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cookies-and-mirrors · 2 months ago

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Prison of Stone and Flesh

Chapter Twenty Two

This is a collaborative fic between @cookiesupplier and @faceless-mirror.

Dividers by @samspenandsword @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

Authors Note: Well look at that, we have some new players on the board!

Pairings: Multi-Pairings, Everybody x Everybody.

Triggerlist: transphobia, homophobia, abuse, SA, dubcon, religious trauma, past suicide attempts, mental health issues, grief, death, violence, (To be added to)

Christopher, Justin, and Ryan are members of the Gargoyle Order, soldiers fighting in the angels war against the demonic supernatural evils of the world to protect human kind. Through the years they lost comrades and now just the three of them remain in their little town.

Now, Ricky and Vinny are moving into their church, stirring up old and new feelings, along with the past, posing the challenge of navigating this new chapter in their lives.

Can they all navigate this path successfully and break free of the prisons that is their lives of both stone and flesh, or will they all be trapped forever in a world that could prove to be a constant misery?

MASTERLIST HERE

Taglist: @miamore0570 @21-century-tae @dragon-chica @shilohrosechicken @comforting-madness

@missduffsblog @witchyweeb34 @spicywhenspeaking @lacktoesandtoddlerants @blackveilomens

@bngurngheart @dominuslunae @collapsedglasshouses @emmmm127 @sunsshinesunny

@latenightmusiclover @dontdiganothergravetoday @high-wire

(please comment/like/reblog/message to be added to taglist)

Chapter Twenty Two

Chris returned to Vinny, intending to spend the rest of the night with her, until she was ready to get up for opening the café to begin her usual schedule. Now, the wonder it was, the feeling he felt, having Vinny wake up in his arms. Yes, it was before sunrise, but still, he’d never actually allowed himself this kind of relaxation, and here he was with Vinny, today though, that was the plan. He would stay with Vinny in the café until lunch, then they’d all get together and go out, where to was yet to be decided. Chris wasn’t sure where, he was hoping Vinny and Ricky might know some good places. Especially one that might be a bit more gentle on the sensitivities of four gargoyles and an angel that wasn't entirely knowledgeable of the world always.

Ricky had come down groggy and whined, saying he wanted to go to a Chinese buffet, earning a hard stare from Vinny as if she couldn't believe her ears! Ricky had suggested the one that in Vinny's opinion looked as if it had all the health code violations, but if Ricky was sure… He claimed to have loved it as a child… maybe it was the case.

They had tried to argue about this, it was so awkward just trying to fit into the car at all, let alone squishing another person in with them. Beings as massive as they were, should not be pushed into spaces of the tiny cars that Ricky and Vinny possessed, those things were worse than the alcoves. Honestly. Why couldn’t they just fly, or walk? Okay, okay, they’d admitted that flying was out of the question when it was pointed out that it was daylight and all the gargoyles had looked up blindingly to the sun. All of them flinching, none of their eyes were made for such bright light, but at the same time, the warmth of it on their skin, was so wondrous. Almost simultaneously they were shuddering at the feeling before they were all shoved into the cars to shuffle them around and see where they could all fit and work out how they could be on their way. All in all, getting there had been a struggle. Four gargoyles, two humans and an angel were not fitting into the smart cars that Vinny and Ricky had. Vinny had made a note to look into getting a van, of course. They had to transport them more comfortably somehow instead of Ricky sitting on Justin, Atsuko on Chris, and Ryan awkwardly holding Gwynn with no seatbelts or room to breathe.

Once Chris climbed out of the car, he vowed that he never, ever, wanted to ride in a car again, period.

“I would rather ride on the top of that thing, I swear, it is just wrong, I couldn’t even breathe.”

Vinny smiled apologetically. “Sorry baby…”

Ricky clapped, “Rules of buffets… it's all you can eat. Eat as much as you like. There's water and soda and everyone you can eat whatever you want, whatever works best for you, just don't talk to people. No one wants to talk to anyone outside who they're with because they're hungry. If you need something, ask an employee or me or Vinny. Got it?”

Oh, come on, they knew how a buffet worked! Of course, the moment Justin heard that there were rules to how a buffet worked he looked at Ricky oddly, right, rules to eating… That was weird. So weird. Chris, however, gave a pointed look over to Atsuko and said simply, “You got that, Atsuko?” He wanted to hear it acknowledged, Honestly had a habit sometimes, when he was out in the world, of saying a bit too much.

Atsuko looked up, pouting, “Yes. I'm just hungry. Can we go in now?” He asked pointedly.

“We also have to wait until we have a table to get food. But it won't take long.” Vinny added softly with big eyes, glancing up at Chris grabbing his hand.

Chris rolled his shoulders, still slowly trying to stretch out his body from the cramped space of the car and how hunched over he’d felt inside of it. Not to mention poor Atsuko having to deal with somehow having to fold in with him, it had been horrifying… But asking Justin to swap him with Ricky because he was smaller seemed, off, for some reason, and Vinny had been the driver. So the largest gargoyle, with another gargoyle it was, cramped into one seat, had been a joy.

Glancing towards Vinny, he smiled softly, it was right to get out though, it felt good, he was glad to be here.

Ryan had been quiet the whole time. Staying with Gwynn this morning, he’d woken more relaxed and at peace than he’d felt in a long time. Then the guilt hit him harder than he could ever admit the moment he realized, almost like feeling that moment of peace was forbidden, and now he had to pay the toll. Therefore, it would be ripped from his hide whether he liked it or not. That was the feeling as he was crammed into the tiny car with Gwynn perched on his lap, stifled with everyone around them, no way to hide from the world. Hide the fact that, he, he was nothing but this broken thing. He’d just stared, so empty, out of the window the entire drive.

Now they were here, waiting to go in, he was starving. Ryan was absolutely with Atsuko on this one, could they go in already, food, give them the food already.

Gwynn had loved spending time with Ryan this morning. Waking up they had fewer aches, and now they were walking better, even if they lagged as they entered the restaurant, easing in behind everyone else.

The smell alone as they entered was heavenly and delightful, filling the air with spice and flavor before it even touched their tongues. Atsuko did behave, solely focused on food. All he wanted was to savor the food that was so close yet so far away.

Justin’s eyes wanted to bug out of his head at all of this food. Did they put out this much food out every day?! They were really going to be allowed to eat all of this food? It wasn’t just for show… Right? Glancing at the others, Ricky and Vinny, all the workers, no one else seemed to be questioning the massive amounts of food just laid out for everyone over there. Four. Four tables of food… and counters… and people making food fresh over there at some window… He swallowed, his eyes slightly glazed over at the thought, he felt a little bit like crying. It was, it was beautiful. Of course, they didn’t lead them right to the buffet area, instead they led them to a table for them all to the side, where they would sit and eat once they had their food. Now, they could get their food.

“You okay, babyboy?” Ricky asked, resting his hand on Justin’s arm. “Is it too much?” He questioned sweetly, “Do you need a minute?” Justin just shook his head, he was so excited about all of this, slightly bouncing on the balls of his feet, he could do this, he would be fine, he would.

Once they were all loaded up with food on their plates, Justin had two plates, he was going to get a stomach ache, he had been warned, he did not care. None of the gargoyles had ever gotten the opportunity to, well, over eat before, gluttony was a sin, and the complete opposite of a virtue, so they tried to avoid it like the plague. However, with how hungry they were, was it really wrong to actually feed themselves like this, at least one time?

Ricky smiled and fed a sugar roll to Justin, smirking as Gwynn sat down with their plate full. Justin’s eyes went completely wide as Ricky just all but shoved the sugar roll into his mouth. The sweet treat hitting his tongue… the gargoyle’s eyes watering again with the wonder as he chewed with a groan. He took another bite, this time it was veggies, they were mostly healthy options on his plate, he was smart, he was good, but, oh, oh, they tasted so delicious, so, so strong, and, more. It felt as filling as a warm Christmas roast in his belly, only the taste that hit his tongue was entirely different.

Ricky rubbed his shoulder, offering him a sweet smile, “As much as you want.”

While Gwynn had been paying attention to everything going on, and noticed outside so many people had stared… except in here. It was as if it were normal for there to be four giant tattooed men sitting and gorging themselves, not that Gwynn was complaining, they were eating. Their eyes wandered, landing on two bus boys, blinking a few times in surprise. “Eat your fill. You deserve it.” they said, keeping a casual eye on the pair. One … one wasn’t quite… that was a reborn gargoyle… and… wait… their eyes flicked to Chris.

“Chris…?” they asked without hesitation, sounding anxious and nervous, looking towards the commander, who was filling his mouth with lo mein almost to the point he should have been choking, point-blank, “Did Tadashi have a mate or breed?”

Chris himself had noticed the way people watched them, his eyes flickering over people, not even the daylight had stopped him noticing the way people watched them outside. It was a safety instinct. Watching out for demons, any kind of threat to his family, and this was the first time they were all out of the Church together, it was unnerving a bit, actually, a hell of a lot more than a bit.

Especially after facing Jerahmiel.

Now, though, the way the employees just seemed to accept them, as if they were nothing, seemed, even more unnerving. The patrons, however, that was acceptable, they stared, the day that staring he could handle, but ignoring them he found strange… It was a wonder. Then as he looked over at Gwynn, after a side glance at a young man who had a wide, so, joyful grin, encouraging them to eat up. There was a taller one hung back, extremely long hair hiding half of his face and hunched over, hmm.

He froze at the question, his eyes fixed on Gwynn now, quickly having to chew and swallow the abundance of food he’d been able to shovel into his mouth. Tadashi. Perseverance. Why, why were they asking about what had happened to his eldest son? Swallowing, Tadashi, he remembered how his son had followed the angel around when he was so small, while he was still just training, right alongside… Glancing over at Atsuko, sighing, “No, no mate. Jerahmiel did breed him; however, the pairing was unable to produce young. His partner's unit was destroyed shortly after the coupling completed. The entirety of the Notre Dame troupe, in fact, was wiped out less than a week after he returned from their breeding.”

Chris took in a deep breath, his son had not been the same after that, and he did not know if it was the loss of his children, the loss of an entire unit. The loss of such a prominent unit had an effect on them all, if Chris was honest, Notre Dame, himself, had been the very first of all the gargoyles, the blueprint for the creation of their kind so to speak.

“He died, he, it was about four-” Chris glanced quickly about to make sure others were close enough to hear, “about four centuries ago. Demons, took him out while he was protecting a human. That we know of.” Chris suddenly didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

Folio was bouncing on the balls of his feet, he needed to go over there, he could go over there, it was his job to do anyway. Seeing that group the moment they’d walked in, his attention had peaked. First the cute one, and then Noah had nudged him with the familiar looking one, and the woman, that was interesting.

He just wished he could wear roller skates to work like he requested, that would be awesome, can you imagine, skating around the tables and filling up glasses that way? Perfection! Carrying the water jug over, “hey everyone, how are we doing, anyone need a water fill?” Without waiting for an answer, he was already filling up one of the empty glasses. “Is there anything I can get any of you?” Pouring out another, and then another, staying close to keep proximity who knows what he could help with. Even more importantly, smiling so bright at the cute one at the table in his opinion. “Hi.”

Noah tensed as he watched Folio rush over the table, that shit… He would rather not get too close to them more than he absolutely had to, not them anyway… others he trusted, he didn’t know them. Watching them was just frustrating, it was the tattoos, it was always the tattoos. They kept changing. Sometimes they appeared normal. Some of them simple, just tattoos, and some elaborate gorgeous tattoos, man, but then, then almost like a visage, they’d shift to this elaborate maze of black inked runes all over their skin… Then with a shimmer it would change back like the runes were never there. Most days he could handle it, most days he could focus, he knew the tattoos of the others, he was used to them. However, there were four new ones over there, and he wasn’t used to any of their tattoos, runes, whatever they were…

It was giving him a fucking headache. He was going to need more aspirin.

This was not the first time he’d seen them, and he had never told anyone he could see the way they changed. Not once in the past seventy-five years since the first time he’d seen it happen with the others. Sometimes he felt like he was going insane. Of course, of the two at the table that looked familiar, only one of them bore the markings… interesting. Slipping his phone from his pocket, he quickly sent a text. Whether or not he was active during the daylight hours today, remained to be seen, not that he could come out. He didn’t text the other, he wasn’t sure what to make of the unmarked woman.

Atsuko was stuffing his mouth and he looked up, blinking slowly at him, looking a bit more animalistic with his mouth full of three different dishes. He chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a glass of water, draining it fully as if it were a shot. “More water… might actually be best to give us each a pitcher. We’re all thirsty except the tiny ones.” he said confidently, and returned to eating impossibly fast with his chopsticks before pausing, “Can we get a giant bowl of rice please?” he requested, dark brown eyes focused on him unblinking as he purred lowly very content for now it seemed.

Vinny wanted to smack Atsuko. He was being too talkative. Though Gwynn and Chris seemed to be allowing it at least, so she ignored it, focusing on her meal that she was ninety-nine percent sure was going to send her to the ER.

Folio didn’t even blink when the cute one looked at him liked that, his face stuffed full. It should make his stomach turn, but why, why would it, he’d eaten just as much plenty of times. Between him and Noah, he scarfed down plenty, it was part of the reason they worked here, they got a discount. Serious, they needed it, trying to eat a werewolf under the table? Sure they didn’t even know what Noah was, his dad had to have been something to not only keep up with Folio, but was practically worse. Folio had muscles and gains for his physicality, poor Noah, he barely could keep up. Still, he kept going, and living as long as he has, he certainly had to be something… They had a list of possibilities, but nothing matched exactly.

“But if I leave you water jugs, what reasons do I have to keep coming back to the table, cutie?” Grinning wide, to him before he winked and continued to fill his glass of water again and then the next one. “Rice, rice, I can get rice, I’ll be right back.” Emptying the last of the water jug and turned quickly walked away to get another, his younger brother having already taken the opportunity to disappear into the kitchen to fetch the large bowl of rice, Folio expected as much. He knew Noah didn’t want to be near the table if he could help it, he wasn’t sure why though, he was just as close friends with the others as Folio was.

“Why would you want to keep coming back to the table?” Atsuko questioned before getting smacked under the table by Chenza.

“Atsuko. Just say thank you next time-”

“I’m just wondering.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a man.” Chenza huffed, “Dumb and clueless…”

Gwynn sighed, as Atsuko got up to go get another plate, “It’s a fair question, it’d make less work for him-”

Chenza huffed getting up, following him, “He was trying to flirt with you-”

“Why? He doesn’t know me-” he furrowed his brow and pouted at her, huffing softly, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Chris smirked, the thing was, there was something about that waiter that Chris recognized in him. Cheerfulness, that grin, it was unmistakable, and the fact he’d already shown interest in Atsuko was actually hilarious. Nicholai had found Atsuko’s quirks so endearing, well, after they stopped torturing each other with them at the start… This was going to be, interesting. He wondered how this had happened, how long the man had been here, just under their noses? Watching his own mate go off to corral poor Cheerfulness’ obtuse mate, but it wasn’t the waiter that caught Chris’ eye next. It was the other man. The tall one.

As Folio was back at the table filling up more glasses, even as the giants- Okay so he knew they weren’t really giants. Even Noah was a giant to him, he still loved him for it, and Noah was still his little brother, adoption or otherwise. They were draining even more of the water, all of them were drinking as fast as he could fill the glasses, and he loved it. It gave him more reason for him to keep coming back to the table, just like he told that cutie. Where, where had he gone? Oh, he was getting more food with the lady, one of the tiny ones as he’d put it. Damn, he’d probably call him a tiny one. He was taller than her though, not by much, but he was. Shorter than all of ‘the giants’. Everyone was likely shorter than them. Not that that was a surprise. Folio never really felt short, not next to his friends. Even Nick and Jolly were short next to Noah, are you kidding! Damn! They’d even be short next to these guys, and Jolly was six one, easy!

Noah shook his head as he set out two large bowls of rice, he knew they’d only asked for one, but considering how many were at the table, he knew better than to underestimate appetites. Everyone looked at him and assumed he didn’t eat at all, and boy would that be wrong, so he tried to never do the same to anyone else. Without a word, he started clearing away the plates that were empty and finished so he could take them to the kitchen to be cleaned and make room on the table.

There was no hiding how tall the kid was, he could easily stand up to any one of them, but he was thin, so thin. From the look of him, one might assume you could snap him like a twig off the ground. It was actually almost alarming. His long hair hung down around his shoulders, it was healthy, but right then he seemed to be trying to use it to hide, like a shield, and Chris, he, for one, would like to know why.

Gwynn watched the kid closely, tilting their head. “Dear… when you're on your break… I think it may benefit you if we have a talk. If you’ll allow it,” they commented while sipping on a cup of jade tea, looking at Chris as if to say am I doing the right thing? They weren’t sure. They were trying to ease into their old role easily, it was harder than they remembered. “My name is Gwynn Haven.”

Noah did not entirely easily get familiar with people outside the of his friends, thank you. Outside of dreams of his long dead relatives, his twin brother who had died when they were babies, and he imagined growing up beside, his mother’s brother, whom he probably met like once when he was a child. His friends, his found family, they were all he had. His friend group might be small, and peculiar, not even human, but after some painful run ins in the past he would rather not deal with that. “No offense, but I’m doing just fine.” Stubborn, Jolly would call him stubborn right then as he brushed his hair back behind one of his ears and nodded to the one that had spoken, Gwynn, and lifted the stack of plates away. The stack of plates that looked far too much for his noodles arms to carry. Chris watched him leave. Until he’d brushed his hair back, he’d not gotten the clearest look at his face, and when he did, he knew exactly what Gwynn wasn’t saying.

As Chris looked back to Gwynn, his eldest son, Tadashi, had lived the longest of his children, had neither taken a mate, nor had children of his own. Jerahmiel had attempted to set up breeding matches with other gargoyles over the centuries, after that first match, even when he had attempted to command him, nothing came of it, you couldn’t be commanded to breed. So for Chris to see a boy he didn’t know about, appearing out of nowhere, four centuries after his son’s death, the resemblance, it was uncanny, he looked so much like Tadashi.

“All right. I understand, but if you ever would like to know more about your family…” Gwynn hummed, patting Chris's leg, reassuring the commander that they would make sure that he would be able to come to the church if he chose.

Atsuko came back with three plates, eagerly devouring and purring as he ate, had his tail been out it would have been swaying eagerly. He took a bowl of rice and added it in eagerly to a bowl of soup he had procured.

