#like. its one thing to have the constant lingering 'IS he a murderer

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Devout

Guardian Angel alternative POV, or Jason Todd is the Arkham Knight, and he can't stop himself from watching you, from clawing his way into the cracks of your life in a twisted, mangled mirror of what he used to be ~3.5k words

CW: Jason commits a few murders, some gore, stalking, some religious imagery for fun

Jason Todd shouldn't be watching you. He knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be perched on the shadowy rooftop across from your apartment building, staring intently into your windows.

He knows. He knows. But he's doing it anyway– been doing it for weeks.

You haven't noticed once, so wrapped up in your own life, your peace of mind that no one would break the sanctity of your own home that you don't even consider closing your blinds.

He thinks you should know better. Gotham is tainted– he is tainted– yet you never spare a glance over your shoulder when he follows you down the street, never linger on that sixth sense that screams that you're being watched.

You pick up on his presence on the rare occasion, he thinks. The days you walk home quicker or the nights you actually slam your blinds shut makes him wonder if you do know you're being watched. But then you go back to normal, brush off every sign and every lingering feeling that something isn't right.

It almost makes him angry, sometimes, that you'd be so careless with your safety. But everything makes him angry now. It's a constant, tight grasp in his chest, the righteous fury he has against the world, against the city and its filth, against Batman.

The anger makes him reckless, or maybe he's just cocky. Maybe he wants you to know he's there. Jason doesn't let himself wonder why he does it. He might just be a masochist. He might just miss you. But he opens the faulty window to your living room that he knows squeaks and never quite locks right.

The first time he breaks into– visits your apartment while you're asleep, he doesn't touch a thing. He just takes in everything that's you, cleanses his fractured soul in the space he used to know like the back of his hand. The trinkets that sit on your counters. The paintings on the wall. The color of the blankets thrown over your couch.

He doesn't touch anything the second time, either. Or the third. The fourth time, though, he picks over the photos you keep on your shelves, the books you leave lying around. He moves them, just slightly. Just to see if you'll notice.

You don't. Not really. Not until the eighth time. He doesn't know why he does this either. He just does. He picks up your keys from where you usually keep them and moves them. It's something you can't deny. Something tangible and real and clear, an unyielding truth. He was here. He exists, and he can affect your life, change it with his hands.

(It's the first time he feels like he's truly alive since the asylum, the first time there's more than just revenge and watching you from afar, even if he feels like he's corrupting something that's only meant to be seen and not touched by impure, broken hands)

If your keys being displaced affects you, well, you don't show it for more than a few moments. And that bothers him. You might not know he's here– alive– and maybe he's not ready for you to, but he's still a part of your life, isn't he?

So he gets bolder. He doesn't want to scare you, not really. But he can't help but dig his nails into the parts of your life he can change. It starts simple, innocent. You were annoyed when you left your kitchen, out of sugar, just another thing on top of everything else you have to deal with.

And he wanted to help. Like he used to. It was easy to get a bag of sugar, even easier to sneak into your kitchen. He leaves just enough for a few days, just enough to get you through the week, enough that you'll think you misremembered how much was left.

And he should have left it at that. But he's never been good at doing things halfway, especially when it comes to you. So he fixes your apartment up while you're at work. Makes sure your window doesn't squeak, your shower doesn't rattle, your oven actually heats up. All things he's heard you try to get your landlord to fix.

He makes a note to give your landlord a visit as he's looping the footage in your cameras over, effectively erasing any evidence of who he is.

Honestly, he's proud of you for finally doing something about him, it's just a shame he has the skills to outmatch your attempts to figure out his identity. Not that any pictures of him would do any good. He's still nameless in Gotham as the Arkham Knight, and if he's not wearing a mask while he's easily picking the new lock on your apartment window, his hood and ballcap do the job of hiding his face just as well.

He thinks he could let it go on like this forever, just doing things for you in the shadows, never revealing himself. At least until he's routinely following you home from work one night, and he sees you get tugged into a dark, lonely alley. He recognizes the man that hauls you off the faux safety of the streets, the one that's lifting a shaky hand and a gun to wave it, demanding your possessions.

Murphy is a nobody in Gotham, just another gambling addicted alcoholic that takes work from whatever rouge is paying the most that week. Jason more or less only recognizes him because he lives on the third floor of your apartment building, but it's clear you don't know who the man snatching your things is.

The Arkham Knight resigns himself to stealing your wallet and phone back after you've gotten home, to keep himself out of your sights for as long as he can. That was the plan.

But there's a flicker in Murphy's eyes, a consideration– a passing thought that Jason can't ignore, one he's seen a million times. Maybe it's the idea that he could get more from you, or maybe he's realizing you've seen his face and wants to get rid of any witnesses, whatever it is, Jason isn't going to let it happen.

The Arkham Knight doesn't hesitate to drop himself between you and the gun. He breaks Murphy's arm without even thinking about it, effectively disarming him as he kicks the gun away from him. The sound of his bones breaking is loud, but Jason doesn't register it as something to be sickened by until he turns and sees the nausea and horror written plainly on your face.

Honestly, maybe he should be more disgusted with himself. He's just sent a man into shock, revealed himself to you in a way that's not at all comforting. But he doesn't care. No one was going to save you. No one but him. He protected you, and it's not like Bruce Batman– it's not like broken bones are uncommon in Gotham.

You take a step back. He steps towards you, drawn to you. He can't help it. He shouldn't. But his head is spinning, and he hasn't been this close to you since before the asylum. You look tired, older, but no less beautiful than he remembers.

"Who are you? What do you want," You snap at him.

Jason wants to praise you for your bravery, as fake as it is. It's a good tactic, to try and get him talking. He doesn't understand why you look so uneasy of him, though. He got you out of a bad situation, even if he's wearing military-grade armor and a mask that glows in the darkness of the alley, shouldn't you feel grateful? Safe? Happy?

He tilts his head, trying to read you. Would you feel better if he offered to walk you home? "I saved you," he tries, the modulator making his voice sound flatter than he intends to. The Arkham Knight silently curses himself. He should just leave. Should have shot your attacker from the roof without you ever seeing him. He's being emotional now, irrational under your gaze.

"You've been following me. You're the one who's been in my apartment," you accuse, eyes darting like you're trying to find an escape in the dead end alley.

He stiffens. Huh. Clever thing. You've always been too smart for your own good. A part of him wants to deny it, pretend he's just some passing good doer in a mask, pretend that he's some kind of knight, an angel here to shield you from harm.

The notion almost makes him laugh, "Have I," he prompts instead with all the air nonchalance. He wonders if you'll drop it then, actually thank him for stepping in and helping you. You don't.

"Yes," You say instead, voice low like it's a secret– a confession, "You have."

Jason finds himself impressed at your stubbornness, if not a little unnerved by your recklessness in confronting the supposed stranger you believe is breaking into your home alone. He has to give you credit for piecing it together, but who else, if not a freak in body armor, would be letting themselves into your apartment without a word just to fix what's broken?

He nods, unsure of what to do. You weren't supposed to figure it out, but you have. And now there's consequences.

The Arkham Knight turns his back to you, making a show of gathering your phone and wallet before standing and facing you again. He walks closer to you, each step measured and calculated. He holds your belongings out to you, a twisted, mirrored version of some kind of sacred offering.

He studies you as you grab at them, trying to tug them from his unyielding grip. There's bags under your eyes. He can practically see your pulse jumping under your skin.

You're less than a foot away, and Jason basks in that distance, how light he feels now that you're only an arm's reach away. He could brush his knuckles over your cheek, dip his head to take in the scent of your hair, kiss the hollow of your throat the same way he used to.

He does none of those things. Because you don't see Jason Todd. You only see a threat, a monster, some kind of demon that clawed their way out of the shadows and cracks that litter Gothams hallowed corners.

He cocks his head, letting go of your wallet and phone while greedily drinking down the color of your eyes in the dim light of the alley, "And if I have?"

"I'll go to the police," You tell him, defensive, and he wants to laugh as you shove your wallet and phone back into your pocket.

"They can't help you," he grits out, and it's the truth. No one knows who he is yet, what his plans are. Even if you told someone, whatever description you give won't be enough to find him.

"They can contact Batman," you bite out, and that does earn you a laugh. You really think Bruce can do anything? That Batman has any chance of standing between him and you? Batman couldn't even find– couldn't even save–

"He can't help you either," The Arkham Knight tells you. He gives into his desire to touch you then, partly in anger that you still believe in Batman and partly because he just misses you. He pats your cheek, but doesn't let himself linger. "Get home," is all he says before he grapples into the night.

He follows you back to your apartment from the rooftops and notes how you avoid getting too close to any more alleys. But, it's not until you're safe in your bed that he goes looking for Murphy– that he goes to finish the job.

The creep's nursing his broken arm in his dingy apartment when The Arkham Knight gets to him. He doesn't make it quick, but it is quiet. (It's difficult to scream when you're choking on your own severed tongue, after all) He brings down fire and fury and vengeance for daring to lay a hand on you and leaves nothing behind but a corpse.

Murphy's brutal death is swept under the rug by the GCPD, which Jason shouldn't be surprised by. Just another mob death, the tiny obituary in the paper reports. You don't even register the death in your apartment building. He doesn't blame you for that. Not when he knows he's scaring you.

He's getting careless, sloppy. He wants you to catch glimpses of him now, he wants you to know he's watching. It's sick. He knows that, knows it so well that it claws in the back of his throat when he breaks into your apartment to fix your fan.

He's guilty about it, sometimes. It's a pressing weight on his shoulder even when he's trying to help. So, he redoubles his efforts.

He sneaks into your room and stuffs six hundred dollars into the emergency fund you keep under your bed. He sends you flowers, fills your gas tank, finally visits your landlord, and pays off your rent for the next six months. (He's already bought you a better, newer apartment, he just hasn't figured out how to tell you that)

He knows it's all wrong, but sometimes, he doesn't feel guilty at all. He wants to do things for you, that's not a lie. He wants to do everything and anything you could ever want or ask for.

He starts letting you catch flashes of him outside your window, moves your things around just out of the sheer curiosity of what you'll do. He can't justify that, because it does nothing to protect you. But he does it anyway. The Arkham Knight needs you to know he holds a spot in your life, even if it's not as Jason Todd anymore.

He's getting bolder, much too comfortable. There's times you almost walk into your apartment as he's leaving gifts on your counter, times when you wake up and walk into your kitchen just seconds after he forces himself out your window.

He's going to get caught if it keeps going on like this. But he can't bring himself to worry or care. His plans are coming together, and while he doesn't exactly know where you fit into them yet, he knows he doesn't trust anything or anyone enough to leave you to your own devices once he unleashes his legions upon Gotham and her failure of a saviour.

He never seems to do the right thing when it comes to you, at least not since he came back. But saving you– guarding you against the vile filth of the world– that can't be wrong. He'd do anything to keep you as you are, untouched by all the cruelties Gotham has to offer. It's an unwavering, righteous mission he has commanded unto himself.

It's why he reacts the way he does when three men break into your apartment.

He was late. He always seems to be late when you're involved. He had just finished overseeing the arrival of tanks and men into Miagani Tunnel, just dragged himself halfway across the city for the slightest chance to catch a glimpse of you in your apartment, when he catches sight of it.

Your window– open. You never keep it open. Dread washes down his spine, and when he gets close enough to see the man pointing a gun towards the floor– towards you– he just reacts.

He shuts down, becomes nothing but instinct, and he brings hell on to Earth in your name.

He's clinical. He doesn't hesitate to shoot the man aiming a gun to your head through his temple. If the man were alone, he would have shot the gun out of his hand, but there's two other targets, and he needs to eliminate any threats to your life first.

He climbs through your window with the ease of a man who's done it hundreds– thousands of times. You haven't moved to get up. It concerns him, but he's angry right now, so, so angry he doesn't even consider ending this quickly.

Everyone tries to take something from him. He keeps losing. If he didn't come to watch– see you tonight, he would have lost you too. The very thought makes his vision blur red, his ears ring.

It's not a fight, what happens next. It's a death penalty. The Arkham Knight is a weapon, and he proves it with each hit. He's efficient, brutal, and purposeful with each movement. He doesn't flinch at the blood that splatters on his armor, doesn't stop even when fluids and flesh start to stick to the knuckles of his gloves.

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, until the only hearts left beating in your desecrated apartment are his and yours.

Then, and only then, does the blood pounding through his veins start to cool. It's only then, does he turn to look at you. He expects to meet your terrified gaze, but you haven't moved, still laying on the floor. It makes his heart clench. What's wrong with him? He just– while you–

He shakes his head, slowly tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his belt. He walks over to you, kneels carefully to your side, and watches you breathe. He matches the slow rhythm of your shoulders rising and falling, and then he helps you sit up.

You're responsive to that, at least. The Arkham Knight presses his hands to your face, waiting for something. He doesn't know what, just anything. Some kind of sign. A message of what he's supposed to do. How he can make this all better.

When you finally open your eyes, they're hazy, not quite reactive. It makes him angry all over again. You got hurt. He wasn't here.

"Saved me again," you murmur, and his throat tightens. He failed you. Yet here you are, spouting words that make it sound like he's done something good.

He runs his thumb over your cheek, savoring the feel of your skin, soothing himself and you as he reassures himself that you're still here– still alive. But you aren't safe.

It's all he can think about. He saved you, but how long until you're in danger again? What if he's not quick enough this time? What if he's not there? What if– what if– haunts him. It weighs heavier than the nightmares that plague him when he finally has to succumb to sleep.

He makes the decision then and there to take you away from here, away from the rot and the fester to some place where it can never touch you again.

He picks you up, cradles you to his chest like you're made of shattered, stained glass and tarnishing silver, but nonetheless precious. You're talking, and he's answering, but he hardly registers what either of you are saying. His mind is working over plans, where he's going to take you, the guards he'll need to recruit to watch over you when he can't, which ones he trusts the most.

Jason only tunes back in when you point out that he could hurt you. It's funny, in a way. After everything he used to be to you, after everything he's done for you, he could still hurt you. He tips his head down to really look at you, the cloudy, exhausted look on your face, the heaviness of your eyes as you struggle to keep watching him.

He can't find it in himself to lie, so, he tells you, maybe he could hurt you. He tells you that he wouldn't like it. (And it's the truth)

Maybe you recognize that, because you drop your head to his shoulder and let your eyes fall shut. The Arkham Knight never wavers in his steps, mapping the path to the apartment he'd purchased in your name in his head. It's not perfect, not filled with everything you deserve quite yet, but it'll do the job for now.

Something in him simultaneously softens and hardens when your breathing goes even and slow against him, and he curls his fingers tighter into your skin. You're weak. Weaker than him. Too naive and too soft for what's going to come.

There's no other fate for you than this now. He'll have to take care of you, protect you from it all, from all the evil that festers in Gotham, even if that includes him.

He lets the mission engrave itself into his heart– into the fabric of his very soul and right next to his revenge. You're going to be safe. He is going to keep you safe, and he'll throw himself into fire to see it done.

[dennisboobs]

@absolutely-not-my-main-blog

god YES precisely. the point of no return. and it makes it even more bizarre because of the episode's placement in the season, imo. like this wasn't a finale ep, it's not a two-parter. we watch this and are just expected to move past it as if there wasn't just a list of arguably the gang's worst crimes committed to date. which like, its no surprise that they're terrible people, but they almost always experience karmic justice or some form of consequences for their actions. i think new wheels shifts the show to a place where you are just. unable to enjoy the characters. and latter seasons have this pervasive feeling of... idk. being unable to enjoy anything, because not only do these characters suck, but they don't even feel like friends who (occasionally) like each other anymore. there's no humanity left in them. you rewatch early seasons and they all still feel like they're stupid idiots who could actually plausibly exist. they're terrible people, but they're still relatively grounded, and the show is fun to watch. something about the series (and for me it actually starts in 11, lets up for 12, and goes down hard in 13) just stops working for some reason i cannot put my finger on. it's like. the feeling of fun was drained out of everything. with the exception of a few episodes (suburbs.), i genuinely believe season 1 is better than 11 or 13.

it's really hard to watch when shit keeps pinging back and forth between clearly wanting you to genuinely empathize with the cast (dennis' arc throughout 12 with ptsdee, tends bar, dennis' double life, and an ep like mac finds his pride) when it goes so far beyond a group of friends who keep taking something stupid, oftentimes mundane and normal, then accidentally making shit catastrophic for themselves and having to deal with it:

kidnapping a critic that gives them a bad review -> only getting away with it because he decided not to press charges

impulsively selling drugs they happened to find -> being forced to deal more drugs (and dennis is forced into sex work) to pay back the gangsters

burning down a family's house after attempting to give it a makeover -> dee is forced to give up her mom's mansion for the family to stay in

and then it just becomes. you killed a child? you banged a kid? oh, okay, no worries. everything's fine, let's just reset things. frank and dee get a little bit banged up in their accident and lose the 2018 range rover, but that's it.

dee bangs a kid because she wanted to "cuck a bitch" -> she loses the car but gets away with the crime

mac and charlie beat up a group of children who stole mac's bike and kill one of them -> they get away with killing a child

the gang accidentally blew up an empty building and were tracked down and made to do community service. dennis was implicated in maureen's apparent suicide. we know they all have existing criminal records. and yet here, not only do they get away with it, but they're also content to ignore that it ever happened, and so is the show. usually when a more serious crime is committed it's at LEAST the focus of an episode. the structure of this episode positions everyone in a place where it's just business as usual for them. and then no one even fucking reacts or points out how horrific the crimes that've been committed are. which... they usually would. they do in the future and have in the past.

new wheels is absolutely my least favourite episode in the entire series, and while there are episodes that suck more on a technical level, or some that aren't super fun on a rewatch, nothing has left me as genuinely upset as new wheels did lol

and then the script. good god. the fact that new wheels was WORSE before it was edited down. i already hated it with a passion but knowing that they planned to insinuate that dennis killed his fucking son makes me furious 💀💀💀

Yes! Someone who shares my opinion of New Wheels! I’d seen mostly positives for it around but I never liked it much for the exact reasons you said!

