#but the shadow god denied the universe what it wanted

[ralexsol]

wonder if tealor briefly had a sense of deja vu when looking at the prophet for the first time. like they were strangely familiar. through the fog of his memories, he sees a flash of 3 years before, when he was approached by a shadow figure who emanated the same otherworldly aura. the prophet is naive and untrained. but the shadow god, despite still being early on in their quest, was already ready and waiting to take on fate

[werecreature-addicted]

Need a biblically accurate angel who’s borderline insanely obsessed with their s/o, and the s/o who’s also obsessed with them, equally in an unhinged way.

The s/o not scared when Angel kills, and leaves the bodies as gifts. If anything they only love them more.

"We could be good for each other," he lies. you both know that is far from true, you are a lot of things for the other. Indulgent. devoted. blasphemous. but "good" was not on that list.

You were his god in human form, the beautiful creature Prometheus stole fire for, and the divine being that Lucifer loved above all else, even in his fall. You are beautiful, mortal, sacred, and his whole universe.

Worshiping you comes as easy as breathing, killing comes just as effortlessly too. Anything that would dare threaten you must be crushed before it could cast a shadow at your feet. That's only half of the reason he kills, to keep you safe, the other half is tribute. Sacrifices to lay down in your honor, he can think of no better way for a human life to end. not to mention the jealousy. Does he love you? certainly, does he love you? harder to say. he didn't think angels could love, but he does obsess over you and that's close enough, right?

You're no better, of course, you take the murder and the stalking in stride. you know all he wants is your praise, and you're more than happy to lavish him with it. what a good weapon he is, always at your fingertips. you're happy to keep him happy, especially when he surprises you with your enemy's head on a golden plate.

And you won't deny it. his affections are flattering, he seems to find you earth-shatteringly beautiful. You like that. it's nice being wanted, it's easy to return his feelings, and you could see yourself falling deeply in love with him if you let yourself.

"We could be good for each other," you agree, cupping his bloody face in your hands, not his blood of course. "very good" you add doubling down on the lie.

[junedenim]

at the heart of what the business is

part two

if you work with him every day, you might as well fuck him

warnings: smut, eating, blowing, fingering, fucking, etc.

word count: 4.7k

He looks like he has had one too many drinks and you're almost certain he hasn't been without a cigarette in his hand all night. His hair makes him look scruffy like a stray dog. You're filled with a desire to kick him, not out of cruelty, but to see if he'd react. He's got a shadow of stubble that looks like sandpaper. You think if you run your hand down his cheek, scratches would cover the palm of your hand. He's disgusting. Before walking down into the restaurant, he spat on the stairs, leaving a blob of salvia just begging to be slipped in. (You're disgusting; covered in a want for you to be that cement stair).

You two haven't taken to one another exactly. He hasn't acknowledged your presence and you scoff whenever he speaks. There's an obligation to work together but you don't have to interact with him outside of it. You don't hate him, you find him strange in a fascinating kind of way. He definitely hates you, at least you think.

He's across from you at the table though neither of you has made eye contact. He's talking with Ben and you're talking with Elizabeth. Except you and Elizabeth are watching him out of the corners of your eyes and talking about him. 

"Is he looking at me?" She whispers harshly.

You glance over. "No, he's still talking to Ben."

"What about now?"

"Still talking to Ben."

She groaned. "Whatever. I give up. He'll just be the one that got away." She sighed heavily and sank into her hand.

You laugh. "I don't think you're missing out on much."

She gasps. "He's so dreamy. What are you talking about?

You shrug and sip your wine. "He's always seemed a bit arrogant to me."

Elizabeth sneers, "You've never even talked to him."

You object to this. "I talked to him at work today and he was a prick." He ignored you and instead talked to your project partner, Jeff. You took the slight as misogynistic. A fact Elizabeth vehemently denied when it came to Alex. To Elizabeth, Alex was a god. He could have no faults. 

The wait staff came out with everyone's orders and the conversation dissolved into a more central conversation as Ed, everyone's boss, asked after his crew. He seemed to know every detail about everyone. "And Alex, how's that lady you're seeing?" Ed exclusively called people "lady" or "fellow." It amused you every time. You giggle into your napkin.

"Uh, um." He awkwardly moves in his chair. "We aren't seeing each other anymore." Elizabeth practically shakes the table in excitement, which causes you to laugh louder. Alex's eyes land on you and you turn red at the embarrassing idea he thinks you're laughing at the demise of his relationship. You cover it with a cough into your napkin, but it sounds and looks fake.

Ed looks solemnly toward Alex and says, "I'm sorry to hear that, Al." Ed and Alex have about 30 years between them but got along like they had gone to university with one another—a fraternity of brothers. You often felt work was a good ol' boys' club, even if Ed was a great boss and the company was diverse, the upper management mainly consisted of men. 

"Her loss," Elizabeth remarks.

The comment makes you burst into laughter again. You're flushed with red before you have time even to catch yourself. All eyes were at the table directly at you from the sudden outburst. You cover your mouth with your napkin again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"You alright, little lady?" Ed asks.

You clear your throat one too many times for anyone to believe the act. "Yeah, yeah. Yes. I'm sorry. Ignore me."

"Nonsense," Ed dismisses. "Your father doing okay?" That's the kind of boss Ed was. Your father had several bouts with his health that caused him to be hospitalized a few times this past year. Ed was always forgiving with your work attendance.

You dip a hand in your glass of cold ice water and tap your wet fingers on your hot cheeks. "Yes, yes. He's been feeling much better this past month."

Ed cheers, "Excellent. Please give him my best." He lifts his wine glass up in acknowledgment.

"Yes, mine too." Your eyes dart across the table. Alex is leaning back in his chair, that burning cigarette in the ashtray the restaurant provided—you wonder how much he paid them to allow him to smoke in here—and his glass up in the air.

You nod silently and dive back into your dish. Your cheeks are still flushed with mild humiliation but also smiling at the hilarity of it all.

Elizabeth sighs beside you and whispers, "Well, he's looking at you now."

You lift your head, your eyes meeting his, locked in a stare. You swallow your food and lean yourself forward on your elbows on the table. "I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you," you try to assure Alex. "Just something Elizabeth said."

He waves away your apology. A smile cracks upon his lips. "That's alright. You can laugh at my misfortune if you want to."

You shake your head. "I wouldn't do that. At least I don't think I would."

His smile grows wider. The heat on your cheeks forces you to disappear into your glass of wine. He lifts his cigarette to his lips. You feel entranced by the smoke as you watch him exhale through the blur of wine. He's chatting away with Ben again, making him laugh at some joke you didn't hear. You've never not been intrigued by him. You just didn't think he was ever intrigued by you.

You filter through conversations with Elizabeth and listen to Ed's ramblings but your eyes always return to the man across the table. You swear he must have unbuttoned his shirt a button or two. His chest is exposed deeper. The chain around his neck is more visible and the pale skin of his chest unclothed. It was all a hypnosis wheel. 

Ed orders dessert for the table. Tiramisu. You feast away on your small cut. You lick your spoon eagerly tasting the mascarpone mixture. You feel his eyes on you and it ignites a lust in you that's undeniable. You're reminded that hate sex is the greatest form of passion. Well, you don't really hate him but you can fake it if it makes the sex that much better.

"Did you know tiramisu means 'pick me up'?" The question isn't necessarily directed at anyone, but your eyes are on him.

He has a trace of cocoa powder in the corner of his lips. It makes you giggle. You're becoming more and more endeared by it. You're convinced it's due to your newfound desire to bed him tonight. "No. I didn't know that one," he answered.

"It was created for pleasure-seekers." You try your best to pierce him with your gaze. "Ladyfingers is such an interesting name for a dessert. Who'd want to imagine eating fingers with cream?"

He chuckles at the remark before sinking back into his dessert. He glances up with a smirk and you return with a tight-lipped smile.

*

Ed leaves after dessert, paying for the tab causing his employees to cheer for him as he exits. Various people scatter. Some for the bar. Some head home. Some, like you, lean back in their chairs. You copy Alex's carefree mannerisms. Your hand fiddles with the stem of your wine glass. If you focus for long enough you think you could bore holes through his clothes.

Suddenly, Alex stands up and rounds the table. He stands before you. His hand grazes the empty chair Jeff left. "May I?"

"I don't owe the chair. By all means," you invite.

He places his glass down first, instantly forming a watermark on the cloth tablecloth. He pulls the chair out far enough for it to be turned to face you. He sits in it silently and takes a sip from his glass. 

"I liked that project of yours," he complimented with another swig of alcohol.

You can't help the smile forced upon your cheeks but you narrow your eyes. "My part or Jeff's part?"

Alex scoffed, "Jeff's a dickhead." You split into a peal of laughter, forcing you to cover your mouth once again. It incites a laugh from Alex too. "You've got a nice laugh."

You sip your wine to diminish the last ripples of giggles. "Oh, stop it. I've got a witch cackle going on."

He shakes his head. His hair is less styled than it was at work, growing unkempt as the evening has dragged on. It bounces with his movements. "No, no. It adds character. It's contagious."

You shrug. "Well, okay."

For the first time, you notice he has these beautiful eyes: downturned and brown. It's hard not to—the man gives good eye contact. "You're a good talker."

You snigger. "I'm pretty sure Jeff did all the talking."

Alex points a finger out from his hand wrapped around his glass. "Exactly."

His knee brushes up against yours. He doesn't seem to notice, but you sure do. The fabric of his suit feels luxurious against your bare skin. You're not sure what overtakes you. His eyes. His words. His hair. His hands. His knee. You reach down and place your delicate hand on his knee. A smirk covers his face and his eyes gaze longingly at you but he doesn't say anything. "Thank you, I suppose," you tell him.

Alex leans forward. His body practically huddles around you. If you wanted, you could nest in him. Take harbor in his suit jacket and stay there hibernating through winter. "Not sure if I'm allowed to say this," he whispers in your ear.

You turn your head and if you were an inch closer your lips would graze his. It might not be the most proper thing for him to hit on his subordinate. It wouldn't be right for him to leave you hungry either. "Go ahead."

He places his hand on your bare inner thigh, just above your knee. It's cold, still chilling from the glass. It's orgasmic, its effects. "Do you know how fucking hot you look?" His earnest tone makes you emit a horny giggle. "Seriously, pretty sure you're a pick-me-up."

"I could probably sue you for that," you joke.

His hand travels further. "Yeah, you probably should. I'm a piece of shit."

"We'll probably get fired if we move any closer to one another."

He pulls back slightly. "You mean, you don't want me to fuck you in front of HR?"

*

In the haze between the restaurant and his bed, you lost your dress and he lost his pants. He grabs your ass picking you up for long enough for you to land your back against his soft duvet. He tries to blanket you with his body but you stick your leg up, pressing your foot into his chest. "Lose the jacket," you command.

Alex is quick to shed. He wraps his hand around your ankle and lifts the foot to his lips, kissing the heel, then the ankle, slowly puckering his way to your center as he kisses your shin. He drops the leg and undoes the rest of his shirt, leaving him in just his underwear. You watch, propped up on your elbows in your lacy bra and panties. 

He covers you like a dark cloud about to rain down on you. His lips are softer than you imagined and his hands that caress their way up you are as rough as you imagined. His kiss is dominating and his figure is pining you down like you're on a bulletin board. His hand grazes over your clothed cunt. You moan into his mouth.

He pulls back and stands up completely. "Take it off." He gestures to your chest and his pussy.

You reach around and undo the hook. You slip your bra off and toss it off the bed. You reach down to the hem of your underwear but stop before pulling it off. "You too."

Alex listens, discarding his underwear on the wood floor. "You're a bossy bitch," he says. You let out a delighted giggle. "I fucking love it."

"I want to suck your cock," you announce. You sit up on your knees but wait for him to move toward you.

He puts his hands on his hips. "Okay, fuck." He comes closer and you crawl toward him. You wrap your hands around his shaft.

You look at him, eagerly. "Spit in my mouth," you say, leaning your head back and widening your mouth.

He looks slightly stunned but a smirk takes over his face. He wraps his hand around your neck and leans down, spitting directly onto your tongue. "You're a little slut, huh?" He asks it like a serious question as if you're sitting down for a job interview.

You shrug and take him into your mouth. He sighs as if letting out a breath that he's been forced to hold all night. You pop him off your lips and say, "You can decide at the end of the night."

He's large in your mouth. Your tongue moves around him in your mouth as you move up and back. His face is controted in pleasure and you're determined to continue it for as long as possible. You want to suck him dry. To take everything in him for yourself.

He has other thoughts. Roughly, he yanks you off of him by your hair. You land on your back, staring up at him like a beetle on its back unable to turn over. "I don't like you very much, you know," you tell him.

Alex snickers. "I know." It's a word battle of who can turn the other one on more with their insults. His hands move their way down your thighs and soon, his mouth follows. Alex buries his head between your legs. He starts off slow, lazily flicking his tongue around your heat, as if to test it. You shake at his touch, moaning and grinding your hips towards him, begging him to keep going. 

He scoffs, "You're so desperate." He trails his fingertips up your body, barely touching anything, soft strokes causing heat to gather. His tongue dances around your clit, teasing you, before finally giving in and allowing it his full attention. You tremble and he adjusts to a faster rhythm, a stronger pressure, finding just the right angle to make you quiver so hard he needs to hold your legs in place.

You're on the edge, arching your back, ready to fall over, when he suddenly lifts himself from your center and backs away to the foot of the bed. You groan and flatten out. "You're a fucking jerk, Turner."

He chuckles evilly. "Calm down, love." It brings a rare affection to the whole exchange. Of course, two seconds later he pulls you closer to the edge by your legs and flips you over, slipping a few fingers in you just for good measure. The thought of Alex fucking you right now is almost more than you can bare; the satisfied laugh he lets out only adds fuel to the fire.

He bends himself over to grab your breasts. You can feel his cock grinding against your ass, the pressure in your cunt growing with each passing second. You push back against him and he tightens his grip on your waist. Finally, he enters your dripping, throbbing cunt. Then, he slaps your ass. It's light. Probably won't even make the skin red but it makes you gasp, which encourages him more. 

He's bucking into you in such a provoking fashion it makes you loudly moan. He's stretching you out in a glorious way that adds such fervency to the pattern in which you're fucking one another. You're reassured that you feel as good for him as he does for you when he lets out a noisy, "Fuck."

Alex is holding onto your shoulders as he pounds into you from behind, each thrust making it even more intoxicated. He thrusts slowly, hitting the spot, his fingers digging into your hips. His cock slicked wet, covered in you. He grunts, pounding with more force.

He pulls out, flipping you over again. You wrap your legs around his back when he enters you again, groaning at the feeling of his hard cock once again meeting your warm pussy. He moves deeper, pushing himself all the way in. He leers over you and says, "I want to come in your mouth. Can I do that?"

You nod, trying to catch your breath. "Yeah, but can you make me come first?"

"Fuck yes." His pace is brutal but charged. You're clawing and desperate. You don't think you've ever been this desperate before. He's caused something in you that you can't label. He's shaking, trembling, and losing his rhythm. He's sucked you in and you're panting before he hits that back pocket and has you collapsing. 

He lets you ride out your high with your hips shaking around and your back arching before he pulls out of you. "Come here." He points to the floor below his cock that he is palming. You drop off the bed to your knees and hold your hands on his hips as he pumps himself. He shoots spurts out of himself landing on your tongue. As he comes, you pull yourself forward, shoving him down your throat as he finishes. His fingers claw in your hair and he's moaning and grunting curses out. 

His grip softens and you fall back onto your butt with a sigh. "Holy shit."

Alex chuckles and reaches down to help you stand up. "Good?"

The room is filled with panting and you decide to shrug your shoulders instead of verbally responding. He chuckles and slips off into the bathroom.

You stand in his room, naked and unsure of what to do. Your skin feels cold now that it's lacking his touch. You're unsure what to do. Whether to slip around the covers or slip out. You have plans tomorrow so it seems logical to go home.

You dress yourself and meet him at the door of his bathroom. "Oh," he utters.

"I'm gonna head home."

He nods. He has slipped boxers on and looks so meek. The power that he possessed in his suit is lost. He just looks small and soft. "Okay. You're welcome to stay."

You shake your head. "I should get home. I have some things I have to do early tomorrow."

"Okay."

"I'll see you at work on Monday."

"Yeah, yeah. Have a good weekend."

"Yeah. You too."

*

You want to be a siren. You won't lie that your attire on Monday wasn't intentional, wearing the shortest skirt you can get away with to the office. It covers you enough for when you bend over but it doesn't leave much to the imagination. Besides, it's Monday, a day you spend mostly in your cubicle so there's little need to dress a certain way. You've come in hungover and in your pajamas on Mondays before so a short skirt and a tight white shirt will make little difference.

