door, and Castiel followed not a beat later from the passenger’s side. I turned back to Dean and lowered my voice. “Just tell him.”

“What?!” he snarled under his breath.

“I’m serious,” I insisted in a thin hiss. “Tell him everything!”

When Sam rounded the end of the car, all rational thought fled. I’d made a promise to myself. And, in a way, to Dean, too. No way I’d go down as some plaster saint spouting hollow words in my final hours. Go big or go home.

Sam caught me. Barely, but that hardly mattered. When I had jumped, I knew I had leaped in faith, not in Sam’s ability to catch me—although I knew his arms were more than capable—but in his equal, mutual, maddening adoration for me. Like the heat of a summer’s noonday sun, his embrace smothered me. I soared too close to that roaring heat, and my plaster wings melted as I planted my lips on his.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you I can’t take my own advice.

“I am sorry, Dean.”

Castiel’s gruff apology ruined the moment. Almost. Sam squeezed me so tight to his chest and returned my kiss twofold despite our lack of privacy. But my eagerness to witness Dean and Castiel’s truth rivaled my endless exultation. I parted from Sam but remained in his arms as I looked over my shoulder.

Dean’s crooked eyebrow lowered as he turned from Sam and I to Castiel. “I know. But thanks,” he said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you two finished?” He turned back to Sam and I. “Can we go kill this son of a bitch succubus and get the fuck out of here?”

Forgotten. For one glorious, blissfully unaware moment, I’d forgotten that a creature as vile as a succubus could exist.

The four of us looked down the hill towards the shop where Madam Drina waved goodbye to her patron as he walked down the block to the east. “That looks like our window,” Dean stated.

Two worlds collided with that simple phrase. The reality I had dreaded all day loomed like the specter of an urban legend. A sudden hyper-awareness seeped into my skin, my bones, my soul. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and gooseflesh spread across my arms. The ceaseless ticks of my watch counted the last beats of my heart as though finite, and I knew too few remained. Like so many grains of sand, time slipped through my fingers no matter how I clung to them.

Still in his arms, I looked up to Sam, but he said nothing. Those three little words balanced on the tip of my tongue. But as my lips parted, Sam stopped me.

“I know. Me, too.”

That would have to do.

A dreaded chill replaced Sam’s embrace as I headed down the street to Madam Drina’s Visions.

“Hello?”

I’d expected Madam Drina to meet me at the door as she had her previous client. When a few minutes passed with no sign of her, I grasped the handle and swung the door wide. As I spoke, her doorbell’s chime faded, then struck again as the door closed behind me.

Incense suffocated the cramped space. Thick strands of smoke rolled like massive coils of so many snakes, crawling and gliding ever so slowly through the room in an endless drift. Gaudy furniture pressed in from all sides like banks of a river to guide souls to the room’s center. There sat an intimate, circular plinth covered by several ornate silk scarves, and on its center rested a large crystal ball.

Overhead, similar swaths of silk stretched from the corners to the center of the room directly above the plinth. From the center of the ceiling, numerous large crystals hung from delicate silvery chains. Despite the swirling smoke, those crystals remained poised, still as stone. Azure and amethyst and amaranth lights illuminated the walls from floor to ceiling, reflected in glittering crystals and the sizeable transparent ball on the plinth, completing Madam Drina’s incredible soothsaying display.

“Hello?”

Not even a hint of an echo. Slow steps bore me downriver, and I called out once more. “Madam Drina?”

I had done my best to prepare my senses, steel my nerves, and harden my resolve. Few women rivaled Madam Drina’s beauty. But when she entered the room through a thick layer of silk scarves across the room, death breathed its icy breath down my spine, and I shivered from head to toe.

Pale as the moon, Madam Drina glowed in the lamplight. Dark curls of midnight hair hung from her headwrap, and large almond eyes widened when she spotted me. A petite nose ended in a delicate slope upwards, and beneath it stretched plump lips painted so very red to reveal a brilliant smile. She opened her arms, dark linens billowing from her wrists and elbows, and showed a tightly bound dress of sanguine silk, satin, and chiffon. Around her neck wrapped a woven leather choker, and at its center sat a ruby the size of my thumbnail. From that ruby, three delicate leather straps of varying lengths and bearing tiny red stone droplets plunged to her deep neckline and settled just above her admittedly impressive cleavage.

I could hardly take my eyes off her. And not just out of fear for my safety.

“Good evening, my dear,” she cooed, her voice velvety smooth and throaty with a hint of her breath. “I apologize for my tardiness. I had to... powder my nose.”

The first wave of her power rolled through my chest, and the room shimmered in a blurry rush, but the sickening sensation passed in a single breath. When my focus returned, I found Madam Drina glaring daggers at me. But in a blink, her anger disappeared, and she motioned to the table.

“Please, sit. What would you like to know?” She crossed the space and sat in a plush, overstuffed chair on the plinth’s opposite side. The layers of her dress parted as she spread her knees to either side of the pillar and slid her chair closer. “Come, dear. Tell me what you see here,” she beckoned as she pointed at the crystal ball with a black, claw-like fingernail. “I can tell you what it means.” 

A nervous twitch of my hand checked the machete behind my hip. The cold bronze stake up my sleeve needed no such confirmation. As casually and confidently as I could, I strode to the empty chair and sat across from Madam Drina.

The second rush of power caressed my thighs, gentle as a lover’s touch. A heady aroma of oakmoss and elderberry flooded my nose, and once more, death breathed her icy chill down my neck. But again, the moment passed almost as if it had never happened. Disappointment twitched across Madam Drina’s intense gaze, her pale blue eyes flashing in frustration. And just as she had before, that display of emotion vanished, her calm countenance returned.

“You,” she drawled, “are better suited for cards.” A snap of her fingers vanished the crystal ball, clearing the plinth between us. I startled to feign surprise at such blatant use of magic, but I worried she saw through my ruse.

“Place your hand on the table,” she said as she smoothed the fabric. “Right here, my dear.”

Call it prescience, call it a sixth sense, hell, call it a woman’s intuition if that helps. Whatever it was, every fiber of my existence railed against the habit to lay my right hand on the table, and instead, I placed my left in the center with all the confidence I mustered.

Her long nails slipped beneath my palm and lifted my hand from the table. A scant inch from her nose, she examined my skin, fingers, and nails until she turned it over to scrutinize my palm. “Beautiful,” she purred, “so healthy. And strong.”

“You can tell that just by looking at my hand?” I asked.

The corners of her lips twitched, and she traced tantalizing trails along the lines of my palm with the pointed nail of her index finger. “That and much, much more.” She paused, her pale stare locked on mine. “But that is for another night. Cards. The cards will have the most insight for you tonight.”

Fight or flight. An opening squandered surely sealed my fate. Lost in thought, I noticed too late the creep of magic crawling along my arm, and when Madam Drina returned my hand to the covered plinth, death sang her siren’s call to me for the third time. That frigid touch of magic bound my hand to the table, frozen solid as a block of ice. A roiling surge in my stomach threatened to empty it there on the table, instinctual, primal. My final lucid moment chose flight.

As Madam Drina withdrew a deck of tarot cards from her waist wrap, I took my chance. Below the plinth, I slipped my right hand beneath the hem of my coat for my hip. There, the two-way radio’s textured button brushed beneath my fingers as I fumbled for my lifeline. But before I could press the button, Madam Drina held the deck out to me and spoke.

“Cut.”

