#once again on my pit rage agenda

[greenglowinspooks]

Broke: Pit rage is because the Lazarus pits are made of corrupted ectoplasm, so Jason can be instantly cured by Danny’s good ectoplasm.

Woke: Pit rage is because of corrupted ectoplasm, but it can’t be instantly fixed. Jason needs both physical and psychological help to treat it, and it’ll be a constant effort for years of his life.

Bespoke: Pit rage is just part of being a ghost. Danny also has pit rage, he’s just better at dealing with it because he’s been dead for longer.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Eclipse: Chapter 21

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades Finally we made some progress! But we still have a few things left to tackle... The ichor warning is back for this chapter! I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one!  If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 20

HADES XXI Trust The Ears of The God of Music

Hades had not intended in confessing his inadvertent fondness for his nephew, but after the warm – bordering on scorching hot, although never painful – essence had fluctuated with sadness, despair and self-loathing, of all things, he had found himself unable to keep his silence.  He had known that Apollo was far more than the foolish clown he liked to play, but to feel it, so raw where it tangled with his own essence in a way that reminded him of small, nervous children hiding behind their mother, almost afraid to trust, had startled- no, shocked him.

Then again, Zeus was about as good at being a father as he was at being a brother, so perhaps it should not be a surprise that part of Apollo hesitated to trust his own family.  Hades himself would be a hypocrite if he said he trusted most of them.

He didn’t fully trust Apollo, either, trusted no-one completely, not even his wife who parted from him for half of each year nor the Chthonic gods creeping around the Underworld, each with their own agendas despite their general obedience.  However, he trusted his bright nephew more than most; Apollo didn’t flee from him, didn’t dismiss him out of hand or straight up ignore his existence.  Apollo listened to him, allowed him to vent about woes their brethren simply laughed at, if they even paid attention at all.

Apollo was kind, in a way Olympus didn’t allow its occupants to be, and once Hades realised it was no act to catch him off guard and throw back in his face a century or several later, he had begun to appreciate that small flame amidst an ocean of derision and deceit.  His words had not been a lie; he had no desire to see that small flame extinguished by the horrors of Tartarus.

Hades had not been able to explain all of that to Apollo – it would have been too much, a level of exposure that ran beyond indecent and into mortification – and had taken the loophole offered by his nephew’s open-ended why to avoid further baring his innermost thoughts and feelings.

As Apollo had not pressed for further details, he presumed that his nephew, too, did not wish to face those depths and was, if not content, at least able to continue with only the information offered.

Of more pressing concern was Styx’s curses.  Of the two, the voice was the lesser evil, not least because while Apollo had proven multiple times that his voice held a power that Tartarus could not fully disregard, it was not his primary weapon.  His nephew’s loss of his archery prowess was far more concerning, but Apollo had made no move to summon his bow or refill his empty quiver, even after Hades had done what he could to mitigate the curses of the goddess.

Apollo was not a one-trick god; Hades had heard tell of his speed and of his wrestling.  Hermes and Ares both had never forgiven the sun god for their respective defeats, and those stories had made it even as far as the Underworld and Hades’ ears.  That still did not make the loss of their ranged offense any less potent.

They were not far away from the prison, now.  There was still no sign of the gleaming brass fortress on what passed for a horizon in the depths of the Pit, but Hades knew it did not lay too far up from the merging of the rivers, which they were only somewhat below, and now the correct side of.  The raging of the Acheron was a near-silent call on the edge of his hearing, too far away to have any effect, but close enough to be there, to remind Hades of how it felt to be torn apart straight down to his essence.

How Apollo had found the strength to pull them both clear, Hades did not want to ponder.  He suspected that was a trail of thought that would meander too close to the mortal trials Hades knew little of.

He was well acquainted with how much torment the mortal body could endure before it broke.  He had seen souls finally pushed over the edge too many times not to.

No, that was not a thought he wished to pursue any further.

Hades instead cast his thoughts and attention to their surroundings, searching for any signs of approaching threats.  Two injured gods would no doubt be a temptation to any monsters that caught sight of them, although so far in the depths of Tartarus, beyond where even most monsters ventured, they would be not just tempted, but also likely powerful enough to present a true danger.

His only consolation was that he and Apollo were both on guard, and that with the large expanse of visibility, nothing would be able to catch them unawares.  Regardless, he was not keen to linger longer than necessary.

“We should probably keep moving.”  Clearly, Apollo’s thoughts ran along similar lines, as his nephew’s broken and rasping voice reached Hades’ ears.

“are you fit to continue?” Hades asked in response, glancing over his shoulder at his nephew to assess his condition.  His voice sounded no less rasping than immediately after he had pulled away from their mutual healing session, and Hades wondered – feared – that it would improve no further until Styx was satisfied.

What that meant for Apollo’s archery skills, he did not wish to contemplate.

“Fit enough,” Apollo replied.  “Are you?”

Hades assessed himself.  The curses from the Arai had all but entirely faded through Apollo’s intervention, and he felt no concern about a relapse.  As long as they evaded the Arai, there should be no further issues.

“I am,” he said, and felt his nephew pull himself to his feet behind him.

“Then we should keep moving,” Apollo said.  “I can’t say I want to stay in the Pit any longer than necessary.”  That was a sentiment Hades fully shared, and he needed no further hints to pull himself to his feet in turn, casting another glance at the expanse of membrane surrounding them before facing his nephew.

Apollo’s hand was twitching, as though it missed the feel of a bow nestled in its palm.  From the slight furrows in the handsome god’s otherwise perfect face, Hades suspected it was not just the hand of the god that missed the weapon.

When the bow haltingly materialised in Apollo’s palm, Hades had to resist making any indication of relief.  Apollo had no such reservations, and relief broke across his face much like Hades faintly recalled clouds breaking apart to reveal the sun behind them again.

“Can you use it?” he felt compelled to ask.  Apollo’s expression shifted into something complex, and Hades watched his stance adjust infinitesimally, changing the way the god stood in a single fluid moment until Apollo was standing with his bow at full draw, an arrow materialised from somewhere resting on the string.

It looked reassuring, but Apollo made a dejected noise as he released the tension without firing the arrow.

“Use it, I suppose,” he admitted, sounding like his mouth suddenly had too many teeth for its size and choking his voice up even further than Styx’s curse.  “Use it well is… another matter entirely.”  There was resignation in his voice, but also a hint of bitterness.  Hades had never found himself bereft of his own domains before – weakened, certainly, and he could recall the time before the claiming of his domains, when he was simply a god and not a god of something, with no degree of fondness – so he could not empathise with Apollo’s plight.  He could, however, bring enough conceptual thought to the possibility to at least feel some sympathy for his nephew – but it would do neither of them any favours.adHa

“That will have to suffice,” he said, pitching his tone to convey some degree of acknowledgement that the situation was not ideal – that Apollo was upset.  Fortunately, his nephew was no fool, and did not attempt to argue futilely as he placed the arrow back in the near-empty quiver at his side and took a small step forwards, shifting his weight back out of his shooting stance.

“Maybe it’ll come back more in time,” Apollo muttered, sounding less than hopeful about it.

“Perhaps,” Hades agreed, more with the ideal than any real hope himself, either.  “The prison is this way.”  He didn’t bother to add the caveat that he was not completely certain, nor orientated.  While true, he did recall that they needed to be further up the slopes of Tartarus, away from the deepest depths and the eventual inevitability of Chaos at the end of things.

Having spent so long descending through the Pit, it was a relief to finally be headed upwards again.  His own domain was still far above them – and Apollo’s were even further way, barely a concept to Tartarus – but moving towards it, rather than further away, felt right.

Apollo followed his lead, lapsing into silence not for the first time since they had entered Tartarus, and it was no less disconcerting than the first time, although Hades could understand it, this time.  Just because some of his voice had restored did not mean the rasping husk was pleasant to listen to, and for Apollo, whose voice had always been beautiful even in simple conversation, it was no doubt torturous.

He also, Hades observed out of the corner of his eye as they walked, his nephew a bare half-step behind him, appeared to be focusing on replenishing his quiver, despite his far reduced archery skills.  Each arrow took time to appear, worse than even against Orion.  It was abundantly clear that Apollo would not be able to fire off arrows indiscriminately in a confrontation – each shot would have to be carefully measured, and with Styx’s curse also affecting his ability to shoot, there was little guarantee that they would hit the intended mark.

Or any mark at all.

The prevailing silence of his nephew was not, however, enough to distract Hades from the first signs of Apollo noticing something.  His head raised from where he had been watching his quiver as he walked, and his fingers began to once again tap out a rhythm that was becoming familiar to Hades after multiple performances as eyes of fire scanned the landscape ahead of them intently.

Hades had almost fallen foul of ignoring Apollo’s warning signs once.  It was not a mistake he intended on repeating.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You don’t hear it?” Apollo replied, voice quiet but filled with an intent that ought to bode ill for whoever had crossed the god.

Hades had been unable to hear anything except their footsteps echoing against the taut membrane of Tartarus for some time.  The cries of the Acheron had faded away into nothing shortly into their advance, leaving a notable gap of sound, and nothing substantial had broken that silence since.

Apollo was the god of music, for all that Styx had targeted that domain as part of her vengeance.  It made sense, Hades realised abruptly, for his hearing to be keener than even most gods’.

“I do not,” he confirmed, assessing the way Apollo’s face had clouded over in an expression not too dissimilar to those he had worn when he had deemed Hades a threat to Asclepius – except, this time, the death-promising glare was not settling on him, but rather a nebulous point ahead of them.  “What do you hear?”

“A voice,” Apollo told him, his own rasp low and fierce.  “Calling for help.”

There was the possibility that a soul that should not have been sentenced to Tartarus had ended up there by mistake – certainly in the past year of mortal reckoning, entrances to the Pit appeared to have been opening directly into the Overworld with a frequency that almost guaranteed innocent souls falling foul of its chasms.  There was the possibility that whoever Apollo could hear, they had nothing to do with his son, nor the titans and giants furious and scheming within the Pit.

Hades dismissed those possibilities instantly.  Apollo would not have worn such a furious expression if the voice belonged to an innocent party.  Even if he could not identify the owner of the voice, there was something about the apparent cries for help that his nephew did not take kindly to.

“Calling my son.”  It wasn’t a question, but Apollo nodded regardless, confirming Hades’ instant suspicion.

“By name,” he said, then, “I recognise the voice.”

Hades did not know whether to hope it was Iapetus, foolishly requesting his son’s help, or if his original instincts were correct and the voice’s owner was a giant, rather than a titan.  Were it Iapetus, he would be justified in punishing the titan severely, no matter his intentions.  Summoning Nico into the Pit was unforgivable on all accounts.

Alcyoneus, however, would be a difficult battle, comparable to Apollo’s original encounter with Orion in Tartarus as best Hades could approximate.

Regardless, this was not a confrontation that Hades would allow them to pass by – not that Apollo appeared any more inclined to so, judging by the way he had a hand in his now-bristling quiver, and a look so bright it was dark on his face.

Apollo had always treated Nico well, and held him in high regard, even before the demigod had become romantically involved with the god’s own son.  Hades was well aware that it was almost entirely down to the actions of the Twins that Nico, at least, had survived long enough to reach Camp Half-Blood for the first time (Artemis had failed to protect Bianca, yes, but with the pain of grief muffled into an ache, Hades was at least aware that his niece had tried).

It was true that Hades himself held no thoughts for William’s potential trip to Tartarus beyond the effect it would have on his own son, but it was equally true that Apollo cared for both demigods, even if his original plan had presumably still included Nico’s return to the Pit.

Even if it was Alcyoneus, Hades would not allow the calling to continue, and he was confident he could trust Apollo to share in that opinion.

“Lead the way,” he ordered, drawing his sword from its sheath.

There was no verbal response from his nephew, but an arrow was nocked to the string of the golden bow in his hand, before Apollo inclined his head purposefully, indicating a direction that was slightly off to one side from their original route, across the slope of Tartarus rather than further up it.  If Hades had his bearings accurate, it was towards the delta where all five rivers mingled.

The so-called Delta of Despair, as he had told Apollo what felt like eons ago, before the Acheron and the Arai had torn them both apart.  He supposed that was an appropriate place to hold the confrontation.

There was no thought about passing by, about doing anything other than marching in the direction of the voice with the full intent of annihilation.  It was true that their aim had been the prison itself, but that had always been a proxy, an approximation of the most likely place to find the source of the voice summoning his son to the depths of Tartarus.

Now they had found the source of the voice, the prison was of no concern to him.

Apollo led the way, heading directly where his inclined head had indicated.  Neither of them spoke, and Hades strained his hearing, searching for the first distant sounds of a voice, of the voice.

It was difficult to judge how long it took – not that Hades particularly cared about tracking the passage of time at that moment regardless – but the voice reached his ears before any of the vocal rivers’ distant cacophonies.  Hades spared them no heed as they screamed on the very edges of his hearing, not after hearing the low, rumbling tones akin to the earth tearing itself apart and cascading together again.

He had suspected – more than suspected – that his bane was the true source of the summons plaguing his son.  The giant was crafty, and vengeful – Hades was somewhat surprised that Nico was the one he had attempted to lure down, when the demigod that had proven to be a significant issue to the giant was a different person entirely, but it was also true that she would likely have recognised the voice and not been deceived.

Nico, on the other hand, had never directly interacted with Alcyoneus, and also showed clear guilt over Iapetus’ fate within Tartarus.  Undoubtably, he was the easier, the softer target, to the giant’s mind.

Hades’ essence churned at the mere thought of it.

He shared a look with Apollo, a glare that wasn’t aimed at his nephew but broadcasted that he, too, was now in earshot of the giant begging Nico for help – to fall into the trap and be torn apart by if not Alcyoneus himself, at least Tartarus and its various inhabitants.  Apollo matched the glare with his own, a mutual understanding that Alcyoneus had gone too far and that neither of them would stand for it.

In his hand, his sword vibrated, his anger pulsing through the Stygian Iron and causing the dark metal to deepen, indescribable patterns of void swirling across and through its presence, yearning for something to absorb and eliminate from existence entirely.  Considering how Orion had withstood its effects, reducing it to no more than a regular sword, it was highly doubtful that Alcyoneus himself would be so easily downed, but that knowledge did nothing to sate his desire to see the giant disappear from existence forever more.

Alongside Alcyoneus’ voice – pitch raised a little from the voice that haunted Hades’ recall, no doubt in a further attempt at deception but still unmistakable to the one he was born to oppose – the rushing of water gradually entered his awareness.  Hades judged that the Delta could not be far, and raised the hand not holding his sword in a gesture for Apollo to halt.

There was no point in the pair of them entering the Delta together, alerting the giant to his approaching doom.  The moment Apollo paused, meeting his eyes in silent askance, Hades activated the Helm, disappearing from sight and tangibility.  His nephew’s eyes widened, focusing on where Hades stood for a moment before flickering around, taking in their surroundings and, Hades realised, a futile attempt to find where he had gone.

Apollo would be no match for Alcyoneus – even if he had his full archery prowess, Alcyoneus was one of the most powerful giants, and even taking into consideration that Orion was specifically crafted to oppose him and his twin, Apollo had struggled badly against the weaker giant.  Hades was not so overconfident as to assume he could defeat Alcyoneus single-handed – such thoughts would be foolish in the extreme; it had taken the combined strength of himself and Herakles the first time – but Apollo would be of little help in close quarters.

He would leave it up to his nephew to determine how best to intervene, given his current limitations.  The brief thought flickered through his mind that Apollo would stay back, out of the fight, but it was banished almost immediately.  If there was something about his nephew Hades had learned since their time together in the Pit, or perhaps remembered was the more accurate term – it was that Apollo did not back down, even when he was nominally outmatched.

Sure enough, as he slipped forwards, cresting a ridge of membrane and finally laying eyes on his bane for the first time in millennia, he caught sight of Apollo shifting where he stood, creeping forwards on silent feet and raising his bow.

The Helm united Hades with the shadows; even in Tartarus, it held its effect – in fact, Hades suspected the deep darkness of the Pit drew out degrees of shadow that not even the Underworld could emulate.  With his back to him, Alcyoneus had no way of registering his approach until it was too late, Hades’ sword raised and ready to run him through as he increased his size to match the giant’s stature.

It wouldn’t be enough to kill the giant, but it would set the advantage in Hades’ court, pinning Alcyoneus on the back foot – so to speak – as their confrontation continued.

Giants could not see through the Helm.  Hades recalled the discord he had sowed between Giants and Titans alike during the wars clearly enough to recall that.  Orion’s hunting instincts had allowed him to react to the attacks, but even he, with his keen eyes combined with Hephaestus’ technology, hadn’t been able to see Hades.

Alcyoneus – a creature of the Underworld, of the darkness and shadows, Hades’ opposite and equivalent, in a body whose revived form had been reconstructed by Pluto’s own daughter – turned, black opal eyes boring straight into Hades’ own.  The gigantic staff in his hand slammed into Hades’ blade, turning it aside and deflecting the stroke harmlessly past.

“Hades,” the giant greeted, dropping the fake pitch.  His voice rumbled around the Delta loudly, the sound akin to a collapsing cavern. “Marvellous!”  The staff swung back around, the intangibility of the Helm somehow doing nothing to stop its collision with Hades’ side, sending him crashing sideways.

Dazed, and caught a little off guard himself at how little Alcyoneus appeared affected by the Helm, Hades pushed himself back off the ground.  His bane didn’t seem interested in hitting him while he was down, instead those black opal eyes bored straight into his with rabid, hungry delight.

“I thought I would have to content myself with destroying your children,” the giant loomed, leaning on his staff.  Dark red hair liberally threaded through with gemstones of every type fell across his shoulder as his solid silver teeth bared in a manic grin.  “But it seems Hades himself has fallen into my trap.”

Hades threw himself to the side as the staff whipped around again, lightning fast, and deflected it with his sword as it swung too close for comfort.  Alcyoneus laughed, an awful grating sound not too dissimilar to Styx’s original curse on Apollo’s voice, and Hades slashed at him with his blade.

His actions were rushed, hurried in a way millennia had taught him he shouldn’t fight, but on the back foot, unable to determine why the Helm was failing to work on his bane when it clearly concealed him from his nephew in the direct opposite of Hades’ ideal preference, and facing the real threat of one of the most powerful giants, it was difficult to find the opportunity to recentre himself as Alcyoneus pressed forward, holding the same advantage Hades had intended to have.

The arrow that glanced off of the brassy shoulder powering the staff startled him almost as much as Alcyoneus.