You find him in the copy room. You're collecting your printed work and he is standing with a mug of coffee, leaning over one of the copiers. You watch his back. His shoulders are high and his finger firmly jabs the digital screen on the copier repeatably. 

"Do you need help?" You're not sure why you ask it. You had intended to stay silent and collect your work but he's muttering to himself and you take pity on the poor guy.

Alex turns quickly to look at you. He blinks a few times and takes a deep breath. "Uh, no. I think I got it."

You giggle at his flustered behavior. "Okay."

It seems to soften things and put a smile on your face as you walk to the printer to collect your items. You look over and his finger continues to hit the screen. His face is contoured with frustration. "You sure you don't need any help?"

"No, I just..." he sighs and steps back. "I just can't get the thing to copy."

You place your stack of papers down and look over. The screen is on the copy page and you press okay. The machine buzzes and begins to scan his paper. You look back and he's looking at you all sheepishly. "You've worked here how long and you don't know how to work the copier?" 

A smile seems to come to his face as you laugh at him. "I usually have Jess do it." Right, his assisstant. "She's out sick today."

"Do you need any more help?" You offer.

He shakes his head slowly. "No, no. I'm good. Thanks. Thank you."

"No problem," you tell him, picking up your stack of papers.

You head for the door when he says, "You look nice today." You turn around and his back is to you again. His shoulders are down. The tense that was once there has dissolved away. He's cocky again.

"Thank you."

He turns around slowly to full face you. He leans his back against the copier. "What about me?"

You ask dryly, "What about you?"

"Aw, come on," Alex says. "I can't be so bad. I wore my nice shirt today for you." He's got a white button-down on. It looks exactly like the one he wore on Friday and you can't tell if he's mocking you or being truthful.

You bite your lip. "You look handsome."

"Well," he looks down at his shoes, "I like that skirt of yours that you're wearing." Alex feigns this shyness like he can't look you in the eyes. Then, he'll stare you down and tell you he wants to fuck you. It's very contrasting.

"Uh-huh," you sound. "You're very assertive."

He lets out a chuckle. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You narrow your eyes. "You are the one hitting on me in the copier room."

Alex hums. "Yeah." He grabs his copies and walks over to you. "That's interesting." He grazes by you, passing you, and opening the door.

"What are you getting at?" You ask.

He turns back. The door is only open a crack but his head peeks through just right in the open slot. His smirk grows and that glint in his eyes only grows brighter. "I like your skirt." He ducks out.

You're forced to stand still, taking a moment to digest what has occurred (and drench the thirst he's left). You shake him off your mind and head back to your cubicle. 

*

An hour later, a knock sounds on your cubicle's wall. You turn and there's Alex.

He invites himself in, not that there is much room to be "invited in." He leans against the edge of your desk. "I'd really like to touch base with you," he says.

"I'd really like that, too," you say, tempted to tell him to move his ass, and continue, "But I'm just swamped with this right now."

He glances at the Amazon website open on your computer and you nearly bury your face in your hands—rookie mistake. 

He looks amused by the display. You feel like a child making up excuses to not do their homework, but you can't avoid him forever, that much you know. 

"Ten minutes, I swear," he says.

You cock your head back. "Oh, I think you finish a lot quicker than that."

Relief washes over that he laughs at that. You're desperate for things to not grow more awkward. "I remember things differently. But seriously."

You sigh, "Alright, lead the way."

His office smells like him. Cologne, coffee, and cigarettes. There are unfinished mugs of coffee scattered around the room. He has no pictures on his desk, the height of mystery, but has several posters on the wall of projects he has worked on. He sits down in his desk chair and gestures for you to stand beside him so he can show you something on his computer.

You follow his hands, his pointed finger, as he explains his idea to you. Your head is filled with much different thoughts that don't concern the project or work. He's asked you a question, he's looking up at you waiting for an answer, he's calling your name, and all you can think about are his lips.

You lean down and kiss him, trying to fuse some idea in him through the transmission of lips. He wraps his arms around your waist and to fix the height difference with him sitting down and you bent over he pulls you into his lap. You swing your legs over to straddle him and he whispers into you, "We really shouldn't be doing this at work."

"I know," you whisper back. "But I've only ever had a cubicle before and I'm taking advantage of a closed door."

He's kissing down your neck and any concern about what you're doing or about to do at work seems to fade into the background. "Well, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to fuck you on my desk? I don't think we'd get away with that."

"You want to finger me under my skirt?" You offer.

He kisses up to your ear, his teeth fiddling with your earlobe. "What about what I want?"

"Oh," you sigh, "I think this is what you want."

And then, Alex's fingers slip under your skirt, under your silk panties, finding your slit with ease. He breathes a silent groan against your neck as he slips a finger inside your pussy. He comments on the wetness. "Anticipating this, huh?" Sliding in and out, in and out with ease. He slowly draws his hand back up, rubbing soft circles around your clit. You tremble, swirling her hips against him in a matching rhythm.

If it hadn't before, all thought goes out the window. 

Alex pushes your skirt up around your waist. He lifts you both up, propping you on his desk. You gasp when he guides you to spread your legs further apart, pushing in two fingers and then three. You're arching back and shaking with pleasure, so he goes in deeper and harder. He curls his fingers inside, which causes you to grab a tight hold of his neck, moaning in his ear.

You can feel his boner rub up against you and you're certain you've knocked over his cup full of pens. He slides his hand up your dripping core, slowly moving his fingers up and down your clit. You jerk forward, and he holds you steady, quickening the pace. He hits the spot just right and he keeps hitting it and hitting it. "Don't stop," you beg and he doesn't.

Your whole body jerks forward as the orgasm rips through you. You hold yourself up against his shoulders as you try to catch her breath. "Fuck," you exhale. You relinquish your hold on him and let go. "I've never done anything like that before."

"What? Orgasm?"

You laugh and push him back. You notice the protruding boner in his pants. "No, have sex in a place that could get me fired."

"Oh," he laughs.

Your eyes widen at his reaction. "You've had sex at the office before. Ew. I think I should report this to HR."

"Hush now. Let's just say a lot happened before you worked here."

"Yuck," you let out again.

Alex sits back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. "I've never gotten a blowjob here before."

You snort. "Subtle."

Alex moves his hands down and undoes his belt. He pulls his zipper down and looks up at you like a cocky little bastard. 

You nod. "Real subtle. Shall I grab Ben to take care of that for you?"

"Come on. A bit quid pro quo." He exposes his dick, laying hard on top of his zipper.

"That is definitely sexual harassment," you say as you get on your knees.

You take him in your mouth and it feels just as good as it did on Friday, except it's different. It's softer and he isn't forcing your head down on him, instead rubbing the back of it, fidgeting with the tips of your hair. He moans and you're more determined than ever to taste him again.

"You feel so fucking good," he tells you. 

You dive into him, taking him to the back of your throat. Your nose brushes his pubic hair, something that tends to be unappealing, except he smells nice. Something you find even weirder. You suck on him like he's a bottomless mimosa brunch. You lick him like a melting popsicle on the hottest day of the year. You want to consume all of him, but you'll take just this part.

He's close, grunting and pulsing in your mouth. There's agony and pleasure written across his face. His cum washes down your throat. This time you taste it on your tongue. It lingers as you swallow it down. He is slumped against his chair. His head is thrown back and he looks blissed out. You stand and tuck him back in his pants for him. He kisses your elbow as a thank you. "That'll get me through my meeting with Jeff." 

"You better not be doing that with Jeff."

*

a/n: i don't mean for all my fics to have semi-public sex or whatever, they just do.

[silentgravesdontexist]

Renovating my room means I'm blasting music through the speaker. And I am also just stuck on Hozier's music (if u don't know him— now you do). So, here are Hozier's music that I think suits the following OP men!

Featured Characters: Ace, Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Brook, and Usopp

CW: Suggestive Content (it's Hozier. Ofc, there're going to be some feral undertones)

Note: I might edit this and add more if I feel like it.

Portgas D. Ace

I had a thought, dear However scary About that night The bugs and the dirt Why were you digging? What did you bury Before those hands pulled me From the earth?

I will not ask you where you came from I will not ask you, neither should you

Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do

To Ace, you were the one who brought him back to life and away from the darkness of his own mind. There was that understanding between the two of you. Both knew the other had a past haunting like a shadow.

He won't pry. He won't undo the stitches of whatever had hurt you in the past. Let the ghosts stay as they are— just let him love you now. Two people that simply fell in love with each other.

The two of you feel like broken pieces of a whole to form a mosaic in each other's embrace. It becomes a chaotic madness that only the two of you could understand the raw beauty of it.

Monkey D. Luffy

Boys workin' on empty Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat? I just think about my baby I'm so full of love I could barely eat There's nothing sweeter than my baby I'd never want once from the cherry tree 'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She give me toothaches just from kissin' me When, my, time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

As playful as Luffy can be, he's fiercely loyal. He'll go through hell and back just to have you in his arms. May it be against the world, heavens, or even the universe its— he won't let it take you away. He can't lose another loved one.

He's already done this for so many people. No pain nor torture could stop this man from being with you. Not even the gods can help the ones who even dare try to.

The guy won't die for you. Luffy would make sure he's alive to make sure you're safe and happy. That's why not even death could keep him away.

Roronoa Zoro

You know better, babe, you know better, babe Than to smile at me, smile at me like that You know better, babe, you know better, babe Than to hold me just, hold me just like that

I know who I am when I'm alone I'm something else when I see you You don't understand, you should never know How easy you are to need

Don't let me in with no intention to keep me Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me Honey, don't feed me, I will come back

A man of solitude finally found the place to call his home. Zoro keeps to himself, and yet you wormed your way into his life without realizing the effect you had on him.

There's a silent intensity to it. He's a man of strict self-discipline. He knows who he is. But with you? Gods, a switch turns on in his brain that makes him feral.

The warmth of your soul seeped deep into the crevices of his bones and warmed him from the inside. How could he not need you and the warmth you've shown him?

Sanji

I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus When her body was found (hey ya) I'd be the choiceless hope in grief That drove him underground (hey ya) I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee That made him turn around (hey ya) And I'd be the immediate forgiveness In Eurydice Imagine being loved by me!

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we'd do So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

Oh, everyone knows Sanji isn't by any means silent with his affections. But behind those honey-like words of adoration? Behind the hands that hold you so tenderly? There's an underlying heat to it that consumes him whole.

He won't tell you— not yet. Too afraid to scare you away by the growing desire in his chest. He doesn't just want you. He needs you.

That's why he'll put up a front of a dignified lover to you. Fawning over every little detail of your being while his fingers ache to feel the warmth of your bare skin.

Brook

She's gonna save me, call me "baby" Run her hands through my hair She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily Better yet, she wouldn't care We'll steal her Lexus, be detectives Ride 'round picking up clues We'll name our children, Jackie and Wilson Raise 'em on rhythm and blues

Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside We'd sit back and watch the world go by

In the vast lonely life Brook lived, there was something about you that made him forget what loneliness ever felt like in the first place. You're just it to him.

No matter how peculiar he may seemed— you were always there by his side. Laughing along his jokes. Even matching his humor and love for music.

You are his muse. And he'd gladly play the ballad of your love until the end of time, if you'd let him.

Usopp

Remember once I told you 'bout How before I heard it from your mouth My name would always hit my ears As such an awful sound And the soul, if that's what you'd call it Uneasy ally of the body It felt nameless as a river undiscovered underground

And the first time that you kissed me I drank dry the River Lethe The Liffey would have been softer on my stomach all the same But you spoke some quick new music That went so far to soothe this soul As it was and ever shall be Unearth without a name

Some part of me must have died The first time that you called me baby And some part of me came alive The first time that you called me baby

Usopp knew that there was this part of him that felt hollow with all the grandoise stories he tells. And the way you would always listen to him as if you truly believed his words made him feel as though he was saved.

Bit by bit, he no longer lived in the tales he spun in his mind. He lived in the moment— with you. All the adventures you two would go on together were all he could ever talk about now.

It felt great because it was real. You were real. Choosing him despite all his flaws and quirks. To have given him the honor to hold your heart in his hands and be the one to protect it.

~~~~~~~

Okay, I might make a part 2 for this w/ Jimbei, Shanks, Law, Kid, and Yamato. Here's my masterlist to check it out!

~~~~~~~

Taglist: @that-student-that-has-homework @captainportgasdace @ofoceansandtombsanew @lynndt-chocolate

[acescorazon]

Changes

Chapter: 14

Title: Confliction

Rating: M

Word Count: 3248

Warnings: Su*cidal thoughts.

Chapter Excerpt:

Before anything can happen, though, Mihawk steps into the tent with Crocodile following close behind him. Buggy freezes up the moment that he sees the two imposing figures. The room feels awfully hot, and his body quickly becomes covered in sweat as he stares at his executioners. This is it, Buggy thinks, closing his eyes tight to prevent himself from crying.

Buggy holds his breath and waits for it: For mountains of sand to surround him and swallow him whole or for a sharp blade to pierce his chest (he won’t dodge any strikes that Mihawk might try and deliver to his frail body) he’s ready for the end.

 

No, he’s not. 

Yes, yes, he is. He wants to be free. 

No, he doesn’t. He wants to run, he wants to live so badly, but not like this.

|Ch1|Ch2|Ch3|Ch4|Ch5|Ch6|Ch7|Ch8|Ch9|Ch10|Ch11|Ch12||Ch13||

Buggy’s lost track of time again, but then again, maybe it doesn’t matter what time it is or what day it is anymore. He lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to block out all of the thoughts that continuously pour into his head. He’s been in the same clothes for god knows how long now, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything at this point. 

(That’s not true.)

Buggy is lying there, rotting away. He hasn’t allowed anyone into his room, not even his nearest and dearest friends. Not this time, it would just be too hard for him - for them. His head pounds at all hours of the day when he isn’t asleep, and his stomach is painfully empty but he can’t bring himself to go out and look for food and medicine nor can he bring himself to ask for someone to bring him those basic necessities. 

These last few months have felt like some strange nightmare that Buggy can’t wake up from. Everything’s happened so fast and every time Buggy tried to get a grip on the situation, something always went wrong. Just how much bad luck can one guy possibly have? Buggy feels like he’s at the end of the line, though. There’s nothing that he can do to salvage his relationship with the other two founding members of Cross Guild and live happily ever after. Then again, maybe those silly little hopes and dreams that Buggy had, the ones where he, Mihawk, and Crocodile actually coexisted and made Cross Guild a formidable force were just that, silly little hopes and dreams. 

Buggy should know better than to get his hopes up or dream by now. 

He wonders how his captain did it. Gol D. Roger made an ally out of even the coldest loner.  Buggy has his children - his devout followers - sure, but he doesn’t have what Roger had, and he sure doesn’t have what Shanks has either. He never did, though. For the most part Buggy is either universally loved or hated and there’s never been an in between. It’s a stark comparison to Shanks who people fear and instantly love once they actually meet him. Shanks was always more like their captain, though. While Buggy was… Well, Buggy. Buggy the clown, Buggy the apprentice, Buggy the….man forever in Shanks’ shadow.

Whatever, It’s far too late to start again and figure out what makes people love Shanks or what made them love Roger. It’s also too late to figure out what makes them hate Buggy, maybe he should have stopped and thought about why Mihawk and Crocodile truly hated him. Sure, he’s a bit of a coward, there’s no denying that. There are also times when his mouth gets the best of him, but other than that…What’s so bad about Buggy? He…He just doesn’t get it. Out of all the pirates out there on the sea right now, Buggy can’t possibly be the worst person to be stuck with yet Mihawk and Crocodile have always seen him as a pest. A nuisance. A waste of space and air.

 

Why is Buggy wasting his time wondering about all this? It’s not like it even matters at this point. Nothing matters anymore. He hasn’t seen or heard from Mihawk and Crocodile, which should be a good thing, all things considered, but instead their absence fills him with anxiety. He can’t help but think that they’re planning his execution right about now and that eventually they’ll come, beat him up, and then finally finish him off for good. A scary thought, that’s for sure, but he doesn’t have it in him to run or beg for mercy anymore. After all, all attempts of escape or weaseling his way out of a beating were futile in the past, so why would they work now?

There are times when Buggy wonders if he should just off himself before Mihawk and Crocodile get the chance to. He finds himself thinking that he should piss them off one more time and take away the fun in killing him, but then he stops and thinks. He thinks about jumping into the ocean or grabbing a gun from their armory and just….finally getting the peace and freedom that he’s so desperately wanted for weeks, even months now.

The funny thing is: Buggy’s anxiety is protecting him. It’s keeping him alive for another miserable day. It’s his safeguard. Even though Buggy is rotting away and has even come to accept his fate…his anxiety is still putting up a fight. He’s stuck in a place where he’s ready for death, but far too scared to face it. He thinks about his captain again, and how he was so ready to face his own death. That could never be Buggy. Buggy could never laugh in the face of fate and death like that, he couldn’t even embrace it. He’s spent his whole life running away from death instead and living the life of a coward.  

