#it’s like they took all the worst parts of cursed child and put them in this movie

[heartbreak-grl]

no cuz why was descendants 4 basically harry potter and the cursed child??

[gatitties]

Web of love

─Yandere!Jujutsu Kaisen x fem!reader (platonic)

─Summary: you just keep adding lunatics to the list like they're pokemon and you lose patience

─Warnings: mahito (he's a warning himself yeh) blood, death, a little anxiety attack, toxic behaviors, obsession, yandere stuff

Part One / Part Three / Part Four

The blank pages: Part One / Par Two

I'm done downloading my inspiration on this for now, I feel like this is a little longer, sorryyy 😶

YOU WERE too quick to accept that these sorcerers would do whatever they wanted with you, but in a way, starting a verbal fight to refuse to do certain quests would cause you more problems than solutions, so you were just like a body empty of soul moving back and forth, simply waiting for the next order to complete it as quickly as possible.

The worst thing of all was that it wasn't annoying, at least, not the fact of taking orders, you liked it, you didn't have to think too much, just do this and that, you definitely started to think that all those tests of 'are you a leader or a follower' made sense all those times that your result was being a follower, you wanted an easy life and being a leader of anything is a complete stress that you were not going to go through.

So your simplistic and conformist personality only made it easier for all those sorcerers to mold you to their liking, this does not mean that whenever they asked to spend time with you or simply be attached to you you accepted, they would always have a negative response at first, however if they continued insisting, as may be the case with Itadori and Nobara, you would agree to do what they wanted, because accepting is easier than declining. Megumi and Gojo weren't as persistent in asking for small favors or bonding time, which you appreciated.

"I was looking for you, Maki and I are going to go downtown to look for some cursed weapons, do you want to come?"

Nobara, getting into the bad habit of not knocking on your door and entering without permission, throw herself at your bed grabbing your hand to beg you to go out with her and Maki, knowing that you would refuse she started whining about how you hadn't left your room lately and that she had been very busy with the missions. With no other option you accepted, hoping to be able to get back to what you were doing later in the night.

You thanked the heavens that Maki Zenin was skeptical about your stay at the Jujutsu school, since you did not show any interest in developing cursed techniques or improving physical abilities, she thought that you were not important enough, a shame that Nobara had to drag you with her long enough for Maki to end up getting attached to you, you barely talked to her but for some reason she ended up liking you.

"Come on, we don't have all afternoon."

Maki began to walk waiting for you both to follow her steps, a couple of minutes later the two of them began a light idle chat while you followed behind, only with one of your headphones on in case they spoke to you at some point.

"Be careful, you should stop looking at your phone and look at your surroundings, you are so careless."

The girl with glasses grabbed the back of the collar of your uniform to stop you just before you crossed a red zebra crossing for pedestrians, you watched for a moment as the cars sped by just a few centimeters from you with blank eyes.

"Yeah, I'm sorry."

You shrugged, putting away your phone like a scolded child, Nobara took the liberty of grabbing your hand to guide you the rest of the way, at least you could walk looking absent-mindedly at anything that caught your attention without worrying about tripping.

Disinterested and bored once they started negotiating about the cursed weapons, you decided that you could go out for a few minutes without anyone noticing to the bakery you had seen around the corner, you felt like something sweet, you were going to buy something sweet and no one will stop you. Unfortunately before you could get out of the alley, because of course, a shop like that wasn't going to be visible to everyone, once again a curse clung to you desperately to be forgiven.

"Not now please."

You took a couple of minutes to release the cursed energy of that curse, feeling your eyelids heavier and your body more relaxed, of course your ability had cons, after all what you were doing was consuming cursed energy, your way of releasing it were resting, which led you to sometimes fall asleep even standing up due to exhaustion.

Your slight drowsiness disappeared when you heard the sewer besides you sliding with a squeak, a strange mass began to come out until it formed a guy who looked like a sewn doll, his bicolor eyes looked into your soul.

"That was very interesting, where is that curse? Did you absorb it? Did you kill it?"

Your parents had taught you that you shouldn't talk to strangers, especially if they seemed like lunatics who could deform and come out of random sewers, and like a good mom and dad's girl, you looked away, backing away to exit through the other side of the alley, but he managed to grab your wrist so you wouldn't run away.

"It's rude to ignore someone when they speak, you know?"

You frowned looking at his hand on you, remaining silent, you let out an inaudible sigh, you always had to end up in this type of situation, tangled with people ─in this case curses─ that trapped you without wanting to let go.

"I sent it to rot in hell, its soul will remain suffering until eternity, remembering and regretting all the evils it has caused, it will be subjected to the worst tortures imaginable."

He remained silent before bursting into laughter, you had said all that so seriously, with that grim face that he almost believed it, you hoped that trying to 'scare' him would work, but this curse had at least a couple more neurons than the ones you used to meet.

"Aren't you funny? It's a shame I have to kill you, I thought we could be friends but you're-"

The ground began to shake, almost losing your balance, you took advantage of the sudden distraction to free yourself from Mahito's grip, approaching the nearest wall so as not to fall due to the tremors, the sewer flew away and you could see how the curse paled, transforming again to escape.

"How many hours have I lost in this chase?"

A new voice came out of nowhere, turning around you saw a blonde man with glasses, he was wearing a uniform and had a blood stained weapon in one of his hands, you looked at each other in silence until he spoke again.

"A student… hey, have you seen that curse? Where did he flee?"

Figuring he was trustworthy enough since he seemed to recognize the Jujutsu high, you silently pointed in the direction Mahito left, earning a nod from him to leave you there alone again. As if that weren't enough, before you could leave the alley to get some sweet, you ran into another curse, this one looked like a volcano with only one eye, it was petting a stray cat while muttering things like 'you're a good boy' in a squeaky voice, you were going to turn around to make this less awkward but your bones had to make that weird sound sometimes when you walk.

His one eye widened at the sight of you, a small rash erupting from his head and he shot up at the speed of light.

"I'll pretend I haven't seen anything if you pretend you haven't seen me."

You decided to reach a mutual agreement because you heard Nobara shout your name, surely they had finished their purchase or had been alerted by the noise earlier, and if they found you now they would surely distract you enough that you wouldn't be able to buy your candy. You took enough time to complete your little mission, as just as you left the bakery you were approached by the red-haired girl who hugged you like a whimpering koala.

"You can't disappear like that out of nowhere! We heard a shaking and thought something bad had happened to you."

She rubbed her cheek against your shoulder, you murmured apologies while still savoring your sweet, Maki remained silent watching the interaction, carefully searching for any kind of scratch or wound on your body, she sighed in relief when she saw that you didn't seem to have anything.

"We have already spent a lot of time here, we should go back, Toge and Panda are waiting for us for our training."

The encounter with these two curses, Mahito and Jogo, was only a small trigger that led you to strangely meet them more times later, you were never close of course, but your eyes always seemed to meet the multicolored or the single eye of those guys in some bustling part of the city, you knew they had some plan with Itadori, but it's not like you could do anything, you just alerted Gojo and he thanked you with a few pats on the head for the information.

On the other hand, you became a recurring conversation on the side of the villains, for one reason or another, everyone got to know you, either because Mahito was talking about you or because you had an encounter with Geto or Choso, not knowing them, you felt strange when you exchanged glances with them because you felt the same as when you first met the trio of sorceres, they already knew you before you knew anything about them.

Their curiosity about you was only based on overprotectiveness and how obsessed the sorcerers were with you, you seemed to be an important person, was it because of your power? Was it because of your cursed technique? It was something they wanted to find out and anyway if it was nothing like that, they could always use you as a wild card to blackmail them.

You decided to ignore their presence while you worked on your assignments, assignments in which you got to know that blonde guy, Nanami, he was assigned with you for a couple of missions and at first he felt quite irritated by your carefree behavior and even annoyed by your lack of interest in the work, but he couldn't blame you, in his eyes, like Itadori, you were just a teenager who shouldn't be doing this kind of work. He proposed to himself that no student was going to die under his care, especially someone who was never in favor of being part of the cursed world.

You just kept adding people who were worried or interested in you to the list, and you thought that there was no one else who could feel that way, that you could finally breathe easy, that you could stop moving through that web that kept you captive, that you could snuggling in your sheets protecting yourself from the cold while you hugged a pillow and slept carefree.

And… out of nowhere you wake up with a wet cheek, an eternal sea of blood where you could float, in the distance a temple made up of different animal and human bones. Your eyes became slightly watery, your only moment of rest ruined by whatever was happening, you were upset, furious, maybe it was the first time since you left home you felt an emotion this strong and vivid.

"This has to be a fucking joke…"

You mumble walking towards the temple hoping to find some kind of answer to get out of there, you wanted your hours of sleep back, you wanted to disconnect your brain from reality and travel to your dreams seeking solace outside of this world, not to be trapped in this stupid place.

"This is unusual, how did you manage to get here, brat?"

You rubbed your face furiously, of course you had heard about Sukuna, how Itadori swallowed a fucking finger, but luckily you didn't have any encounter with the king of curses, until now. Again it seemed like he already knew you, but how could he not? You occupied more than half of Itadori's thoughts.

"That's what I would like to know, is this your domain? Get me out of here."

"I can't."

You couldn't contain the irritated grimace you made, this time your expressionlessness broke as well as your patience, a small twitch appeared in your eye and you began to breathe harder, you rubbed your head too hard, perhaps tearing out a few strands in the process, but you didn't care, you exploded after putting up with so much shit.

"Tell me it's a joke, you're the king of curses, not the king of comedians, get me out of here."

Your tone of voice stopped being monotonous, now radiating annoyance and demand that made Sukuna smile at your outburst, he had always heard Itadori complain about how unexpressive you were with them and now you are exploiting a lot of negative emotions.

"Well, I can do that, but for that I would have to kill you."

"Do it." you didn't take a second or hesitate to respond, almost surprising the man, who watched you in silence as you approached him, your frown more with every step you took "What the hell are you waiting for? Do it, kill me."

Sukuna had seen many people begging him, begging for lives, begging to end suffering, it wasn't even the first time they had begged him for a death, but this felt… strange, he had never seen someone so young desperate to die, he had never seen someone have the anxiety attack you were experiencing right now, and strangely he had never felt the kind of energy you gave off, it was somewhat reassuring. He began to understand all the macabre thoughts about you in Itadori's thoughts, all that overprotection and worry, or perhaps, he had gone crazy, becoming infected because of the human in which he was locked up.

"Mmmh, I can do it, but you will only wake up, if you have managed to get here without trying, you will surely come back when you try to sleep again, but it is only a theory, since you have never been here before."

"In that case I'll think of something, but let me wake up."

"Ok"

He shrugged with disinterest, you didn't even feel how his fist lodged in your abdomen, your body staggered towards his, while he held you with one of his arms, the other pulled out your heart that continued pumping blood, you looked in disgust as he seemed to enjoy watching the blood splash across his face.

"Son of a bitch with a fetish for dishearten people…"

It was the only thing you said before your body faded away, immediately waking up in your bed with labored breathing, you placed your hands on your heart, checking that it was still in place, beating rapidly from the agitation. That specific night you couldn't sleep, because by doing so you returned to Sukuna's domain, or to Itadori's mind, the problem was rooted in the fact that that specific day Itadori was much more worried about you than usual, generating a certain connection that interfered with his and your dreams, the middle ground being Sukuna's domain.

Now you couldn't even go to sleep thinking about having a good dream, because depending on the night you would end up stuck with the king of curses, another person added to the list, would this be some kind of divine punishment? You just want to run to your parents and hug them with all your might, for them to tell you that everything will be okay and that you are a good daughter, for the moment you will settle for hugging your cold pillow in search of comfort while three pairs of eyes watch as your emotions slowly deteriorates.

They would make sure to be the arms that keep you warm, to be the people you turn to in these types of situations, you shouldn't be sad, you are much better off here, more protected and safe.

"Good night darling, have sweet dreams."

Gojo, having shooed the other three students away from you, entered your room, gently wiping away the tears that stained your cheeks, he stroked your hair for a few seconds before brushing away a few strands and kissing your forehead. He hadn't had the chance to prove that he was capable of being a good father in Megumi's eyes, but he could be to you, it's a shame that you still cling to your parents as role models when he was there, he would be a better father figure, just wait.

[cobaltperun]

Woe out the Storm (8) - What have you done

Wednesday Addams x female Reader

Summary: It took some time, but eventually you came to realize only Wednesday Addams could look at the raging storm of chaos and destruction and make a home out of it. Only she could listen to the cacophony of the roaring thunder and hear a melody.

Story warnings: Wednesday Addams, violence, slow burn

Story Masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next part

Word count: 4.9k

-There's a curse between us, between me and you-

Wednesday could admit her interests weren't ordinary, she could admit that neither she nor her family conformed to the norms of the society. She believed in different values; she ranked those values in a way most people wouldn’t. Not choosing violence was, for example, ranked very lowly. And she wasn’t opposed to murder and torture either.

Truthfully, it wasn’t the fact that her father was accused of murder that bothered her, it was the fact that she heard about it from a stranger. He was supposed to be an open book, honest with her, with their family and her mother was supposed to be the same. Despite that, they hid the truth from her.

When she set those piranhas loose, fully intending to kill Pugsley’s bully as an act of revenge, she openly told her parents about it. She expected the same openness from them. The society rejected them, deemed them too morbid and weird to be seen as normal; being an Addams meant only relying on select few, mostly family. So, she valued being honest and trusting those select few above nearly anything else.

And they, for their own reasons, betrayed that trust and put her in a position to learn about it in the worst way possible.

To make matters even worse, her father refused to be open with her yet again. He still wouldn’t tell her the truth about what happened, even now that he was behind bars.

Somehow, perhaps against her better judgment, she ended up in front of your shed. It was the first time she came here, the first time she’d step inside. She heard laughter from within and froze just as she was about to reach out for the doorknob. Of course. It was the Parents’ weekend, and you were with your mother. Enid mentioned in passing that you had a good relationship with your mother, that the two of you were close and that you missed her.

You maintained a close relationship with your mother, something Wednesday wasn’t capable of doing, even if she did deeply care about her family and despite knowing they loved her just as much. So, instead of interrupting you and asking you to help her find more clues that could help her prove her father’s innocence, she turned around and left. She’d have to go to her mother after all.

As she walked away, she began to wonder why she wanted you to help her, and truthfully, she didn’t quite understand it. She was perfectly capable of handling this on her own. Maybe it was because you just accepted her, never demanding from her to change, yet still being unapologetically you even when it meant you pushed Wednesday out of her comfort zone, like when you wiped that paint off her hands and face last week.

Or maybe it was as simple as you being honest with her, not once hiding the truth and in turn being frustrated by her own lack of honesty when she didn’t tell you she asked Xavier to go to the dance with her. While Wednesday couldn’t say you ranked honesty as high as she did, she could say you valued it.

If she was completely honest, even with just herself, she might have had it in her to admit the vision she had during Rave’N and what happened with Eugene had a lot to do with that as well. Somehow, deep down, Wednesday convinced herself that if she was there, close to you, maybe that vision wouldn’t come true, and she wouldn’t have to visit you at the hospital or attend your funeral.

~X~

You didn’t always understand how lucky you were. Oftentimes as a child you wondered why you couldn’t have a regular family, with two parents present in your life. Dad was with you a few days a year, around your birthday, and always secretly. Your mom did everything she could, even back then you guessed she did more for you than most single mothers could, but you had some resentment toward your dad.

‘Why couldn’t he be normal, or any other kind of outcast? Why did he have to be a raiju?!’ that’s what you wondered for years, despising the restrictions being a raiju brought to your life. Fear and hatred caused you to separate the beast from yourself, you were a raiju, but the beast was, in your mind, the entirely different being, a creature that had nothing to do with you. The beast was dangerous, uncontrollable, and you despised it for what it could do to your loved ones or innocent bystanders.

The truth was that you should have begun going to Nevermore much earlier, the moment you showed the first signs of lightning, actually. But you cried and screamed at the mere thought of leaving your mother’s side, and she refused to even consider sending you to Nevermore, or anywhere else, unless you wanted to go. You were eight and she was the only real family you had.

‘Do not underestimate my child,’ she’d say whenever someone told her it was too dangerous to keep you outside of Nevermore, that you’d lose control and hurt or kill someone. Neither side was right though.

It was more of a miracle, than anything else, that dad was home when there was a huge storm when you were twelve, otherwise you really could have hurt someone. That was when your resentment toward your dad began fading away, when he calmed you down, when he taught you how to better control your lightning, when he made sure you didn’t hurt anyone, especially your mom. That was also when you finally agreed to go to Nevermore, because you could no longer risk it.

In the four years that followed your relationship with your dad improved, he dropped by more often, whenever you truly needed him. When you shifted for the first time, or when you really wanted to talk to him, he wouldn’t arrive immediately, but he’d come and see you. So, when you saw Enid’s parents you just decided that you were lucky, that you had a loving mom that accepted you for who and what you were, and that your dad, while not always there, was by your side when you needed him.

And he would come now as well.

So, that was your family, and you wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

With those thoughts filling your head you stepped into your room with a bounce to your steps. That energy dropped to a more usual intensity when you saw Enid, lying with her arms spread on her bed. “You’re not a disappointment,” you immediately said as you went over to her side of the room and sat down next to her.

“Tell that to my mother,” she sighed and looked to the side. This wasn’t Enid’s usual mood, even when she was upset, she made sure everyone knew that. Her energy was more similar to Wednesday, if Wednesday ever sulked. And it really made you wish you could help her, actually help her and not just stand by her and offer support when she needed it.

“I will if you let me,” and you were completely serious, if only Enid allowed it, you would gladly have a long chat with Esther Sinclair.

Enid smiled a bit and reached out to you. “Thanks, Y/N.”

You smiled back, taking her hand and squeezing it, offering Enid at least some small comfort.

“How come you aren’t with Wednesday?” she asked out of blue, and you had to resist an urge to facepalm at that. Your eye still twitched, and she probably noticed. “I’m not teasing, she was just looking for you, she even asked me where your shed is!”

That was odd. “Why? Isn’t she with her family?”

Enid sat up, now realizing you really didn’t see Wednesday since this morning. “Her dad got arrested for murder and I think she plans to prove he is innocent,” Enid caught you up to speed with what happened.

You couldn’t help but get a bad feeling in your bones. “Murder + family matters + Wednesday? Yeah, she’s going to do something illegal and morally even more questionable, isn’t she?” you sighed, looking at the goth girl’s part of the room.

Enid laughed uncomfortably. “I mean…” she trialed off, she really didn’t need to finish her sentence, you could figure it out yourself.

“She’s going to dig the victim up, isn’t she?” you were just about ready to run headfirst into a wall and pretend you didn’t know she was probably going to get into trouble.

“Maybe sit this one out?” Enid offered, and if you were at least a bit logical and driven by reason you would have listened to her.

You weren’t. You were driven by emotions and much like lightning those were difficult to control sometimes. Especially the ones connected to Wednesday Addams. “If I get locked up for this, don’t break me out. I’ll deserve every second of my punishment for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“On the brighter side,” Enid’s smirk was already terrifying enough. “You could break you and Wednesday out and go into hiding,” she laughed as your eyes widened and you looked at her incredulously. “She might actually love that!”

“I hate you,” you grumbled as you stood up and took a few deep breaths, you’d prefer to avoid living the rest of your life on the run. Dad being on the run from someone was already one family member living like that too many. You didn’t even know who he was hiding from. You just knew it was serious enough for you to be given your mom’s last name instead of his.

~X~

Wednesday was, indeed, digging up a grave, in fact, she was nearly done when you ran up to her and her mother. ���Please tell me you are nearly done,” you whisper-yelled at her. “Hello, Mrs. Addams, it’s good to see you again,” you politely greeted her mother, who nodded with a smile, and then you immediately turned back to Wednesday. “There’s no way this can end well, you know?” it wasn’t even about what she was doing, Wednesday was going to be Wednesday and there was nothing you could do about that, you just wished she would have done it when it was even less risky. Like, way past midnight, with you there to watch out for the police, not like this, just before midnight and without you to stand watch.

“We’ll need to show it as evidence anyway, and they’ll figure out it was us no matter what we do,” Wednesday pointed out and you opened your mouth to respond, but you really couldn’t argue with that logic.

Well, at least she already opened the coffin before you showed up. “Right,” you frowned and stepped down, inspecting the coffin. “If you want me to, I think I can magnetize it and pull it out. Maybe. I never tried to do it with anything this heavy,” and just as you reached down bright light shined on all three of you. “Either the ground swallows me right now, or dad will ground me for the rest of my life,” you just raised your hands in surrender as police arrived.

“There’s a hole right here,” Wednesday suggested.

“I’m not sharing unless it’s with you, Addams,” you deadpanned, missing the way Wednesday’s eyes widened, and the way her breath hitched, and the way her cheeks darkened just a bit.

“Oh my, how awfully unhinged,” Morticia commented, and you’ve been around Wednesday and Thing long enough to figure out that wasn’t meant to mean what it usually meant. So, you just gave a thumbs up as you got out of the grave, earning a graceful, elegant smile from the older woman.

~X~

Well, at least you weren’t all alone, that was a positive, right? Nope! Because Wednesday’s parents couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and there were bars between them! Suddenly, you understood exactly why Wednesday would be averse to shows of affection and the idea of a relationship. They were unapologetically in love, and very passionate about showing that love, and you could admire that, to an extent, but still!

“Not even the long arm of law could keep us apart!” Gomez went right back to kissing Morticia.

“At least we’ll have one last night together!” maybe breaking out wasn’t the worst idea, because you doubted you could listen to them all night.

And Wednesday was right there!

“I’ve seen jackals with more self-control than you two,” Wednesday somehow managed to get them to stop, though they didn’t properly separate. “Neither one of you is strong enough to serve hard time. And thanks to me you won’t have to,” she said.

“I’ll pretend I’m not included in that. The strong enough part,” you grinned a bit.

“You especially aren’t strong enough to serve hard time,” she shut you down without even a hint of hesitation.

Well, you guessed that was fair.

“I knew our little jailbird will have an escape plan,” Gomez exclaimed as she showed a finger to the three of you wrapped in a black handkerchief.

“It’s a souvenir from our outing, I borrowed it from Garrett, he died from nightshade poisoning,” she explained as her mom took the finger.

“How come the police didn’t find it?” and then you remembered this was Wednesday you were talking about, she probably glared, and they locked her up without even searching her. ”Yeah, don’t answer that one.

The very corner of her lip twitched up as she glanced at you, as if pleased by your realization. “The remarkable preservation of soft tissue and blue tint confirms it.”

“Which means Garrett was dying-” her mom realized.

“-before you stabbed him,” Wednesday finished.

Her parents looked at one another. “You look even more ravishing as an innocent woman,” and they were back to kissing.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s how this situation works, but sure,” you looked away. You guessed poison being there proved self-defense though, and that might just be enough to drop charges. Although, knowing Wednesday she had something else up her sleeve as well.

“For once could you two get off of each other and focus?” Wednesday asked and reached out for the finger. The moment she touched it a vision struck her, and you were immediately behind her, holding her up.

You looked at her parents and saw they recognized what happened to Wednesday, which was a relief. Though, there was some surprise on their faces. She probably never mentioned her visions to either of them.

“Wednesday,” her mom leaned in a bit as Wednesday woke up from her vision. “Did you have a vision? What happened? What did you see?”

You stepped to the side, no longer worried that she might fall. Sometimes she fell, sometimes she didn’t, you really couldn’t be too cautious.

“The night Garrett died he had a vial of nightshade poison that broke in his pocket. He wasn’t just trying to kill father, he was going to use the nightshade poison to murder the entire school,” she explained.

~X~

“The sweet taste of freedom! How I missed you!” you exclaimed when you were finally set free. At the same time as Gomez, actually, maybe the sheriff was being petty over you electrocuting his son last year, in which case you could get behind that. “I don’t think we met, I’m Y/N,” you raised your hand to greet Wednesday’s brother.

He nodded, smiling a bit. “I’m Pugsley, thanks for going to jail with Wednesday,” he said sheepishly, though he took cover behind a rather tall man when Wednesday glared at him.

