#i WOULD have had several pulls for the abyss but i did it in between updates like a fucking moron

[uhzuku]

[strlingsav]

Drive: Six

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F! Reader

Explicit sexual content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

You blinked a few times, your attention grabbed by a knock at your door. You groaned, pulling your eyes from staring at the TV, to eyeing the door. Standing to your feet, you trudged to answer it.

Your slippers hit the ground as you neared the door, wrapping your blanket over your shoulders to draw in more warmth.

Pulling the door open, your eyes met with a familiar face- Simon. You sighed, reaching to slam the door when his foot stepped forward and caught it before it could close. You ignored it, making your way back to the couch where you sat down with a huff.

"You ain't been answerin' my calls," He said, moving forward to enter your apartment. "Thought I'd check in."

He idled, unlike him, and searched your apartment with awkward eyes- full of unspoken emotions and feelings that he'd been harbouring since your surgery. He lingered by the door, watching you curl up on your sofa in an attempt to drown him out.

"Thought I told you I don't need you here," You answered back, your eyes glued to the TV.

He sighed, slowly stepping toward the couch, where you'd practically lived for the last few months since being dismissed. You hadn't cooked a meal, done laundry- you'd hardly left the comfortable and inviting abyss for anything other than the bathroom and a shower.

"Yeah," He nodded. "Y'said that. I don't believe it."

You rolled your eyes, tucking your knees to your chest.

"If I wanted to hear from you, I'd have answered your calls." You met his gaze briefly, before shifting to stare at the screen.

"There was a time you were glad to hear from me. Glad to have me here."

"That was before you fucked up my career."

He paused, his brows furrowing. So much had changed between spending the night wrapped in his arms and now- hardly able to stand the sight of him. You'd found out about his insubordination not long after that night; in court, where you'd been honourably discharged following Price's report of the incident. It was only mercy on Price's behalf that you hadn't seen more severe consequences.

Simon, however, was too valuable. His experience, rank, knowledge- they couldn't let him go. Shepherd wouldn't allow it, and the task force would be scrambling without him. So instead, they let you go. Dissolved your contract and effectively made you a social pariah in the eyes of your teammates.

You never knew exactly what he'd confessed to. Was it the entirety of your relationship? The nearly year-long affair that you'd hidden from everyone, including your captain? Or did he only mention a few nights, a few mistakes?

"Savin' your life is fuckin' up your career?"

"I'd rather you have kept your mouth shut. I lost my job. I lost my dignity, the respect of my teammates. I don't even know what to do with myself now."

"You knew the risks goin' in, sweetheart. It ain't my fault you ain't happy with the consequences."

"Except it is- because if you'd done your job instead of worrying about me, I wouldn't be sitting here on this couch."

"You'd be dead," Simon said, finding your eyes. "You'd be fuckin' dead. You expect me to let you bleed out? You daft?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Simon."

"We ain't talked in weeks. You can hardly look at me. So I'll talk," He said. "You've got no bloody idea how it made me feel to hear your voice over my radio. I wasn't gonna let you die. Hate me all you like, sweetheart, but if I were to do it over again, I'd do the exact same fuckin thing."

Your eyes met his, inhaling harshly as you deliberated what to say next. You were angry; maybe not at him, maybe at Price, or yourself, or the panel of military officers that agreed to have you discharged. But you were angry. Frustrated.

You paused, finally free to think for a moment while you stared at him. God, did you miss him. You missed his brown eyes, crooked nose, and disheveled hair. The smell he exuded that left your stomach with butterflies and calmed your senses. Your eyes reached his lips, twitching with restlessness and frustration. You wanted to kiss him, wanted to feel something other than utter failure and humiliation.

You clenched your jaw- how long could you truly hold out? Stay away from him? It was completely obvious from the moment you woke up from surgery and saw him across the room. You loved him. But your heart, regardless of whether it was in the right place, couldn't stand the thought of holding him back. You needed to be cut off from the source.

"I know," You nodded. "I think that's the problem. We got too wrapped up- too focused on something that wasn't real, wasn't sustainable."

"Not real?" He grimaced, backing away. "Don't you fuckin' say that. We both know it was real."

You sighed, leaning back against the couch as you looked up to meet his gaze. Your stomach dropped.

"We liked it because it was wrong. Give yourself some time, you'll realize. You won't want me without the risk."

He glared, a deadly glare that made you feel scrutinized under his gaze.

"I don't know what kinda shit you been fed, but I still want you. Fuck- I want you. More now than ever, sweetheart."

He knelt down, letting his palm smooth over your cheek, his long fingers meeting the side of your head. He forced you to meet his gaze, those cold brown eyes poring into yours.

"I want you." He repeated, watching you inhale a sharp breath.

You wanted to cry, scream; anything to get him out of your vicinity, or else you'd cave. You'd give in to his sweet words and intoxicating voice. You'd give in to nostalgia and the warm feelings he flooded you with. But you wanted to be angry, wanted to stay angry so you didn't have to face exactly what you were feeling for him.

"Stop," You blurted, your hand wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to remove it. "Simon-"

He held strong, pulling the blanket off your body as he wedged himself between your thighs, pulling you closer. His nose brushed against your cheek, his warm breath tickling your ear.

"Don't-" You started, before he cut you off by pressing his lips to yours.

They were cold and unwelcoming, an effort to get you to be quiet, to stop talking before you said something that would end things indefinitely.

You squirmed in his grasp for a moment, before the nostalgia hit; the feel of his arms on your palms, a soft scruff formed on his face, his nose brushing against yours. His tongue slid inside your mouth, and butterflies erupted in your stomach.

You jolted forward, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he clung to your waist with his giant paw-like hands. He pulled you into his chest, turning his body to sit on the couch with you on his lap. Your hands grabbed at his face, whimpering as his hands drifted down to your ass.

"I missed you," He said between your lips, pulling your body closer to his.

He lifted your shirt off your torso, breathless gasps for air as you disconnected, before he removed his himself. Your eyes drifted to his impressively muscular abdomen, and the bulky shoulders and biceps that moved as he desperately pulled you into him.

You shivered, a low groan escaping your lips when he pressed his to your neck. His kisses were soft, savouring the texture and smell of your skin in case you decided to pull away. He reached around to relieve you of your bra, pulling it off you before his calloused hands glided up your sides and cupped your breasts.

Your hips moved forward, a motion of which you hoped would give some pleasure, especially as he showered your breasts with small bites and warm licks across your nipples. His hands dug into your flesh, frantically reaching for any part of you he could grab.

He lowered his hand to your waistband, sliding it beneath your panties to feel you again. His eyes shut, a heavy breath in as his fingers reached your clit. He missed the feel of you, how soft and silky every single part of you was. How inviting you were, how wet you got for him even when he'd hardly touched you.

"Fuckin' 'ell," He grumbled under his breath, while his other hand held you in place. "Y' feel so goddamn good."

You whimpered quietly, grinding your clit over his fingers, soft breaths fanning his face. You reached and pulled the waistband of your pants down, haphazardly removing your sweatpants before settling back down on his lap.

He swiftly lifted you, pinning you to the couch beneath him. Your hands flew to his chest, warm to the touch, and he paused briefly.

"Don't tell me to stop," He breathed, removing his belt with one hand as he pulled his jeans down his hips. His cock was pressed against your thigh, heavy, warm, teasing you with every subtle grind of his hips. "Please, sweetheart," He whispered, nose brushing against your cheek.

Your breath caught in your chest at his plea, goosebumps scattering your skin as he begged you not to stop, to allow him to please you.

"It's okay," You nodded, your arms sliding around his shoulders, pulling him against you. "I want you."

He groaned softly, aligning his cock with your pussy before slowly sinking in at an agonizing pace. Your back arched into him, your eyes meeting his as your jaw fell slack.

"Yes," You whispered, choked and strained. "Yes- please."

He buried his head in your neck, rounding his hips as he pushed his cock even deeper inside you. Your wetness allowed him to slide in with ease, and his choked breaths in your ear alerted you to the fact that he wouldn't last long.

"Missed you-missed bein' inside you," He mumbled, panting heavily beside you.

The confession made your heart clench- you knew Simon well. It took a lot for him to admit to missing you, even if it was said in passing while fucking you. He meant it.

Your eyes were watery; half pleasure and sadness, a bitter-sweet feeling that made you press your head against his shoulder, wrap your legs around his waist. You wanted to be close, you wanted comfort. You wanted things to be back the way they were, but a small part of you was almost grateful now. The other, larger, part knew that it was likely the end for the two of you. Your commitment had ended as soon as you were discharged, and you imagined Simon would move along to the next.

You knew he didn't want to hear that you loved him. He didn't want to know that even if he'd stuck his neck out and it lead to ending your career, you were thankful, grateful. He'd saved your life, you knew that, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to tell him how you felt. Because if you did, you'd be making him choose between his career and yourself. And he'd choose his career.

His hand cradled your head, his thumb finding your lip, pushing his finger between your teeth. His elbow was placed beside your head, rhythmic thrusts that were consistent, hitting the spot every time. Your eyes made contact with his, brows furrowed, mouth agape as he thrusted into you, finding pleasure in watching your lips wrap around his thumb.

He craned his neck, his lips pressing against your throat, and at the same time, as your fingers circled your clit in tandem with his thrusts, you tilted your head back. A moan, from deep in your chest, animalistic and genuine, escaped as your muscles tensed, your orgasm descending quickly.

"Fuck sake," He grunted, overwhelmed by the strength of your pussy constricting around his cock.

You shivered, your consciousness returning as your orgasm finished in short bursts. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, and shortly after that, Simon's thrusts became short and rough. His hips slamming against yours, until he released inside you with a groan.

You fell back with a sigh, watching Simon's face, cheeks flushed, brows dipped together. He hesitated for a moment, before lifting himself off of you, retreating to the other side of the couch.

You sat up, making eye contact with him. It was silent, only the noise of the TV to cover the heavy breathing between you. Admittedly, it was uncomfortabl. It was the first time you'd felt awkward around Simon, unsure what was next.

He reached out to grab your shirt, offering it to you. You blinked, taking it and pulling it over your head.

"Thanks," You whispered. "For everything. I should've said that, before."

"No thanks necessary," He shook his head.

You waited a beat, with watery eyes and a dizzy head. You were beyond confused; what started out as a simple affair had turned into deep feelings and complicated emotions. It overwhelmed you, to say the least, and before you began to cry, you cleared your throat.

You nodded. "You should head out," You said, a lump growing in your throat.

You wanted him to stay. You wanted to blurt out that you loved him- but you couldn't do that to him, couldn't force your feelings on him when he wasn't likely to stick around. You didn't want to be the one to take things a step further while he was halfway across the world. It wasn't fair.

He looked shocked- like it was the last thing he expected to hear from you. He'd thought it was smoothed over, that you knew what he wanted. But your eyes couldn't meet his, and his gut sank as he realized you were never going to feel the way he did. You wouldn't want him the way he wanted you.

He stood from the couch, yanking his shirt on.

"Goodnight," He muttered, stepping past you as he walked to the door. "Just know I meant it. Everythin' I said."

Your head turned to see him again, briefly catching a glimpse of his boot before the door slammed.

[uglypastels]

Not Wholly Evil |VI| pirate!Eddie au

Happy Fourth of July/(whatever day of the week it is) (depending on what you celebrate).

Series Masterlist

word count: 6.1k

"semi dark fic" - READ the warnings:. (gun/sword)violence. blood. mention of severe wounds. minor character death. allusions to suicide. kidnapping. imprisonment. alcohol. open and deep sea. pirates are pigs: mentions of non-con, but it does not actually occur. malnourishment and weight loss. paranoia. mention of poisoning. abuse. manhandling. lying.

Chapter 6: Shiver Me, Timbers

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Then I’d be alone, too."

― Leigh Bardugo, Siege and Storm

Despite the fact you had your new room waiting for you upstairs, once Munson left you, all you could force yourself to do was lie down. With deep breaths, you steadied your heartbeat and let a soft slumber fall over you. Just enough to regain some energy and hopefully for the pain to pass. 

You fell into a dreamless slumber, simply hovering in an abyss between worlds. It was plain and peaceful. Beautiful, to say the least. Away from all the nuisance and filth that was actually around you. None of the noise. 

Just a voice.

It called to you, and your name sounded so lovely coming from his lips. So lovely, in fact, that you awoke with the ghost of a smile still haunting your lips. You wiped it off together with the sleep from your eyes.

The sun still shined, but less brightly so. The shadows grew longer around you as evening came near. As you tried to move, you groaned out, everything feeling stiff and tortured, your side pinching where the skin was trying to heal slowly. The floor was certainly not the place to do so, but fortunately, you would only have to stay there a little longer. Slowly, not wanting to make any erratic moves, you made your way up again. But before you got too far up the steps, already knowing you were not planning on ever returning down there, you grabbed the long sheath of fabric you had used for curtains around your cell. 

The difference between the deck from before you had left it was like day and night. No longer was the crew huddled around in groups and yelling and cheering. Playtime was over. Now, all the deck crew were busy cleaning the floors pulling ropes or… well, you were not entirely sure what needed to be done, but they were doing it, and it seemed to be working smoothly. Certainly, they had enough on their plates to be bothered by you walking by… at least, too busy to stop and stare. You still caught a few pained glances. You weren’t sure if you preferred their pity over their anger, thirst or intimidation. It fell somewhere in between, presumably. 

On your way up to the quarter deck, you caught sight of Harrington, who was busy pulling at one of the larger ropes at the ship. His shirt sleeves were pulled up, so you could see the strain he put on his arms with each move. His veins were mixed with various scars. Everyone around the ship seemed to have them. Pain was not an option on the Hellfire. It was the price.  

Without having a moment to criticise your actions, you called out to him. As he looked up, shocked or somewhat confused, there was a second in which he lost control of the rope. It slipped past his hands and started to unravel. You were ready to run up and help somehow, but he managed to pull it back. The response from the men around him was nothing but unimpressed grunts. 

‘I am so sorry,’ you said as you walked up, bunching up the fabric in your arms as pieces fell to the ground. There was more you wanted to say, but you kept it to yourself. 