That same anxiety will probably make him run when Mihawk and Crocodile eventually come find him, or force him to seek help before he can truly rot away, when all he wants is to escape this never-ending nightmare. It’s painfully frustrating how consuming his fear and anxiety are at times, and he wishes he were just a little braver, but he’s not.

Buggy can faintly hear some noise coming from outside his tent, but it’s all a distant blur. He can’t make out who’s saying what, but he doesn’t think he wants to be able to hear what’s going on anyways. He’s given up. For all he knows, Crocodile could have finally taken over the island completely after their fight. If that’s the case, Buggy’s better off being in the dark. He doesn’t even want to think about what Crocodile has done to his poor children and island at this point, but it probably isn’t anything good. 

“Buggy?” A voice calls out, but Buggy is too emerged in his thoughts to notice who’s speaking to him at first. He figures it’s just one of his crew, trying to get him to eat or come out of his tent finally, but then realization sets in. The voice is soft, masculine, and there are no formalities being used. No ‘Captain Buggy’ or ‘Chairman Buggy.’

 

A sigh can be heard from outside his room next, “Oh, come on, Buggy. This is starting to become…” 

Buggy bolts up into a sitting position, and his heart starts to beat furiously in his chest. This is it. They’ve finally come to end Buggy, just like they said they would if he proved to be a burden. He doesn’t say anything at all, he just stares at the entrance of his tent, waiting for them to come in.

This is it. The day that he’s going to die, the day that he’s going to finally be reunited with his beloved captain after all these years, the day he finally gets freedom from this whole nightmare. He’s scared. He’s never been so scared in his life. Of course, he says that all the time, but he means it this time. His body is trembling on its own and he can feel the first few tears build in his eyes, as well as a bout of nausea.

 

Buggy’s anxiety is telling him to push past Mihawk (and probably Crocodile) and run as fast as he can to somewhere safe, but he knows that that would be pointless. He wants to run, but he can’t. He’s ready to die, but he isn’t at the same time. Goddamn it, he wishes he wasn’t a walking contradiction. 

“Okay, enough of this nonsense. We’re coming in,” Mihawk warns, and it’s at that moment when Buggy thinks he’s actually going to throw up. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll just have a heart attack before Mihawk and Crocodile can get their hands on him. It seems like the ideal situation, as grim as it might sound. He’d be spared any pain or any conflicting emotions, and that sounds like a win-win to him… Kinda. 

Before anything can happen, though, Mihawk steps into the tent with Crocodile following close behind him. Buggy freezes up the moment that he sees the two imposing figures. The room feels awfully hot, and his body quickly becomes covered in sweat as he stares at his executioners. This is it, Buggy thinks, closing his eyes tight to prevent himself from crying.

Buggy holds his breath and waits for it: For mountains of sand to surround him and swallow him whole or for a sharp blade to pierce his chest (he won’t dodge any strikes that Mihawk might try and deliver to his frail body) he’s ready for the end. 

No, he’s not. 

Yes, yes, he is. He wants to be free. 

No, he doesn’t. He wants to run, he wants to live so badly, but not like this.

Buggy’s end isn’t swift, nor is it slow and painful. His end doesn’t come at all, actually.  Instead, what comes next is rather unexpected. “Open your eyes. I assure you that we mean no harm,” Mihawk orders, and Buggy can hear him pull out his sword. He thinks it’s a trick at first, and waits for Mihawk to stab him, but he doesn’t.

A tense moment of silence goes by before Buggy opens his eyes. His vision is blurry at first but he quickly wipes the tears away and accidentally makes eye contact with Mihawk. “Look,” He says before slowly placing his sword down on the ground and raising his hands up. “We didn’t come here to fight.”He glances over at Crocodile who grumbles something as well as he raises his hands in the air:

“Yeah, we’re just here to talk…” 

Naturally, Buggy doesn’t believe a single word that the other two are saying. He figures they’re just going to trick him into thinking he’s safe before killing him for real, but he has no way of proving it. It seems rather likely, though. 

Crocodile clears his throat, “Look, I want to apologize again.” He says slowly. Buggy can barely believe that Crocodile apologized a first time, let alone a second time. “I’m not going to bullshit you. I really want this Cross Guild thing to work, and that requires me to have both you and Hawkeye by my side.”

Ugh, stupid Cross Guild. Why does everything have to be about their shitty organization? Crocodile pauses for a moment to gather his words before he continues to speak, “You are more than just a coward, okay? You’re actually an excellent leader, and your status as emperor of the sea makes you rather…invaluable.” 

Buggy blinks, unsure how to respond to Crocodile’s praise and apology. It all feels surreal. Maybe he’s dreaming right now, or maybe he’s died and gone to a very bad place, but it’s still somehow better than where he was before. 

Crocodile glances over at Mihawk, who nods at him, silently urging him to continue. “I know i’ve been a real dick and i know you probably think i just want to call a truce for Cross Guild’s sake… And, I’m not going to bullshit you, you’d be right to think that. But, look, Buggy, I’m asking you for your forgiveness as well. I’m asking you for your forgiveness and for you to ‘lead’ our little group like before. I swear on my life that I won’t lay a finger on you ever again, okay? I swear I’ll change. Can we please just get back to business?” 

Crocodile’s second apology seems a lot more genuine than the first, but part of Buggy is still hesitant. How can he believe that Crocodile is being serious right now? Why would he forgive him for all that he’s done anyways? Is it even possible for Buggy to put aside all his fear and hatred so the three of them can 'get back to business?' 

“Look, Buggy, i can tell you ain’t exactly thrilled at the idea of kissing and making up,” Crocodile adds, “But, look, you don’t have to forgive me right away. You don’t have to forgive me at all. I’m an asshole, i know that. Just… can we all agree to get along for the sake of Cross Guild? For the sake of money, land, and power? We don’t have to be best friends but we need each other now and if the government realizes there are cracks in our foundation, you bet your ass they’re bound to attack sooner rather than later.”

“While I agree with Crocodile and want us all to stop with this foolishness…” Mihawk says, joining the conversation again, “I won’t agree to anything officially until you do, Buggy.” Why is the pressure always on Buggy?  Why is it that as soon as he’s freed from one situation, he’s cornered into another one? “You already know that I want us all to have a better relationship and if you forgive Crocodile then I’ll make sure he sticks to his word. I’ll make sure that there is a healthy amount of respect between the three of us maintained and that no harm ever comes your way.”

“What do you say, Buggy?” Crocodile asks, holding out his hand. 

“We can’t change what we did in the past, but we want to make up for all of our mistakes.” Mihawk states before also holding his hand out, “What do you say? Will you give us another chance?”  

Everything freezes in that moment. Buggy can’t wrap his head around the idea that Mihawk and Crocodile are actually apologizing to him again, that they’re actually trying to make this Cross Guild thing work. Their behavior is such a stark comparison to what it was just a few months ago, and it makes Buggy feel like he has whiplash. Is it actually possible for two people to change their ways so soon? he wonders. It’s definitely not possible for him to change that fast, he knows that.

After all the fighting, all the beatings, all the insults, they actually want to put things to bed? Dozens of memories flood through his mind at that very moment. The hell that Mihawk, but more specifically, Crocodile, put him through in the last few months has left permanent scars, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to heal from those scars. 

However…Crocodile does have a point. Buggy hates to admit it, but Crocodile is right. They need each other now and if the world government finds out they’re having problems, then they’re sure to capitalize on said problems. And he would be stupid if he passed up an opportunity for a truce again…

Buggy stares at the two hands being offered to him, and as much as he hates the two men before him and wants to reject their offer, there's a voice in the back of his head telling him to shake their hands. To put aside his pride and not start any more fights or drama…  

You don't have to like them, just accept the olive branch that they're extending, stupid, he tells himself as he slowly reaches out with shaking hands. He shakes Mihawk's hand first and then, after a moment of hesitation, he shakes Crocodile's hand. 

If this is all a lie or a trick, then he'll just have to accept the fact that he fell for it. He slowly opens his mouth and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse and shaky, "W-What happens next…?" He asks. 

"We'll have a meeting in a few days," Crocodile replies, "Now that we're all on the same page, it'll be business as usual."  There’s that phrase again: Business as usual.  Buggy doesn't know whether or not he should dread this new chapter for Cross Guild, but anything would be better than what they had previously going on for them. 

"Yes, but, again, Crocodile and I can't stress how sorry we truly are." Mihawk tells Buggy, "And we're truly grateful for your forgiveness." Eh, Buggy wouldn't say that, but, okay. It's more like he accepted their apology because he had no other choice, but, it’s not like he’s stupid enough to say that out loud. 

Crocodile heaves a sigh, "Yes, we're sorry. We're sorry. I'll have gifts sent to you first thing in the morning." He mutters, looking at some random corner in the room. Oh, now he's just trying to buy Buggy's forgiveness, isn’t he…? Well, It can’t be bought, but he’ll still take the presents, especially if it’s booze.

Buggy looks down at his lap, “Yeah, I…” He pauses, not quite wanting to outright say that he forgives Mihawk and Crocodile when he really doesn’t. He smiles instead, “It’s fine! Did you two really think you could bring me down?! Get real!” He fakes a laugh because that’s what he’s supposed to do, but it’s all another act. He thinks Mihawk can tell he’s putting on an act right away, and if Crocodile can too, he sure doesn’t show it.

“Nothing can bring Captain Buggy The Clown down!” He laughs again, but these are two men who are well aware that he’s been locking himself away and suffering alone because of all the issues he’s been having with them. They know the truth, yet they don’t say anything. “You didn’t even need to apologize, really! You could have just sent some booze over and all would have been fine!”

(No, It wouldn’t have been.) 

Buggy guesses that means he’ll return to being more or less Crocodile’s personal secretary and the fake leader of the group… It’s not the worst gig, he supposes. “What’s with the tense faces, boys?!” He asks as he looks around and notices that Mihawk and Crocodile have rather serious expressions on their faces. “ This is a new chapter for us! For Cross Guild!” He cheers, “We’re going to take over the world, boys!”. No one cheers with him. They stare at him, reading him like a book. They know the truth. He wonders how they can read him so easily. 

Mihawk stares at Buggy, and there’s feeling behind those icy eyes of his. Perhaps it’s pity, but Buggy has never once asked for Mihawk’s pity. “...” Mihawk finally looks away with a sigh, “I look forward to this new chapter as well…” He mutters as he turns to leave. 

What the hell? Buggy can’t help but think. He’s done everything right, hasn’t he? Why does Mihawk still seem so…disappointed? Was that disappointment or more pity? Was it regret? There’s something that Mihawk clearly isn’t saying, but Buggy can’t figure it out.

Crocodile also begins to make his leave as soon as MIhawk starts to go, but then he suddenly stops. "One more thing," Crocodile says, turning around. Oh, God, he's going to ask for something unreasonable right away, isn't he? The more things change, the more they stay the same. "Go get something to eat and take a hot shower. It pisses me off to see you like that." He mutters before turning around and leaving. 

Buggy stares at the entrance to his tent for a moment after his two partners leave. “Like you even give a shit…” He whispers to himself softly before lying back down and laughing bitterly at the irony of Crocodile’s words. Maybe, just maybe, if Buggy were a little stupider, he’d think that was Crocodile’s way of showing he cares, but he knows better by now.

A/N: An actual totally legitament picture of me walking out of the pits of hell to write and post this after disappearing witihout warning:

[indigovigilance]

The Erasure of Human!Metatron

The elephant in the room is that Neil has [purportedly] denied the existence of a human Metatron. But I, for one, think an elephant really ties the room together. So let's get started.

First, I will address Neil Gaiman’s apparent denial of the Human!Metatron storyline (below the cut):

Caption: The Metatron in Good Omens wasn't ever human.

Which would seem to put the debate to bed.

Except.

Caption: That’s not really his father. It is. It is now, and it always was.

By Adam renouncing Satan as his father, we have in-story canon evidence that the past can be retroactively changed. So a storyline past can be divergent from an in-world past which has been modified. But only to a degree, because Aziraphale and Crowley clearly remember that Adam ~was~ Satan’s son, and Adam still retains some residual powers. Like pencil marks on paper, the past can be erased, but the shadow of its former self will always be there. But if that's not enough for you, there's also...

Lucifer!Satan

Neil Gaiman has also been pretty consistent with this characterization about the non-existence of the past in other characters, for example Lucifer!Satan:

Basically (not to be rude), if you think that these statements can be taken to mean that we will definitely not get a story about Enoch aka Human!Metatron in S3, you have fundamentally misunderstood how time, history, and identity work in Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens universe.

So what Neil said about Metatron never being human… can we just collectively set that aside for a moment?

Caption: Work with me, I’m extrapolating here. Yes? Good. Read the rest of the meta.

Evidence of Human!Metatron

Now that we have established that a former, no-longer-existing version of Metatron could have been human, let’s examine the in-world evidence. The best direct evidence is:

Caption: I’ve ingested things in my time, you know.

This is weirdly important in the Book of Enoch. Food is mentioned in the Book of Enoch at least fourteen times, and consistently it is associated with being human, and having earthly desires, and subsequently with sin, whereas the angels are described as not needing to eat food but instead being nourished by faith alone. Enoch!Metatron’s own relationship with food is also explicitly elucidated:

Enoch answered to his son Mathosalam (and) said: Hear, child, from the time when the Lord anointed me with the ointment of his glory, (there has been no) food in me, and my soul remembers not earthly enjoyment, neither do I want anything earthly.

I propose that "in my time" is a direct reference to Metatron's prior existence as a human, and the fact that this time is over serves to underscore his current inhumanity, making him all the more sinister.

Other Evidence Pointing to Book of Enoch

This next bit is somewhat dubious evidence, but the entire reason I wound up investigating this is that I was actually investigating Baraqiel:

…and for the God-fearing life of me, I cannot find any reference to Baraqiel except in the Book of Enoch. So this is a pretty big ✨Clue✨ to just leave hanging out there if it’s not supposed to lead us to this text.

The Scottish Mason

Okay guys, this the part where it all comes unhinged, but I promise the payoff is worth it.

The Book of Enoch was recovered from Ethiopia in 1773 by a Scottish explorer named James Bruce, who also happened to be a Mason. In 1774, upon his return, he was made a Fellow of The Royal Society of Edinburgh. And if this quote doesn’t get you, I don’t know what will:

Amazingly, Bruce brings back not just one copy, nor two, but three! Three copies of this text, which was previously thought to have been lost to the West forever. This inevitably led to all kinds of accusations as to where he had come by them, and more importantly how? Add to this that Bruce was a Mason in one of the most influential lodges, a Bruce descendant, and an imposing physical figure and 6 feet 4 inches tall, with dark red hair and an irascible temper, it is no wonder that so much excitement and mystery surrounded the man. [source]

So, you know, this guy:

In summary:

There are reasons that we should be looking to the Book of Enoch, and the story surrounding its reintroduction to the Western world, as source evidence for Good Omens S3.

If you enjoyed this, you may also like my meta on Baraqiel and Azazel, which draws upon the Book of Enoch.

My original (in retrospect, kind of terrible) Metatron meta is here.

[mothiir]

little rabbit, the bad ending

Inspired by reading about the big e’s mind control powers on @moodymisty’s asks and yeah this happened. It’s pretty bleak and answers the question- what happens when the emperor keeps hold of what he wants?

It is by no means the first time she has dreamed of the Emperor; he invades her dreams as he invades her body, appearing sometimes as a towering pillar of golden flame, sometimes as a slavering wolf with blood on its breath, sometimes as a a conquering barbarian, standing taller than any man she has ever known, hewn from copper and red stone, with eyes of fire. This time, he relaxes on a golden throne, his toga clean white linen, draped loosely over his muscular shoulders. She knows she is dreaming, because she can look at him without the well-accustomed headache — and because she can see out of both eyes, rather than having her right eye covered in a milky red film. 

“How dare you?” she says, giving voice to the words she swallows down during the day — oh how she hates how he forces her to choke down so much; her emotions, her thoughts, his damn cock. “How dare you sit there, and pretend to be humanity’s saviour? You’re not a damn saviour. You’re a tyrant.”

He watches her impassively, and says nothing. Emboldened, she draws closer. In the manner of dreams, their surroundings are hazy and undefined; it is like she walks through early morning fog. 

“You say you will save us all, but what from? You won’t say. You won’t tell anyone anything. You destroy what does not bend. You treat your sons as tools. They are human! We are all human! And you tell them that they have to purge what makes them human, all the love and the joy and —“

Her voice catches. 

“Roboute loves me! And I him! And you took me! You took me, and you won’t give me back, and you — you r-r-rape me, and you toy with me, and if I am truly nothing to you, as you claim — I hear you claim! — then why don’t you just let me go?”

She dashes tears from her eyes. It’s a dream. She can cry from both eyes, here. 