You grinned a bit at that and contemplated just leaving so the family could have a moment on their own.

“Don’t even think about leaving, we’ll go back to Nevermore together,” Wednesday said before you could even consider that idea properly.

“You’re the boss, Wednesday,” you grinned cheekily, much to her annoyance.

You still stood aside, giving them enough space and privacy. You still smiled when Wednesday accepted a family hug.

And then your blood ran cold.

You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the chill ran down your spine. You could recognize the electricity in the air, and you knew it was too late. "I'm going to be grounded for the rest of my teenage life," you swallowed the lump that formed in your throat and if this was an anime or a cartoon you were sure you'd have cartoonish tears falling down your cheeks.

He appeared in a burst of lightning, as in control as ever, with that bright orange lightning surrounding him and moving to his will. "Gomez! Why is my daughter in prison, Gomez?!" your dad was pissed, he was beyond angry as he stomped over to Gomez and pointed a finger at his chest. "How did you being accused of murder get her in jail?! Oh, hello Morticia, you look amazing as always," how he flipped between nearly yelling at Gomez to politely complimenting Morticia in a split second you would never understand. You could never.

"You look good as well, Elijah, it's nice to see you after all these years," Morticia greeted him with grace that shouldn't have been a part of her ordinary behavior, yet here you were.

You slowly took a few steps back, hoping to flee while he was distracted by Wednesday's parents.

Wait…

He knew Wednesday’s parents?

"Y/N is your daughter?" Gomez and Morticia seemed to be genuinely surprised. You couldn't blame them, with the different last name and everything.

"My pride and joy, yes," your dad said, momentarily forgetting about the issue at hand and grinning proudly.

It made you stop as you took in the pride in his gaze. You didn’t think five words could have such an effect on you. Despite his absence, when he was there he was a great father, and to hear that he was proud of you made you smile.

“So, about my daughter being in jail,” apparently, he wasn’t going to drop it, so you slowly began backing away again. “Now where do you think you are going, Y/N?” well, so much for escaping silently.

“I just remembered something! See you later, Wednesday!” you were just about to turn into lightning when bright orange lightning circled you.

“Don’t even think about that, kid,” you could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Now that’s just unfair,” your eyes changed back from red to your usual eye color and you slumped to the ground, defeated. Of course he’d use his stronger lightning to prevent you from using your own lightning.

“Elijah, Y/N was there for our Wednesday, don’t be too strict with her,” Morticia came to your defense, and you felt like you’d eternally be grateful to the woman if it worked.

“Your Wednesday?” your dad repeated and blinked a few times, his eyes changing into their natural color, the same eye color you had. He glanced down, right at Wednesday who seemed to be genuinely interested in him. “Ah, Anna did mention a new roommate,” he was piecing together whatever information he had. “The fuck is this Gomez? Another Addams-raiju roommate situation?”

Your jaw dropped at that and you looked at Wednesday only to see well-concealed but definitely there shock on her face too. The two of you looked at each other and then at your fathers. “What the?!” you couldn’t help but yell.

Gomez laughed at that. “It looks like that’s exactly the case,” he agreed as the lightning around you disappeared and you approached the group.

“Wait, the roommate you told me about was Wednesday’s dad?” you asked, still unable to fully process the new information.

Your dad nodded. “Yeah, something like that,” he turned to Wednesday. “Uh, there was a storm, and I lost control for a bit while Gomez and Fester were there, luckily I didn’t hurt them, but, I could have,” he looked away, ashamed of losing control like that.

Wednesday took that information in and looked at you as if she just figured something out. You didn’t like that look on her face.

“Elijah left Nevermore after that, and we haven’t seen or heard from him since. I never made the connection between Y/N and him,” Morticia said, mostly to Wednesday.

“Anna and I figured it was safer for Y/N to take Anna’s last name,” your dad explained. “Not that it helped you to stay out of jail, you little troublemaker,” he pulled you in, ruffling your hair.

You pulled away, annoyed that he kept that habit. “No comment,” you rolled your eyes.

“Just be happy I convinced Weems not to call Anna,” your dad said and took a few steps back. “Come on, now, say goodbyes and follow me, Y/N,” his eyes turned orange once again. “Gomez, Morticia, it was good seeing you and your family. Wednesday, thank you,” and he burst into lightning and went in the direction of the woods.

“Does he not realize that I can’t do that?” you just watched the spot where he was standing moments ago.

“Why did he thank me?” Wednesday asked you.

You lightly rubbed the side of your neck. “Uh, don’t worry about it. Dad can be a bit random at times,” you sighed and pulled out your lucky knife. “I’ll see you later!” and off you went, one burst of lightning at a time.

~X~

You were out of breath and on your hands and knees when you caught up with your dad and he didn’t look even a bit tired. Guess you still had a long way to go. No shit, your lightning was still red, Still, his was orange, and that was just one level stronger than your own. Just how strong would a raiju with yellow let alone blue lightning be? You moved so you could sit down and hung your head low, still trying to catch your breath.

“You did good, that was faster than I expected,” he still praised you, smiling proudly as he sat with his back against a tree.

You shook your head. “It’s not nearly as fast as it should be,” you rejected the compliment.

He sighed, standing up and approaching you. He sat down on the ground a few feet from you. “I don’t care about how things should be, Y/N, I just want you to be happy and healthy,” he said softly.

“I know,” you smiled, having heard those words plenty of times. It was still hard to believe in them. Not because he ever did anything to make you doubt those words, but because it simply felt too good to be true. Just look at Enid’s parents, you couldn’t imagine them, especially Esther, saying something like that to Enid. Although, Wednesday’s parents seemed content with Wednesday just being happy in her own way as well.

“This,” he gathered some lightning between his palms and raised his hands toward you. “it’s not a curse, Y/N, and neither are our beast forms.”

The smile fell off your face as you raised your head to glare at him. “Don’t give me that. Not after you left this place because you were also afraid of these powers, of hurting people!” you yelled, red sparks dancing around you almost out of control.

And then his eyes turned yellow, and you jumped to your feet and put at least some distance between the two of you. Yellow lightning raged around him and he roared, loud and powerful, and animalistic, and moments later a huge golden bear stood in his place. He was much bigger than even a grizzly bear, as it was usually the case with raiju. There was barely any lightning coming from his body and you could only stare in awe. The less lightning there was, the more in control the person was, and your dad only had lightning coming from his eyes and front paws. He growled, though there was no threat in it, as if telling you to shift as well.

“I can’t, I can’t control it,” you refused, closing your eyes and turning away from him.

“This is your best chance. While I’m here everything will be fine even if you lose control,” he shifted back. “You’re at your limit. You’ve been restraining it for over two years, and the more you restrain it, the more painful it gets. It might be the next time there’s a storm, or on the fifth, or even tenth storm from today, but you will shift no matter how much you discharge,” he sighed, firmly grasping your shoulder. “Fear isn’t bad, Y/N, but don’t be afraid of yourself. If you aren’t ready to shift now, it’s fine, but give me a call when you feel like you’re ready,” it was the reassurance you needed. His words, his control over his beast form, it eased your worries, even if only a little bit. It gave you hope that maybe you could eventually control your own beast form.

“Okay, I’ll call you when I’m ready,” you promised and hugged him.

He hugged you back, sighing. “I don’t want to scare you, but you need to know one thing. With how inexperienced you are, no matter what happens, do not shift twice in a row. Even if you stay in control the first time, you won’t be able to control it the second time,” his words were definitive, there was no doubt there, for him, or for you.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

“We’re not separate from that form, it’s as much a part of us as the lightning,” and lightning couldn’t do anything but destroy, it was too powerful to contain, direct and use for anything but battle. That was what lightning was, and that was what made it so frightening to take a form of a beast made of lightning.

~X~

The Parents’ weekend was coming to a close, her parents, Pugsley and Lurch were leaving. Your father already left, as did most of the families. You were close to her, seeing as you just said goodbye to your father and he wanted to say goodbye to her parents one more time, and meet Pugsley this time. So, even after your father left, you stayed nearby, waiting for Wednesday so the two of you could go back to your room.

You wouldn’t be waiting for much longer, her mother said her goodbyes, showing Wednesday affection in a way Wednesday was comfortable with, with air kisses and turning to leave.

Wednesday paused, contemplating her choices. Finally, the need to understand, the need to be aware of potential effects it could have on you pushed her to say. "Mother," she called out, getting her mother's attention.

Her mother halted, turning around with just a subtle hint of surprise on her face. "Yes, Darling?"

"Goody told me to use the raiju," she said, she didn't want to admit it, but the choice of words and what she saw, especially after what her mother said about Goody, it just felt wrong.

Her mother sighed, a heavy, foreboding sigh Wednesday rarely heard. "Once in every generation an Addams forms a deep bond with a raiju," her mother revealed, just for a moment looking in your direction. "It can be friendship or love, many believe Goody was in love with her raiju."

Wednesday's eyes widened, and the way her heart began beating just a bit faster made her uncomfortable. "I've never heard of a raiju in our family," she argued, trying to, at the very least, remove love from the equation.

"Because there wasn't any. Despite all the times an Addams fell in love with a raiju. Those bonds always end in a tragedy, but especially when there was love involved, the raiju always died for their Addams. They are powerful, and that power makes them reckless," this time Wednesday was the one who looked at you, and as if you felt her eyes on you, you looked up and grinned at her. It made her feel nauseous for a moment.

"Her father is still alive," she tried to argue once again and for once didn't mind her mother placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Friendships sometimes ended up with raiju no longer capable of living a normal life. Maybe that's why Y/N carries her mother's last name, or maybe they broke the cycle," her mother paused for a moment. "Or perhaps you and Y/N will."

Wednesday clenched her fists. "I don't feel that way about Y/N," she claimed, even if her actions spoke otherwise. "Especially if it's tied to some kind of fate or a curse," she didn't want to feel like she wasn't in control, especially over her own emotions.

"Darling, even if it was fate, would that make those feelings any less genuine? Regardless of the nature of those feelings?" Wednesday remained silent, not quite able to put into words how she felt.

She just looked at you again. Death was never something she feared, she was even excited about it. The idea of you dying for her, however, wasn't thrilling to her. It made her feel dread and not a good kind of dread. She made a mistake, staying close to you wouldn’t prevent that vision from coming true, staying away from you would prevent it. So, Wednesday made a decision, you would no longer be involved with her investigation. When she looked away from you she pretended not to see the smile on her mother's face.

Story Masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next part

[ladykailitha]

Never Hold Back Your Step... Part 13

This really is getting down to the end here. I'm already at the Mind Flayer in the spot where I'm at in the story so...yeah. Then it would just one chapter after that. Maybe. I don't know. But it's sad to see this one go, too.

Of course as with "Can Anybody See Me?" once this is done, I will begin work on the final story which will take us all the way to the end of the fourth season. Which I hope to get done before season 5. Ideally.

It will have a line from a song in a musical just like the last two (1776 and The Scarlet Pimpernel respectively) so you have any songs you think will fit the theme of the third book (which will be Steve and Eddie clashing over nerds vs sports until that fateful day in March) let me know in the comments or tags or even a DM or ask. It took me months to come up with the title for this one, so any help would be great.

Here we have the dipshit detectives trying to figure out the message and the "secret tunnel".

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

~

Once they explained everything to Robin, she told them about what the message said. And no given the context of the message coming from the mall it suddenly made too sense.

“The clock tower, the shoe shop and the Chinese place,” she crowed. “It’s got to be.”

“You sure you translated it correctly?” Steve asked. “Because what the fuck does blue meeting yellow have anything to do with the clock tower?”

Robin rolled her eyes and huffed out a deep sigh. “The hour and minute hands are blue and yellow and meeting in the west would be 9:45!”

Eddie tilted his head to the side. “AM or PM?”

Robin stared at him for a moment in shock. “Oh. I don’t know. Could be either I guess.”

Eddie looked at his watch and cursed. “As thrilling as all this has been, I have to get to band practice.” He gave Steve’s shoulder a squeeze. “Be careful, Stevie. Okay?”

Steve nodded and squeezed Eddie’s shoulder back. God, he just want to kiss him goodbye, because it might be his last opportunity to do so. But Dustin and Robin were watching and probably half of the mall too. “As careful as I can be.”

“How can you be so super chill about this?” Robin asked after he left. “Like Russians are running around our mall and Eddie acts like this is a normal Tuesday for you?”

Dustin and Steve shared a glance.

But Steve just scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Like I’ve had the worst year. My girlfriend broke up with me, I got my head bashed in by Hargrove, I got harassed by the basketball team, I nearly got water dumped on my head because I won the part fair and square, then the same asshole tried to scramble my brains further, I didn’t get into the right colleges and was forced to work here instead of the rec center pool like have for the last three years, and a fuck ton of other things. Now Russians have set up shop in my home town? This is just the cherry on top of a very shit filled cake.”

Robin and Dustin winced. Dustin knew that Steve’s year was actually way worse than the truncated version he gave Robin, but they couldn’t tell her about the tunnels, El, monsters, and secret labs. Hence, fuck ton of things.

“Okay,” Robin conceded, “it does sound like your average Tuesday.” She looked up at the clock. “You’re supposed to be off, anyway. So shoo and take the genius child with you.”

Dustin beamed up Steve smugly, but Steve just knocked his hat off on his way to clock out.

“Hey!” Dustin shouted after him. He turned to Robin. “Can you believe this guy?”

Robin just shrugged. “You’re the one who’s friends with him, not me.”

Steve walked out moments later, twirling the hat on his finger. He walked past Dustin to the mall food court. He stopped and turned around.

“Are you coming or are you going to keep harassing workers?” he huffed, putting a hand on his hip.

Robin burst out laughing as Dustin hurried to catch up, scooping his hat off the floor in haste.

Steve shook his head as they walked through the mall. “Hey if we grab my binoculars, I bet we could stake out the mall and look for Russians.”

Steve looked at his watch and sighed. Eddie wouldn’t get done with band practice until much later tonight and he didn’t want to go back to his large empty house, because of course his parents fucked off to the Caribbean for the summer. His father had forced him to give up a job he loved for the most humiliating retail job imaginable and then fucked off to some place pleasant, leaving him to rot.

“Yeah, okay.”

Dustin let out a whoop and jumped up and down. “You won’t regret this!”

Steve buried his head in his hands. “I already do.”

~

Steve and Dustin were hiding behind a large potted plant with Dustin’s binoculars watching people go by.

“What are we supposed to looking for, anyway?” Steve asked, scanning the crowds.

“Russians.”

Steve tore himself away from the binoculars to glare at him. “Thank you for that unhelpful assessment. I know I’m supposed to be looking for Russians, but what do Russians look like?”

“I don’t know,” Dustin huffed. “Tall, blond, scary looking dudes, I guess.”

Steve rolled his eyes and kept looking. He spotted Anna Jacobi flirting with Mark Lewinsky and huffed out a a noise of disgust.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said with a sigh. “Anna can do way better than swamp ass Lewinsky.”

Dustin smacked his shoulder. “Can you please take this seriously? You’re supposed to be looking for Russians, not your next date. Besides you already have the perfect girl right there!”

Steve rolled his eyes and went back to looking through the binoculars. “Don’t say Robin.”

“Robin.” Was the immediate response.

“No, man,” Steve said as Dustin grabbed the binoculars from him, “she’s not my type. She’s not even in the ballpark of my type.” Considering that she had boobies and not a dick, pretty much sealed the box on any chances of that romantic relationship going anywhere.

Dustin looked over at him and sneered. “And what’s your type again? Not awesome?”

Fuck you. But Steve sneered and stuck his tongue out. “Thank you.”

Dustin grinned back at him with a little hum.

“Look,” Steve said, “for your information, she’s still in school. And she’s weird. But not like Eddie weird. Weird, weird. And she’s hyper. Like worse than Eddie. At least if you put a book in his hand, he’ll settle down. She’ll tap her fingers and twirl her gum. She was also one of those kids in drama who didn’t think I deserved the role of Thomson. That’s a bad look. And she’s in band? But not a rock band like Eddie, a fucking trumpet.” He twisted his lips in disgust. “No.”

Dustin turned to face him. “Now that you’re out of school, that means you’re an adult. And don’t you think you should move past primitive social constructs like popularity?”

Steve looked at him as if he was joking. “Popularity? Are you fucking with me right now? Did you forget I wasn’t popular for the last four months of high school? Primitive constructs, I tell you. Where the hell did you learn that shit? Camp Know Nothing?”

“Camp Know Where, actually,” Dustin huffed, “And no, it’s shit I learned from life. Instead of dating someone you think will make you cool again, why not date someone you enjoy being around for a change? Like me and Suzie.” He smiled broadly. He turned back to watching the through the binoculars.

Steve was soo close to just telling the little shit that he was dating someone he enjoyed being around, someone who did make him look cooler, someone who loved him for him and not in spite of him. But instead he took a deep breath and said, “Oh Suzie. Yeah, you mean hotter than Phoebe Cates. That Suzie. And let’s think about how exactly you scored a girlfriend?”

He scratched his head, appearing to think about it, then he snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, with my advice. Because that’s how this works, Henderson. I give the advice and you follow through. Not the other way around, all right?”

Dustin sighed. “I just think you could really benefit from being with someone like her, you know?”

Steve rubbed the top of the kid’s head. “I’m doing better than you think I am. Better then everyone thinks I am.”

Dustin stared at him skeptically, but left it alone. Steve knew that there was no way he was going to leave it alone. He just knew that it was going to come back and bite him in the ass in the worst way and at the worst time. He could feel it.

~

“There is a secret room under the mall,” Steve said slowly, not quite wanting to believe this. “And we can get there through the air vents in the break room?”

Robin nodded emphatically. “Yeah, isn’t that cool?”

He had no idea how to tell her how uncool that actually was, because Jesus fuck, the deeper they got into this, the more over his head he felt.

“Let’s go see your secret tunnel,” he said with a sigh, rubbing his face, just suddenly exhausted by the whole thing.

He followed them to the back and looked up at the vent in utter despair. Sighing, he got a ladder and set it up, then hunted around for a screwdriver. Once he found one, he tucked it between his teeth and started climbing. He reached the vent and unscrewed the screws holding the vent in place.

“Oi!” he called out to Dustin. “Hold these!” He held out the screws for him to take. “Don’t lose them, otherwise people are going to ask why there is a great big gaping hole in the wall.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Steve put the screwdriver back between his teeth and took off the vent cover.

“It’s a tight space,” he murmured. “Hey, Robin you think you could fit? You’re pretty thin.”

Robin put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “While I appreciate you thinking I’m skinny enough to fit, I question your sanity if you think I’m going down the creepy tunnel.”

“Vent!” Dustin huffed. “You’ve both called it a tunnel. It’s not a tunnel, it’s a vent. And none of us are small enough to fit.”

DING! DING! “Hey!” someone called out from the front of the store. “Is anyone here?”

Steve who had been climbing down the ladder, stopped and shared a look with Dustin. A slow smile took over their faces.

“Erica!” they said together with glee.

They ran out to the front with Robin fast on their heels. They skidded to a stop and their smiles grew to actual grins when they saw that she was alone and not with her many friends.

“Erica...hey,” Steve said smoothly, leaning against the counter. “What can I get you?”

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you suddenly being so nice?”

Just then Dustin and Robin burst out of the back room and stumbled into front and Erica was even more suspicious than she was before.

So Steve bundled her over to one of the booths and tried plying her with all the ice cream a little girl could conceivably eat, while Dustin filled both Robin and Erica about the messages and all their clues and how they put it all together. It was a hard but impressive sell.

“So will you do it for America?” Dustin asked.

“Well, you can’t spell America without Erica,” she said smugly. “A life time supply of Scoops Ice Cream and you’ve got a deal.”

Robin and Steve shared a glance. Then Steve reached across the table to shake Erica’s hand.

“Deal.”

~

Part 14 Part 15 Part 16

And if you remember something else there from WIP Wednesday... yeah. It wasn't fitting with the rest of the story and had to be cut. Sadness.

Tag List: FIVE SLOTS REMAINING

1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @blondie1006

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @angels-of-hades

7- @mugloversonly @y4r3luv @greeniebean911 @birbsauce @acingthecounts

8- @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars @ravenfrog @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts

9- @clockworkballerina @bluelightsinthevoid @blcksh33p1987 @i-go-pink-in-the-night @mamafaithful

[deceitfuldevout]

Play Me a Tragedy

Dark!Ivar x Wife!Reader

Word Count: +2416

Warning(s): +18, Forced Marriage, Kidnapping, Mentions of past non con, Raiding, Forced pregnancy.

Author's Note(s): Y'all should know by now I'm all for the dramatics.

You and your husband, King Ivar, have been invited to a play. Accompanied by your children to celebrate your wedding anniversary. Filled with entertainment, games, and a feast. But it wasn't just any day, no. This was the day your entire world fell apart. When you were taken from your home, and everyone you loved. All to celebrate what was you considered to be the worst day of your life.

There had been stories told throughout the feast. Every last one of them stroked your husband's never-ending ego. Within only a few years, Ivar had gained a large mass of devoted followers who were willing to die for him and his cause. With that kind of power given to a mad man such as himself, of course it would go to his head.

Ivar convinced the people of Kattegat of his new world order. That if they follow him and him only would they achieve Valhalla. It was more a cult if anything. He made his people believe that you were his very own 'deity'. He claimed that you were made especially for him by the gods. That the two of you were destined for one another, as a way for Ivar to justify his actions. Even after being given the title of 'Queen', you had no say in politics. You were a glorified broodmare. There wasn't a single day that passed where Ivar wouldn't claim ownership over you. He would dress you himself in the finest silks and jewels during the day. By nigh. he would ravage you until the morning.

After the birth of your first child, you had finally broken. Willingly following his orders, knowing that there would be no one else to protect you and your child. Ivar was glad to claim you were finally his. Body and soul. Now proven with his cub. He would remind you everyday to be grateful that it was him who found you first. In his own words, "Who knows how it would end with any other man, this is what's best for you.", That you should be thanking him. Deep down you knew if it were another warrior, they'd tear you apart. After all, it was your husband's status that gave you access to such a luxurious life. A gilded cage fit for a queen.

Today he was obnoxiously louder than usual. His voice booms throughout the dining hall. The entertainers had saved the best story for last. 'A Tale of a Fallen Kingdom.' they called it. There were actors in costume to represent Ivar and his warriors. It only took a moment to realize which day they were reenacting.

The narrator clears his voice before beginning, "Five years ago, to this day..." he states, "King Ivar and his men visit a Kingdom, untouched by war and plague." it was then when the crowd decided to spew their distaste towards your people. Spewing insults and curses at your country's flag. Your brows furrow as your eyes widen. Had that much time really pass? Surely it hadn't been that long...it felt as though you'd been 'married' for almost a decade. But then again only a year with Ivar felt like forever.

It was almost unreal how accurate their clothes were. It had been a while since you'd seen someone dressed in your people's clothes. From the stage setup, to the costume design. It was like a memory had been extracted and put on display. You tear up at the sight of it. Truly missing your home more than ever. Part of you wasn't sure your family were still alive. There was a young maiden dressed in modest clothing. Not just any garb no, it was specifically designed for a lady in waiting. A title you were given from being the general's daughter. There your character stood, following the other meek women of the royal court.

You were portrayed as a ditzy, clumsy little thing. Who couldn't fend to save her life. Scoffing at the display, you turn to face Ivar who had found it all amusing. You roll your eyes. Did he truly find this mockery entertaining? It was obviously a political tool. Then your mind began racing. Was this truly how the people of Kattegat view you? That you were willing to betray your own people so easily. All to become Ivar's own personal whore. Your blood began to boil. This wasn't a love story but a tragedy. The young man dressed as Ivar lets out a triumphant laugh. Your counterpart had depicted you as an absolute moron, who craved the attention of a man that would give a second glance.

You scoff at the display. Out of all your ladies in court, you were the most educated. That's how you captured Ivar's interest. He had been fascinated by your intelligence. It was rare for women in your kingdom to seek an education, let alone willingly. Your parents supported you furthering your studies alongside the men. No one would question their general's only child.