As though a spun valve had released the pressure on my left hand, sensation returned to my fingers. I reached for the deck and stared Madam Drina directly in the eye. A rookie mistake, one I regretted immediately. Her piercing blue stare bored a hole straight into my soul, and my secrets laid bare. She knew. She saw straight through me, read me like an open book. Most of all, she knew that danger had found her that night. Too risky. I backed down from my radio and returned my right hand to my knee. With the left, I grabbed a large portion of the deck from her hand.

“Bold,” she commented as she placed the cards in her hand atop the cut. “But unsurprising.” The warmth of her touch covered mine on the table, only to seize in a flow of icy magic, chained once more. “I knew you would be an interesting read the moment I saw you.”

With ease, she moved my hand to the edge of the plinth. I tested my invisible restraint to no avail; that magical bond held fast. “Now,” she started, “I want you to think deeply about your being and how it has manifested itself thus far in the universe. Take your time. Connect with yourself. This may feel very new and even uncomfortable.”

To maintain pretenses, I did as she instructed. My gaze fell to the deck of cards where I drifted, unseeing. The room faded into an endless nothing, but within seconds, distant shapes formed in swirling clouds of dark smoke. As I neared them, they focused, solidified, and settled into my best friends. Castiel stood off to the side, his forlorn gaze staring across the nothingness at Dean, who stood beside Sam. And Sam’s appearance faded, opaque and wispy, where tendrils of smoke leached from him. Soon, he disappeared, and, though strange, I understood. I knew, without question, the meaning of that vision.

When Dean and Castiel remained, Dean gazed into the middle distance, and Castiel continued to stare at him.

“Ask your question.”

Madam Drina’s voice interrupted my thought, and in a wild, sliding rush, the room returned to focus around me. Her touch at my left hand, with her nimble fingers drawing delicate circles, elicited a well of sensations that itched beneath the surface, eager for release. But that ache was not alone. Death stalked in the shadows.

“You know what it is you seek, darling. Ask. Ask the universe your question, and the cards will tell you all you need to know.”

I heard myself speak before the thought had even formed in my mind. “How can I help my friend understand the truth?”

Madam Drina breathed in so deep, her chest swelled, and her eyes rolled back as they closed. “Ah, it is a man, no? A man you wish to… know the truth?”

“Yes,” I stated. “He deserves to know.”

“They all do,” she agreed as her gaze drifted to her hand atop mine. “They all should know the truth of a woman’s touch.”

Wait. What? “No, that’s… not—”

“Hush, dear,” she interrupted. “You have asked, and the cosmos will respond.” She lifted the first card from the top of the deck and turned it over. “Oh, how fascinating. You are not one to disappoint!”

A man hung from a tree by his ankle but rose above it against gravity. “The Hanged Man, inverted,” she said. “You are learning a new perspective on love. This man of whom you speak should know this, yes.”

But I knew The Hanged Man had many more meanings. Despite my question, I worried it related more to the situation at hand. I dodged sacrifice every second I lingered in Madam Drina’s presence.

She flipped the second card and hummed a knowing song. “The Seven of Pentacles, upright. You have long put work into this friendship. That is how you weather this storm. It will pay off with romance.”

The urge to contradict her nearly overcame my sensibility. Hard work, perseverance, and patience would see me through my encounter with such an abhorrent creature.

The third card flipped over, and Madam Drina hummed again as if she expected the result. “The Eight of Cups, inverted. You are learning the lessons of fear, sweetheart. Loneliness and loss are hard lessons, undoubtedly.”

Until that moment, I had held absolutely no faith in the power, ability, or knowing of tarot cards. But as I stared down that inverted Eight of Cups, my once unwavering disregard for tarot faltered. I feared not loneliness, but indecision. Inaction. Stagnation. I had to choose a path and commit to it before stalling at the crossroads got me killed.

Madam Drina grasped my left hand in hers and said, “You will see this through to your end, my dear. I know it.” She flipped over the fourth card and beamed with such pride I wondered if I had imagined her sense of danger earlier. “Strength, inverted!” she cried, almost a moan. “You shed your low self-esteem and insecurities, and are born again confident in love!”

No. What I relinquished in her presence was not insecurity, but fear. I stared Madam Drina dead in the eye again. I forced myself to meet her enraptured gaze of pure, unadulterated lust head-on and without fear any longer.

The fifth and final card flipped over with a snap of the cardstock. And that time, she cried out such a lascivious moan, I desperately wished to be anywhere else but in that room with her. “The Queen of Wands, upright,” she sighed. “You move forward with independence, confidence, and openness with your lover!”

In a brilliant flare of icy sorcery, Madam Drina lunged over the plinth and grasped me by the jaw. “You radiate power, sweetling. Do you not feel it?!” she breathed, oakmoss and elderberry filling my nose once more. “You should. You should experience the pleasures of such power. I can give that to you if you want. I can give you everything.”

Courage. The Queen of Wands symbolizes courage and individualism. To survive the encounter, I needed to believe in myself. Weak knees shook as I stood, the last of my willpower draining like water through a sieve. Madam Drina poured every ounce of her power into me, an unrelenting tidal wave. I wanted nothing more than to give in, surrender to her promises, and experience the culmination of that euphoria. And yet, the tiniest of voices, so thin and frail in the recess of my subconscious, forced its way to the fore of my mind and spoke of courage. Of righteous anger. Of life. Of love.

As Madam Drina pressed closer, her visage wavered, the mirage fading away to reveal her true form. Pale, purple skin stretched thin across her angular face, and endless black depths replaced the blue sapphires into which I stared. Long, curved horns smooth as obsidian protruded from her hairline where the skin crackled like broken earth to reveal tiny streams of violent purple energy flowing through her body.

“You will submit,” she ordered, “I own you now.”

Blood rushed past my ears with each furious beat of my heart, drowning out her words. The succubus continued to speak, continued to pour her delusions into my head. But I heard nothing, saw nothing. The last of my strength focused laser-like on the machete, and I reached behind my hip for the handle.

In a ring of metal and a flash of steel, I stripped the machete from its scabbard. The blade arched in a wild bid for her neck, and time stretched far too thin. Each second dragged, and the blade slid slowly, achingly, to its mark. Strike true, I begged. My life depended on it. God, please, let me strike true.

A sharp, earsplitting crack of thunder rang from the blade as it connected with the succubus’ long claws, her fingers against her neck blocking the machete. She smiled then, her long snakelike tongue darting out to lick her lips as she tore the weapon from my hand and tossed it to the floor beside her. “You will be such a pleasure to break.”

The bronze stake slipped from the sleeve of my jacket with a twitch of my wrist. Time raced to catch up, snapping back like a rubber band. I shoved the finely honed point to her chest, my entire body torqueing for all my strength, but in the final inch, the succubus screamed so loud, I collapsed to my knees. She flung me aside, and the stake flew from my hand to roll beneath a thick chest of drawers.  I tumbled with it, crashing into the dense oak, and pain lanced like lightning through my entire body. 

She screamed again, another furious screech that echoed impossibly through the shop. Windows rattled in their panes, and my hands snapped to my ears. The succubus stood then, and for the first time, I consumed her entire form. Heeled feet and slender ankles begged the eye up to the perfect curves of her sensuous hips that swayed as she strode to me and straddled my prone body. From the shiny golden gorget at her neck, delicate chains stretched along her pale skin, down her massive breasts, and capped small metal disks over her nipples. More delicate chains crossed along her soft stomach and wide hips, barely covering her sex with a flimsy gauze cloth that draped to the floor. Over her shoulder curled a wicked, seven-foot-long tail protruding from her spine at the top of her long, supple ass.