Noah was walking across the room back towards the kitchen, a normal human might not have heard, but Noah wasn’t human, he didn’t know what he was, he didn’t know what his father was. His mother had never known what his father was to his knowledge. She used to tell him stories though, back when he was young, before she died. She’d been killed, in a mugging. Noah would always consider the mugger to have been a monster. The thing that had attacked them, he remembered it attacking them, he’d been so young, she shielded them, she’d died fighting for them, defending them… he remembered she’d pushed him at Folio. He had called him Nick back then, his big brother. She had told him to run and protect Noah, the young werewolf had taken one look at their attacker, paled, scooped him up, and ran. She’d adopted the werewolf after he was left on her doorstep as a toddler, packless, abandoned, while she was still pregnant with Noah. Folio and Noah managed to survive together, on the street, just the two of them after his mother passed, some years later, they’d met the vampires Nickolas & Joakim, together the four of them, have survived.

Folio brought over more water, pouring out some more glasses, “Ya know, now, if you know specifics about his dad, you could give him a boon, how bout you tell me something straight… what the heck is my boy? We’ve been wondering for ages!” They had suspicions, guesses, but nothing fit quite, his mother had been human far as they knew, Folio never remembered any but that, so it made it difficult to know for sure what he was. Whatever he was, he was probably only half.

Atsuko was licking his fingers, “He's part gargoyle, of course.” He said bluntly. “I always hoped keeping quiet would make sure that a fallen angel didn't try to take him out-” he said, getting up to get another plate as if he hadn't just announced he knew Tadashi had a kid and a mate.

Gwynn was sitting in stunned silence. “… remind me to have a conversation with him about important info needing to be shared… again.”

Growing up on the streets, Folio had been around people that were quirky, so the way he was so blunt, just made the werewolf smile, but at the same time… “Gargoyle.” Looking around at the people who were sitting at the table, blinking, well, look at that, they finally had confirmation of one of the more popular of his theories. He had wondered, of all the creatures they had met over the years, Noah might not match up to them in many ways, but in some of them… “I mean, he doesn’t turn to stone, so, that's interesting…” Folio mused as he turned around and started wandering towards the kitchen himself after Noah… maybe he’d see what he could do about convincing his giant little brother to talk to them. Noah was going to hate it if he found out he could fly.

As Atsuko sat down to fill his face for the fifth time, Gwynn finally sighed, “When were you going to tell us?”

“When you guys asked.” He said coolly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I mean… no one asked. Plus I didn't want Tadashi's kid to get hurt by a fallen… so I did what I could.”

Chris had stopped eating, staring across the table at Atsuko. “My grandson was out in the world, potentially alone, suffering, and you said nothing?” His voice calm until the last word, and while he didn’t sound angry, he didn’t sound all together happy either.

Atsuko looked at Chris, blinking a few times slowly. “… I checked in how I could…” he said painfully calm, “I wanted to make sure Jerahmiel didn't get him or one of the others… and look. He's still here!” he pointed out. “I determined I would stay quiet to make sure he would survive, unless someone asked. No one asked. Plus, I was imprisoned… three days after I figured it out. It's not like if he had been with us, he would have been any safer.” He pointed out.

Silence, that was what his arguments were met with, realistically what Chris saw when he looked at the young half-breed was a kid who was barely surviving. He had obviously grown without the training needed to be able to handle it fully, which was why his long limbs looked like they could snap so easily. Dammit, he barely looked as if he ate properly, Vinny thought they seemed as if they didn’t eat enough, this kid appeared like half a skeleton even to Chris!

Taking in a deep breath, “We need to convince him to come back to the Church somehow, he, he can’t be safe out here. His friend too if he insists.”

Gwynn nodded, “I agree. I can clean up some of the alcoves. I needed to do that anyway. But yes… I think him coming back with us would be wise. Also… here…” they commented, holding out plastic cards. “These are to get whatever you like. Archangel Jophiel wanted you to have these. Whenever you have to pay for a product or service, you'll either swipe, use the chip… or tap it.” They explained. Justin gulped down the food he’d been happily stuffing his face with as he listened, gleefully just consuming more and more food as he went, while also keeping silent during the tense conversation. He wasn’t about to get involved when it came to that situation, no way, no how. Gargoyles might not seem to be that attached to their children, giving one away automatically with the breeding program the way it was designed, but they didn’t have a choice. Knowing how attached Chris was to his unborn children, his son, you couldn’t tell him there was no connection. None. Now though, as Gwynn mentioned wages, and pay, handing over plastic cards… swallowing down his food heavily, “Wait, we’re getting paid now?” They’d never been paid before.

“What if I don’t want to go back with you? I’m fine with my friends.” Noah had come out of the kitchen, and was standing at the end of the table watching them as they discussed his fate among themselves. Folio wasn’t his only friend, and he heard, they said Church, and Noah, he used to visit a Church a lot when he was younger. Then he met Nick and Jolly, and finding out they couldn’t cross the threshold without is causing them some level of pain, it had started getting less and less. He didn’t feel right moving to a place and just leaving his friends behind. Not to mention, his eyes linger on the familiar looking gargoyle, had he abandoned his brother when he got turned into a vampire? Shade deserved so much better. Noah would absolutely talk to him later, he’d wondered at times about gargoyles, but when he’d told them in the start they were dying out, he’d considered a sensitive topic… now, he was even more curious. He was one of them.

He wanted to know.

The angel looked up, “We won't force you. But at least visit us to learn some techniques and build up muscles… it would help in the long run. Plus, with how few gargoyles there are… we're your best bet for learning about gargoyles and demons.” They commented with a gentle smile. “But we won't force you.”

The mentions of demons made the man twitch, he knew how he looked, he appeared as if he was barely in his early twenties. In reality, it was somewhere in the early four centuries, possibly, he’d lost count a long time ago. Who counted birthdays when you realized you didn’t age after the first few decades? It made him think of the monster that had killed his mother, had it really been a monster, or had he made that up in his mind? “I’ve been trying to ‘build muscle’ for,” glancing to his side before back to the table, “a long time, not sure how you could help. I suggest you finish your lunch, and be on your way. Thank you for choosing Dynasty Emporium.” Nodding slowly, he backed away before turning to head back to the kitchen, trying to be as respectful as possible, just trying to breathe.

Gwynn watched him go, as did Chenza, Ricky, however, groaned, finally full. Atsuko looked after Noah and sighed. He whispered under his breath. “Your dad would be proud of you for standing by your friends. Good luck in this world…”

The lunch had gone awkward and Vinny was rubbing Chris's back. “You okay, baby?”

Chris sighed, watching the kid walk away, they hadn’t even gotten his name, maybe they could ask his employer, see if they could get some information that way. Looking over to his mate, his heart clenching, thinking about not only losing Tadashi, but their children that they’d lost the day he’d lost her. They’d have had to give one of them away anyway, to the faux partner for the breeding program that Jerahmiel had her paired with, but it didn’t change that they’d lost both of them just the same. Taking in a deep breath, “No, BabyGirl, we’ve lost too many, all of us, we’ve lost too many, this needs to stop.” He was determined to make sure it stopped.

Vinny nodded, hugging him firmly, “… I miss Tadashi…” she whispered, pressing her face to his neck, breathing him in slowly, shuddering as something mentally lurked just out of her reach… What was it…?

Gwynn was quiet, wanting to comfort their gargoyles… This was so much at once to follow.

It had always warmed Chris, that Chenza had taken to his children, just made him long to have children with her all the more. Even if it was technically forbidden. There were some that were not so lucky with mates, and he felt for them. Breeding could be such a difficult pill to swallow. Looking at what had become of their race, that there were so few of them, trying to stop them dying off, made him wonder if that had really been the point of it all in the end. It had been a failure. They were far and few now, look at them.

Once they had all finished their food, Noah was reluctant to return to the table. But it was his job, collecting the empty plates and clearing the discarded dishes, with Folio beside him. He was there, determined to try to chat up the one he had deemed cute, despite Noah deciding he wasn’t sure if they could trust them. Not when their friends couldn’t even enter the Church without feeling like they were burning. Not when one of these gargoyles might have literally abandoned his own brother for being turned against his will, who even did that? Vampires and religion didn’t go hand in hand very well, but that was against the pale. Folio, however, just grinned at that odd one. “Any chance I could get your name, or are you happy with me calling ya cutie?”

Atsuko peeked up at him, eating the last bit of rice. He swallowed, licking his lips. “Atsuko. My name is Atsuko.” He answered, “or Honesty. Depending on what you want to call me.”

Gwynn looked at them, raising a brow. “We should probably head out… here.” they held out a card to Noah. “In case you decide to reach out. We wouldn't ask you to ignore your friends or mortal life. We just want to make sure you can hold your own to a demon.”

Yesss, Folio felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin for a moment, Atsuko, his name was Atsuko, though, being called Honesty, that made him raise an eyebrow, that was interesting. He wondered why they called him that… Okay, no, he was sure they probably called him that because he was always telling the truth. Though, there were most likely a million other nicknames that a person could earn for that kind of trait than something like that! It was curious.

Noah was looking down at the card that this person, Gwynn, had given him, with the address of the Church on it. It was the same church that his mother told him to visit when he was a boy, centuries ago, and it made him frown. He knew it was still standing, but, “Isn’t this place like a club now?”

Folio lit up, “oh yeah? Jolly wondered what that means for the whole holy ground thing… You know, if they’ll be able to go in, could always use a good night at the club. We should check it out.” Before Noah could stop him, the werewolf stole the card from his fingers and ran off again, leaving Noah still at the table to continue clearing the plates with a sigh.

Glancing back to Gwynn, “That's not me agreeing to anything.” Lifting a stack of plates, he turned to follow the wayward werewolf, while also desperate to make a phone call the moment he was sure the Shade could talk to him, get him to come see him, hopefully.

“Didn't expect it to be.” Gwynn assured, before following the rest outside.

Getting out into the fresh air, Gwynn smiled. “Let's all explore a bit. Atsuko… Stay with me.” Gwynn insisted as the gargoyle looked around curiously. “Come on- some time out may be best.”

As the group started splitting up, though, Chris pulled Ryan aside. Though he gave Vinny a soft parting kiss before she headed off with Ricky and Justin, they were heading back to the Church. Whether it was because Ricky was stuffed and needed a nap before he worked tonight, or because she was still worried because she was going to be sick. Chris just sighed, he needed company right now, and the kind he needed… Ryan was it. The others, the others, they’d all try and soothe him, calm him, reason with him, hell he’d do the same thing… and that really wasn’t going to work for him. After finding all that out at lunch, he needed Ryan’s blunt support like he knew he’d give… “I need to hit something.”

Ryan just looked over at Chris, pausing with a sigh, “After all of that, I really don’t blame you.” Thinking back on all the crap he’d considered they passed by on the way here, smiling a little, he remembered wondering what it was. “You know, I saw something on the way here, want to find out what that rage room thing is all about?”

Chris had no idea what that was, a rage room, but hell, he was in. With everything that had been happening, it would be nice to have something that was low stakes for once in their lives… Hopefully. Not to mention, looking back at the building they’d just come out of, he needed to mark this place, this restaurant, it was where his grandson was employed. He hoped to come back here, whether to see him again, get information if he could, at the very least, just to make sure he remained safe while he refused to come to the Church.

Nodding, “Yea, that sounds perfect to me, bring on all the rage in the world.” Demons had taken his son from him, his mate, their children, and who even knows what had happened with his grandson. Now the frustration of Atsuko having kept the secret, he should have told them the moment they knew Tadashi had fallen, so they could search for his mate and child and protect them. From the sounds of it, he’d fallen in with beings that couldn’t even cross onto holy ground, what if his grandson was as corrupted as a hellhound now? He’d heard of them out there, rogue gargoyles, by the angels, heavens knows what they were doing alongside the demons.

“Let’s go.”

Getting into the rage room was easy, Chris didn’t know how these plastic cards worked that Gwynn had given them, but it would seem there was more than enough to cover them here. They were supposed to pick a package for how much they wanted to smash, and considering how they both felt, and knowing how much damage they were both capable of, they picked the largest. It was a hefty price, but the card went through, zip-zip, and sure enough, they were given safety gear, and a spiel about how to use some of the included package's provided tools. Neither of the men were new to most of the items, they were crude versions compared to Ryan’s war hammer for one, and even touching the chainsaw wasn’t even going to happen. As vicious and tempting as it looked, no, there was a line. Smash, thank you, not, whatever that thing did. Chris did go for the axe though, he enjoyed a sharp bladed weapon, even if usually his danced around his fingers.

Ryan had selected a sledgehammer, it was the closest to what he knew, and while it was a little nothing stick in his hands, the lady behind the desk, blinking owlishly at them, as she saw them hold these weapons. He just settled the safety goggles over his eyes before walking into the rage room, following Chris.

Making their way into the room, both of them were wrapped up in more protective gear than they were used to wearing, even when they went to patrol. Then again, when they went to fully fight, they could armor up into living stone, and right now, they couldn’t do that, not that any demon was going to jump out and attack them. Chris found it surprisingly easy to swing the axe at the massive pile of garbage items, hitting a ruined TV, it was an older unit, picturing a faceless demon attacking his son. Tadashi. After everything today, and thinking about him, it was so fresh on his mind. The next swing of the axe with a grunt, it was humans and beasts that had killed his Chenza the first time, their babies, that would not happen again, Chris would make certain of it. With each swing of his axe, Chris was continuing to work though each pain loss.

Gwynn, and Jerahmiel were Ryan’s focus for every swing of that sledgehammer into the trash that they had provided them, for very different reasons both. Every hit of his hammer twisted him inside, his face contorted, almost in pain as he brought it down, trying not to think about everything that had happened to him. Trying not to think about what had kept bringing him back to Jerahmiel every time, why he knew he didn’t deserve Gwynn any longer. There was no way that Gwynn could ever forgive him for ever desiring that, for needing that… for being willing to go to Jerahmiel despite everything he had done. After everything he had done, after everything that they’d done to his baby in heaven, how could Gwynn ever look at him the same way? How could Gwynn ever forgive him? They shouldn’t ever have to.

Chris went from those that he had lost, to mentally attacking every demon, every creature that might come after those that he loved, those that he needed to protect. Everyone from Vinny, to Justin, to Ryan, Honesty, Gwynn, Ricky, Ricky was important to Vinny, and Justin, and that made him important to Chris. Then there were the babies if Jerahmiel was right, oh the babies, it would be the first babies in the unit in centuries… He knew Ricky had been involved with Justin and Ryan, but he knew Ryan wouldn’t have bred him, but Justin, and Chris remembered Vinny mentioning accidentally knocking up Ricky. What if it was Vinny’s baby, from, from before? Finally, there was protecting his grandson, he might not know his name yet, and he might not want him to protect him, but Chris would do everything he could to protect his grandson anyway. Including his friends when they came with him.

The more Ryan brought the sledgehammer down, again and again, the more his eyes stung. Everything was just building up inside of him the more he thought about the time that has passed by. The time he had lost with his mate, the time that had been stolen from them, and the poison that had been fed into his veins by Jerahmiel every time he laid his hands on him. The things he’d let him do to him, the things he’d wanted him to do to him at times. Ryan was horrified with himself. There were days he’d just wanted to feel something, anything. Forgetting his mate's face, and not even realizing it, had an effect, he’d known his mate was an angel, and always craved that touch, Jerahmiel had taken advantage of that. Why he did it that way, surely, ripping Ryan apart, piece by piece, until now, it felt like there was barely anything left.

Gasping a ragged breath, Ryan couldn’t take this, he was unable to take any of this, he’d lost everything… there was no way that Gwynn was ever going to be able to stand to look at him. Not when he couldn’t even stand to look at himself. Just catching his reflection in a shard of glass on the floor, after barely making any sound himself the whole time, he let out a feral yell. Finally, he brought down his sledgehammer, and slammed it into the shard, smashing it into a thousand pieces. He couldn’t stand himself. There was no way he could expect Gwynn to either.

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necrotic-nephilim · 2 months ago

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HARD AGREE on the “Jason would not be pacified by Bruce considering killing the joker” Bruce does leave the joker to die, in an era where Bruce left kgb to die, not far off from casually throwing out “I’ve killed in self defence before” lines and those not being stamped out by the editorial mandate. Bruce’s morality at the time is a little more complicated. Exceptions can be made.

But Bruce, in grief, in despair, giving up, because Jason is dead and *joker will never stop being a problem* allowing joker to fall into the river, and then what? I think about a year later joker recovers from the mental episode that interaction and injury gave him and goes back to killing and Bruce has lost his conviction to do what jason sees as right. Jason would be MORE mad. I think Jason, late into his robin run and in uth, can’t believe Bruce is anything but detached from the people because he is clinging to the “antiquated sense of morality” and he wishes his death were the thing that finally shook Bruce by the shoulder and made him take it personally. But Bruce is already taking it personally, lmao

I do disagree a bit on jason being motivated purely by Bruce’s love, instead of seeing murder as the solution to a problem, but I can admit that I *want* to see that, and even then I think it’s both. Pragmatism AND revenge, and both are reasons Bruce does not think excuse murder. Jason is simultaneously valuing some lives above others (innocent VS guilty) and devaluing the act of intentionally murdering or killing in comparison to the numbers game. And there is something hypocritical about that, but very human.