Oh I have.... definitely expressed my hatred for it. I was surprised by the results of the poll I did, and I've seen a lot of love for it too; rewatching I honestly can really only say Why. Why does this episode exist, and why does it play out like that. Like, surface level it's an alright episode, rewatching all of s13 I can maybe understand why people would say it's the best episode of the season, but it's just... perfectly exemplary of the weirdness of the entire season. I know RCG doesn't like having to deal with continuity in most seasons (s2 was an exception because they were trying to integrate Frank into the gang, and it ended up fucking them over bc the network reordered the episodes creating weird continuity errors) but there's a difference between basic continuity (adhering to previously established lore) versus writing a semi-continuous story that carries throughout the season. Glenn has talked before about preferring to keep the show more grounded rather than allowing it to be cartoonish (arguing against the inclusion of little things like adding SFX for Frank firing the gun in post when they hadn't planned for that in a scene, which means that there's a complete lack of reaction from people in the restaurant = unrealistic) and I have to wonder if it's a coincidence that for the seasons he wasn't in the writers room for, shit got. wild. I think at some point you have to draw a line and say, okay, there is no way in fucking hell these are real people anymore. Not that they haven't been getting away with absolutely despicable shit for years now, but it used to be that the designated straight man of a scene would at LEAST point out how fucked up something is, have some sort of objection, something to ground the show in reality and remind us that these characters are in the real world who could face consequences (injury, community service, arrest). I feel that's what missing from New Wheels. WE as the audience knows how fucked up it is for Mac and Charlie to kill a child, or for Dee to sleep with a minor, but to have Dennis, completely removed from the situation, not react with shock or horror, is...... a weird choice. Especially with how grounded his arc is, and how grounded HE is, relative to the rest of the gang in the episode. It feels off. Even if it was like, Mac and Charlie saying YOU DID WHAT? to Dee, and she and Frank doing the same back after hearing that they're unsure if they killed a kid. Zero judgement at all? Unlike the gang <3 They can generally recognize when the OTHERS pull something that's completely batshit,they just lack self-awareness when they're the one committing the acts yknow?? not always, but usually.

[springsylph]

Touch and Agree | Charles x Reader

charles smith x f! reader | no warnings | 2.1k | ao3 |

was trying to get back into writing but i was struck with an indescribable sadness once i thought about how useless charles must’ve felt after burning his hand in blackwater. so. i raise you unknowingly touchstarved reader versus Charles™

The horses have slowed to a trot by the time you press your cheek to the frosted window.

You hear Arthur shout some muffled declaration of success as he and Charles’ shadows curl around the front of the stable. The gang is likely aware of their return, senses now heightened by hunger and the frigid winds of Colter. But you feel the need to relay the message to the few still silently huddled in the corners:

“If you’ve been praying, today’s your lucky day.”

Tilly, arms crossed tight over her torso, is the first to pipe up from her spot near the fireplace. “Micah finally saw his sorry behind off the nearest cliffside?”

“Miss Tilly!” Grimshaw hisses, scandalized. The only thing stronger than Grimshaw's personal gripes are the exigencies of the gang. “No more of that. You know we need all the hands we can get.”

Karen, squished next to Mary-beth and a now slumbering Sadie on a wooden bench, scoffs. “Didn’t think we counted meat hooks as hands.”

That gets a snort out of John, who realizes too late that his body isn’t quite healed enough to handle said snort. A flick to the forehead from Abigail quiets him down in his cot before she turns to find you still gazing out the window.

“I’m assimin’ Arthur and Charles are back?”

You nod. “With one…two deer, by the looks of it.”

Your inhale is sharp when Charles pulls his catch over his shoulder with a jerk, beckoning Arthur to follow after him to mask his discomfort. The tension leaves your spine only after the last dregs of his shadow disappear into the stable.

Half-turned to Abigail, you mumble, “Does Charles look a little...off to you, these days?"

"Off," she repeats. The darkness under her eyes colors her words. "Off how?"

"You know," and you make as though to say something of substance before your eyebrows pinch together, "off.”

Abigail looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “If you’re waitin’ on Charles to scream bloody murder, it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a burn to do him in.”

Another brick is slotted into a broken wall. 

“I’m just worried.”

“About?”

“Charles. I think his hand is botherin’ him again.”

Abigail’s sigh dusts the cold air with its warmth. “I…suspect most things might look a little off since we've been cooped up like this. But we’ve got O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on the prod." She looks at Jack, now sitting cross legged at her feet and fiddling with the corner of John's blanket. Abigail had given up on herding him toward the fireplace some time ago. She strokes a featherlight hand over his head. "No sense in stressing yourself out over somethin’ Charles would’ve told us ages ago. It's good that he’s up and movin' though, ain't it?"

Your momentum stalls.

It should be. It should be.

Blackwater has left none unchanged. If you weren’t dead, you were shot, and if you weren’t shot, you were waiting for it. Hands bound. Body trammeled by fear and constant surveillance. From anyone else, this haste would be a blessing. A miracle, even, in light of all that'd been lost.

From Charles, it reads more like a warning.

But you don't think your feet have been planted here long enough to question their habits.

You say nothing and return your still numb cheek to the window. Will it always be like this, you wonder? The second guessing. The wary eyes. There’s a certain degree of trust that you aren’t privy to yet. Somehow, it feels worse knowing that everyone is making an effort to be so kind to you despite it. You know plenty who wouldn’t do the same.

Better dead than dead weight. 

The creed still lingers. Subsisting on what little you've gleaned in the short time you've been running with Dutch's group. Perhaps that's the root of this peculiar sense of worry. Of pity. You and Charles don’t speak often—there's a general lack of overlap in duties, for one, and he mostly keeps to himself. But you've always been one for actions over words. Charles was frighteningly capable, and more than willing to prove it time and time again.

To him, the burn he’d suffered may as well have been a bullet to the leg.

Your only issue is that no one else seems to see it.

You’re tracing shapes into the windowpane when movement just outside startles you. Charles, bow in hand, stalks toward one of the smaller cabins before veering off toward the small stream that lies just behind the stables.

You're springing up and stumbling out the front door before your brain has time to temper your heart. Someone shouts after you—likely Grimshaw, from the way it rakes over your ears. But you ignore it in favor of grabbing handfuls of your skirts and pushing through the powdery snow.

When you round the corner of the stables, breath short and chest tight, you find that Charles hasn’t gone very far at all. He's leaning against a crooked tree, face all taut lines as his fingers fumble with the grip on his bow. A frown plays at your lips when you notice the path of his footprints, stretching a few paces farther before it loops back to where he stands.

“Charles?”

You think you hear him exhale through his nose before he meets your gaze with the same smile he usually does. Bright. Unwavering. A little squinty, since the sun is in his eyes. “You good?”

Right. The usual pleasantries. You've conversed with him in your head for much longer than you have in person.

“I’m uh, fine." You blink stupidly. "Are you?"

“Mhm. Right as rain.”

Your eyes can't help but slide to the bow he clutches just out of sight. He doesn’t look ashamed in the slightest.

“…I’m just holding it, for now. Till my hand heals up, at the very least.” Charles holds up the offending appendage. “Not like I have anything better to do."

It's hard to tell if he's intentionally skirting around the point, or if he really does think there aren't any better uses for his time. The frown you'd been fighting off finally gets the better of you once Charles returns to adjusting his injured hand on the bow's grip.

"I don't think you should be doing that," you insist. Because he really shouldn't be. At all.

"Afraid I can't do that," he replies. "I'm one of the few here who can hunt worth a damn in this weather. I get sloppy, we starve.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’s what I know.” He says it with enough certainty to make you almost believe him. “Go back inside and warm yourself up. 'Preciate you checking on me, but if you freeze to death, they’re gonna laugh knowing you came out here without any gloves on.”

You clench your fists. Feel the ice that's settled there begin to splinter under the pressure and breach the thick skin of your palms. Fine, then. You’ll speak to him in a language he can understand.

Though your march over is less than graceful, he parts with the bow with surprising ease. Charles’ warmth, much like the rest of him, is tailored to perfection. Your fingertips graze remnants of the finery on the parts of the parts of the bow that his hands have warmed.

His eyes flick over you. Placid. Confused, too, on account of the ever-tightening grip you have on what you hope isn't a prized possession. His vexation becomes clearer once you step away, full hands now hidden behind your back. You have to take an extra step back for your own peace of mind.

“Charles Smith,” you begin, “I’d like to strike up a deal.”

“A deal.”

“I won’t repeat myself. We’re losin' daylight here.”

Chin tipped upward, you don your favorite facade.

Confidence.

"You focus on takin’ care of that hand, and I won't tell Arthur and Hosea you've been messin' with your bow."

His face belies a slew of unvoiced expletives. But you know Charles to be the—somewhat—gentle sort, so there’s no need to brace yourself. Even if he isn’t entirely convinced, you can at least hope that he’s found a little amusement in all this.

“You said ‘strike a deal,’” he says slowly. “This smells like a threat.”

“Deal, threat, whatever strikes your fancy.” It didn’t matter so long as he stopped stretching himself so thin.

He seems to mull over your words for a bit, no longer leaning up against the tree. There is, however, a small chance that he’s trying to find the right assortment of words to get you off of his back.

“We’ve got two deer.” You continue. “If Pearson is as frugal as I remember, that’ll keep us all for about a week. Should be more than enough time to get your hand back in order, right?”

“Hm.”

There’s a moment where Charles’ uninjured hand begins to stretch towards you. You just barely remember to lean out of the way before he drops his arm with a defeated sigh.

“So no bows—”

“No knives or guns, either. Unless absolutely necessary.”

“—Then how’m I supposed to keep up my strength? Can’t just sit idle, you know. We’ve got people here who need taking care of.” He takes three steps forward, and you take three steps back. “We’ve all got weight to pull out here. I’m of no use to anybody if I’m sitting out over a little burn like this.”

There goes that nasty word again.

Use.

You can joke all you want, but that’s what this boils down to.

“Well, you…just need something to pull on, right? Keep your hands busy?”

You hold out your hand.

The corner of Charles’ lips twitch downward. "I’m keeping my knives on me—"

"Take it."

"…What?"

You laugh. Loud and exaggerated enough to shake the snow off the trees. "Some gentleman you are, lettin’ a lady’s hands grow cold.” You flex your fingers. “My hand. Take it."

You use the awkward silence that follows to explain yourself.

"I figure it's got a little more give than a bow. And it’s got enough resistance to scratch that itch. You ever feel like shooting, ask for me. Hopefully it’ll have you feeling stupid long enough for your hand to heal up."

He brings a hand up to block the sun from his eyes, and you find yourself strangely missing the gold it cast on him. "That's not something I should be asking of you."

"Works out great, don't it? You're not asking, I'm offering, so there's no problem." Or, at least there wouldn't be if things go the way you know they will. It's no well-kept secret that Charles isn't too keen on extra company during his downtime. No one faults him for it, either.

Any chance of him taking you up on your suggestion is slim.

The wind is thunderous where Charles is quiet, snaking through the empty trees.

"Whether you take it or not, I'm walking off with this bow. But I'm not about to let you run yourself into the ground."

You flex your fingers again, and they tremble.

Charles shakes his head, and you're sure you've won—

"Alright. I'll do it."

Well, that's not good.

Violently off track and suddenly very unsure of how to proceed, you drop your hand. Charles, evidently resolute in his decision, says nothing more as he approaches.

You stumble back a bit as his body nears, wishing that the head you house on your shoulders was screwed on a little tighter. You think it's begun to spin when he takes your hand into his own; gently, as if scooping up a wounded bird from the forest floor.

He opens his mouth, then promptly closes it, brows furrowing as he inspects your palm.

Something is loud.

It's your heart, you realize. Stuttering with each squeeze of his bandaged fingers. Consequences are not beneath you, it seems.

You allow him a few more experimental squeezes than you would've liked, but you can't quite shake the strange tremor that races up your throat the longer he holds you.

Nothing is said until he pulls his hand away.

“And I can do this, whenever?”

Your tongue is miles away. “I, uh. No.” Wait. Voice crack. “I mean—yeah. Yes. Whenever.”

Charles makes no note of your vocal blunder, instead taking one last look at the bow you hold before beginning to make his way back to camp.

He taps the hand at your side as he passes. Leans to talk right into your ear. “Keep these wrapped up for me, will you?”

He’s gone before you have a chance to tell him that you would’ve done it without his say-so.

(Damn it, you think. Palm tingling. I’m in some deep shit.)

[chibsandchill]

Your little Hatchling

Pairing: Aemond x GN!Reader

Warnings: Incest (Aemond is reader’s uncle), death, blood, canon-typical violence

Summary: The greens won the war and Aemond has taken you captive, though nothing he does goes according to plan. 

Masterlist

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

If it wasn't for the way his hair shone in the pale moonlight, you'd never know he was there. He moved within the shadows as if he was one himself, always watching but never venturing out of their reach. Sometimes his leather jerkin would creak as he shifted, but it was so faint it might as well have been the wind. Or so you wished for that would be far more comforting than the truth. 

Perhaps that is why instead of staring at the outline of your uncle, you looked to the fluttering drapes as they swayed in the gentle ocean breeze. 

But then after weeks of silence, Aemond stepped forth into the light and broke his unspoken vow of silence. You imagined he would say something profound, maybe even a honey-coated apology with hissed terms of affection and a burning gaze, but instead he looked you in the eye and asked: 

"Do you like the ocean?" 

"What?" You croaked, for while the evening breeze was a welcome change from the stifling heat, it did nothing to soothe the burn in your throat. "After everything you've done-" 

"Do you like it?" He interrupted harshly. 

"No." You said. 

He seemed surprised by your answer; a brief widening of his eye, but with an ease gained only by growing up in a nest of vipers, he schooled himself. 

"You told me once, when we were still children," his voice was no louder than a whisper, almost overshadowed by the wind, "that you had never felt as at peace as when your father took you with him on Caraxes and flew over the ocean to Dragonstone." 

"That was before you murdered my brother." 

His jaw clenched but didn't speak whatever words his wicked mind had thought up. Aemond returned to his realm of darkness, and the next day you were given a new cell far away from the ocean and its haunted melodies. 

But even when you no longer heard the waves crashing against your prison, or smelled the salt, Lucerys' scream of terror lingered.

:-:-:-:-:-:

Constant heat and a sun that never fell reddened your face within hours of being placed in your new room. 

Dorne. 

He brought you to fucking Dorne. 

Dorne was where dragons went to die, where even the tiniest of vipers had enough venom to slay even the largest of beasts. Sprinkled in the sand dunes were the remains of Targaryen heroes and conquerors, as well as their dragons. Age turned everything to dust, and before long you would be strewn across the closest dune, forgotten beneath the waves of those who came before you. 

A speck of dirt in an altogether indifferent universe. Perhaps the Dornish would dance across the dune, celebrate another dragon pest removed, and another piece of justice served. 

The Dornish desert didn't allow for the dragons to hide themselves, it left no dark corners for him to stare at you from. It left him exposed and vulnerable, like a raw nerve or a wound left to fester. 

"Do you like sand?" He dared ask one night when the sun gave them a brief respite.

You ignored him. 

"You told me once in our garden-" 

"They were never our gardens," you were the one to interrupt this time. Age old bitterness barely scabbed over with forced indifference burned at the word our, as if anything in the Keep had ever been yours. For a brief time, that little corner of an overgrown garden in the eastern wing had been yours. Every morning you’d meet there, under the shade of the apple tree and you’d tend to your garden. But like all things, even that small piece of heaven was eventually discovered and it was no longer ‘yours’. 

'Bastard' the court whispered as you walked past. 'Whore' or 'whore's child' if they were feeling kind. 

"They were to me." 

You scoffed. 

"It was never the sand," you found yourself saying even as you wished you'd have ignored him, "I wanted to see the people brave enough to defy us." 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

You were moved again, but this time Aemond gifted you with a bronze-skinned woman from one of the nearby villages. Her name was Ela, and she brought colorful desert flowers that she ground into pastes which she slathered on your burnt shoulders, and with potent smelling leaves she fashioned into exotic teas and with what remained she managed to make sweet smelling perfume. The fragrance was dabbed onto your throat every day before Aemond’s visits. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

His one eye blinked in surprise. You had yet to initiate your rare and rather brief talks. 

"I don't know." He lied. 

"The truth, Aemond, is the least I deserve." 

"'Tis a sin to lie." 

"Murder is also a sin, but you still slaughtered thousands. Why do you insist on dragging this out? It won't make a difference in the end." 

Aemond looked away. "It will."

"It won't." You spat. "This changes nothing but the hatred in my face as I watch you die." 

"Hm." He angled his face away from you. His beautiful face took on a haunted expression."Yes, I suppose that's right. Do you remember when I was born? The few times father spoke to us, he regaled us with tales of how happy you were, how you claimed me. I was your little hatchling, the dragon your father never allowed you to have. Yours was the first face I saw, the warmth of your arms the first I ever felt. I dreamed of your smile when you were gone." 