Lust, incarnate.

“You are inquisitive,” she purred. “I know what you are thinking. I know what they all think when they see my true form for the first time. You wonder.” She leaned over and reached for my throat. Adrenaline surged as I attempted to fight her off, but she pinned me to the floor with no effort at all. “You imagine. You fantasize,” she whispered into my ear. “I can give it all to you, and so much more.”

Her long, lithe fingers wrapped around my throat and gently squeezed. “This,” she started, “is what you crave. What you’ve wanted for years. To know endless pleasure by my hands of mastery. Agree, and I will give it to you. Fight, like you continue to do as you squirm your lithe little body beneath mine, and I will take it from you anyway.”

Darkness pressed in from all sides as my vision narrowed. Her grasp pressed ever so perfectly, and within seconds, I succumbed to the ceaseless nothing.

A thin shattering of glass and a sharp, shrill cry echoed through the emptiness like a distant memory. Light returned, and the room focused as I shook my head, but nowhere near fast enough. The succubus snatched me up from the floor like a child clutching a favored doll. Tiny diamonds of glass tumbled from my hair, my coat, and when she turned me about, I saw Sam and Castiel standing at the front of the shop, guns loaded for bare.

“Hand her over!” Sam barked. “Now!”

“Or what?” the succubus seethed. “You’ll shoot me? You’ll have to shoot her fir—”

“They might.” The thunk of the rifle at the back of the succubus’ head snapped my attention behind her. There, Dean glared at the end of his short barrel and said, “But I won’t.”

Another blinding flash of power roared through the room as everything happened at once. The succubus flung me from her arms, and I soared across the room to crash into Sam. We toppled together to the floor, and not a beat behind me, Dean and his shotgun followed. He rolled as he landed, but barreled into Castiel, who only just caught him.

An infuriating lilt of her humming pleasure caught us all off guard. “You brought men to defend you?” She howled with haunting laughter. “Maybe you are not so bright after all,” she simpered with a wave of her hand.

On pins and needles, I could only watch as Sam, Dean, and even Castiel reached for their heads, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. But just as I had resisted her magic, so did they. A few shakes of their heads and a breath later, Dean picked up his shotgun, Castiel aimed with his once more, and Sam helped me to my feet. As I stepped back, my heel kicked something hard, larger than the shards of glass strewn about the shop’s entry, but I dared not look down as the succubus advanced on us.

“Oh,” she mused as she took her sensuous rolling steps. “Your friends are strong, too. Stronger than you? Will I break all four of you? Together?”

“Back off, bitch.”

The crack of Dean’s shotgun exploded in the tiny shop, and my ears rang for several seconds before I heard more pealing laughter from the succubus. Rock salt lay scattered on the ground a foot before her as though it had hit an impenetrable wall. “You think you can just shoot me, Dean Winchester?”

Dean balked then, appearing shocked to hear his own name. “No. You don’t know me. Don’t even pretend like you do.”

“Oh, but I do,” she said as she stepped once more. In that second, her skin shimmered and shifted until it transformed into a dark suit, blue tie, and tan trench coat. “I know everything about you.”

Her eyes turned brilliant emerald green as they snapped to Castiel. “And you. The disgraced angel, Castiel, who once tempted the fate of the entire world by becoming God. The things I would love to do to—”

“Shut it,” Sam hissed as he raised his shotgun.

The succubus looked at the rock salt at her feet, then back to Sam. “What makes you think your gun will work after his didn’t?”

“I’m not packin’ rock salt, honey,” he stated. “Now back up.”

“My dear Sam, do not make me…” her voice clipped short as she hesitated, then her coat and suit shifted to match my own outfit. She turned to me, and her clothing twisted into Sam’s burnt orange jacket. “Well, aren’t I a lucky girl?” Her clothing vanished in a shiver befitting a burlesque dancer. “Four pining souls all desperate for pleasure. You’ve come to the right place. I think I’ll start with you.”

When the succubus pointed, Dean choked as though on cue. His shotgun dropped from his hands and clattered to the floor, and though it was within reach, I dared not move. Sam and Castiel raised their rifles to shoot, but a flippant wave of her free hand sent them flying into the opposite wall of the shop. They crashed into the ornate furniture in a hail of wood and metal, then collapsed beneath the rubble. Where Sam had slumped motionless, Castiel remained conscious, but he struggled to do even that.

“Cas, you hold on!” Dean choked. “Y/N, help him!”

With a subtle shift in her pointing hand, Dean rose to the tips of his boots, barely touching the floor. I alone remained standing, but mine was no longer the only life on the line. Once more, I stood at the crossroads and had to commit to a path.

I dropped to the floor for the rifle, and no sooner than my hands graced the stock, it sailed across the room. “Dean goes first,” the succubus declared. “Then once I’m through with him, I’ll break Sam. And then you.” She turned back to Dean. “While your big, dumb men watch.”

“Don’t you touch them!” Dean choked as he clawed at his neck. The tips of his boots scraped the floor where the succubus dangled him. “I’ll fucking kill you if you lay a single finger on any of them!” 

One heeled foot stepped in front of the other as the succubus closed the space between her and Dean. “Your brother was supposed to be my king. Did you know that?” she breathed. “You could be my king, and I’ll serve you however you see fit. I’ll leave her alone. I’ll leave Sam alone. I’ll even leave dear, sweet Castiel alone.”

She looked to Castiel, who stumbled through the rubble to rouse Sam’s motionless body. “Look at him. Bumbling fool,” she hissed. “What do you see in him that you don’t see in me? I can give you so much more.”

Dean tried to choke out another retort, but her invisible grip at his throat tightened. When she reached him, she pressed her entire body against his, and a virulent wave of power roared to life around them, crackling like fire but dark as night. A violently lewd shiver coursed through her, running from shoulder to tail as she moaned, and Dean’s face turned a putrid shade of green I had never seen on a human before. “Aw, you don’t like being choked? Poor thing. You’re missing out. I can teach you to love it.” Her long forked tongue teased at Dean’s jaw, and she moaned again as he jerked his head away from her violently.

In one infinitesimal second, horrors unlike any I had experienced before flashed before my mind’s eye. In the next breath, those terrible visions faded in a haze of red, insatiable bloodlust. No coherent thought penetrated that curtain of rage, that raw, unbridled fury, and I committed for the third and final time that night.

Fast as lightning, I lunged. My machete lay where I had unknowingly kicked it not minutes earlier. In an odd twist of fate, it had come to rest in a place so perfect. I could not have picked it ahead of time, given a chance. In a move that put Neo to shame, I rolled through the wild dive for the machete and sprang to my feet, armed. Distracted so by her prey, the succubus turned too late to defend herself. And I wasn’t about to let her get the last word before I snuffed out the wick that was her pathetic existence.

“Choke on this, you sick son of a bitch.”

Steal sang through the air, harmony to the melody of my frenzied scream, and sliced through her skin, sinew, and bone like a hot knife through butter. A fine black mist of demon blood billowed from the strike, covering my face. As the succubus’s decapitated head and body dropped to the floor in a resounding thud, a thin arc of demon blood lanced across Dean’s chest, and he vomited.

He continued to wretch until Castiel rushed from the heap of broken furniture and wrapped one arm around Dean’s back as the other cupped his forehead. Dean gasped, plunged so suddenly beneath the icy waves of healing. But as quickly as Dean’s nausea had come on, it passed in the wake of Castiel’s touch, and he stood tall once more. When Dean nodded in reassurance, Castiel headed back for Sam as he stirred to life in the rubble.