Harrington huffed out. He pulled more of the rope, letting it circle around his shoulder. He was not looking at you as he asked: ‘Are you okay?’ 

‘I think so.’ You looked down. Now shredded to pieces, the bottom of your shirt had soaked up most of the blood, and the red stain shone like a bright fire against the pale white. 

‘Good.’ He nodded once and did not say another thing. ‘I should get back—’ he nodded toward whatever he was trying to pull with the rope, despite never having stopped or looked away. 

 ‘Ah, of course, you stumbled, taking steps back. The message was clear. Why in the world had you approached him? Or tried to glance at him as you walked away? The sheets kept falling out of your arms, and it was a hassle to keep it all together. 

‘Do you—’ someone asked, but you quickly shut them up with a decline of whatever offer they were making. 

‘No, thank you!’ there was an attempt at civility. 

There was no fear this time as you walked up the stairs leading to the captain’s—nay, your—quarters. In fact, you were filled with confidence that you had not felt in a long time. One that even a stab, or a cut, in the ribs, could not break apart. With your hands full, you kicked the door open, perhaps a bit harder than anticipated. Across the room, a pair of eyes shot up to look at the commotion, but they disappeared just as quickly under the curtain of dark bangs. 

‘In case you forgot,’ you said, head held high, scrunching the sheet tighter, ‘this is my room now.’ 

‘The bed is all yours, princess.’ Munson refrained from looking up at you again, instead holding a sensible interest in the papers in his hand. But then he glanced up briefly. ‘Planning on redecorating already?’ He got back to his business.

‘Thought I might need it as another cover, in case the night got cold. Or a pillow.’ You moved towards the bed, still unmade from that morning when you left it. Your dress still hung at the bedpost. The captain nodded at your answer but did not resume the conversation any further.

You had not contemplated this and had very little ability to affect it. You might have won the bed chambers, but the captain’s office still needed use… and considering these were in the same space… 

Now, you had dared a lot in your time aboard this ship, including duelling the captain, but seeing how that had turned out, you were not willing to risk such games anymore. And so, you did not try to fight it but instead sat on the bed and stared ahead at the map that hung across from you. The only sound in the cabin was the quill scratching of the captain as he made notes over all his other notes on the topic of more notes. 

You did your best to make yourself comfortable on the bed, moving around, shifting your weight from side to side, and pushing the covers and pillows up to give you more support. It was quite noisy, but it had not been done intentionally. Despite what your amusement might have come from the agitated looks of the captain could say on the matter. 

‘Is this what you’re planning on doing with your day?’ He mumbled, still not looking at you. It was as if he didn’t dare catch your eye any longer, but that did not stop him from talking to you like before. 

‘I am simply trying to make myself comfortable,’ you said, fluffing a pillow, slapping it as hard as possible. Some of the feathers flew out with it. 

‘And must you do that while I am working?’ He put down some of the papers in frustration. 

‘Remind me,’ you leaned back, the fluffed pillow doing very little in favour of your back, ‘what is it exactly that a sea urchin like you does?’

The captain sighed and leaned back on his throne. It seemed smaller than the first time you saw it. Less… menacing. ‘Well, making sure that things are run tight on the ship so we don’t die at sea in a crash of fire and timber, for a start. Then, just on the side, I am trying to find the fastest route to bring the princess home. Sound like a good day’s job?’ He spat your nickname out, and hearing that anger made you feel sicker than ever you had heard it before. So, you didn’t reply to him but turned your head the other way, facing the disorganised shelves of books. With one astronomy volume missing, the rest still looked on the brink of falling apart. It was stomach-churning to look at, and the next two minutes you spent in silence were enough to make your mind up. 

You got up on your feet too fast, sending a rush of pain into your ribs and a dizzying sensation into your brain, but once that faded, you made your way over to the books and started picking them out, one by one. Each fell loudly on the ground. It took four of these deafening drops for Munson to get up and shout: ‘What are you doing?’ 

‘Redecorating,’ you made a quarter of a turn and looked as naively at him as possible. 

‘And you think the books will look better on the ground?’ He was already stepping away from his seat, half behind his desk and ready to leap to the books. 

‘No, but I do think they would look better organised.’ You pulled out a few more books, each falling on top of the previous. 

‘They—’ Munson stormed over to you, mumbling in curses about God and whatnot. ‘They are organised.’ He pulled the book you had just picked up out of your hand. Suddenly, there wasn’t an entire room between you, but only a few inches, and it all became a bit too real as his presence was always so quick to tower over you. ‘Meticulously so, may I add.’ He put the book back where it belonged. You took another look at the books, apprehensive of the statement.

‘Then, please, enlighten me on this system.’ From what you had observed, none of it made sense. Munson contemplated beginning what you could only assume was an excruciatingly long and painstakingly precise explanation of this system but stopped himself mid-first syllable: ‘I do not have time to entertain you. Stay away.’ He backed away. ‘And put those back as you found them...Please.’ It was a miracle he had learned that word. 

‘Fine,’ you spat out, only to then ask much more calmly, ‘can I at least read them?’ You doubted these books had fulfilled any of their purposes in a long time. Munson may indulge in the accessorisation of his bookshelf, but he did not seem to be much of a reader since there was nothing else to do on this blood-boiling ship… 

‘Yes, alright, if it keeps you quiet.’ He waved you away dismissively as he got back to the desk. You watched how he moved, hand rubbing over his jaw as he scratched at the stubble that was apparently becoming a common characteristic of his now. That was combined with the blood red of his knuckles as if he had hit something hard. You wondered where the damage was—clearly not in this room, as you could not see any broken furniture, walls, or shards of anything.

It hurt to bend over, so you manoeuvred to sit down and slowly put the books back in their designated spot. All you could do to ignore the lingering stare you were given from Munson was to try and organise the books in your head. Epic poetry could go on the top shelf, followed by the sciences. Map journals would go below that, and then… then the diary logs. Were those his? Highly unlikely he would leave his own writings out in the open like this and then let you read them. You picked one out at random. 

It was bound in black leather, nothing written on it, but inside, the pages were clearly used and covered in ink, ready to fall out as you opened it. You glanced at the first page. The scribbling was barely unintelligible. For one, the handwriting the original scrivener had put down was tiny and messy, but also because any other free space on the page was used with notes in a different hand. The annotations were made in different ink, though both were black naturally and the letters a bit more manageable. They mainly consisted of deciphering the words that had originally been written, and soon you were to find out that the handwriting was one of many obstacles in understanding the text. 

It was a code.

All of it, and someone had taken a painstaking amount of time to decode all the cryptic messages left. 

‘Who is this Captain James?’ You asked as you walked to the chair before the desk since the bed only felt okay for lying in. Munson did not look up as you made yourself comfortable before him.

‘Old Man Jim, captain of the Gold Tiger,‘ he sighed, only briefly glancing up to catch any sign of recognition on your face, which was lacking, and so he continued. ‘I’m surprised your father had not told you anything about him; he was quite renowned for his… expeditions. Stole from any family he came to contact with, then buried all his treasures somewhere before disappearing—not before writing it all down in here, however.’

‘He wrote down how to find the treasure?’ You raised a brow. 

‘Among other things.’ 

‘Why let me read it then? What if I figure this out?’

‘Two simple reasons, princess,’ he put his quill down and, crossing his arms, looked directly at you. ‘Whoever had decoded his messages in the first place was probably even cleverer than Jim, so it’s all just more riddles for you to figure out and second… it’s been decades since he wrote that journal. The treasure is long gone.’

‘What do you mean it’s gone?’ 

‘As in, taken. No longer there.’ He blinked. ‘Now, if you will excuse me.’ He reached for the apple that stood on top of a pile of parchments, but you were quicker. Munson stared blankly at you as you leaned back in your chair and bit it into it proudly. 

‘Did you, by any chance, hit your head during our match?’ He watched you flip more of the pages in the journal. The notes were, indeed, all written in another code. He briefly explained his question: ‘You seem… different.’

‘No, I suppose you simply rubbed off on me.’ Like a disease. You smiled. 

‘Well, then, I’m glad my company has favoured you in some way.’ He wrote something down with his quill as you glared at him and snapped the momentary silence with a bite of the apple. Then, he got up and pushed his throne back, scraping the wood horribly. ‘I’m sad to admit I can’t spend more time enduring your questions, but I’m required somewhere else.’

‘Coincidentally, I’ve been waiting for you to say that since I walked in.’ 

‘I’m very happy to see you still have your sense of humour.’ He got up. ‘But will you be keeping the shirt?’

‘I don’t have anything else to wear,’ you weren’t planning on putting the dress back on. After spending half a day in these trousers and shirt, you realised the torture of all the other layers. The weight of it all alone. 

‘Hadn’t stopped you before.’ Munson nodded over to the wardrobe.

‘You want me to take your clothes?’ You ate some more of the apple. 

‘I’m sure it’s more preferable than being covered in blood.’ 

‘It is not us troublesome as you’d imagine, actually,’ then you looked up at him again with realisation, ‘unless… are you bothered by it, captain?’

‘I’m alright.’

‘Great. Then that is settled.’ You leaned back in the chair and took another bite of the fruit. The sweetness of it was like a reward for everything you had to put up with. Munson clenched his jaw, but there was little else he could do, so he walked away just as he had announced. You ignored his walk towards the door and only moved once you heard the familiar door closing behind him. Not wanting to waste a moment, you got up, ignoring that stitch in your side again, and moved across the desk. It had been naive to think that when you looked down, you would find the drawer still open, but as luck would have it, it actually was. 

However, not all the luck was on your side because when you pulled the drawer open, you only saw the bottles inside—now counting one less than in the morning, but only bottles nonetheless. The piece of the letter was gone. You searched underneath the glass to ensure, even under the desk and its surroundings. 

Glancing up at the door every few moments and listening to what was happening outside, you carefully poked around at the things on the bureau. No, it was definitely gone. 

Munson must have moved it. You cursed at yourself. Then, did he also know you had seen it? You knew it was wrong to go through his belongings, but you did not feel any guilt. That had left you when you were thrown in that cell all those days ago.

And so, you kept looking, cursing him after going through every book on the shelf and not finding it, then through the nooks of the wardrobe as you picked out a new shirt to wear, throwing the old one on top of the captain’s throne. It was somewhat of a sensitive operation, this search. You tried to be inconspicuous about it and let it spread over the next few days, making sure you did not make too much of a mess as you went through the drawers and items lying around to not cause any suspicion. Most of the days, looking went by in the exact same way. 

You did not know if the captain went in on your deal and slept in the cell or elsewhere. It did not really matter, either, since all that was important was that you got to sleep in a bed. He could sleep with the sharks for all you cared. Either way, he seemed well-rested. When you would awake each morning, the captain was usually already at his desk, your breakfast at the table, and you would eat it as he worked. Trying not to take up too much of the other’s space, only interrupting it with minor remarks here and there that would make you simultaneously laugh and grind your teeth with annoyance. Sometimes, other crewmen would walk in to discuss various matters, ignoring you for the most part. You listened but barely weight in on the conversation, more so out of a lack of interest than anything. 

The contributors in these meetings would vary, depending on the issues to be discussed, but Harrington and Robin would frequently be a part of them, clearly having a larger role in the crew than you had anticipated. Robin would sometimes ask your opinion, much to the shock of the others and yourself.

You looked up from your book, wide-eyed and taken aback, pretending to not know what they were speaking of, as if you had not been listening intently to every word.

‘I would say, go West.’ Mostly you would agree with Robin's suggestion, just to see Munson scowl, think it through once more, and eventually settle on the same answer himself. 

Harrington would not even look your way. You had noticed him going out of his way to stand with his back towards you, eyes always on the captain. You could not even understand why it bothered you so much, seeing you had only spoken once before all this; you felt a gnawing feeling in your gut… or maybe it was only the wound at your ribs. 

In the ongoing days, you checked how it was healing, and it seemed fine. Magically, there was no infection, maybe thanks to the alcohol you had poured over it. Finally, it was barely visible beside a paling bruise around it and the scar— large but still thinner than the ones you saw carried around by others on board. Maybe one day you would even forget it was ever there.

In the hours when it was just you and him, it was mostly quiet. You’d both read, only a desk between you, barely paying attention to the other until one would leave the room. Usually, he would do so first, and you’d take the opportunity to search for that cursed letter.

Other times, you’d grow tired, or your legs would become stiff, and you’d go out onto the deck first, leaving the captain to work on his own. Then afterwards, you’d return to the cabin, and your dinner meal would be waiting for you on the desk, and you’d read until sleep took over. You’d wake up the following day, and everything would start over.

When you were outside, you would mostly keep to yourself, knowing that the last thing the crew would want to deal with is to talk to you, and in your case, you had very little to say to them. Really, the only person you spoke to was Buck—or Robin, as she also went by, you had noticed—whenever she was not in her nest. You’d find a little less crowded spot on the ship and talk about whatever came to mind, or at least that is what you wanted it to sound like, while you tried to find out more about her, the rest of the ship and the captain.

‘So, how long have you been apart of this crew?’ It was a warm afternoon, a typical summer’s day, but the clouds had been appearing more and more recently and had now taken centre stage in the sky. The wind picked up, too, as you sat down with Robin. You wanted your questions to sound off the cuff and not as if you had been noting them down in your mind at night. Unfortunately, Robin was not the easiest to get information out of… well, depending on what kind of information you sought since she tended to talk a lot but not say much with her words. 

‘I honestly don’t remember when it was; it must have been years, time moves weirdly when you’re out on the sea, but I was dragged into it when bloody King Steve—’ 

‘King Steve?’ you asked, not recognising the name. Over the few days, she had been mentioning most of the crew, and you had tried to learn them, but this was a new one. 

‘Oh, Harrington— we call him that because, uhm he was a royal guard.’ 

This piece of information shook you. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, met the king and all that— don’t know which king that was, but apparently, he doesn’t like toasted bread, the king, if you’d believe that. I mean, who does not like toasted bread? That feels like a bigger crime than whatever we have ever done—’ 

‘What have you done?’ You had quickly realised it was easier to try and keep up with what Robin had to say than revert her back to previous topics, and so, despite your longing for more information about Harrington’s life before Hellfire, you asked about the issue at hand.