(Metatextually I love how what Jason came back with was like a clinging to the time he was born/created in and every other Batman character moved on, but Jason’s stuck in Jason’s comics.)

somehow this got longer than the post it's jumping off of, so i added a read more just to not spam but oh the thoughts i have <3

i ABSOLUTELY agree on bruce's morals being far more complex than ever given credit for. there's this belief he's very black and white and perfectly stable in his anti-murder mindset, and even pushes it onto other characters. but that's really not true- he regularly works with and gets along with people who are pro-murder, and his *entire* issue is he's always thinking about murder. he's always tempted by that edge, which leads to situations where he *might* leave someone for dead if he's caught on the wrong day. because yes he's anti-killing to the extreme degree, but he's anti-killing because he *wants* to kill, not bc he doesn't want to. he's so tempted, especially when it's personal. Bruce routinely *will* get personal in a fight. the reason he can't make an exception (like what Jason wants) is because it's a dam, for Bruce. and if the dam breaks, the dam breaks. he firmly believes if he slips once, he will never stop falling and that's why he *can't* kill Joker. not because he doesn't want to, not because he hasn't thought about it. so yeah, it would piss Jason off more to know Bruce was considering it briefly in that arc, bc at the end of day, he didn't. he never falters. not even when faced with the loss of *Jason*.

i absolutely see your point, i think Jason post revival is incredibly pragmatic in how he kills. and there's a pragmatic angle to killing the Joker, for him. it's a pure logistical issue that he outright states- there's a *difference* between Joker and any other rogue. Joker exists in his own league and killing him will undoubtedly save lives. and so, there's that angle of purely wanting the Joker dead for the numbers game.

but the way Jason approached that conversation, to me personally, was from the perspective of himself as *Robin*. when he spoke about "if it was you [...] i would've done nothing but search the planet [for Joker]", he was speaking from the perspective of his child self. because Jason fully believes had the roles been reversed when he was Robin, he would've killed Joker. (and i agree, he would've) when i say Jason was fueled entirely by love in his violent actions, i mean Robin!Joker, because Jason is processing this both from the perspective of his current changed self, and the dead version of himself he no longer is. the current Jason views murder pragmatically, but a Robin Jason viewed it through a lense of revenge, and he understands his love for Bruce (when he was that age) through that lens, and believes it should've been reciprocated by Bruce in that manner. and so much of UTRH is a trauma response and fueled by Jason's emotions, to me personally! the pragma is put aside, because he could've killed the Joker a dozen times, but he didn't. he needed Bruce to kill the Joker.

and you brought up a great point about how Jason was disillusioned by Bruce even when he was still Robin. fanon like to paint Bruce during Jason's Robin run as a perfect fatherly figure and all of that time was completely loving, but it wasn't. Bruce regularly was sort of shitty to Jason and Jason's hero worship view of Bruce faltered because of Bruce's detachment and how he grossly mishandled certain things, in Jason's eyes. so in a way, i think Jason is desperately clinging to the belief that this detachment was temporary and it was something they would've worked through and that Bruce still loved him. because Jason is someone who's constantly in his head about whether or not he is to blame for his own death and if Bruce blamed him too. i think it's *why* Jason needs that proof of love from Bruce in killing Joker- because it will at the very least mean that even at their worst, Bruce loved him and could cross the line for Jason. but he won't. that's why it all comes down to love for me, but i definitely agree there is a pragma to it as well!! i just think it's emotionally driven first, hence not shooting Joker in front of Bruce immediately.

also, GOD i love metatextual discussions surrounding Jason. i love metatextually discussing the whole Batfam, but Jason specifically is fascinating, how much of his character and story will be forced to play out certain beats and never fully move on from them. because in the text, we're at the point *every* member of the Batfamily has died. some of them, for significant periods of time. Bruce's death arc was iconic, Dick had his death and subsequent Spyral arc, Damian was dead for quite a bit, and so on. but most of those events aren't lingered on in comics and aren't considered to be important to characterization. they were important singular arcs, but are not titular to these characters.

but with Jason, he was backed into a wall the moment he came back from the dead. because most fans -self included- don't have recent memory of reading comics in a time where Jason was still dead. he's been alive for nearly two decades (or: over two decades if you count Hush) and yet, because he was dead in comics for *so long*, the luster of his return is something that'll likely never wear off. characters in comics come back to life all the time- but not after almost two decades of being gone. we had the Bucky Clause for a reason- it was understood by fans no one is really dead, except Jason Todd, Bucky Barnes, and Uncle Ben. (and i always find it delightfully fun both Jason and Bucky came back in 2006.) it was just a hallmark of comics. so Jason's return was a big deal, it was a spectacle and his entire character was formed around it. and now, comics are never going to let him move on from it. no matter how many times he does, we're going to fall back to bringing up his death, his trauma, the Joker, his morals. he can stop killing for a month and get along with everyone, and then he'll backslide. because the comics don't know what else to do with him.

and that's not a dig at Winick -who wrote most of Jason's comics during his era of return- i think Winick did fantastic things with Jason and could've developed Jason in really interesting directions had he been given the space to. but because there's always a writer and editorial shuffle, it's about what DC at large is doing with him. no matter how much growth and development any writer will pour into Jason, he *will* backslide. it will become about his death and his Robin era again. it's why we keep retelling and retelling his death story (two different animated movies atp, with a *just* announced new one in the works for him and Dick) in adaptation rather than building off of it. it's rare and unique for a character to come back like this.

and being a Winter Soldier fan as well, it's interesting to me, given he's the only character who's comparable to Jason, having his death be such a big moment and then be dead for years. because while Bucky's death and his time as a teenage sidekick are certainly emotionally significant to him, they're really not what the bulk of his runs focus on. he gets to develop nuanced relationships and have interesting arcs and development outside of his backstory. so it's certainly doable, but it's not being done with Jason. which is frustrating bc to keep from rewriting identical comics, Jason's personality just gets changed every new time we retell this story. it makes him feel inconsistent and it makes stories written about his Robin era now feel unreliable in characterization.

and it makes for a bizarre difference in the way Jason's death is treated versus everyone else's. because sure, Jason's death holding more weight canonically makes sense, he was dead for years and he was the first real loss that the Batfam felt. but he's not the only one who's been changed by death- not even the only one who's been changed by the Lazarus Pit in the Batfam. so much of his character surrounds his death and his feelings about it. like you said, everyone else has moved on and he hasn't. i'm always interested in how to handle metatextual reasonings for things vs the textual canon when it comes to the significance of events or things feeling OOC. because i personally think Jason would move on eventually. not that his angry would go away or he would forgive Bruce, but he just has other shit to do. he deserves other wants and goals and there are a lot of interesting places to take him. but there will never be any real commitment to any change made to him so instead, at best he feels static and at worst he feels OOC and inconsistent. which sucks, bc pre-Flashpoint Jason was one of my favorite characters and there *are* post-Flashpoint stories i like with him, that i think were doing interesting things. but it's hard to get into a Red Hood story when you know nothing about it is going to matter in a few years and the cycle will rinse and repeat.

#necrotic answerings #jason todd #bruce wayne #character meta #i love metatextual analysis when it comes to comics #and how the medium affects the narrative #bc the medium affected jason's narrative *hard*#had the red hood arc happened like a year or so after his death it would not be *nearly* as significant #nor would he be nearly as important as a halllmark character for the batfam #but the time gap is what made it such a shocking reveal.that's what made it stick.#and i don't think that's bad #i do love him a lot #i just wish dc like. committed to anyhting to do with him.#this was a very fun convo ty anon!#i agree with just about everything you said #jason is just so interesting to think about and analyze #i lvoe fandom wank.

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ruth-writes · 4 months ago

Text

ruthswip Chapter 1

Chapter 1 of a rewrite of something I've been working on for a long time.

Content warnings: physical abuse (explicit scenes), homophobia

Jamie's POV

One-hundred and fifty-five days. That meant five months and two days. It had been almost half a year.

Half a year, which meant we were getting close to our first performance. Not that we were in any way ready. Lisa was supposed to be doing a step in front of me so we’d form a line facing the audience, but she kept stepping on my foot and tripping instead. If I had to hear the same few notes of This is Me one more time until she finally got it, I was rip my ears off.

Ms. Page looked as frustrated as I felt, but she knew how to handle it. She was exactly the kind of person who should be a teacher, never losing her patience or yelling at us. I wondered how she’d managed not to turn bitter like every other adult I knew. I considered asking her for tips, but it was probably too late for me anyway.

Lisa stepped on my little toe this time, the heel of her boot making me wince. “Sorry,” she apologized, as if that would make the throbbing pain magically disappear.

I glanced at Holden, who was watching us from the front of the room. He should be practicing his solo, but there wasn’t much of a point when the backup dancers couldn’t even get far enough for his cue. At least it meant we could make faces at each other, like the one I gave him now. He answered with a small grin, making my insides squirm. Even more when people looked over their shoulders to follow his gaze. I quickly fixed my gaze back on the gym floor, blending into the background as best as I could.

Ms. Page finally gave up on nobody tripping and told us to just try and get through the whole dance. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be, even though my feet were feeling very bruised by the end of it. I’d managed to do some improv to avoid the worst of the tripping, which Ms. Page praised me for while simultaneously scolding everyone else to practice more at home. Everyone grumbled their acknowledgement, and we were finally allowed to leave.

Outside, Michael asked, “Who wants to go to Taco Bell?” Michael was a senior, and he had a car.

A few people agreed, but Michael specifically looked in our direction. “Holden?”

Holden looked at me, even though I wasn’t the one being asked. “I think I’m just gonna go home,” I told him.

Holden turned to Michael. “Yeah, me too. I still have a lot of homework to do.”

Micheal rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You used to hang out all the time.” Everyone knew what Michael wasn’t saying out loud. If there was any doubt, the glare he was giving me cemented it. Holden used to hang out last year, before he met me.

Holden noticed it, too, his usual carefree smile turning into a slight frown. “Well, things change, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the bus, me hurrying to catch up with him.

I hesitated when he threw himself on the seat at the very back, still glaring. “Are you mad at me?” I came out sounding a lot more like whine than I’d intended.

His expression immediately softened as he hurried to make room for me on the bench. “No, of course not!” When I sat down, he pressed a kiss to my temple and added, “I could never be mad at you.”

I relaxed into his arms.

If I was any good at drawing, I’d be able to draw Holden’s room purely from memory by now. I’d rarely spent a single day anywhere else for the past five months, and most of my time was spent staring at the walls while he worked on his homework. I’d given up trying with mine a while ago. I knew there was no point, especially in the afternoon once my Adderall had worn off.

Holden’s room was how I always imagined mine would be if I could decorate it the way I wanted to. There were two framed posters on the biggest wall, plants on the windowsill that he somehow managed to keep alive, and pieces of furniture he’d been allowed to pick out himself. Best of all was the wall of pictures over his desk. The pictures ranged from him as a baby ‘til now. Some were with friends, some with his family and some with me, and everyone was smiling in each one. I knew that even if I tried to create a wall like that, there wouldn’t be enough people who to cover it with.

That was fine, though. I could entertain myself, like I did now by opening The Battle of the Labyrinth again. I was rereading the entire series while I waited for The House of Hades to come out, even though I knew it all by heart. If I had to recite that instead of state capitals in school, I’d have A’s all around. When I was little, I used to think my ADHD was proof I was a demigod. I kept waiting for the day I’d be whisked to Camp Half-Blood and meet my real family. Of course, I’d have found a way to convince Chiron to let Alex come, too. Even in my wildest fantasies, I’d never considered leaving him for a second.

I jumped slightly when Holden sat down next to me suddenly, holding his laptop. He grimaced. “Oh God, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Are you done?”

He nodded and we cuddled up next to each other, my head resting on his shoulder. Holden tried opening Netflix, but announced after a few moments, “The Wifi’s not working. One of us has to go and reset the router.”

We looked at each other, having a tiny battle of who could do the best puppy-dog gaze.

“I don’t want to get up,” he complained.

“Well, neither do I,” I countered.

“I reset it yesterday!” he protested.

“Did you? I don’t remember.”

“I’m pretty sure I did.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”

He shut his laptop. “I guess we’re not watching anything then.”

That was a move I hadn’t been expecting. “Are you serious?” I pouted.

“Hey, if it’s that important to you, you can go,” he pointed out.

I thought about it. “Yeah, no.”

He laughed, leaning in close. “I know something we can do that we don’t have to leave the bed for.”

I smirked. “Yeah?”

We started off slow, kissing each other gently, but then letting things get more heated. He hummed when I kissed down his neck. I loved giving him hickeys. I wished he could give them to me too, but they’d be much too visible. I smiled into my kissed when he slowly started inching his hand up my shirt, but then frowned when he paused. I stopped to see what he was looking at.

“This one’s knew,” he commented, gently touching the fresh bruise on my chest.

I winced and he immediately withdrew his hand. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt that much, I barely even noticed it,” I lied.

Alex would have known I was lying in a heartbeat, but Holden didn’t know me as well and looked slightly relieved. “Well, that’s good.” He pulled my shirt down again, covering the bruise. “What happened?”

“Nothing, really,” I explained. “He was just awake longer than usual and ran into me when I was coming home.”

I could tell Holden really didn’t like that answer. “Jamie, I think we should tell someone.”

I rolled my eyes. We’d had this conversation before, and he knew my answer hadn’t changed. “No.”

“Just one adult, Jamie,” he pleaded. “It can be anyone. If I told my parents, they’d know what to do.”

I struggled to keep my voice level as I bluntly stated, “They won’t because there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Holden just didn’t get it. “They could call the police,” he argued stubbornly.

I wondered what it was like living with such wholehearted trust in the system. It must be nice. “If we call the police, he’ll put on a nice smile for them an beat me half to death when they’re gone.” I knew I was right, because that was exactly how it had happened when my second-grade teacher called them. Afterwards, the hospital had sent me right back home to him.

A tear rolled down Holden’s cheek and he gave a sniffle, which pissed me off. He wasn’t the one who was in danger here. But he didn’t stop crying, and I guessed I felt a little bad, so I let him cry into my shirt. He was just worried and didn’t know any better. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you,” I soothed him as I stroked his hair.

He sniffed. “I’m scared somethings gonna happen to you.”

“Well yeah, so am I,” I said a bit too bitterly, and immediately regretted it. But Holden never got mad at me, so he just hugged me even more tightly.

“Jamie! Holden! Dinner’s ready!” We heard his dad call from downstairs. They’d started simply assuming that I was eating with them a while back.

We went to wash our hands, spending an extra minute to wash away any evidence of Holden’s tears.

“Will you boys set the table?” Matt asked us once we arrived downstairs. He was carrying a large steaming pot, so I carefully maneuvered around him to get to the silverware.

We were having spaghetti. The homemade tomato sauce was a lot better than the cheap store-bought one Alex used to heat up in the microwave. I was pretty sure the strange chucks I was picking at were actual tomatoes. I tentatively poked a small one with my fork and forced myself to swallow it. I’d always hated eating in front of other people, especially when it wasn’t one of my safe foods. Having to pretend I wasn’t literally choking most things down was exhausting.

“So, how was everyone’s day?” Anna asked like she did every day. I’d only been dealing with it for five months, I couldn’t understand how Holden had managed it his entire life.

“It was fine, I guess,” Holden mumbled, trying to get out of the question as always. I’d come to realize it was their ritual, because Anna always managed to get all the details out of him in the end. There wasn’t a single aspect of his life Holden was allowed to keep private.

“You guess?” Anna pried.

Holden busied himself trying to roll the spaghetti onto his fork. He gave up on the polite way after a few tries and started rolling the fork in the air, which was pretty cute to watch.

“Holden, don’t play with your food,” Anna said gently but firmly.

He pouted. “I’m eating it!”

Whenever he talked back to his parents, I prepared myself for someone to start screaming before I remembered that wasn’t gonna happen here. Instead, Matt made Holden watch while he showed him the correct way to roll spaghetti. “Jamie’s doing it,” he pointed out. “Maybe you should watch him.”

I hated it when they did that. Pitted us against each other. Couldn’t he have just shown it to him and left it at that? Now, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and it was making my skin crawl.

Thankfully, Anna remembered that it was still supposed to be Holden’s turn in the spotlight. “How’s your solo coming along?”

Holden nodded with his mouth stuffed full of spaghetti, which Anna patiently waited for him to swallow. “We were mostly practicing the beginning of the routine today,” he finally explained.

Anna frowned. “Still? Your performance is next week.”

Holden snorted. “Yeah, and it’s gonna be a… bad show.” I knew he’d narrowly stopped himself from saying shitshow.

Anna didn’t mention his hiccup. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

She spent the next few minutes prying about how Ms. Page was handling it, how the moral was among the dancers (what did that even mean?) and figuring out exactly what Holden had ‘learned’ in school today. It was exhausting to watch, but I desperately wished it would go on forever, because once she was satisfied with him, she fixed her gaze on me.

“What about you, Jamie? What did you learn today?”

This was always the most uncomfortable part, because Anna definitely thought I was being rude when I didn’t answer, but I truly didn’t have a single idea what my teachers had droned on about on any given day. I could barely remember my classes. After what felt like an eternity, Anna gave up on the subject, but she wasn’t completely done with me.

“How are your parents? Are they still working hard?” Anna thought the reason my parents were so nonexistent was because they were workaholics. She’d kind of come up with it on her own, and I’d never corrected her.

“Um, yeah,” I replied, picking at my food. Everyone else had already served themselves seconds, but my plate was still half full.

Anna and Matt shared a look that I didn’t understand, then Matt cleared his throat. “We were thinking of maybe inviting them over to dinner some time. You know, since you’re here so often, and we’ve never met them. They might want to know who their son is spending all of his time with.” He gave a light chuckle at the end.

Red alert. Red alert. Red alert, my brain blared. Had Matt’s gaze always been so piercing? Why was my fork suddenly so heavy? It slipped out of my hand and landed on the plate with a lout clatter, making everyone at the table jump. “Sorry!” I exclaimed, quickly picking it up again.

“It’s alright,” Matt said, even though he looked slightly frazzled. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, so he looked to his wife for help.

She seemed as lost as him, but she didn’t let it stop her from trying something. “Jamie, honey, is everything… alright?”

My heart was pounding so intensely I could feel it in my fingertips. I set my fork down so I didn’t make the same mistake again and put on my best mask. “Yeah! Sorry, I was thinking of something else. I’ll ask my parents, but I honestly don’t think they’ll be free anytime soon. You've seen how much they work.”

My sudden change in attitude didn’t seem to convince Matt and Anna. I cursed myself for getting too comfortable and letting my mask slip.

“Okay, you do that,” Anna said. “But if you need anything, you can tell us, okay?”

No matter how annoying Anna was, my heart warmed at her genuineness. I almost felt guilty lying to her. Almost. It was a necessary means. I flashed her a brilliant smile. “Thanks, but really, everything’s fine.”

She gave me an uncertain smile back, then transferred the spotlight to Matt. He excelled in it, telling her every conversation he’d had that day almost word for word. Afterwards, he hung onto every sentence as she did the same for him.

Matt always drove me home after dinner. Usually he put on his favorite radio station that only played The Beatles, but today it was silent. Maybe he wanted to give me the room to tell him something. I liked Matt a lot more than I liked Anna. He never forced things out of you, so when we talked, it was always about things we both genuinely wanted to say. I imagined what would happen if I told him about my bruises. He’d freak out, but still manage to keep his cool. He’d wait for me to finish talking and then figure out what to do. He’d only want to call the cops, though, no matter what I said. So I kept my mouth shut.