Black runnels of thick blood ran in rivulets down the blade of my machete. White knuckles yet clutched the hilt, and a moment passed before reality, dancing at the edges of my consciousness, sank in. Those were my knuckles, stiff and shaking under straining muscles. A freak spasm snapped my fingers apart, and the blade thumped to the floor.

“Hey,” Dean started as he neared me. “Keep it together, Y/N. You did what you had to do. Look at me. Focus on me.”

Lingering bouts of rage trickled through my blood and rendered my mind near useless. Dean’s lips moved, but I hardly heard a sound, his voice muted. That suffocating rage dragged me down like a treacherous undertow. I did my best to read his lips. Did what you had to. Look. Focus. He pointed two fingers at me, at my eyes, then at himself.

I only noticed Castiel had returned with Sam in tow after Dean had turned to ensure they were alright. A short, muted conversation passed between them, but when Sam spotted me, he closed the remaining space between us and asked, “Do you want to leave?”

The silence shattered, and I heard his voice clear as a bell. But with that clarity came understanding. My stare had unwittingly fallen on the lifeless body, once virile and full of limitless power, sprawled on the floor, her head a few feet away. Even in death, the overt lust of the succubus imposed, branding my mind with an indelible memory I begged to forget.

And then she was gone, blocked by Sam’s broad shoulders and towering frame. “Cas and Dean can handle the body,” he said as he reached for me. I recoiled, an unbidden reaction that surprised even myself. A pained frown I never wished to see again knotted Sam’s brow. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry you went through this alone. It was a terrible plan—”

He choked on his words as I lunged into his arms again, and he remained quiet as he held me. In that moment of silence, I wanted nothing more than to scream, to take out every ounce of my furious hatred for that abomination on her corpse. But the longer I breathed in Sam’s embrace—free of any oakmoss or elderberry, thank Christ—that righteous rage subsided.

“Jesus. No wonder men just fall into their laps,” Dean commented.

I looked past Sam to find Dean and Castiel looming over the body of the succubus.

“I never understood why God created humans to be so…” Castiel paused as he neared the head. “So…”

“Simple?” Dean asked. “So easily fooled? So… basic?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes.”

Dean managed a chuckle at that. “I wish I knew, too.” He paused as he stared at her for one lingering moment. “I hate everything about this. Let’s torch the body outside of town and get the hell out of here.” He tossed a heavy burlap bag at Castiel.

“Why do you hate them so much?” Castiel asked as he caught the bag.

“Because,” Dean grunted, “it’s not fun if it’s not consensual. And if there’s one thing a succubus gets off on most, it’s an extreme lack of consent. And that is fucking gross.”

As Sam led me to the shop’s front door, I glimpsed the tiniest reassured smile on Castiel’s face. And then I understood.

The tarot cards had been right all along.

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LONG JACKET MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[ashesonthefloor]

all that counts is here and now (my universe will never be the same) part two

summary: Michael bumps into the cute pet store worker named Calum and develops a crush. hijinks and lots of pining ensue. did I mention this was a soulmate au? title taken from Glad You Came by the Wanted, part one can be found here, ao3 link here

content rating: PG-13 (cursing, a couple sex jokes because it’s Michael, and some sweet fluff)

A/N: here’s part two to my pining Malum soulmate fanfic. this one actually has all the fluff so I’m sorry it’s shorter oops. part one can be found here

The pet shop really wasn’t that far from the cafe they’d stopped at. So it took him maybe ten minutes to walk there. The entire time, he was planning over what he’d say in his head. Would he be romantic? Would he sweep him off his feet? Dip him back and tell him he was all he was thinking of? Would he-

He pushed the door open with much more force than necessary, watching Calum jolt upward behind the counter. Calum gave him a relieved smile when he saw who it was. “Oh, Michael-“

“You asshole.” And, well, that wasn’t what he’d been planning on.

Calum looked startled. “What?”

“You knew this entire time and just let me be a fucking idiot-“

He could see the gears turning in Calum’s head before it clicked and he realized what he was talking about. “I thought you didn’t like me, you tried avoiding me all the time.”

“You’re an asshole.” He frowned at him, losing most of his annoyance in the face of Calum’s clear trepidation. He looked...nervous. Kind of like he was worried that Michael was seriously angry. Fuck. That wasn’t what he was going for.

“I’m sorry,” Calum said, starting to frown.

Michael shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Really. I guess I could’ve asked.” Calum looked relieved now that Michael didn’t seem like he was going to bite his head off. “However-“ Calum looked slightly nervous again, unsure where he was going. “-you’ll actually be an asshole if you don’t let me take you on a date. And let me meet Duke.”

Calum grinned. Another one of those absolutely gorgeous, ear-to-ear smiles that made his eyes light up. Michael was in love with him again. “You have a deal. I get off around six?” He fumbled around looking for something for a moment before passing Michael his phone. Michael went ahead and put in his number.

“Great. Where do you, uh, want to go?” He wanted to wine and dine him. Maybe 69 him, depending on how the evening went. He couldn’t resist the joke, even in his own head. He’d stay classy though. He wanted this to work out.

Another gorgeous smile from Calum. Sly this time. “What about Alfredo’s?”

Michael threw a hand over his heart dramatically. “A man after my own heart. Alfredo’s sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there around seven?” 

Calum gave him a smile. A sweet smile. A sweet I-like-you-even-though-you’re-a-dork smile. “That’s the goal. I’ll see you there.”

-----

Michael spent the rest of the evening nervously pacing his apartment. He took a shower, obviously, since he didn’t want to stink. And he put on deodorant no less than three times, just in case he’d somehow sweated it off. And he put on just a hint of cologne. He could practically hear Ashton’s stupid voice in his head telling him to relax. Which was extra annoying because imaginary-Ashton was right. This would go fine. Calum liked him or he would’ve said no. Right? Yes. Hopefully. Maybe. Probably. Possibly. 

Calum looked gorgeous when they finally did meet up. Absolutely gorgeous. He had never seen such a handsome fucking person in his entire life and he told Calum as much, which just made him laugh. And he was pretty sure he was in love with him already. 

The date went spectacularly. Michael has never been as happy as he was curled up in a back booth with his soon to be future husband while Calum teased him for ordering Hawaiian pizza even though it was literally the greatest pizza known to man. He was just...happy. For the first time in a long time. 

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“Fuck you, I don’t hog the covers too much,” Michael argued with his mouth full of food. Calum rolled his eyes where he was sitting next to him on the couch, Ashton and Luke’s laughter clear through the speaker on his phone. 

“You wish. And you do,” Calum said easily. “You’re the worst. You snuggle into me like a giant affectionate cat and then steal my fucking blankets. You’re cat Judas, that’s what you are.”

Michael makes an affronted noise, fork full of Chinese takeout paused in the air where it had been heading towards his mouth. “I am not a cat. You take that back. And I wouldn’t have to steal the covers if you’d put more on the bed. But nooooo, it's all ‘I’m too warm, Michael’ and ‘you sweat in your sleep’. Now you can be cold and suffer.” He ate his bite of food and actually swallowed first this time before sticking his tongue out at Calum. 

“It’s not my fault you’re evil in your sleep. You are so a cat.” He turned back to the phone. “How are you guys, though? Everything going okay?”