Ivar used to sneak in a few pieces of literature for you to read. The next time he summoned you was for a game of chess. To his surprise you'd beaten him, his entire demeanor had shifted. He partially blames himself for underestimating a woman of these lands. But then again, not many were educated here. It was at the moment where his final decision was made, he had to have you.

Soon enough the audience follows with boisterous laughs. 'Ivar' releases his crutches before making an exaggerated dive for the woman. She squeals, "No no~you handsome heathen!" squealing as the man began to 'ravage' her. You felt a deep pit of despair, falling ill at the sight of their performance. Ivar on the other hand, was ecstatic. He indulged in the portrayal of himself, covering the growing smirk behind his cup. As the narrator continues, "How will the poor maiden survive such a world?" announcing it to the crowd.

It was then when the women clings onto 'Ivar' as if her life depended on it, "Please! King Ivar! Take me! Take me away from this boring life! Make a woman of me!" the woman boasts as she rips her blouse open, "I'm yours!" She lifts her skirts in a seductive manner. You felt sick to your stomach. This is not what happened, not at all. You had a life, a family that you were taken from.

You remember clawing at his face, hard enough to break skin. Ivar hisses from the sting. He lifts your shoulders and slams you against the ground. You felt dizzy from the impact. Air escaping your lungs as you cough to catch breath. Your vision blurs for a moment before realizing he'd already ripped through your blouse. He skillfully cuts through the garment, lifting your skirts to make way.

You despised Ivar's efforts at keeping a heroic image in public. Angry tears fell down your face. Because you, of all people, knew the truth. You have scars to bear with. From the leather bindings that burned into your wrists during that cursed wedding night, to the following months after. How he'd bound you to bed like an animal, until he was sure you were with child.

Ivar chuckles at your eldest son's discomfort. Seeing his parents being depicted as very passionate lovers. He rubs his head, "Someday you will also become a man." causing the four year old to gag. Ivar doesn't wince when your second born sits on his lap. She adores her father. Of course it was easy being the apple of his eye, and at times, she uses it to her advantage.

Every time you'd scold her, she'd run into her father's arms. You on the other hand despised his efforts at keeping a heroic image. When it was clear as day he was not to be trusted. The same hands that held your daughter close, were used to slaughter hundreds.

Seeing such a mockery being displayed to your children made your heart shatter. Tears began to trickle as you sob in silence. Your daughter notices and leaves her father to comfort you. Ivar is too absorbed into the play to pay attention. He lets out a boastful laugh, clutching his sides as the crowd roaring continues. It was during the king's coronation when the Northmen attacked.

Ivar and his men raided the other surrounding kingdoms. As a peace offering they were invited to the ceremony. Little did your leader know what sinister actions would play out. Ivar and the young king had been in talks for a peace treaty.

You held your girl close, shielding her from the next scene. It was the day he had taken you.

You and the other maidens just so happened to pass by the dining hall. It was at that moment when Ivar swore time itself had stopped. He had been mesmerized by your presence. You, a noble maiden had captured the heathen king's heart.

For the entire evening he hadn't cared for anyone's attention but yours. Ordering you to halt everything to give the King your attention. His obsession was obvious to everyone but you. He followed you around like a love-sick puppy. To the point where the King himself appointed you as his foreign advisor.

Ivar had tried everything to woo you. From the promises of riches, to land, to the title of noblewoman. All of which you politely declined. Stating that you were happy with you life the way it was. Part of you knew he wouldn't stop until you gave him the attention he so desperately craved. So much so that he decides to take matters into his own hands.

Suddenly the stage began to erupt with an array of ribbons thrown into the air. To symbolize the arrows lit aflame. Flashes of that night came to you in small doses. You're no longer in Kattegat but now residing in your kingdom, before it was burned to the ground. You could see what was once your home, burning right before your very eyes. Hearing the echoes of your people's screams. The day your life changed forever.

There Ivar was, crawling towards you as you ran for the door. "Help! Help me! Someone please!" you ran as fast as you could. The gates began to close. There was not a moment to waste. You ran because your life depended on it. But it was too late, the guards on the other side began to pull harder for the gate to close. Soon enough it had shut.

You slam it as hard as you can. Until your fists began to bruise, "Please! Someone help me! I'm the commander's daughter! Please!" taking a breath loud enough so that they can hear you, "Don't leave me!" sobbing against the metal doors. As you turn around to find Ivar had caught up with you. He grins from ear to ear covered in blood from the fallen soldiers. With a look in his eyes that said: You're mine.

On the other side of the border your father and his men fought to defend the kingdom's last line of defense. "Sir!" a solider ushers for your father, who scolds him, "Not now boy!" he swings his sword at a heathen climbing the walls. But the man insists, "It's your daughter." causing the general to halt, "What is it boy?!"

"She's missing."

"What has happened?!"

"She left for the market this morning."

Those words alone made his blood run cold, "No..." It was that day when your father had made the ultimate sacrifice. Either let the gates down and weaken the kingdom's last defense, or lose his only child. Soon enough, Ivar had already reached the gates, halting his army from furthering. He demands to speak with your father to make a deal, “General, will you let me wed your daughter?”

He scowls at such a command, “When it rains fire.”

Ivar hums, nodding at the man's proclaim, “So let it be.” He raises his arms in the air, signaling for his warriors to shoot. Hundreds of arrows are lit aflame and shot into the sky. It took three days and nights until your kingdom had finally surrendered. Ivar had won. Your kingdom had lost.

This was the ‘Great love story’ of King Ivar and his queen. Your remember the pain and betrayal felt was immeasurable. Those strong feelings from years ago all came down at once. Like something inside of you had finally tipped over. You finally reach your breaking point, bowing your head in shame. Crying to yourself as your daughter tries her best to comfort you. But her soft heart could no longer take the sight of her mother weeping, as she wraps her arms around you and cries.

It catches the attention of your husband. It was then when his mood had shifted. He couldn’t help but feel like a deep pit had been dug in his belly. Ivar swishes the ale in his mouth, swallowing it as if it were bitter.

He sighs, standing up from his seat, “Halt!” he commands. The room goes silent. There isn’t so much as a whisper. Ivar gathers the actors, lining them up in a row for interrogation. He orders the guards to bring the writer responsible for the play. Soon enough, a timid man is put on stage. It was then when you had to beg your husband to spare his life. Ivar lets out a huff, "You should be thanking my wife for sparing you. Don't let it happen again." with that the celebration had come to an end.

You left as fast as you could. Sending your children off to their rooms before returning to your dreadful marital chambers. You ready yourself for bed, hoping that Ivar would return much later. When you hear his footsteps approaching you don't bother to look him in the eye. You help your husband remove his leg braces; since he's only ever let you do it.

When the two of you are finally in bed, Ivar reaches for your waist. He wraps his arms around your body as he held your bodies together. He presses his nose against the top of your hair, whispering, "It was the gods who led me to you my love..." he sighs, breathing in your scent. He hums, "The healers have already informed me." he brushes his hand flat against your mid drift. He feels for the swell of your under belly, one of his favorite things to do. If he could stay like this forever, he would. Ivar reassures you with soft whispers, "There there my love, it is in the past..." as he gently wipes the tears away, cooing as you cried the rest of the night in his arms.

[verybadatwriting]

Blood and Marrow

Summary: Reader is the child of a hard-working single mother and a long-forgotten one night stand. One day the consequences of their father's identity catches up to the Reader

Warnings: Imprisonment, needles, improper conditions for prisoners, bone marrow stealing, surgery without anesthetic, torture essentially, kidnapping, in-world curse word, parental death, iv’s

Notes: It’s a little slow to get started, but whatever.

Gn!reader, Fett!reader

Word count: 4030

The whispering streets sped by as the train picked up speed. Another day was done, you and your mother were finally on your way home. Even though today wasn’t the longest she’d ever had to stay at work, it sure felt like it. All but two cooks and half the servers got food poisoning, so you had to help out. Normally you got to sit in the corner and do your schoolwork, instead you were ferrying meals and dishes back and forth between the kitchen and customers. 

Your mom had been working here since before you were born, so it was like a second home to you. A dirty, noisy home, full of strangers, but a home nonetheless. When you were a baby your mom would park you in a corner with some toys and just keep half an eye on you while she worked. 

That corner became your spot, permanently. Everyone knew not to seat customers there, except on the days you worked. Today it was occupied by an elderly Mon Calamari couple. They ordered crab-stuffed cream puffs, and complained that they had too much crab, and not enough stuffing. You tried explaining that it’s stuffed with crab, so the crab is the stuffing, but they were firm. 

Eventually you just took the puffs back to the kitchen, waited a few minutes, and came back out with the same plate. This time they were “absolutely perfect” and they asked why “You didn’t make them like this the first time?”

Putting on your best customer service face you simply smiled and told them to enjoy their meal. 

“What I really wanted to tell them,” You said to your mom, “Was that they looked like a bunch of shriveled up–”

“Alright!” She interrupted sternly, “That’s quite enough.” She tried giving you her signature ‘mom-glare’ but you could see a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The train ground to a halt at stop G17, and you disembarked. This was the worst part of the commute; strolling through the slums. Ever since you were little you had hated your neighborhood. The neon lights and bottles strewn about, the clusters of people who never seemed to disperse or do anything other than stand around. 

About two years ago things got really bad after a rough batch of layoffs, and the standing around turned to rioting. Rioting turned to looting, which turned to robberies. You and your mother hid in the bathroom as men ransacked your apartment. Crashes rattled the ground as they tossed through dressers and drawers looking for valuables.

They were about to open the bathroom door when an authoritative voice ordered them to put their hands up. Obviously they didn’t obey, and the sounds of fighting erupted. An electric zapping sound buzzed and the robbers thunked to the ground.

“Apartment building 5C clear.” The man said. 

“Wait– scratch that.” Said another, identical voice. “One room left.” The door slowly opened, and the man pointed a flashlight inside. He didn’t wear the uniform of the Coruscant Underworld Police, instead his armor was mostly white with red accents. He lowered his stun baton when the light passed over the scared forms of you and your mother. 

“Now apartment building 5C is clear.” He said into his com, then to your mother, “Are you hurt?”

“No.” She said, “We’re fine.”

“Thorn,” The other trooper called into the bathroom. “We’ve gotta get moving. Stone needs help with the riots to the west. Latest reports say three dead.”

The troopers arrested the robbers and quickly left, leaving you and your mom alone in your completely trashed apartment. It took hours to clean it all up. Even longer to even start to feel safe again.

Now, as you finally slid off your shoes and settled down on your bed, you felt a little safe. The doors were locked and bolted. In the past two years nobody else broke in, and things were calm enough. 

“Try to catch some sleep, Y/n,” Your mom poked her head into your room. 

“Mhm.” You nodded, “I’ve just gotta finish up some homework. I promise I’ll be in bed by one.”

“That’s my kid.” Your mom went to the joint living/dining room and spread a blanket on the couch. She laid there, and you listened to her breathing slowly steady as she drifted off to sleep. 

Your blinks got longer and longer until you set aside the work and stilus to finally sleep. Just like you promised, it was a few minutes before one. What felt like a moment later, you woke up with a start. 

At first, you couldn’t tell what woke you, but then you heard footsteps clanking in the living room. They stopped again, and you heard a brief, muffled yell from your mother. The clanking started again, and seconds later, a tall metallic figure stood in your doorway. It approached, and pressed a cloth over your mouth and nose. The world went fuzzy and then dark as you clawed at the metal arm.

Some time later, you’re not quite sure how long, you woke up with a splitting headache. You tried to rub your eyes, but found your arms were immobile. The room spun around as you reoriented yourself. At first you thought you were lying on your back, but in reality you were hanging from the ceiling by two shackles on your wrists. Your feet barely brushed the floor, so all your weight was pulling down on your arms.

Your eyes slowly acclimated to the darkness around you. The walls were slick durasteel. The floor was metal as well, but slightly slanted towards a small, round drain in the center. Layers of old, dried crud that no one had bothered to clean up streaked toward it.

As you just hung there, breathing heavily because of a stabbing pain in your sternum. You also had a stabbing, unending pain in your head. Before all of this had time to fully register, the door slid open, a blinding light was turned on, and a Skakoan man entered. His dark blue robes draped loosely from his hissing pressure suit. Tubes reached from his neck plate to the upper chest plate, which featured nozzles and ports. The metal caught the light and glinted.

Closely after him, a 2-1B surgical droid followed. The shiny metal of its body was all straight lines and perfect curves. The ends of its arms were equipped with tools; tools you couldn't even imagine the purpose of. Its lifeless, glowing eyes stared through you. 

“Shall we begin, Emir Tambor?” It asked, holding up a container.

“Of course.” 

Tambor took the box from the droid, opened it, and removed a long, sharp needle. There was a clear collection area at the base. He sterilized the instrument. The droid, meanwhile, was approaching you. It was holding a bottle of disinfectant, which it sprayed onto your right hip after moving aside the clothing that was in the way. Your skin rose with goosebumps at the cold. 

The Skakoan approached, holding a scalpel. Slowly it was pressed into your side, through layers of skin, then muscle. Then it held back the layers of muscle while Tambor raised a drill and pushed it through the exterior of your bone. Your chest tightened in pain. You bit your tongue. You tasted blood in your mouth from biting too hard, while more trickled down your leg.

“Syringe.” Tambor said as he removed the drill and held out his gloved hand to the droid. It glinted against the harsh light as it passed between them. It plunged into the freshly-drilled hole in your bone and into the squishy marrow. The container at the end slowly filled with a dark red liquid. Darker than blood. 

“Suture,” The droid said, holding out a tool to the Skakoan scientist.

“You deal with that. I have what I need; 18.44 precious ounces of bone marrow.” Tambor started towards the door, cradling the container like it was worth more than a hundred kyber crystals. The door slid closed behind him, leaving only you and the dead-eyed droid. 

Finally, you allowed a sob to rip through your chest. Your chest heaved as you drew a shuddering breath, then devolved back into tears. The sound echoed off the shadowy walls. When Tambor left, the overhead lights turned off automatically, plunging the room into near complete darkness. Only the droid’s glowing eyes provided light. Even then, they were fixed at patching up the mess that was your hip.

“It would assist me if you could stay still,” It said.

For the next few minutes you tried to think of anything else than the metal digits nimbly stitching up your flesh. Where were you? Why are they doing this? Who is ‘they’? Did they kidnap your mom, too?

The thought of your mom hanging from her wrists in some dark cell, just as you were, was enough to make you cry again. The droid whirred disapprovingly. You stifled them as best you could. 

It was almost over. The droid just had to finish stitching together the final layer of muscle, and apply a bacta patch. It never got the chance, because the door blew open, and a few clone troopers marched in, guns blazing. They shot down the surgery droid the moment they saw it. Behind them, you saw a half dozen more blue -armored soldiers in the hall.

“This one’s alive,” called out the one nearest to you, “Kix, get over here!”

“Can you hear me?” The medic asked, opening his kit. 

You nodded.

“This is gonna sting a little,” He said, pressing a bacta patch over your still bleeding hip. The sting was the least of your worries. Even that slight amount of pressure was enough to make you gasp in pain.

“You’re okay,” Kix said reassuringly to you, then he barked at his brothers to unfasten the chains holding you up. Almost immediately, they snapped the right chain and all your weight swung onto the other arm. Kix put his arm under your shoulders, and held you up while one of his brothers worked at undoing the second manacle. 

“Can you walk?” Kix asked once his brother had freed you. You tried putting a little weight on your leg, but couldn’t manage it. Your other leg nearly buckled, and only Kix’s arm kept you standing.

“No.” You hissed through clenched teeth. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He said, “What’s your name?”

“Y/n,” You answered.

“We’re going to take you to our ship, Y/n,” He said, “You’ll be on the first flight out of here.” 

“Mhmm.” You said, the blood loss making you a bit woozy. Your head lolled to the side, and rested against Kix’s shoulder.

“Kix,” one of the soldiers said. His helmet had a blue downwards-pointing arrow, and a smaller red triangle above that. His armor was battered, just like the rest of them. The paint was worn away in places. 

“This area still isn’t secured. They’ll have to wait to be evacuated.”

“They can’t wait,” Kix replied, “Look at that, Dogma” he pointed to a puddle of your blood on the floor, “Look at it. They’ve lost too much blood already. We’re getting them out, now.”

After a moment of thoughtfully looking at the blood he nodded and said, “We’ll cover you.” Then he spoke into his comm, “Civilian evac needed. Be ready to provide cover fire.”

“Hear that?” Kix asked you. “We’ll get you out of here.”

“Hardcase, and Dogma, on my mark,” came a voice over the comms a moment later. “Three… Two… One!”

Dogma leaned out of the door and chucked a grenade up the hallway, and at the same time, another clone did the same thing from a room across the hall. They both ducked back inside, and covered their ears as two small explosions shook the walls. 

One soldier with pale blue stripes on his armor jumped out into the corridor with a 6-Z rotary cannon and started firing massive sprays of blaster bolts towards the droids. At the same time, Kix shifted to carry most of your weight, and started running towards the turbolift at the opposite end of the hall. 

The whole escape was a bit of a blur. The hallway was one long, straight passage from the room you were being held in to the lift. Unfortunately, that meant there was barely any cover. Even with the clones mowing down rows of droids, a few bolts still sailed down the hall towards you. It was so loud.

But the noise stopped suddenly once you saw into one of the other rooms. Everything stopped. The world stopped. Maybe even the whole galaxy. 

In that room, one identical to the one you had been held in, hung a woman. Her wrists were bound in chains, her head hung limply. Her clothes were bloodsoaked. Worst of all, she was absolutely still.

Nothing – not the pain in your leg, not the slicing scalpel tearing flesh, not the needle siphoning marrow – no, nothing could ever come close to the pain of seeing her like that, and knowing she was gone.

You felt Kix tug you forward, ripping you back to reality where everything was moving and there was no time to mourn. Before you knew it, the two of you were in the elevator. The smooth doors slid closed, drowning out the sounds of battle.

Through the curved window, you could see you were on an asteroid. The rocky barren landscape was littered with ships, troops, and the flashes of blaster fire. It looked like the Republic was taking the whole place.

“We’re almost there,” Kix said softly. “In the transport there’s an IM-6 medical droid that will take good care of you. You’re gonna be okay, kid.”

Finally, you reached the roof. Three low-altitude transports awaited you. You rushed to the closest one, Kix pulled down an emergency cot at the back, and set you down. He had to go back to the fight, but he dosed you with something first. It made the world fuzzy. Your pain dulled.

You barely even registered the little floating droid working diligently on your leg and your chest. Kix came back twice, both times half-carrying one of his wounded brothers. He set up the other two cots for them as the droid floated over to assist.

Not too long later, the transport started to fill up with soldiers. They were tired, but not completely exhausted. They quietly cracked jokes to one another, despite injuries.

The doors slid closed, the ship started rumbling, then flying. 

Kix stood in the back, near the cots, to assess his brothers. Once they were situated, he squatted down next to you.

“It’s been a little while,” He said, quietly. “How’re you holding up?”

“It still hurts,” You said, “But the meds help.”

“Good,” He nodded. “Is there someone you want us to contact, tell them you’re alright?”

You gained a faraway stare and paused as your eyes welled up.  

“Were there any other survivors?” You asked, dreading the answer.

“There were not.”

“No, then,” You said, voice perilously close to cracking. “I only ever had my mom, and as of today, she’s dead.” 

You reached up and wiped the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand.

“Where do you live?”

“Coruscant,” You said. “But I don't have anywhere to go. I’ll be put in foster care till I age out, then I’ll just be dumped on the street.”

“It’ll be okay,” Kix said. “We don’t have to figure it all out right now.” He looked at the datapad clipped to the side of your cot. His eyebrows wrinkled. 

“Are you having trouble breathing?” He asked.

“A little. Why?” 

“Your respiratory muscles are working harder than expected. I’m going to give you something to help them relax.”

He pushed a small dose of a clear liquid through your IV and almost immediately you felt your muscles relax from head to toe. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” He said. You found you couldn’t keep your eyes open, so you slept.

You awoke when the transport landed in the hangar of a much larger ship. The able-bodied clones hopped out quickly, and were soon absorbed by the throngs of people all fixing, refueling, and disembarking from ships. 

The two injured clones were transferred onto stretchers. As they floated by, you saw one was missing the lower chunk of his leg. The other clone was only half unconscious. His chest plate was battered with blaster burns, and as he drifted past, you smelled the unmistakable scent of burning flesh. 

Kix scooped you up, and set you down on a hoverchair. Almost immediately you felt more awake. On the journey to the medbay, you watched others that followed the same route as you. Most injuries weren’t that bad. The general mood was celebratory, even in the medbay.

“I’m gonna help you into a bed,” Kix said, “But then I have to go help my brothers. I won’t be far.” 

Once more he lifted you gently, making sure not to put pressure on your hip, and laid you down in the bed. You watched as Kix went from bed to bed bandaging and comforting the injured. 

Slowly, everything settled down. One by one the patched up clones were sent on their way, and the medbay was calm. There was still work to do, but the medics were no longer running from one task to the next, instead they took inventories of what materials were needed, and updated medical logs. 

It was then that your trouble breathing got much, much worse. Despite trying your hardest, very little air moved in or out of your lungs. Pain coursed through your chest as your muscles tried to pull in what little breath they could. You coughed, hoping that would help. 

All that did was bring the taste of blood to your tongue. You sat up. A drop fell from your mouth and onto the pristine white sheets. 

Kix turned at the sound of your cough. He set down the data-pad and rushed over when he saw you sit up and spit blood. 

“You’re okay,” He said, placing a stethoscope on your back, “Keep coughing.” He turned to another medic and said, “We’re gonna need a needle, tubing, and a container.” 

He grabbed the bedside table.

“Lean on this,” Kix said, pulling it closer. You turned, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs hanging off, and you braced your forearms on top of it, still coughing and trying to clear your lungs.

The medic returned quickly, all the necessary supplies in his arms.

“You’re gonna feel a sharp prick on your back, just below your ribs,” Kix said, picking up the syringe and securing the tubing on one end. “On three, ready?”

You nodded.

“One, two,” He pushed the needle through skin, muscle, and finally lung. It was uncomfortable and caught you off guard, but immediately the pressure started to decrease. A moment or two later, you could breathe with not too much difficulty.

Kix arranged everything so that you could sit up against the pillows.

“What’s wrong with me?” You asked.

“There is fluid leaking into your lungs,” Kix said, “I’m not exactly sure what it is; there’s at least some blood in it.”

“What caused it?”

“I’m guessing they weren’t too careful when extracting bone marrow from the sternum, and somehow nicked your lung. We can keep draining it, but we’ll have to fix the puncture at some point. We’ll probably use the drainage tube to access it…” 

You kept listening as he worked on possible solutions. The events of the past few hours suddenly washed over you, and your eyes once again drooped closed. 

When you woke up, there was no longer a bag attached to your side. Where the tube had been, there was just a simple bacta patch. 

The medbay staff had changed. They looked less tired. Kix was in the corner, near the door, talking with a blonde trooper. When they noticed you were awake, they came over.

You’d seen the other trooper before. He held his helmet under one arm, the jaig eyes peering out at you. 

“Y/n,” Kix said, pulling up a chair next to your bed, “This is Captain Rex. He leads the 501st.”

“Yeah,” You nodded, “The ones that got me outta there.” 

“Kix was just sharing that you’re healing well,” Rex said.

“I definitely feel way better, now that I’m not coughing up blood and struggling to breathe,” You said.

“I am very thankful we fixed that,” Kix nodded, then another medic called him over.

“Excuse me,” He said, then walked to the other end of the medbay. 

Rex was quiet, as though he didn’t really know what to say.

“Anyway,” he finally said, “I’m here to see if you have any information that might help us.”

“Uh… I don’t really know much.”

“That’s fine, just tell me what happened.”

“Well, they kidnapped us from my mom’s apartment on Coruscant. Some droids drugged us and we must’ve been out for at least a few hours, since when I woke up in that cell, they had already taken bone marrow from my chest. I hung there for a bit, then they took marrow from my hip, and that’s when y’all showed up.” 

“Can you think of any reason that the Separatists would want to target you or your family?”

“Nope. Mom and I aren’t politically active or important. Truth be told, I haven't the foggiest who my father was.”