‘What haven’t we done,’ she chuckled nervously, ‘but I probably shouldn’t be telling you about that. Don’t think cap would like you knowing.’

‘I am not bothered by what the captain likes or does not like.’

‘Yes, but…’ she struggled to find her words. ‘I mean, he told us—’ Robin faded out, her shoulders stiffened as a harsher wind blew. ‘Did that feel normal to you?’

‘I think so. But he told you what?’ You knew Munson ran a tight ship, but you had not thought he would ban his crew from talking to you about things. Did he have such significant secrets to go so far? 

‘Nothing. I didn’t say anything—did I say anything? You should probably ask— no, don’t ask Steve—I mean…’ Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she looked up, but you kept your eyes on her, unphased. 

‘I’ll go ask Harrington, then.’ You said, exasperated, as Robin stared out above you without the intention of coming back down. 

‘No, don’t! It will only–’ she got up after you, already reaching for your arm, but more thunder echoed with menace like a cannon. She looked around frantically, cursing, then turned back to you. ‘Is the captain upstairs?’

‘I—I think so.’ You couldn’t possibly know except that he had been there when you left, and you had not seen him around the deck since, either. Robin tightened her grip on your arm lightly, subconsciously, before letting go and running off, but not before saying: 

‘Just stay here, okay?’ without giving you any moment to respond. It had all happened so quickly that you stayed put for the sake of your own brain trying to catch up on what had happened. Everything that Robin had said, or rather had not said. More clouds appeared, darker than their usual counterparts that had followed your journey. The wind picked up as well. 

‘What happened to Buck?’ A not-so-familiar-anymore voice asked behind you. You turned to see Harrington, Steve, whatever his name was. His shoulder was already almost against yours. How you had not even heard him walk so closely up to you was a wonder. But since he was here already… Robin had told you to not move, so you remained where she left you.

‘She— I’m not sure; she heard thunder and ran off to speak to the captain.’ Exactly then, as if you had cued it, a lighting strike appeared, slashing through the sky like a knife. The thunder followed behind at its own pace. 

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ Harrington comforted, ‘she’s probably notifying him of the weather.’

‘Well, I doubt he missed that,’ you said, breathing in slowly, washing off the skip in your heart that came with the lightning.

‘Not an enjoyed of storms?’ Harrington observed.

‘More when I am not about to sail right into it.’ You had heard too many stories of ships going missing in waves, being washed away by the rain, or burned by the fire that came with lightning. It did not feel inviting. 

‘We’re not,’ Steve reassured you, ‘we will probably turn around, find somewhere to wait it out.’ And you would have believed him, certainly appreciated his efforts in comforting you, except you knew that Hellfire was nowhere near any safe piece of land or calm water. Not to mention, the wind was blowing you in the direction of those lightning strikes. Where else were you to go? But when the thunder boomed over you, it still felt reasonably far away. There was time, so you focused on issues much closer to you. Specifically, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

‘She told me something quite interesting, you know.’ You said, looking out ahead at where the clouds were the darkest. Yes, that must be miles away. 

‘Robin says a lot of interesting things.’ He had already distanced himself by several inches. 

‘Well, it was more what she had not said, or rather, could not say, that was so interesting.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’ Steve said, clearly nervous. That was visible enough by the way how he started to look around.

‘I got this feeling that there were, or rather, there are, things people are keeping from me, on behalf of the captain.’ 

‘We’re all simply following orders.’ Harrington sighed.

‘So what are you orders then?’ You looked him directly in the eyes. His were brown too, much like the captains, and yet entirely different. Colder, darker, and yet as inviting. 

‘I can’t—’ He took another step back, looking up at the quarter-deck as if he had been caught red-handed stealing. But there was no one there or paying attention to the two of you. Not when the clouds grew larger and darker and the air felt denser. That density only came with rain. ‘Look, he means the best for you.’

‘We both know that is a lie. He doesn’t care about me.’

‘He might not be able to show it—’ More lightning came over you. The thunder followed in mere seconds. It was getting closer and much faster than you had anticipated. Steve looked around at his fellow crew members, who all had the same panic-stricken lines on their faces, and suddenly everything around began to move much faster. ‘Go inside and… and stop whatever you’re doing. Before you get us all into trouble.’ His words didn’t fall heavy onto you. It wasn’t a threat. Because whatever the consequences would be, whatever Munson had promised for going against his orders, was not detrimental. He was not someone that was feared by his people. That much you knew.

Harrington grabbed your shoulder and pushed you towards the stairs of the quarter deck, but you resisted, demanding answers.

‘How do I get us in trouble, what am I doing–’

‘Stop talking, please.’ He was ready to pick you up to get you out of the open air. The first droplets began to fall on your face. They were cool to the touch, a surprisingly nice change from the hot and salty air that came with every day. As the rain fell, you stared deeply into his eyes, hoping it would break a wall in him, but it cracked something in you instead.

‘Did he tell you not to speak to me.’ 

Harrington said nothing, and in many ways, that was worth more than a million words. And while before he tried to get you upstairs, he now reached for you as you ran up to the cabin, but you were already gone. The rain grew harsher; you walked into the room, door slamming up against the wall, with your hair already glued to your face, which was heating up with anger. 

Munson and Robin looked up at you, frazzled. 

‘You,’ you raged, ‘had no rights to do that.’ More thunder clapped. The wind rushed by you through the open door. Robin walked up to the window to see the waves crashing against the back of the ship and the rain that poured down into it like a curtain of steel bullets.

‘Buck, go check on the rest; tell them our plan.’ Munson said, composed, ‘and close the door.’ The wind was picking up at all the loose pieces of paper around him. Robin nodded and swiftly made her way out of the room. For the first time, she said nothing to you as she passed, closing the door. Immediately, with the wind now blocked by the walls, it was painfully quiet. 

‘There is a lot I do not understand about you, much I do not need to understand, nor want to, but I demand you to explain why you banned your crew from speaking to me.’ Your face was damp from the rain, so who could tell if tears had become mixed between them. 

‘I did no such thing,’ he grabbed the loose pieces of paper that had flown away with the wind. He was moving in a rush. 

‘We both know that is not true.’ You both walked, meeting in the middle, nearly chest to chest.

‘I do not have time for this, princess.’

‘Well, make time then.’ You could not let this be over. You wanted answers.

‘Do you not see what is happening out there,’ with the last ounce of humour left in him, he pointed at the window, though through the heavy rainfall, barely anything was visible. 

Munson walked by your side, and when you went to follow him, not wanting to give up so soon, he turned around, his nose almost smashing into yours. ‘Stay here.’ He growled. 

‘No.’ You said back.

‘Stay, or I swear, to all things sacred and not, I will chain you to that bed.’ Between his words, he had found a grip on your wrist, and it tightened with each syllable. You blinked away the flinch of pain, and something about that made him back out. ‘Stay.’ His last word before leaving you was a whisper. It echoed in your mind. 

And so, you stayed, kicking at the door with a scream of frustration. Just when you thought that things weren’t as bad when you thought you had found a place for yourself around, a stone was turned, and the truth was revealed, and how much longer could you keep doing this? 

Tired and not wanting to fall to the ground, you sat on the bed. A thought occurred to you that you could go around and just destroy everything in your sight. Let the storm take the blame for the mess you would cause, whether it eventually would reach this room or not. You wanted to throw all those books off their shelves, tear his clothing to pieces, burn all those papers on his desk and rip everything off the walls— the maps, the tapestry, the notes— 

How long had that been there? 

You must have stared at that wall for hours in the past weeks, so why had you not noticed the dagger in the corner of the wall. It was struck deep into the wall, holding up several layers of paper, but the one most recently added, right on top of the pile… you recognised the scorch marks. 

Why did this letter stay on your mind for so long? Why did it make you search every inch of this room? You couldn’t quite explain it besides maybe seeing it as a kind of purpose. You had given yourself a goal to find it, and now, as you walked closer, you may have done it. 

It had been turned backwards, now only showing an old piece of paper, only adorned by water damage and blackened edges. The knife had been pushed deep into the wood behind it, and you had to pull it a few times before getting it out. Immediately, a stack of paper fell to the ground. You picked them up and put them on the desk but took one back to the bed. There, you searched through the sheet you had taken from the below deck, where you had, hopefully, kept the other note. The one you had found in one of the chests. The one that had kept you sane, giving you a spark of hope for humanity as it reminded you that somewhere in the world, love still existed.

Both papers were damaged, so the fit was imperfect, but the sentences aligned perfectly. 

My dearest, 

The nights have been cruel, but I spend them thinking of you, and suddenly, the dark sky does not feel so heartless anymore. 

I think of your eyes. The sea reminds me of them— it is a calming sight each morning, and I imagine you looking out of your window at the shore, and perhaps we look up at the same clouds, and it is like you are right by my side and the wind feels not as harsh suddenly. More like a kiss straight from your lips. 

Some days I hum the words of that song you sang to me. I know what you have said about my voice, and the kind words still warm my heart, but they will never compare to yours. I will never do the melody justice. Only you behold such talents. 

To be able to hold you once again, to hear your voice, is the only thing that keeps me strong. I count down the days until I can tell you all these things while you lay in my arms, and I can feel your heartbeat against my palms. But for now, this must make due, sweetest, and I can only hope that when I close my eyes, I will envision you.

The last thing I will say to you is that I still have that dream some nights, the one we spoke of before I left. That we sail away from everything and create our own piece of paradise. 

I hope you do too.

Forever yours, 

—

The letter's ending had been burned off, concealing its signature, but you did not need to read it. You knew precisely what had once stood there, and upon your realisation, you could not believe that it had taken you this long to see what was right in front of you all along. After all, you had stared at the same handwriting for days in this room. On the notes scribbled in a rush, the margins and annotations of the books, but most importantly, the map you fell asleep staring at, the large cross over your home. It was all one hand. 

In shock, you reread the letter, trying to understand what was written there. As you did so, somewhere aboard, fearful yells erupted as the waves grew higher and the wind became angrier, and the rain more painful. Everything felt askew as the ship lost its balance on the water.

Chapter 7

thank you so much for reading!! if you want more of where this came from, check out my masterlist.

and please support your (not so) local creators by liking AND reblogging. I would love to know what you thought of the story, so please consider leaving a comment, or maybe an ask or even an anonymous review ;P

you are also more than welcome to join the Eddie Munson taglist. right here.

taglist (part 1)

@nope-thanks @seventhlevelofhell @strangerfreak @hangmanscoming @blueberrylemontea-fanfic @vintagehellfire @raven-rust @eddiesguitarskills @taccobelle @imjusteddietrashatthispoint @lunar-corgimon

@dorianelizabeth @theletterhart @pastel-abyss-x @ghoulsgraveyard @lovesickollie @xbreezymeadowsx @meaganjm @mischiefmanagers @capybergara @brother-lauren @h0sh1verse @ghostlyreader @croweaterr @ladyapplejackdnd @bilesxbilinskixlahey @liltimmyst @hellfire-state-of-mind @escape-in-time-x @sweetpeapod @eddiemunsonbby @mydearzero @wroteclassicaly @celestialsxturn @hoe4eddiemunson @inanausomewhere @scoops-harrington @fluffyharrington

[highwaywhump]

remember this piece?

unnamed guard dog is still unnamed.

TW/CW: pet whump, (former and current) dehumanization/animalization, distraught whumpee, whumpee idealizes death mentions of scars and injuries, long term whump situation, tbh not much is happening here but two old men are having a moment ig

---

The flames weren’t real. 

They were the first thing the guard dog saw when he was pulled from the abyss. Orange LED lights scattering through lenses and refractors, creating the illusion of a pile of embers that would never go out. 

And still, he noticed he wasn’t particularly cold. It wasn’t slick linoleum or cold metal against his skin, it was… fur?

He blinked and looked around, trying to get his eyes to refocus. He was on his side on a cream fur rug, facing a fake fireplace with neverending little fake flames dancing along the edges of fake logs. He turned over, biting his teeth together as his shoulders protested the movement. He was getting too old to be laying on floors, even if they were covered by plush fur rugs. 

Then again, that wasn’t up to him. 

What had even happened to land him here? It was a living room with high windows stretching up and up and up towards even higher ceilings. An luxurious-looking leather sofa, complete with a matching pair of chairs, made up the seating arrangement. There were bookshelves along the walls, a huge blue-hued painting of foggy hills on another. Everything looked needlessly expensive. 

Who had put him here? Why?

He tried to sit up, only to groan and rub his face with his palms as a sharp pain shot through his head. He hadn’t just been sleeping, he figured. He was always groggy after naps, but never like this. Somebody must have … given him … something- 

The guard dog lurched forwards, doubling over on himself and gagging violently as the memories flooded back to him, filling all his senses. The cold examination table, the clammy blue gloved hands, the bright light, the syringe… He would have thrown up, had he had anything to eat the last seven days. His pulse was racing, his hands were shaking as he grabbed onto the fur of the rug, trying to ground himself. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck…

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

The voice pierced through the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Thought I lost you there for a second. Again.” 

The voice was more familiar to him than the ache in his bones, the taste of blood in his mouth, the tight skin of his scars. 

He didn’t have to turn around and face the source of the voice to know who it belonged to. More importantly, he didn’t want to turn around. He didn’t want to believe it could be real. 

That he was back with him again. 

It took him several long, grueling seconds to find his voice. He realized he hadn’t used it for weeks, and when it finally came out of his mouth, it was gravelly and rough, nearly impossible to shape into words. For a moment there was only bare sound, akin to that of a wounded predator. 

Then, finally, did the words come. 

“I… I was supposed to feel better.” 

The voice of the man he did not want to face, scoffed, caught off guard. “What?” 

The guard dog keeled over, his scarred, wide hands digging into the rug as he yelled into its plush fur. 

“I was supposed to feel better!” 

“I fucking hope you do!” the voice snapped harshly, and a pair of fine leather shoes trod across the dark hardwood, into the guard dog’s line of sight. 

