#i feel so forgotten and alone and unloved and trapped and some days i want to freak out so bad to be finally seen and maybe fixed

[justaholeinmysoul]

I wish that my life went on smoothly and normally. Like a river. Like those normal, average pathetic lives that make people numb or slightly miserable but normal and all perfectly the same. Like gears in a machine. But I broke At a certain point and no one saw,no one even listened nor cared. I look like a normal functioning gear. A loser very ugly one that people find odd but still OK. But I'm broken and I'm not functioning and I'm not even in the machine.

[smiletimeisrunningout]

"But what's making you think like this? Did you witness something untoward? Was he cruel to her?"

"No," she had to admit, "No, if I had, he'd be injured now. But in my experience... I've seen women marry quickly and be trapped with a monster, and there was no sign before, the man waited until safe. And I've seen women stay in longer engagements who saw signs but didn't recognize them as such-I would, given time, now, but someone like Mary..." It was difficult to explain, since she sounded paranoid to her own ears, let alone what she must seem to him. "I've just seen so much, Ben. I know it looks like nothing has touched me, but the memories haunt me. I can't let them show on the outside, but at a time like this... I've seen too much, I think." The downside of being so free and so ready to get involved in everybody's trouble was that some of the pain walked away with her like a second shadow.

"And…is that how you feel about men such as myself?" Such as himself? Emma frowned, some of the agitation leaving place to surprise: how could anyone think that of him?

"Emma, but I'd like to think I would never show the woman I love anything short of kindness and respect"

No, he wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't, or at least her mind did, and an unrestrained part of her longed to be a woman he'd show kindness to for the rest of their happy life. She had to take a hold of that, nothing good could come from such thoughts, but hearing him speak of it-And I'd hate to think that she believed me capable of harm...that my feelings are nothing but a smokescreen."

Hearing him speak of it reminded her why she could never dream of such life with him. Because he deserved better than a broken woman who would always be scared.

"Benjamin..." she whispered with a soft smile, "I know you are a good man. You know I know that. I never mean all men, and sometimes it's women too. But in our first week we interacted more than they have in three months, and I still wouldn't have married you three months after meeting you. It takes time to know someone. It takes seeing them the way I've seen you: happy, mad, sad, frustrated... I have no doubt that you'd treat a woman the way... any woman would want and deserve to be treated." Those were words that should have been said with some degree of cheeriness, it was a mark of honor, but all she could muster was sorrow.

She knew what she was doing, didn't she? Indulging in what she wanted without needing to admit how she felt, and while initially she had been certain Ben would never see her as anything but a friend she had a special bond with, one he could have a happy time with, it wasn't as if she hadn't noticed that in just a few days of intimacy they had started acting like they were a couple. She may have looked away because it was easier, because convinced she wouldn't hurt him, but now she wasn't so sure.

He was so sweet that even in the middle of what had to be a confusing discussion for him he was still telling her she didn't need to measure up to other women. It was almost funny, considering how many times Arian had used them as an example of how she should behave. Had she met Benjamin before-but no, she would still have been the ugly duckling then, and even he wouldn't have liked that. At her core and after growing up: she was always unlovable.

His "What do you mean?" came weak enough for her to feel panic strike her again, fist closing so tightly she could feel her nails dig into her palm. "I guess... I had forgotten how different I truly am... from you," Emma murmured, teary eyes looking away from him, "From all of you. But I see it again now. I can't... trust when it comes to love. Trust a man like Mary does? When all that matters are feelings and I can forget all my worries? I can't... I can't not worry. I can't feel safe. I tried, believe me, but it's not in me anymore... I had crying fits just trying to say I love you while pretending to be married to a friend for a stupid mission, what must come natural to a woman sends me into hysterics." She forced herself to look at him in the eyes, feeling what had to be blood under her nails, which she was pushing even harder into her own skin to avoid visibly panicking. A woman who needed to do that was barely a woman. "I told you I am weak, but I don't think you understand just how much: I couldn't survive another heartbreak, and no matter who stands before me, how much they deserve to make me feel safe, how lovely they are, my heart won't let me risk it, it knows I can't take the pain so it won't let me try. I will always be afraid, I'm too broken to be able to feel the truth in what you are saying, and as such I should not... be with a good man who is kind to me. Because I can never give him what he deserves. I hope you can see that now, before..."

She couldn't continue, because anything after that would put into words that she had thought of them together as a couple, and either he hadn't, and this was an unneeded talk that she could still spin around and act as if she had meant it as a general warning, or he had too, and it didn't need to be voiced.

To Benjamin's dismay, the desperation in Emma's demeanor only worsened. She brought up the possibility of abuse -- of harm -- and concerned, he pressed, "But what's making you think like this? Did you witness something untoward? Was he cruel to her?"

"You can't plan a marriage around the fact that maybe you'll die soon," she insisted, "unless you are certain you are about to die you need to think of who you want to spend every day with, for years, decades. And men who will hurt are usually the sweetest when courting you, three months is nothing..."

Benjamin flinched as though struck. "And...is that how you feel about men such as myself?" he softly asked. "That we are only showing kindness as a ruse, rather than genuine affection? That we are only presenting ourselves in this way to earn carnal favor?" Rolling his lips inward, he chook his head. "I may not be a master of love and courting, Emma, but I'd like to think I would never show the woman I love anything short of kindness and respect. And I'd hate to think that she believed me capable of harm...that my feelings are nothing but a smokescreen."

Slowly, tears continued to streak down Emma's cheeks. She spoke of not being pure -- that she was tainted -- and wincing, Benjamin softly agreed, "I didn't mean pure in that sense. I only meant that there is a kindness to you...a type so rarely seen that I'd almost forgotten there was still goodness in this world." Here, he gently squeezed her hand. "You shouldn't compare yourself to other women. I'm glad you're different. I'm happy to share what may possibly be my last days with such a warm, remarkable-"

"I can't do that," Emma quickly cut in. "I can't jump blindly into something like that just because of... feelings, I can't. I'm not like that anymore, I'm not impulsively romantic. I can understand what you are saying but I can't feel it right, I could never risk it. Everything I've seen, everything I've lived..."

A chill settled inside Benjamin's chest, dense and painful. "What do you mean?" he weakly asked. Was she even speaking of Mary at this point, or herself? Or worse yet, of them?

Curling away from him, Emma dragged a sleeve across her eyes and sniveled. "She's so young," she lamented. "I don't want her to get hurt like that."

"We can't save everyone," Benjamin softly offered. "I've learned that the hard way...again and again and again. And Emma..." He hesitated, holding his hand aloft, before ultimately returning it down toward his side. "I've learned that all we truly can do is warn the people we love, and then pray they'll be wise enough to make the best decision for themselves. Whatever this girl chooses, it is not your burden to carry."

[astoria00]

Caged

Summary:  

“What...are you?”

She hadn’t meant to ask, but the question just tumbled out of her mouth. She could only hope it wouldn’t have bad consequences for her afterwards.The woman however seemed more amused than upset at her words, a gentle smile adorning her features, as she let one of her hands rest on the sturdy door of the golden gate in front of her, inspecting the three locks with mild curiosity.

“You could call me...a like minded soul.”

[Part of the Fractures series]

Characters: Salem & Cinder 

Genre: Angst; kinda dark;

Word Count: 5.4K

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of torture; emotional manipulation; Child abuse

Then we got about seven years.

For what?

To train you for the Huntsmen exam.

That’s what he...what Rhodes said he would do.

Train her.

Cinder hadn’t known if she should believe him at first. Adults were a tricky bunch, always making empty promises...just like the woman who had first taken her to the orphanage claiming she was going to get a better life there.

All lies.

For all she knew Rhodes could have gone to Madame the very next morning selling her out...but he didn’t. He kept his word and started to train her.

At night though...only at night.

It made her lose sleep, but she wouldn't dare to complain.

This was her chance.

Her way out.

That’s what Cinder told herself over and over again to pull through...

When Rhodes left the first time without even acknowledging her.

When her adoptive sisters decided to torment her again.

When Madame made her scrub the floor for a whole day straight, without a break or food, to correct her work etiquette, only to punish her in the end anyway…

It would all be worth it.

She just needed to be strong enough to endure it until it was time.

In her rare free time...which basically only consisted of the time she was allowed to sleep, she began to practice on her own, going through the stances Rhodes had taught her diligently, cutting her nighttime short.

She didn’t need sleep, she needed to get stronger...better…

The first time she passed out from exhaustion she hadn’t even realized it, but then she started to dream.

It was a recurring dream, nothing Cinder wasn’t used to.

She was running from disfigured shadows that kept chasing her wherever she went. No matter what she did they always ended up capturing her, throwing her into a fancy bird cage made of gold with three locks on the front gate to make sure she couldn’t escape. They would point and laugh at her, calling her names, sometimes even throwing rocks at her and Madame’s voice would cut through the dark menacingly.

Without me you are nothing!

She would curl up into a ball on the cold floor and try to make herself as small as possible until she woke up again.

But of course this took its toll.

A week after Rhodes’ departure, Cinder got punished for passing out while darning her adoptive sisters’ socks. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but when they both mocked her and threatened to tell their mother she lost control over her semblance and set the socks in her hand on fire.

Something she would come to regret afterwards, but seeing the girls’ terrified faces, filled her with...some sort of satisfaction.

Although a rather brief one.

When she was finally released by Madame after receiving her due justice, her face was tear stained and her voice coarse and rough from all the screaming. She felt hot and her head kept pounding painfully with each beat of her heart.

There wasn’t a day where she wasn’t hurting all over.

Collapsing onto her mattress, Cinder didn’t have the energy to fight sleep any longer, falling into a restless slumber.

Unsurprisingly she winded back up in the golden cage once more, the usual grotesque shadows gathering around it, ready to torment her for yet another night. Squeezing her eyes shut, she huddled down in the middle and tried to block them all out.

She wanted them gone.

Why did no one care?

She just…

‘I want to be free!‘

“Is that truly what you desire?”

Cinder looked up startled, peering through the darkness behind the bars, not daring to move or make a sound. The shadows had all disappeared, along with the Madame’s mocking voice. It was...silent? No...there was something...a soft buzz surrounding her.

This felt...different than usual.

And then she noticed it!

A slight movement, a figure, approaching her and her little cage. Gleaming crimson orbs shone through the darkness, pinned only on her as they drew nearer and nearer. With each step she could feel the air around her grow thicker.

A sudden fear sized the young girl, as she scrambled onto her feet, desperately searching for a way to escape...to hide...but of course no such thing existed. There never was.

‘Fighting it is then!’

She wouldn’t let a monster take her, not even in her dream.

In sheer desperation, she raised her fists like her mentor had taught her and tried to look as threatening as possible.

“Stay where you are!”, she yelled, baring her teeth, almost growling like a cornered animal.

Sadly the figure didn’t seem to care one bit, not paying her words any mind, as they slowly stepped into the dim lit area at the outside of the cage, stopping right at its closed entrance. The pale light finally illuminated their features.

It was a woman.

A woman unlike any Cinder had ever laid eyes on. Her skin appeared almost ashen, if it weren’t for those strange, red, angry veins spreading from her hands and crimson eyes. The long black dress she wore obscured her feet from her view, but it wasn’t like the girl cared too much about that fact at the moment...even if the thought of the woman floating instead of walking towards her caused her lips to twitch a little.

“What...are you?”

She hadn’t meant to ask, but the question just tumbled out of her mouth. She could only hope it wouldn’t have bad consequences for her afterwards.

The woman however seemed more amused than upset at her words, a gentle smile adorning her features, as she let one of her hands rest on the sturdy door of the golden gate in front of her, inspecting the three locks with mild curiosity.

“You could call me...a like minded soul.”

‘...a what?’

The confusion must have shown on her face because the strange woman began to laugh. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sound. It certainly didn’t sound as grating as Madame’s, nor as cruel. It was almost...nice? Inviting?

Whatever it was, it made her even more curious about the woman, her defensive posture all but forgotten, as curiosity got the better of her.

“Do...you have a name?”

The woman cocked her head to the side, appearing thoughtful before answering pleasantly:

“I have been called many names, Witch, your Grace, my Queen, my Goddess…”

She trailed off, circling the cage soundlessly, forcing Cinder to turn in tandem with her movements.

“You can refer to me as Salem...for now”, she continued amicably, before letting her hand run over the golden bars of the cage.

Cinder’s mind was reeling.

Witch? Queen? Goddess?

She couldn’t help but scoff at that. This dream of hers was certainly going into a very strange direction.

“Magic isn’t real though”, she retorted. There was a challenging note to her tone. Maybe...she wanted to be proven otherwise.

To her frustration her words only earned her a mysterious smile.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. In any case, you appear to be trapped, Cinder.”

Cinder froze at the mention of her name.

How did she know?

‘A dream!’

Right, of course this was a dream.

She tried to calm down the panic that was threatening to rise inside her, focusing her attention on that ‘Salem’ and how she tapped lightly against the bars, as she continued to circle the cage nonchalantly. It helped, but her guard had gone up again...dream or not.

“How do you-?”

“What is your favorite fairy tale?”

‘My...what?’

Fairy tale?

Why…?

Her face fell. She… she didn’t…

“I...don’t know any…”

The adults didn’t care about fairy tales in the orphanage and Cinder couldn’t even remember her birth parents. She just knew they gave her up. The unlovable child.

No one ever bothered to tell her any kind of story.

Salem’s eyes softened almost unnoticeably.

“Then I shall tell you mine. It is called ‘The Girl in the Tower’. I imagine it could help you in ways you can’t even understand yet.”

“What’s it about?”

Somehow the idea of getting told a story appealed to the dark haired girl. Something she had always wanted if she was being honest to herself.

“It’s about a girl who got trapped into a tower by her vengeful and cruel father, all alone and with no control over her own future.”

That peaked Cinder’s interest. She hadn’t realized how she had stepped closer to the woman at the bars.

“Is...is she getting out?”

Her voice sounded unusually small, but she really...really needed to know all of a sudden.

Salem motioned for her to sit down, looking at her in a way that made Cinder wonder if that was what having a mother felt like. It was...comforting.

Huddling against the bars of the cage she dropped down, hugging her legs close to her body.

Salem’s voice was something else.

She made her tale come to live, talking about magic, about heroes and freedom, kings and castles...and about the girl who managed to escape her prison through sheer wit and initiative.

“You see, she fought for her freedom. She destroyed the locks that kept the gate closed and drained the cage of its power, never to look back.”

‘Destroyed...the locks…’

Cinder’s gaze flitted to the three locks on her cage.

Oh how she wanted that. She could destroy them and run. Make them pay for what they did to her…

But…

‘Rhodes!’

/Hurting them isn’t going to make your life any better./

He was risking so much to help her. To give her a way out. She just needed to be patient...to wait…

‘Seven more years…’

No, she would endure this. Rhodes trained her to become a Huntress. Then she could go wherever she wanted...even help other people like herself...people in need. She wouldn’t disappoint the hopes he placed in her.

/Without me you are nothing!/

The girl flinched at the sudden scream, whirling around in terror.

Salem was gone...and with her with her the peace and quiet she had enjoyed in her dream for once.

xxxxxxxxxx

“The hearts of men are easily swayed. Duty is their utmost priority. I would be careful who you put your trust into.”

Since that night Cinder had some more dreams of Salem. She found that she looked forward to them. Most of the time the older woman told her fairy tales in that pleasant voice of hers that made her want to rest and relax.

It was certainly strange having an imaginary dream person to converse with, but she didn’t complain. It was better than being tormented...even if most of Salem’s words and topics confused her.

She peered up at Salem from her sitting position, visibly pouting.

“Rhodes promised to come back.

And he is the only one who even wants to help me.”

The older woman wasn’t deterred, though, giving her one of these affectionate smiles that filled her with a strange, foreign warmth.

“Sometimes actual help is found in rather unexpected places.”  

Cinder grinned at her playfully.

“Like you, you mean?”

The only answer she got was a mysterious hum from Salem and a weird twinkle in her eyes.

xxxxxxxxxx

“I told you he would be back!”

The eleven year old couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear, grabbing Salem’s hands through the bars with obvious joy. She wished she could jump around her to further let her happiness be known. At first she hadn’t wanted to believe her eyes when Rhodes had entered the hotel this year. Yes, he didn’t acknowledge her there, but he came to the cellar in the night. He had brought wooden staffs for them to practice with. It was simply amazing.

Not even her adoptive sisters and Madame had been able to quell her good mood today.

Her excitement got even Salem to chuckle in the end, squeezing Cinder’s hands gently.

“I never said he wouldn’t be back, Cinder.”

There was a...weird undertone to her words, but she was too happy to care about this now. It wasn’t important. Salem would tell her another tale later on and Rhodes was back to train her. Right now...life was good.

“I’ll show you what he taught me today”, she said energetically, jumping back to fall  into one of the stances she had been shown today.

Interestingly the older woman agreed and even corrected her here and there, all while regarding her with that gentle smile of hers.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Is magic real?”

Cinder knew the answer to that question. It was a dream after all. Nothing of it was real...not Salem or her tales. Everything was just made up by her somehow.

The older woman seemed quieter than usual. It made her uneasy...and sad in a weird way. She had grown to like their talks...the fairy tales…

“Every tale I told you is real, girl.”