You talked for a bit longer, and just as Rex was standing up, Kix came back. His eyes were fixed on the datapad held in his hands. His forehead was deeply creased; his expression the epitome of concern.

“Wait one moment, Captain,” He said. “This… this is bad.”

“What is it?” You and Rex both asked.

“The team on the ground just finished uploading their reports on the equipment. It’s for advanced genetic sequencing. They were working to reconstruct Jango Fett’s DNA.”

“What were they even working from?” Rex asked, eyebrows scrunching together.

“They spliced together DNA from one of Fett’s children, their mother, and one of our brothers.” 

“Jango didn’t have any children.” Rex said, then asked, “Right?”

“That’s what I thought, before I found this lab, at least” Kix shook his head, then turned towards you, “Y/n, I ran a paternity test on you. You are Jango Fett’s child.”

“Okay?” You said. “I have, like, zero clue what that means.”

“Have you told the general yet?” Rex asked Kix, completely ignoring your confusion.

“I’m on my way to do just that.” 

With that, Kix left, clutching his datapad. 

A few weeks later, you had fully healed.

Going through your old apartment was difficult. You only found a few things worth keeping. Most held too many painful memories. Nothing of value was left, since after people figured out it was empty, it was seen as an easy target. 

Sifting through the piles of overturned mess was too hard, so you didn’t. Instead, you picked up a few things. A necklace. A hologram of you and your mom, both beaming at whoever took it. 

You snapped it closed, and pushed yourself to your feet. You took in your ransacked apartment one last time. It reminded you of the last time this happened, two years ago. The only difference now, is that you had a place to go. 

“You ready?” Came a voice from the doorway. 

“Yup.” You said, voice wavering, but not breaking. “Let’s go, Kix.”

Word spread fast that you were Jango’s child. The troopers of the 501st took you under their wings. Kix trained you in the medical field, and Rex taught you to shoot.

They set you up with a bunk and a drawer, which was all you needed. Sleeping in the same room as countless clones was calming. Their rhythmic breathing lulled you into a feeling of safety.

Over a late night of swapping stories, you learned that Jango had another child. A boy named Boba. 

You knew you had to find him. All you had to do first was track him down.

[just-a-shark333]

Dadbacchio au

Chapter one

Time frame: 6 years pre-canon

Words: 1,729

Notes:

In order to this make sense I aged up Abbacchio, he's 20 in this (instead of 15 like he would be with his Canon age)

Summary:

Abbacchio, who is still a cop, comes across a small, abandoned child while doing his daily patrol rounds in a park. When they police refuse to do anything about it, he decides to take the child home and raise them himself.

'You just had to go and run your fucking mouth, didn't you, Leone' the white haired cop cursed to himself, making his 3rd lap around his patrol area. The previous day he just had to go and make a mildly insulting comment about the head officer's plans for an upcoming assignment and was put on patrol duty for a week in result.

He groaned, pausing his walking for a moment. Patrol duty wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to walk the whole time. He’s made his way back around to the city park, he notices. Well, since he’s already here he way as well walk around there a bit. Technically it was part of the area he was meant to patrol. 

Making his way into the park, he looks around a bit. It looks like a pretty average park. There are children running around the playground, going down slides, swinging on the swing set, and climbing on about anything that they possibly can. Over on the benches are the parents of said kids, and a couple of older kids, most sitting with their friends or parents. A few younger kids were there too, again, most with their families or friends. Except for one. A rather young looking girl sat on a small bench by herself, she looked some mix of sad and expressionless. Next to her on the bench sat a small backpack that looked almost completely empty.

Leone makes a mental note to check on her if she’s still there next time he comes around.

–

It took far longer than intended to make his way back around to the playground part of the park, as he had gotten tied up helping someone find their kid, who had turned out to be playing hide and seek with his friends in a farther off part of the park. After dealing with that, taking his lunch break, and finally finishing his lap around the rather large city park it was nearly dark. Most people had left the park, favoring the warmth of their homes over the cold of the night. Well, most everyone other than the kid.

The girl continued sitting on the bench, seemingly unmoved since he had last been there. The only real difference he saw was that she had put on a thin, torn up, dirty coat that looked like it just barely fit her. As he got closer, he saw that the girl was extremely dirty too. She looked like she hadn’t showered in weeks, and if his concerns were true, she probably hadn’t. 

The girl turns her head and stares at him. She doesn’t say anything and doesn’t move at all, just stares. He takes the lack of negative reaction as an ok to keep going.

“Hey, kid.” She doesn’t respond, just keeps staring. “It’s getting pretty late, y’know? Shouldn’t you head home?” He crouches down so he was closer to eye-level with the girl. Being so close made it incredibly obvious how malnourished she was, her bones poking out in almost every place they could.

“Mama will be back soon.”

That was a lie. He was sure of it. The kid had been sitting there all day with no sign of anyone coming for her. “Oh yeah? When’d your mama leave you here?” 

“..Yesterday evening”

That was…longer than he hoped, but still less than The worst scenario he'd come up with. “That's a long time.do you know how long until she'll be back?” God, he hoped the kid had an answer.

“No..” Fuck. “Mama isn't usually gone this long…” What? Had this happened before? He really wanted to just pick the kid up and take her back to the station with him, they could get things sorted out there. Find her mother and, hopefully, get her taken away. No kid deserves to just be dumped in a park for fuck knows how long and god knows what stupid-ass reason.

“How about I wait with you, and if your mom isn’t back in, let's say…an hour then I take you back to the station with me and we deal with things there, ok?” 

“You really don’t need  to, officer. I’m sure Mama won’t be long.” 

“Please, I insist. I’d like to speak with your Mama when she shows up anyway.”

“...ok”

“Great!” He takes a seat on the bench beside the girl. Trying to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible, which proved rather hard with all the thoughts running through his mind at the moment and his perpetual resting bitch face.

For a while the two sat in silence. Just staring at the dark playground in front of them. This was boring as hell. How had this random kid been doing this for a whole day? It was then that it properly sat in that she had been sitting there for a whole day, she had to be hungry. And cold. And she looks pretty beat up. He sighs internally, “Hey…uh, what’s your name?”

“Haruno.”

“That’s a nice name, I’m leone.” 

“Ok, mr. Leone.”

“You don’t have to be so formal, Haruno.” It was strange to him, how a kid that looked so young, probably not much older than 7 or so, is so damn polite. 

“Sorry, Mr- er, sorry Leone.’

“It’s alright, anyways, I had a question. You don’t have to answer it, but I’d like if you did.”

A short flash of concern showed on Haruno’s face, but it quickly disappeared. She didn’t respond, just stared, she did that a lot, he noted. 

“Earlier you said that your Mama isn’t usually this long, right?” She nodded, “Does this happen often? Being left in the park- I mean,” The small figure next to him seemed to hesitate, collecting her thoughts maybe.

“No…Only when Mama goes out drinking, or when she has friends over.” It was clear in her voice that she didn’t see a problem with this- that this was as normal to her as the sun rising in the morning. It pissed Abbacchio off that someone would bring a child into the world just to treat them like that, and it makes him sad that a kid so small had to put up with someone so awful.

“Is that so?” The girl nodded, avoiding eye contact by staring directly down, “What about your dad?”

“Papa doesn’t care,” He could feel the shift in Haruno’s mood as she went from sad over her mothers negligence to more bitter or resentful, maybe just downright angry about her father and whatever he did. “He does it too when he gets really mad.”

“Does he get that mad at you often?” 

As this conversation drew on Abbacchio felt himself getting more and more pissed at the parents of this poor child. She didn’t go into much detail about anything, just stating that her father got mad often and that both parents drank a lot, though from the sheer amount of fear that formed in the kids eyes as she went on made him fear the worst. He swears- as soon as he gets his hands on the brats shitty parents-

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the small beep that came from his watch.

“It’s been an hour.”

Time really does fly when you’re listening to a little kid trauma-dump, huh?

“C’mon kid, let's go,” he extends his arm a little for Haruno to grab onto, which she does after a moment of hesitation. 

“What if Mama comes back while we’re gone?” Right, she still thinks her mom’s gonna come back, doesn’t she.

“Then she’ll likely go to the station to report you missing,” He leaves the ‘if she cares enough’ to himself.

It doesn’t take long for them to arrive at the station

“Ok, real quick, before we go in, remind me how old you are?” He had completely forgotten to ask earlier, lost in trying to pick up as many little details about her parents as he could. It was gonna be hard to get the captain to listen to him at all, so having a detailed story would help.

“Nine.”

What?

How could a kid that fucking small be nine? Well, with what he knew about the kids family it wasn’t that surprising he supposes.

“Alright, ready?” He asks and waits for a small nod before opening the door and going in.

“Officer Abbacchio, you’re back.” The officer at the front desc said upon seeing him enter, a slight sneer in his voice. “You took so long we almost thought you had died!”

“Nope, not yet. It’s gonna take more than whatever this  town can throw at me to take me down.” The man at the counter didn’t seem to think that it was funny. “Anyways, I’m going to speak to the captain for a minute, ‘kay?” He took a few steps towards the door that led deeper into the station and let go of Haruno's hand, “Haru, you just sit there and wait for me alright?” Another nod as she sits down and stares at the door he left through.

Three knocks on the captain's door before he called for Abbacchio to enter.

“Yes Leone, is there something you need?” He seemed entirely uninterested with anything Abbachio could have to say.

“I have a report, sir.” He paused for a short moment before continuing, “In the lobby I have a nine-year-old girl. She’s pale and sickly looking and all too thin for her age, I found her while patrolling the park. Her mother left her there yesterday evening and she’s convinced that she’s coming back for her soon. She also says that this isn’t the first time that this has happened, and that both of her parents do this somewhat often.” 

The captain seemed slightly more intrigued with what he was saying, “Do you have this child’s name?”

“Haruno Shiobana, sir.”

“I see. I appreciate your concern, but there’s nothing we can do.”

“Wha-”

“Put her back where you found her. Or take her home with you, I don’t care. You’re dismissed,” and he turned back to his paperwork.

“But sir-”

 “I said, you’re dismissed.”

“This is stupid! Outrageous! Completely insane!” Abbaccio continued to yell his thoughts on this matter as he made his way out to the lobby, stopping and taking a deep breath before entering.

“Change of plans, kid, you’re coming home with me.”

------

End notes!!! woooooooooooooo this took way longer than expected but its finally finished! chapter one at least! I hope you like it, if you did maybe consider showing me some support and/or checking out my Ao3

Have a good day/night/whenever you're reading this! Eat something, drink some water, get some sleep, take care of yourself! Love youuu <3

Chapter two!

[nothin02052000]

Childe hunts you down

Idk... wrote this down as an attempt to write my first NSFW but failed miserably lol... the story turned out to be neat anyways so I thought I might as well share it... part 2?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You hid under your desk, curled like a ball, motionless, as bated breaths left your mouth. You didn't dare to move; scared that even the smallest change in your position would give away your hiding spot. You were scared. Too scared that the man currently knocking eerily slowly on your window might just be the end of you. Maybe, just maybe, he would think you’re not home, not in your room and just leave you and your family alone. But you knew very well it was too good to be true. You heard a click, before hearing the all-too-familiar sound of your window opening. This was it. You heard padded boots thumping gently on your carpet. You were done for. Where had it all gone wrong? Was it when you decided that it will be best to end things between both of you? Or was it when you looked past him being a harbinger when he looked so sweety in your eyes before sharing a chaste kiss? Was it when you decided to talk to him for the first time, or heck, look at him for the first time when came to your village to talk to your father, the village chief? There was no time for you to decide because soon enough your refuge was snatched away from you, your stationery and belongings clattering to the floor as your desk met it demise with a loud thud. You shuddered as you felt his eyes on you, too scared to look up as you wholeheartedly wished your family would ignore the noise and not come to check up on you. He was dangerous and insane. You knew that all too well. Though he goes around being a gentleman, you had seen him at his best and worst. Both sides had a sickening blood lust within them.

“Were you hiding, ojou-san?” he hummed, gently cupping your chin as if he hadn’t just flung a massive furniture piece across the room.

Words wouldn’t come out of your mouth. You hugged your knees harder as if that would save you from this man. You should have never gotten involved with him. Your father had warned you numerous times, but you paid no heed to them, blinded by his sweet and caring façade. You should have known better, you really should have, but your choice had put not you but even your family and loved ones in danger. He spoke again.

“Won’t you speak to me, darling?” He asked, as if he was talking to an upset child. Your heart raced when you felt a cold arm suddenly snaking around your waist, as he lifted you in the air and propped you on hand, your cover taken away from your face in an instant. The wetness of tears on your face became too apparent as the cool winter air brushed against your cheek. You felt his eyes examining your face, frowning at your dishevelled appearance. He then propped you on your bed before rummaging in his pockets. You looked at him intently, terrified of what he might be looking for, before his finally took out a handkerchief. He got down on his knees before holding your face in place firmly and gently wiping the hot and sticky tears off your face. You closed your eyes as you felt his hand trail upwards towards your eyes. He wiped you eyes meticulously and slowly. Your tensed body relaxed under his careful touch. You internally chuckled at how the man soothing you was the cause of your emotional turmoil in the first place. It took every fibre in your being to not lean into his touch. This was always how it was. He was the only man who could so easily sway you. This is why, he is even more dangerous for you. But you had already fallen into this man’s trap, and you cursed in your head as he suddenly pushed you down on the bed, your hands held tightly above your head. For the first time in the night, you looked directly into his icy blue eyes, and he looked right back into yours. It only lasted for a moment, though, as the very next second he dipped his head down kissing your lips before moving down to your neck.

[crazyunsexycool]

The love we gave away

Chapter 6

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Word count: 2.5K

Warning: the Thromby/Drysdale family they're a warning all of their own, mentions of drinking, angst, implied past child abuse, idk what else...

A/N: Here we have the long awaited follow up. A new character is introduced, will he be competition for Ransom? 👀 The Thromby/Drysdale family are the worst, at least the adults are. I have made Harlan more of the father figure that Ransom deserved.

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Ransom was more annoyed than usual. His family bickered amongst each other over the most mundane things, he couldn’t bear it. Not even with a drink or two of his grandfather’s best  scotch. He should have known better than to come for family dinner on Friday night. Joni was going on and on about some new facial cream or diet or something very vain. Richard and Linda were arguing again. Walt was talking with Harlan about who knows what. Probably trying to persuade him to fire Ransom. 

“What are you sulking about now?” Linda’s attention moved from her husband to her son. 

“Nothing mother. It’s not like you’d actually care, you never have.” 

“Show your mother some respect.” Richard snaps at his son. That gets the attention of everyone in the room.

“Like you do?”

“You know, it’s a good thing you didn’t get stuck raising those little brats with that gold digging whore you had in high school. They’d be little shits just like you.” 

His family loved to bring that up. Throw his kids in his face as if they had been a mistake. But he knew that they weren’t. Sure, neither of you were ready to have children at 17 but that didn’t mean that he didn’t love them. And knowing them now Ransom is sure that they are the best part of him.

“You don’t know shit Richard. I sure as hell would have been a better father than you.”

His parents, Walt, Joni and Donna all laugh at him. 

“You, a good father? Please, a snake could raise a kid better than you.” 

“Eat shit Richard.” Ransom snarls. 

It took everything in him not to close the distance between himself and his father and wipe that smug smirk off his face. Ransom knew better than to fall into their little games but after everything that happened at the wedding a week ago. Neither time nor distance have made him feel better. Ransom knows he should have gone after you but the look on your face after he said what he did left him frozen in place. He’s never been good with apologies but he knows he has to make it right with you. 

“Watch your mouth before I remind you of your place.” Richard snapped back as he made his way toward Ransom.

“What are you gonna do old man? You think you can put your hands on me like you used to? I’d love it if you gave me a reason to kick your ass.” 

“That’s enough.” Harlan speaks up. “If you can’t behave like an adult you can leave.” 

“You heard dad, Ransom. Are you leaving or are you staying?” 

Ransom glares at his mother. 

“I was speaking to you Linda and your husband. You should know better than to provoke him.” 

“That is outrageous. You’re going to kick me out of my own home over this pathetic excuse of a son?” 

“This isn’t your house, Linda, it’s mine. Out. Everyone and I don’t want to hear excuses.” Harlan says as he gets up to go to his study. “Come with me Ransom.” 

Ransom stands and for the first time the whole week he manages to at least smirk, satisfied that everyone is left whining and bitching. 

****

“Sit and tell me what happened.” Harlan motions to the chairs next to the table he has a chessboard set up.  

Ransom grimaces at the memory of everything that happened at the wedding and his harsh words towards you. 

“I fucked up.” Ransom says as he picks up a chess piece and inspects it. Harlan raises an eyebrow at the curse word. “I messed up and probably ruined everything with Y/N.” 

“How so?” 

Ransom sighs and explains the wonderful weekend you’d had together before the wedding, leaving out the details of sleeping together of course. Then he explains how Bertie had just shown up without warning even though he had broken up with her. Finally Ransom explained the fight you’d had and what he’d said. 

“That temper of yours will always get you in trouble.” Harlan finally says but he sends an empathetic look Ransom's way. “So do you want to fix it?”

“Of course I do.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I have to. I have to do right by Y/N for once in my miserable life and for the kids. They don’t need to be caught up in the mess I created.” 

“That’s all? Those are the only reasons?” Harlan says with a knowing smile on his face. 

“Yes those are the only reasons.” 

Harlan scoffs and shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. He learned a long time ago that it’s easier to let Ransom come to his own realizations instead of throwing them in his face. 

“Fine, I still love Y/N. I’m in love with her. These last few weeks and this past weekend reminded me of it.” Ransom was up and pacing the length of the study. When he turned to look back at his grandfather he found a smug smirk on the older man’s lips and he rolled his eyes. “I never stopped loving her but I wasn’t good enough for her then and I’m obviously not good enough for her, for them, now.” 

“So then get better.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Sometimes it is. But you have to start by figuring out what will happen between you and Alberta and apologizing to both of them.” 

“Both of them?” 

“Yes. Alberta for stringing her along and Y/N for everything else. Sit down and have a real conversation. Lay everything out on the table so that if you start a relationship again that it’s on good terms and not haunted by the mistakes of the past.” Harlan says as he gets up. “And bring me my great grandkids soon. I’d very much like to meet them.”

 With that Harlan walks out and leaves Ransom to think on what he should do first. 

You walk into Wanda’s home with a bottle of wine in hand. She loved to host small dinner parties. Wanda especially loved to introduce her and her husband’s friends to each other. You weren’t surprised to walk in and see a few people already sitting and chatting but your eyes are pulled to someone in particular across the room. 

“I’d recognize that hair anywhere.” You say with a laugh once you’re close enough. “Hi Ari.” 

“Y/N?” He turned around and smiled. “Wow what a small world.”

“Small indeed.” 

You accept the hug he offers you and chuckle when he lifts you up slightly.

“It’s been so long, you look as beautiful as ever.” 

“Me? What about you? You look amazing.” You say as you give him a quick up and down. He had filled in quite nicely. His shoulders were stronger and broader. The jeans he wore accentuated his strong thighs and you were sure that under the button up he wore was a wall of pure muscle. 

“Hey, Y/N. I’m glad you made it.” Wanda came up and gave you a side hug. “Do you know Ari? He and Viz are working on a project together.” 

“Yes. We actually met a long time ago in Italy.” 

“Fun times.”

“Yeah, they were.” You smirked.

“This is great. Do you mind if I borrow Y/N for just a moment?” 

“Not at all. I’ll be here.” Ari winks and watches as you walk away. 

****

“Oh my god. You know Ari? I invited him to introduce you. This is even better.” Wanda ranted as she held and shook you slightly. 

“Wanda, I’m not looking for anything with anyone right now.” 

“Because of asshole Ransom? Please, you know the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” 

“Last time I got over Ransom was with Ari. I don’t think it really would be fair for that to happen again.” 

“Oh please,” Wanda waved her hand dismissively. “You’ve never truly gotten over Ransom and you’re older now.” She grabs a wine glass and a bottle to serve you a drink.

“Thanks for that.” 

“I mean, you’ve learned a lot since you last saw Ari. Things are different now.” 

“Wanda I love you with all of my heart and you are one of my closest friends but please don’t meddle.” You grab the glass of wine Wanda had offered and take a sip. 

“Fine. Although I’m completely against you not climbing him like a tree. I mean have you seen him?” 

“Yes Wanda I saw him.” 

“Ok but did you look at him? I mean as a designer anything you put him in he’d look good. Especially your bed.” 

“Wanda!” You chastise her as she walks away laughing. 

**** 

The room was starting to get stuffy and overwhelming with drunken chatter so you stepped out onto Wanda’s balcony. The twinkling lights of the city lay below you and you sigh as your thoughts go back to Ransom. The weekend had been so special, like a move in the right direction. Your hurt and jealousy drove you to push his buttons. It should have come as no surprise that he responded the way he did but he had never talked to you like that. Maybe you didn’t know him at all anymore and that broke your heart just a little more. You spent the whole week thinking over what you could have done differently. Maybe if you would have let him explain things would be different. 

“Getting all the answers you need over there?” Ari’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“What makes you think I need answers?” 

You turn to watch as he walks over and leans against the railing. 

“Did you forget I met you in Italy? You had the same face back then.” 

“Same face I’ve had all my life.” You quip weakly. 

“And a beautiful one at that. But I’m talking about the pouty look you have right now. If memory serves me right it was because of a guy that broke your heart.” 

You had been looking at the city again when you turned your head and gaze at him. He was right back then and he was right now. 

“I’ll take your silence as a yes. What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” He’s looking at you now, watching for any change in your expression.

“The same guy did the same thing.” 

Ari shakes his head and stands up straight. He turns his body completely towards you and leans his hip against the railing. His arms come to sit across his broad chest. 

“Give me his name and I’ll kick his ass.” 

You chuckle and wave a hand dismissively at him. 

“It’s my own fault really. I actually hadn’t seen him since before Italy and we reconnected recently. I thought there were some feelings there but I guess I was wrong.” You shrug your shoulders. “Nothing much too it. And I can’t really just cut him out of my life right now so I’m trying to be prepared for when I see him again.” 

Ari just nodded. He watched you intently though. 

“I know what will cheer you up.” 

“Do tell.” 

“A night out with me and some dessert. Why don’t we get out of here?” He stretched his hand out for you to take.

Ari was always an adventure and he always found a way to take you along for the ride.

You woke up the next day around noon. There was a dull ache behind your eyes and you groaned when you opened them just to be met with sunlight. The night with Ari had been fun but you should have known better than to assume you would get regular dessert. He managed to find a place that sold boozy desserts. That added with your two glasses of wine gave you a hangover. Overall it was a fun night, it reminded you of the summer days in Italy. When Ari would pick you up and you’d run around freely in the city. It also helped to keep your mind off of Ransom. 

You drag yourself to the bathroom and once you’re done with your morning routine you grab your phone. Wanda sent you a reminder for a dress you needed to work on and you had a few texts from Ransom, Ari, Abigail and Theadore. You reply to them, except for Ransom and decide to get dressed in order to head into your office to get some much needed work done. 

****

You’d been in your office for hours. Most of your time was spent drawing, choosing fabrics, cutting out patterns and then changing things around. The sun had started to set, the last few rays filled your work space with golden light. It only inspired you more. You were so engrossed in your work you didn’t hear the footsteps coming closer. 

Ransom stood in the doorway. You looked beautiful bathed in the golden glow of the disappearing sun. His heart ached as he watched you diligently and meticulously pin the fabric together. This was you in your true element. He’d seen it countless times and he’d missed it. After watching you work for a few minutes he knocked, startling you. Your eyes snap up to the door and the smile that was forming on your lips vanishes when you realize that it’s him. 

“Hey.” Ransom says cautiously. 

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk. I messaged you but you didn’t answer.”

“So you decided to drop by instead?” You  step away from the dress you had been working on and cross your arms. 

Ransom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, what happened at the wedding-“

“Should have never happened. It’s obvious we weren’t on the same page about what it meant.” 

Ransom’s heart was practically thrashing in his chest. 

“What did it mean to you?” He walked into the room. 

“It doesn’t matter what it meant. The moment is over and we can just continue our lives like before.” 