“You better feel fucking great! They were going to kill you!” 

“Yes!” the guard dog moaned, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shuddered, the scars there dancing. “That was the point.” His voice took on a sore quality, like he was straining to control it, to keep it together. He didn’t look like the mighty guard dog he once was, hunched over on the plush rug, stifling his sobs. 

“That was the point, so why didn’t you let them.” 

The other man was silent for a beat. The guard dog could, between his fingers and through the tears fogging up his eyes, catch a glimpse of the black Oxfords he wore, perfectly shined as always. 

Derbies are for doormen and loafers are for geriatrics. If you forget everything else, remember that, pup. 

The man sighed and went down on one knee, steadying himself with a hand on the floor. He wore the same ring he always had. The red garnet shone in the fake firelight, reminding the guard dog of all the times that hand had struck him, the ring often slicing the skin of his cheek. 

 “Don’t tell me I should have let them murder you. I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was resigned, but nevertheless cold, not leaving it up for discussion. Some years ago, that voice would have been enough for the guard dog to forget even the mere thought of disobedience. 

“Why did you bring me back here? Why-” The guard dog hunched in on himself, caught in a coughing fit brought on by the sudden and harsh use of his gravelly voice. He wouldn’t be surprised if he coughed up blood on the fine fur rug. 

The man, now behind his back, did not react to the sharp onslaught. He remained silent until the guard dog’s wide shoulders had stopped their rhythmic contractions. His voice was still unwavering. “I am only reclaiming what is mine.”

“Yours?” The guard dog barked out, then groaned as his sore lungs protested. “You sold me! You didn’t want me anymore. You sent me away to the first caller!” 

“I sold you only because I had no other choice. You do not understand these things. You never did.”

The man reached out as he said this, hand folded, and slid his knuckles down the column of the guard dog’s neck. 

His touch was like an electric shock, his warm and gentle hand such a contrast to the guard dog’s cold surroundings that he flinched like he had been hit, his spine jerking away on its own accord. The skin contact was enough to wrench another violent sob from his body. 

“And I let Louie take you only because I couldn’t bear the thought of having to see you go any further. It was better to do it quickly. It wouldn’t have been healthy for either of us to wait around for the right person.” 

“There was nothing healthy about him!” groaned the guard dog. “He put me in the fights! I made his fortune when I knocked out Bruiser! And six months later he sold me on again, and after that….” His voice broke. His anger seemed to have dissipated now, replaced by violent sobs that caused his whole body to heave and lurch in between his words. 

“Oh, pup. What did they do to you…” The man’s fingers ghosted across his spine, following one particularly nasty scar, too jagged to come from a blade. “I never should have let you go, should I.” 

“I wish you never got me back.” Despite the words, the guard dog’s voice was not resentful, only fatigued and spent. 

“Don’t you like me anymore? You used to love me.” 

He was quiet for a while. The man wondered idly if he had passed out, but did not check.  

“It wasn’t love,” came the rough voice eventually. “It wasn’t about that.” 

“Then what was it about?” 

“Loyalty.” The answer came before he could even think of it. Loyalty was the fundament for everything he was, everything he would ever be. Everything he had ever done. “I will always be loyal to you. No matter what you do to me.” He recalled the very last beating they had shared, the evening before his new owner had retrieved him and brought him to the fighting rings. 

It was quiet for a while.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I will always be loyal to you, too,” the man said eventually. 

He looked up, suddenly face to face with the man he had been made for, all those years ago. Now older, rougher, gray around the edges, but still the same brown eyes, framed by the same perpetually upturned eyelids. The guard dog’s own eyes were bloodshot, tear tracks creating shiny trails down his cheeks. They were only a few inches apart, the man having knelt down to his level. 

It wasn’t the first time they had been this close, but the guard dog watched him with fresh eyes this time. Nigh on two decades of life away from his master had forever changed the curious atmospheric aura they once used to share. 

“You’re right. I will never believe you again.” 

The familiar brown gaze studied him for a second, jumping down and back up, roaming the litany of scars and blemishes on his skin, several stretching into his hairline. His lips made a peculiar twitch before he suddenly sat back up and got to his feet, limber and flexible despite his age. 

“In any case, you’re getting a hosedown before dinner. You smell like shit.”

---

tags:

@maracujatangerine (were there more of you? lmk, also lmk if you don't want me to tag you)

[multi-fandom-lunatic]

Let's Talk - Payneland (Dead Boy Detectives) Oneshot

"You never really got the chance to talk about what happened with Monty, did you, mate?" Charles said, clear voice crisp in the air. The wind whipped around them, but Charles's voice was an easy standout, like a ray of sunshine in a bottomless abyss. And maybe that's what he was.

"There isn't much to talk about," Edwin's voice cut through. He kicked his feet against the ground, pushing himself backward to gain momentum to push forward the swing. As usual, Edwin donned a freshly ironed suit, the gray blending in with the dissolution of the Tall Forest. Charles on the other hand, sported a black polo with a date-brown denim jacket. Even being from the 1980s, Charles always had a way with modern clothes that made him look fabulous.

And not to say that Edwin was crushing on him. Well, not that hard, anyway. The words had left Charles's mouth themselves, and Edwin, ever his best mate, was inclined to agree.

It was strange, how the forest looked now. Dandelions nestled themselves between the dilatant roots of trees longstanding. Trees that were likely older than Edwin himself. Draping over the forest was a thick fog, so much so that it embraced the peaks of the trees to oblivion. It didn't smell like smog, which was a scent that Edwin was all too familiar with. Port Townsend was an average town with average people and average jobs. Sure, the occasional murder scared the living, but it was peaceful now that that witch was gone. It had been a while since Edwin had such peace.

"What's there to speak of?" Edwin straightened his suit. "Monty and perhaps myself as well had feelings for each other. He kissed me and I did not reciprocate. He was a crow who worked for a witch who wanted to pulverise me for her power. Is that not enough?"

Charles turned his head away, blowing out a breath that crystallised in the air. Winter was upon the small town, and it was evidenced by the surge in coats and scarves. Charles sighed. "Mate, believe it or not, that's now what talking about it is. That's just acknowledging it."

"Alright, then, Charles. What would talking about it look like?" Edwin asked.

"Well, how do you feel about everything that happened?"

"What's there to feel, it just-" Edwin was cut off by Charles's dramatic slap on his forehead.

"If you begin a sentence with that, I will not hesitate to push you off the next bridge I see." Charles hissed. "No, I mean, what do you feel, not what you think you should feel."

Edwin blinked. That was new. Charles had not asked that question in the several years they'd run the agency together. At least, he wasn't so specific. But, to be candid, he did have possibly one of his most traumatic experiences exemplified to feed a witch.

"About that witch? I feel no remorse for her fate. Lilith collected her soul and she is gone. Whether she remains immortal and whithers to bone, or if she is sentenced to the prison that is hell, I care not. I feel anger for her, using me so easily without a second thought." Edwin felt his voice quiver at the last statement. Esther really had messed him up, hadn't she? He continued. "And about Monty... that is far more confusing. I don't even know what I felt for him. I do know, however, that it did not go past simple infatuation. I do not believe I would ever pursue any relationship with Monty. But he surely did help me understand myself better."

Edwin sent Charles an unnoticed sideways glance. He was too busy, pulling on and fiddling with his hands, and a thin ring he wore on his middle finger.

"Well, I've also been figuring things out, mate." He said, and the cogs in his mind spun like they were freshly oiled. He cursed under his breath, scolding himself for daring to hope.

"Really Charles? What has been ailing you?" Edwin said, his cool attitude a false one.

"Mate, I made a mistake." Charles shook his head. "I was confused and in a strange position and I didn't understand myself enough to understand the other person."

Edwin's breath hitched. He was hinting at what happened in hell, wasn't he? But hope was a horrible thing disguised as a soothing one. And because of this, Edwin ignored any signs.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure that the other person would understand, Charles."

Charles ran his hands through his hair. "Mate, I can't with this anymore. Please, just pick up on one of my signs."

"What signs?"

He let out a high-pitched chuckle. "Mate, I like you. I like-like you, whatever people say. Ever since what I said earlier... I've regretted it. I didn't understand myself. But I understand that it's you."

Edwin couldn't breathe. Firstly, because he was a ghost. Secondly, because Charles Rowland liked him back, and yes, he was familiar with the terms Charles used. He may have read some of Niko's manga. Curiosity ate at him.

Edwin turned to look at Charles, and he looked... exactly the same as usual, but something had changed in the air between them. Charles stared at him with piercing eyes, but they never felt sharp.

"What now?" Charles said. "Are we... dating? Boyfriends?"

"I would very much like that," Edwin murmured, surprised at his own confidence. Charles laughed and slipped his hands into Edwins.

"Sounds brills, mate."

----

Yup that's my attempt at a Payneland oneshot and honestly I'm not proud of it but here it is anyway.

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

The Magnus Archives/ What We Do In the Shadows (Crossover)

gaslight gatekeep girlboss by thepolysyndetonaddictsupportgroup

"Look, believe it or not, I had no intention of killing the Vampiric Council when I came here,” declares Nadja, sitting alone on the couch. “But Guillermo and I arrived at the first council meeting and did the whole, you know, the whole thing, the first day thing. Introductions and all that, yes hello wonderful to meet you, yes this is my bodyguard, yes he has slaughtered a tremendous number of our kind”--she flaps her hand absently--“normal first day things, you know? It was fine.” She pauses. “It got really fucking weird on the second day."

Or: Nadja and Guillermo seize control of vampiric politics, puppeteer world powers, and have the hottest of hot girl summers.

Unfortunately, they also really miss the stupid assholes they're in love with. With no way left to find them, they have no choice but to consult an Archivist.

DC/Danny Phantom Crossover

Teenage Hero Burnout #56: Interview With A Ghost. by STOVE

Red Robin, (aka Tim Drake) decides to host a YouTube series called "Teenage Hero Burnout'' after he makes a video by the same name talking about his own experiences. He interviews current and past heroes who started their careers as teens and discuss how it shaped their outlook on heroing & life in general.

(This fic is a one-shot. Teenage Hero Burnout is a hypothetical series that I will not be writing, but others are welcome to write their own episodes.)

All For the Game

One More Time (With Feeling) by elesary

Andrew Minyard went to sleep next to Neil Josten in their bed in Denver six years after graduation. He woke up on plane to Tucson between Wymack and Kevin, on their way to recruit Neil Josten, striker sub.

boyfriend privileges by mostly_maudlin

Andrew knows he treats Neil different. So why is it so bothersome that everyone else seems to know it, too?

Five times Neil gets boyfriend privileges, and one time it doesn't piss Andrew off.

SVSSS

The Peace Between Divine Pec- ah-hm sorry - uh…Peaks by AceOfDivineChlorophyll

Well, being kidnapped and tied up had to be the worst part of Shen Qingqiu's day right? Surely it couldn't get worse even if he was being presented to some new and upcoming demonic warlord as tribute after all it would all be mote when Luo Binghe escaped the Endless Abyss right? Well... unless the demonic warlord in question WAS Luo Binghe.

Thankfully... it might not end up going at all how he, or the demons, thought it was going to.

invasive blindfold removal surgery by postcardorigami

Part 1 of side effects may include indefinite photosensitivity

Oh, he thought absently, dizzily. Oh. I love him. I really, really love him.

That wasn’t a new thought—Shen Qingqiu had always known that he loved Luo Binghe. Thinking otherwise wasn’t a concept that had occurred to him. He’d loved him as a fictional character, as a sticky and eager-to-please disciple, as a troubled young man. He loved Luo Binghe the same way he loved the world around him: easily, wordlessly, endlessly, and in full acceptance of all faults and flaws.

But this- this felt like-

I think, Shen Qingqiu thought, for the first time in this life or the one he’d left, I think I’m in love with him.

And- and then-

I want to tell him where I come from.

or Shen Qingqiu, in order: hits the ground, pulls himself back up, and comes out. About several things.

Dreaming of Gardens in the Desert Sand by TGP

Huan Hua Palace master Luo Binghe never thought there'd be any reason to worry about the master that threw him away all those years ago. Surely, he was safe and cared for by the martial siblings he'd so thoroughly enamored.

Luo Binghe was wrong.

(Or, the one where the Jinlan City event doesn't happen and Luo Binghe's plan to slowly show he can be a righteous cultivator actually goes as he expected, with consequences he did not)

starry-eyed by shoutowo

"Shi-Shizun,” Luo Binghe says, going cross-eyed in an effort to see what Shen Qingqiu just placed on his forehead. “What is this?”

“A star,” Shen Qingqiu explains, while not explaining at all.

or, Shen Qingqiu has a sticker sheet.

Clone Wars

(you were) meant to save them by cjwritesfanficnow

The building was only five stories. With the gravity on Melida/Daan, it should’ve been over in seconds... but he—

just—

kept—

falling—

And then there was nothing around him, but he was still falling, down down down, infinitely, through space, stretched thin, twisted and pulled and the Force curled so tightly around him that he couldn’t tell where he ended and it began, and then—

And then he was falling straight out of a clear sky and down down down—

Onto another battlefield.

-

In which Obi-Wan is abruptly transported from the civil war on Melida/Daan to the Clone Wars.

(Alternately, in which I noticed how few clones there are in all my other fics, and this wouldn't leave me alone.)

Tactical Engagements by elwenyere

Even before he managed to open his eyes, Obi-Wan felt the tug against the base of his neck, the snarled thread of energy that only ever meant one thing: something had gone very, very wrong.

-----

Or, Cody, Obi-Wan, and the 212th are sent to Ringo Vinda with Anakin and the 501st, and it changes the field of engagement.

[littlelostmabari]

Day 11: Harrowing

Based on a dialogue Dorian has with Vivienne in Here Lies the Abyss.

"The first time I entered the Fade, it looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks. I met a marvelous desire demon, as I recall. We chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me."