Her tone was different, more on edge. The usual warmth that accompanied it was lacking. It made Cinder shudder inwardly.

The silence between them stretched on, making her nervous.

Why did Salem seem to be...angry at her? Disappointed?

“Salem?”

“Yes, child?”

“Why did you come here when you don’t want to talk to me?”

There was a loud sigh that caused Cinder to cringe. There was only so much silent disappointment she could take...especially from someone that wasn’t real. It was enough when Madame gave her those looks.

She subconsciously rubbed her neck, lying on her back, staring at the dark ceiling, as she waited for the woman’s answer, not sure if she was dreading it or not.

“Why you ask...call it an experiment that hasn’t yielded results as of yet.”

‘Experiment?’

How come her dream constantly threw stuff at her she didn’t understand in the slightest?

“What do you mean?”

‘What did I do wrong?’

This time however she didn’t receive an answer. Salem kept quiet.

xxxxxxxxxx

“You have golden eyes.”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“You realize he is keeping you trapped here, do you not?

That he is the reason you are still suffering?”

Salem’s voice sounded almost cold, indifferent and not for the first time Cinder cursed herself for caring far too much. It was hard enough getting through the days as it was. She didn’t need the older woman to give her deepest fears and doubts a voice of their own. Also her change of topics always confused her. First it was eyes now it was Rhodes.

“It’s only four more years...I can do this.”

She didn’t know if she tried to convince Salem or herself...maybe both.

It didn’t do anything to lift the older woman’s mood though.

“If you do not act soon you will never amount to anything and ‘that woman’s’ words will become your reality. Is that truly what you want?”

/Without me you are nothing!/

Cinder had enough. A hot wave of rage surged through her, as she glared at Salem.

“I don’t have to defend myself to you!

You are just a stupid dream I have!

You’re not even real, stop wasting my time with your crazy fairy tales!”

She immediately regretted her words. Crimson eyes flashed dangerously in the dark and the temperature around them seemed to drop. A cold shudder ran down Cinder’s spine, as her expression morphed into one of fear.

“You are right...I am wasting my time with you.

You are of no use to me!”

Before the thirteen year old could react, before the words had even registered with her, she found herself alone, safe for the returning shadows thicker and closer than ever before.

Salem was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Say it!”

“Without you...I am nothing…”

Cinder was in agony. There was no escape anymore. The pain was everywhere. She could feel it in her bones, the burning that made her want to scream, to rip her skin open, to make it stop.

She had tried of course, oh how she had tried. Reopening her old scars on her right wrist. It had helped at first, but then her adoptive sisters had found out about it and Madame had made sure it would never happen again.

Salem hadn’t come back for months now.

It was weird and not for the first time she had asked herself if Salem had been real after all...but that was just ridiculous. Still...she was alone again and the shadows in her dream had gotten even crueller, not shying away from outright burning her with glowing embers they would throw at her, heating the bars, making her feel as if she was going to burst into flames at any moment.

To make matters even worse...Rhodes was late as well.

Curling herself down on the floor of the cage, she tried desperately to stop the tears from falling.

“Tell me a fairy tale”, she whimpered to no one in particular.

She just...wanted someone...to care...to be there.

/And the truth is that no one ever loved you!/

She winced, hugging her legs even closer to her body, as the tears finally escaped her eyes, trailing down her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry Rhodes…

I want to be strong…

But…’

“Once upon a time there was a despicable wizard living as a hermit far far away from any civilization.”

Cinder’s eyes shot open. Wide eyed she turned her head...and there she was...circling the cage, as if she had never left in the first place.

‘Salem.’

Any other day she might have questioned where she had gone and why she came back, but she was so tired. Closing her eyes she let the older woman’s soothing voice wash over her instead, dispelling the nightmares around them and granting her a little bit of peace.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cinder felt truly happy for the first time in literal years.

Rhodes had gifted her a sword. Her very first weapon!

In only three years she had proven herself to him enough to earn that privilege. It was surreal. Her future felt so close now.

Yes, she still had to endure four more years of her family’s treatment, but it would be worth it…

It had to be.

She had finished her chores earlier than expected today. Rhodes wanted to train with her at midnight, as usual, and she really couldn’t wait.

Last night she had asked him about fairy tales. Although he had been rather confused at the time he had told her one: The story of the Seasons…

The story Salem had told her. A tale she shouldn’t have been able to know.

How could Salem know so much when she didn’t?

‘Salem...doesn’t exist...right?’

But what if she did?

...ridiculous.

Shaking her head, Cinder made her way to the cellar. It was almost 15 before midnight. She should probably get ready. Stretching her aching limbs and muscles, she searched for her sword. She wanted to fight Rhodes with her own weapon tonight.

Her cheerful smile quickly vanished though, when she came up empty handed.

‘Where…?’

Where did it go?

“Are you perhaps searching for this?”

‘No!’

Cinder felt as if she got just dunked into ice cold water, fear gripping her heart. Slowly...very slowly she turned around, her eyes finding the source of her nightmares. Madame, head held high, holding her precious weapon in her grasp, not even bothering to hide the disgust spreading over her face as she inspected it with clear distaste.

“It seems we finally found our little thief after all”, she all but sneered, causing her daughters behind her to laugh.

The dark haired girl hadn’t even realized they were present as well. Lowering her head, she tried to make herself as small as possible.

She had to endure this.

Only a few more years…

Madame didn’t seem to like her silence, drawing nearer, that damned device ready in hand.

“Now, who did you steal it from, girl?”

“I didn’t-”

‘Wrong answer.’

The electric sparks she had come to know oh so well run through her throat, her skin hot and angry, as they sliced every nerve they could reach with ferocity, leaving only destruction and numbness in its wake.

Screaming always made it worse, but she couldn’t help it.

Even though she should be used to it by now…

Why was she so weak?

‘I want to be strong…’

Madame finally stopped, giving Cinder a few seconds to breathe again, the air burning in her lung with each gasp.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?

“It...it was a g-gift-”

“Stop lying!”

And her torture continued. Her hand flew towards her neck, but it was so futile. She couldn’t alleviate the pain.

She wasn’t lying.

What was she supposed to do?

Everything hurt…

‘Make it stop!’

[Destroy the locks.]

...the...locks?

[I will make you everything.]

The pain stopped again and had Cinder gasping for air, fighting the desperate urge to curl herself into a ball...or worse…

She had to endure this.

‘Only a few more years…’

Madame turned away from her, handing her weapon to one of her daughters.

“Here, find the owner and let them know we are terribly sorry, but we won’t be serving them any longer.”

‘...no!’

Wide eyed, Cinder raised her head, watching helplessly as her sword was passed between her adoptive sisters tauntingly.

Her weapon…

Her freedom…

Rhodes…

She would lose it all.

Her chest tightened anxiously.

No...no, no, nononononononono!

Without thinking about the consequences the dark haired girl jumped to her feet in sheer desperation.

“No please...I-I want to become a Huntress!”

Her voice almost cracked under the strain she put it under, but the panic was clearly audible enough for them to hear.

This time even Madame laughed.

Compared to Salem’s it was a rather cruel sound.

“A Huntress? You?”, she mocked, clearly amused at the prospect.

Soon enough her daughters joined into her laughter as well.

She hated them...oh how she hated them…

“You won’t go anywhere, my dear.”

She didn’t even see Madame press the button this time.

It was so fast and the pain never waited.

‘Hurts...hurtshurtshurtshurts’

There were muffled sounds, steps that drew farther away.

The girls were leaving.

Leaving with her weapon…

Her freedom…

Her...key…

[Destroy-]

‘The locks!’

Something inside Cinder ripped, exploded with an icy ferocity. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision shifted.

Red...everything was red, crimson...like those eyes she knew so well. The eyes that haunted her dreams. She was cold...numb, like the fire within her. She sank deeper and deeper into the cold embrace that cursed through her veins.

Shadows took form, surrounding her adoptive sisters, tearing into them without leaving traces, slowly suffocating them from the inside out.

There was horror in their gazes...honest, naked fear...and Cinder relished in it.

She didn’t know when she had made her way towards them, but she suddenly had her sword back, safe and sound in her left hand, while they lied motionless on the cold ground.

Only the biting buzz around her neck made the dark haired girl come back to reality, her golden eyes landing on Madame, who appeared to shrink away from her in terror.

Her normally cruel smirk had been replaced with a mask of utter panic, pressing the button of the remote repeatedly to yield results.

‘Drain...the cage!’

Cinder bridged the distance between them slowly, each step sending a wave of painful electricity through her sensitive flesh, dully echoing inside her.

But for some reason...it wasn’t enough to stop her.

Something was coursing through her veins.

Rage? Desperation? Aura?

She couldn’t say, but it was enough to finally make her endure it.

The way Madame flinched when she wrapped her right hand around her neck felt...exhilarating.

Fear… there was so much fear in her eyes...and she was the cause of it.

‘I want...to be feared.’

“You’re right. Without you I am nothing”, she practically spat the words out, a weird laugh ripping itself from her throat, raising her hand higher, as she let Madame scramble for air, “but because of you I am everything!”

‘Make me...everything!’

The light finally diminished in Madame’s eyes, her whole posture going limp in her grip. Dropping her to the ground unceremoniously, she was about to reach for her necklace when…

“Cinder…?”

Rhodes!

Relief flooded her.

He was here.

He would help her.

He would understand

She turned to him with a relieved, teary smile.

“I won’t have to run now.”

“That’s all you’ll ever do.”

‘...huh?’

There was no understanding in his gaze, only tired resignation.

What was he…?

Rhodes drew his weapons and any remaining hope Cinder had left shattered…

And with it came the burning rage that had been absent before.

‘Destroy the locks!’

xxxxxxxxxx

The following night Cinder dreamed of the golden cage bursting into flames, but it felt hollow. She had trusted Rhodes. He had been the only one who believed in her...and the first one giving up on her as well. She was torn between rage and sadness and all its pointlessness. She still wasn’t free. Atlas in itself was a prison. There was no way for her to run from the authorities for too long. She couldn’t stow away on an airship with how tight controls were right now.

Hugging her legs for comfort, she tucked herself closer behind the thin wall of cardboard she used as her makeshift shelter. The alleyway was dark and cold...but oddly enough it was better than what she was used to. No one would torture her...no one was able to…

‘But for how long?’

The thought caused her to shiver. Even thinking about it made her sick, but the people of Atlas had already taught her what to expect from them.

The dull noises of the nightly traffic made it hard for her to find any rest, so she tried to count the sounds she was hearing.

5 times a dog howled…

10 times brakes screeched…

15 times a crow screamed in the distance…

20 times her heart pounded in tandem with falling raindrop water…

25 times soft, muffled footsteps could be heard echoing through the alleyway, getting closer…

30 times-

‘Wait...what?!’

Cinder held her breath and listened as intensely as she could.

Tap...tap tap...tap…

Someone was coming down here...maybe even more than one. Instinctively, Cinder gripped the handles of her weapons tighter.

“Here?

Are you sure?

I am risking a lot just by being back in Atlas!”

A man...his voice sounded similar to all those elite people she had to cater to in the hotel. Full of superiority and arrogance.

“Salem said she is. She is probably hiding somewhere.”

Another, more deeper and gruff voice joined the conversation, but she could only focus on one thing.

‘Salem!’

They said Salem!

Could it be just a coincidence? Another person named Salem? After all Salem was just a figure she made up in her dreams...right?

There was no way someone like her could actually exist.

Magic wasn’t real…

And yet she had been telling her fairy tales that Cinder couldn’t possibly know. In the end she had to know, had to make sure. Crawling out of her hiding spot, she dashed through the darkness, precise and swift, jumping on the tall man’s back, holding one of her swords against his neck.

This one was clearly Atlesian with how he dressed.

“Who is Salem?”, she snarled at them, fixing her eyes on the other, more muscular man.

The tall man scoffed at that, rolling his eyes at his companion.

“Really? Her?

Couldn’t she have gone for someone a bit more refined?”

Oh yes, he was definitely an Atlas elite with how pretentious and bored he sounded. They were all the same.

‘Such arrogance!’

She pressed her weapon closer to her hostage’s jugular.

“Watts!”, his companion seemed to chide him, before holding up his hands, maybe to show the girl that he was unarmed.

“You are Cinder, correct?”, he asked after she failed to respond to his actions, “I am Hazel and this”, he motioned to the tall man, “is Dr. Watts. We are tasked to escort you to...our queen...Salem.”

“Salem...is real?”

There was no doubt in her mind that they meant her Salem. She did mention that her people called her their queen...but that also meant…

Everything she told her was real as well?

I’ll make you everything.

Should she really follow these strange men?

You have golden eyes.

Lowering her weapon, she shoved Watts away from her, ignoring the death glares she received in return and the silent curses he muttered under his breath, focusing on Hazel instead.

If she ended up throwing her life away for a fairy tale so be it. She had nothing more to lose anyways.

“I am ready.”

xxxxxxxxxx

The flight had been...mildly uncomfortable. Cinder had so many questions, but didn’t dare to ask her strange companions any of them. If the hotel had taught her anything it was keeping her mouth shut. Hazel had his eyes closed for the whole flight. She couldn’t quite tell if he was actually sleeping or just resting. Watts, to her dismay, wasn’t sleeping. He sat in his chair, sipping some dark red wine, pointedly ignoring her entire existence. The dark haired girl didn’t mind. She would probably despise every word that came out of his mouth anyways.

It had taken them a couple of days, but finally the terrain around them seemed to change.

Cinder was the first one to notice. The sky had begun to darken...to redden even, and the land beneath them...was dead. Lifeless and dark it spread across the continent, being parted by pitch black pools and lakes that seemed to birth...grimm?

The sight was terrifying...and oddly fascinating as well. She had never really seen a grimm in her life, only listened to the stories people would tell about them.

‘Humanity's worst enemy.’

Funnily enough no grimm had ever harmed her...only humans.

They landed near a...castle of sorts. It was a mesmerizing sight. One that sent chills down Cinder’s spine, but mesmerizing nonetheless. The purple, reddish glow reminded her of something...someone, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Hazel and Watts lead her through empty halls, lit by thousands of candles, which adorned most of the decor.

She felt more and more restless, the closer they got towards the massive wooden door they were heading to.

Hazel was the one pushing the two heavy wings open for her, stepping aside and motioning for her to enter, giving no indication of following after her. Neither did Watts, even though he seemed somewhat delighted at her nervous expression, twirling his mustache between his fingers.

Clenching her hands into fists, Cinder ventured into the room alone. It was similarly structured to one of the offices she had cleaned at the hotel...with some exceptions of course. The biggest probably being the throne right behind the long meeting table...and the person sitting on it.

A woman, she had only ever seen in her dreams before.

“Salem...you are real…”

It wasn’t a question any longer, it was a statement. How long had it been since she had last heard Salem’s gentle voice?

“What is your favorite fairy tale?”

Cinder blinked owlishly. That was...the same question she had asked before. It was confusing, but so had been a lot of things Salem had talked about in her dreams. Thinking back, she tried to remember the tales she had been told.

Tales of magic…

Of freedom…

“The Girl in the Tower”, she answered hesitantly, not missing the spark of interest and amusement that shone behind those crimson eyes, holding her gaze steadily.

“An unusual choice.

Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

No more cages.

No more locks,

A fable of magic and freedom…

Salem’s tale.

I won’t have to run now.

That’s all you’ll ever do.

She would prove him wrong!

She would prove everyone wrong!

“I want...to be powerful!”

An affectionate smile spread over Salem’s regal features at her words and oh how she had missed those smiles. Standing from her throne, the older woman made her way towards her, extending her pale hand. Hesitantly Cinder laid hers atop of it. The touch wasn’t cold like she had expected it to be, instead she felt warmth.

This...this was real.

Smiling weakly she squeezed the palm beneath hers softly, not daring to hope.

Salem’s eyes softened, her fingers closing around the girl’s hand gently.

“Welcome home, Cinder.”

[mallorytaylorblog]

Suffering.

25th October 2020.

What does the word suffering mean? When I looked it up in the dictionary, I got a few different definitions.

“The condition of one who suffers.”

“An instance of pain and distress.”

“The bearing of pain, inconvenience, or loss.”

Based on those definitions alone I think it’s safe to say we’ve all experienced suffering at one point in our lives. We could even be suffering now - I know for me, living in Melbourne, suffering is a much talked about topic and everyone has a totally different and individual experience to convey.

In the context of mental wellness, I think suffering is a really interesting topic to ponder.

There are two truths that I believe are guaranteed about suffering.

1) suffering is inevitable, and 2) suffering is a choice.

If feels contradictory but I think these two truths are actually complimentary in nature.

One thing I find interesting about suffering is that it often manifests itself as a mental and emotional affliction - sure we can be physically in pain, but when I think of suffering I think less of things like injuries, which can be acute and are fairly simple to overcome. I think of suffering in the 21st century as things like ruminating over a situation or interaction over and over again, replaying the same scene thinking about all the things you can have said or done differently in the moment. It’s things like mulling over a heart break, it’s the embarrassing moments that get seared into your brain, ready for reliving every night just as your about to fall asleep. In my opinion, it’s human nature to wonder, “What if?” because as a species we’re wired to hope for better. We’re driven by love, acceptance and belonging so when things don’t go to plan we can get stuck in a trap of letting the wheel spin over and over in the same spot. It doesn’t get us anywhere and only serves to hurt us further, keeping us trapped in a moment in time reliving something that we cannot change.