The giant paused, glancing around their surroundings to no doubt find the source, and Hades took the opportunity to pull himself back up to his full, giant-equivalent, height, and adjusted the Helm on his head as his thoughts took advantage of the split second of Alcyoneus’ distraction to reorganise themselves.

Invisibility was doing him no favours; it would be disorientating Apollo, whose aim was clearly suffering dreadfully – the arrow hadn’t even made a dent in the metallic sheen of Alcyoneus’ skin, and Hades was certain the shoulder had not been where Apollo intended to hit, either – and the giant could see through it with ease.  More than that, he was also managing to counter the intangibility it gave Hades, and Hades had no way of telling if that was specifically relating to Alcyoneus’ attacks, or if it also opened him to unexpected friendly fire from Apollo.

Given that Apollo’s aim was obviously dreadful, the chances of ending up on the receiving end of a arrow were far higher than the usual zero (wayward, at least.  Intentional arrows were another matter entirely, but Hades did not think Apollo would shoot him, not while they were in Tartarus and united against a common enemy – and he liked to think not even otherwise).  Hades cursed Styx for her choice of retribution – he and Alcyoneus were in theory equally matched, but Tartarus favoured the giant and Hades’ only ally was his nephew.  Having his nephew’s greatest offensive skill stripped from him did not put them in a good position.

Fear would also likely impact Apollo far worse than the giant, so with a displeased frown, Hades let the Helm’s power fade away, bringing him back into the visible realm.

Alcyoneus laughed again, sharp like raw diamond, no doubt sensing weakness, and pressed forwards again, ignoring Apollo much the same way Orion had ignored Hades.

Hades could not expect Apollo to forcibly draw Alcyoneus’ attention towards him in the same way – the younger god would not be a match for the powerful giant by himself even at full strength, let alone with two of his domains compromised – but he hoped Apollo would continue to find at least some methods of assisting, despite his limitations.

He didn’t dare look away from Alcyoneus to see what Apollo was doing, however.  Not when the giant was pressing forwards, staff spinning and whistling through Tartarus’ miasma with all the skill of a master wielder.  Hades stood his ground, however, his recentred mind putting an end to any desperate defensive flailing.

Instead, he pressed forwards in turn, the inky darkness of Stygian Iron leaving voids in its wake as he fought back, no longer panicked but in control as he pushed back, planting himself firmly against the ground and refusing to be driven any further backwards despite the giant’s efforts.

Alcyoneus’ body was a strange thing.  It was alive, in the same bastardised fashion that anything could be considered living in Tartarus, but it was not constructed of flesh and ichor, unlike the rest of his giant brethren.  Instead, it was an amalgamation of precious stones and metals, fused together into a humanoid structure – completed by the typical gigantic serpent feet, which bore his weight well and provided an unfair degree of evasion as they bent and folded in directions ordinary legs never dared to mimic.

Hades – and Pluto perhaps even more so – had always considered that a great insult.  That his greatest bane, the giant created specifically to oppose him, was constructed entirely of his own domains, yet remained outside the realm of absolute control despite his best efforts.  There were things he could do, gemstones and precious metals scattered throughout Alcyoneus’ hair which could be yanked back and tangled, but it was negligible, and frustrating.  He could feel the diamond cluster which made up Alcyoneus’ heart, in this form, but he couldn’t reach them, couldn’t yank them out from within Alcyoneus’ control and pull him apart from within, dismantling his body from the innermost workings outward.

Frustration was not a new feeling against Alcyoneus; it had been millennia since he had last faced the giant in person, having chosen to contribute to his brethren’s assault on the giants from the safety of the Underworld, rather than provoke Zeus’ wrath for some no doubt inane reason – his brother had been on edge quite enough during the entire revival of the giant affair and Hades did not care to become a target through whatever bastardised logic Zeus summoned.  He’d felt Alcyoneus there, of course – it was impossible to miss the feeling of his own bane – but he had not come face to face with him even as he’d split the ground open beneath his feet and thrown him straight back into the Pit.

He could have gone without seeing him a while longer.

Hades seized the gemstones flying around in crimson hair, gesturing with his empty hand and throwing his arm out to the side.  A part of Alcyoneus that actually fell within his domain, that sang out to him like gems of his own, they obeyed his violent gesture and Alcyoneus’ head was yanked viciously to one side.

Letting any advantage slip past untaken in this fight was a recipe for disaster, and Hades lunged forwards, his sword skating off of the vibrant hues of the god’s gemstone body.  He didn’t allow Alcyoneus a moment to recover, hacking and slashing at the giant the instant opportunities presented themselves, seeking a way to break through the brass skin that kept turning away his blade.

A second arrow whistled past him, lodging itself in the mass of red hair.  Behind him, he heard Apollo huff, and surmised that once again the arrow had not gone where Apollo had intended for it to go.

Alcyoneus made a distractedly irritated noise and yanked it out, losing some strands of red in the process, before pinning Apollo with a distant glare.

“Stay out of this, little sun god,” he rumbled.  “You have no power here.”

He threw the arrow like a javelin, straight back at Apollo.  Hades didn’t allow himself to follow the trajectory with his eyes, didn’t allow himself to be distracted as he knocked aside the staff and drove his blade against the elbow of the arm that wielded it.

Alcyoneus’ grip slacked slightly, and Hades smashed into the same spot again, side-stepping as the giant snarled and lashed out at him with his other hand, whose fist was adorned with natural knuckledusters in the form of diamond and adamantine, sharp and solid materials that would break for nothing and cause a lot of damage even to Hades if they connected.

The damnable staff did not fall from his grip, Hades’ forced evasion giving the giant a chance to re-adjust, and whirled around again.

It was made of metal, a dull iron that twinged only weakly against Hades’ senses – the only part of his opponent that didn’t shriek out ostentatiously, gloating at being a part of his domain and yet uncontrollable.  No; while iron was of the earth, it was neither riches nor of the Underworld, and sat tauntingly on the edge of his domain, closer indeed to Hephaestus’ forging.  Alcyoneus had chosen it specifically, millennia ago, for that exact reason; Hades could not lay claim to it through his domains, could not yank it away from him or stop it.

It crashed into the side of Hade’s jaw, clipping below where the Helm protected him, and the sheer force of it annihilated his jaw, splattering ichor everywhere.

Chapter 22>>

[alicenaivory]

•⊱ 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 •⊱ (written 2019)

[The absence or cessation of life or existence. That’s nothingness. People fear the nothingness of death or having nothingness of a life without meaning.

I tried my hardest to fill that void until it no longer ceased to exit. I failed every time, repeating the patterns that left me with the nothingness and the longing.

How is it that the people we love have a tendency of hurting us the most? That loving people, caring for them and protecting them could be a downside that destroys you.

Each of my problems were ignited by giving too much. I did anything to fill the void, block out the sound of silence. It’ll drive anyone crazy if all is heard is nothing.

“The void you need to be filled isn’t through sex and this meaningless violence...

it’s in your heart.”

The words of my own flesh and blood was stuck in my mind, playing like a repeat. I can see the image of him so vividly. His long blonde hair that stopped above his shoulders as he flipped it and judged me.

As if he would ever have the right...

I can’t help but think life would’ve been easier or more bearable If he was in it. Now that he’s revealed himself, he had no agenda other than reminding me I was the pit of nothingness.

They all think that I’m nothing.

How come /everyone/ thinks that I am nothing?!

I never got the answers and I needed them.

What is so wrong with me?

The fog tonight makes it harder for most humans to see in the distance. Due to enhanced abilities I’m privileged to seeing everything.

I feel it on me strong. An urge to feed, turn, then make them feed and then I’d feed on them all over again.

There’s an itch in my throat that I can’t scratch. My gums have an aching worsening by the hour.

It was then that I remembered why I was out here and pacing along an empty road. It was quiet, very few cars passed at night. This is the easiest way to catch someone without fearing an audience. Not that I cared too much because I’d just kill them too.

I was never one to keep my rage contained. I left trails that didn’t lead anywhere but the chase was fun. I retract from my thoughts as I hear shouting

“Donovan, please! You’re just drunk stop it!”

A woman’s voice shouts from a distance, I capture that it might be coming from up the road. The faint commotion makes me feel compelled to get closer.

After all I was out here to haunt.

In vampiric enhanced speed I follow their voices, stopping once I’m close enough to see the white car swerved on the side of the road.

There’s a man outside the car he has dark ravenous messy hair and a leather jacket clinging to his upper masculine half of his body. I catch the scent of his intoxication, he’s filled with beer and Hennessy.

I notice a tear in his jacket, there’s sign of struggle. He has specks of blood on his jacket it looks like he might’ve shot someone. Those were just assumptions.

The couple is still fighting and this is all looking familiar to me... why?

“Get out, Candace!”

He swings open her passenger door, stepping aside to give her the opportunity that she doesn’t want to take.

“No, why are you doing this?”

I take a moment to check out the woman, she’s beautiful with long blonde hair...

Something about her almost reminds me of myself. “Get out of the fucking car, Candace!” He snaps again at her but this time she snaps back.

“Why?! So you can leave me in the middle of no where? Donovan I do everything for you, I’ve given up everything! I do everything you ask I—“

The male reaches inside the car, gripping a hand full of her blonde tresses. She winces in pain to express her discomfort, he pulls her out of the car, forcing her up against the back of the door.

“It was your choice to stand by me. You were fun and all at first but now I ain’t really feeling it anymore. Whatever I need to finish I’ll do it alone” He yanks himself away from her but she hopelessly follows behind him, running in front of the driver door to keep him at a halt.

“You can’t leave me, Donovan, please..” her voice cracks as tears stream down each of her cheeks.

“I don’t even know where we are!” He doesn’t answer her, she realizes that has to get him to care. “I swear if you leave me here I will contact everyone and tell them everything you’re doing! I’ll take you down!” Her words sparked his anger instead, he strikes her across the face with a closed fist. He’s wearing a ring that gashed across the top of her brow, blood gushes from the wound.

My nostrils flare at the scent of her blood, dark veins pulsing underneath eyelids. I can taste her fear and smell his rage. I want to use them both for what I craved but something was stopping me. I didn’t want to intervene, not yet.

This reminded me so much of when my maker @BalkyVarlet nearly killed me. The night he stole my daylight ring and left me in the middle of no where to burn once the sunset.

The woman collides with the ground, her hands meeting the concrete cement to catch herself. Donovan stands over her “Didn’t have to end this bad, Candace. I’m not worried about you making calls... least not tonight anyway.” He snatches her phone from her pocket, throwing it as far as he could and wherever it landed it would shatter.

I was predator and far from a hero yet my humanity was nagging at me. Feeling like I should spare her from whatever he was about to do.

I rolled my eyes upward, pushing my pride to the side and sauntering towards them. My heels clicking against the ground grabs both of their attention collectively. My long leather trench coat is hanging open, revealing leather pants and a tight blouse.

They search through the fog for the sight of me and I was always one for sore eyes.

“Who’s out there?!” He panicked while reaching behind him to grab a gun he had hosted in his pants. I scoffed softly and shocked my head.]

Monster, bitch, vampire...

it all depends on who you’re asking.

[I come fully into their view, his eyes look me up and down. “Well, hello...” he gives me his most charming smile. I clicked my tongue once against the roof of my mouth, amused by his change of mood. I use enhanced speed, placing my hand on the nape of his neck and gripping it tight.]

Minus the Hennessy and you’ll reek of toxic masculinity.

[I proceeded in smashing his head against the hood of car. He hit the damp ground half conscious, I kick his gun far from him when he reached for it. I kicked him in the side, sharp heels slicing the fabric of his shirt and cutting his flesh. The impact hard and powerful to keep him on the ground.

I turn my attention to the woman and she’s panting on the ground, crawling backwards.

I knew she was afraid. I sauntered towards her, using my heeled stiletto shoe to step on her ankle and stop her from moving. Out of natural reaction she finds the voice to scream.

“Please, please! Don’t hurt me!”

I kneeled down to pick her up by her forearm, pressing her against my frame in the process. My manicured fingers grip her jawline, turning her head to the right to be near where he gashed her forehead with his ring. I use the tip of my tongue to collect the blood from the wound. I can taste her pain in the process it made my tongue tingle. I ignore the way she squirmed and screamed in my arms.]

Poor, Candace...

[I whispered like she wasn’t even in front of me. I place my hand over her mouth to silence her.]

Stop screaming. You’re waking the birds. The owls aren’t even whooing at this hour.

[I release her from my grip completely, she’s breathing heavily. The sound of her heartbeat was louder than her screams once were.]

I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t say the same for him. You are his rock but he’s not yours. You know that right?

[“You..

I-I-I mean yeah. I know that.” She’s still shaking, teeth starting to chatter. I realize the temperature is low for what she’s wearing.]

You deserve better than that and he knows but he’ll still take advantage of it.

[I walk backwards towards the male who’s wincing in pain by the car. He’s resting up on his elbows now, glaring at me with those baby blue eyes. I can see why she was willing to do anything for that beautiful face. “When I get up you better bet that you’re a dead bitch.” He grunted.]

I’m going to give you the choice I didn’t have, Candace.

The keys are still in the ignition.

You can either leave with him or without.

[“I- I ca- I can’t leave him! I mean Wh- what will you do to him if I leave him?” I see tears running down both of her cheeks, she’s terrified of me regardless of how calm I try to make her. How could she be calm? I moved like a ghost before her eyes.

As much as I wanted to be subtle with her, I’m starting to lack the patience here.

“Candace!” He grunted while sitting up more once he’s collected his strength again.]

Whatever I do to him is nothing you’ll have to witness. Not unless you want to.

[I use my right heeled shoe to press it against his shoulder, forcing him back to the ground and keeping him there.]

Before you choose think carefully. Donovan was going to leave you out here. No cell phone, no jacket. Who’s to say if you would’ve came across help?

[I captured her lost gaze, she reminded me so much of a child who needed guidance. Someone who couldn’t function right all on their own.]

If you take him who’s to say he won’t wake up and still leave you?

[Candace broke into more tears, slow and with caution she makes her way towards the car and opening door. I didn’t know what she would choose, usually humans are predictable. I watch her turn to look at me again “I’m going to leave...” she said almost silently and I raised my brow at her.

“Without him..”

I wasn’t expecting that, I’m intrigued that she didn’t want to take him when she was given the choice. Had it been me and Damon I would’ve taken him with me in a heartbeat. Donovan is squirming beneath me and yet still I managed to hold him down effortlessly.

“You bitch! You better not leave me here!” He tried to threaten her but it was too late. A smirk crept upon my red lips, nearly devilishly as I catch her green gaze again.

“Thank you.”

Candace said while expelling a long shaking sigh. Those two words, as simple as they were, I hadn’t heard them in a long time. I never had someone look at me the way she has an actually mean it. They felt heartwarming and reassuring. I felt more linked to who I was beyond my pain...

The Alice I use to be.

Oh did I feel so fat from her.

Candace saw the side that everyone assumed I lacked. I was good at convincing peopleI felt nothing. Most of the time I didn’t and it wasn’t because my humanity switch was off. It was because I detached myself from my feelings through my cruelty but I’m finally feeling something again.

Empathy...

I hold her gaze a little longer to free her of her guilt.]

I wasn’t here. Donovan had too many drinks. He tried to hurt you and when he got out the car you managed to lock the doors and take off. Now go.

[I saw her pupils dilated as she’s taken back by the compulsion. She gets into the car in confusion. I wait until she puts the car in drive, the tires rub against the ground when she’s speeding off.

I take my foot off the struggling male, giving him the opportunity to stand on his two feet. “Candace doesn’t have a license she doesn’t even fucking drive!” Donovan snaps while placing his fingers against his head, there’s a wound from where I smashed his head against the roof of his car. He collects the blood on the tips of his finger.

“This is bullshit!”]

Mild concussion.

[“What now? You’re going to try kill me?” He threw his hands in the air, stumbling back a little. He’s starting to sober up from all the booze he’s taken.]

As if the taste of you will ever satisfy my thirst.

Instead I want you to find your way home...

that’s if you can survive in this state.

[I expelled a soft chuckle from my lips, placing both my hands into my coat pockets for warmth that I really didn’t need.]

I want you to think really hard about the way you treated Candace. Then you can come up with some apology and hope she forgives you.

[With those last words I turn on my heels to walk away. I had no interest in anything else he had to say. I ignored him like he wasn’t there. As I’m turning away there’s a sudden blur in my vision.

Something isn’t right. I don’t feel right. I close my eyes several times until my vision cleared. When my vision cleared I’m looking down at my hands and they are red. My fingers are soaked in blood.

The white Dodge Charger is still here, engine running. I glance down at Donovan, his throat is violently torn open, limbs twisted out of place with the last bit of life fluid inside him leaking out.

I look behind me and there was Candace, her neck wound identical to his but every limb of hers intact.]

No...

[I whispered as I walked closer to her body, she’s lifeless and it looks like she has been for the last ten minutes. I must’ve blacked out, I can’t remember but I’m catching glimpses. I stepped between the fight and then I attacked them both... I think... it’s still a blur.

I must’ve went into another illusive state due to vampire blood. The epitome of everything that is /wrong/ with me. Feeding from my own kind wasn’t as harmless as human blood, it was more intoxicating. It’s effects were like a drug. It challenged what I heard, what I seen and felt. The worst part about it was it was addicting, I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.

I thought I saved her and I really wanted to save her.

I take several steps back, looking away from her only to be caught by my reflection bouncing off their tinted car window. Crimson covered my mouth, specks of it on my clothing and only then did I see the truth.

I saw the monster in the pit of nothingness, like nothing was left inside of her.

I felt like screaming, wanting so badly not to care. I blacked out and I hardly remembered everything that happen. Now I couldn’t fix what I had done. I can never fix anything that I had broke.

I don’t want to live like this anymore...

I don’t think I can.

Maybe that’s why my maker would rather meet the sun and turn to ash than go through this. The difference is he had me but here I was suffering through it all alone.]

[acourtofthought]

"I wasn't dragging him down, It was just a quote! Y'all are too much".

It's coming from the same people who scream bloody murder when we say that Azriel doesn't think beyond sexual fantasies when he thinks of Elain, which is also a canon quote and unlike the quotes that they use against elucien, ours aren't out of context.

I don't think anything pisses me off more than being gaslighted.

I'm not a complete idiot. I do fairly well with reading comprehension and I also understand that meaning of words.

If you (not YOU you, my sweet Anon, but the YOU you were referring to that made those comments) didn't mean to say what you said than choose your words more carefully. Otherwise don't go and act like we're foolish for interpreting what you said in the only real way it can be interpreted.