“What about Theodore and Abigail?” 

“I can be civil towards you around them if necessary but I think it’s best if we spend time with them separately from now on.” You could barely look at him, it hurt too much. Tears were starting to gather in your eyes. 

“No. I don’t want to do that. Fuck, I want to fix this, Thimble. What I said at the wedding? I didn’t mean any of it. I was an asshole and I deserve you being angry at me but don’t give up on us just yet. I want us to be together.” He said as he stepped closer to you only to have you move away from him. “I’m sorry ok. Give me a chance. I promise I won’t fuck this up.”  

“I can’t. You’ll just break my heart again and I won’t be able to take it. Not again, not after everything we’ve already been through.”   

A heavy tension hung in the air. The only sound was your deep breaths as you tried to hold back your tears. Ransom opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. He knew that if he wanted to convince you he was serious about this relationship he’d have to show you. Instead he turned and started to leave and you felt like your heart was breaking all over again anyways.

“I’m going to make this right.” Ransom promises before leaving. 

Ch. 7

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[indiestsnake]

here’s a personal ranking of every single fish in a birdcage song currently released, worst to best. cuz why not.

#39: Roots. Not my style, not what I rlly listen to fish for, and paced a bit too oddly for my taste.

#38: Otherside. Again, I don’t rlly come to fish for more electronic sounds, unless it’s in tandem with more acoustic stuff. Also, it’s repetitive.

#37: Movies. This is where the ranking gets infinitely harder, because I literally like every single fish in a birdcage song. Even the last two. Movies is just a bit too lyrically simple and unevocative. Doesn’t make me feel, just a nice tune.

#36: Lion. Again, nice tune, bit to simple with the lyrics. Or rather the lyrics just… don’t conjure much for me.

#35: If Trees Could Talk. Nice wrap up to the album, and an enjoyable tune with good lyrics. Just not personally my taste, a bit too slow n simple.

#34: Gideon. Kind of a fusion of Still and Drunk on Pride if memory serves, but that’s the thing. Memory doesn’t serve. It’s a lil forgettable, especially since so many songs in the album are rather similar.

#33: Man O’ War. Do I need to explain? It’s Man O’ War. Pirate shanty incarnate. Great, but doesn’t really make me feel. but like. MANN OH WAR, OOH-III-OH! FERRY US ALONG, WITH FREIGHTS OF GOLD!!!

#32: Sand. Wonderful. Calm, melancholic, bittersweet. The only reason it’s here is cuz you have to be in the right place to like it. Too slow n sad to listen in an average playlist, too melancholy to be comforting at times. Still good.

#31: Still. I really like still. But still is also, as they say, weird as shit. Gives me a very specific image all the way through, just a bit odd to listen to. Do not put this in your sleep playlist, you will enter another reality.

#30: Calamity. Ohh, calamity. Boss battle music!! And great for it. Bit generic tho. *lightning strike sound effect*

#29: Two sides. Finally out of the Man O’ War barrage lol. I like it! It’s simple, enjoyable. That’s… about it. Not insubstantial, just exactly what it says on the tin. Two sides.

#28: Blessed by a Curse. Fan-fuckin-tastic chorus, but i wish they’d let the instruments speak for themselves more. The “woawoawowoho…” messes with it for me. But that piano hit!! And the STRINGS!!!

#27: Poet. Poet’s damn good! For like. A minute and a half. lol. The parts with the vocals are great, the end is wonderful, but it’s mostly made of instrumental that isn’t as good as the rest.

#26: Brothers. Guys. What if we took Drunk on Pride and Man O’ War and merged them?!? Wouldn’t that be cool!? And it would, but… again, a bit generic. We’ve heard this before, in those songs. Tbh a lot of Man O’ War as an album feels vaguely based around Drunk on Pride and Gideon. It’s weird. I like it.

#25: Moonlight. Lovely. Makes you cry when you need to, and comforts you when you don’t. Like sand, but more applicable.

#24: Amigo. Dabudabudabudabaduadadudabadatdye, dadatdababudu, dabudabubaddudatdudaba dabudabudadubatdadatdadada! Lyrically simple, absolute vibe. Love it.

#23: Drunk on Pride. Great, fucking love the strings here. Especially that crescendo at the end of the first chorus, I ascend this mortal coil every time I hear it.

#22: Magic. The first rule! A bit boring in subject compared to those above it, but great. That violin riff is holy, and the “DA badabada DA” in the melody is great.

#21: Child of the Stars. Really cool, like if you took all the good of Otherside and mixed in some Waterfall, and a bit of poet. Motivational, and those violin riffs… ough. Love em.

#20: The secret rule, Rule #6!! Also known as- Fuck it either way. lol. For those unaware, this rule isn’t published due to some personal preferences of Dusty(the project lead/singer). Mainly cuz it has fuck in the title. There’s a few vids on YouTube of it if you wanna listen. ANYWAY. Great tune, great melody. If a bit lyrically on the nose.

#19: Like a Rock. Like a Rock is slept on. It’s a weird, experimental end to a weird, experimental album, and it shows! The pacing is a touch syncopated, tone can be odd. But man, that fucken guitar melody. And the instrumentals. And, the one part at the end. If you’ve listened, you know.

#18: Rule #34. Had to come eventually, eh? Yes, that was a juvenile joke. Anyway. The strings, the piano, all of the instrumental goes so hard. Especially after the last chorus, when the piano really comes in. And yes, the lyrics do make me vaguely uncomfortable, and that means it’s a bit detached meaning wise. But it is too good to simply leave at the bottom. And yes, all of that wording was intentional. I know what I said.

#17: My Dream, My Addiction. What a song name. I love the strings, the way it’s slow and loud and so many things. It’s hard to decipher, and I love it. It’s just a bit odd for an average playlist, but it’s here mostly on principle anyway. Just too personally interesting to leave low.

#16: Angel Tango. It’s like. The same as My Dream, My Addiction. But a bit less obtuse and weird. Only a bit tho, still kinda odd in a real good way. One spot above feels right.

#15: Lore. Lore! Recent-est song as of now. I fuckin love it, I genuinely just wish it had a bit more. The cello, the ethereal vocals, the everything. But a bit too short, feels kind of insubstantial. A few more lines per chorus would’ve gotten it quite a few places higher.

#14: Momento Mori. ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUUUUST! Absolute vibe, the lyrics are my favorite kind of esoteric and odd, the guitar is great, all real good. At this point, the only thing placing songs higher is them doing what others have done, better.

#13: James Picard. Gorgeous. I love this one so much, the strings are just heavenly. Vocals are wonderful, the harmonies, and the story, ough. Love it.

#12: Throne Room. Again, the cellos and violins. This one is similar to the rest of the album, but unlike many others, it’s so damn unique. The feeling of majesty and mysticism, the lyrics, that chorus of ominous chants before those beautiful strings kick back in. The flare sound effect, ough, it’s all just great.

#11: Microphone. We’re getting into the interchangeable zone, everything below is amazing. For this it’s the starting cello, and the ending cello. Oh, and the middle cello! And the vocals. And the cello!!

#10: Four Aces. More than the sum of its parts. The chain sound effects, and the dull, venomous delivery. The shout in the middle, the story it tells so perfectly and simply. The last lines, where the vocals rise just slightly, making you prep for another shout-! And then they fall. No release, just a few strums and the sounds of shackles, chains, shovels and spades. It all fits like a puzzle.

#9: Fiddler’s Heart. Like, c’mon. It’s Fiddler’s hearts. Fiddly, jovial, simple and lovely on the ears. The story and character, the constant variety of wonderful violin in the back. Great. Perfect, and I mean PERFECT, to listen to on a summer walk.

#8: Long Way From Home. I love the electric guitar in this so much. This is everything good about Roots, Otherside, all of the more electrical stuff they’ve made, raised up and properly realized. It’s repetitive, but it works, because the variation in the instrumentals, and tone, and delivery. It just works. It is Otherside’s heroic father figure whom it looks up to. I love it.

#7: Fish in a Birdcage. The icon! All of the band’s stranger and more strings-based stuff, given the Long Way From Home treatment. Or I guess it’s the other way around. Whatever. It’s weird as shit, it sounds awful on first listen but it somehow sounds amazing after a few more. And the sound is not something you get in any other song, period. Acquired taste incarnate, and I love it for that.

#6: Arizona. The other secret rule!! For the unaware, Arizona is a song that has been recorded and made, but they haven’t decided what rule number it should be. Thus, it’s regulated to a YouTube video if you’d like to listen. And if you didn’t notice the placement, you should. It just… I don’t even know. The vocals and the guitar fit so perfectly, the melody has that quiet quiet, LOUD thing like in magic but perfected. It just works for me. Something about it.

#5: Pyre. Ohhhhh, Pyre. How I adore you. The accordion(actually it might just be two violins but whatevs) that you get nowhere else in their music. The warmth, the vocals, it’s like the motivational parts of Child of the Stars taken to its peak. The type of song that makes you believe people care about you. Fantastic, wonderful, beautiful. I adore it.

#4: Birds of a Feather. I LIED!! THIS is the best summer walk song. Jovial, happy, tells a wonderful story (that’s based off a real Irish pirate queen), has hints of pyre in its tune. And, lemme talk about the importance of preserving history like this. Ireland got fucked over by the British. A lot of culture got erased. And that two-sentence summary really doesn’t convey it. But things like this preserve a truly vast and enthralling culture that is halfway lost to time in modern day. I’m not Irish, but I am a lover of history. And knowing the culture Ireland and so many other places lost, the culture it’s still bleeding today… it makes this song mean a lot more.

#3: Through the Tides. This song is a goddamn lullaby, and that is said in the best way possible. The ethereal and misty melody at the beginning, the gentle and constant picking of an electric guitar. The beautiful high notes on a violin to accent it, the almost mystical and mythologized story told through the lyrics. It makes me care so much, feel so comforted, by a theoretical whale that I have never once heard of before. Calm and peace incarnate, makes me feel like a cloud of mist. A blade, gently gliding through the tides.

#2: Paperwork. Paperwork! PAPERWORK!!! This feels like a thesis for Fish in a Birdcage as a band. Freeing listeners from routine patterns of thought, the warm resonations of a wayward writers guitar. Also, I adore the tone and message. It criticizes industrialism, but it’s not angry, or rude, or vitriolic. At worst it’s jokingly chastising the listener. Relax, my guy! It’s a fixable problem! Kick back, don’t have a fucken heart attack over it. Just plant some trees, live your life, create things. Don’t get caught up in the paperwork. I love the meaning of the song, if you couldn’t tell. The music is great too, the relaxed, happy tune. The one-minute monologue at the start that they honestly make work really well. It’s just great. I love it.

#1: Waterfall. Are you surprised? I don’t think you are. The vocals are goddamn perfect. The melody, waxing and waning between gentle picking to rhythmic strumming. The drums always different, the beautifully timed symbol crashes that accent everything perfectly. The little “Hey!” In the background after every verse, the fucking transcendent basswork. God, the basswork. I posted about it earlier and that genuinely inspired this list. The story of two people the song tells, the genuinely perfect, and I mean perfect way of conveying the spark of love. It makes my heart flutter. Just… thinking about the scenario in context of most anything, it makes me get it. It being… love. That spark. Why do you think I refer to love as flame more often than not in my writing? And!!! It’s four and a half minutes too! This is the opposite of insubstantial!! Everything about this song is near-perfect, and I will never get tired of it. It’s mixture of meaning and restraint and simplicity and sheer just being nice on the ears is a solidification of everything I love about this band. It deserves my number one.

That’s the list! Except for Fish in an 8bitcage but somebody else technically made that and also I haven’t listened to it so shh. Feel free to comment on my opinions, tell me I’m wrong, right, whatever. You can comment your own opinions too! Or maybe you’ve never listened to a single song from this band, then you can comment about that. You get the memo. Have a nice day.

[echo-bleu]

Hi, for the prompt game, can you write about Míriel for either the prompt ‘dust in the golden light’ or ´The empty space that can’t be breached between you in bed’. And if it’s ok, can you make Míriel have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, please?

I can’t sew as much as I want because of the pain and Míriel is a comfort character for me in these instances.

This took a while because the prompt grabbed me and ran away, and it grew into so much more 😅 EDS being genetic, I started wondering about who else might have it...

silver

Míriel/Finwë, Celegorm/Oromë, Celebrimbor/Narvi. Three vignettes about chronic pain and learning to accept help. Also on AO3.

1.

Míriel sticks her needle back onto the pin cushion with more force than strictly necessary. She winces and mutters a curse under her breath when it only accentuates the ache in her fingers, and she lies back down on the bed.

She already made that concession, this morning: working from her bed, with a stack of pillows behind her back, rather than using up what little energy she has to sit in her workroom. But it was not enough to lift the fog from her head, nor the throbbing ache from her hands.

She’s not someone who angers easily, but the frustration is – staggering, sometimes. This is her craft. It’s her passion. Embroidery is everything that she is, how she has chosen to define herself – not as a Walker of the Great Journey, or as the Queen of the Noldor, but as the Broideress. And increasingly, more obviously with every year, she is losing it.

She consciously takes a few deep breaths, and lays her hand on the slight swell of her stomach. Pregnancy is making it worse, she knows. She’s been exhausted ever since the begetting, and her pains have taken a sharp edge, where they used to be dull. Maybe once she gives birth, things will get better.

(They won’t.)

She must fall asleep while brooding, because once she wakes, the light outside the window has turned the silver of Telperion. She missed the Mingling, and the better part of the day, and she barely feels any better. It takes her a moment to realize that she was woken by a sound at the door, and she looks up to find Finwë in the doorstep.

He’s changed out of his court robes already, and his head is bare of the crown, his braids half-undone. She’s been struggling to do his hair, too. On bad days like today, even a relatively simple hairstyle takes all the energy she has, leaving none for embroidering. But she won’t give it up for anything.

She smiles tiredly at him.

“Are you hungry, my love?” he asks.

Míriel shakes her head. Pain kills her appetite, as surely as anything. She knows she needs to eat, for the child growing inside her, but she’s too nauseous now to think about it. “Later,” she murmurs. “Come.”

Finwë – her beloved Finwë, still as beautiful as the day she married him – comes to sit down on his side of the bed, not quite close enough to touch her. He reaches out and very carefully brushes her unbound hair from her temple.

He treats her like fine blown glass. The worst is, he’s not wrong to. There are times when the slightest touch can exacerbate her pains like the blow of a hammer. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and she can’t resent him for it.

But she doesn’t know how to ask. How to ask him to put his arms around her and squeeze her tight, not because the pressure helps (it does) but because she wants him to. She wants to feel him. She wants to stop lying in a fog in the dark. She wants to see the beautiful light of the trees in his eyes from up close.

They will have a child, soon. Míriel has seen him – a boy, as dark-haired as his father, as stubborn as her, and yet new and unheard of among the Noldor: brilliant, driven, proud. Full of fire. Fëanáro, he will be. She already loves him more than she can comprehend.

She doesn’t know how she will care for him, when she can barely care for herself, but Finwë will be there. They will be together.

The empty space between them suffocates her.

“Hold me,” she whispers.

Finwë climbs onto the bed.

(Years from now, Returned into the same aching body, she will more clearly see the unravelling threads of their family’s tapestry.

The tragedy was woven into it long before Fëanáro was even born.)

2.

Tyelkormo fumbles with the tinderbox. Checking that his body is still between the firepit and the rest of the Hunt, he tries again, but he can’t seem to get as much as a spark that he could then sing to life. Not that he has much breath left to sing with – they’ve been on the road for too long.

It’s late, past Mingling time, not that it makes much of a difference here. They are so far north that the Trees are just a guiding light in the distance. If they went due east from here, they would end up on the Helcaraxë.

Tyelko’s hands are shaking, despite the furs he’s wearing and the gloves he just removed. His whole body aches. His hip feels like someone tried to tear his leg off. It’s nothing new, but this is his first really long hunt, and before, he’s always managed to heed the warning signs and get back to Tirion before things got this bad.

Finally, he manages to get a single spark, and he hums it into a proper fire. It’s pitiful – the wood is too cold and wet to take properly – but then Tyelko is the only one who needs it, the only elf among the Ainur. The only one who feels the cold.

As soon as the flame is high enough, Huan comes to curl up in front of the fire, his head on Tyelko’s less aching leg, and Tyelko gratefully buries his hands in the hound’s fur.

“Alright there?” asks a voice behind him.

Tyelko twists around and immediately regrets it. His back gives a pop and pain blinds him for a moment. He whines before he can help it.

“Oh dear,” Tilion says. “Something’s wrong, right? That’s not a good elf sound. Lord Oromë!”

He shouts the last out toward the others. Immediately, Oromë is there, in less time that it should have taken him to walk over. Tyelko is still gingerly trying to straighten his back while biting the inside of his cheek to avoid making noises. He’s breathing in short gasps, which just serves to aggravate the pain, but he can’t seem to get enough air.

Oromë crouches beside him, his not-quite-elvish fana glowing softly in the starlight. “What’s wrong, eldanya?”

“Nothing,” Tyelko says through his teeth, though the time for pretence is clearly past. “Moved wrong.” That, at least, is the truth.

Oromë reaches out with a slender hand to cup his chin. “You’re hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

A breeze brushes his mind, but he clamps down hard on his shields – which leaves him breathless again. Huan whines and nuzzles his hand. Tyelko’s teeth are chattering, he realizes dimly, and the fire has almost gone out. He struggles to get air into his lungs, and the air that comes is cold and biting.

Fuck, they’re weeks away from the closest settlement, and he’s not going to be able to stand up come morning. What is he supposed to do? The Ainur don’t understand pain – don’t understand elven bodies at all. They don’t need to eat, or sleep. They’ve been humouring him so far, but he can feel their impatience at times. If he’s to ride with the Hunt, he needs to keep up.

Trust his body to betray him at the worst possible moment.

“What do you need?” Oromë asks in a tone so gentle that Tyelko breaks.

“To lie down,” he murmurs pitifully. “And to get warmer.”

“Build the tent,” Oromë orders Tilion.

Tyelko closes his eyes, almost unconsciously leaning into Oromë’s touch. His hand, glowing a pale white, is slowly radiating warmth, and it blissfully travels down his spine, taking the edge off the pain.

“Come on, eldanya,” is his only warning before an arm slips under his knees and he is lifted off the ground. Tyelko lets out an undignified yelp of surprise as he finds himself suddenly in Oromë’s solid arms.

Huan follows them under the tent. Tyelko is gently deposited onto a bed of furs, and Oromë stays kneeling at his side, his hands slowly warming him up on each side of his ribcage. Huan settles down at his feet.

“You should leave me here,” Tyelko murmurs.

Oromë tilts his chin, his way of indicating surprise. “Do you want me to leave the tent?”

“No, I mean for the hunt. I’m only slowing you down.”

That’s it, that’s the moment Oromë will finally see. See how much of a failure Tyelko is, how little he deserves the attention of one so great. He’ll gather the others and leave Tyelko here to – die, he supposes. Or maybe he’ll take pity on him and delay long enough to deposit him back in Tirion, for Grandfather’s sake, and wash his hands of him.

“It’s too cold for you here, I think,” Oromë says with an uncomprehending frown. “I did not realize. I still have much to learn of the Eldar. We’ll go south once you have slept.”

“You don’t get it,” Tyelko grits out. He pushes Oromë’s hands away, and immediately mourns their warmth. “I can’t even walk. You’ll have to carry me.”

“That’s not a problem,” Oromë says lightly, completely missing the bitterness in his tone. “You are very light.”

Tyelko sighs and closes his eyes, dejected. The pain in his back is slowly easing, but his hip is only screaming louder, and he just wants it all to stop. “You should leave me behind. I’m not fit for any of this. I’m not fit for you.”

Warm – nearly too hot – hands cupping his face make him open his eyes. Oromë’s terribly intense gaze is drilling into his, searching. “Tyelkormo, eldanya, what have I done to make you think that you are not enough for me?”

Tyelko gapes for a moment, lost in the swirling silver eyes he loves so much. Oromë does not breach his mind, but he brushes it again, softly, just making his presence known. Tyelko exhales and drops his shields, bonelessly falling back onto the furs.

“I—” he mutters. “I’m not… Something’s wrong with my body. I can’t be a good hunter. I’m not even a good elf.”

“What is wrong?” Oromë asks.

“I get pains in my joints. Sometimes they move in ways they shouldn’t.” Tyelko considers detailing, talking about the dislocations and the gut pains and the bruises, but Oromë barely knows anything about elven bodies. “Sometimes it hurts too much to walk. Grandfather says that Grandmother had it, too.”

Because he’s still staring into them, Tyelko can see the brief flash of fear in Oromë’s eyes. It’s gone almost as soon as it starts. Tyelko shivers – it’s not like he’s never wondered. Will Míriel’s fate will be his, too? Father says not to worry, but Father is terrifyingly good at ignoring the things that scare him, sometimes.

“Have you seen Estë?” Oromë asks softly.

“She gave me water from Lórellin that helps with the pain a little, but I can’t carry it with me.”

“I can carry it. I will go ask her for more. Is there anything else I can do?”

Tears well up in Tyelko’s eyes, and he’s powerless to fight them. “The warmth,” he whispers. “Feels good.” He guides Oromë’s hand down to his hurting hip, where the heat seeps into his tissues and eases some of the tension. Oromë shifts into a more comfortable position against his side, lying more than kneeling, their bodies presses together.

“Eldanya, you are a good hunter, and I want you in my hunt,” he says. Then, after a breath, “You are good, and I want you.”

Tyelko buries his face in his shoulder.

(Years from now, he will remember this night, and wonder when he left good behind.

His fate is so much worse than Míriel’s, after all, and it’s all of his own making.)

3.

“Got a new one for you, Kibil.”

Celebrimbor looks up from his console, where he’s sitting on one of the rolling stools that were a gift from his colleagues of the Guild. Narvi is standing at the door, holding something metallic in their hand. He sees their gaze go from the neat row of silver ring splints on the console, to the roll of bandages in his hands, to his bare torso and slumped posture.

“Bad day?” they ask without detour.

Celebrimbor shrugs, lets his own gaze travel to his aching hands, and nods. Given that he’s been trying to muster the energy to do his compression bandages and put a shirt on for about an hour, it probably qualifies as a bad day.

Narvi doesn’t live with him, though their relationship is hardly a secret among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. They come and go, sometimes staying in their own apartment in the eastern quarter. They need their privacy, and Celebrimbor is more than ready to respect that.

Besides, he too often forgoes his own bed for the heat of the forges, and dwarves need to sleep more than elves.

Narvi shuts the door behind them, steps closer to set the object in their hand on the console – it’s another silver splint, a prototype for a design they’ve been working on together – and very gently nudges Celebrimbor toward the bed. Even sitting down, he’s half a head taller than them, but they’re more than stubborn enough to make up the difference. When Celebrimbor makes a token gesture of resistance, they simply kick the rolling stool closer to the bed. “Lie down,” they order. “You’re staying right here today.”

“But—”

“No. Bad days are bad days. Isn’t that what you keep telling me?”

Celebrimbor gamely rolls his eyes, knowing when he’s defeated. He’s worked hard to build a system of mutual aid in the forges and the workshops. Craft masters tend to be fiercely competitive and jealously guard their work, but the very purpose of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain is that they make better things by cooperating, by bringing together diverse crafts and races both. The assistants and apprentices, and even most of the other masters, now smoothly step in to help on the days Narvi’s arthritic hands refuse to hold tools.

“You’re not supposed to turn it back on me,” Celebrimbor says.

“Oh, really?” Narvi gently pushes his shoulders until he’s lying down fully. “So it applies to everyone but you?”

Celebrimbor just smiles. Until Narvi got here, until they became close…

For all its purported equality, he’s still the Lord of Ost-en-Edhil. He built the city, built the guild house and the guild itself – he started it all by himself, because few would work with a Fëanorian. Galadriel was the Lady of Eregion on paper, but she never cared about building. She was only there to judgementally watch over his shoulder and slap his fingers whenever she thought that he sounded too much like his grandfather.