It’s the meaning we assign to things that causes us to mentally and emotionally suffer. Nothing is permanent yet we suffer when we are afflicted with things like loss and heartbreak. They may not cause us physical pain, but the mental and emotional effects of such events can last well after the event has occurred.

I suffered a lot as a child. I was bullied a lot, I felt neglected at home, I struggled to communicate my emotions and felt rejected and unloved. I had this yucky story about having to earn love, like I wasn’t worthy of it just for being me. So I suffered with having to feel like I needed to put on a facade or change who I was in order to be accepted. I was diagnosed with depression at age 12 and took anti-depressants for years, so I suffered with that. I had eating disorders for nearly two decades, so my relationship with my body and with food and exercise suffered a lot. I felt forgotten in my family, I punished myself for things that weren’t my fault, and I felt a lot of pain and anxiety as a kid that translated to my story as an adult. None of my physical injuries as a kid affected me long term growing up, but the meaning I assigned to the events that hurt me mentally and emotionally created the beliefs and stories I subscribed to as a kid and as an adult.

One thing I think is important to remember when talking about suffering is that pain is relative. No one has authority to tell someone that what they’re enduring is worthy of suffering, only the individual gets to decide that. I grew up an angry, sad, confused and heart broken kid, but in the eyes of another person, I had a family of four older siblings and two parents who loved me, I had a roof over my head, I went to a nice school. I had a hot meal to eat every night and I had a comfy bed to sleep in. If suffering is a mostly mental and emotional affliction, it’s handy to remember that regardless of outward appearances everyone has endured different degrees of suffering. We have all been through something that has changed us.

Which brings me to the first truth.

Suffering is inevitable.

We’re always going to find situations, events, people, things that make us hurt. To me, it’s human nature to be kind and loving. If we’re open to love, and it is our human nature to love and be loved, then it’s also in our nature to be hurt and to suffer. We’re compassionate and kind by nature and we hope for the best for each other and ourselves. Of course we’re going to suffer, we’re constantly aiming high when it comes to our experience of life, and as we know life doesn’t always deliver exactly what we expect.

I believe only those who are hurting hurt other people. It doesn’t feel good to hurt another person, unless we’re already suffering in some way. To me, the term “hurt people hurt people” tells us we need to be more compassionate and less judgemental. If we knew the pain others were suffering we may not be so quick to persecute or condemn. Perhaps we’d be more inclined to understand. We all live such unique and different experiences, but our nature is to love and be loved. That however opens us up to the vulnerability of heart break and rejection. It’s the duality of life - where there is pleasure, there is pain. Where the is a win, there is a lesson. Where there is rain there is a rainbow. We’re a pleasure seeking species so, as the balance of life dictates, as above so below, where we seek pleasure we also seek suffering. It’s a part of the human condition.

I mentioned before that the meaning that we assign to things is what ends up causing us mental and emotional suffering. We experience something, we decide what that experience means for us, and then we continue living our lives with another lens through which to view our world. A lot of the time it’s the stories we write for ourselves that determine how much or how long we suffer.

So if the first truth is “suffering is inevitable” and the second is “suffering is a choice’, how is it that they’re complimentary?

Well yes, we all experience mental and emotional anguish at some point of our lives, it’s absolutely unavoidable. That anguish however can either be used to write an empowering story, or a disempowering one. This is the meaning that we assign to events and, even though it may not seem like it at the time, we always have a choice in how we suffer. We get to choose the meaning we assign.

I was diagnosed with depression when I twelve years of age. That’s a young age to be battling a mental illness. That diagnosis changed the way I viewed myself, it added another lens to the way in which I processed and viewed my world. My story for a long time was that I was broken and unworthy of love. My mental illness diagnosis was the foundation to that story, it was the proof that supported that belief. There was nothing physically wrong about me, I was just a little kid who wanted more than my parents could give me. But the fact that my mother took me to the doctor, who then told us that I had ABC diagnosis and that these pills were the “fix”. told me that Mallory = Broken. My belief that I was unlovable just the way I was, was emboldened by that event. And I suffered for decades after that because the meaning I assigned to that event was that I was a burden to my mother. That’s heavy for any kid to suffer. As an adult, this belief manifested itself in many ways. I suffered relationships that didn’t work out due to my lack of self worth, I suffered estrangement from my mother and siblings, I suffered despair and loneliness like you wouldn’t believe, and I suffered a relationship with myself that was without love and acceptance (all the things I outwardly craved the most). The meaning I assigned to the doctor’s visit that day built a wall around my heart that prevented anything that didn’t support the “Broken Mallory” narrative from coming in.

That started at age 12. I’m 31 now. And every now and then you just get tired of your own shit. Can anyone relate to this?

I got tired of suffering that belief.

I got tired of seeing others out there living their lives to the max while I felt weighed down by this bullshit story that kept me suffering and in pain for so long.

I couldn't choose my parents. I couldn’t choose the way they decided to love me. The one thing I could choose, however, was the story. I could choose to assign a different meaning to the things that hurt me as a kid. I could choose to look at the belief that I’m broken and unlovable, and say “This isn’t working for you any more, Mallory. Time to switch it up”.

Perspective is helpful when it comes to choosing what you suffer. Delicately balancing the validation and acknowledgement of your pain, and looking outside of your bubble for examples where there is hope to be gained is a necessary life skill I believe. It takes a lot of practice, especially if you’re like me and never felt like your pain was valid or worthy of acknowledgement. It helps to know that yes you’ve got it bad, but you’ve also got it pretty good, to shift the way you view things.

For me, that looked like deciding that my mum was taking me to the doctor because she loved and cared about me, and wanted the best for me. She did the best with what she knew. Viewing the event through that lens changed everything about the meaning I had assigned to that day. I wasn’t a burden she didn’t know how to deal with, she was caring for me the best way she knew how.

So yes, in the context of mental wellness suffering is inevitable, but it’s also most definitely a choice. It’s choosing to enjoy all the fruits whilst being okay with some weeds, and not letting the weeds overcome our gardens.

We can choose to see things through a different lens.

For me, the broken and unlovable story become a story about the power of emotional vulnerability, and how opening yourself up to the world only encourages the world to meet you half way. You only get out what you put in, and if choosing to stay stuck in your pain only encourages more pain, then it’s up to us to choose a different meaning for ourselves.

So how do you do that? How do you choose another meaning? When I’m experiencing some sort of mental or emotional pain, I ask myself “What do you need right now in this moment?” and give myself permission to do what’s most soothing and enjoyable in order for me to lift my spirits. So the first step is acknowledging the pain, giving yourself permission to feel it without judgement, then getting back to equilibrium. Then when I’m feeling more grounded, I can examine my emotions to look for the story underneath it, to find the meaning I have assigned to the event that created the belief.

Once you get to the root of the belief, you can explore other ways of viewing the event. Remember compassion and kindness is our human nature, so where can we bring this lens into view?

This is the sort of stuff that working with a coach can be greatly assisted by. It takes practice to dive into our pain and reinterpret what it means for us, and having someone to guide you through the work to begin with, before it becomes habitual, can get you off on the right foot.

Viktor Frankl, the holocaust survivor and author of Man’s Search For Meaning, says, “This is the core of the human spirit. If we can find something to live for - if we can find some meaning to put at the centre of our lives - even the worse kind of suffering becomes bearable”.

So with that in mind, I have three questions for you to ponder. Preferably while you’re journaling on the scenarios or people you’re suffering over.

So what meaning are you choosing? What stories are you writing for yourself? Which lens do you choose to view the world through?

[teamfreehoodies]

Soft- Geraskefer Week

Title:  if we’ll never be more than this (let me know so i can let it be) Day/Prompt: Day 3: Soft Source Material: Netflix Word Count: 2,014 (2k) Warnings: Angst!! Anxiety Attack Summary:  A continuation of my entry for pining, but make it worse before it gets better. Jask has an anxiety attack and then Geralt and Yenn make it better.

He has to laugh, he thinks, wiping his tears from his face, because this is just like him isn’t it, to be so distraught after what was by all accounts a wildly pleasurable evening. Only he could turn something so good, so bad with just a few seconds of thinking too hard. He tosses the rag aside, slightly grossed out now to still be holding it, and then slips his clothes back on, quietly, because if he’s going to break down and have a proper cry about his traitorous broken heart he’s certainly not going to do it naked. He’s short of breath and there’s a horrid keening wail trapped in his throat and he’s a fucking actual functioning adult he should not be going into a fit of histrionics because— because what? Because he’s unloveable? Because he’s mortal and pathetic and small and fucking stupid and he should have known better, because Geralt hadn’t even wanted him as a traveling companion and because Yennefer hadn’t ever even tried to hide how little she thought of him. The world is blurry through his tears and he only just makes it to the door before the first sob bursts free and he’s not as quiet as he should be when he leaves, but he just hopes it was silent enough to offer him a clean break. By the time he descends the stairs he’s running because he can’t be here. This is embarrassing, is so far beyond embarrassing that’s he’s come out the other side and he wants to die with the shame of it all.

(This is not the first of these attacks, where a wild sadness comes up and steals his reason, makes him weak and pathetic and useless, unable to be calmed down— but it’s the first in a while, in such a long time he’s forgotten how bad they could be and he hates it because he knows, very distantly in the part of his brain that isn’t functioning right now, that he’s overreacting. He knows that these thoughts aren’t true, but they feel real and he can do little else but ride it out until it’s gone and hope no one finds him in the meantime.)

He stumbles into the stables, wanting to be alone but also desperate for a corner to put his back against: it’s early enough in the pre-dawn hours now that the stable hands are all gone, so it’s just him and the horses. He fumbles with the latch for Roach’s stall door, still keening noiselessly because he doesn’t actually have enough air to make any sound at all right now and because it’s early and he doesn’t want to wake anyone and because he needs to hide until this passes, and his hands are shaking too much to get the metal bolt to slide out, and what the fuck kind of door is this anyways it’s not like a stall door needs a complicated bolt mechanism it’s just keeping fucking horses in place it’s not protecting anything fucking important— he kicks the door, utterly suddenly furious and then he punches it too, just once rabbit quick with clenched fists and Roach screams, startled and scared of him and gods he’s ruining everything.

He can’t be here— he shouldn’t be here, “I’m sorry, Roach” he means to whisper but it’s a garbled mess around the sobbing breaths his body is shaking apart around and then, because the universe hates him and exists to laugh at his pain, he runs face first into Geralt as he’s trying to leave. 

He’d been so quiet, and then he’d ruined it, scaring Roach and of course Geralt was here to check on her, because he loved Roach and he loved Yennefer and he hated Jaskier, could barely tolerate him, just let him follow him around because it was easier and he was too nice to tell him off. Geralt was sleep-rumpled still, and he’d pulled on trousers but no shirt, just his stupid witcher’s medallion sitting again this bare chest (the bare chest that Jaskier has just bounced off of, and that he’d spent several long glorious minutes exploring with his tongue last night) and his misery is renewed again as Geralt rubs one hand across his eyes and then notices Jaskier finally.

“Jask?” He asks, and Jaskier has one shining moment of hope where he thinks maybe Geralt hasn’t noticed and then Geralt has both hands on his shoulders and is trying to meet his eyes even as Jaskier looks away. “Jaskier, what’s wrong.”  He shakes his head, pushing his lips together to try and hold back everything. He can’t speak can’t admit to the truth of how fucking stupid he is, and now that he’s been found he feels even stupider, that he couldn’t just— hold it in long enough to hide it. He shakes his head, and then keeps shaking it, even as Geralt pulls him into his chest. He’s warm and broad and Jaskier doesn’t deserve this, but he needs it too so he lets himself fall apart in Geralt’s arms. It’s not like Geralt can think any less of him, he thinks slightly hysterically. 

He starts laughing, and then he can’t stop, a series of hiccoughing sobs the Geralt just shushes him through. “Jask, what’s wrong?” Geralt asks again, and the ‘nothing’ gets trapped in his throat so he’s so glad when Geralt just pushes his face into his shoulder and then picks him up. Geralt is taking him back to the inn, back to Yennefer and he can think of few things more immediately humiliating than letting Yennefer see him like this, so he tries to synch his breathing to Geralt’s. One of the better effects of being a witcher is that Geralt’s breathing is steady as a metronome, and Jaskier has used it to keep time while practicing out in the woods more than once. 

He hides his head in Geralt’s shoulder as they enter the room again, and he’s stopped crying, has calmed down from the worst of it just through proximity, (because Geralt makes him feel safe, like nothing else does, and if he can’t feel cherished at least he can feel that). He thinks, inanely, that if he just... keeps hiding he can survive this with some measure of dignity intact. Maybe Yennefer is still asleep, and Geralt will lie down between them and he can just... pretend this didn’t happen in the morning. He holds onto that thought all the way up until Geralt actually sets him down on the bed, and then Yennefer is suddenly all over him. She rolls him over so he’s on his stomach, and he’s half afraid of what she’s going to do, but all she does is climb on top of him so her weight is distributed across as much of him as possible. She’s smaller, but there’s still a whole human laying across his back and her breasts leave a soft cushion across his shoulders, her knees just pressing this side of uncomfortable into the back of his thighs. She’s still mostly naked, but he can feel that she’s wearing Geralt’s shirt, the extra fabric wrinkling oddly against his back. He shoves his head into the mattress, but then one of Yennefer’s hands is gliding through his hair, petting against the grain, and he shivers with the pleasure of her touch. Geralt sits next to them, and he’s... there’s no word for what he’s doing except petting, rubbing his rough hands up and down Jaskier’s shins, pressing in just enough to smooth the tension out of his muscles. 

He’s melting under their ministrations, and he’s half-asleep when Yennefer drops a kiss against his cheek. “What’s wrong, bardling?” she whispers and its not even really a pet name, but it’s the softest she’s ever been with him, and he shudders roughly, pushing through the instant flush of embarrassment because he thinks he owes them some explanation doesn’t he. “I-” he cuts himself off, because how does he put this into words that don’t make him sound ungrateful? “I just.. got scared.” he says, half a whisper because he can’t say it any louder. 

“Oh, it’s okay, little bardling,” Yennefer croons in his ear, and it should be humiliating to have her call him small, to be using such a voice, yet it does nothing but soothe him further, her weight across his back, the soft petting from both her and Geralt, the silent steadiness of Geralt sitting next to them. Geralt stretches out to lie with them, and he reaches out one hand to tap gently at Jaskier’s cheek until he opens his eyes enough to meet his golden gaze. 

“What were you scared of?” he asks, and god what a gut-punch of a question that he is. They’ve trapped him in their embrace and he won’t be able to wriggle out without answering. He can’t deflect here, and he thinks, perhaps uncharitably, that this has Yennefer written all over it. 

“I didn’t--” he can’t say, physically can’t make the words leave his mouth, but Yennefer must be using magic to read what he means to say anyways because she tuts, lowly, and then kisses the back of his neck, nuzzling into his nape. He gasps with the sudden pleasure, and then Geralt leans forward to steal a kiss from his lips (and the angle is weird and it should be uncomfortable for both of them but it’s so godsdmaned good because its them, because its always good between them). Yennefer and Geralt pull back at the same time, and then Yennefer has his chin in one hand and she too drops a kiss against his mouth, (this angle is even more awkward, but the slight twinge in his neck is worth it for how fucking sweet she tastes, like gooseberry jam and burnt sugar and just that hint of Chaos, swirling around everything she does. 

“I love you,” she says, when she pulls back, and he blinks, absolutely stunned by the bareness of it. She’s not holding anything back and he wants to revel in the feeling of it, but its so sudden he-- “Hey,” she says, cutting off his thoughts. “Don’t do that. I love you, and if you think you’ve been hiding how much you love us, you clearly don’t listen to your songs.” she smirks at him as he gapes at her because what a bald-faced insult, doesn’t listen to his own songs, what a load of cock, he knows exactly how obvious he’s been in his lyrics, he just rather hadn’t thought they were listening close enough to know. Geralt laughs, a rough sound that sends a low thrum of arousal straight to the base of him, and then he presses a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s temple and oh gods that’ so gentle he’s so gentle with him and Jaskier wants to cry all over again, but this time from happiness. 

“I love you too, Jask,” he whispers and then, smirking, because he is above all else a right fucking bastard, he reaches around Yennefer to slap Jaskier’s ass. “Go the fuck to sleep now, I’m tired.”Jaskier gasps, scandalized, but then Yennefer is sliding off him laughing also, and she crowds up against his back, pushing him into Geralt’s arms.

“Cuddle your witcher, bard. You made him all sad earlier when you left. You’ve gotta fix him now.” Yennefer says, pushing him with both arms into Geralt’s embrace. Geralt nods, very seriously, and Jaskier goes easily enough, laughing the whole time. 

“Oh what a burden I bear,” he says, letting both of them wind their limbs around him. “Do you feel cured, witcher?” he asks, smiling against Geralt’s collar bone. 

“With you two in my bed?” Geralt rumbles, releasing one hand from Jaskier’s waist to wind his fingers together with Yennefer’s. Their joined hands pull tight against Jaskier’s hip and he feels held by both of them, cocooned between their bodies and safe and welcome the way he’s always craved. “How could I ever be anything else?”