We said our goodbyes, and I watched him drive off before walking home from the house I always told him was mine. It was only a block away from my actual front door. Taking off, my shoes, I unlocked the front door as slowly as I could before tiptoeing through and closing it a millimeter a second. Then came the stairs, which I inched along, making sure to avoid the creaky ones. If that even mattered with how loudly I could hear the blood rushing through my ears. After maybe ten minutes, I reached the top, where Alex’s bedroom door was waiting open for me. It was right next to mine, which had remained firmly shut since he’d left. I pulled myself under the covers that had stopped smelling like him a long time ago and fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next week went by in a blur. Ms. Page made us put in insane hours of extra practice, even managing to pull us out of class, and by the end of it we were actually kind of okay. Lisa wasn’t even stepping on me anymore, and Ms. Page seemed to be finding the joy in her job again.

Then it was an hour before the show, all the parents were trickling into the auditorium, and things were absolutely chaotic backstage. People were running around looking for their missing props, then crashing into others who were pacing out of nervousness. I found a quiet corner and watched. We were all in basic black outfits except for Holden, who had a white skintight shirt. It made him look pretty hot as he frantically tried to help Ms. Page keep everything in order. I saw him scan the room until his eyes fell on me. He tilted his head, silently asking if I was okay. I gave him a thumbs up, and he immediately went back to yelling orders.

Once we were under the blinding lights of the stage, adrenaline took over. I loved these moments, when I didn’t have to think and my body just did. It gave me a few precious moments of peace that were over way too soon, especially considering all the hours of sweat and tears we’d put into the routine. It was humbling realizing that we’d needed half a year to get a few minutes of simple steps right so that our parents could politely clap and forget about it the next day. The adrenaline was already mostly gone by the time Anna and Matt greeted us after the show.

“You did so well!” Anna squealed. “I’m so proud of you both.”

Matt agreed with her, and I let them hug me after they’d nearly suffocated Holden. At first it was awkward, but then I realized I didn’t want to let go. I might have been imagining it, but Matt did seem to let me hold onto him a little longer than normal before they both started fawning over Holden’s solo. I happily joined in, seeing as he had been incredible. He was all smiles, eating the attention up like the shining star he was. And he was my shining star.

I didn’t know what came over me. Maybe it was seeing him so happy, maybe Matt’s hug had given me a false sense of security. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek.

After that, everything seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Holden blushed slightly, and Anna and Matt laughed. Anny got out her phone to take a picture of us, but then her eyes fixed on something behind us. I heard someone gasp and then a voice that never failed to make my blook run cold said, “What the fuck?”

The first hit slammed into my head before I had the time to react. People screamed. I stumbled, dots in front of my eyes, and Holden caught me.

“Get your hands off my son, you fucking fag!”

He was ripped away from me and I fell, Something slammed into my face, then my arm, then my ribs. I was pretty sure I heard a crack. More people were screaming now, some of them calling my name. I ignored them, choosing to curl into a ball and close my eyes. I accepted the beatings until finally, everything went black.

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jmwdoesthings · 5 months ago

Text

Set Me Free - Chapter Three - Loki x OC

Chapter Three - only problems arise when one's existence is a scandal.

One of Loki Laufeyson's most prized talents was the sharpness of his mind and tongue. Or, rather, his sub-talent which stemmed from this sharpness of mind, coupled with no hesitancy of gauging people who irked him with a few well-chosen words: his natural ability to send beings into a state of crazed obstinacy of beating out their exasperation out onto his face and stick sharp objects into his torso. But, alas - what could he do about his genius? It was a gift of his and it would simply be a shame for it to go unpractised.

And he was always of this opinion until life threw him into a crucible of Hel and he encountered a few beings who surpassed even his own deviation from the path he, perhaps, should have trodden upon.

A pleasant conversation with Odin was all well and good, and Loki grew his heart into stone well enough to withstand the old man's cutting words. How he wished he could kill him, as he was informed of his birthright. How he wished he could watch him burn in a fire of equal heat and torture which he had created for him. Oh, how Loki wished he could kill the man he once called Father, as his sentence was spoken and he was confined within four walls for the rest of his life in this world. His veins frothed with the desire to outstretch his hands, not only the sharpness of his tongue, and get an opportunity for his pupils to constrict into two dagger points which he would simultaneously assault this wanton occupying Asgard's throne, as he was taken down into the dungeons.

He even cursed his mother, which led to torment which surpassed physical, after he had allowed himself to seek comfort within her hands, the hands which had turned into an illusion and reminded him of the thing he feared and hated most, knowingly or not: Loki Laufeyson was forsaken, alone. All were against him, never would he smile again without stones crushing his chest into a bloody slab of tissue.

And Henrietta Knott...

Loki gritted his teeth, then shakily snapped the book he was holding shut. He tried to tell himself that he hadn't thought of her as he tore that city down. He tried to tell himself that, despite recollecting strange pieces of feeling that made his heart feel alive, he hadn't cast them aside for power and some sort of made chase of control and fulfilment. He tried to contain himself, rage and fury crawling over every inch of his skin, making him tremble and his veins stand out on his neck and forehead.

A smile, an untouched laugh of a girl, her soft hand on his face, so long ago, then later, when she could think; when she could ask him what was on his mind; when she could kiss his cheeks and be his one companion, one who he did not irk with slashes of knives but with pokes of soft fingers and impish grins.

Oh, I do like you, Loki of Asgard.

The book was obliterated as it struck the wall, its spine cracking and the unspoiled pages now furled and crumpled miserably beneath it, as it lay desolate and unwanted at the base of his prison. Loki's chest heaved up and down as he stood in this torpid state of turmoil; the echoes of his yell of rage still curled off the walls of his cell; somewhere behind his spine emotions gathered, as foetid as sludge: black resentment, bitterness, wild fury, sharp blame. He was an embodiment of the worst, a plague, a forsaken being of sin and twisted lies and mind, and yet... Odin, how cruel fate was, how it cursed and damned him! He, for all his thick masks of apathy and madness, could still feel that soft weight of that child who used to love him, that soft weight when he had carried it as it slept on his chest and shoulder, honest and trusting, tearing sobs from his chest and pulling tears of delicate overwhelm from his eyes.

Loki hated, he hated, he hated! He hated all, all! He wished to burn and destroy and descend Asgard into the very Hel he was placed in! He wished to steal breath and still hearts and make them feel his rage with more than just their hearts, but with their empty veins!

But he was locked up. Mocking, rich pieces furnished his cell. A golden bowl with delicious, sweet grapes stood on a polished table. A god, it all seemed to be saying, raising its eyebrows at him quizzically, you're a god, you say? And yet look at you. You're not much more than a dog locked up in a cage; you're no more than a criminal, torn from the spires of paradise into the echoing void of the craters below it. Where is your power? Where are your words? Where is your purpose, now?

Loki obliterated everything with his sparks, until even his bed was splintered, filling his nostrils with an acrid stench of destruction. How ironic. Wasn't that exactly what Odin had said? Wherever he went, there was nothing but destruction, and death.

Loki's rage stilled like magma setting. He looked about him, cold in his chest and the pit of his stomach and in the splinters of the furniture, then despair and helplessness crept through his veins and clutched at his throat.

"All eternity," he muttered breathlessly, as he limped over to the wall and slid down next to it, his blasted, damaged back barely keeping him upright as he panted. "All eternity."

What he wanted, he didn't know. It was as though he had forgotten what he had aimed for in the first place. His mind was a muddle of slippery objects, objects bearing labels like: destiny, memory, touch; consequence, error, pain; morals, values, gain.

His eyes narrowed as he rootled in his ravaged mind. What was it that Loki sought? What was it, besides power and satisfaction of recognition? There must have been something. There must have been something...

He whimpered and clutched at his temples, feeling as though his head was falling apart. As though there was a physical being pushing on its walls and laughing, moving about every piece, every block of his mind around to its will. He felt as though something else had created this mess. It wasn't his, this chaos in his brain and chest, it wasn't... it couldn't be... it felt foreign and strange, as though that oaf Thor had been in his room and thrown everything about, out of its place, to spite him.

But this wasn't Thor, no. This was something far more sinister, something which he couldn't fathom and organise, something which didn't belong in his head. Loki clutched at his throbbing throat, then closed his eyes and tried to descend into himself, touch and feel the burned and bleeding parts, find the scattered keys to the different rooms organising his head, observe both the damage and reparations - or rather, the change - time had created.

But he couldn't. All he found as soon as he closed his eyes was a sharp, cold pain, something which sent electricity sizzling the raw inside him; he jerked awake with a gasp and furled his fingers deep into the fabric of the sides of the coat he was clad in, seeking, seeking, always seeking and finding... nothing.

He had sought for so long, he had forgotten what he had begun to search for in the first place. Perhaps then, when this mad hunt began, the end goal was tangible and clear; now, all he wished he could find was a place to find a recluse. Something which brought him away from the tangible, from the pain, away, away, away, away to a place from which...

From which Hattie Knott came from?

"No," Loki muttered to himself, assuming a stone-cold facade, which, as usual, was tinged with sardonic and selfish humour. "Hattie Knott is gone, so are you. She'll be free to do what she wants and go to Hel with me after."

No, she wouldn't go to Hel, a voice chuckled in his head. Even in the afterlife, you will find nothing but emptiness and cold, this time which will penetrate even your jotun skin.

Loki laughed, then. His laugh was scraping and cold, and an insight to the beginning of his inevitable descent into madness.

Some three weeks after the beginning of his imprisonment, and after Frigga had finally left him to succumb to his punishments and thoughts and the furniture had been restored from his outbursts, Loki looked up from his book to find Ahlan the Jailer watching him.

He met his eyes - dark and cold like the bite of steel - and watched a smile equally sharp and tinged with relish of grief unfold on his scarred face. This man was taller than Thor, had a build which could rival the god of thunder (particularly his developed shoulders) dark hair hanging around his face and growing out the lower part of it, and oh, Loki often watched him with a placid mask hiding the twisted thoughts of infliction he directed at him. They weren't usual inflictions. They were awful inflictions. Malefic ones.

Loki turned his attention back to his book, thinking Ahlan would get bored of him and go, as was usually the case, for he had other prisoners to torture. The reason Loki wasn't getting tortured was because Frigga had begged it out of Odin, and the latter, the majestic, splendid, merciful ruler he was, agreed to spare him of it. At least for a little while.

But Ahlan the Jailer slowly stepped through the golden barrier which imprisoned him. He wandered about for a few moments, taking a look at the books piled on the table - he took one up, flicked at a page leisurely, then chuckled and placed it to the side.

Loki watched him. He had neither the energy nor the patience to engage in taunting which he, undoubtedly, would end up on the lower step of, since he was the one behind bars.

"So, Laufeyson," Ahlan began, looking up at him from the book he placed to the side, then flicked his eyes over the rich, gleaming furniture and crimson bed covers. "A nice little place you have here."

Loki smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Indeed," he replied, then languidly flicked a page and trained his eyes on the paper. "It's kept quite pristine. And in fact, I'd like to keep it that way."

Ahlan raised his eyebrows.

"Really? You were never a scrupulous one, before you still had any hope of retaining a title for yourself."

Loki stopped his fists from clenching, though it took him an effort to do so, and showed his teeth as his face muscles worked into a wider smile.

"I have never felt the need to keep my floors free from blood before," he said calmly, looking up at him suggestively. "So I suggest you pay heed to your surroundings, Jailer. It would give the servants a fright if they saw your head jammed into the fruit platter after they are called to clean your entrails off my floor."

Ahlan only laughed, rolling his heavily-clad shoulders. "Always so violent. If you were my son, perhaps I would be proud at where your thoughts go, Laufeyson, I'll give you that. But since you have been introduced into the higher ranks, after your miserable wretch of a self was picked up off the steps of Jotunheim by the Allfather..."

Loki clutched his book so hard, he tormented the pages.

"... More was expected of you. An un-warped sense of justice. A speck of honour or two. But you failed."

Ahlan sank down onto Loki's bed. Loki considered - if he beheaded the Jailer, would he still get fruit delivered to him after breakfast? Loki was very fond of grapes. They were smooth and round and sweet and reminded him of what wine tasted like.

Ahlan nodded. "You failed quite spectacularly, actually. It should be marked with some sort of stamp of excellence... I don't think anybody has yet stooped so low as the bastard prince of Asgard has."

Loki decided he liked grapes too much, though fire now coursed through his lungs and his back stiffened and flared most irritatingly. "What do you want," he said coolly, smoothing the pages with a scarred thumb.

"Me?" Ahlan smiled. "I want nothing. I do not have a will, here. I am assigned to babysit all you drooling toddlers who couldn't behave. What my superiors, what the Allfather wishes, I do."

Loki chuckled, then shut the book and placed it to the side. He stood and folded his hands behind his back.

"I'll tell you what, Ahlan," he murmured, smiling, then travelled towards the fruit bowl and lazily picked up a heavy branch loaded with crimson, glistening fruit. "Perhaps if you were wise enough to aid me in my so-called little slip-up..."

Loki dangled the fruit into his mouth and snatched a few grapes with his teeth. After swallowing, he continued.

"... You wouldn't be a dungeon dog today, with about as much regard from Odin as the rest of us, shut up in our little kennels."

Ahlan watched him without a change in his strange, steel smile.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he murmured, watching as Loki picked a few grapes off the branch and began popping them into his mouth, apparently completely at his leisure. "But I do know that I certainly wouldn't have the pleasure of being your personal torturer. And in this case, I do."

Loki paused with the empty branch in his hand, his mind ticking, but before anything could happen the entire floor gave way.

He felt the firm slipping out from under his feet, then air rushing against his form and face, panic strangling him, before landing with a crack on hard, stone flags, in the dark, on his right leg, as the furniture rained down around him.

He cried out, but his leg was unharmed - it was his back which didn't comply with his vitality. Electricity jarred through it, stiffening his lower spine, sending pain shooting up and down it and rendering getting up completely out of the question.

He cursed darkly and generously, clutching at his back, his nostrils flaring and fury romping with alarm somewhere in his chest. Loki snarled and looked up. It was dark. A placid drip, drip, drip was coming somewhere to his left, but he couldn't see.

He tried to calm his nerves, but failed. Panic destroyed anger, then seized his limbs and arrested his breathing. The burns on his back began to sear, though it was nothing but cold in the shadows of wherever he had fallen into. Loki felt something icy grab hold of his chest and squeeze, wiggling its thumb in his throat as his eyes darted around in panic.

He remembered an equally horrible place. He remembered the feeling of burning on his back, the horror of it never coming to an end, knowing that it would not have time to heal before his flesh was seared again, as he was bent and shaped and melted into submission by the Mad Titan.

Loki trembled. Fear blended with trepidation, weaving terror, weaving dread, weaving dark spots in his vision which he could barely distinguish from the shadow before him.

Get up, something screamed from within him, get up and fight.

But Loki's knees gave way. His torso slammed against the rock beneath him, hands sliding to the sides, already slippery with sweat. He felt the smoothness of the rock with his cheek as he gasped, terror raking through his body, knowing, knowing that something was going to happen which would send him begging and screaming.

Footsteps approached him; a dark laugh was heard.

"Your words are empty," Ahlan chuckled, his heavy boots going thunk, thunk, thunk against the thick stone, which Loki felt with every rib and organ. "Your threats... your pledges... you in general."

It took an immense effort for Loki not to cry out; to keep silent though every tendon and fibre in his being screamed for him to flee. But Loki had forgotten; he didn't need to move to retaliate. He had his magic, he had his tricks...

Loki froze, his right hand extended in vain. His insides turned to jagged ice, because his sparks did not come.

"Especially here," Ahlan continued, standing just beside him as he panted and tried to heave himself up. "In this place, magic is forbidden; all who use it are silenced, here. Within them it is sealed."

All broke loose. Loki felt a surge of energy loosened by desperation and sprang up, erect, his back screaming, but was knocked down with a rough blow to his forehead. He staggered back and stumbled, feeling a trickle of blood seep down his face. His mind screamed in question: what had happened? How did he become so helpless, so weak? How did he fall so low in his own eyes?

He tried to fight and struggle, but in vain he did, rendered disheartened to keep fighting, for what was the point? His existence was nothing but a string of punishments and torture, he was isolated, and his one pledge was disregarded, his pledge to see, to feel a gentle weight upon his chest and shoulder once more.

His assaults were knocked as though he was naught but a wild child, his steps easily overtaken, his limbs and back assaulted. He received a blow to the head - thick metal clanged against his skull; Loki felt his knees give out, and then blackness devoured his consciousness as he plunged into unfeeling.

Loki opened his eyes.

For a few instances, he couldn't fathom where it was he was in. It was dark. Perhaps if he wasn't a jotun, he would have thought it was cold, but he was and thus felt nothing but strange jets of heat rippling around his ankles and knees.

Then he realised he couldn't move. Heavy, clanking shackles bound his limbs and attached them to his neck, which a heavy choker gripped. He was kneeling, his hands pulled above his head; oh, his back... His back...

He was even denied the feeling of wetness filling his eyes as everything was torn from him. Only a hollow feeling of despair filled his soul as he shook, staring at the floor. His face felt strange. Heavy. As though the despair was pulling down his lips.

Loki looked up as a ray of yellow light broke through the darkness, then as many others lit up the room dimly. The room was giant and hollow, built of stone. It must have been below the palace dungeons, for it was crude even for prison standards; the lamps weren't shaped, the chains connected to the walls were heavy and lumped together, stray links hanging like earrings and clinking as the strange, hot breeze stirred them.

Loki felt his fingers twitch, then flicked his eyes upwards and beheld Ahlan the Jailer, holding nothing but a torch in one huge hand. Loki flinched from the glare and the heat.

"Well," Ahlan said. "Doesn't this look altogether a better sight, Jeehl?"

Jeehl, a smooth-skinned, young Asgardian guard, with shining eyes and blond tresses hanging around his head, inclined his head. But he didn't share Ahlan's sadistic pleasure, looking upon Loki with something short of pity in his well-guarded eyes.

"Yes, captain."

It was an automated reply, which Loki took no notice of, for he was gazing with a crazed obstinacy of the flickering flames which Ahlan held, his pupils quivering.

Ahlan chuckled, then leaned down to look him in the face.

"Well, Laufeyson?" he murmured, raising his heavy eyebrows. "What now? Will you not speak? Will you not try to spit your way out of the situation you are in?"

It was at that moment that the strange gleam in the Jailer's eyes was interpreted. Because Loki, pulling back his lips in a snarl, found that he couldn't part them. A sharp pain, like thousands of small stabs and pinpricks roved over his mouth, as though it was being pulled apart in many directions.

And then Loki realised. This had happened once before when he had fraternised with some dwarves, though then he had emerged victorious. His lips were sewn shut.

Ahlan laughed as he froze, as his breathing began to quicken. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't talk; he couldn't talk!

"Oh, Laufeyson," Ahlan smoothed his brown beard and shook his head solemnly, almost in pity. "What use are you without your tools?"