He’s the oldest of the guild masters. Half of them were his apprentices at one point or another, and the other came to the city with little to their name beside their craft. They’re misfits, outcasts, dispossessed – just like he was. Celebrimbor takes care of each of them and learns their habits in the forge, their dreams and aspirations, their pains and heartbreaks. But always he keeps himself at a distance.

He’s learned the hard way not to let people get too close.

His family was never perfect, but they were always supportive. From the moment Celebrimbor started feeling the aches, a scant few years after Maedhros abdicated, they rallied around him to help. It was Celegorm who first showed him how to support his joints with compression bandages. Celegorm who taught him to recognize the right herbs for the painkilling teas, who carved him his first cane from a sturdy oak branch.

Celegorm who stayed in Himlad with them, rather than set out for lands of his own.

Father worked with him on his first splint prototypes. Maedhros always popped his bad shoulder back in without squirming. Maglor taught him songs to calm the inflammations. Caranthir was the first to find dwarves with a similar illness, and learned their lore. Ambarussa were always eager to distract him from the pain with stories and games.

Celebrimbor lost all of that in Nargothrond.

“You take care of everyone,” Narvi says. “But who takes care of you?”

I don’t need anyone, Celebrimbor wants to answer, but he looks down at his bare chest, the slightly inflamed scars from his breast removal that he hasn’t been ointing regularly, his left arm that he can no longer raise past his shoulder for lack of the right stretching exercises, his aching, curled fingers, and he stays silent.

“Guess I’ll have to do the job myself,” Narvi says with a mock-sigh. “Flip over, I’ll massage your shoulder.”

As they straddle his back and knead their knuckles into his sore shoulder, Celebrimbor wonders if that’s what it’s like, to have someone outside of family who truly cares. Someone who is there for the bad days as well as the good, who doesn’t think less of him for them.

He’s been yearning for it for a long time, he realizes.

His city is open and welcoming to all, but maybe it’s time he opens himself up, too. As much as Celebrimbor hates to think of it, Narvi won’t be around forever. But starting with them, maybe, with their help, he can learn to trust others again.

(Years from now, Narvi, aged and nearing the end of their life, will be very proud to see Celebrimbor wholly welcome a newcomer into his life.

They will never see how it ends.)

-

Oromë calls Celegorm "eldanya" (my elf/elda). Since Oromë was the one who found the elves and first named them Eldar, it takes on a few added layers of meaning.

Narvi calls Celebrimbor "Kibil", which means "silver" in Khuzdul. Khuzdul is kept secret by dwarves, but since it's likely a borrowing from Sindarin (celeb), I don't think anyone would mind, plus Celebrimbor may have learned at least some Khuzdul with Aulë.

Also, I do art! This Celebrimbor piece was conceived as a companion to the fic, and you can see what the silver ring splints look like (they're a real thing btw). And this Celegorm sketch prompted his inclusion here.

And my disabled Tolkien characters tag for more.

Reblogs and comments make my day!

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which Zevlor’s terrible, horrible no good, very bad day - make that tenday - actually, when was the last time he wasn’t having a bad day? - is interrupted by the arrival of Tav (and readers of this fic learn to adjust their eyes to the author’s excessive use of hyphens and en dashes).

Part 2 of 10

Warnings: Violence, angst

Word Count: ~8K

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

“Start at the beginning,” urges Alfira, quill-pen again poised against parchment. “The first day Tav arrived in the grove. Tell me everything you remember. Little details have a way of inspiring the most poignant lines.”

“I remember…” Zevlor leans back in his chair and casts his gaze overhead, seeing not the Elfsong’s wooden ceiling but a vision of ancient stone, rays of violent summer sunlight worming through its cracks. “… it was hot.”

Alfira snorts at the anti-climax and does not deign to write this down.

But it was hot. Punishingly hot. Hot as the hells, he might once have described it. Except those from Elturel knew better than to throw such comparisons around lightly, now. Nor did the heat of the day merit even a low-ranking place in his ever-growing list of concerns. However —

“Let my daughter go, right now!”

“She’s a thief, hellspawn!”

— Zevlor was finding it hard to keep his metaphorical cool with sweat sliding uncomfortably down the back of his armor and dripping off his tail. He inhaled humid air through his nose, rallying his failing patience, and stepped sideways, putting himself between the stolen child’s hysterical mother and the hard-eyed female druid barring the inner grove’s path.

“She’s a child.” But he had said these words so many times in the last few minutes they sounded worn and wrung of all meaning, even to his ears. “Please. Just let me speak to Kagha, I’m sure—”

“Refugees are no longer permitted to enter the heart of the grove. No exceptions. Kagha’s orders.” The druid’s face was set with all the stubborn immovability of a badger guarding its den, but she kept her gaze carefully south of Zevlor’s eyes — a reaction to the infernal sclera he had met with too many times. “Any foulblood puts a toe across this step and Maggran will bite it off!”

Outrage swept like a wave of scalding water across the small scrum of tieflings waiting restlessly at the top of the steps. They clenched fists and lashed tails, hurled curses of their own at the druids, who were quick to reply in kind. The stolen child's mother took a defiant step forward; her husband grabbed her arm to hold her back. 

Zevlor made no effort to calm them. In truth, he could barely hear them. That one, incendiary word still echoed like a smokepowder explosion in his ears as he turned on his heel and marched away.

Foulblood.

Hardly the worst slur he had ever endured, but something in it had snapped the final cord tethering Zevlor’s threadbare temper, and it was essential he remove himself before he made an already dire situation impossibly worse. The grove’s interim first druid, Kagha, had proven herself a more mercurial leader than the altruistic Halsin had been, but kidnap — whatever the child’s transgression — that was an unsettling new low, and the druid guards too many and too well-armed to fight. Trying to force a way through their line would accomplish nothing; except to put the child in more danger and execute any last possibility of extending his people’s stay.

Not that he expected the other refugees — civilians — to understand this. Zevlor could feel them watching him as he dragged his aching knees up the wide stone steps, their disappointment and disapproval as palpable as the sweltering heat. He avoided eye contact with any: a bad habit he had picked up on this gods-forsaken journey; he had never minded an audience before. Being a Hellrider, and a tiefling, meant he had always been the object of intense scrutiny, and under such watchful eyes he had thrived. Now, they felt like iron brands against his already sweat-slicked skin, and no more than he deserved. He had promised these people protection, the possibility of better lives, and what had he provided, thus far? More loss, and the threat of violent death on every side. 

At the grove’s central hollow, he slowed, watching Asharak adjust a child’s grip on a sword its young hands would be too small to properly hold for several years yet. And the child did not have years. It had hours. Twenty-four hours. After which, it would be thrust back onto the road with its unwieldy weapon, the leer of a gnoll or the cruelly laughing face of a goblin the last thing it would ever see. Zevlor turned away, running a hand through his hair in distraction, nails that needed cutting snagging on the sweat-damp strands. He tightened the tie keeping hair from his face and trudged on, leather travel boots scuffing up clods of dirt from the packed earth ground. A plan. They needed a plan. But, however hard he beat his weary brain, no new solution appeared. They were backed into a corner, surrounded on all sides.

It was Avernus all over again.

A sudden commotion from the direction of the grove’s front gate tugged Zevlor’s thoughts from their anxious spiral. Someone was shouting. Someone, or several someones by the vibrations, were pounding on the gate from outside. Zevlor doubled back. Shielding his eyes against the sun’s relentless glare, he recognised Kanon leaning over the ramparts, calling to someone below. And — Zevlor’s heart pounded in time with his feet as they sped him towards the ramparts — he thought he also recognised the voice that shouted back.

Aradin: leader of that ragtag band of treasure-hunters who had come and gone a few days prior, taking the grove’s original first druid with them. If he was back, so was Halsin, and Halsin’s return would surely mean a return of sense and reason to the rest of the druids. Hope bubbled like acid in Zevlor’s chest as he climbed the steep embankment, ignoring the protests of his stiff knees, heading for the bridge overlooking the grove’s front gate.

“What’s going on?” he asked Kanon the moment his boots hit wood, but it was Aradin who screamed up the answer.

“Goblins are on our tail! Open the gate, Zevlor, now!”

Hope dissolved. Zevlor could feel the poisonous pool of it burning his throat as he choked, “You led goblins here? Where is the druid?!” and cast a desperate gaze across the sun-seared environs stretched out below. But the light revealed no cantering bear, or massive wood elf outline lurking amid the scattered scrub; only a cloud of dust and dirt at the edge of the valley: the sort kicked up by a score of small, bare, fast-moving feet. Zevlor’s heart stopped pounding and sank into his stomach instead as the nightmare he had dreaded the last tenday took life before his eyes.

Goblins. And no mere scouting party, either. An organised raid — complete with armoured boss, half a dozen booyahgs and archers, one hulking bugbear, and a slathering warg — rounded the corner towards them.

“By the nine hells,” Zevlor breathed, despair constricting his lungs and darkening the edges of his vision. Were it not for the hard curve of wood he could feel through the thinning soles of his boots, he would have thought he was falling. How much more could the gods find to throw at him?

Then, the screams of the humans cowering below and the tieflings frozen on the ramparts behind shook his military training into place, and he was snatching up a guard’s crossbow and a bolt from a barrel and shouting, “Open the gates!” even though he knew it was too late. The goblin archers were already taking position on the high outcropping of rock in the valley’s centre, and Zevlor could hear the telltale whistle of wood and feathers through air. He ducked on instinct—

“If you’d like,” interrupts Alfira quietly, “you can just… just skip past what happened to Kanon. I’ve already heard the story of the fight from a few different people. And I’m sure you don’t want to relive all that.”

Zevlor blinks, momentarily disconcerted to find himself not in overbright wilds but the Elfsong's cool, dark interior. His eyes wander to the parchment scattered across the other half of the table — still blank; the bard has yet to write down anything he's said — then to Alfira herself. Her face is pale. The quill-pen trembles slightly in her fingers. He thinks it might be she who would prefer not to linger over old friends' deaths. 

"As you like," he says, and takes the opportunity to wet his throat with a draught of forgotten ale. 

“Just skip to the good part,” coaxes Alfira, “when you first saw Tav,” and waits in expectant silence for Zevlor to set down his tankard and close his eyes.

“I heard her before I saw her,” he says, memory once more saturating his mind...

The unrelenting heat. The goblins’ foul war cries and the thunks of iron on wood as Aradin and what remained of his band huddled together under one crude shield. The metallic scent of spilled blood steaming in the sun. The hell that only hopeless battle could be. And the voice that suddenly cut through the clamour, high and clear as a church bell, bright and bold as the sun overhead. Its words were unintelligible, but something in the voice itself seemed to steady Zevlor's unravelling nerves and bolster his sinking spirit. He lowered the crossbow a fraction, scanning the environs for the source of the rallying cry…

…and blinked, unwilling to believe his eyes. A figure in leather and ring-mail had appeared atop the rocky outcrop opposite, a short bow in one hand, a rapier in the other. With the sun arrayed behind her, catching the steel and making it shine, she looked like something plucked straight from Elturel’s High Cathedral: an artist’s interpretation of Divine Aid depicted in stained glass.

As Zevlor watched, stunned to stillness by what must surely be a mirage, the figure darted towards the goblin archer perched on the edge of the rock and executed a precise lunge. Her thin blade slid through the creature’s throat and out the other side in a wide arterial spray. Spitting dark blood from her mouth and smearing it off her lips with her sleeve, she kicked the twitching corpse to the ground and spun, rapier ready, to face the next goblin scrabbling up the rock. A long, pale tail whipped around her ankles as she pierced it through the eye, and Zevlor thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

Then more figures appeared alongside her — two, three, four more — all wielding weapons and stumbling down the rocky outcrop at varying speeds. The goblins, caught unaware from behind, howled their shock and displeasure. And time, which had paused politely while Zevlor processed this miraculous turn of tides, restarted in a chaos of motion and noise. He ripped his gaze from the new arrivals, tightened his grip on the crossbow, scanned the ground for the nearest goblin and took a more confident aim.

It passed in a blur; as did most skirmishes in the ex-Hellrider’s experience. He had a vague impression of fumbling for crossbow bolts, of his finger tightening on the crossbow’s trigger — once, twice more? — of a flurry of footsteps that turned out to be the Blade of Frontiers leaping unexpectedly from the ramparts to the rocks to join the fray. Then, a ringing silence. A stillness that hung heavy on his limbs, vibrating with adrenaline. Zevlor swivelled in place, seeking another target, and found only the raiding party’s corpses littering the blood-and-grease-stained ground.

It seemed impossible, unbelievable, but…

“That was the last of them,” he said aloud, and realised he was panting. Dropping the crossbow unceremoniously, Zevlor heaved himself across the bridge and fumbled with the wheel to raise the gate. “Get inside,” he called down. “All of you,” he added, searching the survivors for the figure from the rock, half-expecting to find her vanished: gone as mysteriously as she had come.

But there she was, kneeling in the dirt, inspecting the splayed body of an unusually armoured goblin. She looked up at Zevlor’s words, nodded once in his direction, then clambered to her feet, saying something he could not hear to her milling companions, and the five of them shouldered modest packs and made their way to the open gate. Aradin and his lot were already through, calling curses and complaints loudly enough to echo up to the ramparts above.

And the sheer gall of the man, mixed with the lingering dregs of horror and the adrenaline still pumping in his veins, the anxieties of the day — the tenday, really — and the realisation he finally had someone else he could blame for some of them, set Zevlor’s blood on fire. He threw himself down the ladder, never mind his knees, and caught the human before he’d made it to the grove’s stoney shade.

“There are children here, you fool!” and to scream was cathartic; but Aradin, too, was running on battle fumes and he spun on his boot to face Zevlor, unfazed.

“We was running … for our lives,” he panted.

Zevlor, pulse pounding in his ears, barely heard the words and did not care — “And you let them take the druid too?! Unbelievable!” — it felt too good, after days of decaying composure, to finally let himself lose control.

Then someone was standing beside him, and a voice he did not know but recognised immediately froze the rage whole in his chest, like a devil entombed in ice.

“What’s unbelievable is how we beat the goblins. You’re heroes! Both of you.”

Zevlor turned his head, and his eyes met hers for the first time.

Their sclera was white, rather than infernal black, but the blue of the pupils was nevertheless too deep and oddly spiralled to be human alone. And close up he could see the tips of short, stubby horns peeking out from her chaos of dark, blood-stained hair. She took up position between him and Aradin, a hand outstretched to each as if to congratulate them — or, Zevlor thought more likely, to keep the two fuming men apart; however broad her smile or friendly her words, there was a glint of wary steel in the not-quite-natural blue of her eyes.

“And who the hell are you again?” snapped Aradin, and Zevlor fancied he could hear the slight, unnecessary emphasis the human, eyeing the young woman’s tail, put on the word hell: fuel for his fury’s fire.

“Show some respect,” he spat, stepping closer, hand a hair from Aradin’s shoulder in unmistakable threat. “This woman saved your pathetic life.”

Aradin met him toe-for-toe, unabashed.

“Well, I didn’t ask for any goddamn help.”

“Please, you were begging me to open the gate. Anything to save yourself, you coward!”

They were a breath from each other now, and Zevlor could see the human’s eye twitch, his fists clench at his sides. He wanted a fight, and Zevlor, in his current state, would have been happy to give it to him; had a hand on his arm not brought him up short.

“That’s enough,” said the stranger, and her voice was no longer light, but as sharp and commanding of attention as a drawn blade. “More violence is not going to bring back any you’ve lost, but it might lose you more. Stop, and think.”

And just as it had on the ramparts, something in her voice cleared Zevlor’s mind. He drew in a breath, and it seemed to contain a higher proportion of cool air than the grove had offered all day. Fury dwindled to embers in his chest.

“You’re right,” he said, exhaling slowly. He took one, minute step back. “There’s too much at stake.”

A glance at the young woman’s face registered her approval. Zevlor felt inexplicably sated, as if he had passed some sort of test. Aradin snorted.

“Worried about your precious hides, the both of you,” he snarled, shaking off her restraining hand.

“Enough,” said Zevlor; though without rage to empower it, his voice was merely tired and worn. “Squabbling is pointless. The goblins have found us.”

And the grim reality of this pronouncement snuffed out even Aradin’s thirst for combat.

“At least we agree on that,” he grumbled, and gave both tieflings one last dark look before stomping away to join the remnants of his band, then limp together slowly towards the shelter of the grove.

Zevlor’s eyes followed them as they walked, but his mind had moved on from Aradin already; racing to process the last half hour and its ominous implications for his camp. If there had been any feeble chance they might escape unnoticed from the grove when their time was up tomorrow, that was long gone now. The goblin leadership had set their sights on this location. If the druids forced them out, they faced a slaughter. It was as simple as that. Zevlor closed his eyes, breathing hard. His limbs felt impossibly heavy. His brain throbbed against his skull as it raced compulsively for options, alternatives, some kind of plan.

Until a gentle squeeze of fingers brought him back to the present. The mysterious new stranger still had her hand on his arm. Zevlor’s eyes snapped open.

She was watching him closely, cobalt eyes flicking from one part of his face to another, and Zevlor, who could not remember the last time he’d glanced in a mirror, wondered what she saw. Too many lines, he supposed, most from worry, though more than a few were simply age; hair that needed cutting; fire-toned skin, roughed by years of military lye soap; equally fiery eyes and horns of a size he once boasted, though such obvious infernal traits had ceased to be a point of pride. The woman’s gaze drifted to his tail, and Zevlor felt suddenly hot under his armor in a way he could not blame on the sun. He was hyperaware of sweat soaking through the legs of his trousers, the smell that lingered on him - the bitter copper of old, overheated mail.

Not that she fared much better, this newcomer. Though she had clearly made an effort to wipe the goblin gore from her face and hands, she showed — and wafted — all the signs of at least a few days spent living rough on the land. Still, Zevlor straightened his spine and set his shoulders, determined to correct his poor first impression, as he addressed the grove’s unexpected saviour directly at last.

“Forgive that display. Aradin’s a blowhard, but that’s no cause for me to join him. Thank you for your help out there.” He tried to smile and found his face had quite forgotten how. He dipped his head respectfully, instead. “I’m Zevlor.”

“Tav,” she said, and it took him a moment to realise the single syllable was her name.

There was another brief pause in which she continued to stare at him, her expression uninterpretable, though it sent a frisson of something not-unpleasant across Zevlor’s skin. Then she blinked. Her face cleared and her hand fell from his arm. She waved it at her companions, edging closer now the confrontation was clearly resolved.

“And this is Gale, Lae’zel…”

She rattled off a series of names, none of which stuck in Zevlor’s brain. An idea had hatched there, inspired by this uncommonly helpful stranger and her auspicious — and reward-worthy — arrival.

“Well met,” he managed when silence confirmed introductions had concluded. He gave the others one polite nod, then returned his attention to Tav and cleared his throat. “But I should warn you, visitors are no longer welcome in this grove. Whatever your business is, I’d see to it quickly. The druids are forcing everyone out. This attack will only strengthen their resolve.”

One of the others, a thin, pale elf, gave a dramatic roll of his shoulders and murmured something Zevlor could not understand as Tav said over him, “Have there been many attacks like that?”

“There have been several attacks by different monsters. The druids blame us outsiders,” he gave Tav, the only tiefling of her group, a knowing look, “for drawing them here. They’ve started a ritual, to cut the grove off from the outside world. We can't stay, but we’ll be slaughtered if we leave. We're no fighters.”

Once, it would have galled Zevlor, Hellrider Commander, to sound so pathetic in front of anyone, let alone a stranger, but death’s first act was to rob potential victims of all reticence, tact, and pride. Still, he averted his gaze as he spoke, focusing on a point by her ankles where her tail flicked eagerly from side to side.

“We?” she repeated. “There are more of you? More — more tieflings, I mean?”

The way she pronounced the word was strange beyond the roll of her accent, as if it were a curse she was too well-bred to often say. Zevlor’s gaze flicked from her tail to her horns to her too-blue eyes. She was a tiefling, no mistake. Curious. But curiosities were a luxury he could not currently afford.

“Yes. We’re refugees from Elturel.” He laid the bare bones of their story out quickly. “We took shelter here after gnolls attacked us on the road. We were bound for Baldur’s Gate, and it was too late to turn back. Elturel had no place for tieflings after the descent.”

“Elturel,” Tav parroted again, but her eyes had gone wide, and Zevlor knew she understood. “Well,” she said, after a moment’s laden silence, “if you made it out of Avernus, surely you can survive anything?”

She offered Zevlor a weak smile he did not even attempt to reciprocate.

“So I’d hoped, but we’ve lost so many already. And more will die if we’re forced out again.”

Another short silence draped uncomfortably across them, filled by the distant chanting of the druids from the inner grove. The sound made Zevlor’s tail twitch with anxiety. He felt sweat beading at the base of his horns and fought the urge to swipe it away. Tav was clearly contemplating. She fiddled with the rough strip of leather tethering her rapier and short bow to her waist. Zevlor held his breath.

“This ritual,” she said finally. “Is there no way to convince the druids to stop it?”

Zevlor sighed. It was not an offer, but it was an opening. And the best he was likely to get.

“I’ve tried. Kagha, their new first druid, won���t even see me. You, though... I know it’s not your business, but she owes you for saving this place. Perhaps you could persuade her. For more time to prepare if nothing else.”

Behind Tav, a female elf — or half-elf, possibly — shifted her weight restlessly from leg to leg; a green-skinned creature the likes of which Zevlor had never seen made a hostile clicking sound. He ignored both. Their group’s dynamic was inarguable. There was one clear leader here.

“I’m … we’re really just here looking for a healer,” said Tav apologetically, rubbing a spot by her inner eye.

“Goblin got you?”

Momentarily distracted, Zevlor did a quick professional scan. Her chest and shoulders were clearly constricted by a leather and ring-mail cuirass at least one size too small, her tail dragged and she winced when she shifted her weight, her boots the wrong sort for this terrain, but she bore no visible bandages or any other obvious signs of injury. And as she offered no further explanations, he had no choice but to let this second curiosity go in order to keep their conversation on track. She had not refused outright, after all.

“The druid Halsin’s a renowned healer, but he didn’t make it back from Aradin’s expedition. If it’s not too serious, you could try his apprentice, Nettie. She’s with the other druids in the inner grove.” Zevlor gestured in its general direction. “They’ve withdrawn there to prepare this damn ritual of theirs,” he added, unable to disguise the words’ bitter taste.

Tav’s head, which had turned in the direction he indicated, snapped back swiftly at the mild oath, and for one gut-twisting second Zevlor was certain he had mis-stepped: offended the young woman and cost his people this final, flimsy chance. Then, she nodded.

“I’ll find Nettie, then. And I’ll speak to Kagha while I’m there.”

This announcement inspired an outburst of dissent from behind her; the male elf and the green-skinned being registering their protests, while another, a human in the garb of a magic-user, argued back. Zevlor, throwing the last of his pride to the wind, raised his voice to be heard above them.

“We’d owe you a great debt,” he said shamelessly. “If we’re forced to leave now, we won’t make it to the city.”

"We’re going there anyway,” — Tav’s voice carried hints of its earlier steel; her companions fell silent — “so it’s no trouble to find this Kagha and ask. I don’t know that she'll be more disposed to listen to me than to you, but...” She shrugged. “I’ll certainly try.”

Relief had become so foreign a concept to the ex-Elturian he did not immediately recognise its symptoms. The rush of warmth through his veins, the unknotting of muscles in his shoulders, the lightheadedness, he initially attributed to the heat. He heard his voice distantly: babbling more entreaties and, at Tav’s continued agreement, some inadequate and incoherent thanks. But it was not until she had finally stepped around him and headed for the hollow, trailing companions, that Zevlor fully grasped what had happened.

He had got what he asked for. She would help him. His people had one more chance.

But this world was a hell as deadly as any level of Baator, and no sooner was one devil slayed than two more sprang up to take its place. New anxious unknowns wormed their way to the front of Zevlor’s mind. Would she keep her word, this young woman he knew nothing of but a name? And even if she did, would Kagha deign to listen to her, tiefling as she was?

He turned hurriedly, watching the strangers walk away. Only Tav’s back was visible as she chivvied her companions into the shade, and he could see the crude hole cut too low into the leather of her cuirass and knew the base of her tail must ache. A twist of green briar was caught in her tangle of hair, and the rapier slung to her belt still dripped a trail of blood. New furrows creased Zevlor’s brow. His first impression of her standing high over the battle had been divine, but, somehow, he doubted Kagha would see her that way.