And the problem was never the quote, it was the twisting of the situation to make the quote fit a hidden agenda of putting Lucien down.

I like Az, I genuinely do. I think I'll like him more if he actually ends up with Gwyn because her personality brings up the best in Az but regardless, I don't dislike him even now. But trying to pit him as the better Male against Lucien seems like a fools errand.

Az had a horrific childhood but you know what happened once he turned 11? He found friends, brothers in Rhys and Az. And though they were separated for a period of time they were eventually reunited and have been in one anothers lives for centuries. Close to 500 years based off their age and subtracting the years they were apart. And since then, Mor, Cassian, Amren, and Rhys have been constants in his life save for the time Rhys was UTM. But even then, Az was safe and secure in his home in Velaris. Sure unrequited love sucks but for the most part he's had stability and people who love him yet he's still full of rage and disobedience and now a bit of entitlement.

Lucien, on the other hand, was witness to domestic violence as a child. His brothers and father hated him and that fact was well known. Then the female he loved and who loved him in return (the only unconditional love he probably experienced in his life aside from his mother) was murdered in front of him. Being tortured yourself in a fantasy book is horrific but watching someone you love being tortured and having to live with that your whole life? There are no words. We're not just talking about pining for a female here. We're talking about removed from the world, never to see her smile again and knowing that you were powerless to save her because you were held down. He was chased out of his home and ended up in a neighboring Court where he had high hopes of finding a new life and family. And how did that work out? OK at first but then his friend basically ordered him not to have an opinion, physically assaulted him, was expected to play nice with a female who harassed and SA him, had his eye ripped out by Amarantha, and was chased out of yet another home on top of his brothers trying to once again murder him. Yet through all of that. Throughout the centuries of pain and suffering and never having a place where he truly belonged he manages to apologize for the mistakes he's made along the way, he is willing to look past prejudices he may have once had, help someone he spent years convinced was the enemy, fight against instincts that try their best to control him, give Elain distance because he realized it's what she needs even though it was clearly not what he wants and has not once forced her to make a decision about their bond.

If someone feels the need to tear apart a male like that just so their ship can look better than I'd say the odds of your ship becoming reality is in some serious danger.

[songbirdsingingthings]

You and Your Everything - Shouto Todoroki x Reader

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to Kohei Horikoshi

MHA Masterlist - Main Masterlist

WARNINGS: Your parents being the absolute worst, a few minor curse words, a lil angsty

Requested by Anonymous:

HI i love your writing and i saw that your requests were open? i was wondering if you could do like a shoto x reader but instead y/ns parents are like the opposite of shoto and endeavor? like for an example how shoto wants nothing to do with his dad and and all y/n wants to do is please her parents or make them happy since they never pay attention to her like that? both house holds are still toxic but i feel like thatd be an interesting dynamic

A/N: This was so interesting and cool to write! Obviously, the subject matter was much angstier and sadder than a lot of the stuff I have written, but I found writing this, like, entire paragraph of dialogue of Shouto (you’ll know it when you see it) to be so entirely incredible. I just kept on writing. Thank you so much for this awesome rec!

Word Count: 1.8K

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Kana Y/L/N. Please leave a message. BEEP”

“Hi Mom, it’s me again. Just calling to remind you that third years are allowed to reserve a box for their parents in the Sports Festival arena! I saved one for you and Dad in the front row, which are the best seats in the whole place. The Festival takes place tomorrow, as I told you guys about three months ago so you could put it on your calendars. I’m, uh, looking forward to seeing you again! Love you, bye!” Pressing the red circle that represented an “end call” button, you heaved a sigh and looked through your recent calls. Nine recent calls that your mother had missed within the last three days. Ten that your father had. They’re just busy, you tell yourself, trying to ease your mind. They’re just busy right now, but they had said that they’d come. They’ll come. Your thoughts had consumed you to such a point you didn’t even register the little nudges to your side.

“.../N? Y/N?” You blinked quickly to rid your consciousness of its prior dilemma and turn your head to the side. With heterochromatic eyes blinking fondly at you matched with a slight frown of concern, your boyfriend prompts the same question that had earlier feel upon deaf ears. “Y/N, I was asking if you are alright. You seemed a little… not here when I asked you just a minute ago.” Shouto’s voice, like always, is level, however little hints of emotion always tend to slip in between the cracks of his pronunciations. Like now, for instance, you hear the traces of worry cling onto his words.

“Oh, sorry, I was just leaving a voicemail.” You say simply. The sentence that left your mouth would seem normal to any person that you were friendly with. However, Shouto knew the implications. His shoulders seemed to tense as he took your hand. You squeeze his hand to reassure him. “Don’t worry Sho, they’re just really busy people. I’m sure they definitely carved time out of their schedules to come and watch me. I just need to make sure I get into the tournament round so I don’t waste their time.” You say, laughing a little dryly. Shouto doesn’t smile at the joke you made at your own expense.

“I just don’t get it.” He says, which makes your smile drop into a frown. “Why do you try so hard for them.” Your spine straightens at his words and your grip on his hand loosens. “Y/N, they’re awful people-”

“They’re my parents and I want to make them proud.” You say swiftly, a slight grimace on your face. Silence settles between the two of you, that is, until you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. Jumping up immediately and grabbing your phone, you take a glance at the caller ID. Your heart sinks as you see it’s a random telemarketer, and click decline call. You look back to your boyfriend, which was a mistake, because his eyes pooled with pity. Not feeling quite right in the space you were in, you grab your school bag and stuff your phone the furthest down it would go. “I’m going to go freshen up before dinner.” You decide, nodding towards Shouto and walking away a bit.

“Do you want me to come with you?” His suggestion on a normal basis would make your face flush and your heart beat a bit faster, however today you just wanted to be alone for a bit.

“No, it’s okay,  I’ll see you at dinner.” You say quickly.

“Y/N.” His grip came softly around your wrist, tugging you back a bit to face him. “I’m… I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I just love you,” he said those last two words a bit softer than the others, “and I want to see you happy.” Butterflies took flight in the pit of your stomach as you held Shouto’s gaze, his heartfelt and earnest words weighing heavily within your heart. Your frown wobbles into a smile as you lean in to place a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I know.”

“Did you see me out there?!” You cheer, careening down the arena hallway towards where Shouto was waiting with open arms. You leapt directly into them and was quickly picked up and spun around in a little circle.

“I did, you were incredible.” Shouto gushes, his cheek squished against yours. You laughed joyously as you felt his arms squeeze you closer to him, your heart racing with both leftover adrenaline from your second round tournament match and the feeling of love from your boyfriend. However, your laughter and the embrace you were tucked into died down when you heard the faint clearing of a throat, causing both of you to turn towards the sound. If you were looking into a mirror, you’re sure you would see your eyes grow to the size of saucers and your jaw dropping just a tad at the sight before you. There, standing about ten paces away, were your parents. Your mother, with her hair tied back in an uncomfortable looking bun with her freshly pressed pencil skirt and matching career jacket. Your father at her side, his suit and pants looking as sharp as ever. And the expressions they held…

“M-mother? Father? You two made it?” You stammer out, dumbfounded at their appearance. “But I, uh, didn’t see either of you in the stands.” You admit, earning a nonchalant expression from both parents.

“Well, with that lackluster performance that you executed, did you really think we would want to show our faces? It’s bad enough our colleagues know of you and all your little failures that you like to categorize as triumphs. Honestly, you really thought that we would want to be on camera for the entire world to see?” Your mother’s bored tone and biting words struck you hard. You felt your spine straighten and your hands stick to your side as you bit the inside of your cheek.

“But… I won.” You said, so soft that the sound of someone’s heartbeat could overpower it. If your gaze wasn’t stuck to your parents’ forms, you would have seen Shouto’s eyebrows narrow, awaiting for the oncoming onslaught.

“Good Lord, you want to call that a win? It makes me wonder how you ever got into this school or passed any physical examination in your class.” Your father’s tone, just as bored and apathetic as your mother’s, sent trembles down your spine. You clenched your fists and jaw to try and prevent crying. But, of course, it was of no use. The tears trickled their way, one by one, down your cheek like raindrops on a car window.

“And you’re crying now. Fantastic.” Your mother retorts, turning her to your father now. “I told you we should have sent her directly to the Hero Public Safety Commission. Would’ve toughened her up in no time-”

“CAN’T YOU SEE SHE’S UPSET?!” You almost didn’t recognize his voice. The soft spoken, pensive Shouto Todoroki that you knew to be your boyfriend rarely got upset. When he did, it was almost always in the middle of a battle or fight, just as he was about to use a special move. But this time, it was pure rage and anger that clung onto his words. Your parents, now sprouting an expression of slight surprise turned their attention to the seething red-and-white haired boy at your side. “All she ever does is work to make you happy. Day and night, twenty-four seven, it’s for you. And now here you come, strutting back into her life with some agenda on how she should fight and how much of a so-called failure she is?! Well screw that! You don’t get to have an opinion when it comes to her! She has been trying to get a hold of both of you for months on end and getting no more than the same damn message from your voicemails, telling her that you’re too busy for her!” Shouto’s face was red now. His fists were balled up and the tiniest flecks of flames were flaking from his left side. “And then, you’re now finally here, and you come with this holier-than-thou attitude! Y/N L//N, your daughter, is the most incredible and capable person I have met in my entire life. The fact that a person like her can rise like a phoenix from the ashes that is your attitudes and parenting styles is a miracle, because in every way, shape and form, she will forever be a marvel. To me, to our classmates, and to the entire world. I just can’t wait to see the look on your sorry asses when the time comes for her to give her thank you speech after becoming the number one hero, and you don’t hear either of your names mentioned once.” The silence is deafening after Shouto finishes speaking. You feel your whole body trembling and can recognize that there are tears falling down past your cheeks, but nothing else. Nothing else, until that constricting feeling that you felt bound to you to your parents’ approval starts to loosen the moment Shouto takes your hand in his. 

“Let’s go.” Your words, merely more than a whisper, is all it takes for Shouto to wrap and arm around your waist as he marches past your dumbstruck parents, towards a private room. The second Shouto clicks the lock shut, you let yourself break down. Sobs racked your body as you clung onto his shirt, his arm, and his love. “They’re supposed to be my parents. How… I can’t even do anything.” You hiccup into his tear-stained gym uniform, the one identical to yours (without the blotches of tears).

“Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re fine.” Shouto says, his reassuring words grounding you. “You will get through this whole… mess, okay? I know you can. All you need to do is take it one day at a time.” You nod into his chest and let your head lie there as the tears finally started to cease from falling.

“You, uh, probably have to get ready for your match, right?” You sniff, moving one of your hands up to your face to rub at your nose.

“I’m fine here.” Shouto says, wrapping his arms around you. “Y/N, you really were incredible out there. Do not let them make you think otherwise.” You nod again as you feel Shouto begin to play lightly with your hair. “You are enough. More than, in fact. They might think otherwise, but I don’t. I love you, and your smile, and your everything.” You were too fried emotionally to say anything back, but Shouto knew. He knew that it would take time to finally break from your parents’ psychological hold over you and that he would always be there at your side.

[skylarmoon71]

Eobard Thawne (Flash) - Chapter 11

It was a bit of a shock to everyone that his appearance just changed overnight.

Caitlin is doing a survey to ensure everything is functioning correctly. You take notice of the cautious way she moves around him. You can’t exactly blame her.

“Everything seems to be fine.”

She says softly. Making her notes, she steps away from him. Eobard rolls his shoulder, pulling on his jacket.

“So what is on the agenda today. More villains to catch.”

Cisco holds back a laugh, sipping at his tea.

“I think you had enough action yesterday. Don’t leave Star Labs.” From Barry’s tone, it isn’t a request.

“Don’t get cocky.” Eobard taunts. Barry looks like he’s about to react, and you step between them, glaring at Eobard.

“Why are you trying to pick a fight?”

He looks down at you, and there’s that irritated look again. After you left the room, he’d been acting especially moody, and you aren’t sure why. It makes you a bit concerned.

“Eobard, Is something wrong with you?” You reach for him, but he speeds backward, out of your reach.

“I’m not some puppet. I agreed to comply, nothing more.” He runs out, and your eyes grow wide. Barry chases after him, and now everyone is in a panic.

“Barry!”

You call out to him, because this feels so sudden. You’d been so sure that he was changing. Caitlin rushes to track their whereabouts. They’re just running around the city.

“Barry take a right, you can cut him off at the bridge." So he does, and you follow, leaving Caitlin and Cisco in the cortex.

Speeding through the streets, you feel a sense of dread. When you catch sight of Barry, you follow eagerly. He makes an abrupt stop, and so do you. Eobard is standing on the other side of the bridge.

“Thawne!”

Barry’s voice is filled with rage.

“Still too slow Flash.”

Eobard is right in front of him in a matter of seconds, and he throws a punch, Barry retaliates, throwing his own. You feel a bit frozen. Their hits go back and forth, and the pain in your chest is so much stronger now.

“Please stop..”

You take a step forward, and you feel like crying, but you bite your lip. Once again you’re on the sidelines. Watching this unfold. Once again you’re useless in the face of a dangerous situation.

“Why are you doing this!” You scream.

Eobard halts his attacks, standing at a distance. Barry pauses, fist still clenched.

“The only reason you did this is because of some vision of the future. You played me.”

You can’t offer any denial.

“How did you..”

“This body, when I returned, I started getting those visions. The same ones you must have been getting for weeks. Yet you said nothing.”

He has a right to be angry. You know that. You should have been honest from the start. But you wanted to help him, so you convinced yourself you were protecting him. But you were selfishly protecting yourself.

“Were you trying to make a point? Betrayal is a cycle. Well I hope you realize I got the message. I’m a monster. That won’t change. I’ll become the monster I’ve always been destined to be. Death is the only end, I’ve already accepted that."

He looks like he’s about to run off and do who knows what. Possibly disappear from your life.

Forever.

You bolt over, grabbing his arm. He looks astonished that you’d even made a move.

“You’re not a monster.”

Not anymore.

You’re crying, it’s impossible to hold back now. Just the thought of him leaving has a pit forming in his stomach.

“It isn’t fair.”

He thinks.

You know he won’t be able to stay resolute when you look at him like that.

“I know I lied, but my feelings aren't some product of a vision. Maybe it did start out that way but I..” You sob.

“I do care about you Eobard. I think you can be good if you try hard enough, y-you don’t have to be a monster. You can change.”

He wants to believe it, more than anything.

“Do you love me?”

At this point, everyone else can just listen. Barry has to say that he wonders the same. From the beginning, you were more open to him than any of them. He told himself it was because you hadn’t been exposed to him the way they were. But that wasn’t truly it. He could see it now, every time you looked at him, defended him.

“I do.”

There was no hesitation, or doubt.

Eobard turns to you.

“Tell me.”

“I love you! Eobard I love you!!” Your eyes are shut as you scream it. You need to get it out.

“I love you so please don’t-” He pulls you into his chest. Your eyes open, and you’re a bit stunned.

“If you can love someone like me, then I suppose it's possible for me to become something better.”

Your shoulders shake a bit, and you hold unto him.

[magebastard]

think of everything you’ve got

characters: detective lane wheatley, rebecca wheatley

rating: T

word count: 1.9k

warnings: allusions and references to panic attacks, and description of a panic attack, negative mother daughter relationship

notes: this isn’t what i wanted to write! but the more i rewrote it the more i wanted to write about a confrontation! am I projecting? do I need catharsis? we’ll never know! this is lightly edited so I’ll probably reread and continuously edit it because I’m a nightmare alive

She should have known.

Lane decides on a day of romance. After a kind, if uneasy, conversation over the phone with Adam-

���I don’t want you to think I’m not taking my position seriously. I am, you know? Always.”

“That’s not in doubt, Detective. There are no pressing matters to attend to. We’re seeing a lull in cases that need our full attention urgently.”

“Though you and I both know I should be training, or in the lab, or the library or-“

“And I won’t argue that. My job is to care for the needs of the team, even if I’d recommend otherwise. Take the Saturday, Detective.”

A tense pause.

“Thank you, Commanding Agent.”

Lane would swear she’d heard a huff of laughter.

“Notify us if something comes up.”

Lane decides to treat herself to a day of being loved and cared for. A day to woo the good detective.

It starts with a long walk to the lighthouse, then a trip to see Haley for a cup of coffee, a bath with a second mug of coffee, a movie marathon that will play in the background as she restores a busted casiotone found unloved and abandoned on the side of the road with an additional two cups of coffee.

She’s halfway through coffee number three when she hears the knock.

Lane isn’t paranoid by nature. In fact, some would say she’s overly trusting. The way she cannot help but squash her face against the peephole with abject discomfort at the sound of a rapping at her door is new, and stands out in the way that it feels unnatural. She’d never had a reason to fear before.

In this moment, the new habit is one that she’s grateful for. Standing so tall with her shoulders squared so straight, stoicism and edge in equal, unsettling measure right outside of her apartment door is Rebecca. Fuck, actually.

Lane is wearing a ripped t-shirt from a pizza place in the city and paint stained utility overalls. She is winded from brushing the dust from individual keyboard keys. She is hyperaware of how sweaty she probably is, and that her apartment may look like a mess because it absolutely is one.

A showdown with Agent Wheatley was not on her agenda.

To not answer the door would be the obvious maneuver. Crouch down, not unlike a gargoyle and wait out the danger until it’s safe to move again.

The wonder of why Rebecca is here in the first place is a jarring thing.

It hasn’t been the most comfortable situation; constantly rebuffing her attempts at motherly affection. In all honesty, it’s been harrowing in just how awkward it’s made Lane feel.

She doesn’t know what was expected of her. Rebecca has made it painfully obvious over the years. All twenty seven of them. No calls, rare visits, stunted conversation, general lack of interest. Lane can read a room.

Rebecca is not her mom. She wasn’t when Lane needed her to be, she’s certainly not going to reap any of the benefits of Lane’s company now. That ship sailed.

Yet here she is, again, waiting dockside.

If there’s an emergency, surely she would have called. Surely someone else would have been instructed to call. It’s got to be something benign. Something uncomfortable. Lane could ignore this. She could ignore this and get away with it. She could and should ignore this.

Weighted moments pass. There’s a decision made and a plan already enacted to wait this out.

Lane unlocks and opens the door.

There’s a disconnect between the woman, posturing and severe in the peephole and the slight woman wearing mom jeans and the lines of a worried frown etched so deeply in her face who stands nearly hunched before her. Chalk it up to perspective. There’s a realization that no one has said a word and seconds are passing between them.