Loki began to shake. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't obey him; he was left to toss like a trussed-up bird, his attempts at freedom futile.

Ahlan glanced at the torch he was holding. Loki did too.

"I've heard that jotuns are immune to cold," Ahlan remarked. "But they despise the heat rather awfully."

Odin, no, Odin, no, Odin, no, Odin... He would be silent, he'd stay this way, he wouldn't use magic, just not this... not this...

Loki emitted a series of strangled cries from his lungs, which only came out as a mangled noise of helplessness through his nose.

"Hm." Ahlan shrugged. "I suppose it only leaves us to find out if it's true."

Loki saw nothing but orange and heat. He heard nothing, staring at the flames unblinking, his vision pulsing, things tearing inside him as Ahlan brought the torch closer... closer to his skin...

When Loki's eyes fluttered open - the number of times they had done so, and he had found himself half-dead and yet unable to die, his skin searing or numb from heat, and his physical form broken, he couldn't count - he was not in the dungeons. He could scarcely believe it, couldn't believe it. There was... light. Odin, there was daylight before him. It was fresh and unspoiled, straight from the sun, straight from the outside.

Loki breathed. He breathed in, out, then in and out again. The daylight didn't change. A pebble shifted from the weight on his lungs and skittered away from it.

He flexed his fingers, one by one, wondering whether they were answering to him. But softness greeted his touch, enveloping his hands in comfort and tenderness. Was he dreaming? Was he finally dead? Was this perhaps a small mercy before he was again plunged head-first into flame and liquid agony?

But no; nothing of the sort happened. Something cool passed over his forehead, over his neck. It was so soft, so tender, Loki made a broken sound of longing, relief, blinking.

Someone spoke. "Oh! Oh, thank Odin..."

Loki's mind floated back from where it wandered. His eyes scoured detail: flowers on the walls; a white-painted ceiling; a wrought lamp still and unlit to his left.

And before him was a woman. Her hair was ebony and braided down her back, her face oval and thin, her eyes grey and huge and... and his? His! They were his! He stared at her, slowly unravelling within completely, delving into the depths of them, seeking, demanding, longing. It was her! It was her! It was her!

Henrietta Knott blinked furiously as she watched him, pressed a fist to her mouth, then cried, "Oh, you're awake...!" and she flew at him. He felt her head on his chest and shoulder, a flowery scent in his nostrils - a fresh, crisp scent - and arms around his torso, so tight, so truly delighted!

He tried to open his mouth to tell her he was so glad to see her, to cry out and whisper words of recognition and seek reassurement, to express his inexorable exaltation of seeing her alive - oh, alive! - and then... remembered; his lips were closed and mangled and so was he.

"Oh, Loki of Asgard," Henrietta whispered, clutching him tight, then placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, making him want to break down wail like a newborn. "I thought you'd never wake up. That I would live to see you waste away and never speak another word to you..."

He tried desperately to lift his hands to return the embrace, but he couldn't move a muscle. Each one felt as though it was laden down with lead, trapped beneath an invisible stone slab. After a moment, just after he registered her heart beating very close to his, unwittingly restarting it and coaxing it to drum to the same steady rhythm, she sat up and looked at him.

He observed her; it was all he could do, and she smiled at him. She smiled at him, tears rolling down her cheeks, then she took one of his hands. He felt it, smooth and warm and vibrating in his own calloused one and shut his eyes for a moment to try and taste the sensation, feeling traces of warmth in a chest which was always so hollow and cold.

"We found you in a park," she was saying, thumbing circles on his palm. "You were chained... There was a lot of green light, and flashing, and out of this gathering of sparks you fell out. I won't ask you what happened, you'll tell me about it later. After we found you, my friend mended your bones, and we brought you here, to my house... Uncle Haldanson's house."

And that was when his hand became empty again. Loki opened his eyes to see what prompted this hasty punishment, and found she was looking away from him. Her face... it was hardening. Her tears for him were stopping.

He watched with something near horror as she wiped them away and beheld him as though he was a stranger. A stranger! He wasn't a stranger, he was Loki! He was her Loki of Asgard!

Loki tried to tell her. He stopped his lungs mid-swell and tried with all his might to sit up, to move; all he managed to do was twitch to the right, let alone take her hand or shake her shoulder.

Henrietta bowed her head once, somehow knowing what was on his mind. "Forgive me. By all rights, I should be treating you as though you're a criminal."

What? What?!

She must have read the expression on his face and nodded. There was a dry smile on her face, a very faint one, and Loki read something in her eyes he knew all too well.

"You... killed my uncle, Loki Odinson. When you tried to take over this city, remember?"

Loki's heart sank so low that he felt it almost being split upon his ribs and made a shattered sound of pain, then shut his eyes and grew limp against the covers, sapped out of the little strength he had. That's right. He forgot, down in the dungeons, where there wasn't a speck of light to watch to mark the passing of time, about why he was within them in the first place. So he killed Haldanson, did he? Oh, vile curses! Who was he to blame now? Who was he to take his anger out on? Here, there was no Odin. There wasn't even an Ahlan. There was only Henrietta. Perhaps this was all a cruel dream? No, he wouldn't ever be able to dream up a room so soft and Knottie as she was now, because he had not yet seen her as a woman.

And now, he was going to be forsaken again. If not harmed physically, he would be arrested to suffer within himself, unable to call out for aid, unable to move and save himself. He was completely and utterly at the mercy of the girl who was once the only reason why he still breathed freely; now, the woman who would view him as everybody else did. Oh, damned horror. Accursed horror...! There was no end to this! He was trapped between two Hels, one personal, one physical, and each fought to claim him, pulling at his limbs with hooks, disregarding his pleas, his begging...

"By all rights," Henrietta's voice jarred him out of his wallowing, and he once more felt something very pleasant and cool passing over his skin. "I should be taking revenge on you. That's how the honour is in Asgard. One kills your father, you go and kill him."

She traced his forehead, his cheeks, then cooled his eyes. She ran the wet and cold down his neck, across his collarbones, then took his palms and began to smooth his dry skin with the cloth. It was heaven.

"But I don't think you could be destroyed any more than you are already, so I'll leave revenge for another time."

Loki opened his eyes, his chest beginning to move up and down as he swallowed repeatedly. Still, he didn't cry, couldn't cry. Perhaps he wasn't worthy of tears, just as Odin had made him unworthy of death - forbade Death to call his name, rendering him trapped in existence until he thought otherwise.

Henrietta wasn't looking at him, still working on his palms with her lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. Loki begged her to turn, urged her to turn to look at him; she did. She must have heard him. Was she reading his mind?

Her eyes fixed on his, and for a small moment, something in those two pools of silver in her face mirrored his. She sighed.

"You suffer. You have walked through places not many ever have, full of darkness and pain," she murmured, putting the cloth to the side. "And yet there is no remorse in your eyes for your deeds which sent you there."

Loki felt both his hands being taken, his chains and shackles jingling. She put them together, enveloping them in her own, her small ones, then pressed this bundle of entwined hands and iron to his chest; a comfortable weight, against all odds, for there was warmth in it and Loki had gotten used to the weight of the metal on his limbs.

"Hush, now," she said softly, breaking one hand free to run across his forehead and brush the hair out of his eyes. "Rest, Loki Odinson. You are tired and weary. Your bones are brittle and your muscles exhausted."

Loki's breathing regulated, as did his heartbeat. She thumbed his cheek, then urged him to be calm with half a smile, before her face returned to hurt and became cold again.

Loki feared she would go, she would leave him; but she seemed to understand and kept smoothing his forehead. Oh, foolish, benevolent girl! She always understood him. She always knew, even if he hadn't uttered a word or thought a conscious thought, what it was he wanted. She knew when to take his hand, when to endure his prods, when to snap him out of wallowing with a mischievous, irksome word or two. His little friend. His once-friend.

"Sleep, now," she whispered, one hand still at his chest. "You will wake again, and again we will speak then."

Loki didn't think he'd sleep; he didn't want to sleep, this was as far away from Hel as he would ever get, and he feared that all of this would vanish and he would return to the pits from which he came from. But he felt his eyelids growing heavy to her murmur, and when she began to brush her thumb over his eyelids, a ripple of restful pleasure came through him, and it wasn't long before he had sunk once more into darkness.

#loki #loki fanfiction #lokifanfic #loki x oc #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki series #thor dark world #thor ragnarok #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #fanfiction #angst #fluff #no smut

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rememberdamage · 1 year ago

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“It was at this point that I reached Episode 7, where Kirsten puts on a play of Lannigan's death. Aside from her casting choices placing the three of them squarely in the center of Station Eleven the graphic novel, the very idea of a play-within-a-play is a celebrated aspect of Hamlet. Hamlet puts on the play to try to get Claudius to confess by making him emotional over the pretend death of an actor. This clearly draws the connection between Kirsten and Hamlet.

One has to wonder, what would have happened if the Red Bandana hadn't walked in? Jeevan was unable to say goodbye to Frank when his character died. Did Kirsten devise this so that Jeevan would try harder to convince Frank to leave with them? This is fascinating to me primarily because of those parallels between Hamlet and Kirsten, but also because of what we can imagine of Hamlet and Tyler in their own stories. Hamlet becoming an actor himself seems like a love letter to the core concept of Station Eleven– art is life. So what if Hamlet had turned to the arts to cope with his father’s death instead of murderous scheming? And what if Tyler had?

If you think about it, Tyler’s elaborate reconstruction of Station Eleven to tell to the Undersea kids, and his constant lying about his identity, is a play in its own right. But who is he trying to make feel guilty? Tyler’s role as the Prophet may very well be his way of punishing himself for the pain he has caused others, ensnaring children purely because their worship of him reminds him how twisted he’s become. Simultaneously ruining his life while trying to ruin the lives of the people who raised him seems pretty on-brand for the prince of Denmark.

So, these characters show us two ways Hamlet’s involvement with the arts could have gone. Either it would have served as an extension of his life, allowing him to infuse art into his reality and use it to manipulate the feelings of others, or it would have been a gateway into his madness, showing him that he can conjure up more depravity through art than he ever could murder. But when you think about it, these two outcomes are interchangeable, depending on how much you trust the actor playing them out. Here’s another theme of Station Eleven: madness vs. genius. When Tyler plans to stab Clark during the play, is that really more crazy than Kirsten using a scene with Alex to try and stop her from leaving? Who is insane, and who is an artist?

Nestled comfortably in the middle of this paradox, we find Kirsten and Tyler, the twin Hamlets.”

From my analysis of Station Eleven as a Hamlet adaptation.

#in this essay i will #station eleven #hamlet #rambles #disguised as intelligent opinions #i’m obsessed #i can quit anytime

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twoidiotwriters1 · 10 months ago

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The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Fun fact! Leo x Echo is my favorite noncanon ship, they would've been much better than Caleo tbh -Danny Words: 2,148 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Cloud 9' -by Paravi

VI: I Can't Beat the Simping Allegations

"Who did you see in Nemesis, Ara?"

The question is so straightforward it catches her off guard. Leo is allowed to ask that kind of stuff, but at the same time, he should shut up and mind his business.

"Aunt Rosa was the one who kicked you out, right?" Ara asks back.

Leo makes a face. "Yeah..." he moves on to Hazel so Ara can't keep asking about Aunt Rosa. "What Nemesis said about your brother..."

"Nico," Hazel's voice cracks. "He found me in the Underworld. He brought me back to the mortal world and convinced the Romans at Camp Jupiter to accept me. I owe him for my second chance at life. If Nemesis is right, and Nico's in danger... I have to help him."

Ara wants to help Nico, even if they have a complicated history. She doesn't hate the boy like that. "He probably never mentioned me..."

"I think he did," Hazel replies. "Sometimes he'd talk about people he met throughout the years, he'd mention this girl a lot... Lily Saggio. He said she's Italian too."

"That's our best friend," Ara responds. "She understands your brother better than anyone else."

"You're Birdy, right? That's how he calls you," Hazel gives her a sympathetic smile. "He respects you."

"What? Really?" She frowns.

Is Ara the only one holding onto the past? Or was Nico keeping things hidden because he couldn't give the context to Hazel? The truth is, she avoided him for a whole year thinking it was the only way to keep a civil relationship, and now she doesn't really know him.

If they rescue him, maybe they should talk without getting defensive, maybe he'll surprise her in a good way.

"Ara, stop threatening to hit Nico with your book!"

"Then tell him to stay on his side!" I whine. "His stupid jacket is too big..."

I glare at Nico. We found him in this weird farm that's placed above a labyrinth's entrance, and for some reason, everyone thought it was a good idea to sit me next to this jerk.

We're trying to ignore each other, but at some point, he starts to squirm and insists he has important business to attend to with the owner of this dumpster, Geryon.

"He's good at making clothes? Is he going to cut your jacket in half so you stop looking like a dwarf?" I taunt him. "Can't even see your hands in that..."

"I'm not talking to you," he clenches his jaw.

"Lily's worried about you. You left without saying a word, and she's your friend."

"She thinks my father will kill her if I get hurt," he corrects me.

I frown. "So she deserves to fear for her life because of your tantrum?"

"My sister dying is not reason enough to be mad?" He turns to me with angry dark eyes.

"I didn't say that. I'm just telling you how Lily feels. It'd be nice if you went back to camp, but you can stay here and die for all I care."

"Ara!" Percy looks at me in shock from his cart. "Don't say that!"

I look away and sink into my seat, sulking.

Nico's voice is a little quieter this time. "You're still training?"

"Obviously," I glance at him with disdain. "You're still a shitty swordsman?"

His face turns red. "The labyrinth is above your skills, but if you die, you and Percy will get what you both deserve."

"Nico!" Annabeth gasps.

"You're a crybaby and an idiot who follows the ill advice of dead men!" I bark.

Everyone's looking at us from their carts unable to stop our argument. Nico and I continue to fight each other all the way to Geryon's place.

Ara sees some boulders ahead. "There, let's take a look..."

She reaches the top easily, Hazel climbs after her and Leo is the last one to go up, but he slips and both girls reach out simultaneously, leaving them in an awkward position with Leo's face only a few inches apart from theirs.

"Um, thanks."

He lets go of Hazel's hand first and uses Ara's to steady himself. That should give her some reassurance, but it only increases her torment, because she can feel the anxiety coming from him. They cannot stay there huddled together without risking one of them slipping again, so she slips forward.

"I'll check the other side."

"Wait, you don't know—"

"It's my job," she says, eyes darting away so she doesn't have to look at him.

Ara's so distracted by her feelings that she doesn't see the young girl beside her, even though the girl makes a huge effort to be noticed. It's only until Hazel and Leo start talking again that Ara realizes she's there.

"...Cursed boy she mentioned." Utters a voice beside her.

Ara draws Almighty out of instinct. When she points it in the direction of the voice, she finds a young girl, wide-eyed and petrified. "Who are you?" She points the sword at the girl's chest. "Step back!"

"Step back," the girl raises her hands in surrender and stumbles backward.

"Ara? What is it?" Hazel tries to focus her gaze. "Wait, is that a person?"

"A person," the girl shakes her head miserably.

"Are you the cursed kid Nemesis mentioned?" Leo's brow furrows. "But you're a girl."

"You're a girl."

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse me."

"You're Echo," Ara studies the girl. "You came back! So you can't be a nymph, right? Nymphs don't have souls—Was I wrong to believe you were—?"

"Ara, she can't answer you," Leo slips down the boulder to join them, and Hazel follows suit. "You can't, can you?"

"Can you," the girl shakes her head again.

"What are you doing here?" Ara continues with the interrogatory anyway. "Nemesis's cursed boy... Is it him?"

"Him," Echo's eyes glisten with longing.

"Oh." Ara turns to the others with newfound energy. "I know who's guarding the celestial bronze."

Nymphs are always fighting over a random dude.

"Alright, ladies, make room!" Ara uses charmspeak. "The faster we do our job, the faster you can go back to staring..." her voice quivers when she spots him. "At your man."

Leo sneaks his way through and whistles lowly. "Dang."

"He's gorgeous," Hazel breathes out.

"I am," the young man in front of them sighs dreamily. "I am so gorgeous."

"To die for," Ara hums in agreement, but she's looking at him like he's a mythical creature, which he kind of is. "Is he glowing?"

She realizes too late that's his soul light, therefore the others can't see what she's seeing, but they don't get confused with her ask anyway, because they're too distracted by the man's looks.

"It's the reflection of that thing," Leo scowls at the celestial bronze in the water.

Ara crouches next to the young man like she's dealing with an endangered species: Mister Universe, the last of his kind.

"How is your hair shiny yet not greasy?" She asks quietly, mostly to herself. "I'm sure you haven't bathed in centuries but you don't smell so bad—And don't get me started on your skin! That jawline—"

"Ara, you know who this guy is?" Hazel interrupts her.

"Narcissus," Ara's eyes are fixed on him. "He's what some of my siblings wish they were." She grins, and her expression only means trouble. "Watch this..."

The girl dips her finger in the water distorting the surface. Narcissus tries to push her away, but he misses and only grazes her shoulder, too desperate to find his reflection again. Ara laughs and reaches out again, but Hazel stops her.

"Wait—What's going on here? Why did Echo bring us here?"

"Echo was a nymph like us," one of the fangirls replies with contempt. "A long time ago, but she was a total chatterbox! Gossiping, blah, blah, blah, all the time."

"A nymph?" Ara frowns. "So was I wrong to assume—"

"Ara, focus," Hazel prevents her from derailing.

Ara dusts off her hands, gets up, and looks around trying to find a solution. She can tell this crowd won't make it easy, they want the cute guy to stay. Leo takes her place next to Narcissus while the nymphs keep arguing with each other.

"So, Narcissus. What's up?"

"Could you move?" The young man says without looking up. "You're ruining the view."

Leo turns to Ara as if asking Can you believe this guy? then leans forward to inspect the celestial bronze lying at the bottom of the pond. Ara can't help but compare the young men: Next to Narcissus, her boyfriend is a run-of-the-mill dude, Narcissus's features are masculine and chiseled, while Leo's are ordinary and childish.

However, to her, Leo's are familiar and more human. The sunshine bounces off the water's surface and hits his face in a way that reminds her of their soul light, his curls are a mix of copper red and golden that resemble the colors of a campfire. Even while standing beside Narcissus, Leo still holds all of Ara's attention.

It doesn't take away from the fact that he's not placing boundaries on Hazel, so realizing how deeply in love she is, is only frightening her even more.

"Right, great view," Leo looks back at Narcissus. "Happy to move, but if you're not using it, could I just take that sheet of bronze?"