Partway into Luke’s answer about their perfect life, Michael zones out. It’s not his fault. He just has more important things to think about. Like Calum. And Calum’s ass. And how much he wants to marry Calum. It’s been about a year since the whole soulmate debacle and, since then, he’d learned what the stupid numbers meant. (“Those?” Calum had asked, clearly amused by Michael’s initial assumption. “My birthday is the 25th of January, 1996. 1-25-1996.” And just like that, Michael had felt stupid.) He wanted to marry Calum’s mean little ass. He wanted to marry him because, even if he was neater than Michael, and made him wash his whites separately, and insisted on eating less pizza, he was perfect. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with him and teasing him for being a neat freak and needing the duvet to match the sheets and for lighting incense anytime anything went wrong. 

So he got up, more abruptly than he’d meant it to be, and wandered off. “Michael?” Calum called out after him, cutting Ashton off mid sentence. “Where are you going, babe?” He didn’t bother answering, just came back a couple moments later with the important article in his hand. 

“Hang up,” he said, already feeling nerves settle in. 

“What?” Calum asked, confused. “Babe, Ashton was telling me about his coworker-“

“Please?” Michael gave him puppy dog eyes and that, combined with how serious he was being for once, seemed to sway Calum over. 

“Fine, fine. Yeah, I’m gonna have to go. I’ll call you guys back later?” Ashton and Luke have their affirmations, having heard some of their conversation, and hung up. “Mikey, what’s-“

“I love you,” Michael said, cutting him off before he lost his nerve. God. Calum better not say no. “More than anything in my life. I love you. I knew I loved you when I made you laugh so hard and a noodle shot out your nose and ended up on my plate the one time we tried to go somewhere fancy. And I think some part of me has loved you since we met. I told Ashton the first time we talked that you were the love of my life and I wanted to propose to you. He suggested three diamonds.” Michael shifted down onto one knee. “And I really only just...thought about doing this seriously, but I’ve been considering it for months. So I don’t have a proper ring, or diamonds, or anything you really deserve just yet. But Calum Thomas Hood, will you marry me?” Michael held up the red ring pop, expression still serious. 

Calum’s eyes, which were brimming with tears, zeroed in on the ring pop and he let out a (maybe watery) laugh. “I can’t believe you’re proposing to me with a fucking ring pop, Michael Gordon. But yes. Fuck yes.” He cupped Michael’s face and kissed him hard, wet eyelashes brushing against his cheek. And Michael really couldn’t wish for a better life, or a better man to spend the rest of it with. 

[jaspers-levis]

Episode Seven

Episode seven: Do you shed?

You sat still for a moment, looking into his eyes in the dim porch light and seeing only honesty. Trust would not come that easily to you, but for now you felt reassured that he did not plan on hurting you in the immediate future. Paul appeared to be nothing but earnest, and Sam and Emily backed his character. It had to be enough for now.

“I accept your apology, and it’s not like you could know. It’s not something I like to talk about,”  you started to get up and Paul was on his feet in one fluid movement, helping you up with a surprisingly delicate touch. “How about we go inside and we can talk about how the fuck you can turn into a wolf over dinner?”

Paul ducked his head and grinned wryly. “Yeah, I suppose,” he chuckled, allowing you to gather your laptop and mug before leading the way into your little house. You flipped on lights as you went, flooding the space with warm light and revealing your home with no small amount of nervous pride. You’d worked hard on the place and it was important to you that every small detail was yours. He looked around curiously as you entered the main kitchen and living space, seeming all the larger for the cramped quarters of the space but also at home. God, Paul looked good in your house…

You put your laptop down on the kitchen table and out of the corner of your eye you saw one of your bras hanging off the chair in plain view. Quickly you tried to grab it discreetly and chuck it into the laundry room before Paul could see; you missed his smirk when you turned away. “Well? How is it you can turn into a wolf?” you demand, trying to ignore the flush that rose up from your neck. You open the fridge to grab some ground hamburger and the garlic; spaghetti it is tonight.

“Long story,” Paul sighed, grabbing a knife from your knife block and took the garlic from your hands, beginning to chop it with the practice of someone who’d done it many a time before. Comfortably the two of you began to prepare the meal in silence, and it was only until the pasta was boiling and the meatballs frying before Paul spoke again. “Our tribe has a legend that long ago, a great evil threatened our people. They called them the Cold Ones…” Paul went on to flesh out the legend, speaking of how his people had been gifted with the ability to turn into wolves to protect their lands and people against them. “Unsurprisingly the ability is genetic, though the expression of the ability is usually catalyzed by the appearance of Cold Ones. Vampires, as you might more commonly know them.” Paul flicked an uncertain glance your way and you made an incredulous face, which made him laugh. “Trust me, they’re more real than you think. A girl from Forks recently up and left with the last clan of the bastards to come through here, which is why I, Sam, Jake and the rest all are able to transform. Though the vampires have left, we still patrol to protect our people, our families.”

You were silent while you mulled all of this over. Had you not just seen your crush flip from wolf to human as easy as a light switch not thirty minutes ago, you think you would have a harder time believing him. It was an absolutely incredible story, though to most it would seem like a lunatic’s ravings, you believed him. “So…” you pursed your lips, unsure of what to say. Paul watched your face with uncertain eyes.  “Do you shed?”

He laughed out loud, tossing his head back with surprise. His laugh was so warm you found yourself laughing too, bumping his hip with yours and feeling the extreme heat from your brief contact lighting your skin on fire. “Hey, it’s a serious question! I gotta know if I need a better vacuum before I have a wolf coming over all the time,” you joke, stirring the pasta sauce.

Paul rolled his eyes, leaning back against the counter and watching you with a crooked grin. “No, I do not shed. Besides, why on earth would I be a wolf in the house?”

“I dunno. I’m sure it’s happened to someone at some point,” you shrug. “Do you dream of chasing rabbits?”

“Oh come on, enough with the dog jokes,” he snorted and darted forward to tickle you, pinning you playfully against the fridge. Your heart leapt for just a second before you realized that Paul had you in the lightest of holds, you could escape at any time. Instead, you giggled and wrestled with him like you never had with your ex, laughter filling the kitchen. After a few moments, he had your arms against your sides, and paused as you both realized how close you were. Both of you were breathing hard, flushed from the heat that emanated from his body; his eyes dropped obviously to your lips…

The pot of noodles on the stove boiled over in that moment with a hiss and the two of you sprang apart as quickly as if you’d been caught by a parent, blushing heavily. Paul swallowed audibly as he swiftly dumped the noodles into a colander in the sink, avoiding your gaze. You shivered once, realizing how closely you’d been to kissing Paul. Your ex had never looked at you in that way, even in the beginning. He’d never looked at you like Paul did, as if kissing you was the thing he most wanted to do in the entire world, as if his last request on earth would be the touch of your lips on his. It frightened you immensely…

But it tempted you even more.

[advernia]

fic: you make home sound like a distant memory

— the pieces fray around the edges, and the center has lost its warmth. - pre-game: a somber tale about a family with crimson blood.

1: draft turned fic turned welp, looks like i'm not writing anything else till this is done oh my god, what is this hot mess even - 2: dear @ikerev-appreciation pls forgive me but uhh does it still count as a jonah week entry even if jonah shares the spotlight with his family ksjksjd;;

o n e .

"... I wish we didn't look so alike."

"But we don't! I may look fantastic, but rest assured - I pale in comp arison to your delicate, angelic features!"

His birth is a celebration, not much of the congratulations on the safe delivery of your firstborn child kind, but more of the congratulations on giving birth to a boy kind of celebration. He's a plump babe swaddled within layers of fine cotton with little hair on his head and no teeth to speak of, but people stare at him with the intensity of the summer sun and smiles painted on their faces, as if he were the grandest being they had ever laid their eyes on.