“May I come in?”

“You’re wearing jeans.”

“I am wearing jeans.”

“I didn’t know you owned jeans.”

Barely the quirk of a brow. “Some of the more delicate aspects of my private life should remain as such.”

It’s horrid and hilarious that Lane almost remembers her this way. Dry wit. Photographs of a woman who looks like her, wearing jeans. A man she cannot recognize in the countless stories she’s heard from neighbors and friends. These images and ideas of people who were her family. Ghosts.

Lane steps aside, allowing Rebecca to pass.

It doesn’t escape her, the way she assesses the space. It’s not the first time she’s been around, but the mess is new. A shuffle of furniture. Decisions to change everything made in the clawing heat of panic.

“Is something wrong?” The effort to keep impatience out of her words seems too pointed to be professional.

“I thought I’d say hello while I was close by.”

“Interesting.” There’s ease in familiarity. The breaths they take are short and punched, the taciturn ebb and flow of their understanding each other. There’s nothing polite about it and it hangs over them like a storm ready to crack open. Somehow it’s easier.

Lane wishes Rebecca had worn a suit. There is something clinical and apart about her when she wears a suit. A silhouette and an authority. Now, she’s a mother wearing jeans, with shaking hands. It’s real, that she’s here—that she’s around. It’s not supposed to be real. A drop-in from Mom isn’t supposed to level her this way. Was finding out that vampires existed this much of a revelation? She cannot remember now.

“Well, hello to you, too. As you can see I’ve got a lot going on.” Lane gestures, vaguely. “I should get back to it, so-“

“Do you need help?”

“Absolutely not,” she says it before realizing it might be cruel. Rebecca winces in a way that suggests that the suits may be the secret to her armor, after all. It’s a separate jarring thing that Lane is nearly desperate to get her out of the apartment after barely minutes.

“Look, it’s just-“ she breaks off with a heavy sigh bringing her hands to the back of her neck, gripping. “It’s my day off. I don’t want to think about work-“

“We don’t need to talk about work-“

“No.” It’s a hard line. It’s heavy in her mouth. Lane does not hold grudges. They’re exhausting and you’d give yourself less ache clinging to a barbed wire with both hands.

“I’m tired,” Lane says because it’s true in so many ways.

“Me too,” Rebecca replies and, yes, she can believe that.

This is exhausting.

“You came to say hello and then, what?” She drops her hands. “What did you want?” What do you want from me goes unsaid, again and again.

Shifting from foot to foot in the most unprecedented display of visceral uncertainty, Rebecca looks unfathomably human.

“I just want to be your Mom,” she says quietly, pleadingly, and it’s frightening—the way that Lane’s vision goes near completely white for a moment. It’s a blistering anger and her blood rushes like a rapid tide. It’s a thin sheet of ice cracking over a rolling current. She thinks she kicks a wall. She doesn’t remember.

“You can’t be!” And Lane doesn’t mean to shout. She hates feeling this way. There’s a helplessness that accompanies rage—surrendering to it doesn’t feel like a choice. Only a realization, after the fact. It’ll be disappointing to Lane, later, that her years of carefully cultivated numbness were completely dismantled by a quick check-in from Rebecca.

“Why not?” Is shouted back, like guiding breath to a lone ember. Lane begins to pace, taking short strides.

“You don’t get to choose between the child and the twenty-seven year old, you know? You didn’t choose me, then. The time, and time again of then, you didn’t call, you let me think that I—a child—meant nothing. I had to work on healing from that. I think I did an alright job.” She’s rambling. Rebecca looks about two feet tall. It hurts. It feels like she’s going to be sick but she cannot stop.

“I ended up just like you. Sometimes I think I recognize you because of that. Sometimes, I missed you so much, I couldn’t breathe.” She blinks against the burn in her eyes. Rebecca has stepped toward the door. She looks afraid. Wounded. Ready to bolt.

“I still feel like the kid standing in the middle of the street, screaming for my Mom—I still have to feel that way!” Stop shouting. Someone’s going to come check on you. You’ll have nothing to say, no way to explain yourself. Lane swallows around the pit in her throat.

“But I don’t-” she tries. “I don’t miss you. I don’t know you. I let myself be happy. You—who chose—you have to live with that.”

The paleness and thinness of Rebecca’s skin is suddenly alarming. Lane feels like a monster. Guilt coils around her in thick tendrils. Holding her.

“You have to understand-“

“You have to understand!” A heaving breath. “I didn’t choose. I never got that chance. I’m choosing now. You don’t want me. You don’t care about me. You want a second chance,” Lane throws her arms out. “I’m just a person.” Rebecca looks briefly like she wants to argue, but she sees it. Lane sees, with a painful, unmistakable clarity what she’d been equal parts terrified of and anticipating; uncertainty. Debate. Conflict. It’s reassuring and gutting all at once. The risk of being right has never had such high stakes.

“There’s no second chance. I’m an adult, with my own life. Seized and uprooted by vampires, literally, but a life that’s mine. That I found,” she lays a hand, gently over her chest. Her heart slams against her sweating palm. “I made this. It’s my choice, now.”

Her mother swallows hard. The visage of Agent Wheatley festers in terrible silence. It’s a croak when she speaks again. “Can I be here—in your life, at all?” It’s a plea. She’s begging. “Somehow?”

An open door is a delicate thing. Vulnerable, breachable, terrifying. Lane clenches her hands tightly into fists. She can be brave. Whatever she chooses, she can be brave.

“I need time. More of it.”

Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut. It’s wrenching. She looks so unbelievably small. This is the most like her Lane has ever felt.

“Okay.” Rebecca’s voice is quiet. It feels like a step has been taken somewhere in some direction. Just vague enough to be uncomfortable.

She goes after that, brittle, giving short nods as if she’s speaking a usual polished ‘goodbye’. The effect is lost in the sickly expression on her face.

Lane feels like she could be carried off by the wind. Her heart feels less like it’s beating than it’s throbbing in her chest, ready to burst. Water. She needs water.

Moving to the cupboards and the sink, her phone is a rattle in her shaking hands. She dials.

“Not that we don’t miss you terribly, but some of us are working, Detective.” Tina’s voice is bright, and warm and Lane realizes with new levity that her feet are still planted on the ground.

“I think I’m going to come in. You can head out for patrol once I’m there, alright?” There’s an understandable pause. A hint of palpable disappointment.

“You’re supposed to be taking a day for yourself, Lane.”

“I know. I was. I need to work.” She hopes beyond hope that Tina does not press for an explanation.

“Sure.” Hesitant, but final. Asked and answered.

“Thanks, T.” For so much more than I can say.

“Always. Haley’s date soon?”

Lane takes a gulp of water, lets the residual anger sit like a stone in her stomach.

“Pick a day. I’ll be there.”

The call ends with pleasantries exchanged. A new knot between her shoulders, and a faint queasiness accompany Lane as she gets ready for work.

[lucky-bucky-boy]

Cruel Summer Pt. II

Summary: Based loosely off of Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift. Huge muse for this part was also Resentment by Kesha. After what was considerably one of the worst nights to ever be lived, things just seem to keep getting worse. Or will they?

Word Count: 2634

Warnings: Angst, lots of fucking angst, the reader talking a lot, manipulative speech, very slight age gap, anxiety, almost ddlg elements but not quite (Please let me know if I missed anything, I will be happy to add on)

A/N: Tags are at the bottom I know this had been long awaited and I’m so sorry it took so long. I had to rewrite the beginning so many times because the first part just seemed to flow so beautifully and I was having troubles encapsulating the grace. Will be added to AO3 at some point. NO spoilers, takes place before the events of Knives out. Read Part One Here

I do not own these characters. Do NOT repost my writing and/or fics anywhere without my written permission. Reblogs, likes, comments, and constructive criticism welcomed and highly appreciated.

Golden rays of sunshine creeped over rooftops, illuminating the room as it fought the cold of the night out that had settled in every crevice - a cold that was a constant reminder of the half empty bed. Soft sheets and expensive pillows that we no better than the pictures that were facedown on the dresser. A light snore and ball of exuberant warmth curled at the end of the unnecessary king size bed that somehow managed to ignite joy while drowning the feeling with sorrow. Even in the early morning hours, just minutes after the sun had risen, there was only one thing to be thought about, one person; Ransom. 

An insistent vibrating disturbed what little peace had fallen over the room, uncharacteristically early to the weekly norm. Even after it would stop, moments later it would begin again and it seemed that it wasn't going to go away anytime soon. A crack in the foundation, a rumbling earthquake that rocked the stability and what had started becoming a little better everyday was ready to crumble and fall. 

Paying attention to details should be a strong suit for someone who had two books published and one in the works - it was a talent that was nearly mastered by this point. But, emotionally drained and foggy brained from the expense that was a Thrombey family dinner, one that would surely be the talk of the family for months, and a restless night filled with discomfort and anxiety left any common sense buried under endless amounts of exhaustion. 

A quick swipe of a thumb, the light press of the cell phone to your ear, and suddenly everything froze. The feeling as if suddenly bathed in freezing water while fiery coals scorched your feet, butterflies lifting your chest higher to cloud nine while a pit opened in your stomach, heart racing with some wild mixture of dread and excitement; "My house at 3. Don't be late, baby girl."

That godforsaken drawl, the smirk that was evident in his voice, the fucking nickname. The line went dead, a heavy silence flooding the room like a tsunami. Thoughts raced in circles, picking apart and trying to guess what he could possibly want. 

Was he going to rub it in your face that he got under your skin? Made your blood boil? Of course he knew how he affected you, he knew you too well, better than anyone would like to admit. An apology? No - that's too far fetched, even after everything Ransom never was the one to apologize, even if he also knew it would be best. Possibly he had gathered the rest of your things, finally ready to rid himself of them. It's not like you took much when he told you to leave, and it was unlikely he would have taken the time himself to go through everything. He probably paid the maid extra to do it overnight so he wouldn't have to.

Either way, after last night, Ransom was the last person you wanted or expected to hear from. The sting of the incident, salt that was rubbed roughly in an aging wound, still fluttered deep in your chest. His words, the family's reaction, the countless notifications still untouched. Nothing anyone could have told you or showed you would have prepared you for what you had felt in that moment. 

Heavy limbs moved numbly but swiftly, mind working like the rusted innards of a clock, slow and almost confused. It didn't make sense as to why he would want to see you, he had done enough damage as is. The confusion quickly boiled over, simmering down to a fluttering anxiety of constant what ifs running their courses through your mind. 

The growing pup stirred at the feel of you moving from the bed, quickly laying his head back down when he saw you trudge into the bathroom. After a much longer than anticipated shower, the feel of the too warm water running down your skin and feeling as though it was washing away every single issue and emotion, a wave a vague normalcy set in. 

For at least a little you could believe this was normal, that it was just like last summer. Get up, get ready for the day, get some work done, then pamper before heading over to see Ransom. Just this time, there was a slightly different agenda. It wouldn't be all heated kisses, starved touches, and craved intimacy, it wouldn't be whispers of sweet nothings and the comfort of a protective embrace - even if every fiber of you craved it like a bad drug, it couldn't happen again, at least not that easily. And who was to say that was even his plan.

Anticipation made the hours go by slower than what was deemed truly plausible, and no matter what the possibilities of what was to come just wouldn't stop taunting every corner of your thoughts. Embarrassingly so you found yourself preparing much earlier than necessary, restyling yourself a handful of times to make sure stunning couldn't even come close to describing how effortlessly perfect you looked. If Ransom wanted to play games, you were determined to have the ball in your field for as long as possible. And to top it off, you made sure that nothing you had on was bought by him. 

But you could only hope that your efforts weren't in vain as you made your way to his house, a place of memories in the middle of pretty much nowhere. An almost 40 minute drive making way for doubts to slowly creep in and settle in the back of your mind. What if he could tell you tried too hard? He could so easily read you, it was as if you were one of your books. Or what if he thought you were trying to impress him? The only time you ever went out of your way to put much effort into your appearance was when you wanted him to really notice you or if he was taking you out. Maybe going in general was a bad idea and this was just some sick joke of his. 

But there was no time to back out as you pulled up in front of the house, his sitting silhouette evident through the glass window. Ransom noticed you immediately, moving to sit whatever was in his hands down and made his way to the door, already standing on the porch before you had even gotten out of your car. 

A slight uneasiness settled between the two of you, his arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows raised as he watched you, almost expectantly. The look was reminiscent of how your parents would stare you down when you were younger, when you had done something wrong. 

You stood outside your car, staring at him and matching his stance, only adding to the annoyance that was written on his face. "What do you want, Hugh?" The irritation in your voice was evident, and you were more than thankful your words didn't fail you. Stomach twisting in intricate knits, chest fluttering, palms becoming clammy; it was a genuine miracle you hadn't tripped over your words. 

His set jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he registered how you spoke to him, how you addressed him, "Just get in here. We need to talk."

A scoff fell from your lips as you made your way inside, "Always the gentlemen, aren't you," you spat, rolling your eyes as you walked towards the kitchen. Despite not intending on staying long, you threw your belongings on the island and leaned against the marble countertop, watching him as he stalked towards you, a nearly predatory look in his eyes. "What exactly do we need to talk about? I feel like last night made our positions pretty fucking clear."

He tsked, shaking his head. "You just don't get it, baby girl, dya?" 

Ransom opened his mouth to talk again but you cut him off, agitation finally bubbling over and bordering on rage, "I don't get it?" The words were hissed out and soaked in utter disbelief, "What exactly don't I fucking get, Ransom? The fact that you like to start shit? Or the fact that months after you told me to get the fuck out, you show up to a dinner you don't ever go to to cause a fucking scene, then tell me to meet you at your house the next day? What twisted memory of yours triggered you to suddenly act like you care about me? Why the fuck couldn't you just leave well enough alone?"

The taught muscles of his jaw twitched, intense blues boring into your own gaze. "You're such a spoilt fucking brat," he groaned out. "We had an agreement. No one was supposed to find out, but you had to go and-"

"I had to go and what?" You cut him off once again, only fueling the tension between the two of you and prodding the beast of emotions that was storming inside both of your bellies, "You are the one who opened your mouth, you are the one who fucking started this, all of this. From that night in the fucking bar, to you telling me I was the best thing to ever happen to you, to opening up your mouth last night. You always start it. And you're just pissed I finished it before you could get me to break in front of you."

A lump in your throat was beginning to form, jaw clenching as you swallowed, a feeble attempt to keep your emotions from getting the best of you. The rage was quickly turning into sorrow and hurt, the fire in your chest turning into an ache that couldn't be ignored, "You're just disappointed I waited until I got home, got away from you, to break down. Because you didn't get the satisfaction of seeing the pain you've caused."

There was a sudden twist in the atmosphere, hurricane breaking for a moment of relief before harsh waves continued to crash against the shore, "You act like I wanted to hurt you," his voice was grim, face painting in slight disgust, "Everything was great between us - You are the one who broke the rules. Not me." 

Ransom's head cocked to the side some, gaze moving over your features quickly, examining and calculating, "And even now," a small huff in disbelief as he shook his head, large hand moving to run through his hair which you had just noticed was free of any products. Odd, even for him. "Even now, you still came, you're still here. And I'm still thinking of giving you another chance."

Something buried deep within you snapped, a flood of pain filling every nerve and forcing tears to well in your eyes. "You're giving me another chance?" Any illusion of resolve and strength that had been built up had disappeared as quick as a snap of fingers, uneven breaths doing their best to keep the floodgates closed. "Ransom, you broke my fucking heart," each word filled with more hurt and distrust than the last, each a cut to the man who stood before you, his face softening as he watched you, "You're not the one here who should be giving out second chances, you're the one who should be receiving them."

The realization hit him, a douse of cold water to the face as his mind worked. Silence, albeit slightly uncomfortable, fell between the two of you as the gravity of the last few moments came crashing down. Just as it became too much to handle, lip quivering as the overwhelming urge to cry started becoming harder to fight off, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you into him. 

Time seemed to slow, a few broken sobs slipping out, body shaking with the force of each one. The natural scent of him filling your senses, no expensive cologne, the feel of the soft sweater an unwanted comfort. Ransom's arms hugged tighter, lips going to your hairline, and staying like that until reality hit you. A weak push, one he could have easily ignored and overpowered, and he stepped away, his features much more readable, looking far more vulnerable. He was much more vulnerable, much more vulnerable than you were ever used to.

Shaky breaths fell from you, trying to clear the fog that was beginning to form over rational thoughts. Wiping your eyes you looked at him, "What exactly is it that you want, Ransom? Why did you really ask me to come over?"

He looked almost taken aback, confused and dazed by the question, but more so by his own train of thought. His mouth opened then closed, repeating the action a few more times before groaning out exasperatedly. "I don't know, for things to go back to how they were?" It sounded far more like a suggestion than an answer. "Come on, (Y/N), we were good together." 

The words came off as if he was trying to convince himself that this was what he wanted. You waited, seeing if he would try to convince you, persuade you like he believed he so easily could, how he used to. "I- No," you shook your head, "I can't do that to myself again, I can't let you do that to me again."

"Do what?" He practically snapped, jaw setting as agitation made home in him once again. He didn't expect it to be so damn hard. He no undoubtedly assumed that he'd immediately have you wrapped around his finger like nothing had changed. "Treat you like a fucking princess? Treat you how you deserve to be treated? You and I both know that you're never gonna be able to find someone who can give you what I gave you, nothing that's going to have that same thrill we did."

Shaking your head you grabbed your bag, throwing it over your shoulder. "See Ransom, you're the one that doesn't get it. I want that more than anything. I want the spontaneous trips and heartfelt gifts. I want the late night conversations and finishing each other's sentences. I would give anything to be on your jet flying to whatever place you're insisting I need to see. I want it all," your voice was practically a whine by the end of it, "But I don't want the sneaking and the hiding. I don't want the separate houses. I don't want lying to everyone."

Running a hand through your hair, you took a shaky breath, trying to calm your nerves. "I need someone who isn't going to just care for me behind a closed door," the calmness of your voice even scared you in the moment, and seeing that Ransom practically froze you could tell he was feeling the same, "I need someone who is going to be there for me how you were, but isn't ashamed of it. That won't get mad when I take cutesy pictures of us on the beach, that won't pretend to hate me in front of their family and friends, that I don't have to pretend is someone else when I'm talking about them. I don't want things to go back to how they were, I want them to be better than they were."