WC: 1.7k, CW: Homophobia, References to blood magic, slavery

The lyrium was icy when his fingers first touched it. He had expected the cold, but not the caresses of movement under his fingertips. His father had told him what would happen, what would be expected of him, and so the creeping blue tendril that wrapped slowly around his middle finger and then his wrist, his forearm and his elbow, then up the other side and around his neck until his vision was only that of lyrium and blue didn't startle him.

He had trained for this. He was stronger than this.

He felt his body lift, his toes scraping gently against the stone under his feet. His hands lifted from the basin but the tendril kept contact. It held him aloft.

Suddenly his vision was not blue but gold, not the harsh green stone of the fade, but plush pillows and soft silks that draped over windows filled to the brim with the sunlight of his mother's family home to the south. His feet, now bare, brushed against carpet that felt almost of the grass he loved to run in as a child, and his lungs filled with air that tasted of sweet smoke and his great-aunts perfume — all the sensations that were meant to make him feel at home, at ease.

He wandered the hallways of the home-that-was-not-a-home for several minutes, wandering fingertips across the artistic golden inlays that turned walls into murals. The metallic tapestries depicted the life of a Tevinter mage, from birth through Harrowing, through lessons at the Circle, and ascension in the ranks to the most powerful of all in the Magisterium. This mage, bearing sharp features and a decorative staff, wore the crown of the Archon and gestured above the heads of all those whose gaze turned to him.

Leader of the Tevinter Imperium.

He lingered there, tracing the lines of a face belonging to a man in the crowd he could almost recognize, before the scent of smoke and food tore his attention away. He didn't need to wander much longer, for the hallway ended abruptly in a sun room which hosted the softest pillows and silks, the brightest gold, the most delicious smells. In the center, sprawled across a lounge, was a young man with dark hair and bright eyes. He wore the garments of a Minrathous mage, but they sat on his frame at odd angles, as if they were thrown on lazily.

"Welcome, Dorian," the young man drawled, gesturing to a chaise on the other side of a low table filled with fruits and several open bottles of wine. He swirled his own glass of wine as Dorian did as he bid, sitting back into the cushions of the lounge and pulling his legs up to similarly laze. Dorian did his best to hide his cautiousness, but the other man simply smiled and tossed him a collection of deep purple grapes from a platter on the table. "We are in the Fade, my dear, there is nothing you can hide from me here. I am Ambition." He sat up a little straighter, letting the Circle robes fall open just enough for Dorian to see the collection of chest hair that covered tanned skin.

"Desire, then," Dorian chuckled, popping a grape into his mouth. "I have everything I want in that department, thank you." His courage faltered in proportion to the growing smirk on the demon's face.

"Oh, this I know, mageling," Ambition laughed softly, raising another bundle of grapes above his mouth to bite on a low-hanging one. He took his time chewing, rolling another fruit in between his fingers as he seemed to ponder his next words. "You hardly give us enough credit, you mortals. I have watched you for longer than even your father knows. Wards are wonderful little shields against my pitiful brethren, but far too many seek the intent of an intruder instead of their nature. Were I to wish you harm, I would not have been able to watch your journeys through this domain as you slept."

Dorian's chin ducked of its own volition, subconsciously protecting the tender flesh of his neck. He couldn't hide that, but he could hide the clench of his fist around his lose robes with a reach instead for the nearest goblet of wine.

"Why try to attack you while you grew into your power, when I knew you would eventually come to me? You are an ambitious one, after all."

The demon wasn't wrong — the Pavus line had been distilled into it's essence, the very creation of Dorian's personhood meant for greatness. Even as he ran through the grass and played in the sunshine of his mother's summer home, he trained his magic to help him run faster, jump higher, see more. As he sat on pillowed lounges with his great-aunt and inhaled her perfume, he was learning the names and secrets of their enemies at her knee. This Harrowing was a box to check on his journey. He was meant to defeat this demon and return to take his rightful place at his father's side.

"But your father doesn't know what you plan, does he, little mageling? Even now, in the moment of his son's greatest trial to date, he murmurs messages through sending stones to her father about your nuptials." Ambition stood from the lounge and sauntered slowly toward Dorian, raking his fingers through his own hair and letting the robes fall from one shoulder. "He expects his son to sit still and quiet, marry the mage, have little. Pavus. Babies." With each punctuated word, he mimed touching Dorian on the nose with the most infantilizing smile on his face.

"It won't happen," Dorian laughed with more confidence than he felt. "Even in these sorts of arranged marriages, a man who has no interest in his wife is worth less than a quastor. I'm not worth marrying." Ambition let out one exasperated laugh.

"You, no, you're not worth marrying." Dorian let his lip curl up just slightly into a snarl. "But he's not planning to marry you off. He's planning to marry someone who looks an awful lot like you."

The scenery changed slowly, golds and silks bleeding into the reds and browns of his fathers enchanting room. The basin of lyrium held Dorian's body aloft, even as his fade-mind looked on. Halward Pavus stood several feet behind his son, waiting and watching, and speaking into a stone curled into his right fist.

Then the scene swirled again, the same enchanting room. The lyrium basin had been replaced with a ritual circle, one whose runes were carved deep into the stone. Dorian knew this type of ritual, knew what those carvings were meant for. Shackles lined the walls, prepared for the offerings to be placed in accordance with the rituals needs. Howard was present again, in house robes, both hands pressed into the table to the side as he examined the tome open in front of him. Dorian looked over his shoulder to see an etching of the same ritual circle that adorned the floor, and runes that were unfamiliar but spoke of something transformative, something soul-changing.

"I thought you were supposed to show me my own desires," Dorian chuckled, hiding his shaking hands behind his back as he turned back to Ambition and the chaise lounges and gold silks that had appeared again. The sunshine now seemed artificial, as if the demon who had created it was unfamiliar with it's warmth and radiance.

"I reflect the desires of many men. Including your father." Dorian clenched his teeth as Ambition continued. "But I can help you avoid that fate, you know. I can help you rise to your rightful place without giving up who you are." He gestured over Dorian's shoulder, who turned to find the nearest wall had now been replaced with the golden inlayed mural of the life of the Tevinter mage, turned magister, turned Archon. The face of the mage on the wall had changed, morphing into features that were distinctly his own — his mustache, the scar on his forehead, his coiffed hair. He saw himself in this Harrowing, then taking his father's place in the Magisterium, and then with the crown gesturing over the heads of the other Magisters, all of whom had taken the likeness of his father. Dorian traced the gold with his fingertips again, and the sounds of the Circle and the city filled his ears.

"Archon Pavus!" a youngling called. "Look, I mastered what you taught me!"

"Archon Pavus, your theory on liminal transportation was correct. We should bring on Magister Alexius to finish what you started."

"Archon Pavus, it seems the fight with the Qunari has come to an end. Their representative is here to discuss their surrender."

"Archon Pavus, your husband wishes to speak with you. Shall I send him in?"

Soft hands wrapped under his arms and around to his chest, and the hard planes of another body pressed against his back. A chin rested in the crook of his neck, and lips approached his ear softly enough to touch with a whisper as the words were spoken.

"You deserve a life that is your own, Dorian. We can make it happen. Together."

---

Halward gasped as his son was finally released from the bindings of the Fade, the lyrium dropping from his body and pulling back into the basin. Dorian caught himself as he fell, landing instead on a knee and a fist. His robes were soaked in lyrium and sweat, but he was alive.

"My son?"

"I live, father."

"And of the Fade?" Dorian felt his father's hand rest on his shoulder, and he nearly threw it off… before remembering that the demon's visions were almost certainly a lie.

"Pride," he lied, rising to both feet and taking the hand towel a slave offered him. He brushed it across his face and wrung out his hair, before turning to his father with the most genuine grin he could manage. "Sorry it took so long, it sent others ahead of it to slow me down. Shame it underestimated a Pavus."

His father clapped him on the shoulder once.

"One should never underestimate a Pavus."

[insanewaykathy]

Okay, I'm going to raise a controversial opinion here, and you don't have to agree with me. This episode in the photo, which I watched today (S4 E17) brought me some thoughts about Seven. She causes a mess that leads to the death of an innocent man. This mess came from false memories… we also have a similar mess in the episode The Conspiracy of Voyager, where she pits Janeway and Chakotay against each other because of confusions in her mind. This is not her fault, but what I think is: to what extent was it right to try to recover a Borg and make her human again? Did Janeway make a mistake? Seven resisted as much as she could and caused several problems with the Borg technology in her body. It is true that she was also of great help many times… but I wonder: was this what she wanted? There is a moral dilemma here… did she really have a choice? Or was she forced to be human? Didn't this humanity only bring pain? When I watched Voyager for the first time, just 4 months ago, I was willing to welcome the character Seven of Nine with an open heart. Initially I didn't have much of an opinion about her, but over time I began to realize that she was a peculiar and interesting character. I never came close to putting her among my favorites, but I liked her, I found her funny at times and I sympathized with her suffering. Until… watching Voyager again I realized two things: Seven has been through a lot and needed therapy, her experience as a Borg has turned her into a person with so many nuances that it would be difficult to live with her, I wonder to what extent she was human. It's neither romantic nor pretty to see a person acting like a robot, without feelings, cold, who practically doesn't eat and sleeps standing up. Am I saying that this is her fault? No. But I am saying that it is difficult to live with someone like her, and people who were willing to do so would have to be very open to the problems that a relationship with Seven would bring. Another thing I realized is… we all have a character, right? It doesn't matter how that character was shaped, but we have it. Seven had to develop her character over time after regaining her humanity. The Borg are cold and calculating, we know that, but looking at the behavioral differences between her and Icheb, for example, we notice that Seven has some human peculiarities, such as a tendency to anger, envy and revolt. And these are character traits. Yes, she also has positive characteristics, don't get me wrong, I'm not portraying her as a monster. But I just think that these negative human tendencies can make her a human being who is not as pleasant to be around as most people try to paint her. The conclusion I draw from all this is that we can't always save people, sometimes it's their choice. It's better not to try to pull someone out of the abyss if you can't keep them out, or if they don't want to get out.

[tiredphilosophist]

my roman empire

⟡ my roman empire is zhongli and childe.

i would like to think it's not all about mora for zhongli. he's a lonely, old man who has lived for several millennia, losing his one love many years ago to the vicious grasp of a war. he yearns to fall softly into the palms of mortal ethos; he wants to love again, reminisce again. he wants to experience the beautiful thing it is to live and to die. ⟡ then, ajax surprisingly and suddenly comes into his life. characterised by a cocky and silly attitude, childe's wit and charm pulls zhongli's attention in a whirlwind of unexpected feelings. he suddenly finds himself indulged within this little bundle of mischief and life- and god, it makes him feel alive. he relishes within childe's irresistible bright spirits and insatiable courage and grit. it was like bathing in sunlight after an age of dull, quiet times. ⋆｡𖦹° tartaglia, on the other hand; you'd assume he gets a little annoyed at zhongli's horrible spending habits and tantalising stories, whipping out his wallet every time they went shopping together at the markets. although, his countless tales and overflowing knowledge amused him greatly. (and seeing zhongli's eyes light up at the smallest of trinkets, from an average cor lapis to a new feather pen; it made it all worth it.) ⟡ in all honesty though, childe really did enjoy it. he loved to sit with his cheek in his palm, listening to zhongli ramble on about countless old legends and memories, the history of his nation, his poetic craft of stringing liyue's history into a painting within one's head... the food growing cold upon the table- but oh, who cares? zhongli looked so peaceful and happy whenever he talked about the past, his eyes glazed over in this pretty reminiscence- even if his dinner had barely been touched. besides, it's not like childe couldn't afford to purchase all the hot meals in the world to keep the time passing... ⟡ with his brutal past behind him, zhongli felt that childe's cocky personality was just a front. when they were alone, he would notice childe gazing longingly at the flowered fields and toppled mountains of liyue, its bubbling brooks and ponds, dappled within spots of hazy, afternoon light. "this peacefulness," he would say quietly to zhongli, who would walk beside him. "it reminds me of home; schneznaya." zhongli would smile then, and reach out to hold his hand. he understood the pains of homesickness; for a time and place that no longer was. ⋆｡𖦹° ⟡ tartaglia, misunderstood from birth and thrown into the brutalities of the abyss by mistake; he had always felt like the only real thing that fed his insatiable hunger for bloodshed and victory was fighting. more and more fighting, and killing, and battles, and war. although, there lied a real war within his heart and mind; one where he felt conflicted between peace and ignorance. he often wondered if continuing this tiring life of chasing that high that could only be fulfilled with a fiesty battle and a few wounds was worth it- wondered if he really did simply have no other worth, but to be an asset of war, loyal to the tsaritsa. but he found that zhongli changed this; his unbridled knowledge, his effortless patience and wisdom and timeless company... he found himself letting go around the man; feeling so at ease and safe, too. like he could finally stop fighting, even if for a moment. maybe there really was something more to live for. ⋆｡𖦹° tl;dr: childe and zhongli is that one trope where one feels they are too hard to love or undeserving of love, but the other loves them as easily as it is to breathe. i'll let you decide who is who...! thanks for reading if you did. this is my first post; i have no idea how tumblr works, but i wanna use this platform as a place to dump all my silly headcannons and stories of my favourite silly goofy ficitional characters. ⟢

[shivunin]

14 / 38 / 48 for the Florence asks! ✨

Oooh, thank you so much! I will answer one here and do the other(s) in separate posts c: This gave me a push to finally finish fleshing out an idea that's been sitting for over a year, so double thank you for that! 💗

(Florence + the Machine Writing Prompts)

Hold Me Down

Summary: In the aftermath of Here Lies the Abyss, Cullen finds the Inquisitor alone at the edge of the camp.

(Elowen Lavellan/Cullen | 1,206 Words | CW: Blood, descriptions of shock/panic attack)

“Hold me down, I'm so tired now Aim your arrow at the sky Take me down, I'm too tired now Leave me where I lie.” —Florence + the Machine, “Sky Full of Song”

“—foremost priority should be seeking out and destroying any remaining demons who might have escaped the battle,” Cullen was saying to a scout as they walked, “take a group and scour the fortress for any signs, and then relay the information to Commander Rylen. He’s kept a troop in reserve for cleanup duty.”