Every feature of his, no matter how tiny and yet to be developed, comes out drizzled in honey from many mouths: the fullness of his cheeks (it's not fat, how dare you, it's a sign of good health), the curves of his little lips (they're as red as rogue, how adorable), the hue of his eyes (they have the beauty of pure molten gold), and the descriptive list gets longer and longer.

The only word everyone seems to have in common is heir.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

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Two years and long grueling hours later, in comes another swaddled babe: he was born at the very moment the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace. In fact, that's the color soft wisps of hair on his head seem to have taken - in total, he's a bundle of full cheeks, curved reddish lips, and dark-colored hair.

The celebration that follows after his birth is a small affair limited within the walls of his home, and the only ones who take hold of him with such warmth are his grandfather and a boy with silver hair. The former smiles at the sight of a small black dot set under his right eye and mumbles something about the mark of a Clemence, while the latter just stares at him in complete awe, stars bursting forth from eyes that were wide open.

Behind the old man and the child went hushed whispers, the word insurance hanging heavy in the air.

He's barely two days old and he doesn't understand what that means at all, so he starts crying.

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"You'll have nothing to fear now, for I'm accompanying you! Aren't you glad we're going together?"

"What's there to be glad about when I'm going to be stuck with you?"

Children will be children like boys will be boys.

Come spring they run around a grand forest, chasing butterflies and gathering all sorts of things like little explorers lost in an expedition. They make sure to steer and hide away from any obstacles that come their way, like those terrible women in long black skirts who shout out their names and try to lure them out with the prospect of food. The biggest evil though is the great wizard: he's super thin, has graying hair, puts a super shiny monocle under his left eye, grows a bushy mustache with its tips pointing perfectly upwards, and worst of all knows how to use two dangerous words to complete his magic spell - the names of their parents.

Summer is too hot for exploring and the heat outside makes everything sweaty and sticky and it feels gross. So instead, they link their hands together to embark in a thorough search for their grandfather within the large halls and grand rooms of the mansion - he's always in the library though, sitting by the couch near the window and reading some book. When they come in, grandfather urges them to sit and off the three of them go as a tale is brought to life in words: they emerge in battlefields, countries, and in mystical places that a man called the Queen of Hearts had all stepped on once upon a time. Uninterrupted, they venture well until lunchtime.

Fall is boring because they can't go out and under the command of their parents, the great wizard has summoned his disciples to keep them apart - they're made to practice all sorts of things, read a lot of thick books, listen well to whatever's being taught, and the disciples don't take no for an answer even if they cry and beg. It's really, really boring and sometimes when they look out the window, they think about how much better it was to spend time being an explorer or listening to grandfather's stories instead.

Winter's a bit better because even if they still go through their very boring lessons, their grandfather saves the half of the day by leading both of them by the hand to go into his room. In there they can do whatever they want, and grandfather just watches over them with his wrinkly eyes. He coughs often and spends most of the time in bed though, so before doing anything else the both of them make sure that their grandfather's all warm and cozy and has a glass of warm water ready by his bedside table.

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The old man smiles warmly at them - he smiles at the young child with silver hair, whose hands were always open for a smaller one to slip in and hold onto. He smiles at the little boy with dark hair, whose hands were always searching for a larger hand to hold on to.

Slowly he closes his tired eyes and focuses on the sound of boyish laughter, filling the four corners of the room.

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By the end of winter, any trace of joy that laughter has left in the mansion, in the library, and in their grandfather's room, has promptly flown away.

The young child and the little boy huddle close to each other as they stood over clumps of snow, mittened hands tightly linked together as they stared at a headstone bearing their grandfather's name.

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"Why are you here? Go away, go back, go home, and don't ever think about visiting me again!"

"Your shyness is adorable as always! But you don't need to hold back for my sake - now, give me a hug!"

Things in the mansion change a lot shortly after their grandfather had gone into a deep, deep sleep.

They're pulled away from each other like how their rooms are now on separate floors. Everyday they're seated far apart from each other on the dining table, strictly forbidden to sit beside each other. The disciples increase in number and strange people visit often, eyes set on their every move and mouths always having something to say about them both. Their parents forbade them from going out unless necessary, that order becoming something sharp and biting and absolute. But the most horrible thing of all is that they're no longer allowed to spend their days in each other's company.

No more exploring together, no more searching for four-leaf clovers together. No more sneaking into each other's rooms late at night, no more reading books together under the covers. No more creeping into the kitchen to get their favorite snacks, no more midday or afternoon teatime together. No more shopping together, no more walking around town together.

No more, no more.

No more together.

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The young child tries, though. He tries his best to find a way out, to slip past the great wizard and his disciples and all those strange people and their parents' rules. He especially tries his very best at night. He tries to find the best time to slip out of his room unnoticed and run across the hallway to the stairs leading to the first floor, to go down those steps and head towards the left wing, to pass through many, many doors until he reaches that one door.

The little boy needs him. He's sure that no one in the mansion know about the nightmares the little boy has, about how lonely he can get in the middle of the night. No one knows of that one doll he likes to hold at night. He bets that no one, not even their parents, know about the lullaby too; from the words to the tune and up to how to sing it properly. He's the only one who can do it. He's the only one.

He has to keep trying. He'll handle any punishment, any lecture, any scolding, any added hours of study and practice, any confinement; he'll handle anything, if only, if only, if only -

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The young child's efforts eventually pay off but sadly only at nighttime, but he figures that's a start. And so he develops a habit of sneaking out of his room come midnight just to sing to the little boy until every tear has dried, until the little boy's eyes were firmly closed shut and breathing takes on its steady rhythm.

When he turns around to leave, a small hand subconsciously reaches out to him like a lifeline; tugging at his sleeve or clinging to his fingers.

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The young child takes hold of the little boy's small hand and squeezes it gently.

It feels like a lifeline, too.

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"You don't need to stand there! Come on, there's an empty seat right beside me!"

"Ugh, no way. I'd rather stand for five hours straight rather than to be seen sitting beside you."

The day when the young child turned eight and the little boy was six served as the universe's way of pointedly reminding them of who and what they were; of what their own family and perhaps the whole country saw them to be.

It was certainly a birthday to be remembered.

Seated at the head of a grand table and surrounded by all the grandeur money could possibly offer to an eight-year-old, there sat no young child with tears streaming down his face but there was only Jonah Clemence, the firstborn son and heir of the Clemence family's proud crimson bloodline and the future Queen of Hearts of the Red Army.

And although it was never planned for someone to sit there in the first place, seated by the very foot of the grand table was a little boy and his name was Luka.

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Heir.

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Insurance.

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Ah -

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- so that's what the word meant.

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t w o .

"Remember that I'm always waiting to welcome you back home with open arms."

"... You don't need to do that any longer. I'm never going back."

Because Jonah Clemence realized that he was no longer a young child the same way Luka had accepted that he was no longer a little boy, the world and the society around them began to change, too.

Those women in long black skirts are simply maids, the great wizard and his disciples are the head butler and their tutors, respectively. People who claim to work out of respect and reverence to the Clemence family's name, but all those claims pale in comparison to the lovely clink of a coin.

The strange people who come in and out of the mansion and continue to do so were a toss of either their relatives or nobles of lower standing. Over time, there was no need to differenciate both, simply because there was no lesser evil between two parties that wore masks for a living and wagged tongues painted a shimmering silver.