You walked past his nearly frozen stature, heading for the door. "I love you Ransom, and probably always will. But I love myself more than that and I can't let myself be hurt like that again." 

The words echoed off the hallway, ringing in his ears and sitting like a heavy weight on his chest. Your reached for the door, stopping suddenly as his voice reached back out, "Wait - I- fuck," he let out a shaky breath. "Don't leave. Not yet at least. Can we sit and talk over dinner? Please."

Taglist: (Slash through means unable to be tagged)   @sweetlittlegingy @star-spangled-steve @jessiejunebug @fresa-luna @thegirlwithpaperheart @jesaigne @introvertedmouse @sinner-as-saint @sp2900 @qrndevans @dammitcaswhy @livsheph @darcia22 @paranjaperiyauniverse @dramaticsassmaster​ @rose-k @lovemesomeavengers​ @steeeeverogers​ @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall​ @bemysugarbean​ @dreamlesswonder86​ @ambrosixx​ @heyiamthatbitch​ @daazzeey​, @fresa-luna​ @bitchcraftandwitchery​ @thatoneslytherinbeater​ @breezyfreezey @quesadellacatburglar @renxzs​ @imsonick​ @sambucky8​ @honeybabybubba​

[victorsandvanquishers]

The Fall of the House of Usher with the Black Bulls? Bonus points if you add some eerie aura to it, but that is totally up to you! Thank you in advance!

Hello! Thank you for requesting this fic. I took the liberty to apply some more themes from “The Fall of the House of Usher” than just the prompt’s family, eerie, and home themes. Twins, legacy, and of course, the quintessential haunted house, are also explored in this story!