“What happens if you get your way? If humanity becomes like you? Cold and cruel and uncaring? If we lose our ability to love? To care? To sing and dance and — and create? If every civilisation we meet is destroyed? If everything is made in Your image? Then what? We’d be a shell! Humanity would not be human anymore! We would be a shadow. You’d sit there and rule over a universe of grey automatons, manifestations of Your will. Is that what You want?”

She stops before the throne. He’s not towering over here, here, when her mind can reduce him to the proportions of a man, not a divine being that denies its divinity. He is a tall man, but still a man. She can look him in the face.

”You claim not to be a god, but you act like one. You want to be a god but answer no prayers. You want to be obeyed as a father but not love like one. You’re a hypocrite. A coward. Dodging responsibility. Dodging everything.”

Breathless with rage, she stops, waiting for the dream-Emperor to respond. When he does, a thrill of fear races down her spine. 

“How interesting.“

Her mind can replicate much, but not that — not the reverberating echo of the Emperor’s true voice. This is not a dream. Against all probability, this is him. 

(Of course it is.  He’s a psyker, the strongest psyker that ever lived, and to him the minds of humans are just another plane to wander.)

”I have seen the future. I have seen the horrors that await our kind. I have torn myself apart and built myself anew to avoid them. And yet…maybe. Maybe some amendments are required.”

”I don’t understand — “

He catches her by the waist, and pulls her into his lap, smiling down at her. His eyes are the heart of a sun. His mouth is the throat of a forest fire. Be thou afraid —

“You do not have to. But you are correct — Roboute does love you, and it pains him to see you so. I will fix this. I will fix everything.”

The light blinds her. And she wakes. And she doesn’t. 

—

Roboute Gulliman, Primarch of the Thirteenth, walks beside his Lord Father, discussing their latest campaign against a nasty strain of orks in the distant reaches of the eastern Imperium, and how best to deal with them. It is an honour to be so close to the Emperor, and he feels his approval like a golden balm as he presents strategies, and the Emperor congratulates him on having such a sharp mind. It would be so easy for one so powerful to be a distant, unreachable god-like figure, but the Emperor is not — he may not have raised Roboute, but he is wholly his father. Roboute barely recalls his foster-father’s name these days. 

A slight disturbance draws his attention; a human woman, clad in an ornate gold gown, ducks out of one of the side rooms. The Emperor beams at her. 

“Excuse me, Roboute. I think my consort needs my attention. She is a needy little thing — and quite insatiable.”

Roboute’s cheeks colour a little — he’s no Leman or Horus, happy to trade bawdy jokes with the Emperor — and he politely averts his eyes as the Emperor scoops the woman up and plants a kiss on her, his tongue sliding between her parted lips. 

“How’s my girl? Restless? Be at ease; I’m almost done here, and Roboute will be on his way — and you’ll have me all to yourself.”

He settles her on one of his hips, and nips at her throat. She’s looking directly at Roboute, her expression quite unreadable. Roboute realises he’s being unfanthomly rude, and offers a little courtly bow. 

“My lady. It is a delight to make your acquaintance. I have heard tales of your beauty, and I can see that they were all correct.”

”Thank you, my Lord Primarch,” she says, her voice tiny. 

“She’s more than a beauty,” says the Emperor, fondly. “She keeps me human, don’t you my love? She shows me how to not lose sight of the small things, when the grand design occupies so much of my attention. Without her, I fear I’d forgot how to relate to humans at all!”

Roboute chuckles politely, but there’s something about the woman’s gaze — something so sad. Maybe —

A flash of gold out of the corner of his eye — probably the sun reflecting on the walls. The thought vanishes. He will head out soon, out to war for the sake of his father, and for humanity. His great purpose. His birthright. 

And all he ever wants, and all he ever wanted.

[groversimp]

Making The Bed

synopsis: you got your victory, you’ve got everything you wanted- but it’s not what you imagined

OCTAVIAN CONTENT 😈😈😈 I LAVA HIM

warnings: angst, traitor!reader, octavian HATES the greeks frfr, major character death.

reader is greek but lives in Camp Jupiter because I said so.

🙏🙏 the word “man” used, but in a sense that it’s about mankind not you being a man

You feel him before you see him, behind you in the dark, labyrinth-like tunnel. Turning your head, you meet the eyes of your ex-lover. Octavian’s gaze narrows.

A pause. A breath. It reminds you of the countless hours you two had spent in domestic solitude. Back then, you didn’t mind the quiet- you welcomed it with open arms, just like you did to him. But now it’s a shell of what once was. What you had lost.

You spoke first. “Octavian,” you greet him, voice echoing in the dewy, dirt-lined tunnel; the home-base of your traitorous rebellion.

You hadn’t wanted to help the old, primordial gods in their revolution. You wanted to stay far away from war, far away from Greek drama, and far away from Gaia. But, when the Earth Titan spoke to you in a hushed voice- first in your dreams, then in your daily life- it was hard to ignore. And when she showed you visions of your dear Octavian with a knife to his throat, a gun to his head, you couldn’t deny your need to protect him. Even if it met betraying all you loved.

“Don’t.” Octavian says, voice so sharp and so harsh it didn’t feel right. You wanted to reach out, sooth the bitter expression that graced his face, like you once would’ve. But that’s not your place anymore, and someday he will find someone else to bring sun to his storms.

“You killed them, Y/N.” He speaks again, like you’re not human. “You killed so many Romans. You watched them die.” He scoffs, shaking his head. You swallow, you can’t deny your sins. Not when you stand in front of an angel.

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this, love.” You tell him, a hollow voice. “Please just—“ You try to reach out to him, “no!” He cries back, pulling his dagger out.

He looks at you, so close but universes away. You catch your reflection in his eyes, and you seem more lion than man in this moment.

Silenced, you shake your head. You try to speak, you really do try. But what words would convey the culpability that hangs over your head? A noose tied by the strings of fate. “Octavian, I—“ your voice breaks. The whispers of right and wrong, duty and loyalty, murmur out to you.

Right now, pure instinct sets in. Your fate was written long ago by the gods and Titans that had forsaken you. Fight, flight, and freeze; responses to danger, and you wanted to do all three in this moment.

So you do the one thing you were made to do.

You pull the dagger out so quickly he couldn’t stop you, and it burrowed into Octavian’s gut just as quickly. The noise of horror he lets out would haunt anyone— god or man— but you were neither, something in the middle yet so far from the scale. A demigod gone dark, fed by shadows and angered by light.

His blood spills on you, and the sensation of him being so close is a ghost of what once was. What could’ve been you and him, if time had allowed you such a mercy. But there was no mercy with monsters. Just as you couldn’t give Octavian mercy, or grace, allowing him to live without you. He was all you breathed, all you lived for, and he has been made unclean and ruined because of it.

“Come on.” You ease him as he stumbles, you catch him as he falls. His head rests on your shoulder and he coughs out blood. It stains your shirt and you almost grin.

“I’ll protect you,” he can’t respond, but he sighs and shakes in your arms- body relaxing as his breath becomes more labored. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, shielding him from the world that ruined you both so bad.

You let him rest, pretending you are back in Camp Jupiter and unscathed- before you had been burned alive, and burned all around you.

Now, in the dark tunnel, you can’t feel him.

[1jemmagirl22]

So, I've read a few things and watched a few things these past couple months so I thought I'd make a dump of all the war crimes and ships I've shipped since I was last consistently active on Tumblr.

Alex and Darlington from Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo is iconic as fuck and I hope Leigh does write ten more books like she wants in this universe.

Emily and Aron from Designated Survivor (Like what the fuck was that show? I don't know but hey they were fun).

Addie and Luc from The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue. Is this a surprise to anyone who knows me? No, no it is not, dark shadow men and bad ass women are a classic for me.

Now this one, like, this one is a war crime but who the fuck cares/ Jace and Baela from House of the Dragon. I don't accept hate towards them, and I am fully aware of the incest but if I shipped Clace in City of Ashes Jace and Baela are barely that bad.

Now for another likely controversial one. Avery and Grayson from The Inheritance Games. I get it, I get people like her with Jameson, I get the fan cast is Louis Patridge and if they adapt these things into a film I will love him with my entire heart. However, you can't deny the set up, especially in book one, feels like it's pointing towards Grayson as the inevitable endgame.

Jane and Guilford from my Lady Jane. No comments, just bad ass angsty enemies to lovers.

Juliette and Warner from the Shatter Me series. Okay so like my opinion on these books is I love most of them but the Juliette loosing her mind perspective is really hard to read. That said, holy shit these two are hot.

Isla and Grim from Lightlark, I don't care if you all hate this book, I love it and if Isla and Grim aren't endgame when Skyshade comes out I will cry. I mean come on, secret marriage, secret life bond, and secretly committed war crimes for each other? Fuck ya!

And, last but not least, because who the fuck gives a damn, sure my late grandmother the Tolkien nerd isn't rolling in her grave. Anyways, I'm currently obsessed with Galadriel and Elrond. I haven't even watched season 2 yet but fuck my life I'm obsessed. I'm gonna binge that show at least three times. Is it great? No, it's CW level bullshit with Galadriel and Elrond having way too much chemistry. I don't care about the cannon, half the fandom ships her with Sauron (hell I shipped her with Sauron before I knew he was Sauron cause of the Klaroline vibes, and I sort of still do.) But bloody Fitzsimmons gods, they are precious to me and I want season 3 to be as un-fucking-hinged as possible and have multiple scenes with them. Come on, have them get married for politics and just leave it at that.

[mariaseelie]

So what's the difference between Horde Lord Adora and Adora Empress of the Universe?

Now that I see "Adora Empress of the Universe" on my screen I giggle a little hahah, I should have said "Goddess" instead

I think I should go down this Rabbit Hole, I want to explain why they are different and why does it matter in contrast with our beloved protagonist in canon.

Goddess Adora is even more terrifying than mean Horde lord adora

(Disclaimer 1: These hypothetical scenarios are fiction for a reason, because otherwise they could lead to weird and toxic situations. Please do not go seeking Horde Lords or Empresses of Universes IRL)

(Disclaimer 2: Adora as Goddess could be a creepy scenario under some lights)

(It's long but it will make sense I promise)

Adora the Mean Girl

Do you remember when Nate Stevenson tweeted about Adora Being Slythering trying to be a Gyffindor?

I always think about the implications of this.

Adora is a mean girl at core level but chooses to control her inner shadow because she is a Chad. Catra on the other hand goes out of her way to seem like the perfect bad girl because she is a bottom as a way to impress and peacock her mean queen

Most Horde Lord Adora AUs follow an understandable direction for someone in Adora's shoes as an imperfect complex person: she never finds the sword, she is convinced Horde=Good and her demeanor, vision of the world and herself are twisted. This girl becomes a powerful person, but not powerful enought to destroy the fabric of the Universe, so we are ok with her as Adora being a mean girl and lose a little as Horde Lord Adora (Because we all know she would never, she would find a way to redemption eventually)

(One of the many reasons I like adora is because, yes, she is the hero, but she was a mean girl first, so even if she genuinely love her princesses friends, deep down sometimes she laughs at their expense in her mind, specially when her eyes meet the water fountain not-for-showering in the morning. Post season 5 Adora 100% makes some princess jokes and spills tea when nobody but Catra can hear.)

But then this mean girl finds a sword that gives her goddess-like powers.

(To some degree we are ok with Regina writting vile things attached to the names of her clasmates in the Burn Book. Nasty sure but nobody is gonna die because its not a Death Note. But then imagine for a second Regina finding that she is the chosen one in charge of a great responsability she cannot deny or else the world is over.)

The Horde brainwashes these kids to believe princesses are bad, wild, dangerous and unpredictable as Adora once said. The truth is ... they could be actually. Human Beings (Etherians and all Beings with self awareness for that matter) are unpredictable. Princesses are normal folk with supernatural magical powers.

Pre-Season one Adora probably made an (strawman) image of them in her mind, had nightmares with that strawman often. But here is the trick: it takes to be one to know one, (or You have to be a bit evil to recognize evil in others) Poor Adora probably had one or two intrusive thoughts about what could she be capable of if she herself was a princess, sh*tted bricks and then deemed nobody should have those powers.

Thank God this is not the episode of The Boys as the Horde made us believe and princesses here are actually good, the idea of causing harm deliberately using their powers doesnt even occurr to them (well maybe to Glimmer on a bad day, shes also a baddie)

So logically when Adora transformed into Shera for the first time, there was absolute terror in her eyes. One of her nightmares became true.

So she chose to be good. Deliberately. Consistently. Every single time. And that made her a hero. She never claimed something for herself even when in theory she could crown herself as Queen of all of the kindoms. Adora in canon is impresive as a protagonist and really deserves love.

So:

if Adora becomes a horde lord, it means she failed as a hero (or If Adora becomes the empress of the universe in exchange for saving the world, she also failed as a hero).

But if by some hypotetical reason she becomes The Goddess of the Universe, that's different. That's Madoka Territory

The idea of someone being able to do evil without any repercussion but choosing not to is shaking, amusing and eerie to me. We all want to think we are good and incapable of doing evil but Human Beings are weak creatures and power almost always corrupts. unless you are a God

Imagine that, just before Shera could release the magic of the Heart all over Etheria, something weird happens (let's say madokafication) and Adora, born a mortal with imperfections, needs and desires, becomes a God, while still having human (First Ones) nature.

Imagine you are Catra,

God is a lesbian

and she loves you

Imagine the person you love and loves you can control literally everything, she does not just keep the bed warm for you, she makes the whole world and reality a warm place for you if you are cold. She has idk 3 biblically accurate angels as pets and doesn't even bat an eye about it.

That would be insanely cool, but also incredibly bizarre. It would mean trusting a human being to choose to be good at any moment because otherwise things would go south

Can you trust Adora to keep choosing to be good everytime as a goddess just as she was when she was a hero? She has absolute control over you.

It's terrifying yet interesting.

I imagine adora in goddess form as something beautiful but insanely frightening and otherwordly while saying "Be Not Afraid" Lol.

But I would love to hear/read the thoughts of the people here

Good Goddess Adora is even more terrifying than mean Horde lord adora

[wanderingthroughsands]

III. Come not as you are but as you wish to be seen

I close my eyes then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dream My dreams of you

- "In dreams" by Roy Orbison

I spent the next few days searching for information about the Dream Lord. Afternoons found me in the library, poring over every available mythology, seeking any clue that might help me confront him or at least hide from him—both in the waking world and in the Dreaming. Unfortunately, the more I learned, the greater my fear grew at the thought of our potential next meeting.

Lord Morpheus, as Matthew the Raven had called him several times during our talk, was an infinite being, divine almost, more powerful than any other entity in the universe. He had the ability to take on human form, perfectly mimicking our gestures and words. He gave and took away dreams, imprisoned and freed from nightmares. He rewarded and punished both mortals and gods alike. His existence and all his actions were centered around bringing hope—or depriving it from those who incurred his wrath.

Someone like me, one may say.

I also read extensively about the nature of nightmares. Where they come from and why, how they affect the body, and ways to prevent them. Most sources attributed their occurrence to stress and prolonged emotional tension. Carl Gustav Jung believed that nightmares never speak of what we already know, but of what we do not know or refuse to know. Megan Chance on the other hand, in her book „The Spiritualist”, wrote:

You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness.

Nightmares are also said to signal trauma, a painful experience from years past. Within their terrifying images, they carry a message in an unknown language. The author of one of the many articles on nightmares I had read summarized her reflections as follows:

"The mysterious god of dreams, Morpheus, is described in Greek mythology as a being endowed with exceptional wisdom and insight. So when he sends you a message, read it carefully."

I couldn't shake the memory of Dreamlord's deep gaze from my mind. I saw it in the raven that, despite my outburst of anger, watched me from afar every day, sometimes allowing himself to be seen on rooftops and in the treetops. I saw it in the shadows dancing among the falling autumn leaves, and sometimes I felt I saw it in the nightmares to which I fled from him each night. I was certain that Lord Morpheus was out there, waiting for me, and that he would inevitably find me if I let my guard down.

The day after my conversation with Matthew, I decided to send a short letter to Rose Walker. I found her publisher's address in Florida and, before bed, penned a few words to her. The next morning, I sent it off, hoping that someone who had clearly encountered the Lord of the Dreaming might help me prepare for a possible confrontation.

Rose,

You don't know who I am, but I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. During my journey through the Dreaming, I encountered Lord Morpheus and his raven, Matthew. The Dream Lord wants to capture me to destroy the power that allows me to awaken dreamers from their nightmares.

I know your book won't be published for another month, but if there are any relevant details within its pages, or if you possess any information that could help me, please, reach out to me. I'm leaving you my address and my phone number. I hope we can talk soon.

PS His eyes are as dark as night and as deep as the universe. If you have met him, you surely know what I mean.