The new arrivals rounded the corner out of Zevlor’s sight, taking with them his short-lived relief. Reality resettled its weight across his weary shoulders; he could feel them sag as he made his own slow way back amid a creak and groan of protesting knees. They had twenty-four hours — now, a little less — to prepare for their hopeless journey, and he could not waste any of them waiting for word of a long shot with so little chance of success. A blessing unlooked for Tav might have been at the gate, but the gods’ blessings could be rescinded at any time. Elturel had taught him that.

Alone in the secluded stone chamber he had requisitioned off the refugees' main camp, Zevlor put himself to work: making notes on their skirmish with the goblins, updating their shrinking supply list to account for the used ammunition, re-organising watch rotations after striking off Kanon’s name. But his decades-honed discipline was cracking under the strain of the day, and more than once he caught himself frozen, quill dripping ink onto his map, as he imagined the scene that might be playing out even now in the inner grove. How much time would it reasonably take Tav to find and speak to Kagha? And how long after to send him word? Zevlor could not guess. And, he reminded himself fiercely, ought not to try.

Minutes crept by like days, Zevlor’s nervous tension wound tighter with each, until the stone door to the chamber rolled open abruptly and he shot up from the makeshift desk like an arrow from an overdrawn bow.

It was Tilses.

“She’s let her go. Arabella. Kagha, that is,” she related chaotically, hands on her knees as she fought for breath: she had evidently run. “One of those new strangers from the gate made a case for her, talked Kagha down. Her parents have her now.”

It took Zevlor several racing heartbeats to understand what this meant. Then he remembered: the stolen child of the morning. The fight at the gate had driven that particular unpleasant development entirely from his mind.

“That’s…” he fumbled for words. “That is good news.” Underwhelming praise, he knew. But the harsh truth was without a stay of their impending ejection, the child’s doom was only temporarily delayed. He cleared his throat. “Did any of them mention whether Kagha agreed to reconsider the ritual?”

“They haven’t come out yet. The strangers, I mean.” Recovered enough to stand, Tilses rolled the stone door closed behind her, then crossed at her self-enforced military pace to the back of the chamber where Zevlor waited in tense anticipation for her to relate the rest. “Once Kagha gave her the go-ahead, Arabella ran out of their cave right away and found her parents. I heard the story from Komira. Apparently, Kagha threatened to set a snake on her, and only called it off when that new tiefling — Arabella didn’t know her name — said something about the druid’s god, Sylvanas. The girl couldn’t remember exactly what she said.”

“I see,” said Zevlor, disappointed and trying very hard not to look or sound it. Tilses took up her self-appointed position beside his desk, but Zevlor did not think his shot nerves could take any more ingenuous commentary or well-intentioned questions just now. “Do me a favour, Tilly,” he said, not looking at her, “and keep an eye out for the strangers. I want to know when they emerge from the inner grove and what they do next.”

It was a mark of Tilses’ dogged dedication to her Hellrider training that she neither questioned nor complained, simply fired off a salute and marched immediately back the way she had just come. And if Zevlor felt a twinge of guilt at the abrupt dismissal, he paid for it tenfold over the next few hours as Tilses, obedient to the letter, brought him regular reports of everything the new arrivals, and their tiefling leader, did.

The tales were incredible.

They had rescued another child, this time from harpies. They had formed an alliance with the Blade of Frontiers. Tav herself had talked Kanon's sister out of killing their only goblin prisoner, and the camp’s apprentice wizard from spiriting his family off into the dangerous wilds. She had defended yet another child from a confrontation with Aradin’s gang, and Zorru against her own companion: the green-skinned female who turned out to be one of the mythic githyanki his scouts purported to have seen. Had Zevlor not known Tilly to be an almost painful paragon of honesty, he would have suspected her of embellishment. But her accounts were later confirmed in their every detail by the Blade of Frontiers.

Wyll, who had arrived in the grove a few days prior, had been instrumental in assisting Zevlor’s scouts in culling a few of their surrounding threats. The young man had his own mission, however, and his own affliction for which he sought healing; and which, he explained to Zevlor when he visited that afternoon, the new arrivals apparently shared.

“Mind flayer tadpoles … in people’s heads?”

“It doesn’t seem to be catching,” said Wyll, with an uncomfortable smile. “And everyone’s agreed there’s something unusual about them — none of us seem to show any symptoms. But we’re each armed with a contingency plan, just in case.” And he tapped the phial affixed to his sword-belt with a thong. “Wyvern poison.”

Zevlor shook his head slowly. He knew, objectively, this was the worst thing he had heard all day, but there was simply no room left in his brain for more horrors that did not affect his people directly. So he asked without segue:

“Did Tav or any of the others mention whether Kagha will allow us to stay?”

He saw the answer in Wyll’s averted gaze. And though he had told himself to expect it, Zevlor’s heart still plummeted and lodged hard somewhere in his gut.

“I know she tried, but … Kagha couldn’t be budged.” Wyll crossed his arms uncomfortably. “You know I’d help escort you myself, but I have to find my quarry. It’s important. More hinges on it than you know. Tav’s agreed to help me, then we’re going to search for Halsin. He was researching the tadpoles, and Nettie seems to think he might have discovered a cure.”

So, that was another possibility struck from Zevlor’s diminishing list, though not a very likely one. Wyll was skilled for his age, but it would take half a hundred blades to give them a fighting chance past the horde of goblins, gnolls and, apparently, mind flayer ships lying in wait. No, a fight on the road inevitably meant slaughter. Which left only one remaining solution Zevlor’s military mind could see. It had prowled the back of his baser thoughts since Kagha first announced her ultimatum; but he could not execute it, and dared not ask the wholly law-abiding Wyll. Now, though, there was someone ... someone with access to Kagha … someone who could creep up on goblins and plunge rapiers through their throats with thoughtless ease. Only … was it right to ask her? And, more to the point, would she possibly agree?

These were the new devils persecuting Zevlor as the sun slunk away for the day, and he was still wrestling them into a coherent plan when he emerged from his secluded chamber for supper into an only marginally cooler hollow, lit by pools of flickering torchlight and the flame under Okta's cook pot just visible behind the refugees' solemn queue. 

Nights were always a tense affair among the tieflings. All of them, even the children to some extent, never knew which one would be their last. And tonight, what with Kanon’s notable absence and the knowledge they would be thrust back onto the road the following day, the undercurrent of dread was especially charged. Men, women, and orphaned children received their rations and shuffled away in private clumps and pairs. Zevlor winced as he watched them. It had been a major goal of his, when they first set out from Elturel, to bring them all together as one people, one family; to restore that innately necessary sense of belonging they — he — had lost. To see them reduced to these splintered factions was particularly depressing. Though he, too, was guilty of it. He kept his distance, lingering on the outskirts of the camp until everyone else had been fed, then sidling up to accept what was left. Usually precious little. Amongst their many, many problems was scarcity of foodstuffs, and while their own numbers might be one less tonight, they had five more mouths to feed.

The new arrivals, and Wyll, could hardly be refused supper after their assistances of the day, but they seemed cognisant of the low rations and had the good grace to wait till the last tiefling but one had taken their portions from Okta’s pot. As Zevlor approached, the strangers accepted their bowls with varying degrees of thanks; all except the pale elf, who sniffily declined, and Tav, who Zevlor did not see. This put a wrench in his tentative plan, and he was considering his options — whether to wait for her to appear or seek her out — when the strangers traipsed away, leaving him alone at the cookpot with Okta and the last queued tiefling, apparently unable to extricate herself from one of the old woman’s long-winded yarns.

The younger tiefling’s pale blue tail flicked low around her ankles. Something in the motion caught Zevlor’s preoccupied eye. He was just wondering which of his refugees this was — he thought he might have seen the patched dress on Bex — when she turned and—

“Oh! There you are,” said Tav, her voice a perfect mirror for Zevlor’s surprise. “I was looking for you earlier. Commander,” she added belatedly, and, after a second’s hesitation, thrust the bowl she was holding like a peace offering into Zevlor's stunned hands.

He took it automatically, still chagrined at not immediately recognising the person who had occupied his thoughts most of the day. But, under the circumstances, Zevlor thought he might be forgiven. It was amazing the difference a wash, a thorough brush of her hair, and the shedding of her ill-fitting armor made. Tav cocked her head slightly. Zevlor realised he was openly staring. And that she had spoken to him and he still had not responded. It took him several more awkward seconds to register what she had said.

“It’s just Zevlor,” he corrected.

“Oh. Of course. I'm sorry.” Tav’s face, revealed to be a light wisteria once cleaned of goblin blood and grime, flushed the colour of storm clouds. She looked and sounded every bit as wrong-footed as Zevlor felt, though he couldn’t fathom why. “Um… the other soldier. Tilses. She said — or, that’s what she called you.”

“We were Hellriders together,” he explained automatically. “I was Tilses’ commanding officer. She’s had some difficulty adjusting to a more civilian form of address.”

“Ah.”

Behind her, Otka was saying something in her low, croaky mumble and pressing a replacement bowl against the fraying corset of Tav’s borrowed dress. She turned and took it with overenthusiastic thanks, and it dawned on Zevlor for the first time since meeting this new young tiefling that Tav was pretty. The natural upturn of her lips, the cobalt eyes that stood out like jewels against her smooth, clean skin, the curve of her modest horns now fully visible crowned atop her tamed mane of raven hair. Quite pretty, in fact. All his admiration for the young woman so far had been predicated on her passionate defence of people she did not know, but as she offered Otka a final thank-you and took a few pointed steps to the side, catching Zevlor's eye with a smile, his stomach turned over and a prickle of nerves nothing to do with the subversive subject he planned to broach crept down the back of his neck. 

He stepped forward to join her. The tin spoon in the half-full bowl still clutched in his hands rattled as he moved. Zevlor looked down at it, inhaling curls of onion-and-garlic scented steam and his numb brain began to thaw. 

“I heard what you did for the child,” he said by way of proper greeting, pleased to hear himself sound more cogent. “Children, in fact. Half our camp owes you something, it seems. Thank you.”

He looked up, attempting a grateful smile, but it must have come out more a grimace because Tav's freshly polished face fell.

“I don’t know that it will matter much,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve been looking for you to tell you. I mean, I’m sure you’ve already heard, but… I couldn’t get Kagha to change her mind.”

“Yes, I did hear some of the story.” This grim reminder of their impending deadline and what would happen if he could not forestall it, fell across Zevlor's back like a lumpy, overstuffed pack. He set his shoulders against the familiar weight. “But if the druids are this far gone, we’re hardly better off here. I still can’t believe Kagha would threaten a child like that. It seems we can risk violence here or face it for certain on the road. Quite the choice, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it’s all the druids,” said Tav fairly, swirling her spoon through her bowl. “Most of the ones I spoke with seemed unhappy with Kagha’s decisions.”

“Perhaps,” Zevlor agreed dubiously. Remembering his own food, and Otka standing nearby, he scooped a spoonful into his mouth and swallowed. Then, explained: “Halsin, the arch druid before Kagha, was a much kinder leader. I think most of the druids are of his mind, but…” His grimace had nothing to do with the stew's lingering taste. “It’s Kagha’s influence. Without her twisting things, I believe the other druids might see sense.”

“So what's your plan, then? Assassinate her?”

Perhaps it was Zevlor’s own wishful thinking, but a true, shrewd question seemed to lie under the trappings of the joke. He flicked his gaze to either side. They were at least twenty paces from the nearest ears except Otka’s, and he knew hers to have a limited range, but he still took a few surreptitious steps away from the cook pot, stopping under the tattered awning where Ethel, the local trader, occasionally set up shop. Tav took the hint and quickly followed.

“It’s a low thought,” Zevlor murmured over his bowl. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it. But the druids are too powerful. They would slaughter us if we tried to stage a coup. We’d have to get close to Kagha, within striking distance. I can’t manage that. But…” He met Tav’s gaze meaningfully. “They’ve already let you pass once.”

An almost palpable chill blew across the young woman's pretty face. The deep blue of her eyes froze and hardened in a way Zevlor recognised. He had seen it before. He had worn it — that shield against the expectations of a world that thought it knew you, knew everything people with horns and tails were capable of. He knew before Tav opened her mouth what her answer was going to be. And sure enough...

“I’m not a murderer for hire.”

The blade of her voice was flat and cold. Zevlor flinched as though struck.

“It doesn’t sit well with me either,” he hastened to say. “And I’m still hoping Kagha can be swayed from this madness, but… we’re running out of time.”

He paused. Tav remained silent. Zevlor reached up and self-consciously brushed away strands of non-existent loose hair. For some reason he could not define, this new young woman's disapproval hurt him more than anyone else's in his own camp. He wet his abruptly dry lips and added, “Leaders have to make tough decisions,” his words almost a plea.

Tav blinked. The cobalt ice in her eyes melted to liquid again, and she said, more softly, “I suppose they do.”

She considered Zevlor closely — the prickling sensation down the back of his neck increased — then released him from her intent gaze. She stared instead over his shoulder: whether out at the scattered groups of refugees or inward at her own inscrutable thoughts, Zevlor could not say. They stood quietly for a few minutes, Tav spooning stew absently from her bowl to her mouth, Zevlor clutching his spoon but unable to bring it to his lips. Her no had been vehemently final, which meant there was really no more for them to discuss. He ought to excuse himself, retreat to his chamber, pour over his maps and notes for an option he had missed, but his feet were as stiff as his fingers. He could not seem to move them.

Finally, Tav spoke again.

“I can’t imagine how hard it’s been, keeping all these people together. Coordinating food and supplies ... bedding, laundry ... assigning jobs and overseeing them all. It's like running a small village, I suppose.”

Zevlor’s brow furrowed. He could not see where this was going, but, “Not far off that,” he agreed.

“You know, I’ve never seen so many … so many people like … like me in one place,” she said with difficulty. “I’ve travelled a lot the last dozen years, and met maybe a score all totalled, and never more than two or three together. It’s … it's incredible, your camp.”

Tav closed her mouth abruptly, cheeks darkening the colour of storm clouds again, and Zevlor was thankful his own fiery skin tone swallowed any hint of his gratified flush.

“It's not uncommon, your experience,” he assured her. “Elturel, before the descent, was the most enlightened city on the Sword Coast — perhaps in all of Faerûn. Tieflings were not the only marginalised race to make their way there in large numbers, seeking fairer treatment, more opportunities, better lives. It was my intention to keep us all together ... to try and recreate what we had in Elturel in Baldur's Gate. But I don't imagine enough of us will make it there. If any.”

A lump formed in Zevlor's throat. He gathered a spoonful of tepid stew and hastily swallowed it down.

“Oh, I don't know,” and something in the way Tav said it made Zevlor look up, then drop his spoon into his bowl. She was smiling: the sort of glowing smile he'd seen on clerics who had communed with their gods and come back blessed. “This is always the part of the story where things seem darkest, but ... something almost always happens to turn it around. I think you've a better chance than you think you do.” She set her bowl down, and when she straightened her posture reminded Zevlor vividly of the way she had first appeared to him across the ramparts. “We're leaving to look for Halsin in the morning but... I think I will get up early and talk with Kagha again before we go.”

“That's ... good of you,” said Zevlor, slightly dazed by her change of aspect. “But ... ours is not that sort of story, I'm afraid. And I don't see how merely talking to Kagha will have any more effect than before.”

“Ah, but there's a difference, you know,” said Tav, her voice brimming with all the same nerve-soothing, spirit-buoying notes he remembered from the battle, “talking to someone and talking with someone. A conversation is like music — you can just strum and see where the strings take you, or you can play the proper notes at the proper time. Atmosphere, build-up, the proper application of questions: you'd be surprised what they can achieve. I'll read up a bit on the druids' order — they had an interesting library in the inner grove — then talk to Kagha in the morning. And if that doesn't work,” — she smiled again and placed her hand on Zevlor's arm — "we'll figure something out. Don't worry."

And in her voice the words were transformed from meaningless platitude to something like a benediction. Tav squeezed Zevlor's arm, and warmth seeped through his armor into his skin, his very veins. A tangible weight seemed to slide from his shoulders. He felt suddenly light. As though he wasn't bearing the burden of everyone's lives all alone anymore. As though after tendays of sinking through layer after layer of hell, someone, something, some benevolent or whimsy-minded god, was offering him a hand.

But Zevlor knew no way to express all this. He heard himself say, “Thank you,” and it sounded stilted even to his ringing ears. If Tav was offended by this unenthusiastic response, she gave nothing away.

“Of course,” she said, giving his arm a last squeeze. “Good night, Zevlor.”

The roll of his name in her accent made Zevlor shiver in the grove's stale evening heat. It echoed in his head as he returned to his chamber; not to work, but, at last, to sleep. For hours. The longest he had slept since Halsin's departure, and for the first time since he could remember he did not wake in a pool of nightmare-induced sweat.

“So, you already knew, then?” Alfira prompts into Zevlor's thoughtful silence. He looks up. There's a poet's ochre fire in her eyes. “Knew you were falling in love?”

To her surprise, Zevlor shakes his head slowly.

“I knew I felt something,” he admits. “But I wouldn't have called it that. Rather the opposite. It felt like ... finding sure footing. Like I had stopped falling for the first time since Elturel.”

And that, Alfira hastens to scribble down.

[twoidiotwriters1]

The Curse of Oenone (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Love is real I invented it -Danny Words: 2,241 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter // Next Chapter Listen to: 'Crumbs' -by Belaganas

VIII: Somebody Sedate Me!

Ara is looking at her reflection in the mirror with tension. What was that outburst she had with Percy? It's like he and Lily pull a trigger in her that she's yet to find.

She wants them to be proud of what she's accomplished, so why can't they be glad for once? Having a child of Olympus on their side during the war with Kronos would've made all the difference, why are they so pressed about it now?

Learn the difference between concern and distrust, says Lily's voice in her head. 

Though they're not that different from each other. Both come from the same thought: This prophecy is beyond Ara's skills.

She brushes her damp hair (she took a shower to cool off), and puts on a camp half-blood shirt, then she grabs her cosmetic set and stares at it, she wears makeup when she needs to feel better. Now is one of those days.

When she arrives at the meeting, she's the only one who made an effort to look more than just well-rested and that cheers her up, Generals should look neater than their army.

It's the first time the seven gather with no one else around, except Ara and Coach Hedge. She makes her way to the head of the table and pulls back a chair at the same time Percy reaches for it. She looks at him thinking Are you kidding me?, but a second later her brother mumbles an apology and sits next to Annabeth.

Ara looks at the group trying to gather her thoughts. They do seem intimidating, but Ara's interacted with them in such domestic settings that to her they just look like kids. "Anything we should know about the expeditions?"

"Well, maybe the part where we ran into Nemesis," Hazel suggests.

Ara's got so many things in her mind she'd forgotten about Nemesis, but now that Hazel brought it up, she can feel the piece of paper the goddess handed to her burning through her pocket.

Leo and Hazel share their adventure, and Ara uttered no word. What she got out of that encounter is of no use to the others—and then Annabeth, Frank, and Percy talk about their quest, but nothing worth remembering comes out of it.

"So where to now?" Leo takes a bite of his pizza. "Ara and I did a quick repair job to get us out of the lake, but there's still a lot of damage. We should really put down again and fix things right before we head across the Atlantic."

"We need to put some distance between us and Camp Jupiter," Percy replies. "Frank spotted some eagles over Salt Lake City. We figure the Romans aren't far behind us."

"I don't suppose we should go back and try to reason with the Romans?" Piper offers. "Maybe—maybe I didn't try hard enough with the charmspeak."

"That won't cut it," Ara replies, perhaps too harshly. "For charmspeak to work, they have to find you appealing. I don't think they feel like cuddling us at the moment."

Jason tries to lift his girlfriend's spirits. "It wasn't your fault, Pipes. Or Leo's. Whatever happened, it was Gaea's doing, to drive the two camps apart."

"Maybe if we could explain that, though—"

"With no proof?" Annabeth raises a brow. "And no idea what really happened? I appreciate what you're saying, Piper. I don't want the Romans on our bad side, but until we understand what Gaea's up to, going back is suicide."

"She's right," Hazel speaks hoarsely. She's having the worst seasick case ever but tries hard to keep it together. "Reyna might listen, but Octavian won't. The Romans have honor to think about. They've been attacked. They'll shoot first and ask questions post-hac."

Ara plays with the last pieces of veggies on her plate. "Then we stick to our original plan, and we look for Nico."

Hazel's anxiety causes precious stones to gather around her plate. "Nemesis said we have only six days until Nico dies and Rome is destroyed."

"You mean Rome Rome, not New Rome?" Jason asks.

"I think, but if so, that's not much time."

"Why six days?" Percy questions. "And how are they going to destroy Rome?"

"July first," Ara comments like it's obvious.

"What?" Her brother stares at her blankly.

Ara rolls her eyes. "All the stuff that's happened, Gaea's done them on important dates of our calendars. The winter solstice, the feast of fortune... the Kalends of July is a special occasion because," she pushes a piece of broccoli forward. "In Rome, that day's dedicated to Juno. Which is weird, 'cause I feel like that should be during the Kalends of June, but whatever—"

"How do you know all this?" Percy frowns.

Ara eats the piece of broccoli and points at Jason with her fork. "He's been teaching me Roman history for the past six months."

"Okay... so that connects to Nico... in what way?" 

"We are six days away from July first," she frowns. "Nico's literal deadline lands on a big day for annoying people—the Romans—and Gaea likes to taint our big celebrations, so maybe she's using him as bait."

"I've been seeing some things in my knife," Piper blurts out of nowhere.

Frank gulps down his food with difficulty. "Things such as..?"

"They don't really make sense, just garbled images, but I saw two giants, dressed alike. Maybe twins."

"Twins, like in Ella's prophecy," Annabeth points out. "If we could figure out those lines, it might help."

"Wisdom's daughter walks alone," Percy recites. "The Mark of Athena burns through Rome. Annabeth, that's got to mean you. Juno told me... well, she said you had a hard task ahead of you in Rome. She said she doubted you could do it. But I know she's wrong."

"Reyna was about to tell me something right before the ship fired on us. She said there was an old legend among the Roman praetors—something that had to do with Athena. She said it might be the reason Greeks and Romans could never get along."

"Nemesis mentioned something similar," Leo says. "She talked about an old score that had to be settled—"

"The one thing that might bring the gods' two natures into harmony," Hazel quotes. "'An old wrong finally avenged.'"

"I was only a praetor for about two hours," Percy sighs, playing with his food like Ara does. "Jason, you ever heard a legend like that?"

"I... uh, I'm not sure," he says. "I'll give it some thought."

Percy and Ara both look at him with the same scowl. "You're not sure?" Percy repeats.

Ara could've pressured Jason into talking, but before she can, Hazel intervenes. "What about the other lines? Twins snuff out the angel's breath, Who holds the key to endless death."

"Giants' bane stands gold and pale," Frank continues, "Won through pain from a woven jail."

"Giants' bane," Leo hums. "Anything that's a giants' bane is good for us, right? That's probably what we need to find. If it can help the gods get their schizophrenic act together, that's good."

"We can't kill the giants without the help of the gods," Percy muses.

"I thought you guys killed that one giant in Alaska without a god's help, just the two of you," Jason points to Frank and Hazel.

"Alcyoneus was a special case. He was only immortal in the territory where he was reborn—Alaska. But not in Canada. I wish I could kill all the giants by dragging them across the border from Alaska into Canada, but..." Frank sighs. "Percy's right, we'll need the gods."

"Oh!" Ara snaps her fingers, putting two and two together. "They took him!"

Frank frowns. "Come again?"

"Twins snuff out the angel's breath, Who holds the key to endless death," Ara recites again, looking at her sister. "In your vision, were the twins guarding something?"

Piper tries to remember. "I think they were... pulling up a large vase from a pit?"

"Was it large enough to fit a thin person in it?"

"You're not saying..." Hazel starts fearfully.

Ara's gaze darkens. "Your brother was looking for the doors of death, maybe he found them and knows how to close them, but they caught him before he could tell us."