____

@geraskeferweek

[chibinightowl]

Down the Rabbit Hole, Chapter Eight (end)

Well. Has it really been an entire year since I started this story? Apparently it has. Happy birthday once more to the amazingly talented @tanekore!!! 

Read the previous chapters on Ao3!

~*~*~

In the cool darkness of the Batcave, Tim sits beside Jason’s bed and watches as the Martian Manhunter probes the dream of the one he loves. It’s been almost two full days since he’s heard that voice and the sarcastic yet witty comments that practically define Jason. He misses him so much even though he’s laying right here in front of him.

Dick is seated beside him, having claimed oldest bird privilege when he displaced Damian, who hovers around the end of the bed while Bruce and Alfred wait across from him and Dick. It’s been almost an hour since J’onn entered Jason’s mind, his expression remaining as cool and unflappable as always.

The straps have been put back in place, the reprieve from earlier over and done with as Jason resumed the activity occurring in his head. If Tim had to guess, there’s a lot of running and walking involved as his legs have been in almost constant motion, twitching and jerking about. Something else apparently happened too, much to his surprise earlier in the afternoon when he woke up and spelled Alfred from his vigil.

Tim is quietly glad no one else was around for that as it raised more questions than it provided answers. He still wonders who Jason is dreaming about, who it is that made him cry out and find his release like he did. It would be nice if it’s him; in fact, he really hopes it is, but he refuses to begrudge Jason his happiness, even if it is only a dream.

They have so few of those moments as it is with the life they lead.

J’onn finally looks up from his intense study, though his hands remain on either side of Jason’s head. Everyone tenses, waiting on his words. “The Red Hood is lost inside his own mind. He has created an entire world of his own, full of people that hold particular meaning to him, good and bad.”

“Can you get him out?” Bruce asks roughly. His face is lined with worry.

“I can, but it will be difficult unless I have his cooperation. He believes that he has to complete a quest to find a particular sword and return it to its rightful owner before he’ll be shown the way home.”

“Does he know that he’s dreaming then?” Tim interjects before Bruce can.

“Yes. From what I’ve gleaned of his thoughts and memories within the dream, he was growing fearful that it wasn’t, that he was somehow trapped in a different reality. But recent events have made the Red Hood reevaluate that belief.” J’onn’s voice takes on a warning note. “However, while he is on the verge of completing his quest, there no guarantee that he will wake up on his own. He might very well stay locked in that world until the end of his days.”

Dick surges to his feet. “We’ve got to get him out of there now. It can be done before the quest is complete, right?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s another person in this same state,” Damian adds, always the one to play devil’s advocate. “The man Todd was fighting when he got gassed, he’s also like this.”

“We'll take care of him next,” Bruce states firmly. “At least we know whatever this particular toxin is, it runs its course on its own. Jason’s bloodwork and the spinal tap from earlier are completely clean.”

“Then why hasn’t Todd woken up on his own?” Damian counters. “If the toxin is gone, then he should have by now.”

Dick shakes his head. “The mind is a tricky thing, D. As I’m sure J’onn can attest to.”

“It most certainly is.” The Martian nods in agreement, his long fingers still laced against Jason’s skull. “In his dream, the Red Hood is about to do battle with his greatest nightmare. His sole ally has left him in favor of his own beloved one. It is possible that I can bring him out before the battle commences, but the Red Hood has discovered he has some semblance of control over the dream itself. I suspect that if I were to try and remove him on my own, he would resist me, so great is his desire to purge this evil from his mind.”

He pauses, and glances around at each of them.

Tim can see what he’s about to say from a mile away. “If anyone is going to retrieve Jason from the inside of his own head, it’ll be me,” he says before anyone else can speak up.

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but Dick rests a hand on Tim's shoulder. “I’m with Tim on this one.”

J'onn is already nodding, even as Bruce looks like he’s swallowed a sour grape. “The close relationship between the Red Hood and Red Robin should be more than enough to convince him.”

“I will not risk losing both of them,” Bruce snaps, eyes hot as he struggles to contain himself. Risking their necks out on the streets each night is one thing. Out there, the enemy is tangible and can be fought with their fists or their wits. But this?

It’s all in Jason’s head.

And considering some of the things that he still has nightmares about, going in there may be even more dangerous than what they face out here in the real world. Jason often jokes that the universe likes to use him as a punching bag and there are times Tim believes he’s not entirely off the mark.

“Bruce, you can’t make that decision for me,” Tim replies levelly. “Everything we do, each night we go out there, we don’t know if we’ll come back. But we do it anyway because we believe in our training and each other. We believe in you, so please, have a little faith in us. In me.”

The cave is eerily quiet as Bruce struggles, torn between his own desire to be the one to save his son, the one he’d failed to save before, and to let his other son be the hero he’s more than proven himself to be.

“Fine,” he finally says gruffly and looks away.

Alfred pats him on the shoulder. “Good lad,” he murmurs.

Tim lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding.

“Okay, so now that that���s been decided,” Dick speaks up to break the tension. “How is this supposed to work, J’onn?”

The Martian gestures toward the bed. “It will be easiest if you lay beside the Red Hood, Red Robin. I will lull you to the cusp of sleep and when you are about to enter your own dream, I will direct you into the Red Hood’s instead.”

That sounds simple enough and Tim hops up to settle in as best he can next to Jason. The straps are in the way, but with how he’s twitching and occasionally thrashing, they’ll have to stay in place.

“What exactly is Todd dreaming about, Martian?” Damian asks from the end of the bed. “You mentioned a sword quest earlier.” He actually sounds curious, probably because a sharp, pointy object is involved.

J’onn places a hand over Tim’s eyes, blocking the overhead light. Instinctively, Tim closes them. Time to get this show on the road.

“He is about to face off against a foe known as the Jabberwocky with a blade called the vorpal sword. For most of his quest, he was with person called the Cheshire Cat, but he has just left the Red Hood to retreat from the battle with a mind-controlled man who was formerly the White Knight.”

Dick snorts and even Damian scoffs. “The fool is dreaming he’s in Wonderland?”

“I don’t see anything wonderful about it,” J’onn states in his somber tone, fingers gently settling over Tim’s temples. Lethargy flows through him and Tim feels more relaxed than he has in years. It’s a shame he can’t fall asleep like this every night. “The Red Queen is Harley Quinn and the Joker is the Jabberwocky.”

Oh, shit. This isn’t going to be easy. Far from it.

~*~*~

Jason has the distinct impression he’s walking into a gunfight with the wrong weapon. Not that the vorpal sword is a bad weapon, far from it. What sucks is that he’d rather not have to get anywhere close to the Joker if he can avoid it. One shot right between the eyes is too merciful for that shit stain Bruce will never let him eradicate, but he’s vowed to himself that if the opportunity ever comes, he’ll do it and to hell with the consequences. He messed up once before and he won’t do it again.

Tim knows this too. When they were still feeling their way around in the beginning of their relationship, Jason made this fact crystal clear because he wouldn’t go further if Tim couldn’t accept it.

The little shit did, actually. But what blew Jason’s mind was his own story about how through a series of carefully orchestrated events, Tim almost killed Captain Boomerang, the man who murdered his father. The piece of garbage that the universe gave another chance to, that at times he wishes he still had the conviction to finish the job.

Yeah, Jason can relate.

The Joker’s rictus grin grows the closer he gets to the house, a constant between the two forms he’s shifting between. “You never answered my question, bird boy,” he calls out, holding up a crowbar that’s dripping blood. “Forehand or backhand?”

Fuck the mind-games already. He doesn’t want to deal with them, not now, not ever again. “Who says you’re any good at either of them?”

That earns him a pouty frown and a flicker into the beast his mind apparently has conjured for the Jabberwocky. He rises up, towering higher than the house like a demon from the depths of hell. “You will die here, Jason Todd,” the Jokerwocky howls. “Unloved. Unwelcome. Completely and utterly alone.”

“Dramatic much?” a wry voice comments from behind Jason. “Seriously, I know you’re a drama queen, Jay, but this is ridiculous.”

What the fuck?

Jason looks over his shoulder, then turns fully because his mind has to be playing tricks on him. There is no way Tim is standing there. His Tim, with his stupid black cowl that looks like a condom and even stupider oh shit handles strapped across his chest.

It can’t be him. Especially since his Tim doesn’t walk around with a large green lizard on his shoulder that has rather familiar beady red eyes.

Tim pushes back his cowl, revealing bright blue eyes that Jason could lose himself in for days. “Come on, Jay. It’s time to wake up.”

“You’re not here. You can’t be here.” Christ, but does he want it to be real. Tim-Cat is all well and good, but there’s no one he’d rather have to watch his back than his Tim. The real Tim.

“I’m here thanks to J’onn.” Tim gestures at the lizard. “I think you’ve met the Martian Manhunter before, right? We called him in when you wouldn’t wake up. We’re all physically in the cave, Jay. You and me, sleeping. Dick, Bruce, Alfred, even Damian, they’re all waiting for us.”

Jason scoffs. “Like that brat would ever want me to open my eyes again.”

“You’d be surprised. He expressed actual concern for your well-being before J’onn put me to sleep.”

That’s something he’d pay good money to see.

Behind him, the Jokerwocky screams in anger. “You are mine! Mine to destroy, mine to enslave! Mine!”

It’s the fact that the Joker is pitching a bitch fit over Tim’s words that convinces Jason he’s real.

“Tim?”

He takes a step closer and holds out his hand. “I’m here, Jay. You don’t have to fight the Joker. Just take my hand and we can wake up. All of this is just a dream.”

Jason sighs, shaking his head while sheathing the vorpal sword. “That’s just it, Tim. I want to fight him. I want to kill him. Who knows if I’ll ever have the chance in the real world? We’re all here in my head, so what does it really matter?”

Tim frowns. “Is this the only reason why you don’t want to wake up?”

The Jokerwocky howls and flaps his massive wings, sending gusts of wind out across the overgrown lawn strong enough to make Jason and Tim stagger. “Yes, fight amongst yourselves! You will never leave! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!”

“Shut the fuck up while the adults are talkin’, you piece of shit!” Jason snatches one of his guns and fires it at the Joker, wishing the bullets were real instead of rubber. While he’s at it, might as well wish for a rocket launcher.

The Joker screams in pain but oddly enough, doesn’t attack. It occurs to Jason that the beast appears to be metaphorically chained to the house and can’t move past it, so they can mostly ignore him. Which is fine with him because he’s got some business to hash out with Tim. Perhaps he’s not quite as on board with his real-life plans after all.

“Tim, I know this is a dream. I want to wake up. But before I do, I just wanna do this one thing. Just let me kill him and we can get out of here.”

A dream that has been so damned real that it’s almost painful to want to leave. But it’s not like Tim-Cat is real and besides, he’s got his Knight back. Even if this wasn’t a dream, chances were likely he wouldn’t want to shack up with them both. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to live with two Tims. They’d probably end up burying him alive somewhere and running off together.

It doesn’t look like Tim is convinced. “How does killing the Joker in a dream do any good when he’s still alive out there? That’s where it matters, not in here. I know you want that, if the opportunity presents itself and I’ve said I won’t stop you.”

He also said he wouldn’t help him either.

“What if that doesn’t happen though?” Jason persists. “Maybe this will be almost as cathartic as the real deal. Maybe, just maybe, killing him in here will finally mean I can sleep through the night in peace.”

Not every night because their lives are shit for that to even be a remote possibility, but perhaps he’ll be able to wake up next to Tim and not be covered in sweat from the terrors that stalk his nightmares.

Tim glances at the Jokerwocky still raging behind him and back to Jason. The pensive look on his face tells him that he’s about to give in, but with misgivings. “J’onn seems to be on your side,” he comments idly. “Not that he’s giving a reason why.”

Jason has almost completely forgotten the third member of their little party. Big mistake there as the Martian Manhunter is one of the most powerful members of the Justice League, a fact easily overlooked considering how reserved he is compared to other members. Back in his Robin days, he’d never heard Bruce speak of him with anything other than respect. He could probably yank them all out of here in a heartbeat.

So why hasn’t he? He remembers seeing the lizard earlier before he and Tim-Cat stormed the hedge. J’onn could have woken him up right then and there instead of letting him get up in the Bandersnatch’s business and wander into that psychedelic nightmare of a house. It’s almost as if he wants him to complete his quest...

Gleaming red eyes stare back at him and Jason swears he winks.

Well, well, well.

Tim frowns harder. “You are so damned stubborn.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Tim jerks his head toward the house. “Now make up your mind. Hell beast or human?”

A victory is a victory and right now, he’ll take what he can get. Jason grins as he turns his attention back to the Jokerwocky. The flickering is worse now, switching from one terrifying visage to the other and back again. All he has to do is decide.  

The demonic beast is frightening beyond belief, black as sin and the darkness that haunts his deepest nightmares. Stifling pitch darkness that surrounds and suffocates him, that has him clawing for air and freedom and light. But for all of that, it’s not what tortures him most.

Night is followed by day, after all. Tim, hell, even the rest of his family, have taught him that. The lesson just took a few years to sink in. Jason can just hear Damian muttering about him being a slow learner.

Just like that, the beast disappears, leaving a man clutching the railing across the front of the house with a grin so wide that it would put the original Cheshire Cat to shame.

“Ready to come and play, birdbrain?”

Jason is more than ready and resumes his steady march back toward Arkham, this time with Tim keeping pace at his side.

“What’s the plan?” Tim asks, voice pitched low.

“Keep an eye out for Harley. She’s around here somewhere.” Better that Harley becomes Tim’s problem, it’ll give him one less thing to worry about. The vague concern about having to take on both the Joker and his annoying as fuck, but no less deadly psychotic girlfriend dissipates. Why can’t the Harley in his dream be the same as the one out in the real world? That one would be marching right along with them with her giant fucking mallet to beat the shit out of her former puddin’.

“Fine, but what’s your plan for taking him on?”

“It’ll come to me.”

“In the next ten seconds or so?”

“Sure.”

Truth be told, Jason has no set plan for killing the Joker. He knows how he’d prefer to do it, but a sword isn’t exactly the right weapon for shooting someone. It means he has to get right up close and personal, parry that damn crowbar a few times before the blade breaks it and he can make with the stabbing.

Too many things can go wrong with that scenario. It’s the Joker and his nightmare, so why would things go right?

As they approach the steps to the wide portico, the Joker comes to meet them, his stride long and nonchalant, like this was nothing but a walk in the park for him. In one hand is the crowbar that still drips blood from some unseen source. He stops at the top of the steps to face them, tapping the tip of the bleeding metal against his other hand with wet smacks that send splatters of red flying.

Jason’s memory helpfully provides another time he and the Joker faced off over a crowbar and his ribs twinge in agony.

Gee, no, his imagination isn’t fucking with him, really. Nope, this is all nice and normal, right here.

“Alright you fuckin’ clown. Let’s get this over with so I can wake up.”

The Joker’s grin grows wider, his teeth stained yellow under the pale light of the moon. “You will never wake up, Jason. It’s just you and me and the crowbar for as long as your heart beats. Those others are lying to you, just as they always have. No one wants you except for me, little robin.”

He breaks off into another maniacal laugh.

Jason shakes his head and lets the words fall away. Once upon a time, he’d have believed them, he really would have. But while he has many doubts about his place in Gotham, in his family, there is one relationship he doesn’t, and that person stands by his side. “Jesus Christ, you are such a fuckin’ liar.”

His hand falls to his waist to grasp the hilt of the vorpal sword.

But rather than unsheathing a sword, he raises a gun, the gleaming silvery metal a match for either of the .45s strapped to his thighs.

“What the hell?” Tim gapes at the weapon the vorpal sword has morphed into.

Jason doesn’t question it. His dream, his weapon. Finally, something is going his way. He flips the safety and takes aim. “Tweet, tweet, motherfucker.”

Okay, so it’s not the most original line in the world, but damn is it satisfying.

The gunshot rips through the night with a snicker-snack, and the Joker appears surprised at the unexpected assault, eyes crossing as he tries to take in the hole that now adorns his forehead. But Jason is confident that the vorpal sword picked up on his preferred ammo, so while the damage to the Joker’s face is rather minimal, there’s nothing left to the back of his head after the bullet ripped apart his brain and shattered against the skull.

The Joker falls to the ground, a puppet who’s lost his strings. The crowbar lands beside him, a soft thunk as it falls from that long-fingered grip.

One, two! One, two! And through and through, the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back.

Tempting as it was to decapitate the Joker, there really wasn’t much left of his skull to make it worth his while. Besides, Jason doubts the White Queen really wants to mount the Jokerwocky’s head on her wall.

Tim-Cat is an entirely different story.

A loud wail echoes from the Asylum as Harley makes herself known. “Puddin’! My puddin’!” Her cries fade away as the house shudders again, foundations cracking and quaking as the earth heaves.

Jason grabs Tim’s shoulder and yanks. “Run!”

For the second time that night, he races toward the hedge and the safety of the garden beyond. Behind him, wood splinters and stone groans as Arkham Asylum is swallowed into the ground, sinking into the caves beneath the surface.

Tim is hot on his heels, cape whipping behind him as he keeps pace.