As a sidenote - this fanfic features an ensemble cast, but primarily revolves around Secre and Zagred. Happy reading, and thank you again for requesting! (ᵔᴥᵔ)

~~~

Zagred haunts her. In a mansion overflowing with people and endless cheer, he haunts her.

“You had five hundred years to make peace. I had to die and then wake up as a ghost, with all the same pain and memories I had when I was still alive. I possessed a human being. You spent your life sitting on top of a statue before finding a boy to manipulate into doing your bidding.”

As she makes her way through the winding halls of the grand castle, Secre remembers speaking with Patolli of the Elf tribe few times in her five hundred and seventeen years. Still, there are words reverberating through her head in his voice, words he's never spoken to her since he barely knows her. Patolli barely remembered her when they met face to face again after the souls of the dead elves ascended, and she can't blame him. She'd been a crown prince's servant – her existence was meant for the shadows.

And yet, that's not how it is now. There aren't enough shadows in Henry Legolant's mansion for Secre Swallowtail to hide in.

“I can't change my actions, nor can I change my feelings, but you... You pretend like you've always cared. At least I did what I did out of rage, even if it was misguided, but you spent five hundred years chasing a rock. Who can you blame for your eternity of longing? You could have chosen death in those five hundred years, but you chose to wait instead because you had an inkling of hope that your beloved could be brought back.”

Secre swallows the lump in her throat and makes her way down the small flight of stairs. It seems her room is on the second floor of the grand castle today, instead of the fourth floor she'd walked up to the night before. The landing is buzzing with Luck Voltia's electric currents, and what she senses to be Charmy Pappitson's cotton magic. The smell of freshly baked bread gently wafts through the landing, infecting each and every one of her senses with the kindness and love she's been starving for, for five hundred years.

It's hunger, this feeling, not longing because the longing she had for Lumiere is moot now, because Lumiere is dust. He's the ash at the bottom of a fire pit in the early rays of dawn, but the hunger she feels now is something different, something more manic, something that slept quietly in her chest during her time as a bird, but suddenly awoke when she came across the fifteen-year-old boy who desperately reminded her of a dead dream, a dream where she and her Lumiere had a child, a child that doesn't exist.

It's this hunger that finally compelled her to stop using that fifteen-year-old boy for her own agenda. It's the hunger that drives her now, that drives her to protect that boy and his friends, to look at the shadows of Henry Legolant's castle with love instead of fear because now the shadows can help her to find the best spots to launch an attack if someone tries to hurt the boy and his friends, these human beings that are filling the hole in Secre's heart.

Atonement? I was fifteen when I died, fifteen when I woke up again. How can you look at me like I'm trash when you were the one who received the mercy of time when all I received was uncontrollable rage at knowing that no matter what I did in the end, I could never bring back what I lost? How can you look at me with such disdain knowing you're worse?”

Perhaps that's why her Lumiere is dead now. She has to pay for her negligence of a child who looked to her as a companion. It doesn't matter that Asta forgives her, that the others see her as a part of their family, none of it matters because Secre committed the same sin as Patolli, used a depressed, lonely boy to commit violence in the name of her beloved, used Asta to revive her Lumiere to defeat Zagred, just like Patolli used William Vangeance to revive his Licht, the Licht that never loved Patolli like Patolli loved him.

Just like the way Lumiere never loved her the way she loved him.

“You're worse than I will ever be, Secre of the noble house of Swallowtail. You're a filthy noblewoman who had everything and pretended she had nothing. You deserve this pain more than I do. You deserved to lose your Lumiere after five hundred years of waiting. You deserved to be strung along like the little rat that you are.”

It stings, but it's true, and maybe that's why Secre is still here and not dead at the bottom of a river. Zagred haunts her because he knows her. Zagred knows her as intimately as the verdant forests of the Forbidden Realm know the sun. Secre starves for kindness and warmth, just like Zagre starves for a corporeal body. Secre didn't kill herself in her five hundred years as a bird because for her, it was a blip on the radar, nothing more than an obstacle for her to get past to bring back her most precious light, her Lumiere. Nothing was sacred in that quest – not the fifteen-year-old boy who cried for magic so that he wouldn't be discriminated against, not the Magic Knights who were too daft to notice that she wasn't just an ordinary bird, and certainly not the nobles who were too ignorant to notice how they themselves sowed the seeds of dissent in their own kingdom. For Secre, none of it mattered because only Lumiere mattered.

And Zagred knows, and so he haunts her.

He takes on the voice of an elf she barely knows, and he finds her deepest, most repressed feelings before snatching them from the depths of her chest and bringing them into the light. Zagred forces her to admit that she's no different than the elf who almost sacrificed the entirety of the kingdom to bring back his brethren. Patolli of the Elf tribe barely knows her, and she barely knows Patolli of the Elf tribe, but Zagred knows her more than Lumiere ever did, and so he haunts her, haunts her under the guise of an elf who'd murdered countless human beings and managed to get away with it all. Patolli is her long-lost twin, and Zagred will never let her forget it.

“Demon.”

She walks into the dining hall, the tables already decked with food, beverage, and cutlery. The voice has shifted now, becoming more and more like the creature it belongs to, and not the elf who escaped.

Secre attempts a smile on her saturnine face, and finds that the effort hurts. She stops before Charmy and Luck can get a look at her. They're occupied with putting on the finishing touches to the overflowing table, Luck setting booby traps on Magna Swing's plate and fork, while Charmy instructs her sheep to pack food for the magical beasts living in the castle dungeons. They don't notice her yet, because she's a wraith in her own right, a ghost drifting from room to room.

“Oh, you're up,” she hears Yami Sukehiro drawl. She turns to the taller man, also an early-riser but just as clandestine as Secre. There's a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and his clothes smell like fresh leaves and dew, so she suspects he was out training in the forest before Charmy can ring her breakfast bells.

Secre nods in assent and turns back to the two young adults who've finally noticed her and are waving her over to take a seat. She attempts another smile, and this time, something resembling a smirk appears on her lips, but it still hurts, because Secre isn't used to smiling. She didn't smile when she and her Lumiere used to spend hours poring over books and tinkering around with magic in the castle yards. She knows little about how to socialize, but she tries. She tries because Zagred will kill her otherwise, under the guise of her spiritual twin, the elf named Patolli who has left Clover without being punished for his crimes.

“But I'm not really here, am I, Secre Swallowtail?”

“Nero, there you are!” Asta calls out, barging into the breakfast hall with his cleaning outfit already coated with dust and mud. “I was wondering where you went!”

“She came down to eat like a normal person,” Yami deadpans before bonking the boy on the head with a closed fist. Asta screeches in pain before passing out for ten seconds. When he wakes up, his eyes are sparkling with endearment, and Charmy has a pail of food ready for the beasts in the dungeon.

“I'll be right back,” Asta declares with more sparkles than necessary, and then he disappears, and Zagred's voice gets just a little lower.

“And he's not your son.”

Secre blinks, her red eyes going redder. No one notices, not even Yami who is dangerously observant at times. She looks down at the plate that Luck has filled up for her. Her ears perk up at the sound of Vanessa Enoteca's tell-tale yawns, and her eyes land on Rouge the cat, who cocks its head to the side and watches her, its fur as red as her eyes.

“And they aren't yours to protect.”

Patolli the elf's voice is gone now. It's Zagred, the demon, the being who knows her better than Lumiere, the creature who stole everything from her, her life, her light, her humanity.

Secre's eyes bleed red and she wants to destroy, wants to burn down everything in her path because she's hollow, her soul is corrupted, and she's one step away from becoming a monster like Licht, a monster that Asta and the Black Bulls will have to euthanize once she loses control.

“Nero-san? Is everything alright?” Secre hears, finding that the rage vanishes suddenly. She blinks a couple of times to completely wash away the reverie before turning to the familiar voices.

It's Grey and Gordon, their eyes filled with worry. Noelle is right behind them, pretending she isn't concerned, but her fists are balled in her lap and she's pensive, waiting for Secre to answer their question.

“I'm fine,” she says, the plastic smile budding on her lips, “just hungry.”

“Then you should eat!” Noelle squeaks, because she can't help herself when she's worried, and now Grey is shakily piling too many warm biscuits onto her plate while Gordon is pouring her coffee, and Charmy is singing, and Yami is smoking, and there is warmth, and love, and cheer, and Asta is back, and Asta is everything she's ever hoped her child would be, a beacon of hope in the darkness she's always lived in.

“Thank you,” Secre says.

'Fuck you.' She hisses inwardly at Zagred's voice, Zagred who is only dead in his corporeal form, but not in essence, because demons don't die.

“But we're cousins now.” Zagred coos back, because Zagred knows her intimately, the demon that set her tragedies in motion, who wants her to lose her mind when her grief becomes as all-encompassing as Licht's, and she becomes a demon herself.

Because that's what she is now – one step from becoming a demon.

She looks around the table at the family of misfits, all of them unrelated to her in every shape and form, and yet fundamentally her family – her lifeblood. Her Lumiere always told her to find her own happiness, but he had been her happiness, but now her Lumiere is dust, and she's still alive.

She attempts to smile again, and this time, Yami smiles indulgently at her efforts while Magna asks her if she wants more biscuits, even though there are seven biscuits on her plate.

Zagred haunts her, and Lumiere is dust. Patolli is her spiritual twin, and Asta and the Black Bulls are the children she never dared to ask for, for fear of retribution. Her light is gone, and the demon persists, but now she has this – this castle and this home, these shadows she has grown to love.

“I'll see you soon.” Zagred promises her.

And the red of her eyes bleed redder, because Secre isn't worried. When the time comes, she will trust her family to take care of her like her Lumiere took care of Licht. Because this castle, this home, is testament to the faith that they will put her to rest when the time comes.

“Thank you,” she says again, and takes a bite from her biscuit.

*

[hysterialevi]

Eitr | Chapter 7

Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE NEXT MORNING

SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Sitting quietly on the edge of his bed, Sigurd stared bleakly out through the tall window in front of him as he watched people gather at the main gate and huddle together in the cold, waiting for the arrival of their beloved Thegn.

At the moment, he was fidgeting with a simple dagger in his hands and twirling the sharp blade between his fingers, silently contemplating to himself about what to do next.

He was already suited up in his armor and ready to join the siblings down at the front of the castle, but despite the urgency of the day’s agenda, Sigurd found himself completely devoid of any motivation.

He just... didn’t know what the point of this was anymore. Why was he still fighting? Why was he bothering trying to survive? Even if he somehow managed to make it through this storm that was now headed his way, Sigurd failed to see what he would gain from struggling against its binds.

Eivor was dead. Randvi was dead. Everyone he loved had been slaughtered, and damned to the icy pits of Helheim for eternity. There was no hope of ever seeing them again, and with Aegenwulf’s men constantly kicking him down, Sigurd wondered if he should’ve just given in to them.

It didn’t matter much to him if he didn’t make it to Valhalla. The rest of his family was in Hel, anyway. The only thing left in his life that carried any sort of significance was the temptation of revenge, and even that seemed far out of reach.

But... what if this was what the Nornir intended for him? What if he was never meant to reunite with his brother? Had the gods placed Sigurd on this path in order to lead him to peace? Or were they simply driving him towards vengeance?

Well, whatever the case was, Sigurd wasn’t ready to throw his hands up in defeat just yet. He still had some strength left in him, and Tyr willing, he would use it to take Algar down once and for all.

“...I’m going to kill him, Eivor...” he whispered lifelessly, gazing at the weapon in his hands. “His death may not bring you back, but at least I can reclaim the honor he stole from us. I owe you that much, after everything that’s happened.”

Slowly rising from the bed, Sigurd slid the dagger back into its sheathe and adjusted the cloak hanging from his shoulders, striding over to the door. He wasn’t eager to present himself to the judgmental eyes of Forangal’s people, or deal with Algar’s nonsense once again, but for the sake of avoiding suspicion, he simply stifled his rage and put on a neutral face, hoping to conceal the fire that burned within.

He may not’ve been in a position to do anything just yet, but Sigurd had faith that his moment for revenge would come. Things like this often came when one least expected it, and in spite of all the suffering he had endured thus far, a part of him still hoped that the gods would grant him the opportunity eventually. 

He was just one man at the end of the day, but he carried the strength of his entire clan with him. And that gave him power.

Swinging the door open, Sigurd nearly stepped out into the corridor until he noticed someone else standing his tracks, causing him to come to an abrupt halt. Their fist was raised in the air as if they were just about to knock on the door, and judging by the perturbed look on their face, Sigurd assumed it wasn’t for a good reason.

He took a step back, stopping to greet his visitor.

“Edric?” Sigurd said, somewhat surprised.

A wave of relief washed over the young man’s expression. “Ah, Sigurd. There you are. I was looking for you.”

“You were? Is there something you need, my lord?”

“No,” Edric replied, his voice gentle with care. “I merely wanted to see how you were doing. I saw Edlynne and Joseph heading down to the main gate earlier, but you weren’t with them. And you certainly weren’t with me, so I feared something may have happened.”

Sigurd threw him a puzzled glance. “...Such as?”

The nobleman leaned against the doorframe, lowering the volume of his voice. “...People have been whispering ever since Algar spoke with you yesterday. They say you stormed out of his chambers like a beast on the hunt, and even Edlynne confessed she was worried about you. Did... something happen between you and Algar? He didn’t harm you, did he?”

Sigurd shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that. I just...”

The Norseman trailed off into silence, reluctant to say more. He did not wish to lie to Edric, but he knew the consequences of what would happen if he told the truth.

“...He and I have our own disputes to settle.” Sigurd answered vaguely, his tone sharp with spite. “It is not something I wish to burden you with.”

Edric furrowed his brow in concern and let out a quiet sigh, unsure of what else to say. He had attempted to break down the wall between him and Sigurd more than a few times now, but it was evident that the man was adamant on keeping his thoughts to himself.

“I wish Algar wouldn’t hound you so often.” The young lord said. “He has no right to belittle you in such a way, and yet my father does nothing to tighten his reins. He’d do well to remind that man of his place.”

Sigurd remained stoic. “I can handle him, Edric. Algar is no more than a snake. His time will come.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but still... tensions are high enough as it is in Wedenscire. The last thing we need is Algar striking a flame with his constant war-mongering.”

The viking almost laughed aloud at Edric’s words. If only he knew.

“Well, anyway,” the Saxon continued, “enough of that. We have a thegn to greet. Raedan and his family are nearly at Forangal, and I’d prefer not to keep them waiting. Bear in mind, though, Sigurd -- should you ever need to get your thoughts out in the open, I’m always willing to lend an ear. I know how detrimental it can be to one’s well-being when they carry such burdens alone.”

Sigurd gave him an appreciative nod. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll remember that.”

Edric chuckled affectionately. “You know you can just call me Edric, right? There’s no need for such formalities.”

“Your father would disagree.”

The young man dismissed the concern. “My father is his own man, and so am I. You may be my bodyguard, but I see no need to treat you like a servant.”

The Norseman returned the smile. “...Very well, then. Edric it is.”

“Good.” Edric replied, removing himself from the doorframe. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, shall we get going?”

Sigurd reached an arm out, gesturing down the hallway. “Lead on.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW MINUTES LATER

THE MAIN GATE

Standing alongside one other, Joseph and Edlynne stuck together at the front of the crowd as they waited in anticipation for Raedan’s arrival, eager to see the man and his family after all these years.

Even though they feared what would happen once he learned of Sigurd’s presence, the twins couldn’t deny that they were excited to see their father’s old friend again. It had been a long time since the thegn last set foot in Forangal thanks to the troubles of the war, and his children were also good friends with the twins themselves.

On the downside though, they were well aware of Raedan’s views towards vikings. He had lost family members of his own to their raids, and they had no doubts that Sigurd’s recent promotion would strain the peace a bit.

Fortunately however, Raedan was known to be a more respectable man. Unlike Algar, he valued diplomacy and restraint just as much as he did battle-prowess. He knew when one was more important than the other, and God willing, the twins hoped he’d be able to see sense today.

If not, Lord only knew what would happen.

“Bloody hell,” Joseph muttered, rubbing his hands together. “It’s freezing. Raedan couldn’t have arrived when the sun was higher in the sky?”

Edlynne rolled her eyes at her brother’s complaints. “Certainly, if you don’t mind him being delayed again.”

“I’m just saying, I’m much more of a gentleman when I’m not freezing my balls off.”

“Joseph...!” She scolded, reminding him of his vulgarity.

“Oh, relax. I won’t speak that way when Raedan’s around.”

Edlynne humorously raised a brow at him. “But you’ll speak that way in front of me?”

“You don’t have a great-sword sitting on your back.”

“Hush, you two.” A third voice jumped in, bringing the twins’ attention elsewhere.

Edlynne glanced to her side, feeling her chest loosen with relief once she saw who it was.

“Edric! You found Sigurd.”

“Indeed. I stopped by his chambers on the way here.”

The girl turned to the viking. “And you, Sigurd? Everything’s alright, I hope?”

The bodyguard nodded. “I’m well, Edlynne. You needn’t worry about me. I... apologize if I frightened you.”

Edlynne shook her head. “You didn’t frighten me. I was only concerned about what Algar may have done to you. I know how insufferable that man can be.”

Sigurd chuckled. “As do I. Believe me.”

Joseph let out a disapproving sigh. “That bastard looked awfully smug this morning when he was waltzing around with father. I have a bad feeling about where this is going. It’s never a good sign when someone like Algar is in high spirits.”

Edric stood next to the twins, placing himself closest to the gate. “Well, it won’t do us any good to speculate based on rumors. Now be quiet, both of you. Raedan and his family will be here soon. And for God’s sake, remember your manners.”

Joseph grinned playfully. “Yes, mother.”

Taking his position among the siblings, Sigurd lingered quietly beside them as he watched Aegenwulf’s guards get into formation, surrounding the gate in an orderly fashion.

Everywhere around him, he saw banners with Aegenwulf’s sigil flying proudly in the wind as they stood tall under the great white sky, dancing wildly in the breeze.

It was the same banner that would’ve been flying over Ravensthorpe by now if Algar hadn’t kept the ambush a secret. Much like a gravestone, they seemed to tower over the entire castle like a testament to the cruelty of their ealdorman’s housecarl, and every time Sigurd looked at it, he couldn’t help but think of all the souls that were lost on that tragic night.

“Open the gate!” One of the guards cried from the battlements, breaking Sigurd out of his thoughts. “Thegn Raedan has arrived!”

Taking hold of the gate’s controls, the guards began to steadily turn the mechanism as the castle opened itself to its esteemed guest, causing everyone inside the walls to fall into silence. 

Within the blink of an eye, an entire unit of soldiers had poured in through the entrance and filled the space with an impressive display of knights, all of them dressed head-to-toe in armor. Maroon capes fluttered behind them as they rode into Forangal on horseback, and in the center of their party, Sigurd spotted Thegn Raedan himself, sitting atop his mount in a dignified manner.

Sigurd had to admit, the man wasn’t what he expected. Contrary to the clean-cut, pristine nobleman he had envisioned in his head, Raedan actually looked much rougher in reality.

He was a tall, burly Saxon with the pride of a king, and the mindset of a warrior. His hair was long, brown, untamed, and he had a bushy beard clinging onto his chin. Streaks of grey could be seen dotting the wild strands of his mane, and on his neck, Sigurd noticed a simple cross hanging from a string.

As for the man himself, Raedan appeared to be slightly younger than Aegenwulf. His skin wasn’t creased with quite as many wrinkles, but it was still clear that he had experienced his own fair share of battle. A multitude of faint scars dusted the surface of his flesh, and hiding just underneath his sleeve, Sigurd could’ve sworn he saw an old burn clutching onto his wrist.

The Saxon thegn was certainly a sight to behold, and just based on the sheer amount of soldiers that were within his company, the Norseman thought it was safe to assume that Joseph’s instincts were probably right. A war was definitely brewing behind closed doors, and Raedan was going to play a vital role in it.

“Raedan, my friend!” Aegenwulf greeted joyously, strolling down the center of the courtyard with Algar in tow. The housecarl threw a side glance at Sigurd along the way, grinning in malice.

“Aegenwulf, you old dog!” Raedan replied with a hearty guffaw, dismounting his horse. “There you are! Lord knows I’ve missed that ugly face!”

The ealdorman laughed. “And I, yours.”

The two of them met in the middle, embracing each other in a friendly hug.

“Oh, Aegenwulf,” Raedan said, his tone softened by a tinge of nostalgia, “it’s been far too long, old friend. Far too long.”

“Yes, it has. I fear I have grown weary of this war in the recent years. It is a blessing to see you again.”

Raedan separated the hug, looking the ealdorman in the vehemently eye. “Indeed. I... heard about what happened to Gareth. Terrible shame, that. He was a fine warrior. Wise beyond his years. He will be eternally missed.”

Aegenwulf’s gaze fell to the ground. “Yes. My heart still bleeds for him everyday. His loss has left a crack in the foundation of our family, but with your help, I’m hoping that a fate like his will never be repeated.”

The thegn patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Of course. My sword is yours, Aegenwulf. Always.”

Bringing their conversation to a pause, the rest of Raedan’s family joined the scene, happily walking up to the ealdorman.

“Lady Moira,” Aegenwulf said with a smile, approaching Raedan’s wife. “The years have been much kinder to you, it seems.”

The woman beamed at him. “You flatter me, Aegenwulf. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I know my children have certainly missed the familiar walls of Forangal.”

“How are Henry and Sibley? I trust they are doing well?”

She stepped to the side, revealing two adolescents behind her. “You can ask them yourself. Children, you remember Ealdorman Aegenwulf, don’t you?”

The older sibling, Henry, gave the man a timid nod of acknowledgement. He appeared to be around the same age as Joseph, and had a head of blond hair.

“H-Hello, my lord.”

Moira let out a soft tsk. “Oh, come now, Hal. There’s no need to be shy. You’ve known Aegenwulf and his family ever since you were just a child.”

The ealdorman chuckled. “The boy’s behavior is understandable. It’s been years since we last met. I fear our memory has faded somewhat. Though, it’s clear he’s grown into a fine young man.”

“Indeed,” Moira agreed. “He’s becoming more and more like his father everyday. Apart from the poetry, that is.”

Aegenwulf quirked a brow. “You write poetry?”

Henry knotted his hands together. “...I-It’s nothing special, really.”

“Take pride in your passions, young man. They are the things that define us, after all.”

The ealdorman brought his attention to Henry’s little sister, Sibley. She was a young girl -- roughly a year or two behind Edlynne -- and shared her father’s hazel-colored hair.

“And Lady Sibley, how do you fare in these trying times?”

“I’m well, considering the circumstances.” She replied. “I think me and my brother are both just shaken up by the Danes we encountered yesterday.”

Aegenwulf shot Raedan a concerned glance. “You encountered Danes?”

The other man crossed his arms. “Not quite. As my messenger told you, we saw them wandering around in the woods near Agenbury. They were a little too close for comfort, but fortunately, they seemed to be too preoccupied with other matters to notice us. However, I did note that they were heading this way.”

The ealdorman rubbed his chin in thought. “Is that so?”

“Yes. You were wise to call for me, Aegenwulf. I fear that trouble will soon be knocking on your door.”

“Hmm. Then perhaps it’d be best if we got to work as soon as possible.”

Raedan held a hand up. “Hold on a moment, old friend. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The ealdorman paused. “Am I--? Oh! Yes.” He turned around to face his own family, guiding the thegn to the crowd that stood before them.

“You remember my son, Edric.” Aegenwulf said, gesturing to the young man.

Raedan laughed in disbelief, eyeing the boy from head-to-toe.

“Edric? Is that you, lad?” 

The nobleman smiled at him. “Hello, Raedan. It’s good to see you again.”

“My God,” Raedan remarked cheerfully, patting Edric on the shoulder. “Look at that beard! And you’ve become so much taller as well. You’re growing far too fast, young man. You and I will have to spar sometime.”

The thegn brought his focus to the twins. “And Joseph and Edlynne. My goodness... the last time I saw you both, you were no higher than my knees. Now look at you. Standing tall and proud like a true set of nobles. Aegenwulf must be pleased.”

Edlynne’s expression radiated at the compliment. “We missed you, Raedan. And your family as well. It’s been so long since we last had the opportunity to get together.”

Raedan nodded. “Aye. Feels like an eternity ago. I trust you and your brother are staying safe?”

Joseph shrugged. “As safe as we can be, my lord.”

“It gladdens me to hear it.”

Letting his gaze travel further down the crowd, Raedan suddenly came to an abrupt halt when he noticed Sigurd standing at the twins’ side, studying his every move like a wolf watching from the woods.

Neither of them said anything to each other, but purely based on the slight shift in Raedan’s mood, everyone could tell that a sense of unease had settled into the courtyard.

“...You have a Dane with you?” Raedan asked, his tone completely devoid of any warmth.

Aegenwulf walked up to the two of them, hoping to calm his friend’s nerves. “He’s a Norse, actually. This is Sigurd the Lone Wolf. He joined us recently.”

“Joined?”

“Yes. He is the one responsible for protecting my children.”

Raedan tilted his head. “A Norse bodyguard? In Forangal? Are you certain that’s wise, old friend?”

The ealdorman didn’t appear bothered. “Sigurd has yet to give me a reason to distrust him. In fact, he’s been quite efficient in his duties. He’s a skilled warrior, and he knows the consequences he will have to face should he betray my hospitality.”

“I certainly hope so. Norsemen are formidable warriors, yes, but they don’t like to be ordered around. Trying to control them is like trying to tame the ocean. It’s an endeavor doomed to end in futility.”

Raedan stared into Sigurd’s ice-cold eyes, deciding to let the matter go for now. “...But I trust your judgement, Aegenwulf. If you feel this man is no threat to us, then I shan’t press any further. Though, a little caution would not be ill-advised. There’s a fire in this one. You’d do best to put it out.”

Aegenwulf took his friend’s opinion to heart. “Oh, believe me. I shall.”

Putting the subject aside, the ealdorman led the thegn away from the crowds and guided him into the castle, eager to carry on with their day.

“Come, let’s take this to the war room. We have much to discuss. Your family can get settled in their chambers in the meantime. My twins will show them the way.” Aegenwulf glanced back at his children. “Edric! I want you to join us.”

The nobleman stepped forward. “And Sigurd? What about him?”

“Let him stay. This conversation is for our ears only.”

“...Very well.”

Following his father to the war room, Edric swiftly strode away from the crowds and tagged along with the two Saxons, sticking close to them as Algar tailed them from behind.

Meanwhile, Sigurd remained with the twins and silently clung to the shadows, unwilling to open himself up to conversation. He had been in a foul mood ever since his exchange with Algar the previous day, and he had no interest in socializing at the moment.

“Joseph, Edlynne,” Henry said shyly, approaching the twins. “I’m glad to see you two are doing well after all these years.”