"I can help you, but only if you let me."

That night, as in the previous few, I tried not to intervene in the nightmares within I hid. However, merely observing them proved to be incredibly hard to bear. People, as always, dreamed of traumas, fears, loneliness, and escapes, but this time I did not want to, I could not free them, because the threat mentioned by Dreamlord had taken too deep root in my consciousness. So I limited my actions to single images of death, as they evoked the most intense, overwhelming sensations in people. I allowed dreamers to break away from the loss of a child, a spouse, a close friend... and from the loss of their own lives.

"Help my brother instead! I beg you!" We stood by a pool, where a young Asian girl was desperately trying to retrieve the pale, drifting body of a small boy. Despair on her face mingled with terror as she shed tears into the large pool and reached out toward her brother, drifting farther and farther away.

"I cannot bring him back to life," I replied, kneeling beside her. "But I can bring you back to the waking world. Come with me."

"I won't leave him here! I will never leave him! Please, please, help him!"

"Your brother will be waiting for you beyond those doors," I touched her face and directed her towards the courtyard, where a gateway to awakening appeared next to a small, colorful slide. "He will be in the memories you cherish, in the photos you sometimes look at, in the places you both visited. What you see in this nightmare is not your brother. It is your pain. Your grief."

The girl froze for a moment, bestowing upon me a lingering gaze.

"Why did I have to lose him so soon..." she sobbed, her voice filled with agony as she suddenly became painfully aware of her loss. "If only I hadn’t let him go outside that day, if only I had stopped him..."

"There are so many things we would change in our lives if we had the chance. The death of that boy was not your fault; it was nobody’s fault. You don't have to torment yourself by constantly revisiting this nightmare. Come with me, I will help you wake up."

I guided her to the door and finally opened it for her. I expected that once she disappeared, the nightmare landscape she had created would vanish too—the suburban house and the slowly sinking body in the pool.

But as I felt fear creeping slowly up my spine, I realized that I had been found. And now, until dawn, I would have to run.

"You did not do what I asked of you," I heard behind me, but I had no intention of turning around. Focusing all my power within me, I pulled the handle and ran into another nightmare, and then another, and another—yet I still felt the coldness of his piercing gaze on my neck.

I opened another doors blindly, rushing through them without thought, passing countless scenarios of horror, pain, and suffering, unfolding in various buildings, on moorlands, in mountains, and within families from all over the world. Naively, I believed the Dream Lord would not be able to find me in the nightmares of others. I must have done different something today that draw his attention. I longed to escape, tried to wake up, but at the same time, I feared stopping, knowing he wouldn't hesitate for even a second. I mindlessly passed scenes of catastrophes, hell, destruction, separation, betrayal, running as fast as my power allowed me.

"Stop running," I heard Dreamlord behind me again, so I slammed another door shut. I didn't believe it would hold him back for long, but I had to survive until awakening.

In my situation, I had no other choice but to keep running.

"I told you to stop, Rebecca Surrey," this time his voice appeared almost right by my ear. Fear tightened my insides so much that I had trouble catching my breath. Dreamlord was following me step by step, and I wasn't sure when I would be able to wake up. I hoped that behind some door I would finally lose him — though deep down I knew that this night all my attempts would prove futile.

"I won't let you kill me, Dreamlord!" I shouted into the void, running further through countless nightmares. "You'll have to chase me here for eternity!"

"Matthew delivered your message to me," I heard before I slammed the next door. As I opened another, his voice came again: "I want to show you what will happen if your power is not restrained. Just. Stop."

I still can't explain what finally drove me towards Fiddler’s Green. Perhaps it was the futility of running, which I grew more aware of with every passing moment. Perhaps it was the fear of what might happen if I didn’t comply with his demand.

Or maybe it was the calmness in his words, their deep tone devoid of threat. The hint of a deal the Dream Lord wanted to present to me.

I stood amidst the endless greenery, with its tranquil waterfalls and valleys full of flowers, feeling for the first time in the realm of Dreams an exhaustion—not of the body, but of the turbulent emotions within me, exhaustion from fear and anticipation. I closed my eyes—not to wake up, but to sense his presence among the trees. Dreamlord approached me unhurriedly, just as he had during our first encounter here. The closer he got, the more intensely I felt his strange energy. I looked at his face framed by dark hair as he stopped in front of me with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are a brave creature, Rebecca Surrey,” he said, capturing my gaze with his own. “Frustrating, but brave indeed.”

“If you try to kill me again, Dreamlord, I will flee to the waking world,” I clenched my fists, ready to wake up if he so much as flinched. “And I will keep running until you finally leave me alone.”

“You would not be safe in the waking world if I decided otherwise. Matthew accompanies you there for a reason. There are things happening that you clearly do not understand and will not understand until you see them for yourself.”

“I’m not destroying anything, Lord Morpheus. Since I met you here, I have not interfered with most of the nightmares I enter. I will no longer travel through the Dreaming, but I need you to promise that you will stop tormenting me in both your world and mine.”

He remained calm, inscrutable, but something changed in his features.

“Your world and mine are in equal danger because of what you do,” he took a step towards me so I immediately took a step back. “And I intend to show you this so that you will return to me of your own accord the following night. Your actions are affecting the people around you. With each journey through the Dreaming, even more so.”

“Affecting... how?”

“You will see it as soon as you wake up,” this time I didn’t step back when he moved closer. I had to lift my head to look at him, and for the second time, I saw that slight, joyless smile. I was convinced that he could easily capture me now, but surprisingly, the fear I had felt earlier had almost vanished. “I will be waiting for you here, within Fiddler’s Green. In the meantime, it seems you have a Nightmare to dispel. And this time, Rebecca Surrey, I will allow you to do it. But in your world.”

I suddenly opened my eyes only to find myself back in my own bed and immediately heard a scream coming from the next room.

[witchofthesouls]

Hi there! I wanted to ask about the Rudis ask, if you could comment more about the TFP-Soundwave option? All your fic ideas are lovely! Have a nice day :) !!

When it comes down to it, I just really want to delve down into the mythos that the Aligned universe gave us.

TFP in general seems to pull a lot of influence from Ancient Greek and Roman culture and mythos as well as pulling from Judeo-Christian roots.

I mean, there's so much going on, and yet... It feels undersold or fallen wayside. Even though it's all right there!

The War kicked off exponentially when the High Council named Orion Pax as the next Prime

The Autobots on Earth fell apart without Optimus

Questions about the role of the Matrix of Leadership: Is Orion Pax and Optimus Prime completely separate entities?

The Primal Artifacts and their immense power (and Megatron's willingness to desecrate a Prime's corpse)

Smokescreen getting worked up when Ratchet question Optimus' decision to destroy the only thing that could revive their homeworld

Fucking Unicron sleeping in Earth's core

And this is just the top of my head.

So being a Prime isn't just a leadership position, but has some deeply religious/mythical divine status akin to a mortal God-king.

And the sheer fact that Megatron managed to oppose an actual Prime chosen by the damn Matrix itself, just shows how much of a force of personality and charisma the guy is as well as how much faith he inspired in his own people.

There is so much more that could have been done, especially since people are biting for more lore on Decepticon culture. Like FUUUUUUUU-

There seems to be a fandom take that Decepticons are either atheists or deeply reject religion as opposed to the very pious Autobots. That doesn't seem to work in the Aligned universe.

There should be sects and cults surrounding the Thirteen Primes, especially with the theme of the triads and duos: Prima and Megatronus. Megatronus and Solus. Liege Maximo, Megatronus, and Solus. Prima, Alpha Trion, and Alchemist Prime. (Like where's the rest of the myths and parables? )

Shoot, secret ones!

So hear me out, what if Megatron was the rallying call for the Decepticons because the Fallen was considered the patron of the oppressed? He was the Prime of Chaos, the closest to the Unicron by Primus' own hand, the Undefeated.

It was said that he and Solus were lovers, so is it too much of a step that they were the First Conjunx?

I am the one within all of you, little brother.

From Prima to Thirteen. From those forged within Solus and those that rise from below. In the deep Wilds touched by none and the very spark of our fledgling civilization.

Amalgamous may share the claim to Nature with his beastly shapes, but I am the Shadow to the Light, the unfettered Instinct without Rationality, the Unmaker upon our Creator, the Beast of Madness that dwells within everyone and everything. 

Even you, quicksilver and trickster, cannot deny my Domain. Not even Prima, the Eldest of us all, can deny my power.

-- excerpt of a WIP where Megatronus Prime answers Liege Maximo's questions on his wanderings and leeway to everywhere

Megatron walking away from the High Council would cement his position among his people -the downtrodden, the lower castes, the lost and forlorn -the "Uncrowned Prime." He had purposely invoked the Fallen's name since he needed the ferocious strength to force change in society. Megatronus is the only Prime to remain victorious against all foes; his siblings didn't force him to yield, Megatronus Prime willingly laid down his arms and exiled himself.

It would explain the fanatical devotion and outpour of support against Optimus, the chosen official Prime, especially with the religious angle of Prima slighting Megatronus once more should the Matrix be explicitly connected to the first Prime. And then there's the fact that Prima was a founding father of Cybertronian civilization, so there's the slant of "rebel and tear down the established regime!"

The very name of the Decepticons could have been a hail to Megatronus' companionship with Amalgamous and Liege Maximo, both Primes were mainly tricksters. (In the gladiatorial clades, they were often invoked for victory.)

TFP Soundwave isn't just the Decepticon, he's Megatron's Decepticon. Whatever Megatron wants, he does. Soundwave put down Airachnid when she tried to set the Nemesis off Earth.

I've seen takes where Soundwave is deeply in love with Megatron or the ghost of the old Megatron, and that's why he stayed even when there's nothing left but dust. I've seen a take where Megatron sets fire to Cybertron as a "love song" in a style to mimic how Megatronus and Solus changed Cybertron.

I have yet to see a deeply faithful/religious Soundwave seeing Megatron as a Sign from his chosen God/Prime to hold the match, prep the gas, and start a firestorm. He essentially used his rudis as kindling upon the altar of Megatronus Prime; Wilds and Passion and Madness Incarnated. (And seeing the Decepticons take back cities and planet, Dark Energon zombies, and Megatron's multiple resurrections from the dead or near death, Soundwave's fucking deep in devotion.)

[vanishingreyes]

Children Get Older || Emilio & Xóchitl

TIMING: Evening of September 6th, 2024. LOCATION: Xóchitl's house. SUMMARY: Emilio comes over to check on Xóchitl. She has questions. He has (some) answers. CONTENT WARNINGS: Alcoholism, child death (past), sibling death (past), suicidal ideation, (it's really... happy). also this is an important thread for xóchitl's arc so if you want a summary please message me <3

bonus song to listen to (where the title is from): click here

He wasn’t sure his heart had beat properly in months now. Not since Nora’s little announcement, not since he was forced to come to terms with the fact that he might lose her and Wynne in a way that transported him back in time to Mexico two years earlier, not since Xóchitl announced that she, too, was in Ireland, spending time with the very banshee who often made guest appearances in Emilio’s worst thoughts and nightmares. Even now, with everyone back in the same country, he felt as though he was barely treading water. Everything felt so much heavier than it should have, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to shed the extra weight.

He thought seeing Xó might help. Seeing her in person, being able to physically touch her and remind himself that she was here, she was present, she was alive… It would probably go a long ways. So he grabbed a bottle of tequila, he pretended his leg hurt less than it did, he took his bike to her place. He moved on autopilot, but that was how he did everything, these days. That was how he existed.

His knuckles were rapping against her door before it registered to him that he’d arrived at all, free hand still gripping the bottle. The door opened, and he hesitated outside in a way he wouldn’t have before. “Hey,” he greeted. “I, uh… I thought you might want to talk. Or drink. Whichever.” 

—

She wanted to collapse into herself. Ireland had been a mistake. A giant giant mistake, even if she’d gone with the best of intentions. She still didn’t know what to make of the rock that wasn’t really a rock in Siobhan’s house. Or how awful Siobhan had been to her. Xóchitl didn’t think that was an extreme reaction, and even if it was, screw it. She deserved to have strong reactions. She deserved to not keep herself quiet and contained. She was still far too much back at the stupid playground (she hadn’t even gone near it since coming back to town – not now, not after Ireland, but in general. Her return to her hometown, no matter how much she didn’t want to claim it has her hometown).

Thank god for Emilio. The fact that he wanted to see her. She needed to see him, to be sure that he was real and alive and she hadn’t just imagined everything. Because he was so good and therefore it would’ve made sense if she’d invented him. Someone so kind, who made her feel at home and who was beautiful and gentle and safe? It seemed impossible to Xóchitl that the universe would have granted her that particular luck so many times. Because it was something she found with Wyatt too, and that she’d found with a handful of others, and how did someone like her, someone who let their best friend die in front of them, wind up with any sort of luck?

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the knocking on the door. But she found herself gliding over to the door, opening it. “Yeah. Drink especially.” She looked up at Emilio, taking in his tired eyes, ruffled hair, and the familiar curve of his jaw. “You – thank you. I missed you.”

—

He took her in as she opened the door, let himself take stock of her. He couldn’t hear her heart beating, but he could see the twitch of the pulse in her throat. Maybe her skin was a little paler than it usually was, maybe the bags under her eyes had grown, but there was no denying how entirely alive she was. He took the relief it offered him, tried to cradle it. It was a slippery thing, a hard one to hold. Worst-case scenarios still lurked in every shadow, even when the danger had passed. Some part of him still whispered bitter reminders, questioned how long he’d be allowed to hold this peace before it, too, was yanked from his grip. 

Xó spoke and he nodded, gripping the bottle a little tighter. He had to remind himself not to hold it too tightly, lest it shatter. Xó and Emilio had always had similar methods of coping. It was why they’d gotten on so well from the start, why they’d fallen into an easy friendship that carried on even after they no longer fell into bed beside one another. He thought of the way he’d gone to her when Lucio showed up, the way she’d stopped him from leaning too heavily on a method of coping that was tried and true and probably wrong. Maybe a better man would try to do the same for her now, would emphasize the offer to talk and promote it above the more alcoholic coping tool he’d carried along with him.

But Emilio had never been a particularly good man. He wasn’t good at this. Most days, he felt as though he was barely getting by at all. She he nodded, he held out the bottle of tequila so that she could take it before it shattered in his hands, he stepped inside. When he spoke, it was in Spanish; he thought it might be as much a comfort to her as it was to him. “I missed you, too. Are you okay? Talk to me.”

—

She felt like she was a child again. She’d felt much like a child ever since the time in Siobhan’s home. Xóchtil still felt small – so small that she couldn’t pinpoint the last time that she’d felt that way. Surely it had been in between when she was a tiny eight-year-old on the playground and now, but it all felt like a blur. Felt like the playground was inside of her. Something that she’d tried to run away from her whole life was, in the end, a part of her and something that she couldn’t escape without taking an ice cream scoop to her soul – and if she did, she wasn't sure what she’d be left with.

Everything was something of an echo of Mackenzie, no matter how much Xóchitl wanted to refute that. Maybe not everything, she was very much her own person after all, but there was always a sort of reverberating echo in her life. A reverberating echo that got louder the longer she was back in Maine. She took in Emilio, though she’d memorized him before, but knowing he was here, knowing he was alive was reassurance that she hadn’t quite realized just how desperately she’d needed.

She grabbed the bottle of tequila out of his hand and then it was open without her even realizing it. He switched to Spanish and there was a small weight lifted from Xóchitl’s shoulders. Small, but noticeable all the same. “No. I – no. Can we go and sit down?” Under any other circumstance she would’ve waited to see his response but instead Xóchitl turned and made her way over to her living room couch and sat down in it, feeling every bit of her body become like jelly. “It – I don’t get it. Nothing makes sense.” She could feel her lower lip wobbling. She wouldn’t cry – wouldn’t cry yet. She could fall apart around Emilio. He was one of the few people that she knew she could completely fall apart around without any fear of judgment. “I just don’t know what to make of this. I wanted to know what happened to her ever since but now – now I’m more confused and lost than I ever was before, and I don’t know what to do about that.” 

—

Even though he was the one who had offered it to her, Emilio missed the weight of the bottle in his hands the moment it was gone. His palms felt too empty without it, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands. He shoved them absently into his pocket, thumb rubbing against his wedding band in that familiar nervous tick. 

It was hard to imagine what must have been going through Xóchitl’s mind. Emilio had only managed to get the barest of details out of her due to her distress, but he thought he had some understanding of what had happened. She spoke about the playground, about Mackenzie, about the ‘living rocks’ that killed her. And Emilio had understood, from the beginning, that this meant Mackenzie’s death was anything but natural. He hadn’t quite known what had caused it at first, but he’d looked into things after that first discussion with Xó about what happened. He’d investigated, he’d spoken to other hunters, he’d landed on a culprit. And, if he had to guess, she’d run into that same culprit in Ireland. It must have been jarring to her; in her memories, she could likely write off what she’d seen as a traumatized child’s desperate imagination. But faced with it as an adult? He could only imagine the turmoil.