There’s no Bandersnatch blocking the way, so Jason stops to catch his breath as soon as they reach the trees.

“What…happened?” Tim gasps, sucking in air like it’s going out of style. They’re both in great shape, but a sprint of that magnitude is bound to make them both need to relearn how to breathe.

Rather like how they did the first time they’d had sex.

Jason holds up the vorpal gun that’s still clasped tightly in his hand. “I shot him.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Tim pushes away from the tree he’s leaning against. “Since when has the vorpal sword been able to turn into a gun?”

“The vorpal blade takes whatever form it’s bearer needs it to.” The voice speaks from up in the branches of the tree. “My Knight is swordsman. You are a gunman. Didn’t you know that?”

Tim-Cat drops gracefully to the ground.

Jason wants to choke at the sight of two Tims standing before him. “No, I didn’t,” he replies somewhat testily as his Tim stares in amazement at his doppelgänger. “Don’t cha think that would have been a helpful bit of information to share?”

The Cheshire Cat is staring just as curiously at his human counterpart. “I was distracted,” he replies, clearly not paying Jason much attention.

“Why are you here?” Jason asks, holstering the gun. “I thought you’d be further along with your Knight.”

“He and the Bandersnatch are under Absalom’s care. She’s one of the most trusted agents of the White Queen.” Tim-Cat finally tears his gaze away from Tim’s. “I came back because I thought you’d need help.” He smirks, fangs flashing in the moonlight. “But I see I was already with you.”

Tim slowly shakes his head. “Jay, is this how you see me? Really?”

The grin sharpens. “How do you think I feel? My Knight and your Jason are identical in all ways. Right down to that little thing they do with their –”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Jason steps forward before Tim-Cat can finish that sentence. “No one is comparing notes here, got it?”

The look Tim gives him says they’re having a long talk later. Great. Just great.

Jason unclips the vorpal gun from his belt to hand it over to Tim-Cat. “Here. According to that green lizard, I don’t have to actually return this to the White Queen in order to wake up. But I do want to give it to you.”

Tim-Cat accepts it, claws wrapping around the grip. As Jason lets go, the vorpal gun morphs again, this time into a long, slender staff that is all too familiar. “Thank you for returning this to us, Jason. My queen appreciates your efforts.”

The words are stiffly formal, but Jason is fluent in Tim-speak and knows that look behind those eyes, even slitted as they are. “And you? Do you still think I’m an asshole?”

Those luminescent orbs blink wetly before Tim-Cat slinks forward and wraps his arms around Jason’s neck. “Of course, you are. We wouldn’t love you like we do if you weren’t.”

Warm lips press against his, hot and hungry. Then, in the blink of an eye, the Cheshire Cat and the vorpal staff disappear.

Tim arches an eyebrow. “Something you want to tell me?”

Jason runs a hand through his hair, already feeling like more than a little bit of a tool for what he did with Tim-Cat, even if this is all simply an incredibly vivid and realistic dream. “Yeah, but after we wake up. How’s that supposed to work anyway?”

The lizard’s ruby eyes blaze in sudden fire. “All you have to do is want to. I will take care of the rest.”

After the last couple of days Jason has had, a telepathic lizard is the least of his concerns. He reaches for Tim’s hand and clasps it firmly. “Oh, I definitely believe it’s time for me to wake the fuck up. Do I need to click my heels three times? Say there’s no place like home?”

Tim shoves a bony elbow into his side. “Wrong story, Jay.”

“Do you have any idea how many genres I’ve been crossing since I woke up in here?”

“Tell me when we’re awake.”

Jason winks at him as darkness begins to fall around the edge of his vision. “As you wish.”

~*~*~

It doesn’t take long after Jason emerges from his slumber to wish he were unconscious again. “For the last fucking time, Dickie, I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

Dick heaves a massive sigh and glares. “If you don’t tell me, then Bruce will get all up in your face about what happened for his report. Do you really want that?”

Jason scowls because of course he doesn’t want that. At the same time, he doesn’t want to tell Dickface either, so he settles on the happy medium. “Some of the things that happened in there are a little too personal and I need some time to process before I even contemplate telling another person.”

The frustration on Dick’s face eases at the surprisingly honest answer. “You’re lucky Bruce went with J’onn to Gotham General.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Jason sits up in the bed he and Tim share when they have to stay at the Manor for some reason or other. It’s rare they ever do together, but Alfred has put his foot down, so there’s no escaping tonight. Today. Whatever the hell the time is. His internal clock is all kinds of jacked up. “Look, there’s a lot of shit in my head that I try not to think about on the regular, but this dream hallucination brought most of it back to the surface. The last thing I need is Bruce breathing down my neck.”

Dick nods, rising from the chair he’d moved to the side of the bed upon entering the room earlier. “I can respect that. And I’ll make sure he does too. Just… try not to run away too soon? You scared the crap out of everyone, so at the very least, you can cut Alfred some slack and let him fuss over you.”

“I think I can deal with that for a day.” He’s already eaten a plateful of fresh cookies, his favorite ones too.

“Good. I’ll handle Bruce then. Get some rest, Little Wing. You haven’t been sleeping well.” Dick winks and escapes from the room before the pillow Jason throws at him manages to hit the back of his head.

“And people say I’m the asshole.” Jason sighs and wonders if he can convince Tim to pick up the pillow when he gets out of the shower. He’d do it, but he’s on strict orders from Alfred to stay on bedrest after he’d fallen down in the Cave when his legs gave out on him as he got up from the hospital gurney. Not exactly his best moment.

Even if it did earn him a sponge bath from Tim when they made it upstairs. He aches for a normal shower, but he’s still feeling shaky, so that’s not a good idea. Slipping on wet tile and cracking his skull is a rather ignominious ending. When he kicks the bucket a second time, he wants to go out in a roaring fury, staring death in the face while he does something awesome.

Like saving the world. That’s so much better than last time.

Although, he’ll also settle for simple falling asleep and never waking up again, preferably after having lived a long and full second life with Tim by his side.

Yeah, that sounds a lot better.

Jason dutifully sips at the hot tea the old butler left for him and settles back into the mountain of other pillows that adorn the bed. It’s easy to say Tim is the pillow monster, but really, it’s him.

“Did Dick leave on his own or did you throw him out?” Tim asks, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and using another to dry his hair.

“I fed him a few lines and convinced him to exit stage left.” Jason takes another sip.

“Are you tired?” Tim opens a dresser drawer to remove a clean pair of boxers and some pajama pants. Both towels fall to the floor and Jason is momentarily distracted by all the bare skin before it gets hidden away again.

“Yes and no?” He knows better than to try and evade Tim. “Just have a lot to think about.”

“I’d say so.” Tim picks up the towels and disappears back into the bathroom to hang them up, then joins him in the large bed.

He either doesn’t see the pillow by the door or doesn’t care.

Once he settles in, Jason wraps an arm around him, breathing in the scent of Tim’s hair. It soothes raw nerves in ways that it has no right to, better than anything really, including the good drugs or the hard booze.

“Do you think it worked?” Tim asks, idly drawing circles on Jason’s bare chest with the tip of a finger. “Killing the Jokerwocky, I mean.”

Jason shrugs and doesn’t move. “Dunno. It sure as hell felt good. Still don’t think I’ll ever be okay around crowbars though.”

Tim shifts around in the bed, sitting up and gazing thoughtfully at him. “That’s what you dream about with the Joker, isn’t it? Him and the crowbar standing over you, wet with your own blood?”

He doesn’t want to face those knowing eyes. He’s already dealt with one traumatic event today, it’ll be awhile before he’s ready for another. “Yeah,” is all he offers in reply.

“Were we all in your dream?” Tim asks, taking another track, one that Jason is quietly grateful for. “I had no idea I could pull off the cat look so well.”

Jason laughs and tugs Tim down into the bed so they can better wrap around each other. “Everyone I care about was in there.” He tells him about Tweedle Dick and Damian, which has Tim in stitches in no time flat. About Cass the butterfly, Steph the White Rabbit, and Babs the White Queen. “Honestly though? I about lost my shit when I met Mad Hatter Brucie and Alfred the March Hare. If facing the Jabberwocky was about me and my worst nightmares, then seeing Alfred with bunny ears and a little cotton ball tail was enough to make me want to sign myself into Arkham and never come back out.”

Tim smacks him lightly. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“What? You didn’t see him!”

“Tell me more about the Cheshire Cat.” Tim rolls over and props himself up, chin resting on his hands. “You can’t tell me you didn’t find that version of me attractive.”

There’s a glint in his eye that tells Jason he knows more than he’s letting on. Shit. He’s in so much trouble. “Yeah, about that… Did you know that dream you really likes having his ears scratched?”

“Oh, so does that mean he discovered how much you enjoy having your belly rubbed?”

[radiojamming]

I’m kinda sad right now, and I could go for some far cry 5 fluff.The deputy just broke up with their lover. And either Joseph or Jacob find out and comfort them. Even if it’s super small I’d appreciate it, thank you.

whynotboth.png (except jacob’s is very, uh, jacob-like? where is my soft jacob where has that boy gone)

- - -

It’s jarring, watching the Deputy falter and nearly collapse before Joseph’s eyes. God apparently hasn’t seen it within His capacity to warn Joseph ahead of time, so he assumes it must be a test, an unspoken command of the Voice. Show compassion even when compassion is not earned, he thinks. That must be the lesson here, taking the form of the harbinger, Hell-wielding Deputy looking up to him with eyes red and swollen with tears, their chest heaving as they hold back their sorrow with a paper-thin constitution.

Joseph does not have to think about his next action, because it feels as natural as drawing in the air he’s breathing.

His hands go out to them, palms lifted, fingers spread. It’s an embrace of open invitation, and the Deputy takes it with a shuddering sob of relief, all but falling into his arms with their own held tight to their chest. He wraps his arms around them, feels them trembling, and wonders at the origin of the tears smeared hot on his bare skin. His right hand goes to the back of their head, smoothing out their hair, and he whispers comforts into their ear.

“Hush, child,” he says softly, barely audible over their wailing. It doesn’t matter if they hear him or not. He’s there for them because he needs to be. It’s ordained by fate. 

With his other arm tight around their back, he falls into a familiar sway. It’s the most comforting gesture in humanity’s collective body language. The gentle rocking that comes as second nature to a parent, the kind that soothes and comforts when nothing else will. He has done it countless times before, easing the worries and sorrows of his flock when they come to him in their times of distress. He is their Father in all things, and the Deputy–as far from the pasture as they have strayed–is no exception for him.

The swaying calms them, and their sobs lower in volume in increments until all that comes from them is shuddering sighs and sniffs. They’ve made a mess of his shoulder, but he doesn’t care. When they finally lift their face to look at him, he’s almost taken aback by their vulnerability, their wide-eyed face, swollen and tear-stained, and that beautiful openness. They are a receptacle, eager to be filled, to be given gentle words of love and support.

He smiles, reaching up with both hands to cup their face, watching sorrow being traded for wonder as he leans in and presses his forehead to theirs.

“Tell me your troubles,” he whispers to them. He smells the salt of their tears, and must check himself for his own wrath at the thing that caused them. “Give your burdens to God and to me, and you will be free of them.”

There, on that little concrete square near the church, they tell him everything in a soft, agonized voice. They tell him about their heartbreak, of being abandoned by someone they trusted and loved, and the terrible, abysmal emptiness that has been left like a borehole in their heart. 

Joseph closes his eyes, still pressed against them, and listens intently. His anger, dutifully checked, still rises like acid in his chest, burning and stinging along the way. There are many wrathful words he would like to say, and more actions he would do if he were given a name and a location. But the Deputy says nothing more and simply dissolves into tears again, sinking into Joseph’s arms.

He holds them closer than before, close enough that he feels the rabbit-quick hammering of their heart, close enough that their heartbeat feels like his own. He leans in, pressing his lips against their temple. “You will never feel unloved here,” he promises. “So long as you’re among us, beside me, you will not be abandoned or led astray. Your heart will be mended and protected, and no force on earth will be able to hurt you again.”

He promises that to God and to all who might stand witness, and he means every word. 

- - -

Jacob watches the Deputy do the gauntlet of one of his trials, and he knows that something is wrong. It manifests in the sudden violent outbursts–extreme even for the Deputy–as they crack one soldier over the head with the butt of their rifle, howling in rage while they do it. Another unfortunate soldier (a militia member, maybe; Jacob’s lost track of who he puts in the Deputy’s way) must strongly resemble someone the Deputy hates, because they completely forgo the gun and pounce like a mountain lion, their hands on the soldier’s face, clawing and attempting to wrench away flesh. Their fury manifests in snarls and screams that are beyond coherency.

This isn’t conditioning. It’s an outlet.

Jacob can’t praise them or scold them for taking too long on the poor bastard that is getting a face full of jilted Deputy. They wouldn’t be able to hear him. Instead, he closes the music box on a low note and grimaces when the Deputy goes still, their hands clenched white-knuckled at their sides.

“That’s enough,” Jacob says with finality. He reaches out and touches their shoulder, and is almost surprised to feel them shivering violently. Almost surprised, because whatever emotional tempest they’re weathering is stronger than his conditioning attempts, and that’s saying something.

Slowly, the effect of the song wears off, and the Deputy begins to sag under their own weight. Their fists loosen, their shoulders drop, and their head lowers. 

Then, the first sob breaks through.

That comes as more of a surprise than the shaking. It’s not the sort of cry that Jacob’s used to, being the desperate whimpers and wails of people trapped in cages and left to their own steady mental descents. It’s a brokenhearted keening, which is far from what he ever expected to hear after a trial like that. By the time the effect wears off completely, they’re a sobbing mess, teetering like their entire center of balance has been removed. Jacob is the only thing keeping them from collapsing onto the floor in a heap, pulling them up by one arm before propping himself underneath them like a crutch.

They lean up against him, blindly eager for someone. They don’t seem to care who. 

For the first time in a while, Jacob is unsure of what to do next. In the course of all of his trials, he’s never had someone do this, let alone someone who had so much promise. Typically, if they faltered, Jacob either let the trial commence regardless or terminated them early. But the Deputy has been a special case since day one, and Jacob–

Jacob’s grown fond of them, somehow.

He wants to stay close to the facts, that they’re a good soldier, that they take to the conditioning better than expected, that they’re as powerful and fierce as Jacob could ever wish for. But they also make something stir in him, something that he was sure he buried deep. It’s been concealed for so long that he’s forgotten its name (for the better, he thinks), and it feels like an injury, like a weakness.

Only one question comes to mind. It’s the only one that makes sense.

“Who did this to you?” he asks, keeping his voice level and calm.

Because this isn’t the reaction of someone who is grieving or mourning. This is the reaction of someone who has been deliberately harmed. That means that someone out there has struck a blow to one of his best, and that unnamed feeling just adds fuel to a ferocious blaze threatening to break loose inside of him.

The Deputy doesn’t speak for a moment, sniffing and choking out strained noises instead. Jacob puts an arm around their waist, pulling them close to him, giving them that added security that he knows they needed.

Slowly, in a shuddering voice, they give him a name.

And by that, they give him his Judges’ next meal.

[seamayweed]

Second Chances

Happy Day of the Dead! :D This fic is dedicated to @illwynd, who encouraged me to write this piece and was kind enough to let me blather to them about it. The title I nabbed from their story No Return, which definitely influenced my fic and which I can only recommend if you like being stabbed in the guts with feels and angst.

Post-IW. At first it seems like a blessing when an older Thor from the future appears before Loki. But it’s not. It really is not.

Warnings: Some dub-con and angst. Not a fix-it.

Second Chances (AO3)

*

Loki could almost see the phantom of two little boys, one dark-haired and quiet while the other brought a shard of sun into these dark chambers with his exuberance and bright head of gold. They ran past him into the shadows now, taking with them their laughter and leaving only silence.

There was only the quiet drip of water. This place had almost seemed hallowed to him, once, with weapons like the fangs of great felled beasts that whispered of the primeval horrors that had existed even before the creation of the realms, speaking tell of their grandfather’s battles against the hideous and monstrous giants. As a child he had desired nothing more than to glean all the secrets from these ancient and forgotten treasures. Now he only wanted to burn it all down.

The true meaning of the words Odin uttered all those years ago had finally become clear to him.

Both of you were born to be kings.

As if a frost giant could ever ascend the throne of Asgard.

But it hadn’t really been a lie, had it? After all, he was Laufey’s son.

He could never be a king of Asgard, only a king of monsters.

Loki wanted to laugh. He stood over the steps where only a day ago the man who was not his father had collapsed, unable to bear the force of his changeling child‘s rage. This was the exact spot where his hands had hovered over Odin the Allfather’s fallen form, ascertaining his appendages were the right color before daring to touch the one who had raised (stolen) him. He had let the woman who was not his mother take vigil at Odin‘s bedside but did not stay long, not trusting a frost giant near someone so helpless and vulnerable. After all, there was no telling what such a beast would do. And it was only later, much, much later, lying awake in bed at night, that he allowed himself to imagine it. A thousand, perhaps a million times.

What if the blue had not faded from his skin? What if in his rage he had summoned it to the surface, unleashed that cold, icy fury that froze his veins and burned him from the inside out?