"It was your father," you corrected with no small amount of venom, "that denied me my birthright." 

"You still defend him," he mused, "even after all his lies. I wonder, why do you not grant me that same kindness? Everything I have done, I did for us." 

Disgust twists your face into something you barely recognize. When did you go from the little child who always smiled despite the insults, who would trail after their lord father with a tattered dragon toy, and who dotted on their hatchling, to this being driven by nothing but hatred and  never-ending lust for blood he'd gladly give if you but only asked. 

Perhaps that's why you didn't ask. You feared the truth of his answer as much as you feared the day when his face no longer made your stomach turn. 

"We could have ran." You argued. "You had the largest dragon alive, who would dare oppose you? We could have flown East and conquered whatever lands our ancestors forgot. No, Aemond. You can blame only yourself for this." 

 "Your father would follow." 

"I understand the concept is wholly unfamiliar to you, Aemond, but that is what a good father does. Care. And you stabbed him in the back for it. Aemond the one-eyed Coward, slaying his uncle in the streets whilst he was unarmed and escorting a child of three summers, struck him down as if he was nothing and left him to die surrounded by people who hated him." You taunted him, enjoying every layer of self-hatred and anger that flashed over his face. You knew not if it was the mention of the neglect he suffered at the hands of his father that broke his mask, or that he had stooped so low as to become a kinslayer. No longer was he Aemond the one-eyed Prince, Aemond the studious and quiet prince. Now he donned new titles, none of them flattering. Years spent in the gardens together had taught you every single one of his insecurities, his fears and every aspect of his pain. 

He moved closer with cat-like grace but with none of their caution, swiping away your tears with a caress of his finger. The promise ring felt cold against your rosy cheeks, the hand-carved rose and thorns curling around the digit was an unwelcome reminder of your affection for him. 

"I had no choice." He whispered, voice thick. 

"There is always a choice." You muttered. 

"My life was not his to claim." Aemond moved closer, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled, forcing you to look up at him. You grit your teeth at the sharp sting, but you welcomed the pain, it burned away at the ember of love that sparked in the depths of your burnt heart. "It has always been yours. My love, my eye, my life." 

"Then you know how this ends." 

"I've always known," he pressed the side of his face against yours, his breath fanned over the shell of your ear. "Do you know why I killed your brothers?”

“Because you’re craven.”

Aemond stood to his full height before removing the leather patch covering the precious stone he had instead of an eye. The sapphire sparkled in the candlelight. He shook his head. “Because he took something that didn’t belong to him. I tried to forgive him, my mother told me he couldn’t possibly understand the consequences of his actions, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t forgive.”

The memory of Vhagar emerging from the clouds was burnt into your eyelids. Everytime you closed your eyes you saw it. Heard the cracks of her wings as she flew closer, the snapping of her jaws as Aemond taunted you, and the look in Lucerys’ eyes as he pushed you off Arrax. You had never seen such terror in a person’s eyes before, or heard someone scream like he did. Parts of him and Arrax washed up on the beach for weeks.

You averted your eyes. “And Jace?”

“When you ran to me, you fell and cut your hand on Lucerys’ blade.” His voice was soft, the softest it had been since Blood and Cheese tore the last chance you two had of a shared future. “Do you remember what Harrold Westerling begged of you?”

‘We have to stop the bleeding,’ he urged you, heavy armor clanging together as he fell to his knees next to you and Aemond. His voice sounded as if it was underwater, distant. Not there. Not with you and Aemond. ‘The maester is on his way but you have to stop the bleeding or he will die. Press here, your highness.’

“Yes.” You whispered. 

Aemond kept a vial of the blood the Maester removed from his face on dark twine around his neck. There was some solution in it that kept it from drying. He used to show it to you when you were younger, and when he was anxious he’d trace the glass with his fingers. His mother hated it. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand the significance of what you had done to save her son. 

“Then you already know why, raqiarzy. And Daemon,” despite the vile things your father had done for your family, Aemond’s voice had yet to lose the admiration that clung to them, the childish idollation he had never quite managed to shake, “was plotting my murder. I had already lost my eye, I would not allow him to steal what little I had left to offer you.”

You laughed, but it’s twisted, broken in a way you had never heard a human laugh before. It rattled deep in your chest, and despite the pain and the tears brimming in your eyes you were unable to stop.

“You’re pathetic, Aemond,” you managed to force out. 

The hurt in his eyes was impossible to miss. “I only ask that you grant me my one last wish before I go." 

Disgust marred your face. Aemond had taken everything and yet he came to you with demands, conditions for a death that was long overdue. Where was your father’s wish when Aemond ordered common thugs to hold him down whilst he snuck up behind, when he drove Vhagar’s tooth into his lungs? 

"What's that?" 

"A kiss." 

"You disgust me.” You spat.  

His one eye met yours again and his lips curled into a crooked grin.You tried to think of your father, of Rhaenyra and Syrax, Lucerys and Arrax, Jacerys and Vermax, of the hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers, burnt by Vhagar before you managed to slay the old beast, of the smell of burning flesh and screaming children as their mother’s were ripped from them, instead of how beautiful he looked in the moonlight. As Aemond leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours in a motion so heartbreakingly familiar you dreamt of a world where you had died with your family. Still, your heart raced as his skin met yours, warmth spreading from the spot as fire met fire. He had taken everything from you, and yet you could not stop yourself from returning the gesture, leaning into his touch and were your hands not bound you would trace the sharpness of his jaw, and he would do the same. 

“Liar,” he whispered. 

Aemond closed his eyes, leaning in, about to press his lips against yours when he gasped and froze. Over his shoulder you spotted sun-kissed skin and dark hair. Ela. Crimson covered the black blade in her hand.

In a poetic sense of justice, Aemond falls to the ground, a steady puddle of blood growing under him. Horror is clear on his face and he tries to reach for you, but he has grown weak since the war ended and so he falls limp. You fall to your knees next to him just like that day in Driftmark, wrists easily slipping out of the bonds. Aemond stutters out your name, a thin line of blood running down his chin. 

“Shh,” you coo to him before flattening your hand against his face. “It’s okay, valzȳrys.”

He managed a weak smile. 

“I thought I’d never hear you say it.” 

It was always going to end this way, but that does not lessen the pain wrecking through your body, or the sobs you let out as he started fading away. Your fingers shook as you traced his face, wiping away his tears like he did yours. 

You chuckled. “Neither did I.”

You didn’t plead with the gods that they save him, you wished only that they take you with him. In life you could never be, but in death perhaps you could find peace. 

“I love you.” He said, and then his eyes fluttered close. 

In a flurry of panicked moves, you press your lips to his. Your first kiss. Your last kiss. You felt his lips twitch against yours but he was too weak to respond. There was nothing romantic about the way you moved against him, of the desperation you poured into the kiss, or the tears that fell from your eyes like waterfalls. 

His hold on your hands slacken and that’s when you know he’s gone. Aemond would never let go of you. 

Ela stands in front of you as fierce as her ancestors, and you have never loved them more than at this moment. Weeks of serving you had not killed her spirit. She had robbed Aemond of the last thing he had, but you could not fault her. She saw what you couldn’t admit even to yourself. No matter what he did or how he hurt you, you’d never be able to kill him. His death was never meant to be at your hands. 

“In the front please,” you ask of her, your one last request, though your eyes never left Aemond's face.

Ela nodded and walked over. Her dark eyes met yours and you nodded in response. A flash of pain, and then your blood mixed with Aemond’s again. There was nothing personal in how she stabbed you. The dagger tore through you with ease and it’s over in seconds. She then ran out of the chambers, leaving the dagger still in you. You waited until you didn’t hear her rushed steps anymore before you laid down next to Aemond, lifting his still warm hands to entwine with yours in the way your family never allowed.

“I love you.” You whispered.

Dying was peaceful in the way life never was. 

[thesharktanksdriver]

Salt Water Tears

Made this awhile back. I’m not sure it’s it’s good or not but decide to post it anyways cause it’s taking space up in my notes

Poseidon might be out of character but screw it

Warning for abuse, misogyny and murder

Love and hatred are powerful emotions that both the gods and humans alike

It is something that both experience to such a gripping degree

It can lead to both good and bad

Hate can lead to war but also change

And love can lead to something beautiful and can tear down even the mightiest of empires

It’s intriguing how both emotions despite being opposites can intertwine together like a coil

It’s especially to Aphrodite as the blond goddess spies on others love lives for fun

It’s fun to her as she sees as love can either consume and destroy someone from the inside out

Progressing slowly into that coil

Normally she watches over human stories for the gods don’t have much going except for affairs and the once beautiful feeling dying

But there is one tale of love and hate that has always stood out to her

Whether that be for its tragedy of an ending or beautiful start she personally isn’t sure

But whenever it came to the god Poseidon it was sure to be something interesting

And the tragedy of the only person he loved is certainly an example of that

You were born to a small village to a peasant family

In the grand scheme of the world you weren’t special

You didn’t have power or status but you did have one thing many people lacked

Respect for others and nature

Yeah, doesn’t sound like much but in your village where brutes ran wild without so much as a ounce of intelligence or care for anything around them it was a lot

It’s why you always lingered near the beachside where no one would visit

It was the only respite from your family who was already pressuring you to be married off

A fate you wished to evade as long as you could as to keep your freedom

Your mother was a constant reminder of what you feared

A worn down woman, one who felt no love for herself and abided by your hateful father

A man who didn’t know any love for anything but his own pride and image to the other men in the community

To be completely honest it sucked

You wished to have a different fate, to be able to explore the vast open sea like that of legends

Or travel to distant lands you’d heard whispers of

Not being confined to a home and used as an object to satisfy someone else’s desires

So there on that beach you let fantasy reign over your mind

Staring out towards the deep blue ocean with longing

Letting the salty air tussle your hair

Sea foam staining your dress

Picking up shells and feathers from the birds that you feed scraps of food to along with the colourful fish

Picking out the trash that somehow ended up in the water

Saving a few fish in the process

It’s odd but you feel as if the things that most consider just to be food to be your friends

Listening instead of telling you to shut up, that a woman should remain silent and submissive

You envy the fish

It’s yet another day of heading to the beach when you find someone there

Standing amongst the waves is a man

Blond hair that reminds you of the golden sand

Blue eyes that looks like the depths of the sea

He looks at you

You stare back

It’s kinda awkward for a bit as the crashing waves fill in for the silence between the two of you

You take a step backwards and you see him move as well

“I can leave if you’d like? I don’t want to bother”

“Your the one cleaning the beach. Why human?”

At him saying that you can’t help but feel a sense of confusion wags over you but you brush it off

Opting to instead just answer him

“It’s wrong how they treat the earth. it’s the least I can do considering I can’t change them”

He stays silent at that answer just watching you

Trying to see if your lying

But there is only truth, a guilty truth for it being the only thing you can do in this situation

He grunts and walks straight into the ocean

Beneath the sapphire waves as your left dumbfounded at what you just saw

Until realizing that he was likely a god

Specifically Poseidon

What the-

You return to the beach a few days later and find it empty as usual

Despite that you feel a presence occasionally watching you

Not threatening so to say but there

Watching with curiosity as you fish out glass bottles and old bits of torn cloth

It’s not much but you do your part

Along the way you pick up shells and string together small bracelets for yourself

All the while that feeling continues

And this becomes slightly normal until he appears again

This time though he approaches and your left cautiously letting him get closer

He stays a few feet away but it’s significant compared to the last time you met him

Let alone now knowing he’s likely a god or some other type of higher being

Now, you weren’t overly religious compared to a few others in the village that had pledged themself to worshiping the pantheon

But now having him in front of you is kinda having you question if you should go to a temple and pray

“I’m curious of you. Indulge me in this”

Your eyes widen a bit but you nod, soon finding yourself wrapped in conversation with the blond man

Talking with Poseidon is a bit of a challenge at the beginning

He is the epitome of a perfectionist, and rather cold to the point that you don’t know if something is pissing him off

Viewing himself as a perfect being despite how he had some glaring issues

Mainly being his arrogance and pride

But you suppose that’s how anyone would end up with such unimaginable power

But after many days of trial and error you find common ground with him

Mainly on topics such as the ocean and his family

It’s odd hearing myths you grew up hearing come from the perspective of someone actually there

Yet interesting nonetheless especially as you tell him the version you had heard through the grapevine

He seems to find some amusement in hearing the slightly skewered version of events from the humans perspective

Often times adding some snide remark about it that makes you laugh

The way in which you casually roll off the insults to both yourself and your entire race seems to catch his attention

He might’ve been confused, or maybe even angry to an extent but he didn’t bring it up

Especially as you asked of how the ocean worked

Its world and freedom that came with it

You can’t help but try to imagine the pictures he paints of the kingdom he rules

Colourful collections of underwater flora of sorts called coral

Or the deepest reaches of his domain where Apollo’s light can’t penetrate

At some point though it shifts from exclusively asking him things to him inquiring about you and your life

Why you kept coming here in the first place let alone felt obligated to try and keep the waters clean

Especially when in his eyes humans were all greedy and selfish

Nothing but bottom feeding scum

With all that reason it shouldn’t make sense as to why he’s so curious but you don’t comment on it and tell him the answer

From the moment you were born you were created for one purpose alone

Marriage

Before you could even open your eyes your father could see the money he could make off of selling you

Your mother couldn’t care less after being worn down over time

She could barely care for anything anyways when she was focused on pleasing him

Couldn’t even take care of you when you had gotten to the age of being able to walk and make conscious decisions

Leaving you to your lonesome in a place that would eat you up in not time

So with that you focused on survival

Ending up scavenging the forest for extra food to fill your empty stomach

Learning to see nature’s beauty in the process

Finding the beach that you’d come to see as an escape

A real home compared to that empty house full of nothing but violence and the possibility of getting screamed out

Growing up into a beautiful young woman didn’t help in all this

Getting the leering eyes from men twice your age within town

Your father’s greed growing as he realized he could capitalize off this even more

You can feel your freedom slipping away by the days now

Sand through your fingers into the inevitable fate of a loveless marriage to a pig of a man

One who would break you to his own satisfaction

Wanting to see the fire in your eyes be smothered by his own hands

With all that Poseidon asks something afterwards that makes you smile

“I insult you and your face, why aren’t you mad”

“I don’t mind when most of what you say is tinged with some sort of truth. Especially since your the only one who treats me as something other than an object”

During his visits after this he changes a bit

He sits closer to you on the sand

What used to be a few feet separating the two of you now becomes that of a foot

You don’t comment on it out of respect

Especially since the conversations between the two of you become longer

A few times you barely got back home in time to avoid a verbal battle with your father

You couldn’t come to care about that though

Especially as the conversations become more deep

Actual emotion leaking through the cracks and allowing you to see something in him that you hadn’t seen before

Even a few times giving you the honour of seeing a small smile

It makes something in you flutter at that

You bury those feelings though, it was absurd to think of him that way

A god

When your you

So you continue on without addressing it

It doesn’t help that he’s started gifting you stuff as well

Starting off as some pretty shells you craft into jewelry

To strings of pearls he says he wanted to get rid of

It sends mixed messages in your head

Especially since he continues his hating human talk

(Though he notably stops making comments about you)

And it stays that way

A limbo you found yourself pondering about until one night it all changed

The moon hung high up in the dark blue sky as you sit beside the sea god watching waves crash endlessly onto the shore

Foam coming up to gently nip at your toes, something that makes a small smile come to your face

The stars shined within the endless sea that was the sky held up by atlas

Yet another tale the tyrant of the sea had told you of during these taken

As of the moment he weaves pearls into your hair

He’s insistent to do so despite you telling him that it wasn’t necessary

But he is not one who listens often and this is a case of this

“Marry me”

“Huh?!”

Yeah so he just blurts that out

You certainly didn’t expect it, though anything from him is

“Did you not hear what I said? Marry me”

“I understand what you said I’m just confused”

“How could you be confused about what I said? It’s quite simple even for a simple human brain”

You deadpan a bit at that but quickly refute with “I’m confused cause I’m human and your asking that. You know I’m not a god”

“It’s not much of a problem”

“But I’m not-“

“I can make you one”

You go silent at that, watching as his eyes stare down into your own

Emotions bleeding out of those deep blue abyss’s

“Won’t your family be upset?”