He trailed behind her to the couch, taking a seat beside her and reaching out to rest an uncertain hand on her arm. Emilio wasn’t good at this. He’d told people about the supernatural before, but he’d never been able to ease anyone into it. He only knew how to throw someone into the deep end and hope they’d tread water, and it seemed cruel to do that to Xó when she seemed as though she was already close to drowning. 

One hand still in his pocket, he rubbed at that ring a little more, wondering if Juliana would have been better at this. She had always understood people more than Emilio did, but she’d still been a hunter, still had a hunter’s hesitance when it came to social interactions. He wondered what she’d say if she were here now. He wondered if wondering that had ever helped. “If you knew more about it, would… Do you think that that would help you?” If he told her everything, would it be a salve, or would it just be a different kind of wound? 

—

She was glad Emilio was real. He was, right? She wasn’t somehow imagining all of this, was she? The tequila tasted far too real for this to be something she’d imagined, and Xóchitl knew that Emilio was real, so why was she so done up about all of this? It was a stupid question to ask, given how much she knew why. Trauma, being confronted with confusing truths that she didn’t know what to make of, or even figure out just how they were truth. Which was where Emilio came in. Because he wouldn’t lie to her, right?

She’d had way too much to drink in the many days since she’d returned from Ireland. Xóchitl knew it was a problem, but she also knew that Emilio shared her same affliction, perhaps to an even more significant degree, and so this was a place where she could be safe and not judged for finishing a few too many bottles of things that were not waters or sodas or, god forbid, kombucha. At least she wasn’t into kombucha. That was too much white person shit for her to handle.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “I’ve wanted answers ever since I was – well, ever since it happened. For twenty-two years now.” Xóchitl sighed, quick and hot and yet still deeply uncertain. She took another drink of alcohol to punctuate everything that was going on, and because, other than her friendship with the man half-sitting and half-laying next to her, it was one of the only things she was certain about right now.

Maybe it would make sense to have Emilio tell her his thoughts. About the moving rocks. The moving rocks that, upon a second encounter, didn’t really look all too much like rocks, even Xóchitl could admit that, even though she couldn’t say what, exactly, they really seemed like. There wasn’t a word for what they were like, other than: murderous, rock-like, horrible, and ugly. She felt no shame about calling something that had murdered her best friend, her favorite person in the world, ugly.

“But I do know that I want answers.” She started up again, “so okay. You – you can tell me.” Another swig of alcohol, and she was grateful she’d set up a few bottles for the two of them, because she had a feeling she might need all of them. She’d never so explicitly talked about Mackenzie’s death, but Emilio was someone who she wanted to do it with, partially because they both had their own fair share of deep-set grief from losing someone who was a part of them.

—

He watched her. The way she curled in on herself, the way she clung to that bottle in a fashion that was too familiar to look at for long. He watched her, and he wondered if it was kinder to have answers or ignorance. He wondered if it was easier to live in a world you didn’t understand as opposed to one that you might understand a little too well. 

Emilio had lived in tragedies that were shrouded in mystery just the same as he had existed inside ones with too many details. He knew what it was to be a child, small and scared and with no real understanding of a bomb that had just blown your life into pieces. He could still remember being twelve years old, could still recall with perfect clarity the expression on his uncle’s face as he’d returned from the hunting trip he’d taken Victor on alone. It was only recently that Lucio had given him any detail at all. For most of his life, his oldest brother’s death had been a shapeless thing. He knew Victor had died, but he didn’t know how or why or even when, really. It was a thing that had happened, a thing that shaped and defined him just as Mackenzie’s death had for Xóchitl, but he hadn’t known anything real about it at all.

The massacre, of course, was the inverse of that. He knew too much about his daughter’s death, knew every detail besides the face of the person who’d finished the job. He’d seen her corpse crumbled in the floor, counted her broken bones and traced her blood staining the walls. Did knowing make anything better? Tragedy wasn’t undone by knowledge. The terrible things you experienced were just as terrible when you knew every gory detail as they were when left to the imagination. 

So which was more cruel — to give Xóchitl the answers she was asking for, or to deny them? It wasn’t just one door he’d be opening; it was a world outside the one she’d thought was true. To tell the truth about Mackenzie’s death was to tell the truth about himself, too, and about everything else in this wretched town. But Xóchitl was here. She was looking at him, she was asking. And Emilio didn’t know if it made him a coward or a fool, but he couldn’t bring himself to deny her.

“Okay,” he said, letting the English stick to the roof of his mouth. Then, in Spanish: “Okay. Xóchitl, I can tell you this, but you need to understand, it isn’t… It’s not just Mackenzie. It’s not just what happened to her. I can’t tell you what I think happened to her without telling you things about… the world that you might not like. It isn’t a door that can be closed when it’s been opened. I’ll tell you everything, anything you want to know, but I want — I want you to be sure that you want to know it.”

—

She hated the idea of being seen as weak. Of being anything but the strong person she’d built herself up to be. Even if Emilio knew more about her than most other people in town. More than most anybody, which was unbelievable to think about sometimes, given how they’d met and how Xóchitl was pretty sure neither of them had actually expected to get along and spend time together long term. Yet their relationship had unfolded in this way and it was something that she’d never wish to turn back on. Emilio was safe, Emilio was her best friend, and he hadn’t run at the numerous times that she’d all but broken down in front of him.

He seemed to trust her too, which was something she did not take lightly. Xóchtil figured Emilio didn’t trust a lot of people – and this had been confirmed both by his actions and his words more than once.

Mackenzie’s death was a shadow over the entirety of her life. She’d done so much in her life just because of her friend’s death. So much that sometimes she thought that perhaps her friend’s death had formed who she was even more than her friend’s life would have, no matter how much of an influence she was keenly aware that Mackenzie had had on her. She couldn’t shake the image of her body on the floor from her mind and since the night with the joint bad dream, couldn’t shake what Mackenzie might’ve become. The longing to have the thirty-year-old version of her best best friend (no offense intended to Wyatt or Emilio or someone like Jade or anybody else, but Mackenzie would hold that title for the rest of Xóchitl’s life.)

She picked at her cuticles and looked up and over to Emilio. Spanish would make this easier to understand. She was sure of it. Which was perhaps more than a little stupid to place value on, but Spanish was safer, was softer, was easier to wrap herself up in. It was more comforting for the both of them, and that alone was a good enough reason to use it.

“I –” Xóchitl felt her words falter, if only for a moment. Did she want to know? Of course. It was all she’d wanted for her whole goddamn life. Was she scared? Absolutely. She wasn’t sure if she’d spent a day not scared ever since that April afternoon.

“Yes. I do. I – would like it if you’d go slowly, at least to start? Just so I can take it in.” She didn’t even know what it was that she’d have to take in but it seemed like a reasonable enough request to start things off.  “I want to know. I – even if I don’t want to know, I need to know.” Her stomach turned and twisted. She took another sip of the alcohol. Something consistent. Something she could count on. “You know what killed her?”

—

His life had been defined by death since the beginning. Even before that massacre three years prior, even before his brother’s death when he was twelve and more afraid than he was supposed to be, his father’s absence had shaped him. He knew the man responsible for his existence only through the fading memories of his siblings, who’d had him only a few years longer than Emilio had. Lucio spoke of him once or twice, fond and grieving, but his mother never had. As a child, naive and stupid in the way only a child could be, he’d assumed it was because she loved her late husband in a way that made speaking of his absence hurt. As he’d grown older, he’d come to understand that that wasn’t the case at all. Elena didn’t speak of Hendrik not because she loved him, but because she didn’t think of him at all. Even then, it had seemed strange. Now, with Juliana haunting the walls of every room he’d ever stood in, it was unimaginable.

For a long time, he’d thought he was the one who was wrong for that. His mother had always accused him of being soft, and maybe his inability to move on from the people he’d lost was proof of it. She’d punished him for mourning his brother, would have hated him for the way he mourned those lost in the massacre even when a piece of that grief was reserved for her, too. For most of his life, he’d been taught that grief was an unnatural thing, that it made a person weak. But standing here with Xóchtil, whose grief was a tangible thing, he found he disagreed. Xóchtil wasn’t weak; she was one of the strongest people Emilio knew. 

Maybe that meant there was hope for him, somewhere.

He swallowed as she confirmed that she wanted the truth, wondering if he was a coward for the way he’d briefly hoped she might ask to be spared from it. If she wanted to know, he wouldn’t lie to her. He wasn’t particularly good at it, anyway. So he nodded, pressing his tongue against his teeth and trying to think of the best way to start. “I think I know what killed her,” he confirmed. “But I’m not… I don’t think that’s the best place to start. If you want to go slow, I think I have to start with — with me.” His thumb found his wedding ring, rubbing it absently in a familiar habit. “My family is… was part of a long line of… people with a duty. Hunters, they’re called. Mine were slayers, but there are other kinds, too. We’re meant to keep the world safe, to keep humans safe from… things like what killed Mackenzie. Things that you probably were told existed in… storybooks and fairytales and not in real life. But that’s wrong, Xó. Those things are real, and dangerous. And I think — I know that what you and Mackenzie ran into that day, what took her from you… it wasn’t rocks. It wasn’t anything you’d be able to make sense of without more context.” 

—

Both she and Mackenzie had asked for siblings. Nothing had come of either – at least that she was aware, though maybe Mackenzie’s parents had decided to have another child sometime after Xóchitl and her moms had left town. She knew they’d moved eventually, this fact revealed to her by a returned letter, no forwarding address left. No forwarding address, at least not for her. Because in the end, she’d been bad luck for Mackenzie and her whole family, and so it made sense that her parents wouldn’t want her in their lives anymore. So maybe her best friend had another sibling out there, with the same bright smile that Mackenzie had once had. Like one of the dozens of photos that she had printed out and put in an album that rested on a bookshelf in her bedroom.

It was fascinating, in a masochistic sort of way, how often her grief still stole her breath. Stole it in a way akin to what Mackenzie’s last moments must’ve resembled. Except her grief let her live, and there was something massively more cruel about that than if her grief had just let her die. But it had to keep her alive, had to keep her with ever-present reminders of the fact that her best friend was dead, and maybe through having other people she wanted to call her best friends, it made Mackenzie’s spirit or whatever (that wasn’t real, was it?) angry and now that she was back in town, it was harder to escape. She’d never been in a bar as a child, despite the fact that she now frequented them with greater regularity than she’d ever let her parents know.

Emilio was strong, and he felt like some sort of buoy, and maybe the two of them enabled each other but maybe it wasn’t always so bad. He was brave and kind and maybe neither of them were quite fully alive but they settled well into each other’s patterns and behaviors. So it all worked.

“Okay.” Going slow wasn’t something she’d ever been good at. She’d finished high school early because she needed it done, she’d gone from one degree to another because she needed to do something. But she trusted Emilio, and so if he was even halfway suggesting slow, then she’d trust him. She’d go with it. “Start with you?” It was a good choice that they’d gone with Spanish. Xóchitl didn’t have to think twice as hard. Even if she was fluent in English, Spanish was home, much like Emilio had become. Like Wyatt was. Like she’d hoped Siobhan could be, but that was all shot. Best not to focus on Siobhan right now, and to instead focus on Emilio. 

Hunters. Storybooks and fairytales. She’d avoided the latter as much as she could.

Real, and dangerous. She was going to be sick, and so she pressed her mouth against her knee, trying to regulate herself. With mixed success, but she needed to hear Emilio out. She owed him that much, and she trusted him. Mackenzie, in the dream or hallucination or whatever it had been, trusted him too. So she’d let him talk. She’d try to understand.

“Okay. You can – so you fight monsters? Or like, things that can hurt people – humans – but you seem human…” Xóchitl let her voice trail away. “You can –” she swallowed, “tell me whatever you need to.”

—

Start with you? The question felt heavy, and he wished he knew another way to tell this story. He wished he understood how to explain the world without having to explain his own place in it, wondered if it was a testament to his own selfishness that he couldn’t. Someone else would have been better at this, he thought, though he was no longer sure who. A few years ago, he might have claimed someone like Rosa or Rhett would do a better job, someone far better at being what they were supposed to be. But these days, Emilio’s thoughts and morality were all tangled up so tightly that he wasn’t sure it was possible to undo the knot without cutting something loose. Rhett was cruel, Rosa was self-serving. Both thoughts felt like betrayals, even now.

In any case, there was no one else to tell her the truth. Rosa was dead, Rhett was gone, and she was asking him. She was sitting here, on her couch with a movie he didn’t understand playing dutifully in the background, she was looking him in the eye. He didn’t know a version of this story that wouldn’t unravel him, but wasn’t he willing to do that, anyway? Wouldn’t he have torn himself to pieces for her? Didn’t she deserve that? Xóchitl was one of the few people left alive who was capable of making Emilio feel like something resembling a human being. How could he deny her anything she asked? He’d no sooner say no to Xó than he would to Teddy, or to Nora, or to Wynne. If she asked him for something, if any of them did, Emilio would grant it. Even if it ached.

That didn’t mean it was an easy thing to explain, of course. He wasn’t accustomed to telling people about this world when they had no prior knowledge of it to pull from. Even Wynne, who he’d helped learn more about this world after their first encounter, had had the context of the demon their community worshiped to assist them in the transition towards thinking about such things as matter of fact. How did you start from nothing? Xó had Mackenzie’s death as a kicking off point, but she’d been rationalizing that for decades now. Emilio couldn’t speak for what had happened in Ireland, though it was clear it had shaken her, but he knew it would be difficult to touch the conversation. It was better for him to stick to what he knew, and what he knew was this. 

“I am human… mostly. Hunters just have a little extra to help us along. Strength. Durability. Faster healing.” He offered a wry smile, tapping his knee absently. “Not more complete healing, though. Just quicker.” The smile faded, gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Different types have other things, too. I see well in the dark. Rangers — they hunt shapeshifters — have better senses. But we’re still human. And we… we’re supposed to help people.” Not all of them did, but Emilio wasn’t sure he could get into that now. Xó hadn’t asked him about hunters, didn’t need to know much more about them than he’d said already. Xó asked him about Mackenzie. Emilio would try to answer her question.

“There are different things that we hunt. I hunt the undead. Vampires, zombies, things like this. But — what happened to Mackenzie, it wasn’t… something like that. Not something I hunt.” He was bad at this, no matter what language he tried to say it in. He was tearing his best friend’s world apart, after all. The language he chose to do it in had little effect on the carnage. “What happened to Mackenzie… What you described to me, I’ve only seen a few times, with my brother. Leprechauns. They’re fae. Small, but strong and very fast. And they…” They suffocate people. Was it too brutal, saying it like that? Should he try to soften a blow that had been dealt twenty years prior? “They… hurt people the way you say Mackenzie was hurt.”

—

Her whole world was spinning. So much so that it felt difficult to stay upright, a lot of the time. She felt dizzy but she also knew that Emilio was one of the only people who she could actually trust. He’d never really lied to her, and they understood each other on a level that she hadn’t expected to ever find. It was a level that had made Xóchitl uneasy, at first, mainly due to the fact that getting too close to people was ‘not her thing’ – but there’d been a few flukes before then – with Wyatt – and with a few other people who weren’t in town. But it was something that she was now grateful for. She only hoped that Emilio’s honesty and kindness were things that she could continue counting on. Those had been eliminated with Siobhan – who she didn’t even want to think about right now – but Emilio wouldn’t do that to her. It was a naive way of thinking, but it was a way of thinking that she had to convince herself of.

“Mostly?” She swallowed dry air. “Okay.” This was all still in Spanish, and that was just about all that she could hang on to at this particular moment. English was forgotten, even though Mackenzie had never known too much of it. She’d learned a bit, Xóchitl had taught her, but she’d never had the chance to become fluent. “What the fuck is a shapeshifter? Is that – like a werewolf? What the fuck, Emilio.” She settled herself. “Sorry, sorry – I – I don’t want to snap at you. This is just a lot. Thank you for – thank you.” Her nails dug into her hands and she tried to 5-4-3-2-1 breathe but right now it was more comforting just to focus on Emilio. To listen to the sound of his voice, to do everything that she could to stay in the present moment.

They helped people though, which was good. Xóchitl still wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but help was good, it was important, and it was necessary. She let loose her nails from the palms of her hands and buried her face in the back of the couch. But that wouldn’t be good for listening, and if she was going to have a breakdown, a meltdown of some sort, then she’d rather do it while actually facing Emilio. 

“Zombies? Vampires?” Another shake of her head. But she wasn’t going to think about that. There would be other times for explanations about that, soon. “That’s – yeah. That’s what Siobhan called the thing in Ireland – it –” She couldn’t help but pull her knees against her chest again, small and childlike and afraid. “They kill people? Like – they did kill her, right? I didn’t – that wasn’t in my imagination?” There was no way that it could have been, but she needed the reassurance. “Why would they kill her?”