“Yes, Commander,” the scout said, peeling off. Cullen paused as he saw an odd shape tucked between two tents and a stack of crates. 

He knew the shape of that staff. 

“Inquisitor?” he called, peering over the stack of crates. The shape shifted, turned slightly, and lifted its head. 

Behind the cowl, her face was still spattered with blood; it was almost enough to obscure the pale lines of her vallaslin entirely, and what the blood didn’t smear was peppered with ash and dust. Her hands were set on her lap, just as filthy as her face, half-curled and limp. And her eyes…

“Lavellan?” he said, and she blinked, blood-clogged eyelashes sticking for a moment to her cheek. Her eyes did not come into focus. 

Ah—he’d seen this before. 

Cullen sidestepped the crates and crouched several inches away, leaving her room on the other side to get away from him if necessary. 

“Can you hear me, Inquisitor?” he murmured quietly, and her bitten lips cracked open. 

“I am fine.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” he said quietly, glancing over his shoulder when he heard movement in the camp. Just a pair of sentries wandering past. He returned his attention to the Inquisitor, whose attention remained fixed somewhere over Cullen’s left shoulder. 

“Can you hear me?” he asked. “Do you know what I am saying?”

There was a long pause. He noted the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her blood-soaked hands trembled in her lap. 

“...yes,” she said at last, her voice faint and flat. 

“What do you hear?” 

A soft gasp and her hands twitched in her lap. 

“You.” 

“And what else?” 

She was still breathing too quickly. Cullen eased himself down until he was kneeling between her and the rest of the camp. If nothing else, he could shield her from their speculation. A meager enough offering, but it was one he would give her without hesitation.

“The…the tents in the wind.”

“And?” 

“Metal on stone. People talking.”

“Good. What do you see?”

A frown collected between her brows and she slowly glanced at him to frown. That was good, too. 

“Sand. Tents. The stars.”

“And?” 

“Why?”

“Answer the question.”

She sighed, but her breath had slowed slightly. 

“The crates. My…my hands,” her voice shook on the last word. “You.”

“Alright,” he paused, “Are you with me?”

“Yes, I…yes,” she moved to set her face in her hands and flinched when she saw them clearly. “I—it was…The Fade was…”

“We needn’t discuss it,” Cullen murmured, shifting onto his knees to tug the tail end of his cloak loose. “You don’t have to say anything now. May I see your hand?”

Lavellan extended one hand silently and Cullen pulled the cork from his waterskin to wet the crimson fabric of his cloak. He could not properly clean her skin here; he hadn’t carried soap with him, and the cloth of the cloak was not especially absorbent. Maker, he was covered in his fair share of grime after the battle. Even so, he could get the worst of the blood off. He knew all too well what it meant to have to deal with such aftereffects of a fight. 

To be confronted with the concrete proof of what had happened. 

Her hands shook in his grip, and they were cold even through the barrier of leather. Cullen pressed his lips together, trying to decide if he ought to offer his gloves. Would she take them from him? He could not guess either way. 

“Is that any better?” he asked when he was done. Lavellan took her hand from him and peered at it in the flickering torchlight of the camp, curling and uncurling her fingers. 

“Yes, I—thank you,” she said. She lifted the other hand slightly and froze with it there, hung halfway into the air. Cullen carefully reached out to take it, selecting a different section of fabric to clean the skin with. 

Someone ought to be helping her properly. Someone needed to make sure she found a bath, food, somewhere soft to lay her head. After all he had seen of her, all he knew she had done, Cullen knew better than to think she was fragile. Even so—it tugged at him, to see her so shattered now. 

“It had so many legs,” she whispered hoarsely after a moment. “Too many. I—I couldn’t—I should have—”

Her voice broke at the end, and when the Commander glanced at her he saw that tears had begun to clear some of the muck from her cheeks in clear, straight lines. They dripped from her cheeks black and red-brown, leaving tiny, damp circles on her coat. 

“You’re here now,” he told her, holding her hand for a moment longer than necessary once it was clean. “You aren’t there anymore. It is done.”

“I let him die,” she said quietly, searching his eyes. “I—I told him to stay behind. It’s my fault. And the Divine—it’s my fault, Commander. All of it is.”

Cullen waited for her to continue, but she didn’t go on. She bit her lip again, staring at him. Ah—but what could he say to her now? There was nothing to be done about one’s past mistakes. He knew better than most what it meant to live with regret at one’s back. What to say? All he had was the words he gave his own soldiers when they’d made a mistake, and the words seemed ill-fitting here.  

“Whatever has happened,” he told her, “I’ve no doubt that you made the best decision you could with the resources available to you.”

Lavellan withdrew her hand. Cullen let it go without protest. 

“I…” slowly, the Inquisitor pulled her cowl down and away from her face. She ran her hands over the relatively clean plait beneath. “Thank you.”

It was recognition, but a dismissal as well. Not “thank you for thinking so,” but “please go away.”

Cullen tucked the soiled end of the cloak away and stood, careful not to move too close. 

“If there is anything you need, Inquisitor,” he said softly. “Please—do not hesitate to ask.”

Lavellan inclined her head, but she’d turned away to stare out at the vastness of the dunes and stars beyond. Cullen exhaled slowly and moved to step around the crates. He halted when she spoke again. 

“Cullen?” Elowen said; not Commander, for once, but his name. He turned to look at her and found her eyes, full of tears but clear and focused on his. “Thank you. Really.”

 “Of course,” he said, and cleared his throat. “It was…my honor.” 

Her eyes slipped away again, but her hands were clasped softly in her lap. Cullen straightened, gathered himself, and strode back into the camp beyond.

[iwoszareba]

Owlcatober 1: Protection

(post-game, demon Woljif, canon-typical violence)

_ _ _

"Listen pal, you pay what we agreed to and we can part as friends. Simple."

Woljif did a background check on this guy and nothing extraordinary came up, just a small fry demon like any other, but something about his nasty grin was saying I'm not very good at poker and I have an ace up my sleeve. 

"And how about I just take what I want? What could you possibly do about that, half-blood?"

Woljif winced, back on Golarion everyone was making a ruckus over his abyssal heritage and when actually in Abyss he got berated over his mortal origins. You just can't please these people, can you?

"I'm a more powerful demon than you ever will be." he hissed.

This dolt was clearly looking for a fight because that was enough to get him raging. He flipped the table that was between them with intention to brawl but big swings of his fists were slow and unfocused, Woljif had no problem dodging around them. In return he was able to send a jolt of magical energy through his fingers to his opponent, making him stagger.

"Last offer. We end this now and you won't get zapped no more."

The big guy let out a gurgling laugh and moved his hand to a dagger on his belt. The moment it was free of its sheath it started to glow with a web of complex runes. One glance was enough to tell Woljif this was bad news. Terrible even. But he had a contingency plan in place.

"You are givin' me no choice."

Woljif grabbed a purple crystal he wore as a necklace and whispered a few words. Several copies of his visage appeared around him and started to run in the demon's direction. As Woljif expected that blade was laced with some powerful magic making even this klutz fight with monstrous speed. Left and right his illusions were vanishing on impact, still it gave him a bit of a head start before the demon noticed him disappear around the corner. Woljif knew this area well by now and could navigate to his advantage for a while but even that was not enough to beat a magically charged demon. A powerful arm grabbed him by his collar and hoisted him up into the air, his legs dangling helplessly.

"You really thought these silly tricks would be enough?"

Woljif wriggled to no effect but there was a grin plastered on his face.

"Enough to buy me some time, sure."

In an instant the dark alley was filled with purple light and the sound of opening portal. The air became dense, shadows grew longer. Demon's eyes opened wider, but he did not turn around, seemingly frozen in place.

A voice came from behind his back.

"I don't know what your deal is but that's no way to treat an honest businessman."

Woljif was unceremoniously dropped to the ground and the demon finally found the courage to swing his weapon at the newcomer. The dagger connected with the flesh.

"Chief!"

Woljif couldn't stop himself from yelling out but the concern seemed unnecessary. While the blade was deep in chief's gut his clawed hands were firmly holding the arm of the confused and terrified demon.

"I accept your sharp gift! In return I decided to spare your lousy life."

In one swift move he pulled the demon closer, now staring directly into his eyes. Claws started digging into skin and muscle beneath.

"Tell others that if anyone tries this shit with Woljif again: I will find you. I will drag the worst nightmares directly from your skulls and I will make them reality. Understood?"

The demon was nodding furiously, tears falling from his eyes as he did.

"Good."

And with that chief released him completely. Woljif has never seen a demon this big run away so fast, you could almost believe he still had the dagger on him.

He got up, dusted himself off and came over to Knave who was licking his lips in contemplation.

"Did he taste any good?"

Woljif asked trying to sound calm. He still thought there was something incredibly weird about feeding on people's fear but hey, at this point what about the chief was normal.

"Not really. The guy was a coward, they are always a little insipid."

I hope I don't taste like that anymore was not a though Woljif expected to have today but he couldn't help himself. But for sure he was not going to ask for confirmation.

"Here." Knave took the dagger out of his stomach with barely a flinch and extended it towards Woljif "That should cover whatever he owed you."

A long moment passed as Woljif just stared at the blade, both of them standing there in awkward silence.

"Yeah, sorry about the blood."

Knave piped up eventually and started to sheepishly wipe the metal with the edge of his shirt.

"It's not that, chief. I think you should take it as a payment for your help "

"Why? I didn't care about your money before and I don't care about it now."

Woljif was not sure if this was a case of being facetious or genuinely confused. He was no expert on such things but wasn't there some basic rule about fey and debts? And even without that… nothing comes for free. It just wasn't the kind of relationship he wanted to foster with anyone anymore.

"I dragged you all the way here and you helped me out, but I don't want this lingering."

Chief made a thinking expression and tapped the tip of the dagger to his chin twice.

"I see. Well, if you want to repay me you could always do that in stories. That seems like a sensible currency to me. And you always had some fun ones to tell!"

Something at Woljif's core stirred and he had to squash that feeling back down. During the crusade he decided that the two of them can't be anything more than allies… but something about chief's mischievous grin always made him want to smile back. He grabbed once again offered dagger and with a sigh he conceded.

"Deal."

[nagaficat]

"Mother." This follows three quick raps against the door. Julius knows where she has come to reside in this monastery just as she knows where he hides - the latter of which had been a substantially more unbelievable feat. Nearly a year sits between that moment and this one, but it had taken that long for him to wrestle with his guilt. Each day that he had glimpsed the back of her head around the monastery, and promptly turned the other way, had granted him the strength to grind and grind at that childish emotion until it was little more than dust under his heel. After several months he had come to reason that she was undoubtedly alive. So why was he to feel guilty?

"Mother," he calls again softly. The mask he has chosen to wear is one of a cherubic son, although for a split second a fissure opens up between his brows and he wonders if he had imagined her all along - that whoever shuffled around on the other side of the door would inevitably be some surprised stranger. The evening had worn down to the umber wick of sunset, after all, and Julius did not don the traditional uniform of the academy's students.

When she finally answers the door, he is half-relieved. The other half of him stands speechless for a moment at the sight of her, clinging to the vestiges of guilt and ghosts, until he regains his script with a charming flash of teeth. He presents to her a small box, within which sits a delicate silver chain decorated with little white beads melded into the bulbs of a lily of the valley.

"Are you surprised?" he asks with endearing devilishness. "It took a few days to acquire, but I have not forgotten your birthday."

In fact, he had. Although he had remembered it again like a bolt out of the blue as he stared up at the cracked, cobwebbed ceiling of his dorm down in Abyss, weaving together threadbare schemes as he had been doing nearly every night since his arrival. It had been an epiphany strong enough to shoot him to his feet.

Guilt was holding him back. Yes, that was the source of all of his problems.

Removing the necklace from its box, he holds it up for her to see.

"Do you like it, Mother?"

She is hearing things. Clearly has mistaken the name called out from the knocker at the door. Has mistaken the voice it belongs to. She is missing him, her son. Her birthday has come and gone. She had not expected to see him, of course, but that does not mean he was not in her thoughts. He is always in her thoughts.

The voice calls out again. She should answer the door. There is someone there. Soft footsteps carry her toward it and when she opens it, the sight before her takes her breath away.

Her son, her Julius. She reaches her hand up but stops before touching his cheek, afraid that he will disappear in a puff of smoke. If this is a dream, she does not want to wake from it.

"Oh Julius," she whispers and blinks away the tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes.

Are you surprised he asks. Of course she is. She had been trying to convince herself that knowing he was alive and well was enough. That the chance to see him grown was somehow as good as getting to hold him in her arms. She had resigned herself to the distance not expecting him to ever be the one to seek her out and yet here he was.

He pulls out a gift and she is sure she is dreaming.

He holds up the necklace and, with a shaky hand she dares to reach for it. It is solid, real. He is real. She removes the necklace she is wearing, the twin cameos featuring himself and his sister that his father gave her for the same occasion and casts it aside in favor of this one. It is delicate, small, nowhere near as ostentatious and elaborate as the one from his father but this necklace is far more priceless to her.

Do you like it he asks as if there was ever a chance she might not. "Oh Julius, it is beautiful. Perfect. I adore it." Finally she allows herself to wrap her arms around him. He is not a dream and he will not disappear from her grasp. "But my darling, you are the greatest gift I could receive. I love you, Julius, and I will wear it proudly."

And she does. Her shoulder brought back and her chin held a little higher she is happy to announce to anyone who might notice that it was her sweet son whose thoughtfulness and kindness provided her with such a beautiful gift.

[bardic-tales]

2.19.2024

tw: death. illness. chronic pain.

I am slowly getting back into reading and writing. I tend to bite off more than I can chew, and I thought that an overarching plot spanning all my fandoms would be an interesting thing to work on.

I also wanted to work on several original projects. Unfortunately, my health and family circumstances made it so that I have always been in bed with extreme fatigue and my body hurting.

Over the last two years, we lost 3 members in my little family: my husband's cousin who passed away in a car accident at 17, my husband's aunt who contracted COVID during last Thanksgiving and passed away on that holiday, and, finally, my grandfather last month. My grandfather was like a father to me. Then, as I documented on here during last June, I lost my cat, Loki.