“I don’t care”

“B-“

“I said I don’t care. If anything they’d be more confused than anything that I’ve found someone”

“I…” you pause for a moment

You love him, you know you do but your still afraid of being confined away

Loosing your freedom to a person you loved would be worse than that of a stranger

“Would I be able to travel. To see the world even if we are together”

He scoffs

“Of course you can. I’d give you the world if I could”

Whatever hesitation you had melts away

He sees this and holds his hand out

You take it

“Meet me here tomorrow. I will take you away from this place”

You nod, tears lining your eyes as a smile lights up your face

Going home you feel joy for once

Hopeful

Bbbb

When you go home that night your met with your father glaring you down

Before you can even walk through the door he’s yelling profanities

Accusing you of being a whore

That your a disappointment

As usual

Your mother is in the corner, staring yet not intervening even as he grows more angry

More violent to the point your getting legitimately scared

You may be a grown woman but you know he’s stronger

Your entire childhood is an example of that

Words are thrown between the two of you

A haze of anger blinding you as it did him

And then it happens

At first you can’t comprehend what had happened

Your mother screamed and look terrified

And then a pain entered your gut

You look down to see red staining your chiton

Staring back you see your fathers expression

He even seemed surprised by his action

Yet he holds up the blade again

Intent clear as to finish the job, it was too late to turn around now

You run

Bolting out the house and into the darkened streets

Through the old beaten path of the woods

Down into the sandy beaches you found to be a real home

But in that panicked state you found yourself in you end up tripping into the sand

Just by the waters edge as he catches up

The look in his eyes shines with intent

It’s almost immediate that Poseidon feels that something is wrong

There’s something that goes down his spine, a feeling of dread he’d never felt before

And somehow he knows it’s about you

In an instant he’s back at that beach, a place that was just for you and him

Now sullied by the sight of a man holding your form beneath the waters surface

He forgets to breath for a moment before that man is dead

Blood staining the sand as he kicks his disgusting form away

Your dead already

No breath filling your lungs except for the salt water he held domain over

There is no saving you

And that breaks something in him

Gently he takes your body into his arms, water absorbed into your clothes along with sand clinging to you

Those pearls in your hair are still there, glimmering in the moonlight as he holds you close

He destroyed the village

A large sudden wave completely decimating the inhabitants before they could even wake

He held no sympathy

How could he when they had only wronged you your entire life

Perhaps that’s why he hates humans so much

Because in the end they are selfish creatures that drain the light out of anything good

They lie

Cheat

And manipulate just to kill whatever spot of light is left in the abyss of shit they call a world There is no one left to tell the tale of that village

nor any landmarks left to signify it was ever even there

It’s name is only left on ancient maps, most of which are destroyed by time or by his own hand

It’s a petty act but one that is the only satisfaction he can get anymore

He sits alone in his throne room, the other throne long made for you is stashed away

Kept for his eyes alone that oftentimes can’t linger on it for more than a few seconds

He only allows himself to break on those lone nights when the crushing weight of it all come down on him once more

He hates that he cries, a perfect being such as himself shouldn’t do so

Yet you make him do it

A feeble human who had captured his cold heart

Only for it to be destroyed once you are taken

He never talks of your real name, only ever referring to you as “Amphitrite”

No one deserves to utter your name

Not even himself after he failed you

But Aphrodite knows

As does Hades who mourns his brother’s loss

Love and hatred coil around one another

Whatever respect he had for humanity forever died that day, leading him in a downward spiral of hatred

It’s amazing what love can do, isn’t it?

[fraugwinska]

Chapter 14 - Anachronism

Anachronism (noun) 1. a person, thing, or idea that exists out of its time in history, especially one that happened or existed later than the period being shown

Tags & Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Violence, Murder

Day 1

“I see, okay, cool cool cool... But - when will you be back?” The princess asked, her hair still frazzled from the night. Granted, he had woken her up, but really, as the founder and owner of the Hazbin Hotel, she shouldn't sleep in like that – 6 a.m. wasn't that early when you had business to attend.

“Ah, well, my dear, that's the tricky part – I can't say for sure. Could be a day, could be a week – but there's something urgent that needs to be dealt with. So I regrettably cannot postpone this leave of absence.”

“Hold on, shithead.”, Vaggies voice penetrated his ears, rough and deeper than usual. She joined Charlie at the door, and Alastor smirked at the chagrin in her face. “You're supposed to help the hotel. You have obligations here, as much as I hate it, but we don't run on well wishes.”

Alastor tutted at her, his smile never fading. “Well, what better time to make use of our darling (Y/n)? That's what assistants are for, won't you agree? She is more than capable of taking over my workload until I return.”

Vaggie snarled at him, but Charlie put her hand on her shoulder, watching Alastor with a worrisome expression. “Well, I suppose she could, but even so, what about safety? Alastor, if the hotel is in trouble we are...”

“...not without protection. I'll know when things get out of control here, and shall return if my assistance is needed. Does that sound fair?”

The princess and her pet exchanged looks, he could practically hear their wheels turning. Aggravating, those two. He tapped his foot, impatiently.

“Okay then... well, yeah. I guess that works for...”, the blonde girl said at last, slowly and with a lingering hesitancy, but it was enough for him.

“Wonderful, now, I'll take my leave, let you ladies freshen up in peace. Ta-ta!”

He didn't give them time for a retort, his urgency driving him to travel with his shadows rather than by foot. He needed to get away, the sooner the better.

He needed to get a grip.

And that wasn't going to happen around her.

He only stopped when he felt the freezing air of the outskirts of the pride ring. Shadow travel was fast, insanely fast, but traveling this far exhausted even him. When he finally materialized, he was greeted by the peaceful darkness of the void.

The void.

The great nothingness.

Alastor's first memories of hell started with the void, the constant, roaring humm that filled the air after he fell. He didn't know why he returned to the very place he'd begun his afterlife, but he had learned to not question his instincts. At least until some time ago. He stared at the ever growing darkness and felt the pull. No sinner or hellborn had managed to venture into the void, the barrier around the seven rings of hell. Alastor was sure it wasn't possible either way, but his first day in hell were spent listening to it's call while he reformed his body and explored the new, wide set limits of his power. This place felt like an old friend, a retreat where he could clear his mind and level himself, just like the day he died and woke up here.

Alastor had always prided himself to be one of the rare few sinners who landed at the void. Normally, as he learned through his decades in hell, sinners would fall close to bigger cities, near civilization, closer to their peers. He knew that Zestial, one of the more ancient overlords and acquaintance of his also fell at the outskirts of the ring. He normally hated sharing a trait he deemed special, but he respected Zestial too much to be offended.

Now he had time and space to really think. The hotel was too full, full of noisy occupants, full of pestering ears, full of her scent and her confusing energy. He had stayed all through the night, hypnotized by the radiation of her energy she still emitted, even in slumber. And he had struggled, more than he had anticipated, to peel himself from her room came morning, to detach his gaze from her sleeping face, with that unholy smile that he was sole owner of still on slightly parted lips.

The void called him, and he greedily listened to it, using the sounds of the emptiness to calm his accelerating beating heart.

Day 2

He hated that he felt. He hated the fragility of them, their infuriatingly weakening effects they had on the mind. His back started to hurt, so he conjured himself a seat, a round and soft one.

There were feelings he accepted, even welcomed. Joy, for example, in the right context and circumstances, was a rather gratifying feeling he often embraced when he slaughtered his victims. Or danced to a good tune, which happened less than the other. Anger, controlled and in moderation was also useful.

But then there were the crippling ones he detested. Sadness was one of them. He despised the way it made the chest hurt and the mood sink, how it made him long for past days, the days where his mother was alive. But that was something he had always been able to control, trained himself to masterfully surpress to the point where he didn't even have to try.

And the new one he couldn't get a hold on. That strange, new feeling that left him weak, confused and vulnerable, started by a mere touch of gray skin.

Desire. For the first time in his life he felt the need to want somebody . He wanted , and that want drove him to actions he wasn't used to, and the more he got, the more he desired, an endless circle, a cycle he was trapped in. Desire was an abhorrent child of love. Ha. Love. The only love he had ever needed died just months before he became of age. Never again did he feel something like it, nor did he want to. Love was a liability. It easily, naively opened doors that should better remain locked for not to fall prey to predators. And Alastor surely wasn't prey .

But now, there it was. Desire. Infecting him like a common, disgusting virus with no antidote. He desired her. He had to make this conclusion, as much as he wanted to deny it. He just didn't know if he desired her power, or something more.

Day 3

Alastor was hungry. But no food would satiate this feeling of craving. He craved her. No. No, he reminded himself. That was preposterous. He didn't crave her, he hungered for her energy. That one, tiny taste of her power had left him wanting more, had him addicted like the most potent drug. His shadows felt the yearning too, they were restless and swirled agitated around him. Especially one. He had Ozul bound, and his shade let him know how much he hated it. Relentlessly he tugged and pulled and twisted himself, but he knew without Alastor's permission, he wasn't going anywhere. He had become bold, that one. Which was truly unfortunate, since he was the oldest of his shadow companions. The original specter.

He hasn't slept at all. The coolness a refreshing chance from the heat of the city and settling down in his bones. Still, he had yet to have a revelation – his mind fought with him. Hunger fought with him. A longing he needed to be for power, and not... trivialities. Another strong tug made him growl.

“Stop it this instant, you fool.”

Ozul hissed at him. He hissed. Alastor's fury was instant and intense as he forced him back with a yank. It whined and struggled against his grasp.

“m̵̳͋̀ĩ̷̻s̸̡̻͊͘s̵̝̏ ̵̤̻͋̌g̴̢͍͐e̸͎̿̎m̴̖̆.̶̨̅̿ ̸̟̩́̉w̸̬̏à̷̼̎n̸̡͉̈́͝t̷̫̟̂͝ ̷͔͎̄̿t̷̥͑ơ̸̡ ̸̺̤́s̸̛͚͖è̷̳̯͑è̶͖͎ ̸͙̭̀g̴̠͖͌ė̷͈̯m̶̭̭͑.̷̦̐” (miss gem. want to see gem)

“You are acting like an insolent child.”

“y̷̼̓o̸̮̎u̸̯̺͂͂ ̴̘̠̃̎m̸̘͕̅ḭ̴̺̎s̸͚̙̐s̷̬͊ ̷͍͕̈g̴̦̑̊e̴̼̣̽m̶̙̺͑̽.̵̳̿ ̴͙͐̓y̷̢͕̏o̶̲̮͝ủ̴̝ ̵͛̀͜m̴̮̖̐e̴͉̋ ̸̝͇̉̂s̵̠̄ǎ̸̞͕̏m̴̲̪̍̽ȇ̷̛ͅ” (you miss gem. you me same.)

His antlers sprouted like weed as his body exploded with crushing cracks and hurtful rips. The other shadows roared in pain and anxiety, swirling around the feet of their master.

“ɨ ɖօռ'ȶ ʍɨֆֆ ǟռʏȶɦɨռɢ, ɨ ǟʍ ʏօʊʀ ʍǟֆȶɛʀ ʏօʊ աօʀȶɦʟɛֆֆ, աɛǟӄ, ɖɨֆօɮɛɖɨɛռȶ...”(I DON'T MISS ANYTHING; I AM YOUR MASTER YOU WORTHLESS; WEAK; DISOBEDIENT...)

In his rage, he slashed at his own shadow, tearing the ground with every word he spat. Ozul dodged his claws, his teal maw and eyes glowing brightly at him in a grimace of pity. He didn't miss that woman. She was nothing more than a servant. Just another soul he owned. A chip in the long game. A tool to be used. To be exploited. Disposable.

His clawing stopped, his arms heavy and aching. Ozul stared at him, and he stared back.

Disposable.

That word tasted sour and rancid on his tongue. He took heavy breaths, taking in the stinging pain of his elongated limbs that he grew far too quickly.

Disposable.

What would he do if he harnessed her power and she would vanish? Her spirit broken? Her will cease to exist? Why does it even matter? Why does he care? Does he care? Ozul slithered to him, slowly, carefully. Alastor let him creep up his arm and onto his shoulders. He closed his eyes and let visions of Ozul play on his mind. He saw her, dutifully reading what he provided her, sighing now and again. He saw her watching out the window, waving him goodbye as he left his mansion for some errand. He saw her at his doorstep in the middle of the night, a cup of warm milk in hand meant for him. He saw her cold, disgusted glare at Vox's incredulous remarks about him. He saw her hand on his cheek, golden eyes fixed on his as she managed to snap him out of his transformation.

Disposable.

What a wretched word.

Day 4

For the first time since being the radio demon, Alastor truly felt cold. The edges of hell lacked the heat humans so foolishly attributed to the place of eternal damnation. Not that hell wasn't warm. It had it's seasons, and temperatures rarely fell so much as to truly give it's inhabitants a chill.

But he felt freezing. He had thought it would be comforting. Alastor was always warm, like an old cathedral radio that ran for too long, emitting a steady heat, whether he was wearing a coat, a shirt, or nothing at all. But the cold had crept into his innermost being, numbing his body to the point where it hurt to move. But it did not numb his mind. The hum of the void felt no longer serene, but noisy and disturbing. He stared into the void for hours without finishing a thought before the next one began. He felt trapped in his own train of thoughts. A prisoner of his feelings he didn't want. He felt he was failing to manage himself like he used to. And most of all, Alastor felt lonely.

His legs cracked from lack of usage as he stood up. Rosie. He needed to see Rosie. He couldn't be seen like this, by anyone, so he shadowtraveled again, his unstable state making him stumble into a shelf in Rosie's backrooms. He pulled himself upright and sent a shade to get her. Mere seconds later, she was storming through the door.

“What in the world?! Alastor, what happened? You are cold as ice!”

The demoness caught him by his arms, holding his deteriorated form upright.

“I need your help, my friend.”

Rosie only nodded, guiding him to the nearest chair.

“Of course, my dear.”

Day 5

Alastor slept for more than 16 hours. A testament of his friendship with Rosie, that he was able to leave himself this vilnerable in her care. His sleep, however, had been haunted, blurring the lines between reality and fiction, depicting scenes of his life and intertwining them with mementos of her, phasing fast in between horrific, enigmatic and blissfull.

He awoke with a raging headache, the morning sun already turning into full bloom of a mid-day heat. Apparently Rosie had managed to drag him into her personal suite above her emporium, resting him on her biggest chippendale settee. The blanket he was draped in was made out of finest cream cashmere and smelled new and unused. His darling friend really knew him well.

“Oh my stars, you're awake! I almost thought you'd gone into hibernation.”

Rosie entered the room, a tray with a teapot and two cups in her hands. Alastor recognized the green and gold pattern – it was the china he had bought her after his last visit. He quickly sat up, straightening his jacket (which Rosie hadn't removed and he was grateful for).

"I apologize for my unseemly display yesterday, my dearest Rosie.” He waved away the blanket, bringing it up just enough to return his coat to it's intended fold. She took place in a matching seat across from him, her flowing dress and skirts billowing with every movement, and offered him a cup, filling it with deep brown liquid.

He was too exhausted to even ask for a cup of coffee - he somehow had a feeling it wouldn't taste right anyway. But the tea smelled spiced and earthy, which was unusual for his companion, so he decided to trust her judgment and drink it.

They sipped their tea in quietude, but he knew that, just like himself, she had the need to break the silence. He also knew she was carefully, consideringly waiting for him to speak. A feat only she possessed to get out of him things he would otherwise choose to remain untold.

Rosie was another exception, very similar to her . Rosie was his oldest friend, a confidant he didn't expect to have when he became an overlord. Rosie had gained his trust, not by the usual tit-for-tat hellish society loved to practice, but by proving him time and time again, from te very beginning, that she didn't feel the need to use him for anything, instead just enjoying his presence, no strings attached, so to say.

So Alastor spoke, and started to tell his story.

He told her about the night in the Lava lounge, sparing no detail, describing the way she dealt with Vox, the satisfaction he felt watching her on stage. He told her about his percieved solution of her puzzle, what he deducted to be the answer – that she had fallen for him, and his intent to use it to his advantage. He knew she would disapprove of the predicament of invading (Y/n)'s privacy, more so catching her in one of most private moments, but he needed to paint the full picture. He told her about the jeweled copy, how he thought that it would act like a container of her energy just to be proven wrong. That instead, it had guided him to her, and at his touch she had spilled with flowing power like a freshly broken spring, flooding him with it to the point of loosing control over his thoughts and body. How she, miraculously, brought him back through carefully chosen words. That he fled to relieve himself of the overpowering force he was still filled with. How he found himself regretful of the way he harmed her and returned to apologize. About how she instead tried to take the blame, to monopolize the guilt and how he refused her. He told Rosie about her wish for him to keep her company, and that he took her plea to stay the whole night, only to leave before she awoke to get space to sort this whole mess out. When he finally recounted the past four days at the void, the tea in his cup was cold and stale.

Rosie had listened quietly, not once attempting to interject. The tick-tock of the mounted wall clock in the corner of the room marked the ending of an age until she set her teacup down. Alastor swallowed dry, waiting for her assessment. A deep, measured breath left her nose and she leaned back in her seat, her expression seemingly in deep contemplation.

Something else played in those coal dark eyes, and Alastor didn't like it one bit. Was that pity? Was it condescention? Rosie wasn't prone to neither.

“Oh, Alastor...”, she started, shaking her head. “For all the astuteness, intelligence and eloquence you possess, you truly can be a righteous blockhead.”

Alastor's eye twitched.

“While I cannot deny that it seems the little dove has indeed feelings for you – you gravely misinterpreted my little puzzle. I must say, I now come to regret not being any clearer, I feel I took part in the way things escalated to this. “, she sighed with a frown. Then, she looked directly at him, a small, crooked smile on her lips. “But what's done is done. Let's try it again, my dear, and this time, stop denying yourself the path to the true answer – you are better than that. Think, Alastor. Think about what you've told me before answering: What is the protective lie, and what the obvious truth?”

Alastor stared at her.

He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to think it. He didn't want to accept it.

Rosie's smile widened, reading him like a well-known book. The protective lie: That she was just like any other soul he owned. The obvious truth: That she wasn't the only one who fell victim to forbidden feelings.

Day 6

He knew he had to return. The last day was spent in Rosie's company. He knew she had been holding back a lot of things she wanted to say, for the sake of him coming to terms with his uncomfortable new insights. Instead, she gave him space to initiate conversation when he decided to, making herself busy in her apartment. She only told him she closed the shop for the day, and to not worry about missing business, since she could do what the hell she wanted.