—

It was harder than he thought it would be. Or maybe that wasn’t right. Maybe he couldn’t make the claim that it was harder than he thought it would be, because he’d never thought of doing this at all. Xó was a part of this world, lived in it, but she wasn’t entwined in it the way Emilio was. She wasn’t born with a duty to plant herself in the middle of all the shit, wasn’t destined to die bloody and violent before she hit middle age. Xó was a part of this world, but only in the way that humans were meant to be a part of it. She was an outsider, someone who stood separate from it all even if it had already left fingerprints on her ribcage. He’d thought maybe she was happier not knowing, thought she might have been safer for it. Maybe he was wrong about that. Maybe he should have tried to tell her this a long time ago.

“I know, I know,” he sighed, even though he didn’t. He couldn’t imagine having the world opened up to you after decades of living on the very edge of it. For Emilio, this knowledge had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. Other children were read bedtime stories about pigs and wolves, but hunters were told true horrors about the things they needed to do to survive. He’d known about the supernatural for as long as he’d known his own name. “It’s… a lot. There are werewolves, yes. But there are others, too. I can — If you want me to, I can tell you about them. I know… a bit.” Juliana had wanted him informed, especially after she got pregnant. If our kid’s a ranger like their mom, I don’t want you slacking off, she’d teased. He thought it would be better for Xó if she were here now instead of him. He had no doubt she’d have been better at it.

He shifted his weight, uncertain and uncomfortable. “That’s… another thing you should know, actually. About saying thank you. It’s — If you say it to someone who’s — a fae, they can use it against you. Promises, too.” He thought of Siobhan in that factory, binding him to silence and preventing him from finishing the job he’d started with Inge in order to save his brother. The thought made his mouth go dry, made his skin itch. Being bound wasn’t something he wanted for Xó. 

He wanted to reach out, wanted to touch her, but it was like there was a wall between them. He didn’t know what was all right anymore, what was acceptable. Did she want to be touched? When it was him, when he was in the midst of a… moment, of a thing he didn’t have the words to describe, being touched could often make it worse. So he hovered, so afraid of doing the wrong thing that he couldn’t bring himself to do anything at all. “They kill people,” he agreed quietly. “You didn’t imagine that.” Did it feel like Mackenzie was dying all over again, he wondered? Had he sent her right back to that playground? He’d never intended to, but she’d asked and he’d answered all the same. “It’s… Different things kill for different reasons. The undead kill to eat. Shifters lose control, sometimes. Fae… sometimes, they just do it for the chaos. They like it, I think.” Most of what he knew about fae came from Rhett, and Rhett had been more than a little biased against the whole lot. But Emilio thought of Siobhan, and he wasn’t sure how wrong his brother had been. There were fae who were different, of course — people like Teagan, like Regan — but there were some who did terrible things just for the hell of it. Most of the less human types seemed to fall pretty soundly into that category. “I’m sorry. I wish… I wish there were a better answer.” 

—

“Okay.” It was the easiest response she could do, practically rehearsed, not taking too much effort no matter what the language – though Xóchitl was still glad that they were using Spanish. In this whole new world of complete and utter lack of familiarity, it felt good to know that at least some things could remain familiar and easy. The words themselves could be easy, even if the meanings behind them were anything but. But it was far better to have one easy thing than to have none. Take that, the one therapist who’d told Xóchitl that she couldn’t look on the bright side of things.

“Sometime. Not now.” She wasn’t sure she could handle any of this, and at the very least she needed to be able to hear whatever it was that Emilio knew about what had killed Mackenzie. “Sorry – I don’t want to be short, but I just am not sure about what I can take in right now…” Ideally, she didn’t want to take in anything but Emilio was offering and Emilio wouldn’t bullshit her. Still, her head throbbed, and not even in the fun sort of way that came with a hangover. Those weren’t exactly fun, always, but at least it was easier for Xóchitl to pretend, then. Because drinking felt good and made her not have to think so much.

She wouldn’t be sick until this was all over. The bathrooms in her middle and high school had seen too much of that – and not by her choice at all. It had just happened whenever something would trigger her, and by the time she’d gone to college Xóchitl had replaced that with getting drunk whenever she thought too much about Mackenzie, which was probably a problem, but it was a habit now, too. One that Emilio shared and so it was one that wouldn’t receive any sort of judgment or commentary right now (or ever, probably).

“How? I – what?” Xóchtil made another face. “Like, with magic? I don’t – that doesn’t make sense. How do you use a promise or a thank you. I mean, I’ve cashed in on some I-owe-yous but like, not all the time. Is it like that?” She didn’t understand how that could be used, but she would listen. She’d do that as best as she could. “How – “ another shake of her head. “Never mind.” She felt childish and out of her depth – even more so than she’d expected. Suddenly she was under the table in Ireland, and in another breath she was on the playground and she really couldn’t afford to have that cycle this time.

He affirmed that they killed people and then she was back on the playground – a sobbing child – lost and confused, and wasn’t she that still, in far too many ways? She’d never really stopped being that little girl. Xóchitl dug her nails into her palms and bit the edge of her tongue, intent to come back to where Emilio was, even if the Mackenzie in her mind was screaming for help. Even if it was sort of like killing her all over again if she came back to the present. “They like it?” She felt her lip quiver, shaking in a way that she didn’t think was possible. “They just kill people and enjoy it? She was eight, Emilio. She’d – she was good and – she didn’t do anything.” Xóchitl pressed the palms of both of her hands against her face. “Why her? What are they – is it just fae? In Ireland – and you said it, right? Leprechauns? The fuck is that? The dude on the Lucky Charms cereal didn’t – they didn’t look like that. Though, funny enough, I’ve never eaten that. Got a weird vibe from him.”

—

He studied her, trying to determine how much of this she could take. It wasn’t in Emilio’s nature to move slowly; for most of his life, doing so had been a death sentence. You could be quick, or you could be dead. You could jump back before those teeth found your throat, or you could have your jugular torn out and bleed out onto the floor. You could twist your body to the side or you could watch something sharp go in one end and out the other and know that no one would rush to your aid because it was your own damn fault. One of the hardest parts about the aftermath of the massacre and the injury he’d suffered during it was the way it slowed him down. His leg didn’t work the way it once had; he was slower now. It had never been a good thing.

But… maybe it at least gave him some kind of practice. What he was doing now had nothing to do with the physical slowness that his useless limb often forced him into, but it was still an unfamiliar thing that he understood better now. Xó wouldn’t react well if he spilled everything at once, if he opened the floodgates and let it all go. She needed him to go slow. For her, Emilio would try it, even if it wasn’t something he was good at. “It’s not — You don’t have to apologize,” he told her. “We do this how you need it done. If you don’t want to talk about some things right now, we can talk about them later. Or — Or never. If you want it done never, that’s okay, too.” 

Would he have made that offer three years ago? Or one? Living in Wicked’s Rest had shaped him in a way he hadn’t quite seen coming, shifting pieces of him into something he hadn’t expected. He was gentler now; softer. People kept trying to tell him that this wasn’t a bad thing, but Emilio still wasn’t sure. It was hard to remove his mother’s voice from his head, hard to view softness as anything more than a synonym for weakness. Was he really helping Xó here? Or was he only lining her up to have just enough knowledge to get herself killed? 

(That was what he was good at, wasn’t it? Getting people killed. He had such a long list of eulogies caught in his throat, and so many of them would have been utterly unnecessary if not for his own inaction.) 

“It’s… a kind of magic. They can bind you to it, force you to uphold it. I don’t — I don’t know a lot of the ‘how,’ only that they can.” When sharpening a knife, no one bothered to explain to it how the things it would cut through were dangerous. It was enough to say that they were. Training a hunter was the same. No one ever told Emilio how the world worked, only that it did. All he had needed to know was his place in it, what was expected of him. He didn’t know how fae binds worked, only that they did. Xó probably deserved a better teacher, someone who could explain the intricacies of it all to her, but Emilio was what she had. He’d try to make up for his inadequacy in any way he could, even if it would never be enough.

It was probably a little selfish to feel some relief in the fact that she didn’t want all the answers, but he felt it all the same. There was something daunting about being asked questions you didn’t know how to respond to. Usually, Emilio would do everything in his power to find those answers. That was his job, after all. People came to him with questions, and he found them answers. But… this felt so much more delicate than that. This wasn’t a college student whose friend had recklessly ventured into the woods and never come back, or a housewife whose husband had been acting strange. This was someone he cared for so deeply with a decades-old ache she was trying to soothe. The last thing he wanted was to make things worse.

“I know,” he told her quietly, looking away. “I know. She was a little girl. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. I — I know that.” His own ache ebbed in his chest, the knife twisting violently. He wished he had a better world to offer her. He wished he could give her a place where things like this didn’t happen, where little girls on playgrounds and in their living rooms were safe and protected, where no one hurt anyone who didn’t deserve hurting. But that wasn’t the world they lived in, and Emilio didn’t know how to make another. He could give her pretty words and firm reassurances, but they wouldn’t be the truth. And Xó hadn’t come to him for beautiful lies. He knew that. “It’s… There are bad people of every species. Fae, shifters, undead… hunters. I don’t — I don’t know what Ireland was like. The woman you were with, Siobhan, she —” The promise he’d made to the banshee in that factory to save his brother’s life tightened a noose around his throat, cutting his words off before he could say more. He shook his head, looking away with a tight swallow. 

“I don’t know about any cereal,” he said when his voice could cooperate with him again. “I know that… humans get it wrong a lot, when it comes to the supernatural. What they think things are like and what things are actually like are very different.” He’d managed a few pieces of vampire-related media since coming to Wicked’s Rest, albeit never in full. None were entirely accurate, even if some got bits and pieces right. He imagined it was the same for fae. “But from what you’ve told me, and what research I did after… Yeah. It was leprechauns, what happened to Mackenzie.” 

—-

Maybe, if she’d been faster, then Mackenzie would still be alive. Maybe, if she’d been faster, she’d still have her first best friend. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Her life was full up of far more maybes than she’d ever have thought she’d have. While she hadn’t been as into hard sciences as someone who craved answers as much as she did might’ve been, that didn’t mean she liked maybes. Maybes were uncomfortable, unless they were told in a tantalizing way. Her best friend’s death was the worst of any possible what if.

“Okay.” She couldn’t manage much more than that, but one of the many things she loved about Emilio was that they didn’t need to talk a lot to know that they understood one another. It had been clear, even back when they’d been drunk and just trying to get the other into bed. Of course, Xóchitl certainly hadn’t been aware of that, but looking back, it was incredibly clear. Which was why she’d gone to Emilio over anybody else. He was one of the only people she didn’t feel ashamed to bare her whole soul to. Of course, Wyatt and Mateo and people like that also never made her feel ashamed, but there was something about Emilio and about who he was – and the fact that he’d known Siobhan was untrustworthy before she had – even though some small part of her (the very same part that craved friends but didn’t want to get close) wanted to think that whatever had happened in Ireland had been something of a mess, a mistake, and not who Siobhan was.

Siobhan, who’d listened to and so deeply understood Xóchitl’s grief.

But Emilio had understood it too, and he’d never made her cower under a table in a state of deep panic while dismissing her anxiety.

He could hold her grief – she didn’t want him too, as she knew that he had more than enough of his own, and she wanted to hold his a lot of the time. Maybe she could do that soon, once she had more answers. She certainly hoped so. She’d hold his grief in any way she could. She owed him that – but regardless, she wanted to. Which was more important. It also meant that he couldn’t argue with her about whether or not he was deserving – which Xóchitl knew Emilio would. 

“I’m not ready to never talk about it again, I don’t think.” If anything, she needed to talk about it in a nearly pathological way.

“Fuck, disrespectfully, that kind of magic.” It was biting and it was cold, but if that magic, or something adjacent to it, had killed Mackenzie, then it was deserved. She wouldn’t apologize for her anger. She couldn’t, being as it had become such a part of who she was. Maybe anger was better than endless grief. Maybe not. She did know that both were quelled by alcohol, at least temporarily.

Maybe she’d never have felt quite the intense need to drink if those fae-things hadn’t crushed her friend to death. But that, like so many other maybes she had swirling around in her mind, would never have any clear answer, because there was no way to check the other possible outcome.

“She was the best person I knew. She was just loud and excitable, and I don’t understand why she had to die because of that. I don’t – I hear you, what you’re saying, but I don’t know why they had to kill her. She’s innocent.” She looked over to Emilio, eyes brimming with tears that weren’t falling, hoping he knew that she didn’t expect an answer to that. Not right now.

Xóchitl didn’t like to think of herself as an especially violent person, but she knew that if she got her hands on one of those leprechauns, she’d happily strangle it to death. Watch it, the way that it – one of it – had watched Mackenzie die. This time, she wouldn’t get sick.

“Okay.” Back to simple answers, but he deserved more, with all he was giving her. “There’s a whole load of bad humans too. So that… makes sense.” It didn’t mean that she could entirely agree, or that she wasn’t thinking about how maybe some species did have more evil in them than others did.  “She’s cruel.” That was all she could get out about Siobhan right now. 

“It’s a stupid cereal.” She shrugged it off. “Not worth knowing about.” She noticed that her tongue had found itself pressed against the front of her teeth. “I guess that makes sense. Humans… getting stuff wrong, I mean.” Even though she still didn’t understand. There was something filling part of her knowledge gap now, even if there was still an endless amount to be filled, still. “Why didn’t they kill me too?”

—

The cruelest parts of grief, Emilio knew, were the what ifs. What if he’d gotten Flora out sooner? What if he’d told Rhett his plan and let him help? What if he and Juliana hadn’t argued the morning of the massacre, what if he’d been home when whatever monster killed her burst through the door? What if he’d been the man his mother wanted him to be? A better hunter, a sharper knife? If he’d done a thousand little things differently, would his daughter still be alive? Seven years old now, with his nose and Juliana’s eyes, all the best parts of two broken people spun together into something innocent. 

Xó, he knew, had plenty of those what ifs of her own. Was he adding to them now? He could imagine her thought process, could picture it. It was natural, he thought, to blame yourself after a tragedy. For him, taking on all that guilt and self-hatred had felt like some desperate attempt at control, some way of pretending he was something more than a cog in a machine he didn’t fully understand. He wasn’t sure which was harder — the idea that he could have changed it, or the idea that it was inevitable. Fate was a cruel concept, but so was the absence of it. Either nothing you did mattered at all, or everything did. Emilio wasn’t sure which was worse.

He wished he could take it from her. He wished he could pluck the grief from her chest and bury it in his own instead, wished he could go back in time to that playground and lay himself in the gravel and dirt to spare Mackenzie from her fate and spare Xó from all that followed it. But the only method of time travel he’d ever known was a useless one; it only ever took him back to one place, only ever allowed him to be a spectator to the same event time and time again. He could go back to that living room the same way she could go back to that playground, but never to change anything. Grief, he thought, was often little more than bearing witness time and time again, always wondering what you could have done differently. 

She said she never wanted to talk about Ireland again, and he nodded. He hated himself for the new flood of relief, for the way he had to fight back the urge to breathe it into a tiny sigh. Wasn’t he better at not talking? Wasn’t that all he’d done, for years now? Xó wouldn’t know about Flora now if a cruel creature hadn’t spun his daughter into a ghost in her apartment alongside Mackenzie. Teddy wouldn’t know if they hadn’t guessed it. So many of the people closest to him had still never heard his daughter’s name spoken aloud and, sometimes, Emilio wasn’t sure they ever would. It was so much easier to bury it. 

And it was so much less than what she deserved.

Maybe his inability to speak his grief aloud was the final nail in a coffin he’d buried years ago. Maybe it was all the proof needed to label him as a shitty father. Wouldn’t a better one have kept her memory alive? He knew it extended beyond that, too. He was a shitty friend, because a good one would talk more. A good one would gently push Xó into opening up, into giving her grief a name so they could put it to rest properly. But Emilio didn’t know how to do that. He was responsible for so much death, but he never stuck around to bury the bodies. Even with his useless leg slowing him down, his first instinct was always to run. 

“Fuck that kind of magic,” he agreed. He’d never felt quite as useless as he had in that factory, with Siobhan twisting his words into chains to bind him with. He didn’t regret it, still; maybe he’d backed himself into a corner, but he’d saved his brother’s life and there was nothing that would ever allow him to see that as a bad thing, even with everything that came after. He was glad Rhett was safe now, even if he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see him again. He was glad he was alive, even if he probably wouldn’t pick up the phone if he called. He hated what had been done to him, hated the rock in his throat that strangled him any time he tried to speak of it, but he’d still do it again. His hands had been tied long before Siobhan bound them; he’d do everything in his power to make sure Xó’s never were.