The library is left untouched but the couch that their grandfather used to sit on has been replaced for something finer, something that doesn't smell of youthful adventure and heroic romances. It's gone and so is their grandfather's bedroom, the sanctuary where they tasted freedom once upon a time.

Lessons take broader shapes and extensions, demanding more attention and a sharper mind. The hilt and weight of a sword has made itself known to them as well, introduced to them by no one else but by the Queen of Hearts himself, their father.

What they used to call the grand forest was in truth the mansion's spacious gardens - the cobblestone pathways and the secret clearings they used to run through back and forth for days become unfamiliar when they stand at the center of it all and it's filled with tables and silverware, with guests sipping away at exquisite tea and specially made cakes laid out for their choosing.

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The chill of winter has long left every hallway and it's already the middle of summer, but the mansion and everything else in it never grew any warmer.

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"I don't want your help. I didn't ask for your help. Now leave me alone."

"Hush! Do you honestly think I would do something so heartless when I can see you suffering!?"

It was impossible for Luka to stand in the same limelight where Jonah Clemence stood, and that was alright.

Jonah Clemence was the heir after all, and he was to be the Queen of Hearts someday. He's young for now but once he grew up, he was going to be an upstanding noble and a honorable soldier, and everyone else would look up to him. He'd do all sorts of good deeds, go to places far away, win lots and lots of battles with his trusty sword at his side, and would do anything to protect anyone from evil.

But that was Jonah Clemence.

Everyone only saw Jonah Clemence but Luka could also see someone else - that's because before Jonah Clemence became the Jonah Clemence, he was first and foremost Luka's one and only big brother: he was brave for still sneaking into Luka's room at night, smart and quick whenever he would help Luka study without anyone knowing. He paid close attention to whatever Luka had to say, he was kind enough to guide Luka into reading the music notes for a violin piece. He was also patient and understanding to boot - he never got mad at Luka, ever.

But the best thing about Luka's big brother was that he didn't force himself to be perfect like Jonah Clemence was.

Luka's big brother allows himself to cry because he's so tired, allows himself to get frustrated and complain about all those adults and those tea party invitations. He allows himself to be sad because he hasn't been able to see Luka around much, allows himself to get angry because father had been very strict during sword practice. And even though he's older than Luka, he can also act so childish and lazy.

Sometimes Luka wished that everyone else could see his big brother in Jonah Clemence, too.

Because while Jonah Clemence was Luka's hero, Luka's big brother was the person Luka loved the most.

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Being second son meant not bearing any of the responsibilities that came with being the Clemence heir and for Jonah, that was a relief.

The heir had to show the best of himself at all times, presenting no sign of weakness but only strength. He was someone no one could look down upon, someone who could command respect by people hearing the sound of his name. Emotions should never get in the way of the heir's judgement because once he lets just a shred of that in, people will start doubting his power and will take advantage of him immediately.

And that was just being heir.

Being the Queen of Hearts on the other hand was a legacy engraved in the heir's blood, a distinction of glory and the very purpose why he has been brought into the world. The Queen is the paragon of a steadfast loyalty to the King of Hearts, and the Queen is the only one worthy of being called the King's second-in-command. The Queen was second best to the King, but that didn't make him any lesser: he is incredibly strong, righteous, and if ever the King were to be led astray; the Queen would be the first one who would lead the King back into the right path.

Jonah wouldn't - couldn't, shouldn't - allow Luka to shoulder those burdens.

Every responsibility weighed too much, expected too much. And Luka - his sweet, oh-so-sweet little brother with the warmest smile in the world and a heart of shining gold - doesn't deserve to experience any of that. Those small ears don't need to hear constant criticism, flowery words with knives underneath, or stinging whispers. Those kind eyes don't need to see cold faces and fake smiles. That gentle voice shouldn't speak words that people expect to hear. That tiny body didn't need to feel itself breaking from the pain of all those slaps, kicks, fists, bruises and scars.

And that beautiful heart certainly didn't need to break and turn to stone from the pressure, from all the difficult things the heir and the future Queen of Hearts had to go through.

Being the Clemence heir and taking on the mantle of the Queen of Hearts are the very pillars of Jonah's life, but -

- being the older brother who would do anything to protect the world's most precious little brother was important to him too.

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"Trust me - I would do anything to protect you."

"... Why are you always like this?"

Winter wasn't the best season for them, simply because it was the season when their grandfather died. When he passed away with that soft smile on his thin lips, whatever scraps of freedom they were able to savor went along with him as well; carefully placed in an ornate casket and buried six feet under the ground, nestled around a protective magic barrier for good measure.

And now their parents were giving them another reason to dislike winter.

In the dead of the night and under the light of the full moon, Luka lets out a valley of tears that stream down his cheeks and fall onto his silk bedsheets - the drops fall to the pace of skip counting, going one, three, eight, fifteen, twenty-three, and Jonah can't stop all that with just the long sleeves of his shirt. Luka's cries are hiccupped sobs; broken little pieces, strangled wails of sorrow, warbled watery pleas of don't go, don't go, please don't leave me here alone, please oh please, don't go.

Each sob is as soft as the winds that blow against the windows of the room, but each sound resonates loudly through Jonah's being - it echoes and deafens the ears, slips past all his defenses just to repeatedly stab at his skin and to seep onto every open pore, barges inside just to punch both his lungs and constrict the heart in a vice-grip that leaves him breathless.

It hurts. It really does.

When he's rendered useless, there's nothing much left to do but wrap his arms around his little brother with the hope that whatever strength he had left would keep them both steady.

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But it doesn't.

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When both their eyes have finally run dry, Jonah raises one of his calloused pinkies to link with one of Luka's own.

He solemnly promises that on his honor as Jonah Clemence, heir to the Clemence family and the future Queen of Hearts, he would write a letter every day to his one and only little brother Luka Clemence; no matter how busy or tired he would be by the end of the day. Whenever the opportunity presents itself and if he is also permitted to do so, Jonah Clemence would go back home just to visit Luka Clemence. Also, if Jonah Clemence would find anything interesting, just anything at all; he would make sure to bring it home so he could show it to Luka Clemence.

It's the first and the longest vow that Jonah has ever spoken. His throat is all tingly and his voice doesn't just come out right but Luka heard every last word, down to that last hiccup.

Luka squeezed that one calloused pinky firmly as he possibly could.

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Jonah Clemence wasn't a liar.

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Luka's big brother wasn't a liar.

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So he would definitely keep his promise.

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t  w  o .

There's this young boy surrounded by cold adults in a big mansion, but each morning

he does his best to wake and rise early to look out past the mansion's windows,

because he was going to wait for a letter to arrive.

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The young boy knows he's being a bit silly because,

the letter wouldn't arrive that early!

Still, he wanted to wait.

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And the young boy did wait, until the sun had fully risen up to hang in the sky -

while waiting, he went through the motions of his typical every day,

but this time, he looked out the window more often.

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Someone important to him had gone away, you see -

but before that person left,

they made a promise.

.

Now that the young boy thought about it, that person -

he never said how exactly would he have

his letters delivered.

.

All the young boy knew was that after reading a letter and writing a reply,

he would secretly deliver his reply to that person,

by making use of some magic.

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But perhaps thinking about how a letter would arrive in the mansion didn't matter!

That person's letter would definitely come in time,

because they made a promise.

.

What the young boy didn't know though, was that before that person left -

that person also made a promise with their parents,

and it was about those letters.

.

That person made their parents swear on their honor that the letters he would

send daily to the mansion, they would personally deliver to the rightful

recipient, who would be the young boy.