"Di Angelo," Percy groans in realization, running a hand over his face. "Twins snuff out the angel's breath..."

Ara nods. "If Nico's been captured because he found the doors, rescuing him has to be our priority."

"Which is going to take us straight to those twins," Annabeth points out.

"Whom we can't defeat unless we get the giant's bane beforehand," Percy adds. "Whatever that is."

"And we must get all that before the Kalends of July, or everything will go wrong," Ara concludes with a sigh. "I'm not loving the tight scheduling..."

They stay quiet for a moment, trying to think of a different meaning to those lines, but nothing comes to them. In any case, going to Rome is what they were supposed to do since the start.

"So..." Leo drags his chair back once he finishes his food. "First things first, I guess. We'll have to put down in the morning to finish repairs."

"Someplace close to a city," Annabeth says, "in case we need supplies. But somewhere out of the way, so the Romans will have trouble finding us. Any ideas?"

"Well," Piper leans on the table. "How do you guys feel about Kansas?" 

"Lights out! Settle down! Try to sneak out, and I'll smack you back to Long Island!" 

Ara opens her cabin door angrily. "Coach! If you don't stop yelling you'll finish the quest as a potted plant!"

"Who're you calling a potted plant, Jackson? I'm a carnivorous one!"

"Those can be potted too, you jacka—"

"Someone needs a nap!" Leo comes out of his room, which is right in front of Ara's—definitely on purpose—and stops her before she kills the satyr. "It's alright, Coach, we're all tucked in, stop yelling."

"I don't see you tucked in, Valdez."

"Hedge, I swear," Ara says through gritted teeth, but Leo stands between them.

"I'm wearing my finest PJs, man, c'mon, knock it out," he guides the satyr towards his cabin.

Hedge gives in, though he gives out warnings as he goes. He stops before entering his room and points at them squinting. "You two—straight to bed."

"Unbelievable," Ara mutters, re-entering her room and leaving her door open.

As expected, when Coach Hedge leaves, Leo goes to his door and closes it loudly from the outside, then slips into Ara's room as quietly as possible. Ara crawls under the covers of her bed and Leo sits at the foot of it, his right leg hanging from the side.

He's got his crooked smirk that unsettles adults on his face, but he won't do anything unless Ara lets him, and right now all she wants is sleep. She curls up and buries one hand under her pillow.

"Not bad for our first day, huh?" He says.

Ara chuckles. "Not what I had in mind, to be honest."

Leo squeezes her calf over the covers. "You handled it well. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you," she yawns. "You were great too."

"If those lines in Annabeth's prophecy are about Di Angelo..." he starts carefully. "Isn't it a bad idea to play along?"

Ara frowns. "You think we shouldn't save Nico?"

"We don't know for sure he's been taken—"

"Exactly," she interrupts him. "We're going to Kansas first, we could find something there that proves my theory wrong."

Leo nods, he doesn't want to upset her, so he changes the subject. "Well... I don't know about you, but I'm not sleepy yet."

Ara laughs and quickly tries to cover the noise even though it isn't loud. She sits up to face him properly. "Just ask, Leo."

"Can I stay?" He scoots closer. "I'll behave, obviously, I don't want your brother to gut me..."

Ara presses a palm against his chest, and his heart races at her touch. She should tell him about the curse since it concerns him too, but his heartbeat is so fast and he glows golden so brightly... she doesn't want to ruin his happiness, at least not tonight.

"You know, I think I understand Echo," she whispers.

"Hm?" Leo struggles to focus on her words, even though his eyes are on her lips.

"You can love yourself a lot," Ara explains, "but if you're genuinely in love with someone, you'll stay beside them, even if they give you sorrows. Echo sees something worth saving in Narcissus because she loves him, and you can't listen to reason when that happens."

Leo leans his forehead on hers. "But he already died once and it did nothing to make him reconsider."

"He's been cursed," Ara's voice quivers. "He can't change his fate alone. You're right, Echo's very strong and brave for staying by his side, considering she has no powers, no..." she chokes a little. "No answers."

Leo moves to look at her. "You okay?"

Ara wraps her arms around Leo and buries her face on his neck. "I lied. I got scared when you attacked me—and my ribs still hurt, and I don't like Hazel, and Percy's mad at me..."

Leo's guts twist with guilt, and Ara feels it right away. "Crap, I'm so sorry—I should've—"

She pulls the emotion out of him with her empath touch. "I was scared for you, Leo, not me," the girl assures him. "I'm telling you this... because you said we could lean on each other. Please, don't forget it."

"I won't," Leo tilts his head, staring at her with soft, loving eyes. "Wanna lean on me first?"

Her soul-light brightens and she buries her face in his neck again. "Yes."

"Alright," Leo grins and kisses the top of her head. "You know... I wouldn't mind living through a thousand shitty days like this one if it meant I'd hold you like this every night."

Her heart squeezes with unease. "I know."

Next Chapter –>

Taglist.

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[brianwambui5]

THE JOURNEY OF A FAMILY MAN

My name is Brian Mburu Wambui. I was born and raised in Kenya, East Africa, by a single mother. I’m now 27 years old, with two wonderful sons who are 5 and 3. Growing up in a single-parent household wasn’t easy. From a young age, I had to understand what it meant to struggle, and I was forced to mature quickly to help my mother and contribute to our survival. Life has never been kind, and that has shaped me in ways I’m still trying to understand.

My early years were a mix of hope and hardship. I went through kindergarten and primary school like any other child, holding on to dreams of a better future. But when I reached secondary school, everything changed. During my third year, we simply couldn’t afford the fees anymore. I was around 16 or 17 when I had to drop out. It was a tough blow because education had been my hope for a different kind of life, a chance to break free from the cycle of poverty.

After dropping out, reality hit hard. With no formal qualifications, I took up the first job I could find: car washing. I worked long hours, from morning until late at night, scrubbing cars for little pay. If I made any mistakes, the employers would deduct from my already meager salary. It wasn’t just the physical labor that was tough; it was the constant reminder that some people don’t see others as human beings deserving of dignity. It was just about making a profit, even if it meant exploiting those who had nothing else. I tried to keep going, but the job felt more like slavery, and eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to walk away.

Since then, I've done a variety of hustles, each one more challenging than the last. Whether it was odd jobs, manual labor, or selling small items, I did whatever I could to make a living. But no matter how hard I worked, it felt like I was always just barely getting by. Life was about surviving from one day to the next, and I could never seem to catch a break.

The constant struggle took a heavy toll on my personal life. The mother of my children—my partner, the woman I thought I would share my life with—grew tired of our circumstances. She couldn’t handle the daily grind, the poverty, the lack of basic comforts, and eventually, she left. That broke me in a way that’s hard to put into words. I was left to raise my sons alone, haunted by thoughts of whether I had failed them. The thought of my children growing up to see me as a man who couldn’t make a better life for them weighs heavily on my mind every day.

Poverty has been my constant companion, from the day I was born until now. To this day, I’ve never known the simple privacy of having my own toilet. I've always had to pay for basic needs like water, showers, and even using the bathroom. It’s a kind of existence that chips away at your dignity. This is not a life I would wish on anyone, not even my worst enemy.

There are times when I wake up and question why I’m still here. It feels like life is just a series of endless suffering, and each day is another step deeper into despair. I’ve often wondered if I’m cursed—if my life was always meant to be this way, filled with one hardship after another. I long for a life where I can rest and be happy, where I can enjoy the simple pleasures that so many people take for granted: a home where I can feel safe, a steady income, and the ability to watch my children grow up without the constant fear of not having enough.

To cope with the stress and overwhelming sense of hopelessness, I turned to chewing khat. It’s not a solution, but it helps me escape, even if just for a while. When I’m sober, the reality hits harder: a life that feels like it’s going nowhere, where every effort seems to end in failure. I chew khat to dull the pain, to avoid thinking too much about all the things I’ve lost and the dreams I’ve had to let go. It’s not something I’m proud of, but at times, it feels like the only thing that helps me get through the day.

Despite everything, there is still a part of me that hopes for a better future. It may be a faint hope, but it’s there. I look at my children, and I want more for them. I want them to grow up in a world where they don’t have to struggle like I did, where they have the opportunities that I never had. I hope they grow up to be strong and find success in ways that I couldn’t. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s to teach them the value of resilience and kindness.

If you feel moved by my story and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee. Any small gesture of kindness is deeply appreciated and helps me keep going. Here’s the link:

If you’re reading this, I hope you take a moment to be grateful for the things you have. Don’t take anything for granted. If you have a stable life, a roof over your head, and the ability to meet your needs without worry, cherish it. Not everyone is that fortunate. And if you’re someone who has never known hardship, remember that life isn’t fair for everyone. Show compassion where you can, because sometimes a little kindness can go a long way.

buymeacoffee.com/Brianwambui

[the-crow-binary]

After this post, I am now going to focus on Isaac and Hector, and I dedicate the post to my friend @beevean <3 (And also at least partially to you, @azerothx, since I will talk about Hector and your ask have been raising dust in my messages closet for a while... alongside a few others >:<)

So. Let's talk about those boys' themes in Curse of Darkness (mangas are incuded).

First theme: Loneliness and Finding a place to belong to (to cling to).

Before they even met, Isaac and Hector already shared a similar story. The one of a child, hated and rejected by all, who just needed a place to be safe in. Like any child deserves to. Granted, Isaac had Julia... but being with someone doesn't mean you cannot feel lonely. Children need a home. And Dracula gave them one.

Isaac clung onto Dracula's "love". He felt happy in repaying him for his "kindness" and mercy by serving him body and soul. He felt accomplished in being nothing but a tool for him, to do his bidding. Hector, however, will take a different paths...

Second theme: Rivalry.

They were both Dracula's generals and Devil Forgemasters, but Hector was the stronger one. He was Dracula's favorite, his protégé. Though Isaac tried and tried, he never reached Hector's level. It festered his mind, created an inferiority complex. And yet, at the same time, he secretly admired Hector. Probably envied him as well. They were rivals in ideals as well. Hector clung onto his humanity, Isaac threw his away. Hector wanted to be his own person, Isaac felt fulfilled being what Dracula wanted him to be. Hector felt bad about killing humans... Isaac could not have cared less.

Wich leads to the third theme: Betrayal.

Hector, unable to stand the massacre any longer, ran away. Both Dracula and Isaac took it badly, but this isn't about Dracula. <3 Isaac clearly cared about Hector, in someway. In the PtR manga, before the Curse take a hold of him, Isaac is honorable to Hector. He praises him, clearly admires him, even brought two swords with him to confront Hector after his betrayal because he cares about a fair fight. In the MF manga, Isaac was ecstatic when felt and then found Hector (who he thought might have been dead, though he had a doubt). He even seems desperate, screaming "why did you betray us?!" at him when they fight. He gives him a chance to go back to the Castle... only for Hector to laugh at him and call him out for being nothing but a pawn. (and Isaac is very expressive. You can read his emotions in his face. You can see when he is worried, when he is in pains but tries to hide it behind a smile, when he's straight-up mad...)

But Hector running away is not the worst part of the betrayal, no... the worst part is Dracula's death. :)

In the PtR manga, Isaac doesn't know Dracula died before he makes it back to the Castle and finds it in ruins (an injured bat flies to him, only to die in his hand. Talk about symbolism). In the MF manga, both Hector and Isaac feel Dracula die while they fight. In both scenarios, Isaac goes mad with grief and put all the responsability on Hector, because if he hadn't ran away, if he had stayed alongside Dracula (or did as ordered and went to kill Belmont), he would still be alive. Because of Hector, Isaac lost the only person who ever made him feel home. Now he has no one.

Fourth theme: Coping (or the lack thereof)

Comes the three years happening between CV3 and CoD. Hector learns to live peacefully with his wife Rosaly, he learns how to be a human again, he learns about how strong humans can be in their own way and how not all of them are bad. He heals and copes alongside his woman and finally, everything seems to go smoothly for him... he is happy.

But not Isaac. Isaac is alone, spying on him. The Curse eating his soul little by little. He became obsessed with two things: Hector and vengeance. He wants to see him suffer, he wants to make him suffer as he suffered. And for this... He needs to let Hector have a taste of happiness. Just like he had with Dracula. :) Before taking it away brutally.

This is the fifth theme: The cycle of revenge.

Isaac wanted revenge on Hector for basically abandoning Dracula to his death. He got it by causing Rosaly's death. Now Hector wants to get revenge on Isaac. And so he abandons the life he has been building for three years, and goes after his old "friend".

The entirety of the game revolves around this theme. Hector the traitor against Isaac the monster. They both have reasons to hate the other, they are obsessed with getting back at the other. Isaac, especially, as he is alone and fully(?) taken over by the Curse. Hector is not alone, however, and still resisting the Curse, though it almost got him in the end. But then...

Sixth theme: Acceptance/Breaking the cycle.

Right before giving Isaac the final blow, Hector stops himself and realise "wait... what am I doing? That is not me." and drop his weapon, fearing that the Curse is actually getting to him. Then Death appears and use Isaac to resurrect Dracula and Hector defeats him and Hector breaks the curse with his powers... he goes "I can finally rest" but Julia won't let him, of course, and they both flee the breaking down Castle.

It ends with him and Julia having a nice little chat, talking about having hope in the future, they both feel accomplished, and you know what...? Hector never got his revenge. :) Yes, Isaac died (either because of his body being used to resurrect Drac or because Hector killed Drac and so it killed him), and so did Dracula (again), but he did not kill him for revenge. He killed him because Dracula was a threat. The idea to get his revenge disappeared the moment he realised what he was doing. And yet, in the end, he still was happy.

Meaning the way to happiness was never to get revenge. On the contrary, it would have bring unhappiness. By refusing to get his, Hector did not only save himself, but the rest of the world as well. If he had let himself fall prey to the Curse, Death would have had used his body to bring back Dracula, and at this point, Trevor was not in a good enough shape to stop him. Accepting to do the right thing and move on was the good call. Now, he can try to live in peace again...

Now you can easily imagine Hector and Isaac having been close, once. Two lost boys, sharing abilities, sharing similar stories, knowing what the other went through... you can imagine they were friends or lovers, caring about the other, but, unfortunately, Dracula always got in the way (Isaac cared more about their Lord and Hector cared more about Isaac. but what he cared even more about was his own humanity. they were bound to fall appart)

What helps caring about those characters, their relationships and themes, are their personnalities. They're both different from each other, but work well together. They are both gray (they are both victims), but Hector leans more on the "righteous" side, while Isaac lean more on the "evil" side.

Now onto the funny part.

What are Isaac and Hector's themes in NFCV?

Loneliness: We barely touch on that, if not at all. We never see Isaac suffer from being alone, he seems pretty okay with it. The only hint we have that Hector might have been a lonely child is this flashback of him bringing his dog back to life, going home, only for his parents to scream in horror (and he does end up killing them by burning down the house). We can guess that if he often brought undead animals to people, he must not have made many actually living friends... but he never seemed like he wanted to anyway. In fact, as an adult, he did say he prefered his "animals" to actual people (if I remember correctly). So okay, scratch that.

Finding a place to belong to: Neither Isaac nor Hector had a problem with that. They both lived happily on their own until adulthood, when Dracula arrived and asked them for help.

So we already lost two themes that made the OG characters dependant on Dracula (wich was an interesting plot point, love that G!Dracula seemed merciful on the surface, welcoming children to his Castle, when he ultimately uses them as weapons). Okay. A shame, but let's continue

Rivalry: Those characters have absolutely no chemistry whatsoever. They are colleagues who barely talk to each other. And I am not going to call Isaac patronizing Hector and calling him a child "rivalry". There's nothing there.

Betrayal: I don't want to sound harsh, but... lol. Lmao, even. Hector got manipulated by Carmilla, but it's barely if he realised he was betraying Dracula. He probably didn't know any better. And while in the manga, Hector's (actual) betrayal led to neither him nor Isaac being there to protect Dracula, and so Isaac being mad at him and not Trevor made sense (+Hector actively chose to betray them, he was not manipulated by anyone)... in NFCV, there is no such thing. Isaac was aware Hector was manipulated by Carmilla, he saw Trevor and knew who was attacking the Castle, and it's Dracula himself who threw him into a portal to protect him. He had no reason to get mad at Hector. Another theme wasted.

Coping: No such thing. Unless you want to count Isaac's "character development" that, but... doesn't feel right to me. The characters never had the time to process things and just live during the whole show (oh, my bad, there was a few time skips here and there that were used as excuses to rushed developments, haha <3)

Cycle of revenge: It was more of a quest for revenge on Isaac's part. Hector never had any reason to get revenge against him. Well, Isaac neither, but he wanted to anyway.

Acceptance/Breaking the cycle: Okay so we did not get any "breaking the cycle" since there was no cycle to begin with... but "acceptance"? Yeah. Isaac went through character development mostly offscreen and decided to accept Dracula was dead (how did he even know) and that Hector had nothing to do with it (wich he knew from the start but good for him to finally take facts into consideration). And Hector........ Hector accepted to not be killed by Isaac. Cool. I guess.

So at this point, all of the themes revolving around Isaac and Hector in games were thrown out the window or done terribly wrong in the show. So what themes did they have? Well, sisters and bros and non-binary hoes... none that would link them directly. They basically had their own things going on, and it would sometimes get in contact with the other's things, but never mix. That's basically their whole relationship summed up.

Isaac's things were that he was Dracula's friend, that he valued his knowledge greatly to the point he was ready to lead his war and give his life to him, but then he was forced into a journey without Dracula that would make him realise he wanted to be something more, that he wanted to live for himself (you know, the development G!Hector had, but done poorly).

And Hector... Hector's whole thing was "I am a wet puppy getting kicked around by every vampire existing". He got manipulated by Dracula, then Carmilla, then Lenore... everytime the show would focus on him, it was like going from "Castlevania" to "misery porn". And his story ended with him in love with his abuser who never had any consequences for treating him like shit and got to die on her own terms. I know CoD's message was basically "revenge bad", but what about justice. What about Hector's character being respected for once. What about... yeah I'll stop right there this isn't about Lenore nor Lenector, this is about Isaactor.

And, needless to say... NFCV Isaactor is shit. They lost all flavor. Hector got his character smashed into pieces and replaced by a bad clone of him, then his character development was passed down to N!Isaac, but not completely, because N!Isaac kept killing people like it was nothing till the end, and still cared about Dracula, and he never actually betrayed Dracula he just was forced to leave him. Meanwhile Isaac's character was thrown out the window and replaced by an OC with his name. And I'm not just saying this because his design is entirely different, but also because his personnality has nothing to do with G!Isaac. All they have in common is the fact they love Dracula. And even then, G!Isaac literally worshipped Dracula. Meanwhile N!Isaac and N!Dracula are actually friends ("are you still my friend, Isaac?"), they often look like they are on the same level, not a master talking to his servant... actually, N!Isaac did not just replaced Hector. He replaced Death as well, as Dracula's confidant.

And look. If you want to make Isaac the favorite one, go ahead, poor guy keeps getting bullied, he deserves the treat. That is not the problem here.

The problem here is... that the show shat on both Isaac and Hector. And everything, from the themes that linked them both to their personnalities, have been completely erased and replaced with badly written drama.

Say what you want about G!Isaac, but this guy is fun. His gestural, his voice, his personnality... They are so fun to watch and analyze. Just the way he walks around his spear in one of the cutscenes and say "pff! still too soon but all the same..." is... GAH. I love it. (and have you guys even SEEN the STABBING SCENE? PLEASE.) Whoever brush him off as a gay joke needs to either shut up or actually read the mangas/play the games. N!Isaac is just a rock. He has no charm. Everyone thinks he's badass when he's being an asshole. Everyone thinks he's deep because he says so.... And I couldn't care less about his relationship with Dracula. And Hector? Hector was RAW in the game and mangas. He was brooding, he had... questionable self-esteem (comparing himself to a demon) but enough self-respect to get away from Dracula and respect his own moral code. He knew how to fight, he was strong. He was ACTUALLY badass and cool. But he also was tragic, in need of love, and adorable when with Rosaly... N!Hector was a joke. And it didn't have to be this way, they could have decided at any moment to make him stop taking any shit and start actually defending and fighting for himself. But no. We had to wait till the end of S4 to have him cut his finger off, wich is the closest we will ever get to a badass moment for N!Hector. (also Isaac rushing in to help him is cute, but it would've been cuter if they actually had chemistry, y'know?)

Isaac and Hector in CoD were two faces of the same coins. Two people who went through the same things, but ended up taking widely different paths... But in NFCV, they had nothing in common. Nothing more than strangers working for the same guy. And one of them was an asshole to and behind the other's back for no reason. (also, Dracula recruiting them as adults does not have the same impact as him welcoming them as children... but at this point it's clear that N!Dracula was meant to be alone in his Castle before Lisa. Unlike G!Dracula who is "said to be generous towards those who turns their back on god" and have devils and demons and even humans roaming all around)

If I had to tell what CoD's core was, as I did for the whole Castlevania franchise... Well, it was Isaac and Hector. Their characters, and their relationship.

Once again, NFCV wasted good potential.

[raphieeee]

CW: talking about scars and trauma, burns, Pyrophobia (I think that’s what it’s called…?)

For as long as any of them knew him, Casey Jones always wore big and baggy clothing. Not one of his paint stained hoodies ever went past his wrist or were rolled up, nor were his tacky denims jeans ever left with rips as he always stitched them together with messy black cotton.

None of them thought anything of this, even when they all realised at various moments. It was just one of the many things that made Casey Jones so, well… Casey Jones.

But then the tar incident happened.

It was a simple mission, stop some purple dragons from messing around at a construction site that they were using as a cover for their latest batch of weapons. Leo was even relaxed enough to make a few genuine jokes, something that always made them feel safe even if it had the side effect of a little cringing.

Casey and Mikey had been chasing after these two goons who had been caught with their pants literally down and were fumbling over the place. One of them knocked over a heated container that had tar in it, which ended up getting on Casey’s arm but thankfully he had enough layers to be safe.

Instinct still took over when the threat of burns settled into his mind and he ripped his hoodie of as the heat started to get to his skin, flailing a bit as the sleeve caught slightly on his shirt and he ended up ripping that off two in his panic.

He was cursing up a storm about loosing his second favourite hoodie, trying to focus on that and not the feel of heat, when he realised that Mikey was staring at him with a slack jaw and wide eyes that were quickly gathering tears. Confused, Casey had walked over to him before stopping suddenly as realisation settled in. Right as it did, Mikey’s lip started to wobble as he held back tears.

Casey couldn’t stop the growing panic attack even if he was at home alone with his favourite show and a dozen teddies around him and four air coolers on max.

Mikey had seen it, and he one thing he wanted to hide for all eternity.

Across the left side of his body, from his thigh up to his back and over both shoulders, were his burns. The skin was marred and twisted, both looking thin and so tough as it’s shaped wobbled and twisted, some pale while others seemed stuck on a pink like hue. His left side was the most visible to Mikey, and was also the worst, as it was where the skin of his armpit struggled to keep its flexibility and shape as scar tissue took over it. It was where you could see that he he fire touched his arm and dripped down and down, the source of over ten years of pain, physical and mental.

Casey sobbed as he tried and failed to cover himself, almost screaming when Mikey stopped him from putting the still tar covered hoodie on. Casey only allowed him to as he realised that the threat of more heat was bad enough.

It could have been minutes or hours, most likely mere seconds, but soon the others were rushing around the corner at the sound of the commotion.

Casey would forever be grateful to his leader for his quick thinking. While the others stared in shock, Leo ripped off part of a tarp and wrapped it over his body, careful to not actually put pressure on his body.

Him and Raph took Casey home, both of them letting him sob and whine like a child as memories and sensations took for this mind all while the feeling of being stuck in a pedestal with a hundred lights and millions of eyes watched him and whom sick.

Raph cleaned up the vomit, Leo ran a cold bath.

Casey Jones felt like his world was falling apart yet at the same time he felt a relief like no other when his best friend and his most trusted teacher didn’t bat a single eye. They stayed by him as he sobbed and even as his skin was visible.

Casey was scared, but he was also safe. Safe from fire, safe from tar, safe from judgement.

Safe with his ninja turtles.