He had not been thinking. Unleashing the black miasma and poison that had been festering inside him, screaming at Odin the way the other had screamed him into submission, into silence; the way Thor sometimes emulated. But oh, he would not be silenced any longer. He could see himself now, watching with dark satisfaction as Odin failed to think up more lies or hollow justifications, growing feebler and feebler underneath the onslaught. But then his legs had buckled. And Loki could see himself, grabbing hold of those familiar, calloused hands that used to hold his own smaller ones or pat him on the head with skin the color of discolored corpses, reaching out to help but instead doing the opposite.

Loki could hear the shout, weak with the encroaching healing sleep, as Odin’s flesh turned black with frostbite, climbing up his arm, shoulder and chest and the rest of his body. In his state he would have been unable to fight it off, helpless to watch as his fingers fell off, then his arm, pieces of necrotized flesh crumbling away, his face twisting into a rictus of horror as he died a slow, torturous death.

In those last moments, Loki wondered, would he still be capable of looking at him with that treacherous, false love in his eye?

Or would he finally realize it was folly to love a wretched thing like him, abandon his facade and only look at him with pure loathing on his face? And surely, surely then would he rethink his decision to not have let that runt die all those years ago.

For even when Loki wanted to help, he couldn’t. He could only make it worse. Maybe it was in his nature. Maybe he couldn’t be good no matter how much he tried.

Not like Thor, beautiful, honorable Thor with his golden hair, which was the gold of Asgard.

He belonged underneath the sun and sky, not in this dark, hidden chamber, dusty and full of forgotten, unloved things and secrets. Not like Loki, who was just another stolen relic, meant to be stowed away in the shadows until a better use for it was found.

Thor would never be like Loki, and he would never know what it’s like to lose everything.

Even now Loki couldn’t help glancing at his hands every few seconds, as if he thought they might have changed color when he wasn’t looking. It was ridiculous. It was sickening. It made him feel like a stranger in his own skin.

But he could make it stop.

Beyond the cage of his fingers, the Casket glittered on the plinth where it had been sitting since the frost giants’ defeat.

As he walked towards it, feet whispering on the ground, the drag of his cape a susurring murmur behind him, he could hear Thor’s words echoing in his ears. It felt like he was wading through a dream.

Now! We’ll finish them together.

Was he supposed to feel some kind of kinship with this ancient and holy artefact of the Jötnar? Just because they were both left in that temple and stolen by Odin? The idea was laughable.

March into Jötunheim as you once did, teach them a lesson, break their spirits so they'll never dare try to cross our borders again!

No, he had a better idea. There was a way to end it all, put things to rights again.

He reached out, but a hand gripped his wrist. “Loki,” a wretched voice said.

Loki sucked in a sharp breath, head whipping towards the towering figure that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

His heart pounded in his chest and already, Gungnir was materializing in his palm, but then the stranger also caught his other hand and crowded him against the plinth. The edge dug painfully into his lower back and he could have had the intruder bound and immobile with barely a thought, but there was something strangely familiar about the other that halted his tongue.

His eyes flickered warily over the intruder’s face, the breath catching in his chest when he realized who it was. He would recognize those features anywhere. And how couldn’t he? Even if you closed your eyes against it, you wouldn’t be able to block out the sun, shining bright red behind your lids.

“Thor?”

Thor let out a ragged breath that sounded almost like a hitch. “Loki.” His name almost seemed like the only thing the other could say and... were those tears glinting wetly on his cheeks?

“How are you here?” Loki took in the heterochromatic eyes, the close-shaven hair, the slightly older, worn features. The conspicuous lack of Mjölnir. If he had managed to regain his powers, then where was his hammer? “What is going on?” he asked, a hard knot of dread already forming in his stomach.

“I’m from the future.” Those mismatched eyes were fixed on his face with unsettling intensity, and Loki would have stepped back if he was not already trapped. Icy cold radiated from the Casket behind him, oddly reassuring against this new uncharted threat.

“I’m here to tell you,” the stranger with his not-brother’s face continued, “that you are right. You were always right. I was just an arrogant and war-hungry boy, unfit for the throne. You are so much better suited for kingship than I was or ever will be, brother.”

The reflexive protest that Thor was not his brother died on his tongue. Loki stopped and stared. “What?”

“It’s true. How could I ever protect a realm if I couldn’t even protect my loved ones?” There was an ugly twist to his mouth, one that Loki had never seen on Thor’s face before. “And even in that, I failed.”

Loki inhaled sharply, the implications making his head spin. “What do you mean?”

Thor only shook his head, the wetness of his cheeks becoming even more apparent as it caught the light at different angles. “It doesn’t matter. None of that will ever come to pass now. Brother, I came here to tell you that I was sorry. I never appreciated or saw you even though you were always by my side and supported me. I ignored your advice, thought of myself as better than you because of my position as the crown prince and due to everyone’s praises of me. I was self-centered, vain and cared only for battle glory and fame. I took you for granted and constantly put you down even though we were equals. You have always been my equal, brother, and I was a fool for not realizing that sooner. For not seeing how much pain you were in, because of me, because of father and mother and so many others in Asgard. I’m sorry, Loki. I’m sorry for being so stupid and blind.”

For a moment, Loki was rendered speechless, almost dazed. But when he shook himself out of his state, the blinding rage was more potent than ever before. He grabbed Thor’s jaw roughly, nails digging into the salt-sticky skin. “Oh, so you are sorry? You are sorry now? You think you can just walk in here and I’ll instantly forgive you like everyone else?”

Ah, such pretty words. So pretty and utterly meaningless.

Loki wanted to laugh. Did Thor think to manipulate Loki this way? To use him, as Odin had planned to use him? Yet inwardly he also reeled. Such deep insight was unexpected, let alone from his not-brother whom he had only ever known as a thoughtless oaf not even a full two days ago.

“No, never.” Thor’s brow creased as though pained, and even that expression looked wrong on him, somehow. “Please, please let me make it up to you. Let me make it right again. I was wrong, so wrong.”

Loki let go of his jaw with a sneer, heart racing and mouth feeling far too dry. “How?”

Thor looked at him then; looked at him like he could flay him open with his eyes alone and peer into the deepest, darkest corners of his soul.

It made something quiver inside Loki, but he couldn’t know. He couldn’t. It was one of Loki’s most well-kept secrets. Now more than ever it felt like they were the only things he was made of. Maybe that was all there ever had been to him, just the shape of a person wrapped around all the things he could never say. And if they were revealed, so too would Loki the person unravel.

That too-intense gaze softened and Thor smiled fondly, sadly. “Oh how I have missed you, brother.”

His hand gripped the side of Loki’s neck like a branding, thumb finding the groove at the base of his ear like second nature. Then that searing hot mouth covered his and he was lost. All he could do was hold on to Thor’s shoulders, sliding along his bare arms with sweaty, shaking hands, eyes fluttering shut and mouth falling open in equal parts shock and awe.

He made a soft, wounded noise like he was dying. Maybe he was. Maybe this was what it was like to die in the heart of a star, to become plasma, heat and stardust.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. There was only Thor, like a force of nature, unstoppable, and Loki was a fool, a fool for thinking he could ever resist him.

Thor made a similarly broken sound that Loki had never heard before and only seemed to press closer, impossible as that was, taking the opportunity to fit their mouths together better and slip his tongue inside. Loki moaned, long and loud and needy, like it had been punched out of him. His breaths came in short, fast pants and he was shaking so violently he was sure he would fall apart the moment Thor wasn’t there to cage him in with his body and hold him together. Thor was touching him everywhere, with clever fingers that knew their way around his many layers, digging underneath his armor to get at the tender insides, leaving a trail of fire with lips and tongue and teeth until Loki felt like he could drown in the heat of him.

“You are so young,” that dangerous, beautiful mouth whispered into the skin of his throat, pressing impossibly tender kisses into his racing pulse point. His fingers seemed to shake as they caressed the base of Loki’s neck without ever closing, half-reverent, half-fearful. “So beautiful.” He began weeping again. “How could I have not seen this before? You are the most beautiful thing in my life.”

Loki was so hard it hurt, so hard it brought tears to his eyes and had him mindlessly rutting up against Thor’s hip, cock still trapped painfully in his pants and Thor’s own erection a line of heat digging into his thigh. It was too much. It was not enough. He wanted to hurt Thor, scream and lash out at him. He wanted to pull him closer, taste every inch of his golden skin until he was left a trembling mess like he was. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes against the sensations. Loki turned his head to the side, away, to put some distance between them, so he could have just a moment of reprieve and breathe, but a strangled sound escaped his throat instead when Thor cupped the bulge in his pants, massaging him through the leather.

Loki’s hand snapped out to curl around Thor’s wrist, his grip white-knuckled, hoping to stop the motions, but the fingers continued groping him, mercilessly. In response Loki tightened his grip, grinding the bones together.

Against Loki’s ear, Thor’s words were only puffs of warm air as he said, “Let me, let me.”

It was begging, a plea, and a violent shudder wracked down Loki’s spine. Something dark and exhilarated unfurled in his chest as he drank in the way Thor trembled, like the very thought of stopping was too much for him to bear, like he would die if he was not allowed the privilege of Loki’s skin. It was unfamiliar, strange. It brought him that much closer to the precipice.

“Beg me,” Loki bit out, even though he couldn’t form even one coherent thought, felt like he was melting, melting against the miniature sun that was Thor. Even so, there was something mad bubbling up inside him, almost like laughter, vicious and dark. “If you want me so much, then beg me for it. Beg me to let you touch me.”

“Of course, Loki. Anything. I would give you anything for that. Please, brother. Let me continue, let me prove my love and devotion to you.”

“Anything?” Loki did laugh then, sharply. “Even the throne? What about your little mortals you are so fond of, hm? What if I wanted to kill them? Would you give me their lives? What about that woman you have grown so close to?”

Thor only shook his head, much to his surprise. “I don’t care for the throne. It’s yours. And if you want the mortals, I will deliver them directly to you. But please, please brother, don’t tell me to stop.”

The easy nonchalance was… mildly disturbing, but it was only right, wasn’t it? It was only Loki’s due. At the same time it made his blood boil that Thor could so easily and carelessly throw away so many of the things Loki had always coveted, subsisting only on shadows and scraps. Even after all this time, he hadn’t changed. He was still that same spoiled, arrogant prince who took for granted the things others could only envy him for. But that was alright. That was what Loki was there for, ungrateful fool that Thor was. Loki would teach him how to be better. He would teach him his place.

“Who do you belong to?” he hissed, grabbing Thor by that beautiful, golden throat and dragging him closer.

“You,” Thor gasped, pupils blown wide, two black holes leeching the rest of the light from his irises. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Loki.”

His heart was pounding, the blood rushing in his ears, something like giddiness making him feel jittery in his skin. The power was addictive and he thought he could easily get used to this.

“Alright, you may… continue.” Loki let go with a disdainful push, while everything inside him lay taut and trembling with anticipation.

“Thank you,” Thor said, voice wretched and breathless and full of raw adoration.

Then his hand was back on Loki‘s crotch and he ground the heel of his palm into his cock in small, tight circles. Loki tried to control his breathing, but what came out instead were half-aborted, stuttering gasps. His skin prickled, like someone had lit a fire underneath the surface. It felt like he was burning alive.

Thor all but brimmed with need. It radiated from the stoop of his shoulders, calling to mind something mangy and starved, to the way he pressed himself to Loki’s form, close and intimate and claustrophobic, trying to maximize the points of contact between their bodies to the extent of hindering the movements of his own hand. His skin felt clammy to the touch, and Loki wondered if it was possible for Thor to infect him with the same sickness. Maybe Loki was already infected and they were both doomed.

Licking his slightly parted lips, Thor reached into Loki’s open breeches. His hand, big, warm and calloused, curled around his shaft and pulled him out. The cold air hit his skin, almost painful on his oversensitive and heated flesh.

Thor swiped his thumb over the head of his cock and the friction was almost too much. Loki hissed, teeth clenched tight, nearly lurching out of Thor’s grip. Thor waited a moment, then he began stroking, finding a rhythm as he watched Loki closely, learning what he liked, what made him jerk the hardest or moan the loudest, for once paying his full attention to Loki, for once the one who looked at Loki for direction, who listened and tried to understand instead of assuming he knew best already.

He added a twist to his wrist on the upstroke just so and Loki’s head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut, mouth going slack and falling open. There was no air. It was like there was a vice around his chest and throat, crushing him. The thin skin of his lids twitched restlessly and his hands clenched white-knuckled around the plinth behind him, threatening to crack the stone. He could still feel Thor’s eyes on him, hungry and intent, both frightening and intoxicating at once, devouring him whole. It couldn’t have been more than two strokes when he came, the orgasm feeling like it had been yanked out of him, too-intense and too-soon, leaving the muscles of his abdomen cramping and aching for a long time after, as though Thor had gutted him open, like a fish, removing his entrails and cleaning him out.

It was too painful to be called pleasure and there was a fine tremor in his limbs, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. The plinth was the only thing holding him up. It was everything he had ever wanted, and for a moment he wallowed in it.

For a moment, there was peace and something that could have almost been called satisfaction.

A touch on his cock jerked him out of his repose. His eyes snapped open and he tried to push Thor off him. “Stop, you oaf. I’m sensitive.”

But Thor was like a mountain and just as immovable, his mouth hot on the side of Loki’s neck, his hand fondling Loki’s soft cock. Loki hissed at the overstimulation, putting a hand into the middle of Thor’s chest, feeling panic welling up inside him, something ugly rising to the surface and souring the earlier pleasantness.

“No,” he repeated, but it was as though Thor couldn’t hear him. “No, stop!”

It wasn’t until he reinforced his words with magic that Thor relented, staggering back and looking at Loki bewildered and almost drunkenly, as though he had been in a trance.

Loki sneered and slapped him harshly across the face, though his heart still pounded. “You forget your place. Where do you belong?”

Thor looked stunned for a moment, then he slowly lowered down to his knees. His breathing was slightly elevated from their brief struggle and the hard bulge was clearly visible between his spread thighs. “I know my place. My brother.” He looked straight at Loki, stabbing right through him. “My king.”

A thrill went through Loki at the title. Even now he could hardly believe his eyes. Thor, willingly kneeling at his feet, ready to serve him.

But outwardly Loki’s expression did not change. He continued to look down at Thor contemptuously, nudging his boot forward so it rested on the bulge between Thor’s spread thighs. Loki pressed down. A hoarse cry escaped Thor’s throat and Loki pressed down harder in response, painfully, earning a wounded noise. Wild eyes skittered across Loki’s countenance, but he would find no mercy there.

“Do you now?” Loki asked, smooth as silk. He waited a beat, then lowered the pressure until it was barely there.

He whispered a simple spell to clean himself and did up the laces of his breeches, taking his time as he did so and without lifting his foot. When he was done, he pressed down again, crushingly. This time, a full-body shudder went through Thor’s body and the tendons in his neck went taut. But he didn’t make a sound, even as he trembled. Good boy. So he could learn after all. Loki almost smiled.

It felt like a dream, but Loki‘s dreams were never that nice.

There was always a catch.

Loki removed his boot and walked around Thor’s kneeling form in a slow circle, watching the long stretch of his bare neck as he tipped his head back submissively. So many things he could do to him and this Thor would just let him.

“What about the frost giants, then?” Loki said, unable to help himself. “I mean to destroy that race of monsters, once and for all, and steal the glory you so eagerly sought for yourself. What would you say to that? Would you stand by my side still and follow my every command?” Just as Loki had done so many times, a quiet shadow who assisted the other in his adventures, no matter how foolhardy or dangerous, saving Thor and his companion’s necks time and time again without a word of thanks for his efforts, which were merely brushed off with the easy dismissal of tricks.

Thor’s spine straightened, the hesitation clear in his eyes. “I’m not sure if that would be wise.”

Loki smiled scornfully. Of course not. How could he have ever expected otherwise? But Thor’s next words froze his insides to ice:

“I-I know, Loki. I know.” Loki’s pulse stuttered and all he could think was, no. Another secret carved out of him, another stitch unravelled. Soon, there would not be enough left to hold him together and he would break apart at the seams. “That you are not Asgardian. That you are a… frost giant. It matters not to me. It changes nothing. You are still my brother and I love you.”

His eyes were full of such aching sincerity and sorrow that Loki snarled. “You know nothing. Do not presume to speak of things you do not understand. And wasn’t it you who said that we should march to Jötunheim and teach them a lesson? Wasn’t it you who took us to the home of the giants, seeking to wipe them out? And you want to tell me that nothing has changed?”

Loki was screaming by the end, but he didn’t care. His fists shook in rage and he took a deep breath so he would not strike Thor down on the spot.

Thor reacted at once, bowing forward, prostrating himself before Loki and forehead nearly touching the tip of his boots.

“Forgive me, brother. Once more I have spoken out of turn. You are right, of course. I know nothing and was arrogant to suggest even for a moment that I did. We will march to Jötunheim, if that is what you want. And under your leadership, I will kill the frost giants, as many as you like. Please,” he begged, voice shaking. “I would do anything. I wasn’t lying when I said that. Of course you are right to want to slay them. The Jötnar are disgusting, mindless beasts and nothing like you. Just tell me when and where, and I will slaughter them like cattle, bath in their blood—but not excessively so. The glory and fame of the victory would remain yours still, always. Never doubt my devotion to you, for I am yours to command, my king.”