I also have been dealing with very low Vit. D levels. I had a blood test last Friday which showed my levels at: 9.3 ng/ml. I am waiting for a call from my doctor at 9 am to discuss treatment options and possibly further tests to figure out why those levels are too low.

I've been too exhausted to really do anything. It makes sense as I often experienced severe joint pain when I sat and wrote or even attempt to game. I downloaded the FF 7: Rebirth demo and just haven't been able to play it. Same thing for Crisis Core. I feel bad since I want to announce the new work I have been working on, but I just don't really have the energy to.

Author’s commentary:

I have been working on creating a map of the Abyssal Realm for my huge fandom project: Fantasy Worlds Collide. I did create a timeline for the Heavenly War and made it so that the war started due to the Creator Deity forbidding his angels from loving mortals. This was after Lucifer fell in love with the 1st human: Lilith.

This sets the stage for Bianca Moore to love both Sesshomaru and Sephiroth. I love the thought of love condemning her and causing her to doubt her path to Heaven.

I am also reworking her powerset to fit her new role in this overarching plot: the destroyer of the Omniverse. Her powers are consistent to space, time, and interdimensional capabilities, as well as reality-bending.

Her profile will flow better. There is a new section devoted to the space between time where all portals to every dimension and the Edge of Creation is.

Snippet: A drabble I wrote on Valentine's Day.

tw: death mention.

As always, this is my trash draft. There will be grammar issues and sometimes incorrect grammar. It is unpolished.

"Pretty pathetic, hm?" Bianca tilted her head into his touch. His fingers slipped through strands of her dark hair. "You are only one of two men I have ever known like this, the only men I have ever loved."

The sun had crested over North Crater. The tent's entrance flapped in the icy breeze, but she didn't feel the cold on her skin. Bianca held some sort of immunity to the frozen temperatures, which was a very dangerous thing, in itself. Her organs still could freeze.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" Turning in the sleeping bag, she pulled the covers up over her shoulder and snuggled closer to him. The dark grey fur blanket lay over them as an extra layer of warmth. "How can I love you so deeply when we were not supposed to meet in the first place? We both lived in different dimensions and different versions of Earth."

"Perhaps, we are bound for more than just..girlfriend and boyfriend." Sephiroth looked down at the woman in his arms. His silver hair mixed with her black hair. Her left wing wrapped around them while her other one lay stretched out behind her. "You were always bound for the Reunion, Bianca."

"I think you are right. You were under distress from learning your true origins, and I was under duress from my father who had just murdered the only other man I had loved."

Different Fandom Taglist

@starryeyes2000, @residentdormouse, @megandaisy9 @themaradwrites @prehistoric-creatures @arrthurpendragon @serenofroses

[keithrm]

I Will Not Lose Her

(Written August 25, 2016, edited in 2024)

When a cataclysmic storm rages between friends, we often look at the relationship itself.  What went wrong?  That is what I did with her.  I examined the relationship.  I am sure she did as well.  However, I think a deeper part of me had a better, though unclear, understanding.

It was not the relationship.  It was me.  I was changing.  I had changed.  I had begun to yell.  I hate yelling and confrontation.  I had become rude and aggressive.  I made her uncomfortable, and made her feel embarrassed around her friends.  I would commiserate over events for days.  I had become particular and fixed.  Meaningless things stuck in my craw.  That was not the me I had been before.

What happened to the person who bought her a flower every payday?  What happened to the person who played with her like a puppy, right in front of her family?  Where was the person who left little notes of affection?  Where was the young adult who sat and listened to music for hours?  What happened to the person who cherished the differences between peoples?  The person I always thought I was, the person I had been was gone, buried under spite and burden, and mostly confusion.

We often point our fingers at familiarity.  Routine steps in, and things get dull.  Certainly, this played a role, but simple commonness would not turn playfulness into argument.  Moreover, I had lost the ability to communicate with others, of greatest note my daughter.  Something else was at work, though I could not see the condition while being consumed by it.  I had changed.  I was changing.  The me I enjoyed had been lost, left behind like a forgotten piece of luggage.

I did not know it at the time, but andropause was eating away at the younger me.  The symptoms, as I read them, did not apply, but every physiology is different.  Moreover, severe Social Anxiety was also setting in, almost to the point of phobia.  I have always been introverted, socially anxious, and awkward, but I was sinking into a much deeper abyss.  Did changing hormones fuel the anxiety, or did the anxiety alter the andropause symptoms?  Who knows?  I can only see it now because it is all done and past.

I did not leave her.  Oh, I started the separation, but it was not her I was fleeing.  I was not abandoning the relationship.  I dragged myself away from her like a dying animal sulking away from the group for the group’s protection.  I pulled the yelling, particular, touchy lunatic I had become to a safe distance.  During a mid-life crisis, most men think of fast cars and young women.  However, I sought solitude.  I hated hurting her.  I detest myself for doing so.  I needed to reclaim the original me and kill the monster I had become.  I needed to punish myself and protect the world from my beast.

The love and affection has not faded.  It has always been there, though it had to be concealed.  I needed to find music again.  I needed to learn to communicate again.  I needed to understand parts of me I had never known, and rekindle parts that had been long gone.  I have learned I am emotionally broken and immature in so many ways.  I cannot reconcile love and sex.  Introversion and Social Anxiety have always been parts of me.  I am a dweeb, a dork, unable to be adult about the emotional and social qualities of life.  I can write a book, talk sciences, teach a class, and solve problems with the best of them, but I cannot properly handle human interactions.  The human equations, the personal qualities, are knots I cannot untie.  Autism, Asperger’s, perhaps there is a sprinkle of these in my matrix.  Looking in someone’s eyes is more frightening than revealing.

I miss her.  I always will.  I dream about her more than any other person or thing.  I wake up crying several times a year, and I do not see that changing.  My hormones have settled.  I have crossed the mid-life crisis, and understand myself.  I listen to music again, and play.  I let things go.  The tensions are gone.  Life’s difficult challenges are faced straightforward.  The love is there and always will be.  I will die with her name on my lips.

I have lost her presence, though I will not lose her.

[ina-nis]

If not fear or anxiety about embarrassment or criticism, and not much about wanting to be liked or not (because people owe you nothing, not their time, nor their attention), what is it?

Fear of rejection?

But isn’t it harsh to have this preconceived notion that one will be “rejected until proven otherwise”? This barely leaves any room for nuance, doesn’t it?

If a person doesn’t know someone, they automatically “reject” them...? How exactly, huh?

When you stop to think about it, the problem was less about you, and more about others: it didn’t feel right because people were perceiving you as a gender that didn’t fit, it didn’t feel right because people had their own personal issues to sort through, it didn’t feel right because they were looking into more casual things without commitments, and very often it didn’t feel right because people wanted different things from the same connection - it can’t work when one wants a friend and the other wants a partner, the latter can try to fall out of love or disengage but things can become strained, they usually do and the connection breaks.

It was nothing that you did wrong or didn’t do. It was just not the right time or the right people. Unfortunately, that was what happened every time. One could say that’s the product of trauma: it makes people seek unavailable people or ones that are likely to re-traumatize you, and so on. You get stuck in a cycle of limited opportunities that will lead to failure because of how narrow your scope is. Everything ends up confirming your biases: “That’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t trust people because all relationships I’ve had ended up badly. It will never change and there’s no hope.” and it’s very hard to break free from that pattern because it’s nearly impossible to prove yourself wrong on your own and without actual, tangible proof of the contrary. One might say therapeutic relationships can help you (re)build a bridge between you and others, but that relationship in itself is unbalanced and a trigger, and very often therapy comes to an end. You can’t be friends or date your therapist, it’s a completely different dynamic that have completely different implications.

When you have so many bad memories, experiences and traumas to go through, how can you shift that thought, “rejection until proven otherwise”? How can you start viewing people without that shadow of resentment and pre-rejection clouding your judgment?

“You have to stop seeing people as potential mates, and start seeing them as whole people by themselves.”

You do. That’s what makes it all the more painful. If you were just objectifying people, it would be easier to just... do whatever without a care. You wouldn’t need to worry so much about feelings and consequences, you wouldn’t worry so much about the future and how a relationship can impact yours and the other person’s wellbeing. You wouldn’t make choices for them thinking that’s “for the best” and pull away from their lives. You do because you care, because you see them as a whole person first, and then as a potential mate.

Longing is the hope that keeps you afloat, and yet, nurtures sorrow that pushes you further closer to the abyss.

Loneliness is the abyss slowly engulfing you.

Rejection is the pain the feeds both your loneliness and your longing. It’s a direct response to external stimuli, whether perceived or not, it’s there and it will never go away.

Rejection is so, so destructive even when it’s not there because... it’s always there - “maybe not now, but eventually...” - it’s always a risk, it’s always a possibility, it can always be an outcome.

Normally, one would treat rejection as they would treat any other emotion: it serves a purpose and when it’s not necessary anymore, you let it go and move on.

When you experience rejection continuously over a long time, especially over several years, it becomes inbuilt. It’s a defense and a very hard one to tackle without positive reinforcement.

If you have both loneliness and rejection going against you and only longing going for you, it’s very difficult because the balance is completely off - and the gap keeps growing larger and things become more entrenched and worse as bad experiences accumulate. You’re trapped, cornered, stuck. Nothing works. Things keep on getting worse though.

It’s hard to think this isn’t other people’s fault. It’s hard to not resent everyone even when you know rejection is normal response and a natural outcome for many interactions. Yes, you’re the one that’s damaged. A damage caused by other people.

What can you do about it?

[fantasies-fairytales-n-fics]

Thranduil and Josie Pt. 138- Liberation

Summary: Jareth's demon side hunts the six intruders. Things get intensely hot as they fight their way out. An evil reign appears to have ended. Jace and Raven have a moment. Thranduil makes his appalled feelings known. More danger awaits the nine as they work their way to unite. Legolas feels the evil. Raven is being stalked. Something precious is found. Jace is Raven's hero. Pirate alert! Father and son reunion!

*Warnings* Angst, violence, language, death

Stories Stories Stories Masterlist

"You have not had the displeasure of meeting Jareth's true self such as I, Legolas and Gandalf have." Aragorn said to the auburn haired man of Gondor known as Boromir as he stared at the fiery glowing doorway where the balrog was headed.

"Nor did I want to, for as you know, this was not the intent of my journey here." he whispered back to Strider, who then gave his long time friend a cognizant look.

"It is time to go. RUN!" Gandalf shouted to the quintet at his side.

All ran off with Boromir, Legolas and Gimli in the lead to an exit leading deeper into the twisted labyrinth. Boromir was the first to run through, turning sideways to manage the set of narrowed steps. He was moving so quickly that he didn't see the drop off at the end and lost his balance as he abruptly tried to stop. If it were not for Legolas throwing his arms around him and pulling him back, Boromir would have fallen to his death in the fiery pits of hell below.

Aragorn and an exhausted Gandalf then came down the stairwell. The wizard grasped the wall for a moment to catch his breath in which Aragorn halted to assist him.

"You must carry them on. The bridge is near that leads to a way out."

The ranger refused to leave his old friend and tried to further aid him as he reached out, grabbing his arm.

"Do as I say!" Gandalf loudly commanded as he pushed a surprised Aragorn away and rushed past him. "Your sword is of no use here!"

Beyond the break of the stairs was another stone platform of descending steps, in which Legolas leaped over to. As he did so, the balrog's ferocious growl and pounding stomps reverberated from behind them, causing the walls to crack and chunks of rock to fall.

"Gandalf!" Legolas called to him, motioning to the old great wizard to come first, for the elf saw of his physical distress.

Gandalf leaped over to Legolas and then all but Aragorn and Tauriel made it across as the unstable rock beneath their feet began to break away. The ranger and the elleth began to fall but were able to grasp their way back onto the remaining footbridge.

More orcs and goblins then surfaced from the upper dark corners and began firing arrows at them. Legolas took one the ghouls out with an arrow straight between the eyes and then he, Aragorn, Boromir and Tauriel began dropping the vicious vultures like flies as arrows sprayed the air.

Jareth neared with thunderous trudges causing more destruction of the interior as a boulder sized rock came crashing down, severing the path behind Aragorn and Tauriel, stranding them on a teetering monolith as it crumbled below while the others helplessly watched.

"Tauriel, lean back!!" Aragorn shouted as the decayed structure began to tilt towards the others.

"Come on!" Legolas encouraged to Aragorn as the elf's stance prepared for the hit.

Slowly, the broken rock plunged forward and crashed into the other piece, catapulting Aragorn into Legolas's awaiting arms, and Tauriel into Boromir's.

"Good catch!" Aragorn quickly applauded his long time elven friend with a pat to his shoulder.

Down the ramp of stairs they all hurried as the detached standing stone stood no more, twisting and plunging into the burning abyss.

"Over the bridge!" Gandalf yelled as they all reached solid ground. As they all ran to the crossing, Jareth's diabolical form leaped to the ground, roaring his roasting malevolent breath upon the wizard, who fearlessly faced his searing vengeance down.

The beastly blazing balrog then proceeded to tromp forward, in which Gandalf then turned and ran after the others.

He stopped and spun around to face Jareth once more as he reached the narrow crossway.

"You shall not pass!"

The goblin king firmly stood up at his full intimidating height of eighteen feet and burst into a raging inferno.

The wizard raised his staff and it glowed bright in a perfectly round shield over him.

"Go back to the depths of hell where you belong goblin king!!"

The light didn't affect Jareth this time, like it had did at Lestat's. All it did now was protect the wizard as the beast charged his flaming sword down upon Gandalf. The magical shield disintegrated the fiery weapon upon impact.

Jareth became fed up and even more furious as he then pulled out a laser like whip, wielding it around and then lunged forward onto the overpass. Legolas stood at the foot of the bridge and released a dose of starlight on the demon from the phial Galadriel gave him. As he did so, Jareth was severely blinded and his whip curled like a snake, slicing clean through the bridge at Gandalf's feet like a hot knife through butter. The narrow viaduct crumbled beneath Jareth due to his weight and down the demon fell, back to the depths of hell as Gandalf had ordered him to.