He thought a better friend might have been concerned about the anger in her tone, but he couldn’t find it in him to feel it. Aside from the guilt, anger was Emilio’s go-to when it came to carrying his grief. His rage helped shoulder the burden, added a helping hand in lugging it around from one place to the next. He woke up, and he was angry, and that was better. He woke up, and he was angry, and that meant he wasn’t empty. He woke up, and he was angry, and he could use that. Grief would drown you, but anger would let you do something about it. And maybe that wasn’t healthy, maybe it was as dangerous as the bottle in his hand, but what more could he do? This was how he knew how to deal with things. He didn’t have any other resources to speak of.

So if Xó was angry, Emilio would be angry with her. He would marvel on the unfairness of a little girl who was loud and excitable dying on a playground in front of someone who would be changed forever because of it the same way he would rage at the tragedy of another little girl who was mischievous and funny dying in her living room when her father was too late to save her. The world was cruel and unfair and killed little girls while bad people got to grow old, and they couldn’t change it. They couldn’t stop it. They could only rage in the aftermath.

“I wish I had… answers,” he admitted. “I wish I could tell you why. But I don’t know. I don’t know why these things happen. I don’t know what we’re meant to do with any of it.” Why had those leprechauns killed Mackenzie? The most likely answer was the cruelest one: just because. It was stupid and senseless and it didn’t help anything. It wouldn’t ease the ache in her chest, because nothing would. Her friend was dead, and there wasn’t a good reason for it. There was never a good reason for it.

He swallowed as she spoke of Siobhan, and he wanted to say more. He wanted to say, she tortured my brother for days. She cut pieces off of him while he slept. He wanted to say, she made me feel smaller than anyone else has in a very long time. He wanted to say, sometimes she’s there in my nightmares. I can still see the blood on the floor. But that promise tightened its grip on his throat, and he said nothing at all. He managed a nod, told himself the way his throat tightened even at that was a thing that happened only in his head. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but it made him feel better to think so. 

Xó asked another question, and it was one Emilio was painfully familiar with. Why didn’t they kill me, too? He’d asked himself that a thousand times. He was pretty sure he’d voiced it aloud to Rhett once, in the delirious aftermath of the massacre when his leg ached and infection nearly finished the job those vampires had started. For him, it had been a plea. He said why didn’t they kill me and he meant I wanted them to. For Xó, he thought — he hoped — it was a more genuine inquiry, a more honest desire for answers. 

He still didn’t have any answers to give her, though. He shook his head, looking away with a small, pitiful shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he admitted, back to English because it felt easier, somehow. Admitting his own inadequacy felt less like a blow if he did it in a language he wasn’t comfortable in. Spanish was too intimate, too real. He wasn’t quite ready for that. “I’m sorry.”

—

She and Emilio were too much alike, sometimes. In a way that should have been endlessly comforting but instead felt like the shock of a too-cold shower. She’d never met someone as similar to her as he was. Far more familiar than either of her mothers, no matter how much she knew that she mirrored each of them in her own way. With Emilio, it felt deeply entwined, connected, on a near-impossible level but it couldn’t really be impossible, because here it was, existing and happening right in front of her eyes. Like with so many parts of her life, watching from the outside.

It was something to do with her trauma, or something, probably. Not even probably, but saying probably was easier than admitting just how messed up she was. How utterly broken, to the point that thinking about herself made her cringe with how clichéd this all was. It was confusing and terrifying and she had answers now and somehow that felt worse.

Answers were supposed to have given her peace. She’d looked for them ever since that day on the playground. Kicked and screamed her way to it sometimes, made herself read everything she could about Mackenzie – but there really hadn’t been much, and because someone had decided that her death was natural, no further investigation was needed. Per whatever the stupid fucking police in this town thought.

They were useless, that much Xóchitl knew. She hadn’t believed in anything but logic – and she still wasn’t sure how she was supposed to process the complete lack of logic that now drowned her – but even she hadn’t been as thick headed as all of them had been. If they’d been less that way, then maybe she would’ve had answers sooner. Sooner, before her grief had festered itself and found such a home that it would never leave.

Grief was parasitic, in a lot of ways. It was also something beautiful, sometimes, but it was one of those horrific sorts of beauties. If you looked at it too long, it could become ugly. She prided herself on her looks – and maybe that was vanity, but it was something all her own, and something that she could, at least on some level, control. She could control how she looked and she could take pride in that and unless she died, it would be with her. Even if she did die, her looks came with her, didn’t they? It was strange, the way that one latched on to the silliest of things in order to not want to think about everything else.

If it was better or worse than drinking, she didn’t know. Didn’t really care to know, because for all that Xóchitl very much prided herself on knowing herself very well – both physically and mentally. It made it just that much easier to deny what she was feeling. After all, if you knew yourself better than anybody else, then you could pick and choose which pieces of yourself made it out into the world.

She’d gone to Ireland out of love, and yet that very same love had turned around and stabbed her in the heart – using a stab in the back metaphor wasn’t even worth it because of how everything had played out in the end. Especially if Siobhan knew about leprechauns and knew what had killed Mackenzie. She had to have known, and Xóchitl could forgive her for not telling her about leprechauns before – that made sense, and she knew that she wouldn’t have been very receptive to it (hell, she still wasn’t, not really) – but to let the thing mock her and then to feel angrier about losing it than how deeply afraid Xóchitl had been. She should’ve offered some form of comfort. That was what friends did. Which meant that Siobhan wasn’t a real friend, which made her feel all the more sick, once again.

Xóchitl didn’t hide Mackenzie, not entirely at least. Still, Emilio was one of the first people she was so open with about her. The joint hallucination or whatever the hell that had been had been a real catalyst for telling Emilio just about everything. Emilio was the only other person who had seen what Mackenzie could’ve looked like, all grown up. The only other person other than herself, of course.

“Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.” She repeated, almost like a child who’d just discovered how nice swear words felt on her tongue. She balled her hand into a fist and shook her head violently for a few seconds before readjusting. In the fairytales she’d read because Mackenzie died, magic was often used for good. To send people like Cinderella to the ball, or – Xóchitl paused. It had been used for cruelty often, too. To send the other blonde to sleep, or to knock Snow White out. So maybe magic was more evil than she’d figured before. Not that she had done a lot of figuring, mostly due to the fact that she didn’t want to think that her best friend’s death had been anything other than natural… adjacent. 

Because she’d always known on some level, hadn’t she? 

Even if she didn’t have the words for it, or a way to conceptualize it, she’d always known. Mackenzie’s death had been supernatural. When the logical answers didn’t fit, then less logical ones had to be considered, and then impossible ones. This town – her birthplace but hardly her home – had taken her best friend from her in the most impossible of ways.

He didn’t chastise her anger, and she could’ve kissed him for it – platonically, but in a way that showed just how grateful she was. Something like a prayer. A prayer belonging to a church that she never went to. Because what was the point in praying to a God who let little girls die? Mackenzie should’ve been allowed to get older and Xóchitl should’ve had her in her life forever. Or at least until they naturally grew apart – though she liked to hope that nothing like that would’ve ever happened. 

So maybe there was one good thing about premature death. 

You didn’t have the chance of losing them later, and you could keep your best version of them close to your chest.

But that, too, was cruel.

So, in the end, there was no real way to win.

“Okay.” Emilio deserved more of a response than that.

“It– it’s a lot, but thank you. For trying. For being – both here and just in general.”

He switched back to English and the shift was momentarily jarring. “Do you think there’s a way to know that answer?” Xóchitl shook her head, waving off the question – making it clear that it was rhetorical. At least for now. She had some answers, but those answers had opened up a few dozen questions more, if not even more than that.

“You don’t have to say sorry.” She rolled her tongue over and around in her mouth. “You’re here. You – you’re here.”

Then, because she wanted him to know just how much she meant it, she switched back to Spanish for one last thing. “Thank you. You are my person.” With that, Xóchitl tucked herself against Emilio, resting her head on his shoulders. She didn’t think she’d sleep, but hearing his breathing, his heart, knowing how much he was here and alive, even though neither of them were really alive, did wonders. 

For now, that was enough.

[jujurose222]

“I can’t text him and do it, I have to tell him in person.”

Yeah so you can be manipulated back in.

“I can’t text them the truth, it’s not right. I have to talk to them.”

Where are y’all coming up with this?

It’s not about the action, it’s the intent.

Some people deserve more than a text, I totally understand and get that. But some people don’t. It’s not wrong of you to say one day, “it’s wrong to end something over text.” And then do it, when you know someone is just going to dig their claws in even more.

You keep having these “conversations” and then nothing changes and you still have this idea you owe them something.

You don’t owe anyone anything, even the ones you do owe something.

Sometimes it’s wrong to end a relationship, I mean like any not just love, over a text. But sometimes, it’s the only answer.

The only way I understand anything is through metaphor right? So when I make an action that seems wrong, it’s not the action itself I should feel guilty for. It’s the essence behind the action.

The action is a metaphor. The action is like a story to learn from. ITS JUST A TOOL FOR UNDERSTANDING.

Lots of the time, we know better, right? So when we make a choice contrary to that fact, we think it’s wrong. Everyone gets messed up, because they start blaming the action, getting upset over the action. But that’s not what is making you upset, it’s the essence of the action.

YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE SHITTY ACTIONS. But this is the ebb and flow of the universe.

When you have to text a gaslighter instead of breaking it off in person. Because you know in person, they will just add fuel to the fire, and the fire keeps burning even though you mean to put it out. In this way, that action is contrary to your nature. Because in essence, you want the fire out, but your action is saying “keep the fire burning.”

Sometimes you make a action even though you know it’s contrary to your nature, this is where things get rocky.

Some people deserve your respect.

FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD IT IS YOUR DUTY TO BE DISRESPECTFUL TO PEOPLE WHO DONT DESERVE YOUR RESPECT. YOU HAVE TO BE PEOPLES KARMA OKAY?

The more you try to treat a disrespectful person with respect because you don’t want to make a “shitty action,” the more shitty actions you’re gonna make.

ITS NOT ABOUT THE ACTION.

It is the essence of the situation.

If you are with someone who you know has a “bad” essence, and you keep making actions towards them as though they have a “good” essence, because you want to be good. This doesn’t work. This in totally denying their essence, just for the sake of your own.

You have to treat someone you know with a “bad” essence with “bad” actions. And then you can stop making any actions towards them at all.

Some people do not deserve respect, stop trying to justify treating them with respect. This is delusion in itself. This is where your shadow comes in handy, to save you from the “bad” essence.

You can’t fight fire with fire, but you also can’t let the fire burn you up. You have to get creative, and water them down, but that action probably won’t appear as “good.” But that doesn’t mean it’s not.

By treating a disrespectful person as they deserve, this makes a good essence.

By standing by and letting it happen when you know you have power in the situation, this is being a bystander. They always said the bystanders are the worst of all.

Just don’t let yourself be shit on consistently by bad people because you want to so desperately make “good” actions. ITS NOT ABOUT THE ACTION.

[dead-venge]

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vincent | he/him | 21

welcome to my blog. i’m a full-time psychology student interested in a few different areas of research.

this is just where i ramble/talk more about my ocs and headworlds. expand this post to read some basic information on the ocs i mainly post about + their universe. more detailed info about individual characters can be found on my toyhouse.

feel free to ask me questions in my inbox or send a comment!

haunted

The paranormal have always lurked the mortal realm, and have been extensively documented by humans since the dawn of time. Their presence, though uncomfortable, is accepted by many and denied by some. However, where exactly they originate from is unknown to many - if not all - mortals. I was raised as a Christian and have since left the church a long time ago, so the “origins” of the paranormal/demons tend to follow a more Christian backstory and or explanation. Certain words, i.e “Heaven” or “Hell” are nonexistent and have been replaced by other words in this story.

above: haunt's secondary form The Paranormal

Entities derive from demons themselves. Demons were once holy beings or angels, once cherished and loved by God. Typically, demons have committed a grave sin of some form and were then banished from the Ether to suffer and wander mindlessly on Earth, stripping them of their wings and holiness. Demons learned to feed and harvest off of human souls by means of emotional, mental, and physical torment to survive. It didn’t take long until Lucifer, one of the most powerful fallen angels, manifested a separate realm to hide his demons and entities away to keep them safe. Due to the nature of the realm existing between both the moral and Ether realm, this realm is known as The Inbetween. Often, Lucifer uses the fact that he “saved” and protected the other demons and entities against them. In Lucifer’s eyes, if it hadn’t been for him, then it’s likely they would still be aimlessly wandering and barely thriving.

When a demon has too much power through feeding, an entity will split from the demon and form itself - usually beginning as a shadow and working itself up with time. Demons do not view their entities as their children. Instead, they view them as extensions of themselves to get what they want. Each entity typically has a marking somewhere on their body that serves as a branding, each brand is unique to the demon they serve. For example, Haunt has an inverted crucifix on his back (not to be confused with an inverted cross/st. peter’s cross) that serves as his brand to Lucifer. Because demons have a higher risk of being hurt in some way, usually by means of sacred protections, demons send their entities to do their bidding. Under the watchful eye of Lucifer, the highest order of demons, entities serve under various demons to provide sustenance to their leader by means of haunting or harvesting lost souls. In turn, the leader (a demon) is able to grow stronger and thrive.

There are several higher ups that guide The Inbetween alongside Lucifer, many of which were once angels that were deemed sinful and stripped of their righteousness. Bloody Mary is typically viewed as Lucifer’s second hand, though she secretly may not agree with many of the things he does or believes in.

Classifications of the paranormal, such as poltergeists, phantoms, wraiths, etc. were formed by mortals based off of similar traits/powers and are not used by demons to distinguish their entities.

Entities can produce their own unique look. Haunt is a prime example of this ability. Not all entities possess this ability, or at least are not as strong in it as they are in other areas. Entities will appear as orbs or shadows until they develop a form. Young entities will often struggle with leashing their powers and may struggle with certain powers. However, as they age, they become more powerful and or are able to control their powers more.

above: haunt’s primary form

It’s very difficult for an entity to escape from their demon. Typically, demons can relocate their entity by their bind. However, if that bind is disrupted or destroyed, then it can become significantly difficult for the demon to determine where their entity is at. Entities can do so by entering sacred places, obscuring their being by manipulating their own energy, or having another powerful demon destroy the bind for them - which is highly unlikely. Haunt, for example, was able to successfully disrupt his bind with Lucifer by stealing a priest’s cross that had been previously blessed and fixing it to his suit as a brooch. Additionally, Haunt avoided highly populated areas. This would not be permanent, but it allowed him more time than others.

Unlike demons, many entities are unable to be harmed by holy items or areas because they are not innately evil or sinful, but rather under the guidance of something that is. Because of this, Haunt was not able to be hurt by the cross he carries, nor is he able to be harmed by things like holy water or other similar items. He keeps the cross fixed upside down because it’s a statement that Lucifer couldn’t touch him or find him for an extremely long time, almost in a mocking way.

destroying/killing an entity

Entities can be destroyed, or “killed.” However, demons tend to be more difficult to destroy completely. If a ghost is haunting a building and has no other place or object to latch onto and haunt, that building can be destroyed (usually by burning it) to rid it of the ghost. The same applies to people if that person the ghost is latching onto is killed. Entities are typically killed by demons only if they refuse to serve them. Mortals can also kill entities by previous methods mentioned.

[notumbusbumbus]



What Should Be Is Not

Notty Bumbo, 2023

We know there is no superman,

no cavalry, no Lone Ranger.

There is no Plan B,

the hero will not beat the train,

untie the heroine in time.

Still, delusions are difficult to shake.

In this reality, Earth bats last.

Every moment is filled to capacity,

crowned with uncountable branches,

casting shadows never frightened by the Sun.

We meet our fractured selves everywhere,

inhabiting impossible trajectories.

When you told me you were dying,

it was all I could do to maintain equilibrium.

I struggle to suppress an unfortunate tendency

To cast curses upon the head of Death,

demand it suffer the absurdity of non-existence

all other beings must endure.

I found being orphaned

a path covered with sharp stones.

I swallowed drunken poet’s tears,

devoid of irony.

We will not find rescue

through the eyes of false innocence.

We are too over-burdened by delusions

to learn what is necessary from our grief.

I go often to stand by the sea,

watch waves erupt with whales,

ocean and sky lost in conversation.

What does the horizon see

when it looks upon my silhouette,

focused on the thin line of each moment?

Do I actually exist in the visible spectrum?

Where is the river that purges our guilt

the waterfall that bathes our wounded spirits?

Whether or not the gods care

has long ceased to be a serious question:

such a long absence is the obvious answer.

This begs – but what will we do?

Continue awaiting illusory heroes?

Or embody the deity inside,

seek those better angels

we continue to deny?

What we want

is never what we get,

all those branching’s fill us

with us,

self still erupting into Universe.

As long as it may take to arrive.