Loki abruptly deflated at the declaration, at the same time recognizing the familiar phrasing, an echo of a different time, once, before their trip to the accursed realm of the giants, before the coronation, when Thor had smiled at him, marking him with that familiar, hot iron touch on Loki’s neck that never failed to burn his flesh in the shape of those broad fingers.

And yet he also felt uneasy at the simple acquiescence, the fever-bright fervency in Thor’s eyes. It was off in a way he couldn’t place. He had known Thor to be bloodthirsty at times, itching for a brawl or to feel the crunch of bone beneath his hammer, but this seemed… darker, somehow. Unfamiliar and almost repulsive.

For a moment, it made him question his decision to obliterate Jötunheim, wipe it away like an annoying stain. A sense of dissonance sliced through him. Did he look like that when he had confronted Odin with the terrible truth he had learned, going on and on about stolen relics and monsters that parents told their children about at night?

Loki inhaled sharply through his teeth. Finally, he realized what it was that stung his nostrils.

It was the reek of despair.

And how could he not recognize it? Not when he knew it so intimately, so deeply; not when it had been his nursemaid for as long as he could remember.

Something ugly reared its head inside him as the full implications hit him, and he instinctively knew that it hadn’t been him who had done the deed; someone had dared to go and break Thor first, even before Loki could, robbing him of that pleasure. Even though they had no right.

Loki fletched his teeth and grabbed Thor by his too-short hair. “Who did this to you?” he hissed into Thor’s face. “Who dared to break you?“

Loki wasn’t angry. He was furious.

Something twisted in his chest, something painful that made his heart pound and the blood rush in his ears. Looking down into that tear-streaked face, he wondered how he had not noticed sooner. It stared him right in the face, yet it was as though he couldn’t grasp it.

He had never thought that Thor could look like this.

But even though it hadn’t been by his hand, this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Thor grovelling at his feet, the glory and gilt torn from his flesh.

The monster inside him slithered its way to the surface and an ugly smile twisted his lips. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

The words had barely left his tongue, yet he wondered why they echoed so hollow. Something uneasy churned in his gut, but he dismissed it easily.

There was still his own Thor, trapped on Midgard and safe among the mortals. Loki made a mental note to watch this timeline’s Thor more closely, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun with the older version.

He caressed the other’s jaw, feeling him shiver, but then the doors opened and a guard entered. Loki felt the questioning gaze as the woman glanced between this wearier, older Thor and himself, but he ignored it. “I thought I told you that no one was to disturb me.”

“My apologies, your majesty.” Loki thought he might never tire from hearing himself addressed that way. “But esteemed Heimdall seeks your audience. He said it was urgent.”

Before Loki could answer, Heimdall himself came rushing into the room past the other guard who tried to stop him to no avail. The blatant show of disrespect turned the corners of Loki’s mouth down and he let go of Thor’s jaw roughly in annoyance. Yet when he turned to Heimdall, there was a pleasant smile ready on his lips.

“Whatever could be so urgent that would make loyal Heimdall of all people barge in on his king without permission?”

Heimdall of course did not bother to explain himself, not when it came to Loki, especially not when it came to Loki. But he did falter when he saw the man kneeling on the ground and recognized his features. A slow, dangerous smile curved Loki’s lips and he ran fingers through Thor’s hair, like he would a pet, except he would never treat a pet like this, alternatively stroking or tugging the short strands. It had to be painful and Thor probably did not deserve his ire in this particular moment, but he had earned it and more of what Loki could dole out many times over, so it was fair all in all.

“Speak. You try my patience with your silence or have you already forgotten the urgent news you rushed here for? It is unfortunate, but it seems that you have grown senile in your old age.” Loki almost snickered at the look on Heimdall’s face.

The gatekeeper shook himself out of it, face growing grim, but when was that ever not the case? “Your majesty, this is no joking matter. Something terrible has transpired that has never happened before and which unsettles me deeply.”

“I’m not the one here who treats his king like a joke.” Loki continued playing with Thor’s head like a cat with a ball of yarn. “I’m no one’s fool, Heimdall. Speak now. It is quite unlike you to stall.”

Despite the fact that he was speaking to Loki, Heimdall’s eyes had not once left Thor’s form and his maltreatment at Loki’s hands. “It is your brother.”

Loki paused for just a moment. “What about him?”

“It was not long ago that I stood vigil at my usual post and saw the prince. Now his countenance escapes even my far-reaching sight. For all senses and purposes, he is gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“There was nothing unusual about it. One moment he was on Midgard among the mortals who had found him. The next he was gone, as though he had merely vanished into thin air.”

There was a noise in Loki‘s head as he stared down at the older Thor, who was trying to bite back pained whimpers. It was a noise as though he had fallen into space, all air and sound being swallowed in the vacuum that opened up inside him.

“What do you know about this?“ he demanded.

But this broken Thor only looked up at him with wet doe‘s eyes. “I don’t know anything. Brother, you must believe me—”

Loki let go of him with numb fingers. “Watch him,“ he barked at the guards. “If he manages to escape, I will have your heads.”

He ignored Thor’s protests that he would never try such a thing, turning instead to Heimdall. His eyes were keen and watchful, and Loki knew that he must have come to his own conclusions about Thor‘s twin. Hating what he was about to do, Loki said, “Show me the place where you last saw him.“

For a moment Loki shared Heimdall‘s vision, saw Thor, freshly mortal and vulnerable but hale as he smiled at the mortal woman. He spoke to her, but then in the middle of a sentence he simply—vanished. There wasn’t even a whisper to mark his disappearance. He simply faded into nothing, like a ghost. Loki shivered. But the sensation of another in his head set his teeth on edge and he soon broke the connection.

Without waiting for Heimdall, Loki closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was on Midgard in the place he had just seen, the cramped, sad little space that Thor‘s mortal called her home.

Riding to the Bifröst would have been too slow and Loki was well-versed in navigating Yggdrasil‘s branches besides. It was easy, if you knew how—you just weren’t supposed to look too close, lest you be led astray by lure lights or lose your mind.

“Who are you?”

Loki turned around at the voice. It was the mortal who made pretty eyes at Thor, like all the others who had followed him around on Asgard like mindless sheep in the hopes of receiving even one scrap of his attention. Pathetic. His eyes dropped to the pan in her hand and he scoffed. Did she really think she could hurt him with that?

“Are you the one who took Thor?” Despite her obvious fear, she did not back down. It was almost admirable.

Loki put on his best charming smile, though his eyes remained cold. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about that. I was wondering where my brother could have gone off to.” A small lie but a necessary one, no matter how much it grated on him. Thor was not his brother. He never was.

“Your brother?” There was a spark of recognition in her eyes. “Then you must be Loki.” It sounded almost disbelieving.

Ah, so Thor had talked about him. This time Loki’s smile was more genuine. “Come on, say it. Ask me.”

Her eyes were bright with fear and she took a shuddering breath in preparation. “Are you,“ her breath hitched, “a god?”

“Yes,” Loki hissed, drawing dark satisfaction from the way she recoiled from him. “I am a god, a being far beyond your feeble mortal understanding—just like my brother. You were the only one around when he went missing, so tell me: Where did he go?”

The mortal only shook her head, hugging herself and staring at the ground. “I don’t—I don’t know. He was there and then he was just… gone. At first I couldn’t believe what I had seen, how someone could talk with you, laugh with you, then suddenly there’s this empty space where they used to be. It was like he had never been there to begin with, except I could still see the crumbs on the plate, the rag he had picked up to wipe the table with. He had wanted to wash the dishes. I told him no, he already made breakfast, but he insisted.” She bit her lip, noticing she was rambling. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. “We went looking everywhere, but we can’t find him.”

That noise returned. All the air being sucked into a vacuum. For a moment, his vision went blank. When it returned, the mortal was dangling in the air, choking in his grasp as his fingers wrapped around her delicate little throat. “Where. Is. He.”

Her eyes bulged, like a bug’s, and her fingers scrabbled desperately at his hand, nails breaking against his skin. “I-I don’t know,” was all she managed to press out, thin and reedy.

She was less than useless.

Blinding rage ate his vision and the urge to kill her consumed his entire being. His hand shook with the force of it and for a moment he truly considered snuffing out her puny mortal life. It wouldn’t bring his brother back, but oh how it would bring silence into the cacophony in his head, if only for an instant.

Loki sneered and released his grip. She collapsed on the ground in a heap where she coughed painfully, spit speckling the ground. Loki turned away in disgust.

That was when her other mortal companions arrived.

“Jane? Oh my god.“ The dark-haired woman rushed to her friend‘s side. She glared at Loki. “What the fuck is wrong with you?“

Everything, Loki did not say. Everything had gone wrong, so very, very wrong. He smiled.

“I could kill you. Every single one of you. I could decimate this town on a mere whim.“ It would be easy. He wouldn’t even have to do it himself, simply send the Destroyer, let it burn the town to ashes while he watched from his throne on Asgard. Punishing them for Thor’s disappearance. But what would be the point? Everything seemed so senseless now. “You should be grateful that I am even letting you live at all.“

And with those words he was back in the space between Yggdrasil‘s branches. Time was malleable here and if you weren’t careful you could lose up to thousands of years wandering this labyrinthine space. But Loki knew his way and before long he was back on Asgard, with the other Thor.

The guards startled at his sudden reappearance but were too well-trained to say anything about it. They must have seen the look on his face because they immediately filed out of the room without him even needing to open his mouth, and then it was only him and Thor.

“What have you done?” Loki snarled, grabbing Thor’s throat and leaning forward so their faces were only inches apart. From up close, he looked even less like the Thor he knew. “My Thor is gone and his disappearance coincides strangely with your arrival. Speak.”

Thor only shook his head. “I did not foresee this outcome. I swear it was not my intention and I’m sorry for what it’s worth, brother.”

“Don’t call me that. You are not my brother. I only have one and you are not him. For that matter, I am not your brother either.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. But… you could also look at it like this: I did you a favor. He didn’t appreciate you. I do.” Thor looked up from underneath his lashes, something glittering in his eyes that chilled Loki to the bone. “And you wanted to kill him anyway, didn’t you?”

Loki recoiled in shock, letting go of the other and staggering back as though he had been struck.

He now realized why everything had felt subtly wrong, right from the start. It was like staring into a broken mirror, pieces of himself refracted back at him, making everything seem over-familiar in a face that should have never learned the shape of those jagged edges and how to cut yourself on them.

It was sickening, downright revolting. Loki couldn’t look away from it.

“In my timeline,” Thor went on, “you sent the Destroyer to Midgard. I was still only a mortal. When he struck me, I’m sure I died. It was only the return of Mjölnir along with my powers that saved me.”

Loki felt like all the air had been squeezed out of his lungs. Had he? Would he? He may have fantasized about it sometimes, in his darkest moments, but would he actually kill Thor? His chest constricted.

“You don’t understand. He is mine.” Loki’s to love and hurt and do with whatever he pleased. He nearly said was, like his Thor was dead already, but it couldn’t be true. A world without his brother. It was untenable—impossible. Loki couldn’t wrap his mind around the mere concept. “You had no right, absolutely no right at all to take him from me.”

Loki’s gaze dropped to the ground, seeing nothing. But then this Thor’s strange words from the beginning came back to him and his lips stretched in realization, slow and wide and terrible. It was clear to him now.

“You wanted to make things even, didn’t you?” Loki said. “Just because you killed your Loki.”

Thor looked like he had been cracked open. “I didn’t kill him.”

Loki only laughed bitterly, overcome with the urge to hurt this Thor the way he had hurt Loki, so he twisted the knife, deeper and deeper, wanting to see blood and the lurid pink of flesh. “No, of course you didn’t. You only failed to protect him, didn’t you? Failed him in so many ways, in all the ways that mattered, and now you are trying to start over with me. By the Norns, you disgust me.“

His eyes were hard when he said, “Tell me everything about the future. Don’t even think of lying to me.”

After some initial hesitation, Thor complied. He told the tale of how he had lost everything in slow, halting sentences, but pressed on, never stopping for long, as though to punish himself. Loki’s lip curled. How quaint.

By the end, Thor was outright weeping. In contrast, Loki only felt a spreading cold inside him. It expanded outwards from his core, bit teeth into his limbs and echoed all the way to his fingertips. It was colder than winter, colder even than Jötunheim‘s tundras.

So that was how he would end. At the hands of a madman, laying his life down for someone who may at one point have tried but had not truly accepted him until he was dead and it was far, far too late. There would be no glory for him, no mercy. He would go out with only a croak, pitiful and desperate, and nothing else to mark his passing.

Maybe it was a fitting end for a Jötunn runt who had been left to die in a temple, who should have never been born in the first place. And maybe that was how he would always end up, no matter how much he screamed at the world or tried to fight his fate.

But he rejected it.

Maybe that was what happened in the other world, but it wasn’t his. Just like this Thor wasn’t his.

Looking at this other, diminished version of his brother, Loki realized that he was a fool to think he ever had a chance of breaking Thor, or that any other outside force ever had a chance for that matter. It was only Thor himself who could do the deed, who could betray all his values and everything he ever stood for, hollowing himself out.

Loki remembered Mjölnir, how it was forged from the heart of a dying star. It was said to have been akin to a primordial giant, burning red and hot, a gigantic sphere of fire too bright to even look at without going blind, shining with an intensity thousands of times that of the sun, and that countless dwarves were sacrificed in the hammer‘s making. Had it been allowed to remain undisturbed, it would have surely exploded in a brilliant supernova at the end of its natural life cycle, painting the galaxy in iridescent colors before gravity became too much and it collapsed in on itself, giving birth to a supermassive black hole capable of devouring even worlds.

Thor was like the husk of a star that had gone dead and cold. Its life should have ended in a bright supernova, but against all expectations it stopped burning and its nucleus merely cooled down, fire fading to embers to ashes, into silence. In the end, a cold star was nothing but a rock.

It was startling to realize that this Thor would fit right next to him in the Vault, as a reminder of some past glory, the relic of a fallen hero.

Faint traces of hysteria edged Loki’s thoughts and he was suddenly hit by a dizzying and overpowering urge, by the sheer, raw need to see Thor. His brother and not this imposter who wore his face all wrong.

Loki felt exhausted, all of a sudden.

“Where is he? Where is my brother?“ he asked wearily. In this moment, Loki wanted nothing more than to see Thor, with an intensity that brought tears to his eyes. Nothing else mattered right now. Not the throne, not the countless slights that he had endured over all these years; not even his frost giant heritage.

In this moment, all he wanted was Thor.

“I‘m here,” the imposter said, with those limpid doe‘s eyes, rocks that had lost all their shine. “I will never leave you.“

Loki didn’t even have the strength left to say anything scathing in response to that.

His Thor was still out there. He had to be. But what if he wasn’t?

Then he would be stuck with this broken version indefinitely.

And this Thor may not be the one he wanted, but maybe he was the one that Loki deserved. A monster for a monster. It would be only fitting.

His thoughts unwittingly cycled back to the words he uttered to the mortals. Of how he was a god and could do whatever he liked, whenever he liked. Of how powerful and almighty he was and they should be grateful for his mercy.

Loki laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed and didn’t stop until he was retching, the tears flowing down his cheeks into the bowl of his mouth, burning wherever they touched, burning his eyes and lips and tongue, like snake venom.

[emilyplaysotome]

Part 11 - Missteps

Down the Voltage Rabbit Hole is an ongoing story about our MC, who could easily be anyone in voltage fandom. She woke up in hospital bed only to discover that she’d somehow been transported Voltage universe.

This story is ongoing, so if you missed a part, or are new to the story, please use the links below to catch yourself up:

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10

Part 11 - Missteps

Soryu returned to the table to find me finished with my sandwich and iced coffee, ready to head back to my apartment. He apologized for the length of time he’d left me alone, and I hurriedly assured him that it hadn’t been a problem. The flyer for the matchmaking event burned a hole in my pocket and I was eager to get back to my room and look it over without the possibility of being caught. I had forgotten about the “liars” as far as my list went, and it occurred to me that the matchmaking party would serve as the perfect opportunity to discover if any of them had found me the day that I’d materialized in this world.

Soryu wanted to extend our date, suggesting we see a movie or take a leisurely walk through a nearby park, but I insisted that we headed back. I claimed that I wanted to have ample time to get ready, as I wanted to be the glamorous party date that he deserved. He pouted slightly, noting that he preferred me in my natural state, but I refused to back down, taking advantage of the tender feelings I knew he harbored towards me. It was all a lie of course. 

In addition to wanting to look over the flyer, Hiroshi had been blowing my phone up with TalkTime messages since we’d sat down at the cafe. I had been too skittish to attempt to read the texts with Soryu present and was eager to get back and be alone to sort everything out on my own.

If that wasn’t enough of a reason to put some space between us, I found that the longer I was with Soryu, the more I found myself wanting to repeat the mistake I’d made the following night. I was determined not to fall under another otome man’s spell, despite the fact that the one I was currently with held my hand the entire way home. From time to time Soryu would give my hand a gentle squeeze, which I knew was his way of trying to convey the feelings he had for me. 