.

That person thought that if he would make his parents swear on their honor,

they would never dare break their word because they were

 of proud crimson blood like he was.

.

So the young boy waited and waited,

day turned noon then night,

but he still waited.

.

A day passed by, then two, then three, then four -

but the young boy didn't lose hope,

he had to be patient.

.

But again, what the young boy didn't know was that his crimson blood parents

thought differently of the vow the both of them made with that person.

They valued something else more than a promise on their honor.

.

What they valued the most was that their firstborn son would do his best at the academy,

shape himself into a fine man without anything distracting him,

be it his own brother, the young boy.

.

The crimson blood parents, no matter how rigid they became, kept on holding onto the thought that

what they were doing, and everything they had done in the past were all

in the best interests of the family and their two children.

.

But even before he passed away, the children's paternal grandfather scoffed in response to seeing such methods -

he was disappointed as he said: as parents you're simply tearing two children apart,

but the crimson blood parents still didn't change their hearts.

.

So what became of the young boy who kept on waiting and waiting for a letter,

of the firstborn son who was sent to do his best at the academy,

and of their crimson blood parents?

.

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.

.

.

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For now,

let's just say that,

over time of waiting, waiting, and much more waiting -

people eventually realize that they have grown much, much older and that

they are now at least a little bit wiser enough not to wait for letters that would never come.

.

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t h r e e .

    "One day you're going to grow old and forget about me."

"Preposterous - how could I possibly bring myself to forget my one and only little brother?"

... And where exactly do you think you're going at this hour?

His fingers twitch, just inches away from the golden door handle. They're made of oak, these doors right in front of him, just like any other door in this mansion that presented itself as a home. Question, though: would a home have rooms, exits, or entrances that have such imposing doors, all tall and dark and heavy? Would a home constantly keep such doors closed, with handles that would never open because the lock had been secured and the key had been kept away? Would a home just have a door for show, and when you open it you suddenly realize that it actually leads to nowhere; presenting you no option of entry or exit?

He wouldn't know. Would she know? She always spoke in a clear-cut manner, voice having the melody of summer but words coated in the frost of winter: heat to the ears, chills to the heart. But surely enough summer and winter have turned into spring and fall - seasons change like how time flew like water, and that meant every person in the world weren't getting any younger.

He and her included.

He got it from her, the dark shade of his hair that resembles the night. But more than the night itself, time has dictated that her hair be turned into the night sky instead; a canvas of black spread with dashes of silver stars. He wished that he got the color of her eyes too: brown like the earth, brown like a piece of dark chocolate. Maybe if he had her eyes, he wouldn't be reminding people of someone else.

His fingers wrap around the door handle.

I asked you where you're going...!

Ah, winter had become fall - somehow that elevated pitch and sharp volume had less bite to it, now merely a bitter wind blowing at his back and unable to pierce any deeper. His skin, his lungs, and his heart were fine; no chilling over, what a relief. Was she already that old, or was it simply his desensitization that lessened the impact?

Whatever the case, he wasn't going to stay any longer just to find out.

He pulls the door open, and he's greeted by a rush of a cool night's breeze along with the light of the full moon.

Luka...!

He takes a few steps forward, only to close the door behind him shut. Firmly now, firmly. So that the sound would make itself known in the grand foyer, whoosh through the many steps of a carpeted staircase to reach all the way to the pretty landing; slicing through the silence like a voiceless, wordless slap to the face. Bang. Echo, echo. Did that sound like a satisfying ending to your sharply pointed ears, mother?

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From that point on, Luka Clemence didn't dare to look back.

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The last time he stepped into this mansion of proud marble and golden paint was in celebration of him finally taking on the name that was rightfully his. Smiles were plastered onto faces like a fine template made specifically for the occasion, the word congratulations thrown about back and forth as verbal confetti. Champagne went spinning round, resembling the skirts of the many women twirling by the ballroom floors, heels going click clack in time to the orchestra's uplifting compositions.

It was a mediocre celebration, if he would say so himself. His special guest wasn't in attendance and that made everything else less enjoyable... including the already sorry excuse of a strawberry mille-feuille.

Now, he returned for one reason, and one reason alone - he passed through the foyer, headed right, passed through a couple of rooms until he found himself standing by the entrance of the dining room. Shiny crystal chandelier, polished floors. Tasteful curtains and tapestries, carefully made carpets. A wide and stretching ornate table, chairs of finely carved mahogany with plush cushions.

Only two chairs were occupied. As he approached the table, one of the occupants turn around to the sound of his footsteps. Eyes narrow, a voice comes out unsure.

... Jonah?

Two pairs of eyes are on him now - surprise faintly wrinkles his father's brow, his mother holds a gaze that could be classified as listless. Caused by a lack of sleep, maybe?

Good morning, father, mother. Is Luka yet to wake up?

The silence that follows his question is pregnant - it's the kind that just dances around your very being, frolicking without care along your legs and atop your finely shined shoes. It giggles around constantly like a happy child until you get irritated, try to chase it, but only to miserably fail. For the love of all that's good and holy, you just want to know why it's giggling so much. Was it so hard to capture silence? Was it so hard to find the words that would stop it from frolicking around like it owned the place?

It lasts for a good two minutes before his father exhales slowly, rising from his seat.

... We'll take this discussion elsewhere.

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... Your mother tried stopping him.

Something boils uncomfortably in his blood, reaching down to the very pits of his stomach as he stared at his father. It brings to mind the image of water that bubbles, rises, and threatens to spill out from its kettle prison, leaving a scalding mess its wake.

Jonah's palms land down on his father's desk, impact loud and fingernails digging at the wood.

Tried? he spits the word out with an impressive amount of venom, lips snarling at the ends, Perhaps you didn't try hard enough! You should've informed me of this matter immediately!

A growl rears its head from the back of the throat - low, booming, intimidating. Strangely enough, it's nostalgic in a most amusing manner, but -

Ah, that's right, how could Jonah forget?

Former authority figures didn't take kindly to accusations of incompetence.

Jonah Clemence, compose yourself! Is that how the Queen of Hearts should speak!?

Something in Jonah's expression twists as a crack broke his voice.

I returned here simply as an older brother happy to celebrate his little brother's graduation, not as the Queen of Hearts!

Silver mirroring silver, gold mirroring gold. Fiery tempers contesting one another, sparks flying about in the four corners of the room. Perhaps if they tried hard enough they could set the whole room alight until flames lap and lick at every surface there is to burn, breaking everything down until nothing is left but trails of ash and wisps of smoke.

And as if her figure couldn't look any more delicate than it already was, his mother appeared much smaller as she sat by the very end of the couch, a lost look in her eyes and a plain notebook resting nicely on her lap.

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When she closes her eyes and lowers her head, wisps of her dark hair shield her face from the rest of the world.

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It's already that very moment in time where the reds and golds disappeared from the sky, and the darkness of night enfolded everyone in its embrace.

Jonah Clemence looked up to stare at that very sky, his back facing a mansion of proud marble and golden paint. There he stands straight and tall, all alone in a secret clearing discovered by two brave explorers, once upon a time.

Carefully gripped in his right hand is an object made of cotton, pieces of it well-worn: white clothes were predominantly stained with tints of an aging yellow, two buttons of the coat about to fall loose, stitches here and there showing signs of fraying.

The only parts of it that remained presentable were the strands of dark-colored yarn on top, and a pair of golden dots for eyes.

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I'll find you.

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He moves his arm to clutch the doll to his chest, head still held up high.

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I promise.