In the evening, after a fabulous meal Rosie cooked (serving finest intestines in a hearty stew), she broke her self-imposed silence to ask him

“I don't want to pry, sweetheart, but what do you plan to do?”

Alastor dabbed his mouth with a napkin, removing the last remnants of the tasty demon flesh.

“In all honesty, Rosie, I am at odds.”

Rosie tilted her head at him, her face that of incredulity. “Really, what would be the harm in entertaining the idea that you are fond of a beautiful, talented, devoted girl?”

He remained silent, his wide smile fading into a barely curved line.

“You know as well as I do I am these things are foreign to me, impossible even.”

“And yet you feel something for this girl. You may have never for another, but now, for her, you do, Alastor. Would a parched man in a desert deny himself of drinking when he finds an Oasis?”

Alastor sighed. Rosie was nothing but a true romantic at heart, but he? The concept of fondness, of courting and romance had always abstract and revolting to him. Yes, he felt things for her, but they could be fleeting, a lapse in judgment, a loss of control he was deeply uneasy to sacrifice.

She had dropped the issue, but the question still hung between them as she went to bed.

Now it was morning, and he prepared himself to face her again. That night he decided to keep his distance, to slowly detach himself from the need he felt when it came to her. Knowing her compliance and steadfast determination to please him, she wouldn't question or fight him if he'd dismiss what happened without much explanation.

When he told Rosie, she gave him a disapproving look, sadness in her voice as she told him that he was  a fool and on his best way to hurt her favorite dove deeply. He knew she was right, of course, but he needed to do what he deemed best. It was better this way.

So, he bid her farewell, this time walking the distance from Cannibal Town back to the hotel. He heard Ozul whine and fizz in apparent discontent, but he too, had to accept his masters decision.

He entered the hotel quietly, his cat companion dozing at the bar. What luck, he thought, glad to not be stopped by rude comments or displeasured banter. He made long strides, taking the stairs up to his radio tower. He felt the need for soothing blues. On the third flight of stairs, he almost crashed into Angel Dust who rounded the corner from the other side. The spider jumped at the sight of him, clutching his over-exaggerated breast in overly dramatic shock.

“Jesus Christ on a stick, Al!” Alastor sneered at the cursing demon. “Fuck, popping up like the worlds most haunted jack-in-the-box. 'Ya almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Why, my effeminate fellow, that would only mean you'd have a heart in the first place, how joyous that would be?” He grinned widely at the scowling expression his little remark resulted in. “I'd love to stay and chit-chat, but I have a lot to catch up with.”

He started walking past him, when he heard Angel's muttered response.

“Not much to catch up with, buckboy, since Rocky had to shoulder all your fucking work like the boss-bitch she is. You betta make sure 'ya thank her on 'ya knees.”

He didn't reply, keeping his pace. Yet, he couldn't help but notice how quickly his smile threatened to slip with the reminder of his gem's adversities.

... He had made himself comfortable on the extravagant sofa, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and downing it without the usual enjoyment and moderation. He still felt tense, and the alcohol wasn't working in taking the edge off. A few hours back and he still was cooped up in his broadcasting room, unsure on how to proceed. He was about to pour his third glass when he heard three knocks on the hatch.

Three slightly angry knocks.

He moved to open the door to maybe Vaggie, who always had an excuse to be agitated with him, readying to tell her off, when the faint smell hit him.

Not Vaggie. It was her.

He took a deep breath. Showtime.

With nimble fingers he pulled the hatch open, revealing his beautiful assistant looking up to him with burning eyes like two golden suns. His darling girl. His precious gem.

"Ah, hello, kitten! You look absolutely dashing this morning."

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[stationintern]

drarry prompt: bus ride

okayyyy let's go. also inspired by the @goblinmatriarch prompt about running into someone when you're already late and having to decide whether to make your appointment or follow your heart

Freddie’s great. Really, he is. Or, he was. Draco’s not sure– the years all blend together.

He’s on the bus to Freddie’s house, and London passes by the window in a blur as he allows himself to get lost in his thoughts. He hasn’t always taken the bus. He used to Apparate, back when he was young and excited and had less to think over. He’s happy, isn’t he?

He and Freddie each bring something special to their relationship. Freddie has a rather large cock and isn’t in any rush to move in, which is ideal since Draco values his personal space. Draco has the kind of skills in bed you can only get from a few years of self-destructive sexual promiscuity, and the kind of humour you can only get from another few years of re-assimilation into the society you were once exiled from, which requires the ability to laugh at one's self a good amount.

It’s been three years, and maybe the whole not-moving-in thing should be a concern. They aren’t really… moving forward in any aspect of their relationship, and at first that was preferable. Now, Pansy’s got married, Blaise and Anthony are on their third vow renewal (in the Bahamas this time), Greg is expecting a child, and Draco feels distinctly behind the times. Maybe he should start looking for something more serious? Is this what he wants? A long-term boyfriend who has never been interested in anything more, liked him enough to push him towards it, pull him in. Why hasn’t Draco felt the need to go deeper?

There’s no way to be sure, so now he takes the bus. 

It slows to a stop and Draco doesn’t bother to look up from his novel– the one he’s perpetually stuck in the middle of, a mask and a wall to hide the horde of questions running through his mind every time he chooses to ride public transportation– until there’s a shifting in the seat next to him. The bus is nearly empty, so there’s no reason for someone to choose the seat next to him, and if he’s learned anything by now, he’s learned that being singled out means that he’s been spotted– never as a naturally handsome, intelligent looking man, but as Draco Malfoy, and there’s hardly a situation where that could be positive.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“You’re on the bus.”

“As are you.”

Potter looks the same as ever– younger than he should, ridiculously hip, hauntingly handsome. Sometime over the last decade he’d got himself an eyebrow piercing, and since then Draco has had to make a conscious effort to avert his eyes whenever his ex-archenemy-turned-coworker is near. 

They have an unspoken understanding these days, ever since they realized they both work for the same nonprofit. The Youth Entertainment Coalition formed around five years back, and Draco was assigned to the Literacy Department. Its goal being to avoid the same kind of teenage radicalism that presented itself during the war, and Draco was a shoo-in for a leadership position. He was young, apologetic, and had extensive experience when it came to being radicalized, so of course he would know how to combat it. His department began opening twenty-four-hour bookshops and game rooms, creating a safe space for teenagers to come research and meet people different from them at all hours. And they may not have any set-in-stone evidence of its effect, but no wars have broken out, so they count that as a win.

The only downside of the job proved to be Potter, who made it a point to linger around their shared office building whenever he could. His presence became a constant reminder of everything Draco could have been: good. They don’t antagonize each other, they only speak when necessary, and it works quite well. No murders have occurred… yet.

“Why not just Apparate?”

Why not just Apparate to his boyfriend’s house? He used to.

“I like to collect my thoughts,” Draco replies, “In a third location. Not at my house, not at my destination. Sometimes it’s nice to have somewhere in-between the two.”

Potter shifts again. Draco still hasn’t truly looked at him. If he did, he’d have to look at that fucking piercing, and Potter’s eyes, and he’d end up with so much more to think about than before. There’s simply no time for that.

“Why are you taking the bus?” Draco asks.

“The same reason, I guess. It’s nowhere,” Potter replies, “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Draco agrees, “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“From where?”

“Blind date.”

“A good one?”

“Not at all. He sucked.”

Draco takes a sharp breath. Of course, Potter is into men. Yet another thing Draco does not have time to think about.

“You’re gay now?”

“Now? I’ve been gay.”

Draco finally takes the leap and looks over at Potter, who gleams in the afternoon light- with his unapologetically toothy smile and consistently round glasses perched low on his nose. It’s ridiculous, how handsome the man is. Draco has done pretty well ignoring it, but there’s only so much a person can take. It’s simply not fair, how someone can be so good-looking and morally upstanding. 

“And the Prophet?”

“Haven’t picked up on it. Where are you headed?”

“Chelsea,” Draco says, simply. He could say ‘my boyfriend’s house,’ but he doesn’t, unsure of why.

“Mm. I’m sick of blind dates.”

“As is anyone whose ever been on one.”

“It makes me lose faith in my friends, you know? Like, I don’t know where they find these people.”

“The gutter, most likely.”

“I just want to meet someone organically, but it gets to this point when you’re an adult… where it feels like you’re just out of people to meet. Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” Draco gets it, “It’s hard to get to know people. You have to rehash everything, let them in. It’s easier to just stick with the people who’ve been there, who know you… intimately.”

“Exactly,” Potter breathes a heavy sigh of relief, sinking low into his seat and spreading his legs obscenely, “You know, I’ve wanted to get to know you. For a while, actually.”

Draco’s blood freezes like ice, “Me?”

“Yeah,” Potter says, knocking shoulders with Draco, “But, like, how was I supposed to approach you? You were always around, but in the office you have this… face. Like, don’t speak to me about anything other than my bookshops or I’ll explode.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Whatever. Why would you want to get to know me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“In which way?”

“All of them.”

Draco’s mouth hangs open for an embarrassing amount of time while he processes that response, “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah. You can… get to know me. I suppose.”

Draco’s not sure what kind of spirit has possessed him, but apparently it’s hell-bent on making his life more complicated than it was before.

“Are you free tonight?” Potter asks.

The bus slows to a stop, and Draco’s knows that this is where he should get off. He's already running late, and this is his stop. But, curiosity and dissatisfaction propel him into action. He holds up a finger, pulls out his phone, and brings up Freddie’s contact.

I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it tonight.

Draco knows that he’s walking a fine line here. Standing up his boyfriend to hang out with someone he’s attracted to and wants to get to know better. But, deep down, he knows that Freddie won’t care. He probably wouldn’t care if Draco broke up with him right now with a text that simply said ‘we’re over.’ All in lowercase, no less. 

Freddie has never been prone to loud emotions, and nobody's emotions are louder than Draco’s. Something’s been missing for a while.

It is time to move forward. It is time to get to know new people, even if they’re old enemies. Maybe that’s the best part of it all– getting to go over their shared history and recontextualize it, see what was behind the wall of hatred they kept safely in between them for all of those years.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and looks over at Potter, who is staring at him with a boyish raise of the eyebrow and tilt of the mouth, full of anticipation– something fresh and interesting and completely unknown.

“Yeah,” Draco replies, “I may not be new, but I’m definitely free.”

if you liked this, feel free to leave a comment or kudos over on ao3!

[last-herondale]

We Could Have Been Everything

Loki x FemReader

Warnings: Cursing, heartbreak, lying

This is angst. Pure heart break 💔 I apologize in advance.

A/N: i had this idea of a scene where y/n is just utterly heart broken by Loki but she refuses to let him have the last word.

Enjoy…? 🤘🏼

Masterlist

It was pouring buckets outside. This planet was known for its constant downpours and thunderstorms. Loki figured it was as good as any place to lay low for a bit. He had messed up, as he always seemed to do. Pissed off the wrong people, made enemies on the wrong planet. All of that he could handle with grace and finesse, but there was one monumental hiccup that he never expected.

You.

He sat alone at a small diner, staring down at a cup of what he hoped was coffee, but with this planet he couldn’t be sure. He had been jumping around from planet to planet for months now, hoping for one of these spots to be promising for a new home. But he was always disappointed. Every place seemed to be missing something. He amazed himself by how nitpicky he could be, even in this time of uncertainty.

But he knew what was missing, or rather who was missing. But he pushed those thoughts far from his mind. He made his decision. It was for the best, at least that was what he had tried to convince to himself. Leaving you behind on Earth was the hardest thing he ever had to do—but he had to do it.

The image of you flashed in his memory as it always did. He sighed and pushed his mug away as he put a few local currency on the table and left. He didn’t bother with an umbrella, he could always use his magic to make himself dry later. Right now he wanted to feel the cold, fat rain drops hit his skin. He wanted to feel anything but what he had felt the last few months.

As he made his way through the streets towards his rented room, the sky turned a dark grey as the sun dipped low in the horizon. The streets were quiet— nearly silent compared to the traffic on Earth. Loki had come to miss the constant roar of traffic in New York. He missed watching you stir at the sound of sirens, tangling the sheets under your legs and your rested your head on his chest.

The feel of your bare skin on his. The scent of you—

Loki was knocked back by a strong force that took him completely by surprise. He landed on his ass, his pants soaked from the impact. He looked up with a murderous rage, his eyes glowing green as he saw a figure before him. He pulled back his upper lip in a snarl, his mouth ready to yell out all of the worst profanities—but the figure stepped closer and the outline became horrifically recognizable.

His expression went slack.

“Y/n?”

You glared down at him, your hair was wet and it clung to your face. Every inch of you was soaked from the rain, but your body was burning with rage as you looked down at him. He scrambled up, his expression in utter shock from seeing you here.

“How? What are you—“ you slapped him hard across the face. Your hand stung from the impact but you kept your composure as he looked at you with shock, one hand holding his cheek.

“Do you really think that you are in any position to ask questions?” You hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. Words seemed to fail him. He wanted to explain himself, to explain why he left— but he was too happy to see you again. Even if you seemed dead sent on beating him to death, he could not hide the spark of hope that ignited in his chest.

“Just…let me explain -“

“FUCK. YOU!” You yelled at him. He flinched at your words but shut his mouth as you continued to yell. “You leave me a letter— a fucking note, Loki! Is that all I get? After everything? The best I get is a fucking sticky note?!”

Loki bit his lip. He remembers the words he wrote clear as day.

I’m not good for you. Please Forgive me.

It was not one of his prouder moments, but he knew that if he lingered to long on what he needed to say, he would never be able to leave you.

“And then you just leave? Like a fucking coward— you skip town?? Try to hide in this shithole system? Do you really think it’s that easy for a god to disappear, you piece of shit? Did you think it was okay to have me worried sick for months not knowing whether you were alive or dead? Did I really mean so little to you?”

“You meant everything to me!” Loki shouted. He took a step closer to you but you kept your finger jabbed against him to keep his distance. He frantically searched your eyes, feeling his tears bead on his face.

“I had to leave—don’t you understand? Everywhere I go, I make a mess of things. Always running—always fighting. That’s not a life I wanted for you.”

“That was not your choice to make!” You yelled. You pushed your hand away from him and began to pace the sidewalk a bit as you threw your hands up in exasperation. You turned back to look at him, your eyes a mixture of anger and sadness.

“You do not get to come into my life like this—make me feel this way for you—make me fall so in love with you—that I can’t breathe when you are away from me“ your voice shook as you said this. Tears rolled down Loki’s face and they mixed with the rain.

“You don’t get to decide what I want my life to be. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be the one that was there with you every step of the way—no matter what may happen. You made me want that. You made me want it all— then you just fucking ripped it all away.”

Loki looked absolutely defeated. He took a step closer to you, waiting for you to push him away. He deserved it, he knew. Everything you said was right, and it killed him inside. You didn’t flinch from him, and he took a few more steps until he was inches away. He watched a few drops of rain fall from your face, getting caught up in the beauty of you.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, my love. I never wanted to hurt you, I just needed— to protect you.” He said in a low whisper. His throat was raspy with emotion as he looked into your eyes. “Im not worthy of you.”

Your eyes softened a bit at his words. You leaned in a bit, and Loki caught the scent of your perfume and inhaled like an addict. How he longed for you these past months. He thought you might kiss him, hit him again, whatever. He would let you do it to him willingly.

You stopped until your foreheads were touching. The two of you savored the contact for a minute before you spoke. “I believed in us. I believed that we could do anything together— be anyone we wanted to be, together. I had hope—so much hope and love for us, Loki.”

“And now?” Loki asked quietly.

You shivered once, not because of the cold or the rain. You broke apart from him, watching his face fall as you took a step back from him. Your heart ached, as it had for the past few months in thunderous waves of pain.

“Now I don’t believe in anything.” You said flatly.

Loki felt his chest deflate as his heart shattered. “Y/n-“ he tried to beg before you cut him off.

“I just came to make sure you were alive. Nothing more. I know I shouldn’t, since You’ve made it clear how much you care, but what can I say, old habits are hard to break.” You said bitterly. You let yourself take one last look at Loki, seeing him so disheveled broke your heart. You finally looked away from him.

“Goodbye, Loki.”

He called your name loudly as you disappeared without a trace. He fell to his knees sobbing, clutching his chest as if his heart didn’t just evaporate from his body.

[spaceyaceface]

Don't Go Where I Can't Follow

Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt (Platonic) (Or not idk read it how you like)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Feelings of guilt, murder, almost murder, angstttt oh my god, hurt/comfort

Summary: Sebastian can't give up. Not even after he's killed his Uncle. He's determined to save Anne, and won't take no for an answer.

Or, a brief exploration into the broken(?) friendship between Sebastian and Ominis after everything happens.

A/N: A bit of a deviation from my normal content. No MC to be seen here besides a brief mention. I really liked writing this, though, because it's hard to imagine things go "back to normal" after the catacombs.

They’d all given up on him. On Anne. Even she had made that clear in that damned letter, running off to Merlin knows where. What did they not understand? He couldn’t afford to give up; not when he knew he was so close.

Solomon had destroyed the relic, and Anne had done the same with the book. For a while, those blows had devastated him. 

But they hadn’t been able to burn what lingered in his mind. 

He’d read that book, over and over, practically memorized it—and he found it was enough to start on. Enough to keep him going. 

No one agreed with him. They were too afraid of the power that laid just past their fingertips. Ironic, for the new fifth year he had befriended. Hadn’t they been trying to master powerful magic themselves? What was it that had them so afraid this time around? The fear they felt—both them and Ominis—is what stopped them. It was foolish. Why fear it, when you could control it?