Being the observant man he was, Soryu understood that I wasn’t in a place to accept and reciprocate romantic feelings. The gesture of squeezing my hand was a thoughtful one in the sense that it made his intentions known, while asking nothing from me in return. Every time he did it, I couldn’t help but squeeze back, my brain unable to shut down what was happening in my heart.

I hated myself for being so fickle and weak when it came to the men of this world.

As much as I loved my life back home, in the last year or so I had watched as my friends had paired off around me. It happened fairly quickly, and before I knew it I had become the “single friend” in my large group of girlfriends. 

I never let it get to me, nor did I ever begrudge any of my friends the happiness that they found with their partners. Instead, I kept myself occupied, having the occasional adventure which usually ended with me finding myself in a handsome stranger’s bed. On lonely nights I told myself that I pitied my friends who had lost that sense of adventure, as they settled for nights on the couch with their boyfriends - eating greasy takeout instead of going out to the bars we used to frequent.

In the back of my mind, deep down in a place that was hidden away from everyone except me, I worried if I was maybe an unlovable person - if perhaps the man that was “right” for me simply didn’t exist. I wondered what it was about me that kept my relationships from progressing, all the while playing (quite literally) at having a grand romance through these games. 

How many nights had I wished that one of these men would materialize before me and sweep me off my feet and out of my lonely stupor? Yet here I was, with my wish seemingly fulfilled, finding myself ashamed by the fact that the only men who seemed to be capable of loving me were the ones who were programmed to do so. 

Once home, I threw my shopping bags down on the floor. I didn’t bother with unpacking them, since I was too anxious to see the messages I’d received. I took out my phone and saw that Hiroshi had sent me a whopping 23 texts in total. 

The first five apologized for his behavior towards Soryu. The next, apologized for pressuring me towards something more serious when I’d been upfront with him the night before. 

The remaining thirteen texts were a heartfelt declaration of love. He went into detail about where he was in his life, and where he stood with his feelings towards me. In wanting to have no regrets, he confessed that he’d never met a woman like me before, and that while his job was demanding, should I agree to date him he would find the time to really give us a chance. He said that he would do his best to treat me the way I deserved to be treated, and that no matter what I decided, I should be on guard around Soryu who he was confident had a shady past. He concluded by thanking me for my time, saying that he’d wanted to put it all on the table before I made a decision as far as what, and who I wanted. It was clear that he’d had no idea that the act of sleeping with me had triggered a regret and romantic existential crisis of sorts that, when finally alone, had allowed the soul crushing loneliness I’d been running from to wash over me like a tsunami. I had been in this world for less than a week, and while I hadn’t starved or found myself homeless, I’d still messed it up royally. Everything about this world was designed to enchant me, and I had foolishly let it in an attempt to avoid feeling these awful, homesick feelings.

As I contemplated my response, my head and heart were consumed by a tug-of-war of sorts. I’d initially thought that I would end things over text, thanking him for his sincerity and assuring him that while going our separate was was for the best, I would remember him and the night we shared fondly. 

However, there was a possibility that I might be trapped in this world forever, and if I were to be stuck in this adult Disney World of sorts, would I really not allow myself to partner off with anyone? Even though the night had its awkward moments, Hiroshi was still a wonderful choice as a man, and as a result I decided not to completely close that door with him.

Instead, I thanked him for being so honest with me. I told him that he was an amazing person, and that I wasn’t in the proper mindset to enter the kind of relationship that he was clearly interested in. I claimed that I was still recovering from a recent breakup, and would need some time to sort myself out before I could even think about entering a new relationship.

He responded to my text instantly, thanking me for my transparency and urging me to reach out once I’d taken the time that I needed. I sent an odd emoji back, which resembled an anthropomorphized girl rabbit saying “OK”, and called it a day.

With the Hiroshi situation taken care of, I used my newfound homesickness to reinvigorate my mission to get home, and took out the flyer the fortune teller had handed me at the cafe.

I added the matchmaking event to my calendar, and realized that it was on the same day I was supposed to tour Seishun High School. I made a note to figure out what outfit would present me as both a concerned parent and lady looking for love. It would no doubt require another shopping trip of sorts, and with Tauxolouve’s pawned jewelry money beginning to run low, I was thankful that I’d be getting a paycheck. 

I also realized that I had no idea the kind of hourly rate I was making as a maid, but figured should it not be enough, I would have to take on another job as a server or something. I vowed to myself that no matter how dire my financial situation got, I would not use my unfair advantage to accumulate gifts. I already had enough on my mind and didn’t want the added guilt of manipulating a man’s emotions.

The only unknown I had in regards to my calendar was Revance. I’d penciled in the concert I’d heard they’d be doing, but hadn’t formulated a good plan as far as meeting them went. I decided after the party, and auction, I would boot up the laptop I’d yet to turn on and look into getting a ticket. While I knew it wasn’t much of a plan, I figured once I was in the venue, I could figure something out in order to get backstage and go from there.

In the meantime, I needed to make good on my promise to Soryu, which meant running a comb through my hair and putting on the outfit we’d bought earlier that day.

Soryu picked me up promptly at 8, and upon seeing me dressed, smiled shyly. 

“You look stunning.”

It was sweet, but I didn’t really look that much different from how I normally looked. Yes, I was wearing the formal strapless gown he’d gotten for me, but I hadn’t bothered with my hair or makeup like I said I was going to. 

He didn’t seem to notice or care, and presented his arm in a gentlemanly fashion, which I took as I allowed him to escort me to the party. If I’d touched him that way before, it must have been at a time when I hadn’t experienced any romantic feelings towards him. Even though I was actively trying to avoid setting off another landmine like I had with Hiroshi, being close to him made my heart beat a bit faster. 

His arm was a perfect extension of who he was - large and strong and with the ability to lull me into a false sense of security. It was the epitome of what a man’s arm should be, but was something I’d never experienced from any of the men back home whose bodies were more dad-bod in shape than statue of David.

We took an elevator I’d never been in, to a floor that I didn’t know existed, and when doors opened up we were in the midst of a glamorous party, where people casually sipped on expensive champagne and picked at hors d'oeuvres. Ota and Baba were at a table enjoying some drinks with a gaggle of scantily clad women, who laughed a little too hard at their jokes and reeked of insincerity. The two men noticed me holding Soryu’s arm and immediately began gossiping to each other, but Soryu paid them no mind, and instead found Eisuke who wore an annoyed expression as several women unsuccessfully attempted to woo him.

They scattered under Soryu’s glare, but only after gently touching Eisuke’s arm and expressing suggestively that they’d find him later on in the night. It was uncanny to see several people do the exact same thing with only a slight variation to make it their own, and I found myself understanding why Soryu had such a negative impression of my gender.

“Thanks,” Eisuke said with a scowl, “Those women were beginning to give me a headache.”

With that he took a sip of his wine (an expensive glass of red no doubt), and called an employee over to take our drink order. The man he called over was clearly not a waiter, but found himself as I had in the penthouse, taking Eisuke’s order without much resistance. Soryu ordered a bourbon on the rocks and I copied him despite the fact I knew it would prompt a smirk to form on Eisuke’s face.

“Aren’t you two quite the pair,” he prodded, but I ignored the comment and gave him my best smile, gently letting go of Soryu’s arm before that became a topic of conversation.

Knowing that the party was merely a front for the illegal auction that was about to take place, I anxiously waited for the moment that Soryu would pull me aside and explain what was next. However, that moment never came. 

Instead, I found myself sipping on expensive bourbon while I watched as Eisuke excused himself after thirty minutes (give or take) of conversation exclusively with Soryu. I’d found myself feeling like a third wheel with the old friends, but tried to not let it bother me, masking how uncomfortable I was by drinking too much bourbon.

Eisuke gestured to Baba and Ota, who followed after him, exiting through a door in the back which was guarded by an intimidating looking man. I glanced at Soryu, who seemed happy to finally be alone with me. We smiled at each other which prompted him to gently touched my cheek and say, “Your face is already a bit red from the liquor.”

“Oh, I’m ok.”

“You were like that before. It’s cute.”

I was too distracted to enjoy the compliment. The once thriving party around me was beginning to thin out, and I wondered when Soryu would finally take my hand and escort me to the VIP box in the theater where the auctions were held.

“Are we not going with Eisuke?”

“Going where?” he replied, a puzzled expression on his face.

“To the auction?” I asked, absentmindedly.

I’d realized that I had made a mistake too late. 

Soryu's expression clouded over, and the affection in his gaze quickly gave way to suspicion as he recoiled from me. “How do you know about the auctions?” It was clear by his tone that I had accidentally dug myself into a hole. To make matters worse, Soryu was aware that I’d shared a bed with a detective the night before, and I considered that he might be wondering if I was an informant of sorts. “I...I...” I could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form and drip down my forehead as Soryu continued to watch me for signs of betrayal. I had to think quickly. One wrong move and it could all be over for me. “I overheard you talking the other day!” 

Soryu’s eyes went wide, before remembering the conversation that I had witnessed in the penthouse. His expression softened a bit, but I could see him trying to to back - to remember exactly what had been said, and if that information would have been enough for me to put the pieces together, to come to the conclusion I had. 

Needing to distract him further, I pouted with a wounded expression and exclaimed, “Please stop looking at me like that! You’re scaring me...”

The distraction worked, and with an apologetic look he began to speak, clearly nervous that he’d shown me too much of his dangerous gangster persona. 

”I’m sorry I -”

Mid-sentence Soryu stopped speaking, completely frozen in time, and after a moment, I cautiously waved my hand in front of his face. I turned to see the rest of the dwindling crowd frozen in time, and it was then that I heard a loud snap behind me.

“Foolish Goldfish! What have you done?”

To be continued…in Part 12!

If you’ve enjoyed the story, please show your support by sharing it with a friend or buying me a coffee! My goal is to create an original web series so if you like my characters please consider donating something to help me get it made.

Thanks for reading :)

@lone-wolf155

@nitelotus

@appletealove

@mysticdaddies

@picchebianca

@lexlesnik

@frywen-babbles

@laurameg99

@aenonymousse

@icedragonsprincess

@nicok97

@vasl-97

@saphirepearl

@galaxyinqkxy

@sone9yoona

@thesassyscribbler

@hazeldite

@hifftn

@scorpioslover

@liebengirl

@secretotomelover​

@kiniloves-yoi​

[trueluthor]

lenadanversandkaraluthor liked your post “//like for a starter? ”

He had done it. Somehow, Lex’s long game had come to fruition. Supergirl was dead. The United States was his. He had a clone of Supergirl who was totally obedient. 

And, worst of all, Lena had watched Lex’s pet Kryptonian toss Kara’s body onto the floor of the Oval Office, exposing her secret, tearing everything Lena thought was real into shreds. Kara was Supergirl. Kara had been lying to her since the day they met. Kara was Supergirl and Supergirl was dead. 

After that, things went hazy. Suddenly, Lena was all alone in the world. All of her friends were Kara’s friends except for Sam but Lena honestly had no idea if Sam was even still alive and she was so terrified that she might risk Ruby’s safety if she tried to reach out to her in any way that she never even considered reaching out to her. Lena was alone and her constant, the one person in the entire world who she could trust with everything she was, had lied to her for their entire relationship. 

Lex had known, of course. He had Lena seated on the couch, his hands resting on her shoulders, leaning over to speak into her ear as though comforting her. This is what you replaced me with, Lena. They’ve done it to you before--that Daxamite who used you, who kept you all for herself, who kidnapped you, who forced you to agree to marry her son. 

This is what happens when you stray, Lena. I never lied to you, Lena. You don’t believe in my cause but I have never lied to you. Never once did I claim that you weren’t my real sister. Never once did I do anything but make you the best version of yourself you could be. I’m the only one who loves you, Lena. I’m the only one who cares about you. I’m the only one who wants you. I’ve always been there even when you betrayed me, even when you sold me out to the feds. 

No one else can ever love you the way I love you, Lena. I want you. I love you. I know we’re going to do great things together. I know you’re going to change the world.

Lex took over the country and Lena was locked up in the White House. The bedroom was beautiful and elaborate and locked down so tightly that there was nothing Lena could do to even begin to find an escape. Lex knew her far too well to allow her the ability to get out of his trap; he was always five steps ahead of him no matter how hard she tried. 

His people brought her the finest clothes, most of them from her own closet. She had, for a few days, considered shredding everything and refusing to be presentable, but she knew that she had very limited options and Lena had always felt stronger when dressed in eye-catching dresses or sharp suits and heels high enough to allow her to tower over others. It was a trick she had learned from her mother, really, although Lillian never needed the added heels to boost her impressive height. She still wore them, of course, because being a towering six feet and five inches was more than enough to make most people feel tiny and insignificant in her presence. 

Lena might not command the same height as her mother but she certainly could channel the same ferocity that her mother was capable of. Coupled with everything Lena had learned about using her femininity as a weapon, she felt stronger and more in control when she took the time and energy to dress herself instead of refusing. 

Nightly dinners, often with company, became routine after the first few weeks. Lex wined and dined the best the planet had to offer. All Human, of course, because, as of the beginning of his reign, he had every alien apprehended and locked up. He even had plans to take them to Slaver’s Moon to sell them off to others for profit. It was disgusting but every time Lena tried to interject, to tell him he was a pathetic excuse for a man, his henchpeople stopped her. Sometimes it was a heavy hand on her shoulder, sometimes it was a meaty palm over her mouth. Sometimes it was locking her in a dark closet and left to scream herself hoarse. 

But he was always kind with her. He was always soft. Always offering her that tiny spark of interest, the smallest scrap of affection, the cruel tease of love. He touched her now, too. His hand resting at the small of her back, his hand taking hers as he looked at her in earnest, his unwavering gaze making her skin crawl in a confusing and awful mixture of desperate need and horrified disgust. He never reprimanded her for crying, not even at her weakest moments the way he would have done when they were children. Instead, the first time he found her crying silently in the doorway of the Oval Office where Supergirl’s body had laid motionless for the whole world to see, he held her in his arms and let her cry. She had fought against him at first but he was gentle and firm and solid and he was the only one she had left now. She had no one else. No one else would ever love her. 

Weeks stretched into months and Lena--she fell back into the same patterns she had lived as a child. She spent every day with Lex on her mind. His approval. What he was doing right then. What he would think of her. It felt like every step she had taken away from the little girl who had been so desperate to please her family, to prove that she was worthy of their love and attention, had all been erased. She felt herself growing desperate again. Affection starved. Touch starved. She hadn’t realized how much Kara had given her until it was yanked away from her. Now, every single time Lex so much as rested his hand on her shoulder, she found herself desperate for more. 

He knew, of course. He always knew. He knew every single thought she had ever had and he used it against her. It was his weapon and Lena would never be free of him. And, even if she was, where would she go? What would she do? She was nothing without him. He had been the one to make her into this. She was as accomplished as she was because of him. Every single good thing she was was because he had made her that way. He had molded and guided her so that she could be the best person she could be. 

Without him--she was just an unloved little girl. 

Lena worked on the Harun-El for hours on end, trying to isolate the components to allow Lex to create super soldiers. To help further Humanity. To help save their future. To put everyone on a level playing field. She did it with great reluctance, of course, but... she did it. She did it because he had asked her to do it and she had never been able to say no to Lex. She had never been strong enough and now was no different. 

She worked far too late one night after falling asleep in the lab and she groggily made her way back to her room. She had no escort--she hadn’t since her third week with Lex once he had decided that she no longer had the urge to fight him on things since locking her in closets and manipulating her emotions broke her down--and all the interior security was electronic with sentries posted on entries and exits as well as others walking the perimeter. But the White House itself was almost silent at three in the morning and Lena was so out of it that she quite literally walked into something solid. 

No. Not something--someone. 

She smelled different. She didn’t smell like soft, floral laundry detergent or that dry shampoo Lena had bought for her after one too many late dinners where she had lost track of time washing her hair. She didn’t smell like coffee or new books or even like doughnuts. She smelled wrong but she looked so right. 

Kara Danvers. Not quite her but her. The same eyes. The same face. That same hair. And Lena couldn’t breathe because she was seeing a ghost and she gripped her shirt instinctively, keeping her close, and dropping her head onto her shoulder because Kara was here! 

It hit her only a half second after her forehead rested on a strong shoulder: this wasn’t Kara. Kara was dead. This--this was Lex’s Kryptonian. Lena had seen her before, of course, but never up close. She had made a point of avoiding her, of keeping as much distance between them as possible because it was just too painful. But, now, Lena was tired and it was dark and Lex’s Red Daughter looked just like Kara and Lena was so desperate for someone to love her that she had forgotten about Red Daughter’s existence just long enough to lose herself in the fantasy of having Kara back. 

She took a shaky step back, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked up at the stranger who wore her best friend’s face. She blinked hard against the threat of tears but that faint glimmer of hope being crushed so violently made her lose the battle. Which was exactly why Lena reached up to ever so carefully traced the line of Red Daughter’s jaw, half convinced that she was seeing a ghost. 

Maybe she was. Maybe Lena had finally lost her mind and was seeing things. Did it even matter anymore? Did she care that she had lost her sanity? Honestly, she couldn’t care less. She didn’t even feel real anymore so why did anything else matter? 

“I miss you so much,” she choked and she fell forward against the person who was definitely not Kara’s chest. It didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that she was pathetic because nothing mattered. Let Lex mock her for this; her entire existence was a joke so this would be no different.