More arrows began to disperse through the air from the orcs and goblins. Gandalf turned and ran to the others as Aragorn waited for him, then up the stairs they raced to the west side exit of the mountain.

Thranduil, Raven and Jace stopped for a moment to strategize their next move, for the east side exit was swamped with goblins.

"This is just great. We are getting nowhere and trapped again!" Raven griped as she leaned on the wall from exhaustion.

"We can head down to the west side exit. I know this place like the back of my hand." Jace responded.

"Any exit will be crawling with goblins and orcs." Thranduil concluded.

"Not to mention Jareth and Harker, even Julian are lurking about." Raven added as she slid down the wall, dropping to her butt in frustration.

Thranduil then began conversing with Legolas, and as he did so, Jace turned his attention to Raven who appeared ill.

"Are you...alright? You don't look so good."

"Gee thanks."

"No, I just mean that...well, you're perspiring for one and your pale."

"What do you care? You despise me just as everyone else does all because I am half vampire, which is not my fault ya know and you were a complete jackass to me when we first found you."

"Everyone despises you because you're evil, which IS your fault. You don't have to be that way ya know."

"And if I were a goody two shoes like you, would you like me then?"

The warlock gazed down at her for a moment, studying her eyes which appeared to have both sadness and kindness hidden inside of them. Jace was quite skilled in reading a person's true self just as Haldir was.

"Possibly. I see it in you...behind all that invisible armor you wear. You don't want to be this way, but you were...forced to be?"

Raven's distrusting eyes slowly rolled up his body in confusion and met his. No one had ever cared to know about her or what she had been through.

"You don't know anything about me or my fucked up life." she snapped and got up. As she did so, she felt nauseated and quickly leaned over in a corner to throw up again.

Jace came over to her and gently placed his hand on her back as he pulled her hair from her face with the other.

Raven shivered and flinched at his touch, for her scars from Jareth's whipping were still sensitive, and not only that, but she had never experienced a gentle hand.

"Can you please not touch me??" she snapped again as she side eyed him.

"Are...are you hurt?"

Inside, she was screaming yes. Hurt in so many ways from those who had claimed to love her or care for her.

"No...it's you and your silverbane poisoning. It's making me sick. Please get away from me already! You reek of it."

Silverbane was one thing witches were weakened by and it's affects varied on the individual susceptible to it.

"Legolas and his company are on the west side. That is where we shall go. Jareth has been destroyed." Thranduil confirmed as he glowered at Raven's weak state. "This again. Gather yourself girl. It is unbecoming and there is no time for more delay."

Raven was so relieved at the King's validation of Jareth's demise that she didn't even care about his callous words, but Jace did.

"Do you have to be so cruel? She just recued both of us or have you forgotten that already?"

Raven's eyes slightly widened at his comment while Thranduil's eyes narrowed, sensing the warlock's changed demeanor of the dhampir.

"Oh I have not forgotten of that which was highly undesired or unnecessary, and of that which will never occur again if you treasure the attachment of your hands to your body."

"Are you serious? Would you have rather swam with the goblins than be where you are right now?" Raven retorted.

"Yes...yes I would have." Thranduil snidely replied.

"You just can't handle needing my help or the fact that even for an agile elf, you would never have made that jump to the ledge."

Thranduil sneered at her. "Stay here and rot if you will. I have no more time for your verbal nonsense."

Off the Elvenking went, then Raven followed as she and Jace exchanged a brief look of awkwardness over his quick defense of her.

"Father is headed to the lower west side. He confirmed the east was blocked." Legolas informed his company.

"The lower west exit will be of no less danger. Orcs and Pirates lurk about on the Hoarwell, all in Jareth's service." Gandalf explained.

"Then we will fight them too. My father will be freed this day." Legolas snapped and adamantly headed down the mountain with the others quickly trailing behind.

"Legolas...you do not seem quite yourself." Tauriel said in concern as she caught up to the fast paced Prince.

"The evil here...it is weighing on me. I can feel it."

"I feel it too. We have come this far. Soon we will have the King and be free of this wretched realm."

"And then I will be free of you as well."

The pissy Prince picked up his pace and Tauriel slowed hers, knowing it was not the right time to speak with Legolas. She also knew it may never be.

Three hours later:

"Aragorn. Something troubles you?" Boromir asked as they neared the lower west side entrance that rested on the Hoarwell.

"Yes. King Jasper. I promised him and his men freedom of their tomb in return for their aid. He said they would fight but he has not shown himself since."

"Could it be possible they have been freed with the goblin king's downfall? After all, it is he who is responsible for their deaths. I am quite surprised Jasper did not appear to aid for Jareth's demise."

"I imagine it could have freed them, but I feel vengeance is also desired by he and his men upon the remaining of those in his sinister son's service. As far as Jareth, swords are of no use against the balrog, just as Gandalf said....but they will be against his guild."

"Yes, they will." a grumbled voice from behind them agreed. King Jasper's voice.

"Thranduil, slow down!" Raven panted from behind the Elvenking's swift and strong long strides while Jace surprisingly stayed beside her.

The three had made their way to the lower dark caverns of the west side, knowing they would soon encounter a hoard of armored and armed goblins and orcs about the exit. The hollows were not an easy feat with all the wet and slippery rock climbing, in which Raven soon found out.

"Owwww!" she screeched as her ankle twisted beneath her, causing her to fall flat on her chest atop a pile of multiple jagged stones of many shapes and sizes.

Jace got down on one knee and extended his hand to her.

"Are you alright?"

She reluctantly took his hand and hobbled up to her feet. As she did so, piercing pain shot through her ankle.

"Ahhhh fuck!!"

Raven's knee buckled and she fell forward right into Jace's quick strong arms. She hopped on her good foot to balance herself against him as they both awkwardly gazed at each other once more.

Raven's trembling hands laid flat upon his solid and formed chest as she stood frozen, fumbling through her words.

"I..I think...I...I sprained it."

"Let me sit you back down so I can look at it."

"O...o...ok." she stuttered in a squeak.

Jace slowly lowered her to the ground and began to pull her boot off.

"Time is wasting while you needlessly fondle over the giddy girl. Time I will not waste among you no longer." Thranduil smugly stated and continued on his way.

'Wait, what the hell?? You're just going to leave us here??!!" Raven shouted.

As Thranduil headed to a bend, his miffed voice could be heard.

"As I should."

"ARGGGH!!! You asshole!" she raged and hurled a rock at the corner he disappeared behind.

"Let him go. We don't need him. I will get you out of here. I'm getting stronger. Now let me check your ankle." Jace nicely insisted.

Raven watched his eyes, one brown, one blue, as they scoured the swelled area. He may have had identical hues to Jareth's, but Jace's were kind and full of life.

Other eyes were watching as well. From above in the dark crevices of the rock walls crouched a disheveled Gollum, full of anger at the dhampir as he held a hefty rock in his bony fingers.

"Sometimes I wish I was a full blown vampire so I could heal quickly and feel less pain. This human side of me blows ass." Raven bitched.

Jace formed a smirk as he gently slipped her boot back on.

"Well..it definitely smells like someone blew ass down here." he replied.

An unexpected chuckle escaped Raven's lips. His sense of humor was just her style and for once, someone seemed to actually "get" her.

'Alright. We need to keep moving. Come on. Up you go."

Jace slipped one arm under her legs and the other around her back, then she gasped as he swooped her up.

"What are you doing??!"

"What does it look like? I'm carrying you. Don't give me the runaround that you can walk and can take care of yourself. You'll only slow us down."

"Fine." she huffed, although she quite enjoyed being in his arms but she wasn't about to let him know that.

Around the corner they went with Gollum trailing behind in the shadows.

As Jace ascended through the air over a massive boulder, he was struck in the forehead by Gollum's rock, instantly disorienting him. Down they went, rock after rock they both tumbled over until Raven landed solo on her back with a hard thud.

"J...J...Jace??" she gasped out as she tried to regain the air that was knocked out of her. There was no answer. All was silent except for the dripping sounds into the underground lake that was only a few feet away.

"Jace!!" she called out when she found her breath. Her voice echoed over and over into the far distance, but their was still no sight of or sound from him.

Raven began crawling along the rocks until something shiny caught her eye. Her sword that she gave Jace laid in the distance. Frantically she wriggled on all fours to get to it until her hand snagged onto something that lightly sliced her finger.

Fumbling through the dirt, her eyes widened as she picked up Jareth's citrine ring.

"H..how...how did this get here??" she muttered with a whisper.

A hissing eerie voice, one that was very familiar, was then heard circling all around her.

"Precioussssss."

Raven gasped and threw herself back against a large rock to hide from the ghastly creature she knew as Gollum. Her eyes wandered about in fear as she clutched the ring against her mouth, knowing it was of no use to her, for she didn't know how to use it. It freed Thranduil, yes, but that was because it was the key to the dark hole in the forest wall. Her own powers were still useless as well.

Her eyes spotted the sword again, but as she began to move, the goblin looking Gollum crept up from above and leaped down in front of her.

"My precious is back." he grinned his snaggletooth smile with an evil glower of his oversized eyes.

Raven panicked as she snapped her fingers closed around the ring, her eyes desperately searching for Jace.

"What do you want??"

"Precious wants to know what we wants. Precious knows what we wants."

"No...no I don't."

"We had a deal Precious! You broke it. You ruined it all. We were to give the violins to the King, not the dhampir."

'I...I didn't break anything. Thranduil did. He was the one who said he would help you."

"And he didn't helps us...because of you!!"

"He's still here! He can still help you! I..I can't do it. I do not have that power to...to...fix you. But..I can take you to him. I..I know where he is."

"Precious wants another deal?"

"Yes!..yes...a deal. I'll take you to him."

Gollum's eyes pondered on Raven's compromise. "A deal yessss, we wants another deal...no..no we don't...precious lies! No..she isn't, she will helps us, no NO NOOOO...you're a LIAR!!!"

His bellowing accusation startled Raven and she began to scurry away. Gollum grabbed her leg and yanked her back, sinking his teeth into the back of her calf. Her shrill scream filled the air as her hand involuntarily opened, revealing the ring.

Gollum's sizeable eyes widened even more. "My precioussss...."

He began searching through his pockets in a frenzy, and then halted, tilting his head at her with vicious eyes.

"You stoles it!! You stoles the precious from our pocketses!!! Give it back to us!!"

Gollum lunged at Raven and she gave him a hard kick in the face, then raced off on her hands and knees until Jace landed right in front of her, twirling the sword with a very pissed off glare at Gollum.

"Raven, get up! Let's go!"

Jace extended his hand out and pulled her to her feet as she smiled so big at her knight in shining leather.

"NOOOO!! You can't takes the precious!!" Gollum screeched as he dropped helplessly to the ground. "The master gaves it to us!!!!!"

"Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead!" Raven raved.

Jace wrapped his arm around her waist and helped her limp away while Gollum continued to grovel.

"Not true! Not true! Gollum and Smeagol still live as one! Gives it backs!! It is our only hope!!!"

'And you will continue to live as one in agony for eternity!" Jace shouted as he gave a glance back at the defeated wendigo.

The west exit was swarming with orc and goblin guard...and pirates too just as Gandalf had said. The six made their way from the side of the mountain to the dock area as three pirate ships were slowly gliding in.

They still needed to to get to the entrance which lied on the other side of the incoming vessels. Bravely they stood in the open for the water rats to see, for Aragorn had a little trick up his sleeve that would surely get them where they needed to go.

The corsairs all stood up when they spotted the six strangers.

"Halt! Who goes there??!" the commanding pirate shouted.

"You will not enter here!" Aragorn shouted back.

"Who are you to deny us passage?? You are not of the goblin king's realm!"

"Legolas...fire a warning shot past the corsair's ear." Aragorn ordered.

The Prince raised his bow and prepared to fire.

"Mind your aim." Gimli said as he intentionally bumped the bottom of Legolas's bow with his axe as the elf fired. The arrow shot one of the pirates straight in the heart and dropped him as the devious dwarf tried to act surprised.

"Prepare to be boarded!" Gimli warned.

"Boarded?? By who and who's army??" a pirate asked as all the shipmates roared in laughter.

"This army." Aragorn confidently replied.

King Jasper and his ghostly army swarmed through Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli as if they were the ghosts.

Every single pirate's jaw dropped as they screamed in panic while the dead rushed the ship and slaughtered them all within seconds.

Thranduil fought his way through the exit into the outside ruins, striking every goblin and orc down that were in his path of departing destruction. The smell of the murky air was a motivating scent to him, only upping his determination to be free of Jareth's dark realm.

More heavily armed and armored orcs came for him, but that didn't persuade nor stop the proficiently skilled Elvenking of the Woodland Realm as he took them all out, one by one in a graceful sword dance with the devils of the goblin realm.

Another bout of armed orcs awaited the arriving pirate ships at the west entrance, expecting the usual daily exchange of evil goods, but all of their eyes were stunned as Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli leaped over the rail while Tauriel, Boromir and Gandalf exited to the side to watch what was about to unveil.

No time was wasted as King Jasper and his army of the dead surged along side Aragorn and company into the flock of freaks, trampling and slaughtering them all.

Jasper's army then raced over top of the water like wild horses and flooded the entire west port. Not a single orc, goblin or pirate in the daylight was spared on the way to the entrance where Thranduil stood, observing the massacre. The King of Mirkwood then caught sight of his son.

"Legolas!!" he shouted to him with a humble look upon his face and tears daring to fall from his gleaming tortured eyes.

The prince heard his father's outward call and their identical moonstone eyes immediately locked. Legolas almost lost his breath to view the man he once witnessed before him lifeless and believed he would never see again.

Legolas raced up to the cave like entrance as Thranduil worked his way through the short pathway of dead orcs to get to him.

Their eyes met as they both came around the corner. For the first time, Thranduil's conditioned hatred subsided to see his son that he was so very proud of.

"Adar...."

"Legolas...my son..."

@redeemer46