Because he’d felt the way that sort of magic flowed through him. He understood the reins he had to hold, the deep well that was stored so deep, just waiting to be accessed. 

There had to be a cure in those depths. Had to. 

He no longer asked for help in his studies. Why bother—all he’d get was a no, an argument. Another person telling him he’d gone too far, when he knew he was just scratching the surface. 

He’d made new habits. Ones that involved him sneaking around the castle, even in the light of day. Ones that had him skipping classes—none of them mattered more than his sole focus. He skipped meals. Spoke to no one. An endless loop of searching, searching, searching. 

He’d find it. The answer. It was out there. 

People stared at him wherever he was seen nowadays. He supposed he couldn’t blame them—he looked quite different. His hair had grown longer. Eyes more sunken. When he looked in a mirror, he saw himself looking more and more like Anne, and it only spurred him to try harder. 

There was one pair of eyes that never looked upon him—simply because they couldn’t. They belonged to the person Sebastian avoided the most. 

Because there was a pain that lingered there—one that hurt more than others. One that reminded him of those moments after he killed his uncle, a twist of the stomach that’ll leave him breathless if he lets it. 

He’d labeled that feeling as betrayal. It didn’t seem right, but he decided it was close enough. He’d felt betrayed by Solomon, and betrayed by Ominis. Surely that was the thread that connected them. 

But Ominis hadn’t betrayed him completely. Not like his uncle had. No—Ominis had decided not to turn him in. His loyalty had won out for that much—maybe that was why it had hurt even more. That there was some loyalty—some trust—that remained. It just had limits. 

It was probably cruel of him to use his old friend’s space in a way he would have so very disagreed with. But Ominis hadn’t been back to the Undercroft after everything had happened, and Sebastian didn’t know of any other place to continue his research. So he defaced the walls with pages torn from books, with writings and notes connecting them. 

He was scribbling something down on one of the pages when he heard the door open behind him. 

It seemed that Ominis had finally returned. 

Sebastian tensed, standing silently. Ominis’s wand let out its constant red glow, and Sebastian knew his friend sensed him, confirmed further when his pale friend faced toward him. 

“Sebastian.” 

It was strange, hearing his name in someone’s voice. It struck Sebastian that it had been quite some time since someone had spoken directly to him. 

“Ominis,” he answered, frowning. 

“I need to talk to you.” 

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

“You’re not yourself, Sebastian,” Ominis said. “You haven’t been for months.”

“How do you know that?” Sebastian hissed. “You’ve given up on me. Everyone has. I think you’ve all just forgotten what I’m like.”

“Sebastian—”

“But I don’t give up so easily,” he continued, stepping closer to the blond. “Even if Anne is done with me, I’m not finished. Not until I find a way to heal her.”

“I haven’t given up on you,” Ominis spat. “Why on earth do you think I’m here right now? And do you think I want to see Anne healed any less than you do? This isn’t the way to do it, Sebastian. Don’t you feel any of it?”

“Feel what?” he growled. 

“Guilt,” Ominis answered. “Remorse. I know it’s eating you whole. Don’t you regret any of it? Haven’t you lost enough of yourself already?”

Sebastian laughed bitterly. “Lost myself? I haven’t lost anything. At least not anything worthwhile.” 

“Are you as blind as I am?” Ominis shouted. “What about your mind? Clearly that’s not with you. Your uncle is gone. Your sister.”

Anger anew ignited inside him. “This is for her! All of it!” Sebastian roared. 

“She doesn’t want it!” Ominis yelled. They were across from each other, a few short feet apart. “She doesn’t want you, not sick with this madness!”

And that’s when Sebastian realized his wand was raised. 

It’s pointed directly at Ominis’s chest. There was a familiar taste on his tongue—like iron, but more bitter. It’s the taste of words uttered once before, words that had taken a life. 

His wand clattered to the ground. Before, this time, instead of after. Out of fear instead of regret. The sound echoed from the walls, and it sounded too much like those catacombs. 

He’d almost done it. Again.

He looked back up at Ominis, and to his surprise, there was no horror there. No fear, from his best friend being ready to kill him. Instead, there was nothing but anguish, tears flowing freely down his face. 

“Please,” Ominis said. His voice was soft. Trembling. Nothing like the shouts from moments before. “Please, Sebastian. I know this path. I’ve followed you, for better or worse, for all my life. But I can’t come with you if this is where you go. I’m begging you, don’t go where I can’t follow.” 

“Ominis…” The word came out as a twisted, strangled noise. 

He wasn’t sure who rushed to who, or if it was a perfect meeting in the middle. But suddenly, Ominis was embracing him, and Sebastian clung back like he was drowning. A sob made its way up his throat, and hot tears came tumbling down on his friend’s robes. 

Those things he had locked away, refused to let himself feel, came forward with full force. The loneliness. The sting of his failures. The guilt. That was what he had felt, every time he had looked at his friend. A guilt and shame so deep and lasting, he feared it would destroy him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over again. Because his friend had warned him, he had seen the end from the beginning, and Sebastian had ignored it. “I’ve lost everything. Everything.”

“Not everything,” Ominis said, pulling away enough to talk to him. “I’m right here.” 

Sebastian leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against his. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Ominis seemed at a loss with that, tears anew flowing out. It took a few moments for him to croak out a few words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need to stop,” Sebastian said. “I need your help. I can’t do this, not alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Ominis promised. “Not anymore.”

One feeling came forward, warmer than the rest. One that he decided he would cling onto, with everything he had. 

Hope.

[aces-and-kings]

Hurt

The salty sea air clung to Thorstyr's clothes as he staggered back to the Mizzenmast Inn, having spent the evening drowning in whiskey. The dimly lit hallway seemed to sway and twist, playing tricks on his blurred vision. He fumbled with the key to his room, cursing under his breath in that thick duskwolf accent. Finally managing to unlock the door, he stumbled inside, the room spinning around him. How had he gotten back to Lominsa? How long had he been back? Hours? Days? His crew? Nay, every last one of them, dead or scattered to the wind. Llymlaen spare him. Tired. So gods damned tired. Too tired for so many questions.

His heart weighed heavy with memories that he couldn't quite sort out from one to the next. He had seen so much in his life, faced so much, but the ache in his chest felt insurmountable. Thor was a man of action, always pushing forward, but tonight, tonight he was the King of Pity.

With a frustrated roar, he swept his arm across the small table near the door, sending bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. Whiskey spilled, mixing with the shards of glass. He barely felt the sting of the cuts on his hand as he stumbled further into the room, knocking over a chair and kicking at anything in his path.

"Damn it all!" he shouted, his voice raw with pain. "What's tha fuckin' point!?"

Thor's fenrir statue, usually a symbol of pride and freedom, crashed to the floor, its once strong form now shattered like his own spirit. He sank to his knees, the room spinning around him. Tears mingled with the alcohol on his cheeks as he clutched at his chest, feeling the pressure of the entire world pressing down on him.

His life had been a constant struggle for acceptance and belonging. The rejection he faced from his own father still haunted him, even after all these years. And then there was his love life, or lack thereof. Wounds that refused to heal, a hole in his heart that no amount of whiskey could fill.

"Why do ah even bother?" he slurred again, each syllable dripping with bitterness.

In his drunken haze, Thor found himself grappling with his identity, his place in the world, and the ever-lingering question of whether he was doomed to be alone. He longed for someone to understand him, to see past the rough exterior and the scars, to stay, to show him he was more than the monster he felt himself to be. It seemed an impossible dream. He froze and glanced down, eyeing his bloodied palms and the glistening reflection of light upon the shards of glass embedded in his skin. These hands had inflicted so much harm. Right or wrong, they were the hands of a murderer. Garbage. Putrid. If he'd condemned himself to this fate of wallowing piss drunk alone in yet another inn, what was the point? He was dying inside, if not dead already.

Another sudden surge of anger, an emotion that often masked grief for the big brute, and Thor swept his arms across the dresser, sending toiletries and mementos flying. Among them was Red's letter. He clutched it tightly in his hand, covering it in an ironic crimson as his heart wrenched with every beat. The betrayal of someone he'd thought was a friend washed over him like a wave. That Semex could do such a spiteful thing, there really weren't words. What purpose had it served? It only caused Thor greater loss, and Red, more pain. "...bastard."

The room bore witness to the meltdown, the destruction reflecting the turmoil within. Thor was a storm, wild and untamed, and in his drunken rage, he felt a momentary release from the loneliness that shackled him in place.

But as the whiskey dulled his senses, exhaustion offered a countermeasure. The room swayed less violently, and the anger gave way to a deep weariness. He slumped against the wall, the letter still clutched in his hand, and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

In the morning, he would wake with a splitting headache and a room in shambles. For now, in this moment of despair, he let himself feel vulnerable. He let himself feel lost. Each and every ache, a reminder, no matter how big or small, that he was still breathing. This wasn't the end, no, not yet.

And in that moment, as the sea breeze whispered through the cracked window, Thorstyr surrendered to the darkness, finding temporary relief in the oblivion of sleep.

[silver-heller]

Calm

M | One | Mordecai | Written To | Read it on Ao3

Tws: Blood, murder mention, SA mention, power play.

“There’s an odd sense of calm, isn’t there,” Mordecai asked, breath pushing through the hot air of the bathroom, ears flickering.

The sink was left on, hot water filling it as the drain was kept shut. It let out steam, filling the space between him and Silver. The cat just stood there, watching him through the smog and gripping onto a washcloth. Although he attempted to disguise it, hanging his head low, Mordecai could just tell.

“After the kill is over and the dust has settled. When the screams have faltered, and you’re just left in the silence with the body. It’s almost relieving, euphoric. Knowing the job is over and you can just return to your day-to-day as if none of it ever happened.”

Mordecai’s eyelids drooped. Although the rest of his body had been on high alert, that was faltering now. His muscles, from his shoulders to his ankles, were beginning to melt with the heat of the room, feeling as if he could just about pass out in the wake of its embrace.

The blood was everywhere, from his vest all the way down to his undershirt, across his tie, on his collar, and splattered across his face. It’d even managed to taint his glasses, despite his constant efforts to keep them clean for the sake of his own vision. Every time he dared look up, the speckles were there. He had to keep wiping them with the help of his tail to escape the Hell of being left with nothing more than that grey-white smog and that crimson. His intense breathing didn’t help, in and out, in and out… 

His paws lingered on his loosened tie for a moment, wanting nothing more than to pull this disgusting shirt off, and be done with it. However, he knew better than to do that in the wake of his company. He turned his body towards him, rolling against the smooth brick on the wall as he did so. Even before his eyes could focus on the cat, he could see Silver jump out of the corner of his eyes at the sudden movement.

Silver looked the same as he always did, with wide citrine eyes and ears that were always awake and alert. They flickered with the sounds of the water, not saying anything to Mordecai’s ponderings, just inspecting his face.

“And there you are, just always giving me that expression,” Mordecai said, forcing his body up despite his stomach warning him not to.

He limped over, stopping just in front of the silver cat as he stared up at him in his disheveled state. He stared into Silver’s eyes, stared as deeply as he could manage without feeling himself begin to get sucked in. Silver’s neck sunk down within his darker collar, unable to look away as his eyes somehow widened even more, pupils contracting.

Mordecai felt breathless at the sight, the current looseness of his tie not enough to ease the tightness in his chest.

“What do you want from me?”

Mordecai said this as a whisper against Silver’s face, making his whiskers twitch against his beautifully grey fur. 

“Are you going to be sick again?” Silver asked, almost in way of a response, “I’d like to know ahead of time so I can be of some help to you.”

There was a conviction in Silver’s voice and in his eyes. Yet as Mordecai took yet another step closer, all of that just suddenly vanished. It was replaced by a mix of dissociation in Silver’s eyes, and, in part, a sort of acceptance that made Mordecai’s stomach turn more than it already had, becoming thoroughly twisted within his belly.

“If I did something now, I know you wouldn’t do anything about it,” Mordecai said, adjusting his glasses as a line of wetness formed beneath his eyes, “I wish you would. Can’t you hurt me, if only a little just to let me know you would?”

A melancholic smile made its way onto Silver’s lips, and he tilted his head. His shoulders fell, though his paws were shaking.

“When you say things like that, it makes it hard to want to hurt you, you know.”

Silver mimicked his language with a playful glint in his eye, bringing the rag up and wiping the blood from his face. Mordecai didn’t object to this, allowing himself to be pushed back against the bathroom wall, which he found oddly soothing in its warmed textures. If he pressed his forehead to it, he could feel his headache from that copper smell begin to alleviate some. 

He let Silver’s paws wander down the sides of his face to his cheeks, mussing his fur and shifting his glasses in the process but, for once, he didn’t move to fix them. They embraced the side of his face, before moving down to his neck, trembling the whole while with the lightest of touches. He could just feel the power beneath those pads, reaching his paw up and smoothing the fur over as he pressed it tighter against his skin. Silver stilled, tensed fingers relaxing and simply resting there.

He wanted Silver to feel all along those delicate muscles and veins, wanted Silver to feel him swallow as he was left in shocked silence, wanted to show Silver his own strength against him. Do it he’d whisper, pushing down harder. He took in a feathered breath.

If he was being honest, he thought he’d just let Silver as well. But, he knew he was truly more sensitive than his own imagination would lead him to believe, running wild with the promise of that rising in his chest at the thrill and the spinning of his head from the adrenaline. His heart was already pounding in his chest at the thought. Because, in the here and now, Silver’s paws were gentle, Silver’s paws would always be gentle with him. and knowing it was an intentional softness made it feel all that much better. He smoothed Silver’s paw more, now in both of his own as his thumbs rubbed its sides.

“Besides,” Silver began, in a quiet voice, “If you ever even tried it, I’d much rather you just kill me instead.”

Mordecai snapped out of his trance, looking at the silver cat as he hung his head low, tail following as it fell down to sweep at the floor.

Mordecai gave Silver’s paw a squeeze, bringing it up to his lips. Silver looked back up with wide eyes as Mordecai placed it there atop his knuckles.

“That I can promise you. Because, Silver, I’d be at such a loss without you.”

Silver’s eyes met his, shaking, looking at a loss for words and breath as his mouth just gaped at Mordecai. But, eventually, it pulled into a small smile, Mordecai letting go as Silver pulled away and continued his work with the playful ruffling of Mordecai’s cheek. He held back the purr that rumbled in his chest at the touch.

“Please just rest back and let me handle this. Okay? It’ll be over soon,” Silver said, being gentle yet affectionate as he scrubbed at the remaining blood there.

Mordecai took a deep breath in and deep breath out, letting the vapor of the room settle into his fur and his head fall back to take in the general musk of the room. Soon he would smell just as clean, but for now, he’d just have to settle with Silver’s scrubbing, feeling better already now that the smell was clearing up around his nostrils. 

Mordecai closed his eyes with a relaxed sigh.

“Okay.”

[hymnblood]

⸻⸻ㅤ𝙁𝙄𝙇𝙀 𝙄𝙉 𝙃𝘼𝙉𝘿ㅤ:ㅤ"ㅤ𝙎𝘼𝘽𝘼𝙕𝙄𝙐𝙎ㅤ" 𝙎𝙄𝙉𝙉𝙀𝙍ㅤ:ㅤ𝙎 - 𝘾𝙇𝘼𝙎𝙎

nameㅤ:ㅤㅤzagreusㅤ"ㅤsabaziusㅤ"ㅤzografosㅤㅤ ㅤalso known asㅤ:ㅤthe bloodletter, the prince of tartarus, " sabi " affiliationㅤ:ㅤthe asphodelus ( his formal public affiliation ), the titans of tartarus alignmentㅤ:ㅤviolence tendencyㅤ:ㅤarcane established connectionsㅤ:ㅤlabeled as the leader to a violent gang namedㅤ"ㅤthe titans of tartarusㅤ" rumored to be many of the sinners in which this s - class individual has saved after the massacre that took place. case affiliationㅤ:ㅤthe tartarus massacres rumored locationsㅤ:ㅤit is said theㅤ"ㅤprinceㅤ"ㅤis often rumored to linger in the vicinity, or even within the dwelling of a popular underground, red - light nightclub, the asphodelus; however, confirmation has yet to be provided. on the outskirts of syndicate which has led to complications in apprehending the sinner.

considered to be another child falling victim to the mysterious string of missing child cases, zagreus was to be another case study under the meticulous eyes of researchers. these experiments were meant to create a sinner most efficient by internal means, could this one manipulate the mind? or can they influence actions by the mere sound of their voice? what can be done that hasn't been before? however, while one after another, these children to succumbed to their wounds, a single child remained to be picture perfect in health. zagreus. intriguing that the most timid child was the one who stood against the brutal beatings, constant injections, and numerous dissections. as time continued, zagreus' skills did not manifest. a curious thing, to have the affinity and compliance to the experiments yet nothing fruitful came to being. they deduced that he was purely another endura. a sturdy little thing he was day after day, despite the begging and pleas that fell from his lips. the child was compliant, perhaps in hopes of wishing the days were over as quick as they began. day after day, the number of orphans and children began to reduce by tenfold, day after day, new kids were brought in. the numbers grew and thus, they set a system in place to continue categorizing their experiments, zagreus ㅤ:ㅤcase 86. from then on, he was called by case number and proceeded as any other day in the four blank walls of the labs. how much longer must he endure this? he died that day. on his 16th birthday, zagreus could remember the dead gaze he gave the researcher in charge of his dealings for the day. she was new. she seemed anxious to look him in the eye. how did she come into this line of work, he wondered. she looked like she spooked easily, and far too vulnerable to an uneasy stomach and then some. zagreus could remember complying to all her questions even when they shook with anxiety. electricity they said they'd try that day. it was a foul joke, was this a form of hazing for the new girl? torturing someone who has no means of escaping? perhaps in this way, his possible abilities would trigger. he complied. as he laid down against the table, he thought what he'd dream about this time when this torture was over. but little did he know that it was going to be his last moments. a voltage too high and his vitals began to fail. amidst the panic, the head researcher stopped her from aiding zagreus. amidst the panic, he was ready to read off his time of death. amidst the panic, zagreus felt his blood boil and ignite within his veins. ㅤ....ㅤthe reports they have on file told of a most gruesome murder within the facilityㅤ:ㅤtartarusㅤ.ㅤin which the case file has gotten its name from, pictures depict mauled sights and pools of blood. with blood samples contaminated with toxins, there is a wonder who could commit such a brutal killing. the walls were smeared in bloodㅤ:ㅤ" it hurts, they said " / " please " / "it burns! " / " 86 " / " 86 " / " 86 " / " 86 "ㅤ-ㅤthe bodies were unrecognizable, eaten away by an acid of sorts, further sources reckon the facility itself was tied to the string of kidnappings. but what the mbcc does know, is that this sinner was immediately classified as an S ranked sinner and their newest addition to their watch - listㅤ...ㅤ"ㅤwhat a joke.ㅤ"

level of assessmentㅤ:ㅤs - rank assessed abilitiesㅤ:ㅤthis individual has been observed, from the numerous killings performed around these mysterious facilities, to maintain a level of blood manipulation. the manner in which these brutal murders have been executed displays a consistent matter of acidic toxins within the blood sampled at these scene. it is concluded that the sinner's blood eats away at the victims' bodies when contact is made. how the sinner themselves is able to withstand such toxin levels is still unknown; but there are also collected samples of solid blood matter similar to crystalization. assessment of interrogationㅤ:ㅤthis individual often addresses himself asㅤ"ㅤsabaziusㅤ"ㅤwhich has, at our current point of understanding are sorting through whether or not this is the s - rank we are in search of. his reactions to our questions have seemed to trigger dangerous levels of hostility and has minimal reports of threats made to our subordinates. whether or not these interrogations have been fruitful is yet to be determined as he seems to refuse any and all manner of approaches with our inquiries.