The girl returned the gesture. “And you, Hal. I have to admit, part of me was worried when we heard why you were delayed. Hopefully you didn’t run into too much trouble on the way here?”

Moira jumped in. “We’re quite alright, Edlynne. We arrived unscathed, thank the Lord. These Danes were not so aggressive as the others we have seen in the past. Though, I must confess, I am somewhat...” her gaze traveled to Sigurd, “...skeptical, shall we say, about your new friend here.”

Edlynne looked up at the Norseman, placing a friendly hand on his arm. “You mean Sigurd? Have no fear, Lady Moira. He won’t harm you. Unless, of course, you give him a reason to.”

“Is he Christian?”

The twins paused at that.

“No,” Joseph answered. “Why does it matter?”

The expression on Moira’s face said it should’ve been obvious. “Well, it’s difficult to trust the word of a heretic. If he has not converted to Christianity yet, I’d suggest working on that as soon as possible. I’d feel much better knowing that your safety were in the hands of a God-fearing man rather than a heathen. It’s just easier that way.”

Sigurd already grew tired of the woman’s imposing nature. “Leave me to my gods, Saxon, and I shall leave you to yours.”

Edlynne felt her heart skip at the viking’s dismissive response, attempting to reconcile with the noblewoman.

“Erm, w-what he means is, he may not be a Christian himself, but he bears no ill will towards those who are.”

Moira let out a breath, clearly somewhat offended. “...So I see.”

Joseph hurriedly switched topics, hoping to ease the tension between them. “S-Shall we show them to their rooms, sister? They’ve had a long journey, after all. Perhaps now would be a good time to let them rest.”

“Yes,” Edlynne fervently agreed. “Follow us, Lady Moira. We’ll show you where you and your family can stay. In the meantime,” she glanced at Sigurd, “maybe it’d be best if you stayed here...?”

It didn’t take long for him to catch the hint. “If that’s what you wish, my lady.”

“Very good. We’ll see you later then, Sigurd.”

Rushing Moira and her family away from the main gate, the twins eagerly separated them from the bodyguard and brought them into the castle, leaving Sigurd all by himself in the courtyard.

If the man was being honest, part of him felt relieved that Joseph and Edlynne left him behind. He didn’t wish to create conflict between Aegenwulf’s family and his new guests, but he feared he was on a short fuse today.

He just couldn’t stop thinking about Eivor. Algar had yet to be forthcoming about the details surrounding his death, and thus, Sigurd had been left to the cruelty of his imagination, forced to come up with his own conclusion.

Anything could’ve happened to the man. For all he knew, Eivor could’ve died honorably as a warrior worthy of Odin’s halls just as Algar said, or... he could’ve died in a pile of ash, forsaken by the gods and desecrated by the housecarl’s atrocities.

Whatever the case was, Sigurd feared that he was falling into a darkness similar to the one that loomed over Aegenwulf. An insatiable desire for revenge burned deep within his veins, and he felt as if the world was swallowing him whole. A grief unlike any other relentlessly consumed his thoughts, and the harsh reality of his isolation in Forangal only made matters worse.

He was the only Norse here; the only one to fight in Odin’s name. Everyone else in the castle viewed him as a mad heretic, and even with those who may have been more cordial, Sigurd still found himself unable to be completely truthful.

He was no more than an outcast inside these walls. Aegenwulf’s children may have treated him with respect, but in the end, Sigurd knew this place would never be his home. 

His heart remained lost somewhere in the depths of Norway, and he wanted nothing more than to return to its icy shores. A voice more ethereal than that of any skald’s called him home, and he longed desperately to break free from his chains.

“Ugh, those Saxons...” a stranger suddenly said in Sigurd’s ear, “...always bleating like sheep. Is it any wonder that their kings have fallen so easily in our presence?”

The viking exchanged looks with the man at his side, confused about his remark. Much like Sigurd himself, the stranger was also wearing a suit of Saxon-made armor, and yet, he spoke in the language of the Norsemen.

“I’m sorry, what?” Sigurd asked.

The stranger lifted the visor of his helm, revealing a face marked with Nordic tattoos.

Sigurd’s eyes widened in realization. “...You’re a Norse...”

The man nodded, smirking subtly at him. “So are you, it seems. Convenient, don’t you think, how the Nornir have brought us together today?”

The bodyguard stumbled over his words, unsure of what exactly was going on. “I-I don’t understand. What’s Thegn Raedan doing with a Norse in his company?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know we’re here,” he explained. “That’s the whole point of the helms, you see.”

“We?” Sigurd caught. “There’s more of you?”

The man slid the visor back down, concealing his identity. “Indeed. So it’d probably be best if you avoided drawing any attention to us, lest we start a war with these sheep, yes?”

Sigurd lowered his voice, admittedly intrigued by the stranger’s motives. “Who are you? What are you doing here? What is it you want?”

“Before I answer your questions, allow me to raise one of my own.”

The bodyguard sighed. “Very well. But make it quick. I haven’t much time before those ‘sheep’ return.”

The man flicked his head from side-to-side, checking to make sure no one was listening. 

“Your name is Sigurd, yes? That’s what the ealdorman said? Well, I’m curious, you wouldn’t happen to be the son of Styrbjorn, would you? The drunkard king?”

He froze upon hearing the question. “...How do you know my name?”

A chuckle escaped the stranger’s lips. “So that’s a ‘yes,’ then. Good. I’ve traveled a long way to find you, Sigurd. You’re not an easy man to locate. Though, I must admit, I expected to find you in the dungeons, chained as a prisoner. Not standing among Wedenscire’s nobility. You’ve certainly climbed up in the world, haven’t you?”

“They don’t know who I really am,” he said. “But set that aside for now. Why were you looking for me?”

“Because your brother asked me too.”

Sigurd shot a bewildered glare at the other man, unable to stifle the flame that flared up inside him.

Did he just say Eivor sent him? What sort of ruse was this? There was no way he could’ve been telling the truth. Eivor was dead -- Algar had made that quite clear. 

He instantly grabbed the stranger’s collar and pulled him close, leaning into his face. “What do you mean my brother sent you? Is this meant to be some sort of jest? Explain yourself!”

“Easy, drengr...” he soothed, holding onto Sigurd’s arm. “Your brother’s in East Anglia at the moment, under Oswald’s care. He arrived with your wife about a week ago, not too long after the ambush. They were both wounded and in need of help. Sadly, your wife succumbed to her injuries. Eivor, on the other hand, remains alive and well.”

The news hit Sigurd like a sword to the chest. He figured Randvi was dead along with everyone else, but that didn’t make her death any less painful. 

“And how do I know you’re telling the truth? What reason do you have to help us? Who are you, anyway? You still haven’t told me your name.”

“My name is Gjuki,” the man replied. “Your brother freed me from slavery when he launched an assault on my master’s clan. This is the least I can do for him after everything he’s done for me.”

Sigurd loosened his hold on Gjuki’s collar, shocked by what he just heard.

Could it be true? Could Eivor really still be alive? Had Algar been lying to him this entire time?

It would explain why the housecarl had yet to give him a straight answer. Up until this point, the Saxon hadn’t been able to provide any details pertaining to Eivor’s death, and if Gjuki spoke the truth, it would answer many of the questions Sigurd had floating around in his head.

Algar knew Eivor was alive. He knew he failed to carry out Aegenwulf’s orders, and that was why he was so intent on keeping Sigurd under his boot. Just like anyone else who was familiar with the two brothers, Algar was aware of the feats they could achieve if they put their heads together, and he wanted to make sure they wouldn’t be able to fight back.

Still, in spite of the evidence Gjuki presented, Sigurd couldn’t deny that part of him remained in disbelief. He had spent so long wondering about the circumstances of Eivor’s death, that he never stopped to question whether or not it actually happened.

He truly believed he had been left all alone in this world, and -- given enough time -- he would’ve even accepted it. But now that he knew the truth of the situation, Sigurd felt a newfound strength igniting inside him.

“...My brother’s alive...” he whispered under his breath. “Eivor is... alive. There is hope...”

Gjuki nodded. “Yes, but hope alone will not be enough to save you. If you truly wish to put an end to this ordeal, you must kill those responsible for the attack in the first place. Problem is, Eivor and I still don’t know who that is. That’s why he sent me to investigate.”

Sigurd’s face lit up with an idea. “I might have a lead. There is a Saxon here. His name is Algar. He is no more than a lapdog for the ealdorman, but I get the feeling he knows more about the attack on Ravensthorpe than he’s letting on. He knows something that Aegenwulf doesn’t.”

“Then it would be wise for you to remain here. It’s clear that you have the trust of the Saxons in Forangal -- to a certain extent, at least -- and you can use that to your advantage.”

The viking was hesitant. “I suppose you’re right, but not all the Saxons here are driven by deceit. Some of them have honor. I do not wish to betray their trust. They saved my life, after all.”

The bard didn’t share Sigurd’s confidence. “Yes, but for whose benefit? Do not let their false sense of camaraderie fool you, Sigurd. You have been here naught for a fortnight, and they have already taken the liberty of putting a leash on you. You are nothing more than a tool to them. Trust me. I would know.”

Gjuki turned on his heel and began heading towards the main gate, anxious to reunite with the rest of his men.

“I will leave you for now, Sigurd. Our time is running out, and I do not wish to raise anymore suspicion. I will send one of my men back to Elmenham and inform Eivor of what we have found here. In the meantime, I shall remain in Wedenscire and continue with my investigation. If you ever need to contact me, head to the abandoned pier just south of Forangal. There is a brazier there that stands right next to the water. Light it, and I will come.”

Sigurd gave him a nod. “I will, Gjuki. Thank you. For everything you’re doing.”

“Do not thank me yet, Lone Wolf. If our plan is going to succeed, we will both need to stay alive. So play along with these Saxons’ games for now. Let them think they’re in control. Then, when the time is right... we will bring unto them the wrath of Thor himself.” The bard chuckled lowly. “They won’t even see it coming. Oh, what a sight that will be...”

Gjuki mounted his horse, waving goodbye to the bodyguard. 

“Until then, stay safe, Sigurd. Your brother is on the warpath to avenge your clan, and I shudder to think of what he’ll do if he loses you too. Do not disappoint him.”

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Four): Through The Gates

Notes: We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful. 

Word Count:  9098

Chapter Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.

“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.

“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”

“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”

“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”

“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”

“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”

“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”

“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”

Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.

“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”

“Charming.”

“I do try.”

“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”

“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.

“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”

“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”

“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”

“Get bent.”

“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so,  which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?”  

He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.

“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”

She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.

There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.

The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?

Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.

Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.

The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.

He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.

Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.

Who the hell runs the PR for this church?

First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.

It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind. 

Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.

“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?

She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.

One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.

Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?

The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds  it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.

She goes back to sleep after,  still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.

Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch.  The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.

She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave  info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.

“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”

“Of course, could I have their name?”

“Aaron Kirby.”

“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”

“Understood, thank you.”  

She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.

A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.

Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.

She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.

She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.

She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.

She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.

Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or

Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.

She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.

Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting,  and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.

“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.

Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.

She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.

The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.

“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”

She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.

During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.

She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?

Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.

“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.

“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.

“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”

Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.

“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”

Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame.  

The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“We got here quick, she should be fine.” 

“Maybe, lets get going.” 

The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving. 

She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’  

Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head. 

“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it. 

“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?” 

“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?”  She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach. 

“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her. 

She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back. 

Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.

“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.

She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.

“I’m actually going to strangle you.”

“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.

“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”

“Not my fault you’re short.”

“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”

“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.

“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.

“Pratt did it.”

The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself,  “she managed that all on her own.”

“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”

With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.

“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.

By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone. 

The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.

“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.

“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”

What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.

“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”

“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.

“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a  chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”

Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.

“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”

“Our probie junior deputy.”

“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.”  

“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.

“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”

“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.

There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.

The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.

It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.

“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise. 

“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles. 

“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards. 

“You scared it, jackass.” 

“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.” 

“Shhhhhh…”

Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear. 

“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.” 

“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms. 

Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit. 

“Good news, Addie-” 

“I acquired a baby.” 

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.” 

“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.” 

“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp. 

“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet. 

“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing.  Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.” 

“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.” 

Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day. 

“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.” 

Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning. 

“Addie…” 

“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.” 

“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs

Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.

“You alright over there, hun?” 

“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.” 

“Oh lord.”

“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response. 

“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-” 

“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson. 

“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”

They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts. 

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”

“No.” 

“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.” 

“I’m not abandoning my child.” 

“It’s literally a wild animal.” 

“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side. 

“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?” 

“No.” 

“Then what?” 

“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?” 

“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.” 

“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.” 

“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.” 

“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.” 

Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide. 

“Who’re the Rye’s?”  She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously. 

“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“You should come.” 

“I don’t know them.” 

“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.” 

“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?”  She raises an eyebrow 

“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt. 

Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.

“Feed her your lunch.”

“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home. 

“How the hell are you still alive?”

“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”

“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”

“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.

“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”

“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”

“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it.  Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”

“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”

“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”

“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.

“...yes..”

“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”

“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.

“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”

“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”

Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.

“....Opossum…?”

“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”

“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl.  

“Why are you encouraging her!?”

“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”

“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”

“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.

“Shut up.”

“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”

“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.

“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”

“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”

“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.

“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”

Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well.  Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts. 

“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”

“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif. 

“Why are you holding a opossum?”

“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone. 

“She?”

“Her name’s Petunia.”

“You can’t have a opossum.”

“She’s the station opossum.”

“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”

“So, she’s an outside station pet?”

“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.

“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.

“Told ya, soft on Rook.”

“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”

“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.

“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”

“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”

“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”

“Hilarious.”

The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.

“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”

Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.

“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.

“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer. 

And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry…  Adulting sucks. 

There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week. 

Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message. 

Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face. 

Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it; 

‘cant tell who looks better here’ 

 Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this. 

A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow. 

“Leave me alone…please…”  A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch. 

“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”

The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach.  She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt. 

“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp. 

“Fuckin’ peggie whore!”  

“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back. 

She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw.  Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption. 

“Wh-who-”

“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.” 

“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“ 

“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”

He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck.  Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm.  

“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her. 

“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”

The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are. 

“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine.  You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike. 

She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure. 

“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat. 

“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.” 

“I started here about a week ago.” 

“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.” 

“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”

“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…” 

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact. 

“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”

“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.” 

“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill. 

“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”

“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…” 

“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”

“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.” 

“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”

Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla. 

“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers. 

As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it. 

A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches. 

People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her. 

“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear. 

“Brother Theodore, this is-”

“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?” 

“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.” 

“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.” 

“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?

“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.” 

“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?” 

“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?” 

“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.” 

“Oh, uh, I-” 

“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound. 

“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders. 

“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols. 

She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church. 

“You going in?” 

“No.” 

“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door. 

“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?” 

“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church. 

Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets.  Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it. 

If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired… 

She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away. 

Let the water wash away your sins…

A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while… 

[scarletgardensrpg]

LIVING ♦ TWENTY-FOUR ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

GABRIËL DE JAAGER is a Yellow Jacket affiliated with the House of Eden. The youngest son of the Netherlands’ Koninklijke Landmacht Commander, Gabriël defected early to the House of Eden and was instrumental in the organization and execution of the Oranje-Nassau massacre. Gabriël is one of the few non-Undead soldiers to serve in the House’s massive army, as well as a close adviser to Thalia. Although he is a formidable fighter and strategist, his notorious temper makes him difficult to work with.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violence

Thalia Yamaguchi met his gaze, and after a brief moment, turned away to wave to the bartender for a second drink. Sifting through the din of the Moulin Rouge, Gabriël settled gingerly into the seat next to her, every nerve singing. When she swiveled around to face him again, he saw that her cat eyes sparkled like tahitian pearls, and her manicured hands were laced neatly underneath her chin. Smug. Neither spoke—for in coming to meet her, Gabriël had already said everything she needed to know. At last, the bartender brought out his drink, an oranjebitter, and Thalia nudged it smoothly toward him with a pale knuckle. Drink, young Gabriël, she purred, and he could have killed her there, three bullets to the head and a crushed windpipe under his foot. But to level his gun at Thalia was to level it at Luana and Maurice. She’d made sure of that. We have something to celebrate, then, in your coming, Thalia said, lifting her own drink. Aan de koningin.

To the Queen. Gabriël knew, she didn’t mean Catharina.

- ❀ -

He was born brawling. The birth was difficult, and after, so too were the years: an endless parade of trouble presenting itself to the de Jaager family in the form of one single boy, scowling and insolent. In some ways, it was understandable—with four older brothers ahead of Gabriël, there was nothing really left to prove, only that he, too, could bite and bruise. They were all the sons of the Generaal, held in the highest esteem and afforded great luxuries for their father’s service to the Netherlands: but where his older brothers were handsome, serious boys in white shirts and chinos, who played football at their private schools and brought home immaculate grades every quarter, Gabriël ran with wolves, himself a sharp-toothed terror. How many lips had split under his fists? How many fights broken up by weary principals, expulsions begrudgingly demoted to suspensions behind doors as a favor to the de Jaager name? Gabriël snarled, bright with fury, and it took all four of his brothers to wrench him off some misfortuned kid.