"No. I love him. He's so gorgeous."

Leo looks back at Ara and her only reply is a shrug. This is the bronze they ought to take, and the sun is already setting.

"Man," the boy tries again, this time annoyed. "You do realize that you're looking at yourself in the water, right?"

"I am so great," he reaches down to touch his reflection, then decides against it. "No, I can't make ripples. That ruins the image. Wow... I am so great."

"Yeah," Leo says through gritted teeth. "But if I took the bronze, you could still see yourself in the water. Or here..." he pulls out a little mirror from his tool belt. "I'll trade you."

"Hernán Cortés would be so proud of you," Ara murmurs.

The boy looks up in outrage. "Ara, don't ever say that to me."

"Even you carry a picture of me?" Narcissus glances at the mirror before going back to the pond. "I don't blame you. I am gorgeous. Thank you." He grabs the small item and puts it aside. "But I already have a much better image. The color flatters me, don't you think?"

"I'm starting to suspect Narcissus isn't the brightest flower in the pond," Ara says sarcastically.

Echo sits beside the young man, hopelessly trying to make him look away for just a moment. Hazel pulls Leo and Ara for a private talk, and they gather away from the nymphs. Echo joins them sadly.

"Can't you just charmspeak him into giving us the piece?"

"Narcissus is too in love with himself to fall for my words. And the nymphs want him to stay, they won't listen to reason. But I got a sword and I know how to knock people unconscious?" Ara offers.

"Maybe that's our best bet. Nemesis was right," Hazel replies, almost as upset as Leo was a few minutes ago. "Some demigods can't change their nature. Narcissus is going to stay there until he dies again."

"No," Leo says with surprising determination.

"No," Echo repeats earnestly.

"We need that bronze," he presses. "If we take it away, it might give Narcissus a reason to snap out of it. Echo could have a chance to save him."

"A chance to save him," the nymph nods keenly.

"It could also make several dozen nymphs very angry with us," Hazel points out. "And Narcissus might still know how to shoot his bow."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Ara responds. "His arrows are brittle, and the string of his bow won't work properly, it's too old."

"How do you know that?" Hazel asks with surprise.

"Because I have eyes," she raises a brow. "And my friend Lily is an archer, I know how bows and arrows are supposed to look like when they're in good condition."

"Hazel," Leo continues, his eyes brightening. "Your power with precious metal—Can you just detect it, or can you actually summon it to you?"

"Sometimes I can summon it. I've never tried with a piece of Celestial bronze that big before," Hazel ponders. "I might be able to draw it to me through the earth, but I'd have to be fairly close. It would take a lot of concentration, and it wouldn't be fast."

"Be fast," Echo says excitedly.

Leo curses under his breath. He's got the broadest repertoire of bad words Ara has ever heard, and Michael tended to use pretty strong language on the daily.

"All right. We'll have to try something risky. Hazel, how about you try to summon the bronze from right here? Make it sink through the sand and tunnel over to you, then grab it and run for the ship."

"But Narcissus is looking at it all the time!"

"All the time," Echo pouts.

"That'll be my job," Leo makes a face. "Echo, Ara, and I will cause a distraction."

"Distraction?" Echo repeats.

"I'll explain," he assures her. "Are you willing?"

"Willing," the nymph nods.

"Doll?" He asks Ara making use of his cute puppy eyes.

It's not fair that he's got her wrapped around his finger like this. Usually, she's the one who makes others do stuff for her by pouting and being cute.

"Just tell us your plan," she sighs in defeat.

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @asnyox-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles @ellipsisspelled

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #leo valdez x oc #leo valdez fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #heroes of olympus #doo

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fairly-linked · 1 year ago

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Some ideas you say? Sure! Have a handful :DD

Sky’s reaction to his crush being a dragon rider (like httyd :33), reader’s dragon could show up after the chain enters their hyrule and reader is like :OO FRIEND!! And sky, who has run into a handful of dragons on his journey is just like HUH???

Warriors with his s/o and they’re just talking shit and gossiping about the people from both of their hyrules. Wind could come in and join and eventually it just turns into a gossip circle

Hyrule and his friend flying around as fairies and causing chaos! Or just vibing in a floor away from the chain

Legend getting his hair braided by crush, he very blushy boi

Time and crush pretending to be married and the younger members parents cause they need guardians permission to enter a place or whatever

Four dating a jeweller! He makes the metal bands/chains while s/o inbeds them with all sorts of stones! Magical and non!

Hope this helps! You can do whatever you wish with theses!

Uuufffff Trippy you got some good shit---

I'mma have to go with the Wars one. I'm trying to come up with new shit... ugh.

So anyway, enjoy! (Sorry this was so short! Lost passion for writing halfway through the week :L)

Rumors (Warriors x Reader)

"Ugh, did you see that lady's outfit? Stripes and polka dots do not go together."

"I know, sweetheart, I know. Her man didn't look much better, with the red beard? Dude looks like a tall-ass leprechaun."

For once, it was a quiet day. Time had given everyone the day off since you'd all made it to a particularly nice town; so, he allowed everyone to break off into groups. Knowing you and your boyfriend Warriors didn't get to spend much alone time together, Time was nice enough to let you go off by yourselves when he paired everyone up.

Which brought you to now. You, in your love of sweets, had dragged Warriors to a little cafe not far from the inn the chain was staying at for the next night or two.

There, you both decided to engage in some... lighthearted chitchat, as you'd put it.

Your blonde boyfriend snorts. "Hey, did you see what Wind did to the Vet yesterday?"

"Uh, no? Tell me." You grin, making him do the same in return as he leans closer.

"He stole Time's wedding ring because he thought it was pretty, right?"

You gasp. "What?! Does he not know how important that is?"

"'Course not, he's a kid," he laughs. "But anyway, he snatched it, and when Time got mad and asked where it was, he blamed the Vet."

You laugh. "Because of his ring collection, right?"

Wars nods enthusiastically, taking a sip of his coffee.

"And the old man swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. That's why he's been awful quiet this morning. Wind's been pretty silent too, you know. Trying not to get himself caught."

You almost choke on your latte.

"Time bought it?! No! Poor Vet!" you laugh.

"He absolutely bought it-- Aw shit," he suddenly grumbles. When you follow his gaze, you see what he means: Time and Wind have entered the cafe, Time's gaze landing on the two of you almost instantly as he smiles. He waves the Sailor over, who still looks inherently guilty.

"Mind if we crash the party?" Time smiles. "I'm conducting a bit of an investigation here."

You and Wars glance at each other, before looking back to him.

"Uh, yeah sure," You nod, each of you scooting over. You'd been seated in a booth facing each other; Time sits next to you while Wind takes the seat next to Wars on the other side. The old man sighs.

"I want you two to tell me everything you know about my ring. I can't find it anywhere and the Vet is adamant he doesn't have it."

Both you and Wars simultaneously point to Wind, who lets out a a small "Hey?!"

Time snorts. "Oh, I already know it was him. I just want to know if you two knew where he put my ring, because he's not telling me."

You and your boyfriend shoot each other knowing glances. If Wind wasn't giving it to him, then that means...

"...Wind." you sigh, and Wars snorts.

"Oh goddesses, not the mom voice. You're in trouble now, kid."

Wind's eyes widen. "Oh come on, you too?! That's not fair!"

"It's also not fair that you stole Time's wedding ring and haven't given it back yet," You huff, clearing your throat.

The sailor still doesn't answer you, looking down at the table.

"...Wind. Did you lose it?"

Time looks at you, his right eye opening in surprise. He hopes that isn't the case, but...

The sailor nods solemnly. "I was going to give it back, and I dropped it in the creek... I looked for it for hours, but I couldn't find it."

Time sighs.

"Well, if nothing else, I hope this will teach you not to steal things from others. That ring was important, Sailor." His voice remains calm, but even Wind himself can tell he's angry.

"I-I'm sorry..."

Time sighs once again, standing up. "It's alright, Sailor. Let's be going, we'll leave these two alone for a while, okay?"

Wind nods, standing with him, and Time turns back to the two of you. "Thank you, you two. Meet back at the inn by sundown."

You and Wars nod as the pair walk out. Once they leave, your boyfriend is staring at you with a smirk, his head propped up in his palm as he stares you down.

"What?" you question.

He only chuckles.

"...You're gonna be a great mom someday."

You sigh, cheeks burning bright red as he continues to laugh; but you can't get the fact that he added someday at the end.

You also don't miss the flush of red on his own face.

Someday indeed.

#linked universe #bek.answers #lu wars #lu warriors #lu time #lu wind #bek's.fics

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homophobicgerardwayau · 1 year ago

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Ok, I’m going to foolishly weigh in on the Gerard gender theorising and pronouns debate. I don’t really have an audience so whatevs. But i do have thoughts 💭. I’m seeing a lot of reductive posts that lack nuance or critical thinking (the internet). Here’s the thing. We need to remain cognisant that at the end of the day none of us interact with ‘Gerard the Person’. We interact with ‘Gerard the Concept’. The rockstar, the artist, the cultural icon etc.

There is a filter, constructed by Gerard themself in response to a culture that must know him, by virtue of his fame and the deeply personal nature of his work. We only see what we are allowed to see through said filter. And when fans speculate and theorise, they are bringing their own biases and interpretations to a limited portrait of a person, a double that stands in to take the criticisms (and disproportionate praise) that comes along with being a successful artist.

I bring this up because when we jump up and down getting mad at people for publicly using “she” pronouns for example, we need to remind ourselves of a couple of things:

Gerard the Person likely does not have the hours in a day to worry about what pronouns people online are using for him. From interviews over the years, we can deduce that he has come to terms with fame and worked through much of his trauma associated with it. He has also expressed that he doesn’t care about pronouns. At present, this squabble is happening laterally between fans and does not involve him in any direct way. He does not need defending (what is he being defend from? Being gnc or trans is neither morally good or bad) from being misgendered. It seems the sticky point is ‘misgendering’ in general, which is a much broader discussion. One that is particularly hard to have when we are all out here with some kind of minority related trauma.

Because he is not a whole person, but an icon to us (it is difficult to conceptualise of someone as both simultaneously) we all tend to project a whole lot of ourselves onto him, more than we would someone we know personally. This is how being an icon works. Here we project different ideas about our own gender and sexuality and our differing conceptualisations of gender altogether. Personally, while I would not label Gerard as trans online, by my own personal definition of transness, he is part of our family. The issue is not defining him as trans by our own metrics, as we are entitled to our own conceptualisations of transness (I am of course, speaking from within the community). We should take into account that trans is not a clearly definable label. For example, there are people that are medically (for lack of a better word) trans that do not see themselves as trans. All of this is to say that people see something in Gerard that reflects back parts of themselves. Being trans is one of those things, whether Gerard defines himself as such or not.

The way I have seen Gerard called ‘she’ online, often seems in jest and I chose to engage with these types of posts in good faith and with a sense of humour. I assume that most people making these posts are aware that wearing a skirt does not make someone a woman. I feel that a lot of the ‘Gerard is secretly a woman’ is just a projection of a posters own insecurities around gender non-conformity or quite simply the desire to feel that they are in on something others aren’t, in turn making them feel closer to the ‘Gerard’ that they have constructed in their head. Instead of calling these folks trans misogynists, I think it would be more helpful to ask the ‘truther’ why they think they are so fixated on it and why would it matter if Gerard came out as something? What would it change other than give you a sense of validation?

We should remember that the topic of Gerard’s relationship to gender and sexuality is unavoidable once we get into the nitty gritty of his work. Deconstruction/reconstruction of identity and the gender politics of violence are some of my favourite ideas that Gerard revisits over and over again. It is there by design and it is also part of the character he plays by design. Kids are picking up on something but it’s the lack of media literacy that leads them down these strange roads of thinking. We should try to be sympathetic if we can. Why? Because if it’s trans people doing the transvestigating then it all comes down to the lack of representation that we all feel. Gerard shouldn’t have to carry that weight of course, which is probably one of the reasons why he doesn’t use labels for himself. He has the privilege of ‘hiding in plain sight’ as he calls it, and that is his choice to make.

The discussion then shouldn’t be be weather it is wrong to wonder about another person’s gender and sexuality (if we weren’t curious, how would we ever find others like ourselves?). It should be how should we treat others? It should be as simple as don’t send someone fan fiction of themselves.

As a community, we should be redirecting this energy into figuring out how to put Gerard’s gender into the hormone injection. I think this would solve a lot of societies problems lol.

#gerard way #my chemical romance #theory #queer theory #Nancy #gender trouble

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astral-mariner · 3 months ago

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Updated pinned post with my social links and recent art and fics! About: I'm a queer man in my mid 30s. I've been writing for over 20 years, and it's what I love to do. Horror/angst, sci-fi/fantasy, and erotica are my favorite things to write. I've been in the Dragon Ball fandom for over a decade and have been a fan longer than that.

Links:

AO3 Twitter/X Ko-fi Bluesky

Fics:

I have 2 spicy vegebul one-shots, "Strength and Weakness" and its sequel "Indulgence and Denial." Below are illustrations I've done for each one.

I also have a Saiyans under Freeza/Vegeta backstory darkfic currently in progress! I've posted the prologue and part 1 so far, but I've written about 80% of the rest of the story. I want to finish it before I start posting regularly. Summary and illustration below: Homeworld Lost:

Via Raditz’s broken scouter, Bulma tries to recover access to Planet Trade networks and technologies to get an upper hand against the androids. But in so doing, she discovers Raditz’s private files—writings and recordings he kept for himself over his long travels with Vegeta and Nappa under Freeza. Tales of their exploits and descent into madness come to change her perception of Vegeta and her relationship with him. Homeworld Lost is a novel-length dark science-fantasy story with explicit violence, horror, and erotica (sometimes simultaneously). Generally canon compliant. Explores Vegeta’s backstory under the Planet Trade Organization and his fraught relationships with his comrades, particularly the twisted bond he and Raditz share. Most of the story is narrated by Raditz, but there are lots of twists. He is an unreliable narrator, and in places, altered mental states allow him to take other points of view. We also get interludes from Bulma as she reads and reacts to Raditz's account.

I illustrate fics for myself and others generally! I also enjoy doing screencap redraws. Here are some of my recent pieces:

#dbz #dragon ball #vegeta #bulma #raditz #vegebul #astral art #astral writing

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embermc · 1 year ago

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That's also part of the reason I really like William Afton's portrayal in everything but as Scraptrap or in TFC. You have what 6 and 4 paint as this man who is simultaneously distant to the point of neglectfulness and disturbingly invasive towards his children. This behavior gets to of his children killed (he's presumably responsible for Michael developing his general shittiness, CC being terrified of the animatronics, and Elizabeth shouldn't have to be stated.) Rather than face the faults of his actions or succumb to grief he kills his closest friend's daughter, possibly out of some kind of jealousy, and begins to abuse his role as a trusted children's entertainer to lure four more children to their deaths in a mascot costume. Then we have him returning to the pizzeria long after it's closed down, tearing apart the animatronics which he may have not wanted to acknowledge earlier were haunted. I think it's fitting that in death he's reduced to what he made his life about. He literally becomes the suit he used to kill, his face has rotted away, his voice only comes out in choked groans. He is a thing only moved by pain, his only source of direction is the sound of children's laughter. His (previously assumed) death is unaffected in either ending. It's not a good ending if he's just gone, it's up to the nightguard/shadow bonnie/Michael to put the souls of the children to rest, to end the nightmare he created

IDK I just feel like a man brought to commit more and more extreme evils until he literally lost what made him human fits better with the darker or sadder elements of FNAF than mad scientist who wants to be immortal and is seemingly unperturbed by being crushed and locked in a room for 30 years

YESSS literally spot on. I’ve always liked the “man pushes himself deeper and deeper into a hole of atrocities and becomes worse and worse until he’s literally lost his own humanity’ depiction of william far more than mad scientist from the books, it just fits much more thematically.

In my mind, I’ve always been fond of the depiction of William as somebody who was always a bit crappy and neglectful, but descended into the man he eventually became through his own poor decision making and inability to healthily process his family’s fate and inability to take accountability for his own actions. He indirectly allowed Elizabeth and CC to die via his neglect, and there’s an implication that his wife left him and died due to similar reasons, but instead of taking any time to reflect on this or self-improve he just doubles down, like you said. He refuses to believe any of it could be his fault- instead, it’s everybody else’s fault. It’s the world that’s to blame. Why should perfect Henry get to have his perfect little family when William’s own kids were dead in the ground? Something simply had to be done about that. His thought process is so investing in this depiction.

And then it just progresses from there and he turns from this well-beloved guy who maybe had genuinely good intentions for a children’s entertainment venue but was a crappy neglectful invasive father to his own kids, into this horrific, inhuman monster which is literally reflected by the fact that he STOPS physically being human!!! Springtrap in itself is such good symbolism because it shows he’s not William Afton, the children’s entertainment businessman, anymore. He’s a horrific creature that has alienated everyone that ever cared about him, abused his former role in order to cause havoc on a world that he scapegoats for all his problems, and has caused so much unnecessary pain to so many people. I always believed the idea that TOYSHK was purposefully springlocked, as well. It reflects the extent of William’s brutality by the time he got to the last kill of the original group, he’s no longer just quickly murdering, he’s intentionally causing as much pain and suffering to an innocent kid as he can, just for the sake of it. Henry referring to Afton not as his old name, but as a “creature” and a “monster” now fits well.

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hereforthefunnyguys · 10 months ago

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For the meme: 6, 8 and 39 for Irateshipping; 8, 11 and 34 for Fragileshipping?

For Irateshipping:

6. When did they realize they loved each other? ALRIGHT. alright. I actually have this one kind of planned out in advance. They did it at different points. Marik fell first without question, it was when he met face-to-face with Joey that it solidified fully. In my head, it absolutely goes: Joey: "(says some kind of incredibly lame pun, e.g. 'I just had to hit that thug on the head with my Duel Disk. I guess you could say I decked him, eh? Eh??)" -> Marik, internally: "Oh man he's so stupid I NEED him so bad." However it then sort of simultaneously both soured and got stronger when Joey broke free of his mind control. It's a kind of paradox; Marik is in love with Joey because he can't control him, but Marik absolutely hates Joey because he can't control him, but Joey isn't interesting when he's not fully himself, but Marik can't do anything with him when he isn't mind controlled. Complex! After the Battle City affair, I think Marik just sort of resigns himself to thinking, "OK, this was just kind of a weird crush I have on a guy who probably hates me now, so I guess I'll just have to cope with this alone until it goes away."