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Agneepath (Anand, 1990)

This review contains mild spoilers.

Having only seen this in pan-and-scan versions previously, I was struck on this rewatch by how damn good the movie looks. Every surface seems to shimmer, perfectly catching the perpetual magic hour lighting. Every frame feels huge. We don't just look at things, we look at them throw imposing low angles, imposing crane shots, and imposing low angles that turn into imposing crane shots and vice versa. Interiors are captured with the full weight of the deep focus cinematography and smoky blue lighting. Characters wear flashy suits and hide behind designer sunglasses. Imagine an entire movie shot like the opening scenes of Beverly Hills Cop II and you get the idea.

This flashy style makes more sense when you realize the movie uses as its primary inspiration the plot of Scarface, but making it distinctly Indian. The film is less concerned with anti-capitalist satire (for one thing, it's not clear what business the protagonist is in - he's against drugs and presumably against prostitution, leaving the only criminal activities we see him commit to be the murder of other criminals) and more concerned with familial bonds, and perhaps implicitly, nationalist fervour. The Sosa stand-in villain conducts his business from the Mauritius, happy to exploit his homeland from abroad, and has in his employ a white man, whom the hero derides for being a foreigner. This was made in the years before India underwent economic liberalization, and there's a sense of a country that's crumbling, especially when the high gloss visual style is directed towards the decaying slums the movie periodically detours into.

That sense of decay also manifests in the lead performance by Amitabh Bachchan, whose presence has always felt bigger than the movies and here seems to be a symbol as much as an actor. Bachchan is past his Angry Young Man prime from the '70s and before his patriarch phase starting in the 2000s, and his decision to play his character as a grotesque (not unlike Al Pacino in this movie's inspiration, replete with extremely distinct speaking voice) feels like the uglier dimensions of his persona corroding, warping his formidable star power into something more monstrous. The movie doesn't want us to dislike him too much. There's the no drugs policy, the fact that he's shown to help the community and is in fact so popular that when he ends up in the hospital, the locals riot so they can donate blood (despite the hospital being well stocked). But the fiery quality of his performance has a way of burning through the aesthetic trappings of the movie around him and lingering beyond the confines of the narrative. It's one of his best performances, and one of his weirdest. (Interesting, the villain is played by Danny Denzongpa, who was a friend of Bachchan's wife but avoided appearing alongside him earlier for fear of being outshined. I'd say he acquits himself well here, playing his role with sinister understatement. The super cool sunglasses help, of course.)

The movie does not have the cleanest of narratives (the stuff involving Mithun Chakraborthy in village idiot mode feel at odds with the overall tone) and clearly doesn't care about the musical numbers (one of them has Chakraborthy, best known for Disco Dancer, dancing in a disco but not exactly disco dancing, despite what the lyrics claim). But the constant presence of violence (this is quite a bit bloodier than the average Bollywood movie from this era) and the gangster story arc give this both a sense of sprawl and forward momentum. And there's an undeniably elemental power to the imagery, the hero being driven to revenge as blood drips from his father's face onto his own, the sea of bodies during the festival when the hero is ambushed, and the village going up in flames like the fires of hell during the climactic assault on the villain's mansion.

[aladaylessecondblog]

Fallen Star, chapter 2

Hey guys, guess what I did instead of my Nano quota today (which I'm now working on late as usual)?

No spiciness this time so I can post it here.

Tw: hangover, so there's puking

Metal over rock...

Sadara groaned, and sank further into the bedroll, hoping to cover her head and block out the noise. The constant pulsing of the Heart of Lorkhan was matched perfectly to the headache pounding in her skull. Like an echo of it, almost...

"Ugggh...."

She sat up, and for a few moments everything was spinning. Her stomach was churning, too, and her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. She went for her waterskin and took a few sips, rubbing her eyes and trying to make the headache recede with a healing spell.

It didn't work.

When she started to rise to her feet, a wave of nausea overwhelmed her and sent her right back down. It rose higher, and with no other options she crawled hurriedly on her hands and knees to the edge of the rock and vomited, straight into the lava below.

Her breathing was labored for several minutes, and she vomited once more before it seemed to be over. She moved back to her bedroll and searched through her bags for a healing potion, and quickly guzzled it.

It didn't help either. Usually it at least took away the headache to some degree, but this time it didn't touch a damned thing.

Sadara groaned, and sat up with her back to the rock. She opened her journal, scribbled for a moment--and then realized she couldn't focus long enough on small letters to get out anything coherent without a lot more pain.

So she wrote in big, bold letters: BY AZURA, WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Indeed...what HAVE you done? What were you hoping to accomplish by spreading your legs for the demon of Dagoth? Whatever he was, that is not what he IS.

Azura's voice rang out as if her name being written had summoned her presence.

"I wasn't thinking, I was drunk," Sadara murmured, closing her eyes. "My lady...I can see...I can see parts of Voryn, if I could just..."

There is no hope for him. There is no salvation. The sooner you accept that, the better. Grief for the lost may hurt, but the pain will be all the greater when he takes the opportunity to stab you in the back.

The pounding in her head grew momentarily worse before beginning, finally, to fade. She wrote out the "events" of the previous night as a distraction of sorts, something to occupy the anxious energy in her mind.

I am not without mercy. I see the tears for a lost friendship, the ache for what might have been. But this is not the time to indulge in such things, and every moment you linger hoping for what WAS will only endanger what IS. Leave him, obtain Wraithguard from that fool Vivec, and return only to put a merciful end to the demon you once called friend. To release the Heart from its prison.

She wished it was as easy as that. Perhaps if she were only Sadara, it might have been. But she wasn't just herself now, she was--or maybe had always been--Nerevar, and those memories could not be so easily brushed aside. A rush of emotion accompanied any thought of Voryn as he was, staunch friend, true ally...to the end that they, she--no, Nerevar--had brought.

Thoughts whirled in an endless confusing typhoon as she stood and tried to reach for memories, for wisdom, for ANYTHING that would help her to figure this all out. Yes, one part of her said, he deserves to die, he should die, for all the suffering he's caused. No, another part said, you might yet mount a rescue, you owe it to him to try.

The taste of vomit in her mouth grew intolerable. She took some dried mint from her bag and started to chew at it. Then she walked to the edge of the rock, and looked down at the Heart.

And this, she thought, this is the reason for everything. Certainly it would punish the three who had murdered her, but what would happen if she did what Azura wished her to do? All those who relied upon the Heart would lose what they had gained. Voryn and the Sixth House would crumble away into dust, and the Tribunal would lose their godhood entirely.

Certainly, they had earned it.

Her next thought was Baar Dau. She'd learned a lot of it during her rescue of Mehra Milo...how it had been stopped. The talk that it was only love of Vivec that kept it in the sky.

"While they worship him, he has power, however slight..." She murmured under her breath. "...how many people would die if he could no longer hold it back?"

He deserved to die, but those who followed him did not. The internal struggle was a horrendous one; she felt tugged in two directions. Kill him for his treachery, spare him for the sake of the innocent. Take his power for the murder he dealt her, let him keep it to save those who could not save themselves.

Scraping metal, over rock...

It was even worse with Voryn.

Footsteps...

Spare him for what was, kill him for what is. Have mercy, wreak vengeance. A chance, none. A mer, a monster.

Hands suddenly took a gentle yet firm hold on her shoulders. Nails pricked at her skin through her robe. Sadara stiffened, and for a moment she was stricken with fear.

"A beautiful sight, is it not?" Voryn's voice rumbled.

"It's...overwhelming, almost," she replied softly, uncertainly. "I remember seeing it as I died...but that was the only thing that persists...besides you telling me I was a simpleton for expecting to be rescued."

"The daedric princes are fickle masters, aren't they? Hmm. 'Yes, you are star-blessed, my chosen, my special champion...but when you need me most, I shall abandon you!'"

She was silent for a moment. A finger from his right hand moved up, to stroke at her neck, and she tensed at that as well. It would have been so easy to forget everything, to simply enjoy it, but with her eyes on the Heart she managed to avoid falling into that trap.

"Dagoth Ulen called me Azura's Fool," she went on in the same quiet tone. She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying she wasn't sure if he wasn't right. Perhaps it was best to stay off the subject of Azura for the moment. "Certainly I have been the Emperor's. I was minding my own business, trying to make enough gold with my lute to secure a place to sleep for another week. Then they'd snatched me up, and..."

She was pulled back, against his chest. The top of the back of her head momentarily pressed against--his mask, she realized quickly.

(He was warm, but she felt no heartbeat)

"...and dragged me all the way here. I thought for certain there was some mistake, but then...later I was told by some skooma-addict that the Emperor himself thought I was the Nerevarine."

A chuckle sounded off.

"If the Empire were not responsible for so much ill, that might almost be enough to earn the Emperor a swift death. As it stands..."

"As it stands, he's an old man. By the time you could get to him, he would likely have died of some ailment of the body." She felt a smile forming as she added, "Imagine it. You enter the White-Gold Tower assured of your victory--only to find that the Emperor has died. Purely to spite you."

He broke into laughter, and she joined him.

Then for the briefest moment there was silence again. Voryn's arms wrapped about her shoulders, embracing her.

"You are still afraid of me," he said, in a tone she couldn't quite identify. It wasn't anger, that was all she knew. "Why?"

"It's not you I fear," Sadrith lied quickly, "It's...Azura. You know what she, what all of Morrowind, would have of me."

She could no longer look at the Heart, and instead looked up at Akulakhan's head.

"No one crosses a daedric prince without being punished for it, and the daedra...can be very creative in how they inflict pain." She swallowed, and having apparently not chewed the dried mint well enough, coughed as it went down a bit rough. "Nerevar served with pride...but--I've been raised in the Empire, and we are taught to fear the daedra."

"It pains me to agree with them on anything," Voryn's voice was low as he spoke, "Our people sadly consider her to be one of the 'Good' daedra. But what good can come from one who would demand everything and give you nothing but sorrow in return? How often, I wonder, have Azura's faithful cried out to her for a savior? How many times has she denied them?"

"Eight," Sadara spoke up. "I saw eight failed incarnates in the cavern where I was given the Moon-and-star. They all had some story to tell. Reasons for why they could not do what...is expected of the Nerevarine. Several told me they made it to Red Mountain, but...they all fell, in one way or another. Each had something to give me...armor, or weapons..."

She trailed off.

"Even in death, she still holds them prisoner," Voryn said with contempt. "Waiting, waiting for some pawn to come along that their lady can manipulate. It would pain me to see you made into that pawn."

"As it pains me to see you suffer in solitude." She couldn't turn around, could only keep looking forward. "Voryn...I wish--"

"It is useless to wish for things to be different than they are," he said, "I am changing Morrowind, for the better...and Telvanni meddling or no, you will be with me to see it. THAT, I am glad of."

"What do you--you mean Divath Fyr, and his corprus cure?"

Perhaps he could sense her wavering, and had some plan to guarantee her cooperation?

"You always were a vain creature, Nerevar," Voryn went on, "So perhaps I cannot blame you for doing what you did."

"Your Sleepers certainly didn't agree."

What am I doing?

She shut her eyes.

"You need not fear my anger. Perhaps I can see the wisdom in what you've done now. After all..." As he spoke, his right hand that had been at her opposite shoulder moved up to her face. "It would be a pity to mar a thing of beauty, even with the bounty of the divine disease."

Touch. Real touch, soft, tender...

Gods, it was wonderful to finally have her face caressed, to feel what she had only ever seen in art.

You must stop, she thought.

Images from the previous night assaulted Sadara's mind in a wave. The wall, his arms, his lips, the moment. If she could but convince him, pull him from the darkness and bring him into the light, it need never stop. She could keep that gentle closeness.

And if he doesn't? What then?

It was a painful thought, to think that she would have to fell him twice. What agony it would be, to have to see his limp and bleeding body a second time. If she did as expected, she would certainly save Morrowind, but...

...but would be left with nothing, and no one. She could already hear the words Azura would say to her, even, a reminder that destiny was not often a kind master.

To be Nerevarine is to BE alone.

But oh, how she wanted more...

[nsilocastillon]

Time operates differently in space; the hierarchal peace and war of galaxies is a complex ideation that relies on the state of the atmosphere surrounding those existing in their corner of an endless void. Planetary death, sterilisation, catastrophic episodes — time is as unavoidable as fighting against necroplanetology; a study of corpse planets, it is an inevitability; death is a constant. When a new abyss is ripped into existence, it reminds Castillon that she has little control over the ticking of the death clock, but she controls this.

Dorian Holloway has made his bed, and he will lay in it. In the time that the moon has moved a few inches on its orbital path, a thousand planets have already met their extinction. Dorian Holloway is a man so terribly dead. And with it, he reaps. It is not his first murder, but it dares to be his last.

Skin bares brightly against the lowlights, glistening — not silver but crimson; an eclipse as the shadows of a woman that isn't her shrouds him, enveloping. Nsilo is looking now at the paling water on mars, glacier-like and piercing; drowning, drying out from the arid heat that burns the skin of the inhabitable plain. She lingers at the doorway, daring to leave, daring, daring. Daring to tear the wet appendage from his mouth, digits that caress in a manner of provocation included; he slicks his skin with the blood that is hers (and simultaneously not hers); presenting virulent intentions that he knows are suffering and spite and —

Supernovae. Gone are the gleaming stars that glaze the man, killed in the touch that is not hers; it is destruction; self and beyond — a nuclear fusion of incompatible elements. A sun needs to set as the moon rises; that is the order of things. It is the worship of two forces in countenance to one another, staring at the earth that blackens between them; ever wrecking itself.

In the nova, there is so much blood — a firework that pleads to belong, but they only feature in the dark; their beauty is a lie, a second long thing — another thousand planets, tearing one another apart. Implosions of self; of unwilling intent that ends life.

Dorian Holloway is teetering on the precipice of death. Where Nsilo denies capturing the smile, or leering at the moon earlier in the night, those anchors in the sky that revolve and revolve until they might split off their axis and end the life of the other — she cannot look away now, the stoicism that borders on lunacy, a slow tip of the head that has fangs threatening to pierce through her lips. A noise that jealousy will not claim right to, absurd to think that the sun runs at any deadly heat; it is burning, but in a way that ice is a slow thawing. Dragging out over time, where limbs tremble in desperation to live, and survive. Dorian Holloway will not survive this.

Goodbye Icarus. You will never see the sun again. In his death, he moans — a noise rivalling a scream, agonisingly vying for the sun to cradle him closer. There is no mistake in the tip of wings set aflame, or the burst of blood when it boils from the pores. There is no mistake. Castillon can hear the bones shatter under the force of gravity's pull before they are ashen, decorating the substratosphere in ghosting memories. She feels the fragility of bones under her grasp when she crosses the room, a rocket puncturing through atmospheric entry. The pressure of a skull is easily crushed in the pressure of space, time — gravity's constant mercilessness.

Dorian Holloway will watch death, as this is all he's wanted. Who would challenge the sun by any means; millions of years of existence, undefeated. This woman who Nsilo glares at will not take from it; her Icarus claimed. She does not want to watch him wander further from her burning touch; from her flaming death, but she will not look away blindly. So she will not tolerate either.