By contrast, I think Joey had kind of a weird relationship to it; he had kind of an attraction to "Namu" as a pretty and nice guy he met, but it was just sort of like. A flirtation. Minor problem. Still other fish in the sea and all that. After Joey figured out he was Marik, though, I think he repressed any and all romantic attraction down as far as possible, with the exception that some of the reason he was pissed originally was just being kind of mad he had that crush at first. Anyways Joey only realizes he's in love with Marik after Some Time (could be anywhere from a few months to years, depending on if he goes to visit Rishid sooner or later), a very awkward reunion, a week-long fight, getting eventually chewed out by Anzu in those "JOEY WHEELER WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU???" talks she likes to give out, stealing a car to go drive out in the middle of the desert to be alone for a minute, having the Moment of Realization and nearly crashing said stolen car in his panic. Woops!

8. What’s one way their personalities compliment one another? Oughghgh okay so. I think it's really interesting how their personalities are both so similar but so different. They're both very stubborn and pretty righteous, while simultaneously having a ton of old built-up guilt. However, they have a lot of differences too. Joey is hot-blooded and willing to pick a fight with just about anyone versus Marik being more of a "master manipulator" type that prefers to let other people settle the score. Joey also tends to be extroverted and makes friends pretty easily if he doesn't freak them out with how passionate he is about, well, everything, while Marik is um. A little stilted when it comes to social interactions (I am betting good money "Namu" usually got by on good looks and brainwashing people to vouch for him whenever that particular character got used). So all this is to say, I think they have potential to actually help each other out a lot when they work together - Marik keeps Joey from making rash decisions or helps him find smarter ways to get around problems, and Joey keeps Marik from getting too isolated and better at dealing with his own problems instead of letting Rishid and Ishizu fix them for him (again).

39. What other couple would your otp get along with the best? I'm going to be honest with you I don't know if this counts but if visionshipping also happens I think they would have a fascinating relationship. Like a sort of friendly rivalry/thematic parallels/less friendly rivalry on the part of mai/marik thing going on. The autistic teenage homosexuals have unionized against the socially awkward 20something lesbians. I think it would be really fun to see them in a double duel (nobody is allowed to use god cards.) Does that count?

For fragileshipping (wow this is getting really long sorry):

8. What’s one way their personalities compliment one another? The irony of Atem being a literal ghost and yet significantly more down-to-Earth than Ryou is never lost on me. I think that most people outside of their relationship tend to dismiss Ryou as being very quiet and introverted, but he's just shy lol - once they're just around one another, Ryou is definitely the more energetic one that is absolutely having incredibly bad ideas, and Atem is going along with them because Ryou is his dear boyfriend and so can do no wrong and have no incredibly bad ideas. right? right???? (said while holding a knife as Ryou tries to figure out if you really can make cake out of ergot-infested wheat). Guy who gets into problems x guy who keeps on getting dragged into them. However I do think its good for Atem to relax a little sometimes lol

11. Which member is more physically affectionate? They are both touchstarved as Hell so they're significantly touchier than your average couple anyways but Hmm. maybe Atem? I feel like Atem goes with constant but minor physical affection (holding hands, casually leaning against him while playing games or watching movies, etc.) whereas Ryou doesn't go for physical affection a ton but when he does Watch Out. One time Atem had to go away for a tournament for like two weeks and when he got back Ryou pounced on him like Hobbes and rested his chin on top of his head with his arms wrapped around Atem like a clingy octopus for the next 24 hours. He Gets Lonely.

34. Do they give each other nicknames? this is a tough one. I feel like if we have a pre-Millennium World situation, then Ryou def had a nickname for Atem to try and differentiate him from Yugi- I'm not sure what it would be though. Incredibly tempted to say Mister Ghost/Mister Spirit just because Ryou is a Polite Young Man. I have a hard time picturing them using a ton of nicknames, but inside Atems head there are definitely five billion poetic epithets of courtly romance he uses for Ryou like:

Ryou: *picking dead lizard off the ground* Do you think reptiles taste like chicken because birds evolved from dinosaurs? Or do you think they taste like fish because their diets are closer and they absorb the taste of all the flies and worms they eat

Atem internally: ah... my angel... what beautiful and intricate lines and connections u draw across the world.... how sweet and like the white winged-dove you are... like a glorious spirit from above

#my stuff #asks #also help me I thought I sent u an ask but I may have forgor #Irateshipping #fragileshipping #ya know what. I’m tagging these. For organizing purposes

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late-to-the-fandom · 1 year ago

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Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the happiness he had only begun to savour. Read on Ao3 here.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is all that?” Elisewin asked, pointing down at the Ember Ward’s ruins above which the guest room’s balcony hung, the gesture requiring her to unwind her hand from Renathal’s hair. He growled his displeasure at this before dipping his face into the hollow of her throat and answering against her skin: “Nothing.”

Elisewin managed a simultaneous sigh of breathy pleasure and an exasperated tongue click.

“It can’t be nothing. There are ruins and buildings and a tower. You can see them from here.”

Renathal’s own noise was more pettish than aroused; he did hate to be interrupted at his work. He lifted his head one reluctant inch.

“That is the Ember Ward,” he explained. “And the tower you see is called Sinfall. It was where the Sire once conducted the business of creation. Where I myself was born as a matter of fact,” he added on a whim, and instantly regretted it as a dozen new and distracting questions lit up behind Elisewin’s eyes.

“What? Really?” She shifted in his lap, craning her neck to get a better view of the distant tower. “Do you remember it? Your birth, I mean?”

“Very little,” said Renathal briskly. “Which, coincidentally, is precisely how much interest I have in the subject at present.”

Stroking her hip through her silks with one hand, guiding her face back to his with the other, Renathal succeeded in recalling Elisewin’s focus to himself for several satisfactory minutes before she broke for air, and used the brief respite to ask, “So what is the Ember Ward used for now?”

“Nothing,” Renathal repeated, and, when Elisewin only looked at him, sighed like a martyr. If answers were the swiftest path to her undivided attention, he would give them, but he set himself to undoing the front of her loosely tied purple dressing gown as he did so - a reward for his long-suffering. “Venthyr are sentenced there, on occasion, but only as a punishment of the most extreme sort. They go mad, or are destroyed. It is all Light-cursed ruins. Unfit for habitation.”

“Wh-why?” The word wavered as Renathal’s long nails traced a teasing pattern across Elisewin’s exposed chest, but she managed to continue undaunted. “What happened to it?”

“Not all the Master’s creations were appropriate. The Light retaliated.”

“What did he create?”

Renathal shivered, his pleasant arousal flagging despite the warm curve cupped in his hand.

“Really, my dear, this is hardly breakfast conversation.”

“Well, this is hardly breakfast decorum,” Elisewin retorted, a sweeping hand and a raised eyebrow indicating her half-dressed state.

Renathal’s expression was unrepentant.

“This is exactly what I crave for my morning repast,” he replied, and dipped his head a second time, wet lips and eager fangs closing around-

“Your H’ighness.”

The muddy clearing of a throat made Elisewin gasp and Renathal groan. Neither with pleasure. Breakfist was waiting in the balcony doorway, weighed down with an oversized tray. His well-trained eyes were fixed on the distant horizon as he announced, “Breakfast for the Prince and… his Lady,” with only the briefest hesitation; no one in Darkwall Tower was certain what their master’s mortal was now to be called.

Including Renathal himself. He had skirted the issue thus far by simply allowing whatever title his servants chose to go unchallenged. He nodded at Breakfist to approach, keeping his arms wrapped decorously around Elisewin, who twisted in his lap to do up the laces of her robe as the dredger shuffled forward. Once the butler’s burden of various fruits, breads, spreads, anima-infused tea, and Elisewin’s request of dark, bitter coffee was deposited on the iron table, he beat a tactful retreat, closing the balcony door behind him, and Elisewin, disappointingly decent once more, slid off Renathal’s legs to prepare his cup.

Renathal watched her pour his tea, add his customary number of sugars, pluck up a crescent of warm, flaky bread she knew him to be fond of and set it on his saucer, and wondered if any being on any realm, mortal or immortal, had ever been as flawlessly happy as he.

They had breakfasted here on the guest room’s inexplicable balcony every day of the last month - without question the most blissful of his whole existence. Elisewin had a penchant for open air and unobstructed views and Renathal for winning her smile, so long nights spent in his rooms that ended in mornings adjourning to hers had become an essential part of their newly instituted and highly agreeable domestic routine.

Setting his tea down in front of him, Elisewin began sifting through the post Breakfist had left on the tray while Renathal drank. Another morning staple. With her new, as-yet-undefined status had come a renegotiation of her atonement-related tasks. Her work was now closer to that of a private secretary than a housemaid.

Moving up in the world, mused Renathal as Elisewin pried open a wax-sealed envelope and slid out a thick fold of yellowing parchment, and his lips twitched around his teacup at the thought.

“The Harvester of Envy is reporting certain Venthyr in Darkhaven he believes are instigating unrest,” Elisewin summarised, then shuffled through the remaining sheaf of pages. “Rather a lot, apparently. He’s included their names and purported crimes.”

“Leave it,” said Renathal. He was far too content to concern himself with work just now. “I will look over it when I am more... refreshed.”

He threw a meaningful gaze at his lover, which, engrossed as she was in her task, she did not notice.

“And… this one is an appeal from Mistress Mihaela in Darkhaven. Apparently, the Harvester of Envy has again increased his required tithes.”

The anima-infused tea soured slightly in Renathal’s stomach. He replaced his cup in its saucer.

“Let me see that.”

He scanned the letter Elisewin passed him, insides twitching in a resurgence of familiar worry. None of the districts could afford to increase their tithes of anima. How could the Tithelord believe such amounts still existed anywhere in Revendreth? And where was it all going? Certainly not to the Tithelord’s own estate. Only yesterday, Tenaval’s second request for aid in as many weeks had attested to that fact. Was the Master not supposed to be -

Renathal stopped this treasonous train of thought forcibly in its tracks. Refolding the letter back along its sharp creases, he slid it across the tabletop and reoccupied his hands with his tea.

“Seal it back and have it sent to Nathria,” he instructed Elisewin. “That is the Master’s purview, not mine. All anima related inquiries should be re-directed to him.”

Elisewin obeyed without comment, tucking the folded letter back into its envelope and pressing a thumb to the seal, but Renathal thought her lips had tightened, as if holding in words she wanted to say. And the quiet that lingered was stiffer, broken only by the wuthering of the wind and the rustling of paper as she continued to slit envelopes and scan their contents. Renathal was just contemplating whether to offer some tactful reminder - that Denathrius was sorting out the anima situation, that he was unquestionably fair, and that they, especially, owed him an unswerving loyalty - when a sudden, “Oh!” of surprise from Elisewin made him jump. Tepid tea sloshed across his hands.

“The Countess has invited you to a party!” she announced with a little humourless laugh.

“Oh, is that all?” Renathal replied, his ruffled nerves slowly relaxing. “Yes, it is her turn to host the Harvester’s Court next.”

With a pointed glance at Elisewin, he reached across the tray to retrieve a linen napkin. Elisewin, eyes still fixed to the curling, red-inked script, again failed to register his movement or his mood.

“It says Harvester and Guest. Does she expect you to bring someone?”

“You, of course. Whom else?”

“Me?”

Elisewin looked up, blinked at Renathal, glanced at his hands, and blinked again in what for her was an almost comic surprise. Abandoning her work at last, she leaned over and plucked the napkin from his unprotesting fingers.

"You're not serious," she said weakly, dabbing at the damp velvet sleeves of his dressing gown. “I can't possibly attend a Harvester's court. Not as a guest.”

Renathal, amused at her protest and warmed by her resumed attentions, asked playfully, "Why ever not?"

“Because I am not a Harvester? Or a noble. Or even a proper Venthyr, for that matter. I’m -” Elisewin paused, folding the wet napkin into absent squares, then finished quietly, “I don’t really know what I am.”

A twilit breeze caught the loose strands of her blue-black hair and whipped them across her face, suddenly lifeless and lost-looking, as she replaced the folded napkin on the tray. Before she could return to her work, Renathal reached up and caught her chin, tugging her lips to his.

“You are mine,” he declared with such unbroachable authority even Elisewin could not argue, only shiver into his kiss, hot and possessive as a brand.

“So,” she asked, noticeably less forlorn when Renathal, at last, released her, “you think the Countess has invited me out of courtesy? Her way of putting things right for what happened at your court?”

"Oh, certainly not." Renathal chuckled darkly at the thought. “I managed to defy her wishes and circumvent her approval. I expect she is beside herself with fury. No, she means trouble with that invitation. And I mean to give it to her.”

It was Elisewin's turn to laugh. Anima tingled through Renathal’s veins at the sound. Snaking his arms around her waist, he dragged her back into his lap, inspiring more laughter that faded into low muffled moans as he refastened his lips to hers and slid a hand up her silks to part her soft, bare thighs. Elisewin shifted at once, allowing him easier access. The spindly-legged chair underneath them, far too decorous and staid for such antics, wobbled alarmingly. Renathal ignored it. He fully intended to be doing this for the rest of eternity. The furniture, like everything else in the realm, would simply have to get used to the idea.

Once a bit of careful manoeuvring and the joint lascivious efforts of both their hands, and the services of the now-ruined napkin, saw them temporarily spent of physical desire, Renathal murmured thoughtfully into Elisewin’s hair: “It is time we made a public debut.”

Taking her breathless hmm? as confusion, he elaborated, “At the Countess’ court. It would be the perfect place to declare our new status, and introduce you to Revendreth society. The Countess’ soirées are by far the most talked-of in Revendreth. The news will begin to circulate before the court is over and have made it through the whole realm by the following day.”

The idea was so thoroughly delightful to Renathal it took him a moment to notice Elisewin stiffen against him, and not in the same delicious way she had a minute before.

“What is it, dearest?" He coaxed her face towards his, but it was blank, as it always was when she was thinking, beads of sweat still glistening across her smooth lavender brow. “If you are worried about the Countess,” he said at a guess, “do not be. You will be by my side at all times. Neither she nor anyone else will be permitted to lay the lightest finger on you." He stroked the back of one of his own along the path of her jaw.

“I honestly hadn’t even considered that," said Elisewin with a smile, albeit a weaker, more wobbly example of the one she usually wore when recently sated. “I was just worried - I mean, not worried, of course, but… wondering what I - or whether we might…”

She bit her lip over her babble, glancing away towards Sinfall’s shadowy spire, and Renathal endured half a minute of increasingly anxious tension before Elisewin finally voiced her hidden dread: “What am I going to wear?”

“Oh, I have a world of ideas for you to choose from!” gushed Theotar from across the long, low table in his parlour a mere three days after the Dark Prince had assigned him this most essential task. “When I had Bogdan put out word that the realm’s first and only mortal required a sartorial commission, clothiers from every district in Revendreth were at my door with proposals within the hour. Go on, have a look, have a look!”

The Duke gestured excitedly at the table, swept clean of its typical high tea tableau and decorated instead with a flurry of fashion croquis, each depicting a highly stylised and anatomically nebulous mortal female modelling a different example of Venthyr court dress. Renathal leaned forward on the settee to peruse the offerings: a bombardment of flounces and bustles and sweeping trains that made Elisewin, seated beside him, wince. He hid his smirk behind a faux-thoughtful hand and laid the other on his lover’s tensed thigh.

“Quite an illustrious sampling,” he assured Theotar whose eyes flicked between his two guests, positively vibrating with excitement as he awaited their verdict. “Have you a recommendation? Or a particular favourite?” Renathal asked, more to buy Elisewin time to find her tongue than because he expected any overlap in her taste and the Duke’s.

Sure enough- "I am rather partial to this one," said Theotar, sifting through the sketches and producing one with a flourish. “Lady Rovinette's contribution. A marvellous piece of construction! Collarets are all the rage at present, and a royal bustle is always so dignified.”

“Oh, quite,” agreed Renathal, casting a subtle glance at Elisewin and biting back a spasm of laughter at her sudden sickly pink pallor. “And… quite a bit more dignified than I,” was her tactful dissent. “I really prefer less restrictive and… um… voluminous attire.”

Searching through the tidy stacks, she retrieved from near the bottom a slightly smudged and rough-edged piece of parchment.

“This one looks promising.”

She glanced up hopefully at the Duke, who looked as if he had swallowed some scalding and flavourless tea, then Renathal, who gave the unadorned skirt and sleeveless bodice a dubious sniff.

“It is far too plain,” he pronounced decisively.

“Most excessively so,” the Duke chimed in with a ferocious nod. “Not at all worthy of a Prince's consort.”

Elisewin blinked, then raised an eyebrow, expression flat as the paper she laid absently back on the table.

“Is that what I am?”

“I believe that is the appropriate title, yes,” the Duke said loftily, “according to the Venthyr treatise on etiquette which I myself had the pleasure of penning.” He began to sort through the drawings once more, and Renathal had only a few seconds to watch and wonder whether Elisewin’s inscrutability disguised pleasure or displeasure before he exclaimed, “Ah ha! What of this one?”

He brandished the heavy drawing paper across the table, and his guests leaned in, heads together, to inspect the sketched ensemble.

“A bit old-fashioned,” the Duke conceded, “incorporating armour into formal wear, but the effect is undeniably impressive. And the palette is quite a match for your own armour, my Prince. Not to mention, the amethyst accents would certainly bring out our dear mortal’s skin.”

“It is... beautiful,” Elisewin admitted, fingers brushing the intricately inked pauldrons hesitantly, as if she feared to smudge them. “Although… I’ve never worn so much gold. And the circlet might be a bit presumptuous… what do you think?”

She tilted her head towards Renathal, and blinked again at the sudden bright fire glowing anima-red behind his eyes.

“It is perfect,” he crowed, his enthusiasm earning an exultant exclamation from Theotar and a reflexive giggle from his lover, as well as her ultimate assent to the proposed gown.

Which was how Elisewin came to sit opposite Renathal in his carriage, six weeks later, arrayed in skirts of just visible crimson under armoured bustier and overdress of onyx and gold. More gold glinted at her forehead, neck, and wrists; the purple of the regal jewel at her waist a match for the skin of her long, bared arms. The smooth surface of the various shining metals caught the twilight peeking through the slits in the carriage doors and lit the dark interior in sparkling shadows that flickered as the carriage bounced along the Chalice District's twisting, turning roads.

A bit like being inside a candle flame, Renathal mused whimsically; an impression heightened by the warm glow of merry anticipation simmering within him. He had not looked forward to a court like this in a very, very long time.