Castillon has forced him away, to mount the woman baring fangs, knees crushing biceps that try protesting the presence, like she has no right in the severance of limbs.

Enjoy this. It no longer matters who she is thinking of. She will justify all acts as she always does when victory stands to appear like losing; she doesn't lose.

The sun beams as it always does when it burns — tearing nails across the fracturing of a skull as mutilated flesh peels from the concaving face; made so ugly in its artistry. Eyes pop under the strength of buried thumbs that provoke gurgled screams to echo off the walls. Nsilo drowns the sound with a hiss; the sizzling of burning flesh in the violence of interplanetary warfare.

In a quiet rage, the decapitating neck from bloodied shoulders sounds so much like a roar of a black hole. Silent. But, fully capable of deformation in the most grotesque of senses. Blood sprays Nsilo's person and the walls of the lounge as it ruins the Venician. It's over quicker than Castillon willed to watch Dorian's hips grind against the woman he foolishly got his rocket up for. He knows the cost of veering too close to oblivion; the black hole is unforgiving, as is the sun — a supernova, and a meteorite that will pepper him in scalding hot debris.

When the woman is crumbling dustfalls under Nsilo's brutality; a frenzy that has her instantly in front of Anemoia's manager. Fistfals of dust that trickle from between her fingers. A hand opens to violently grip his chin, and delirium slowly fades behind the composure that Castillon shutters into place. She would have handed him the woman's filthy head, had Dorian's victim not been reduced to nothing.

Would you like to choke on her now, Dorian Holloway? She squeezes his chin in threat of another crack, a touch that is tainted by the scene; the first of the night. Punishment enough, to also be his last. She says it all in her mind — before she pulls him forward by his belt, so she can be sure he is present; that he is listening; that he knows.

The sun and the moon — they belong, on other sides of night and day: "Get back to your job, 'Rian." And, whilst she wants to burn the mess from his body and scar him until he will thank her for putting her own there. He might do better to crawl around, licking up the ash if he wishes to live another night — or maybe that will be the real end: "Clean this up,"

She knows, he is never leaving this room.

Dorian Holloway is definitely dying tonight. He should have foreseen the consequences of a game he is set to lose ⸻ should've counted his cards, prayed to his luck stars. But what can the moon do but desire? The rings of Saturn cannot shine more than him. He knows Nsilo is no Earth ⸻ she is more beautiful than the ocean bellows, unreachable in ways Mount Everest could only hope to be. A shipwreck in the seas of Mars. A plane crash in the skies of Neptune. Aphrodite from Venus. He did not orbit her atmosphere, could not reach a hand to her burning lights if he tried. He is too far away ⸻ a space cadet adrift. The moon, longing for a glimpse of the sun ⸻ turning, turning, turning, never laying eyes on the beauty of life. It pains him to admit he may never land on her grounds. He will burn forever in his desires, wishing and wanting and unsatisfied.

But the moon shines for all who wish to see, does it not? ⸻ Achilles and his men, Odysseus and Penelope. She might be Cleopatra and he, the snake, but the apple can taste sweet as poison on his tongue. If he makes himself Zeus, who is she to deny him? Thunder bringer. He knows the game; is bound to it by invisible ropes he wishes not to free himself from. Choke me with them, he wants to say, choke me until they mark my skin, until I'm a piece of you. The moon shines for others too. Perhaps Nsilo should be reminded of that.

Helen and Paris ⸻ ships in the night.

Pools of blue remain focused on the sun ⸻ Icarus and his wings, Dorian can feel the wax melting against his skin ⸻ but his fingers swiftly unbutton his shirt, remove it all together. This is the game she wishes to play, is it not? Houston, we are venturing into a meteor shower. His craters merely makeup to solidify his beauty. Who doesn't want the moon? Beautiful beautiful beautiful ⸻ Pretty boy, is that all you can be? Guilt dares not touch him; it knows it has no place on his fingertips. Only gold do ⸻ dark red when he trails the dripping path on his chest, bring it up to his mouth. Moans when the fingers touch his tongue. Eyes on him, stargazing his infinite constellations. His smile is the full moon ⸻ bright, big, open, fleeting. Flesh and teeth meet when he lunges forward, hand tangling in the hair of a woman who tastes like rot. He should know better.

No. He knows better; in the depths of his body, the marrow of his bones, carved just outside his soul ⸻ He should not be provoking a black hole like so. Nsilo is the universe ⸻ collapsing, burning, eating all in its entrails. She is everything. But autumn has passed and another circle is about to be finished, Dorian does not fear the seasons. He does not fear the sun. It is ever present, is it not? Even now, when the moon dares to move in front of it, demanding its attention, she does not leave. It brings him a wicked joy when his eyes lock onto her, hand pushing the woman's head to his neck. He should not, but the pressure continues until fangs are piercing his neck and he is loudly moaning for Nsilo to hear. An eclipse does not last forever, and Dorian Holloway fears he might not as well.

It is thrilling, to watch her, knowing another's touch plagues him. Stains him. He wants to be eaten alive today. He wants her to see ⸻ needs her to smell his lust, know he is willing to let this random, insignificant woman to fuck him. The astronaut has found a planet that isn't her ⸻ Dorian wants Nsilo to be aware of that. He needs her to take action. To grip him by his neck, pull his hair, bend him over. He wishes to bite her neck, drink from her like he is a starved man pulled out of a falling spaceship. His eyes seem to say, look what you have done. But his mouth only begs for more, hips instinctively buckling against a body that isn't hers.

Dorian Holloway wishes to die tonight ⸻ Under her hands, her tongue, her fangs. He will stop at nothing to achieve this.

[wordsbymae]

MINORS DNI

Title: The Viking

Pairing: Male OC x reader

TW: Violence, murder, generally bad things, implied non/con, no explicit smut but heavy Non/con groping!!, discussion of sexual slavery, mention of cannibalism, Christian elements but it is because I am and I am less afraid of stuffing up Christian stuff than other religions. If you are uncomfortable with any of that move on This man is not nice. Pet names: little mutt, little one and little lamb. Let me know if I missed anything let me know

ALPHABET HERE

Also, I tried to do Gn but as I am a woman, I automatically write with a female reader in mind. But!!!!! I have tried my very best to not mention gender. If something doesn't work please tell me. Reader discretion is advised! Also, I hope I don't need to say this but I will just in case, I do not condone these sorts of actions!!! Or any actions in any of my work. This is pure fiction. Also, all my OCs and the reader are over the age of 18+. and I'm not gonna add google translate because that takes forever and you guys won't even be able to read it so he conveniently speaks the same language as the reader.

Notes: Aaaaa! I have 21 followers! You guys are absolutely amazing! I never thought anyone would want to read my stuff let alone like and reblog. This doesn't take place in any place in particular, if anything I heavily rely on the climate of my home. I was though heavily influenced by Vikings and their nordic culture of that time, however, I had originally planned to make the oc a barbarian of sorts and not a Viking. But my inspiration dive into Pinterest left me with Vikings so here we are. I might write a nomadic barbarian fic later on cause I do see them as quite different in my mind but it depends where this goes, I usually write the notes and triggers before I start writing as a way of planning my thoughts so it might change halfway through.

Also the climatic event in the beginning, in my mind, is the cause of a volcanic eruption somewhere on earth, there was a year of just constant winter due to a massive eruption a few centuries ago and I wanted to include that and showcase how superstitious the people of this time were, seeing the winter as a foreshadowing of terror. And hell they were right.

Lots of love Mae xx

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It was far too early in the season for the cold winds to be here. Your father pretended to not be frightened but you could see it in his eyes. There was a fear lingering. You could hear your parents whispering in worry when they thought you were asleep. You could hear your mother sob as they discussed what it could mean. Your homeland was one of sun and thunder, but never frost, never snow. Yet, a chill had descended onto your lands. A frost had spread across the summer grass. Your bare feet crunched upon what should have been dried pasture, instead, they were chilled by a wicked frost. The sun that you would curse for its harsh warmth was now hidden behind constant grey clouds and you begged for it to return. The floods and storms you ragged against never came. No seasonal thunderstorms after the humidity of the day. There was just darkness. Travellers and merchants from far-off lands, journeying to the capital came through your village, speaking of the darkness that had spread. It seemed like no kingdom or empire was safe. The frost and darkness had come for all.

The first omen of their arrival was the frost itself. It seeped into everything and made the ground as solid as rock, the summer pastures shrivelled up and left nothing but dirt behind.

The second omen was the famine. The harvest failed and the livestock starved. Your father was forced to sell the heifers and cows and slaughter all calves and steers to provide for your family. Still, it wasn't enough. You heard gruesome tales of far-off villages butchering each other for scraps of meat from their bones. Your village was lucky, the sea still provided as much as it could.

The third omen was the dragons. Firey images in the night sky, leaving streaks of light hanging in the air. As soon as they appeared men cried out and women fell to their knees. It was a sign of a terror to come.

The final omen was a raven.

The skies had begun to clear and the winter rains had soothed the harsh scars left behind. Crops had been sown and the frost retreated in the face of the reappeared sun. You had all thought that the struggles of the last few months were over. Your father had been able to buy a cow with calf last week with money you made weaving baskets. She was a skinny thing even with the calf in her belly, but with the winter rain healing the land, you could see her regaining strength.

You had thought it was a crow when you first saw it. It did seem to be a bit bigger than the crows that waited patiently for your fish scraps by the pier. But you had never seen a raven before, so why think anything of it. It had flown in from the sea, flew over the village before fixing its gaze on your mother's garden. Your mother prized her garden, especially her roses, and had cried bitter tears when the frost killed the flowers, leaving thorny masses behind, but they had begun to regrow, leaving your families house surrounded by a beautiful arrangement of daisies and violas, butterfly pea flowers and lilacs. You had your favourites of course. In fact, you were picking them right now, happy to make a bouquet for your ancestors' burial place. As you were sitting and deciding which flowers to choose, the raven landed beside you, you watch in amazement as it plucked a flower from your hand and rose into the air and back towards the sea. Standing up with a giggle you chased after it in play until you reached your property's fence. You watched until it was nothing but a black dot in a sky of blue. If you had known what it had foreshadowed you would have wrung its neck.

They themselves came in the night.

They landed on the beaches and in silence drifted into town. Axes drawn and blood-hungry. The first death was the blacksmith. He was stumbling from the inn, stomach filled with ale. He saw them first, and let out a cry of warning, but it did not save him from a dagger sliding across his throat. The killer let out a howl. His comrades followed. The screams began.

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You had lost sight of your mother in the smoke of the burning village. Fire ragged towards the heavens. The smell of charcoal and blood ravaged your senses. The yelling and screaming were just a constant now. Like how a bird song drifts into the background. You stood immobile calling for your mother, begging her to reveal herself. Out of habit, you called for your father, but you were harshly reminded that dead men can't answer. You watched as the savages ripped men to the ground and let blood flow. They hadn't noticed you yet it seemed. A lone wraith shaking in the centre of town. In the centre of all the murder and mayhem. For a moment you thought you were dead. That the arrow your father had taken for you had indeed struck you and now you were wandering the mortal realm alone and afraid until St Peter called for you.

Your eyes reached towards the heavens and you began to beg for the angels to pluck you from this horror. Your arms wrapped around yourself as tears flowed down your soot-covered cheeks. You were broken from your prayers when you heard your name being called, your mother perhaps? Your eyes rushed to find her. No, you can't see her. But it was enough to have you moving towards the darkness and away from the light of the fire. With your arms still holding you tight, you began to stumble towards the outskirts of town. Once in the fields outside town, you could hide. Wait till they grew bored of your village and left in their ships to torment another village. You were reminded of a time when you were fearful of the dark. But now it was your salvation. Tripping over your feet you struggled to remain standing, leaning on the walls of yet-to-be-destroyed houses and holding onto the rungs of fences. You kept rushing forward, eyes onto the safety of darkness. You were close, only a few more steps.

A beast emerged from the darkness. His face burned with the light of the fire, and his axe shined with delight. His furs were matted with blood and encompassed his shoulder. His arms were bare save for strips of leather circling them. There was blood on his arms and hands as well, dripping onto the handle of his axe and onto the dirt below. You stood still, hoping perhaps you were dead. That he would just pass by and you could remain nothing more but a spirit. If death was without pain you would prefer it to the horrors the beast in front of you was capable of. His face was marked with blood, lines travelling over his forehead and down through his eyes. His eyes flickered with hunger and his mouth was turned up into a grin. He stood feet wide as if he was ready to battle, but his hand was loose on the axe, allowing it to dangle from his palm. He saw no threat in you.

A strange mix of sounds came from his mouth, while his voice was rough and stern, his words were lyrical and filled with rounded sounds and quick sharp notes. It left you confused and almost enchanted, like a deer in the gaze of a hunter.

His voice stopped and his eyes drifted down and then up. He gave a deep laugh at the site of your cowering.

"Come little mutt, stand tall" he chuckled with amusement. You whimpered at the sight of him, a beast of a man denying your freedom. He began to march towards you his axe swinging in his hold. You try to take steps back but he is quicker. You yelp as he pushes you towards a wall, his thick forearm resting against your neck as he peers down at you. You could see the scars littering his face and could smell the stench of blood dominating his body. You could feel the warmth of the blood from his arm smearing all over your neck and chest. You hated to think whose blood it once was.

"Little mutt has no teeth huh? What about claws? hm?" he questioned, joy in your torment in his eyes.

"If I was to fuck you now would you fight me? Would you claw at me or bite at my fingers?" he laughed at your obvious fear. He brought his head down to your neck and sniffed loudly. You cringed as his nose met your skin.

"You smell sweet little mutt. I wonder if you taste just as good"

you struggled as his tongue run up your neck, tears tumbling down your cheeks.

"As sweet as honey!" he cheered. His forearm dug into your neck further as you struggled to escape. He began to shush you, giving out soothing sounds like you would a crying baby as his body stepped forward to meet yours.

" Please don't kill me" you choked, eyes red with fear.

"Never little one!" he bellowed, his face of mock hurt. "Why would I kill you? hm?" he comforted, releasing his arm if only by a fraction. "You will fetch me a high price at the slave markets, little lamb. Men will go mad trying to buy you for their beds" he grinned, showing off his sharp canine teeth. You struggled once more, this time clawing at his arm and chest.

"So the little mutt has claws! Maybe I will keep you for myself. Use you to warm my cock. Would you like that little one?" he teased, he moved his face closer, his tongue darting out to catch the tears on your cheek.

" Get off me" you grunted, desperately trying to remove his arm. he teased you by feigning pity.

"Poor little lamb, you must be so scared. Trapped by a beast like me" he cooed, pushing his arm further into your skin. You watched as his eyes drifted to your chest below his arm. He dropped the axe in his other hand to the ground, it falling flat with a light thud. He looked you in the eyes once more. You could see mischief in them.

"I am torn between keeping you for my bed slave and making a small fortune on another man's desires. Let me see your wares and then I shall decide" he sang, his grin reaching higher and higher with each word. You could only watch in horror as his hands reached for the front of your night smock and ripped it. You tried to grab his wrists but he was too strong. In a mere moment, your smock lay tattered on the ground and you stood bare in the night air. His eyes drank you in, and his hands drifted over your body. He gripped tightly in some places and softly in others. Blood from his hands was left smeared all over you, like rivers on a map. His eyes found yours once more and glee was evident on his face.

"I have decided little mutt. You shall warm my bed and most importantly me" he proclaimed, laughing at the end. "I am to be your master and you the little mutt at my heels. But first, let me dull those claws, hm?"

You stood arms covering yourself confused at his words. You had no claws to dull.

You gave a shriek as he began to drag you into the darkness. His hand was tight against your wrists. You tried to use your body weight to stop him, but it only ended with you falling to the ground and him dragging you through the dirt. You screamed and kicked, shouted and cried. He just laughed.

The dirt turned to soft grass as released you from his grip. You shot up to your bare feet, only to be thrown to the ground and a foot thrown on your stomach.

"I admire your fight little mutt, but as your master, I cannot in good conscious allow you to disrespect me. it would not be natural." he cooed at you, his hair falling into his eyes. You choked out a sob at the thought of what he planned to do. You were both far enough from the town your screams would not be heard and you were both hidden by lush pasture. You began to pray, your words drowning in sobs.

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kin-"

"Enough!" shouted, falling onto his knees above you, a dagger glinting in his hand.

"Keep your God, fine, but do not expect kindness from me when you beg for his mercy" he sneered. You watched in terror as the dagger raced towards your head, only for it to land safely in the soil next to you.

"Now little lamb moan sweetly for me, will you?" he smiled, his grin one of filth. You lay there looking up at him in fear. "I said moan" he barked, his hand reaching for your throat. You gave him what he wanted, although it was tarnished by your terror.

"Like the music of the gods" he praised. He removed his hand from your throat and brought both to your knees, lifting them up and slotting himself in between them.

"Look at you little mutt, shaking and cowering in fear and yet I haven't even fucked you yet. You Christians are strange folk. If you knew of pleasure you would be moaning on my cock by now. You yourself would have begged for it. Begged for me to fuck your tight little hole on the ashes of your ho-" you slapped him with a furry. A rage releases from you, with you reaching for the dagger beside your head. His hand reached for yours first and punished it with his strength. He gave off a terrifying laugh as you were forced to drop the knife and he quickly threw it behind him.

"Maybe you aren't a little mutt but a little wolf instead. That fire in you will warm my cock and balls for years to come. But first, let me break you in"

You really did wish that arrow had found its mark in you.