His companion, on the other hand, appeared uncharacteristically agitated. The smooth plane of Elisewin’s forehead crinkled into nervous lavender lines as the carriage jolted into the Redelav District, and her face twisted in an open grimace when she caught Renathal’s rhapsodic gaze for the third time.

“Do you plan to stare at me like that throughout the court?” she asked, her tone unduly waspish, but Renathal, ensconced as he was in such supreme good spirits, was incapable of being goaded.

“Quite possibly,” he replied.

“And what will the other Harvesters and nobles think of you?”

“That could not matter less.”

He had hoped for one of those involuntary little laughs he could often draw from her fits of moroseness, or at the very least a blush and an appreciative smile. But none appeared. Elisewin's lips twitched once in what might have been amusement or distress, and her fingers, denied a convenient outlet by the structured material of her gown, worried themselves together in her lap with such violence Renathal was obliged to lean across the carriage aisle and trap them in his.

“Elisewin,” and he pronounced her name with enough reminder of dominion to make her hands fall abruptly limp. “You are an invited guest at a prestigious event, the established consort of the Prince of the realm, and you look absolutely divine. What could possibly make you so anxious?”

“I’m not anxious,” she protested; but at Renathal’s quirked eyebrow, she sighed - a ragged, messy exhalation of air. “I just… don't think I’m prepared.”

“You are perfectly prepared,” Renathal reassured her, but Elisewin shook her head at him, long, blue-black hair obscuring the amethyst in her circlet as words suddenly poured from her in a breathless rush:

“I’m not. Not only am I not nobility, I’m not a Venthyr. Or even a usual penitent soul. I don’t even know where I am in my atonement! I don’t belong at a Harvester's Court, and everyone knows it. Including you.” Her hands spasmed as if they would have illustrated her passion if not imprisoned in Renathal’s. “You said it yourself, the Countess isn’t doing this for benevolent reasons. I was only invited to be a - a -a curiosity or a source of outrage!”

“An astute and not incorrect observation,” Renathal agreed calmly.

“And you think that’s not worthy of anxiety?”

“Hardly.” At Elisewin’s open-mouthed gape, Renathal chuckled lightly. “Dearest, this is Revendreth. All of us come and go from fashion. From the crudest of dredgers to the Dark Prince himself." He unclasped a hand from hers and laid it deprecatingly across his chest. "You think I have never spent time as a - how did you put it? - a curiosity or a source of outrage? I have enjoyed both. Sometimes for centuries. But one cannot worry over such things. They are temporal. You will come into your own in time. And,” - he tilted her chin to meet his smouldering eyes - “you are forgetting. You have one distinct advantage.”

“What is that?” Elisewin breathed up at him.

“You are mine,” he reminded her, pleasure in every proud syllable. “It does not matter what anyone else considers you. You belong to me, and they cannot touch you lest they incur my wrath.”

The final word was a snarl. It rang low and menacing through the carriage. Elisewin shuddered, the rise and fall of her chest captured artfully by the fitted metal, and for the first time since seeing her in it Renathal experienced a pang of regret at the elaborate and decorous ensemble which meant he could not gather her onto his lap as he would have preferred. As if to knock the impractical idea from his head, the carriage swung dangerously around a sharp bend, slinging them both against the black upholstered side, then juddered to a stop. They had reached the lift to the Eternal Terrace.

“Relax, dearest,” Renathal instructed, sitting straighter on the bench, shaking back his hair and adjusting his coat, and was pleased to watch Elisewin re-settle in her own seat, cheekbones flushed, but shoulders less rigid. “The Countess’ court is, of course, a stronghold of intrigue and scheming, but once one becomes accustomed to the constant plots, they are easily navigated. Even enjoyable.”

“Yes, I suppose, if one has been doing it for eternity,” she retorted, though her tone was less caustic than before, and Renathal leaned forward again, trapping her wandering eyes in his abruptly serious gaze.

“I have never done this with anyone I loved at my side,” he confessed, the raw sentiment stopping Elisewin’s breath with an audible hitch. “So, in some respects, this will be a new experience for us both.”

The carriage door swung open, the sounds of tittering laughter and tinkling glasses and the sickly sweet smell of the Countess’ terrace garden wafting in from nearby. Renathal rose, or attempted to rise. He was halfway off the bench when Elisewin flung herself at him, clapped her hands to either side of his face, and dragged him into a kiss soaked in need and adoration. The clash of metal on metal as their armor collided rose over the noises of the waiting court and the phlegmy coughing of the dredger shuffling awkwardly by the open carriage door, and Renathal was perfectly content to ignore them all. He let his lover harvest whatever it was she needed from his willing lips and tongue until, at last, she pulled away, breathing harsh, but pale eyes glittering.

“Of course,” he murmured through lips still glistening wetly, “we could skip court altogether and simply return home?”

Elisewin smiled - the first time she had done so throughout their entire journey.

“And let this gown go to waste? The Duke would never let us hear the end of it.”

And, glowing at Renathal’s low rumble of laughter, she threaded one black and gold glove through his elbow and let him escort her from the carriage.

For all his personal animosity towards the Harvester of Desire, Renathal could not deny she was unparalleled in her expertise at choreographing an event. The groups of guests, whether posing together or perambulating across the immaculately manicured garden of the Eternal Terrace, looked placed, and likely were; as much a part of the decor as the polished sinstones or the topiaries. There were precious few stoneborn or dredgers to be found, except in the roles of guards or servants. The Countess extended invitations only to Venthyr aristocracy, each one a study in the finest luxury goods Revendreth had to offer. Deep crimson velvets, vibrant vermillion silks, stark and stately black leathers all dripping with silver and jingling gems dotted the garden like ornate, expensive flowers.

And the Dark Prince and his consort, cutting through the courtyard in their bright outborn gold, outshone them all.

Heads turned as they passed. A ripple of whispers - these underpinned with a much more tangible respect than the ones at Renathal’s own court - followed his and Elisewin’s steps as they made their dutiful rounds. Renathal revelled in them. The freedom to wrap an entitled arm around his lover’s waist in plain view of his peers was a luxury the likes of which he had scarcely ever allowed himself to dream. He caught the beady eyes of the Countess watching them from her segregated platform, and her expression, thorny and twisted as a widowbloom, only enhanced his joy. If Elisewin was the prize jewel in the crown of his happiness, then upstaging the Countess at her own event was the bit of delicate filigree woven into the band.

And if Elisewin’s elation was not quite as lofty and unassailable as Renathal’s, she had regained enough of her signature impassivity to mask it - to the curious crowd, at least. Her blank expression, the quiet nods with which she accepted introductions, praises, and impertinent questions alike, gave an appearance of general boredom Renathal was sure only he could see through. No one else would note the significance of her sudden blink when he left her briefly to purloin them drinks, or the abnormally tight grip she kept on his elbow once he returned, or her preoccupied sips of the fragrant tea with barely a visible grimace.

A different creature entirely from the easy, confident penitent who had served these same Venthyr at his own court, Renathal mused; but, it seemed, without the safety of a concrete task, Elisewin found the center of attention an uncomfortable mantle to wear.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, she was not required to wear it long.

“Sire Denathrius!”

The whispers and gasps swelled to a susurrating sea that echoed the name to every corner of the terrace, heads whipping in the same direction like one opulent and awe-struck wave. Elisewin was among them. She craned her neck to peer over her shoulder, and Renathal knew by the sudden clench of her gloved fingers against his arm who she was staring at and where he must be headed. The echo of heavy bootfalls behind him confirmed his suspicions, and he turned in time to see his Master, bedecked in full glittering regalia, pace purposeful and smile pristine as he marched towards them. He paused briefly to collect a proffered glass of anima wine - more like a beaker in his enormous hand - down the contents in one elegant gulp, and replace it on the tray, before approaching the Prince and his guest.

“Renathal!” Denathrius’ voice and visage proclaimed a pleasure as precisely manicured as the garden around them. “How wonderful to see you out and about! You have been so cloistered of late. But I suppose,” he turned the blinding beam of his smile towards Elisewin, “you have been busy preparing your mortal for her Revendreth debut. And I see she has turned out quite charming." An eloquent wave indicated the commissioned gown. Renathal thought he could feel Elisewin stiffen beside him. If the Sire sensed it, however, he ignored it and swept on. "Well done. To you both! It is no mean feat dressing up for a Harvester's court."

A subtle note of needling sarcasm undermined the Sire's ostensible praise. And something in his exorbitant cheer, not to mention his unexpected presence - he had been too busy for Renathal's own court, yet could make time to attend the Countess'? - put Renathal on edge, and dimmed the glow of his own effervescent spirits. For the first time in months, he recalled a flicker of that same unease with which he had been afflicted upon Elisewin’s arrival in the realm.

But, aware of the avid eyes of the watching nobles and courtiers, he had no choice but to disentangle his arm from his consort's and hinge at the waist in the appropriate bow.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said stiffly as he straightened. "It is a privilege to see you here, as well. I was under the impression your work was consuming all your time."

Whether reading Renathal's thoughts or interpreting his stilted formality, Denathrius stepped closer, close enough for his pale, shining hair to brush Elisewin’s decorative pauldrons as he bent his head to murmur in a conspiratorial undertone, “I hope you don’t think I am playing favourites, Renathal, or avoiding your court on purpose. I am here on business, rather than pleasure. To ensure the forward trajectory of my plans - plans for anima conversation, that is,” he added hastily, and punctuated the admission with a musical sigh. “Certain... important elements are taking longer than expected. I am here to... nudge them along. Not you, of course, Renathal. Your participation has been flawless. Others…” his red eyes flicked to the side then back before Renathal could tell where he had glanced, “less so.”

“I quite understand, Sire” said Renathal, which was not remotely true. But the gist of the explanation was obvious, sensible, and benefited him to believe. "I imagine all the various demands on your attention must have even your limitless patience stretched thin."

“You have no idea."

It was almost a growl. And it came with a shadow of some odd, sinister expression; something Renathal was sure the Master had not intended anyone to see. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his charming, slightly condescending smile.

"But, look at me!" he said, putting on a higher pitched voice of mock distress. "Taking up all your leisure time with work! I will disturb your night no longer. After all, you have waited a long time for this, and you so sorely deserve it."

This time, the sarcasm was too heavy-handed. It dripped from Denathrius' saccharine praise, impossible to ignore. Renathal's mouth opened to respond, but Denathrius was already striding past him, cape billowing in the cloying breeze, heavy with the scent of flowers and wine. He half-turned, staring after the Master's retreating back. He considered calling after him, but had not the first idea what he would say. The sparse sips of anima tea were curdling in his stomach as he tried to grasp at the unpleasant threads the Sire's words had left behind, but he could not plait them into anything cohesive. He did not understand what his Master's strange mood meant.

It unsettled the Dark Prince on a base, instinctual level not to know where he stood with his Creator. But the warm lips that brushed his jaw on their way to his ear where they whispered, "Do you want to follow him?", worked like a balm on his nettled nerves. And the Master's parting comment, however intentioned, was certainly true.

He had waited for this for a very long time. Whole eons, in fact. And Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the triumph he had only begun to savour.

"No," he replied; and, turning his face and mind from Denathrius, hailed a passing dredger toting a tray of drinks, deposited his and Elisewin's teacups - hers plucked abruptly from her hand - and replaced them with two fluted ebony glasses trailing tendrils of red vapourous anima. "We are here to enjoy ourselves," he said with forceful cheer, and tilted his glass towards Elisewin's.

Elisewin regarded the red liquid blandly, then lifted her eyes to Renathal's expectant expression. She gave the garden path the Sire had taken one last inscrutable glance, before turning back to Renathal and obediently clinking her glass to his.

"He is right about one thing," she muttered, bringing the glass to her lips. "You do deserve this."

She took one experimental sip, blinked, then tilted her head back and downed the rest in three almost greedy gulps. Renathal doubled over in genuine, jubilant laughter; then, not to be outdone, drained his own glass in one steady draught.

"Another?" he asked brightly, the strong fermented anima burning down his throat and through his veins, and Elisewin nodded vigorously, brushing drops of wine from the upturned corners of her lips.

It was the closest thing to a smile she had managed at court so far, and the sight of it sealed Renathal's determination to think of his Master's mysteries no more.

A resolution which lasted three glasses.

Not an inordinate amount, compared to what many Venthyr nobles regularly imbibed, but Renathal did not often indulge in anima wine. Usually, he preferred a firm control of his will and wits, both of which he could feel slipping by the beginning of his third drink. By its completion, a fog had settled comfortably over all of his senses and he found himself propped against an overlarge sinstone listening to Theotar ramble, and allowing his old friend's voice and the alcohol bubbling through his veins to lull him into a pleasant, thoughtless stupour.

The Duke's babble ran an endless, aimless path. It began with effusive praise over the final outcome of Elisewin's gown - "Will you give a little spin for me, my friend, I must see the full effect!" - then wandered into warnings about the grumbling of the clothiers whose proposals had been declined - "So many enemies so early in our mortal's societal career!" From there, it meandered into general gossip about notably absent nobles, a topic Renathal found only marginally engaging. And it was not until he leaned down to ask an equally silent Elisewin how she felt about the prospects of a fourth glass of wine that he realised with a sickening drop in his stomach his lover was no longer beside him.

He straightened instantly, pushing off the hard sinstone and almost snapping his neck in his haste to look every direction at once. His dark coat caught on his armored tassets as he whipped in a circle, inspecting the courtyard. It was a bit blurrier at the edges than it had been when he first arrived, but, even in a wine-drunk haze, Renathal knew for certain his distinctive mortal was nowhere to be seen.

"... and this is the second Harvester's court in a row she has missed! I know she has never seen eye to eye with the Countess, but-"

"Where is Elisewin?" interjected Renathal loudly.

Sensing the Prince's alarm, the Duke broke off mid-word to answer, "Why... over there, somewhere, I believe," and point towards the distant ramparts, half hidden by decorative shrubs. "Didn't she say something a few minutes ago about needing a breath of fresh air?"

Renathal had absolutely no memory of this, though it was a very Elisewin thing to say. And to desire, despite the fact the whole court was already out of doors. But it was not at all in keeping with his lover's current cautious demeanor to wander away from him in the middle of what was fast devolving into a suitably salacious example of the Harvester of Desire’s preferred court. As he sped in the direction the Duke had indicated - after mumbling some half-intelligible excuse to his friend for his sudden leave - Renathal caught snatches of the other guests' interactions, many of which included shedding some or all of their fine garments the better to indulge in various debaucheries. Ignoring the prurient giggles, the scattered moans of pleasure or pain, he scanned the groups for a flash of lavender or brazen gold, but none of the activities, lascivious or otherwise, appeared to include his lost consort.

An ominous presentiment crawled across Renathal's skin. Somehow he knew, even before he rounded the last of the garden's privacy bushes, what he was going to find when he reached the far side. So, while his heart convulsed at the sight of his lover in her onyx and gold dress standing in the shadow of his Master's equally resplendent gold and red, notably absent from the myriad emotions that assailed Renathal was surprise.

Their backs were to the courtyard, and to Renathal; both apparently staring out across Revendreth's mist-shrouded eastern expanse. A hint of whispers carried across the breeze to the edge of the garden, too quiet for individual words to be discerned, but Renathal was suddenly ablaze with a reckless, alcohol-fuelled daring. He picked up his feet, wrapping anima magic about him, and glided noiselessly forward to the nearest dark brick stall. Most likely used as an outpost for guards, the small shelter was currently empty, and Renathal tucked himself behind it, cheek scraping the rough brick as he craned his neck to hear around the side. He could no longer see the secretive pair at the ramparts edge, but if he strained his ears he could just pick out their hushed words from the backdrop of court chatter.

“… fail to see the problem,” Denathrius was saying. “You no longer need to worry over atonements. Just continue to do what you do best.”

“And what is that?”

Even in a shrunken murmur, Elisewin's tone was bland as ever.

“Distract.” Denathrius’ by contrast, thrummed with malicious humour. “You are a distraction, my dear. And I must say I could not have asked for a better one.”

There was silence on the ramparts. For a tense moment, Renathal worried Elisewin's reply was so soft he did not catch it, but then her voice emerged, louder and audibly shaking, as though tossed by the wind.

"I - I don't ... understand what you mean."

A small commotion of delightedly scandalised laughter issued from the garden behind, obscuring the voices Renathal was fighting to hear. Throwing caution to the chill breeze, he wrapped his coat around himself and sank to the ground, edging around the building and willing himself not to be seen. But the two beings on the ramparts were far too busy staring at each other, and the playful party at the edge of the terrace was traipsing away, their voices blending back into the rest of the chaotic throng. Just in time for Renathal to hear Elisewin say in a voice uncharacteristically moved by indignation.

“And why would you want the Prince distracted?”

“That,” said Denathrius, also louder and more brisk, “is neither your concern nor his. Consider it your purpose, since that is what you're after. And if you were to fail at it..." He shifted casually, booted hooves shuffling against the stone as he allowed his pause to prolong the tension. "Then your presence in my realm would no longer be... necessary.”

Another silence. This one seemed to stretch on without hope of end. The two figures, mortal and Master, stood still as stoneborn, watching each other, Renathal too far away to glean anything from their shadowed silhouettes. Finally, Elisewin asked, quiet and wary once more:

“Why are you telling me this? You can’t really expect me not to tell the Prince everything you’ve just said?”

“Oh, I expect you will,” said Denathrius in a voice wholly unconcerned, even bored. “But I do not expect him to believe you. He is quite enjoying his role and his newfound privileges in my superior reality. I do not think he will be quick to throw those away. But...” He shrugged; an exaggerated gesture even Renathal could see from his half-hidden crouch. “You are more than welcome to try.”

Then, without farewell or a backward glance, Denathrius was sauntering away across the ramparts; not towards the terrace garden, but the direction of the distant lift. And the only coherent thought Renathal’s reeling brain could muster was a mild wondering at whether the Master planned to walk all the way back to Castle Nathria.

He did not feel fear, nor take any trouble to hide himself more securely - he almost wished to be caught, but the Master did not glance his way. Nor did he feel any trace of outrage or humiliation, though he imagined these would come later. Later. When the effects of the anima and alcohol had worn off and he was forced to admit his own failings to his friends, his allies, his lover, the Accuser - everyone who had always suspected what he had steadfastly refused to see.

For now, however, all Renathal was aware of was a profound, overwhelming sense of loss. And all he could bring himself to do was slump against the unforgiving brick of the rampart's shelter and, like Elisewin still standing frozen only a dozen paces away, stare into the unfathomable distance, mourning the loss of the perfect, glorious happiness they had so briefly enjoyed.

Read Chapter 11: An Invitation to Treachery | Visit the Masterpost

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