By fifteen, he boasted a disciplinary record riddled with bullet holes: backtalk, fighting, truancy, fighting, vandalism, fighting. All this violence; and from what place did it come? All this rage; and where could he put it all down? They said he was hanging around wrong folk by then—bubblegum bitches with switchblades under their latex skirts, penoze runners from the hidden alleys of De Wallen, street-racing boys with wolfish smiles who kept Gabriël out hours past curfew. They said he was marked—a winding dragon on his arm, inked in by De Dame’s very own consigliere, that frightening Yamaguchi girl. His family was, of course, at a loss. How were four brothers reared into soldierly perfection, only for the fifth to emerge like some fresh wound of a nightmare, teeth bared and knuckles bloody? Even Gabriël could not have put a name to his recklessness, his enduring love affair with adrenaline, his need to throw the first punch, always—only that he was certain the world would swallow him whole, if he were even a little softer. He had not thought it possible, ever, to be soft. De Jaagers were cold machinery, were war rampages—what nervy soul dared to ask gentleness of him?

In the end, there were two. The sun princess, who spotted him from across the expanse of a palace courtyard and, like a barnacle, attached herself henceforth to him with comedic determination—and the moon prince, sapphire-eyed and erudite, who had merely swept his gaze across the dragon tattoo with disinterest, before turning to go. Neither of them afraid. They had played together as children, once, and so now played together again, even as the Scarlet Death wreaked havoc from what felt like a million miles away: Gabriël grumbling in the gardens, dragged along by a glowing Luana to admire the daffodils; Gabriël mussing Maurice’s pale hair by the waterfront, telling him, I’d be good, for you; Gabriël driving his fist into the pretty jut of Thalia’s face after she’d given her sick ultimatum. I never knew you to be a fool, she’d laughed, almost maniacal, stumbling to her feet with a hand cradled to her cheek. You’ll help my men into the palace, or we’ll blow it up from the outside. I’m offering you a choice and a chance. Aren’t I merciful? Gabriël lunged again, but this time, she moved like quicksilver. Click.

Listen, kid, Thalia purred. One hand leveled the gun to his temple, steady as a heartbeat—the other dug its nails into his shoulder, where the dragon she’d inked into him sprawled.

Gabriël listened.

CONNECTIONS

LUANA  & MAURICE – HIS SORROWS, HIS LOVES. Here are two truths, and a lie. Truth number one. He loves them. Truth number two. He is responsible for the blood. And the lie? He regrets it. There was, truly, no other alternative that would save them from the same fate their family suffered: seven years ago, they were, all three of them, teenagers helpless to the machinations of politicians and killers. Agostina was hungry for a power vacuum, Thalia was happy to create it—and the rest is bitter, bitter history. There is, of course, an abundance of history between he and the royal twins. He never did return Luana’s feelings perfectly, but grew to love her all the same for the kindnesses she showed him, and for the countless hours they spent together at her whimsical behest—indeed, it was difficult not to grow fond of someone so effortlessly charismatic. As for Maurice...that is more complicated. They resembled something closer to good, true friends: shared interests, shared silences, shared understanding of the uglier things in life. For Gabriël, he had seen in precocious, careful Maurice a future king—someone to swear loyalty to and serve, as his father served Catharina. Perhaps, they were standing at the precipice of something more than friends, too—but all that is gone, now. The twins, who have recently returned with hollow faces and hunted eyes, hate him for a treasonous crime he did commit. He will not attempt to argue otherwise.

THALIA – A THOUSAND DEBTS AND GRIEVANCES. In the beginning, they were friends. It was hard not to feel heady with power when Thalia Yamaguchi claimed she liked you: she was a striking woman, rumored to inherit the penoze someday and already possessing the cruelty and efficiency required to lead the Netherlands’ most powerful crime ring. She’d shown him every nook and cranny of Amsterdam that was worth exploring: secret passageways in and out of cartel territory, underground fighting pits, glittering clubs, smoky brothels, stretches of urban streets where initiates lounged against the brick like neon demons. When she’d offered to mark him, Gabriël had accepted with awe and pride. Now you’re tied to me forever, she’d mused, etching her tattoo into his shoulder—and he had laughed, not understanding she was serious. Gabriël may have been the instrumental turncoat, but Thalia was always the originating mastermind behind the massacre, understanding it would take nothing less than the annihilation of an ancient family line to ensure her good standing in Agostina’s new empire. Gabriël hates her for it, of course—but finds he can’t fully commit to his rage in this one regard. Thalia had offered an opportunity for Gabriël to save Luana and Maurice, promising she’d turn a blind eye if he could make arrangements for them to leave Amsterdam forever. It is not a kindness, exactly—but it was not something a completely heartless woman would have concerned herself with. 

IVONNE – THE ACE. She’s the PYTHIA. Gabriël knows this because he had, painstakingly, traveled to London in the days leading up to the massacre in search of one Walpurga Albert—only to find her creation, Ivonne, instead: wrist-deep in carnage, lips stained in unspeakable sin, head cocked to the side as she regarded him with calm, intelligent eyes. He had asked of her what he couldn’t trust to ask of any other soul in Amsterdam: save the children. And this she accomplished, with a shaking of hands and exchanging of goods. You owe me a debt, now, Ivonne had said. Someday, I’ll call on you to repay it. Gabriël isn’t necessarily interested in whatever strange agenda she’s pursuing, but he feels she is someone to keep an eye out on. He’s upset with her for not ensuring the twins would never return, as this puts them back in danger—but finds there’s little he can do to ask for a second favor. He is already indebted to her, and this makes him uncomfortable. Debts are the currency of the PYTHIA; it feels uneasy to know she could call on him at any moment, and he would be likely forced to do her bidding.

OPEN ♦ FC: GERON MCKINLEY

[milk-colored-dream]

to feel, to feel.

word count: 3,286 words character: itadori yuuji, gojou satoru as support note: soft.

Itadori Yuuji left Sendai for Tokyo.

His departure was decided rather quickly―too quickly, even, with his grandfather’s recent passing.

However――

If he had one attachment to Sendai, it was most certainly his best friend since middle school, a soft-spoken yet determined girl, with a smile akin to a sunflower.

***

“You’re moving to Tokyo?”

“...Yeah, real soon.”

Itadori spoke in a rather weak voice one wouldn’t expect from him. He kept rolling his yakisoba bread between his hands, fidgeting non-stop. In stark contrast, beside him, his friend continued to eat her lunch box, relaxed.

“How soon?”

“...Like, tomorrow.”

Her hand stopped as she turned to look at him. Itadori felt like turning his eyes away, but he knew that if he were to do that, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

“Tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

***

Itadori had always known that her intuition was, most of the time, eerily on-point.

Even during the incident at school with Fushiguro――

“Sasaki-senpai, Iguchi-senpai, Yuuji-kun, please be careful,” she said, just two days before it happened. Those words came out without any preface: it took a moment for everyone in the room to actually process what she had just said. They were just chilling in the Occult Club room (although she’s actually part of the Tea Ceremony Club) with the two seniors of the club, doing occultically(?) productive activities.

“What’s wrong?” Itadori asked, as he put down the supposedly haunted, antique ouija board they spent all of their meagre club funds on.

“Yeah, that’s a bit too sudden,” Iguchi chimed in.

“Is it one of your ‘gut feeling’ thing?” Sasaki inquired, her voice filled with childlike excitement. After all they’re the occult club, and the girl’s extraordinary intuition certainly piqued her occult sense―which was why she half-forced Itadori to ask the girl to come to the club room whenever she’s free. Who knows if they’d found themselves the perfect research subject?

The girl in question looked down, “I... I think so,” she replied weakly, “Please refrain from doing anything dangerous, okay? Especially you, Yuuji-kun.”

Itadori pointed at himself as the two seniors turned their gaze towards him, “You’re being super specific...”

“But you know what, I understand the sentiment,” Iguchi remarked, “He totally looks like he’d jump from a fifteen-story building if it’s to, you know, save a kitten.”

“You’re telling me you don’t do that!?” Itadori looked at Iguchi in disbelief, “I mean, it’s a kitten! Kitten!”

Sasaki sighed, “Just let those two be,” she said, as she moved her gaze from the two who kept on arguing over how far they’d go to save a kitten, “Do you have a... more concrete advice?”

“Concrete?”

“Like, maybe your intuition is like a low-level version of clairvoyance, you know?” She explained, “Who knows if you could level it up so it doesn’t end up as just a vague gut feeling?”

The girl put a hand on her chin, thinking, “Hmm...” she started, “I’m not really sure... But I’ll try to ponder on it at home.”

Sasaki smiled, “Yeah, you do that. By the way, you’re not going to the tea ceremony club activity today?”

“Eh?” She glanced at the wall clock and immediately shouted, “Ah!! It’s already this late...!!”

She immediately tidied up her belongings and left the room after giving a polite good-bye.

***

――In the end, the incident happened before she could report on the results of her pondering, but for sure she felt guilty about the incident. Despite the incident being masked as something else altogether (curse explanations don’t really fly in the modern society), she must have felt responsible. After all, she could have done something, like stopping the seniors from doing a visibly, obviously dangerous thing like breaking into the school at night and opening the seal of a visibly, obviously ominous object like Ryomen Sukuna’s finger (although to be fair, at that time they wouldn’t have known it was the finger of the King of the Curses, of all things).

“Though she really shouldn’t beat herself up this much... after all, the seniors are safe now,” Itadori thought, as he briefly observed her features, “...She’s as small as ever.”

Since they first met, Itadori had always thought that she looked pretty. She’s not beautiful in a flashy way, but looking at her makes you feel at peace―especially her smile. Itadori thought that her smile looked kind of magical: it makes your chest feel warm and nice. She’s also humble and kind to others, although Itadori does think that sometimes she really needs to be more assertive. All in all, in the three years he’s known her, she had always been a good friend.

Though, of course it’d be a lie to say that Itadori has never held negative feelings towards her.

Especially when she’d show her warm smile to other guys, he―

“―Yuuji-kun?”

“Huh? Oh!”

His reverie was cut short as the girl looked at him in curiosity.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m super fine!” Itadori made exaggerated gestures to further prove his point, “So―”

“So I asked if your moving has something to do with the incident a few days ago...” She said, her voice lowering with every syllable until Itadori could barely hear the last words. Her voice trembled, and she wouldn’t look at him in the eye.

“...” Itadori hesitated to reply for a short while, “No. I mean yes, but no... I mean,”

The girl looked up to see him, and waited patiently for him to elaborate.

“I... when my grandfather died, I was told to help people. As many as I can,” he started, “And I found it.”

“You found... what?”

“I found the way to do it. I found... something I want to do.”

“And it’s in Tokyo?”

“Yeah.”

The girl paused, thinking. It took her a few seconds to finally look at Itadori straight in the eye, and said, “I understand.”

“I’m really happy for you,” she continued, “I’m glad you’ve found something you want to do.”

Itadori couldn’t avert his eyes from the girl’s sad smile and her glistening eyes.

“But I really wish you’d tell me earlier... stupid Yuuji-kun.”

He couldn’t help but to reach his arms towards her and pull her into a tight embrace.

***

Itadori died.

Gojou Satoru’s anger seeped out of him as he walked through the deserted hallways of the technical school.

Everyone who knew Gojou would, in unison, say that he’s a mysterious person. Fundamentally unserious, he always has his trademark frivolous smile on at all times―even when he’s up against a special grade curse, one that a normal sorcerer would call ‘impossible opponents’. Yet, today, just by looking at him you’d be able to feel his rage as it ran through the air, intimidating everyone in sight.

He had just gotten the information of Itadori’s passing from Fushiguro―and the only thing he could think of was, fuck the sorcery world. He’d understood how rotten the higher-ups are firsthand, yet he couldn’t believe that when he’s out finishing a job for them, they’d dare execute their shitty agenda against his cute students.

Only a moment ago he had kicked open a certain office room and retrieved all of Itadori’s belongings that was taken away by the school’s officials―and now he’s on his way to the morgue to see Itadori’s dead body firsthand.

Suddenly an unfamiliar tone rung from the bag he has on his hand, the bag filled with Itadori’s belongings.

“...?”

He rummaged through the bag and fished out a smartphone―certainly Itadori’s―and looked at the screen.

On it was written a caller name―a name unfamiliar to him. Perhaps Itadori’s friend in Sendai?

Gojou weighed on his options. Should he answer the call? Surely the caller would be surprised: after all, it wasn’t their friend on the other end, but an unknown man. Depending on the person, they’d perhaps even call the cops on him. ...That wouldn’t be good.

Yet, he once again looked at the caller tag.

The caller name wasn’t your usual formal name. It was a nickname―a rather cute one to boot―and through the notification panel Gojou noticed that the same person had called over around three times. Must have been someone rather close to Itadori. After another ring, Gojou finally decided to pick up the call whilst continuing on his tracks to the morgue. He slid his thumb over the screen, and after a second of silence――

“...Hello? Yuuji-kun?”

To Gojou’s surprise, a soft feminine voice welcomed him the next moment.

A girl... could she be Itadori’s girlfriend? But he’s never told Gojou anything about leaving behind a significant other in Sendai.

“Hello,” Gojou decided to reply.

“...Eh!?” A surprised voice rang out from the other end, “This is Itadori Yuuji’s number, right?”

“Yeah, yes it is,” Gojou said, “Sorry to surprise. I’m Gojou Satoru, his teacher.”

“Huh!? Teacher!? I-I’m really sorry for my rudeness! But――”

“You know, Yuuji left his phone in the classroom, so I’m about to give it back to him,” He cut in with his usual light-hearted tone, “He’s such a forgetful kid sometimes―”

“―I’m very sorry to interrupt,” her tone turned into a grave one, Gojou noted, “But are you not telling me the truth, Gojou-sensei?”

Gojou stopped walking in surprise.

“...What makes you think that?”

“...” The girl on the other end paused, “I’m sorry for being rude. It’s just that I can feel it.”

“Feel?”

“I don’t know how to explain. It just.... felt like something bad has happened to him. Please, tell me the truth...”

Her voice was weak, desperate, even. Gojou felt his interest piqued: she’s very sharp, too sharp even, for an ordinary person―although it might have been a coincidence. For a mere gut feeling, she sounded very confident and determined. Yet, there’s no way he could tell anyone outside of the school, much less Itadori’s friend back in Sendai, that Itadori has died. Once again he could feel boiling anger rose from the pits of his stomach. Gojou calmed himself down.

“It’s true,” He decided to reply, “He really did left his phone in the classroom. He’s currently out doing some field work, so...”

“...Really?”

She still sounded like she’s not convinced.

“Really!” He said, “You know, maybe he just tripped somewhere.”

“Tripped?”

She sounded genuinely surprised.

“Yeah! Sendai might be different, but you know, tripping is a really huge thing here in Tokyo,” he said, “Everywhere’s full of people, so wherever you trip and fall you’d feel super embarrassed since lots of people will turn to look at you. It’s really, really bad.”

“I... see...?”

“So that’s why, there’s no need to worry.”

“...Okay, thank you very much, Sensei...”

“No problem!”

Gojou was about to cut the call before she said something else.

“Please take care of Yuuji-kun well. He’s a really kind person.”

“...Yeah.”

The girl cut off the call, and Gojou could feel rage seeping out from each and every pore on his body.

If the situation allows, he would really be ripping the necks of those stinky grandpas up top right now. Honestly, fuck them to hell.

***

Itadori was, miraculously, resurrected back to life.

Ryomen Sukuna truly is something, Gojou thought as he led the way towards the underground movie room, where Itadori’s secret training will be held in. To regrow a whole human heart like that.

Some things still feels wrong on his mind, yet since there’s no way to make sure of anything, he decided to keep observing Itadori from now on.

“Gojou-sensei?”

Suddenly, the student beside him called, and Gojou reflexively turned his head towards him.

“What’s up?”

“Do you have my belongings?”

“Ah.”

In the midst of the confusion, he’d forgotten to give the boy his belongings back. He immediately handed the bag still on his hand, as he said, “Here you go.”

“Thanks!”

Gojou observed as Itadori rummaged through the bag. Finally he fished out his smartphone and after unlocking the phone, he immediately tapped the contacts icon on the screen. Itadori scrolled and scrolled until he finally found a rather familiar contact name: it was the girl calling for him some time ago, the one that Gojou spoke to.

Itadori weighed whether or not he should call her. After all, he’s supposed to be dead (and the only people to know his ‘resurrection’ as of now is Ieiri, Ijichi, and Gojou)―he let his fingers glide over the call button before he finally turned at Gojou and asked, “Sensei, can I――”

“Yeah, sure,” He replied, before Itadori could even finish his words. Itadori smiled brightly and tapped on the call button. After he put his phone on his ear, Gojou asked in a teasing tone, “Your girlfriend?”

“Wha-, huh!?” Itadori’s face turned redder by the second, “She’s just――”

However, before he could finish his sentence, it seems that the girl on the other side has picked up the phone. Itadori immediately corrected his posture, called the girl’s name and said, “Uh- umm, hello?”

“...Yuuji-kun?”

“Huh? Yeah, it’s me.” Itadori found it weird that she’d ask such a question. After all, it was his phone number.

Gojou quietly observed the exchange between Itadori and the mysterious girl on the other end of the call. Itadori narrowed his eyes fondly as he talked with her, perhaps unconsciously, showing his pure feelings towards her. You show this kind of expression and you said she’s not your girlfriend? That’s harder to believe, Gojou thought.

“I swear I’m really fine!” Itadori said, “It’s just that I know your intuition must’ve told you something, so I called.”

“...Yeah. What, you called me more than three times already?” Itadori’s eyes widened, “Gojou-sensei picked up the call?”

Itadori immediately turned to look at Gojou, but the latter has already resumed walking, rather innocently, towards their destination. Itadori hurriedly followed after him, still talking on the phone.

“Huh? Oh, yeah! Yeah... yeah! Gojou-sensei’s right!” Itadori immediately said, “I fell over on Shibuya Crossing. You know how it’s really crowded there, right? Yeah... It was really embarrassing!”

Itadori followed through Gojou’s white lie. After all, there’s no way he could tell her he had just died. She’d probably pass out from shock.

“You know what, you should visit Tokyo and we’ll have a day out together! I’ll have mastered the ways of the capital by then.” Itadori said, smiling widely, “Yeah, and we’ll have lots of good food. It’ll be fun!”

After a few moments of chattering, Itadori finally cut off the call, despite being a little reluctant. Right after, Itadori turned his head towards Gojou, with confusion clear in his eyes.

“Gojou-sensei, what’s with――”

However, before he managed to finish his question, Gojou cuts in with his usual frivolous smile: “Smoothly making date plans... aren’t you quite the guy, Yuuji?”

Itadori’s face turned deep red in a twinkle.

“D-d-d-d-date!?”

“I mean, what else is it but a date?” Gojou reiterated, “Two people walking ‘round Tokyo just the two of them. That’s literally the text book definition of date.”

“No, but we’re not even dating, so it’s――”

Gojou decided to just let Itadori go on his denial charade without interrupting. Yet again he thought of the rotten hearts of the sorcery world’s higher ups, trying to―and actually succeeding once―arbitrarily extinguish the flames of a youth’s life. Itadori Yuuji’s life―and love life―has just started. There are still a lot of things he’d experience in his lifetime to develop his own sense of self. Gojou swore he won’t let anyone bother his students’ growth.

And now, to protect his students, he has to do his part, too.

Finishing off his thoughts, he stepped down the rather narrow stairs with Itadori following behind him.

“I wonder what I should get for dinner. I guess I’ll go get some cakes from Aigre Douce today.”

***

“You know what, you should visit Tokyo and we’ll have a day out together! I’ll have mastered the ways of the capital by then.”

“Day out... together?”

“Yeah, and we’ll have lots of good food. It’ll be fun!”

“...”

“Hello?”

“Oh... Oh, sorry! It’s just that I’m really, really happy.”

“Happy...?”

“...Just by thinking of seeing you again makes my chest feel light...”

“Wh-wha...”

“I really miss spending time with you, Yuuji-kun. I can’t wait. It’s a promise, okay?”

“...Yeah, I miss you too, so much. It’s a promise.”

[honestsycrets]

Every Woman II

Gif Credit: Me

Triggers

Mention of Rape

Non-Graphic Violence.

Angst

Hati and Sven joined their father at the thing. Such were the pile of bodies that they could not hide them well. Not with their mother needing consoling and their many thralls assassinated in the home. Even their chickens, pigs and your cat Kol were killed at the meat went to spoil. Their uncle sat upon the throne considering Hvitserk in his shackles in front of the entirety of the Thing.

“Hauss, his son and many free men were killed in your home, Hvitserk.” Ivar says. His sons Hati and Sven are equally shackled to the right of him.

“So were my thralls and livelihood.” Hvitserk responds. Ivar holds his mead in his fingertips, watching his nephews shift as if they had something else to say. There was clearly something Hvitserk was holding back on. A man testifies to the noise and your horrified screams that had spilled into the streets of Kattegat a few nights prior to the arrangement of this Thing.

“What is it Hati?” He asks his hateful nephew. “You seem to have quite an opinion over there.”

Before Hvitserk could turn to warn his son-- Ivar holds up his index finger as if to motion Hati closer. The young man walks closer, ambling on his bloodied boots up the steps.

“That man and his son raped MY mother! Then, he threatened to carry her off.” He sneers, taking one step before another up toward his uncle. “I would kill him again if given the chance.”

As much as Hauss’s remaining children jeer, Ivar’s gloved hand leaves his lips, looking to the deadpan seriousness in his nephew’s face. Then, he glances over to Sven whose green eyes have gone cold and dark.

“Is this true?” He asks both Hvitserk and his remaining son.

“It’s true.” Sven speaks before his father. One of the remaining sons of Hauss jerks forward and interjects on the interrogation of Hvitserk and the bruised Hvitserkssons.

“Of course they would say that to cover their asses. I swear on my sacred armband that Father had been vying for (Y/N)’s attention prior to this beardless shit stealing her away, he would not have done that.” Hvitserk simply stares as the blonde man rants in his rage. “Bring her here! Have her testify!”

“Fine.” Ivar waves his hand. Hvitserk’s features finally drop. No, he never wanted to put you through trial.

It was not some time later that you came into this Thing. Everyone had their own opinions of what had happened and as a mother and wife, you had your own agenda coming around the side of your young family. Ivar looks to you, wiggling his index finger as if to urge you closer toward the throne-- neglecting the heated looks from the others. Almost sweetly your brother in law reaches out to grasp your hands. Not that he usually did, but you had been the last to notice your body trembling under the weight to maintain the honour of your home.

Ivar needs not ask. “Those men conspired to take your honor, didn’t they?”

The sons of Hauss rage for the rare softness that Ivar contracts against you. Yet you only nod, looking down to his rough fingers stroking your own. Your one time family friend and widower Hauss-- and his sons are fresh in your memory.

“Yes.” You choke. “They raped me.”

The men snarl and the crowd breaks out into not-so-quiet whispers. Silence! Ivar shrills, turning his eyes back upon your delicate jawline in the wonder and love you recognize from the fresh fourteen summer old boy you once met with Hvitserk.

“Then your husband and boys were maintaining your honour.” Ivar says in a statement though it was intended to be a question. You scoff softly, nodding.

“They were.” You look down. “I have the wounds of Hauss’s weapon between my legs.”

Ivar brings your hand to his lips in a soft, consoling kiss. Then leaning back to sit upright in his throne, he releases your hands, motioning you to stand to the right of him.

“Then there is nothing to hold my brother Hvitserk or his sons upon. Release them.” His fingers flick several men toward Hauss’s remaining family. “Kill the rest and give to Hvitserk their goods in retribution.”

The men of the Hauss line shriek in outrage and yet, their screams are quickly snuffed out by Ivar’s loyal men coming down upon them.. Ivar’s hands weave together with a small scoff. You look upon the slaughter then to your husband whose eyes are cemented upon you.

“The only way to get rid of a threat in society is to eliminate it completely.” Ivar says low, the sclera of his eyes tinging in blue. “I will protect you all.”

Hvitserk’s binds are loosened. He rushes forward, dipping down underneath your knees to pluck you up off the stairs. He breaks past his sons who fall in line after him out of this place. Though the Thing would go on for some time longer, they had no more business here.

The old home was sold.

“I can’t go in there.” You told Hvitserk-- and while he was never so sure how long lasting these effects were for rape, he knew he couldn’t take you back in there. He took up his brother’s Ubbe’s old cabin instead. Your new fluffy black cat was in your arms as you moved inside, admiring the strange place.

“Mother where do you want your loom?” His sons asked. You weren’t looking at either of them, rather, your eyes were on the floor as they had been.

“The corner is fine, Hati.” You bend to let go of your new cat, moving through the room to your chest with bread that was put away there to be later warmed in front of the fire. Hvitserk had been working tirelessly upon new locks in front of the door. His sons set down the heavy loom and then go to their father.

“How did they get in?” Hvitserk asks.

Sven and Hati look aside. “We didn’t lock it.”

All this out of carelessness. He squeezes his lips tight, looking up in nothing short of rage to his sons. They know already what he is about to say. They were careless-- and their mother paid the price of being too trusting in a city like Kattegat.

“It wasn’t their fault.�� You say, beginning to kindle a warm fire pit within the room. “I did not know he still desired me.”

Hvitserk sits up on the balls of his feet to look at you in all seriousness.This was not your fault. It never was your fault and he aches to tell you just that while your voice cracks. He looks out toward you, small pins of pearl decorating the lovely curl in your hair. He finally decides to move to you, picking you up from kindling the fire to stand onto two feet. His thumb and index finger cradles your chin and while he leans in for a kiss-- you pull back. Your feminine hands rest upon his chest, shaking your head.

“I can’t, Hvitserk. It’s too soon.” Just like that, you leave the room for the great marital bedroom that is separated by Ubbe’s red curtains.

He hasn’t had to do this in years. Sure, maybe once or twice you denied him a month. But Jerking himself off under the silken sheets was unfamiliar to him. When he finally came undone under the sheets, his bed quaked softly while he went to fetch his shirt to clean himself with.

“I’m sorry.” Came your voice on the otherside of the bed. He hadn’t realized you were awake-- but he probably should have. It wasn’t like he was all that quiet when he touched himself after all.

“What are you talking about?” Hvitserk asks, cleaning himself off.

“That’s my responsibility.” You motion toward his flaccid cock when he tosses his tunic away. Hvitserk drops back in his sheets, chewing his lower lip while in his thought. Maybe it was one-- but it had been his own responsibility to protect you no matter the cost. He failed… and he failed hard. Just as every man failed the women he raped on his own raids.

“I hope its more than that.” He teases to lighten the mood.

“Hvitserk…” You warn, voice low. He knows that voice to be the one before he got slapped with something. He rolls onto his side to face you, reaching out and pulling you up against his stiff, fuzzy chest. You rest your cheek upon his chest, thinking.

“Don’t force yourself.” He says before you could suggest-- perhaps him allowing you to touch. You huff out soft puffs of air from your nose, bringing a hand up to tease the coarse hair on his chest.

“You could go buy yourself a bed thrall.” You suggest finally. “If I cannot please you any longer…”

He tenses, his palm tight upon your shoulder. He’s had them before. There were some he brought home from raids that remained respectful toward you-- but they were rare. Even more so, you were a picky thing when looking for something for him to stick his cock into.

“So you can be jealous?” He asks.

“I wouldn’t be jealous!” You shrill back at him.

“Yeah.” He snorts. “Sure.”

@two-unbeatable-beaters, @igetcarriedawaywithyou, @kylobien, @titty-teetee, @breathlessouls, @nejijjeoroo, @bcat1291, @readsalot73, @mslothbrok (no mix), @romanchronicles, @captstefanbrandt, @ailucascen, @michaeliskindahot, @concretewaywardangel, @naaladareia, @cbouvier23, @the-geeky-engineer, @dorned, @lisinfleur, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @tephi101, @akamaiden, @Kirah34, @ethereallysimple, @venusloviing, @happylittlepuppydog, @beyond-the-ashes, @slutforrpg, @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns, @mixedwiththemoon, @sparklemichele, @alicedopey, @lif3snotouttogetyou, @rubyquartzshades, @noregretsandyeteveryregret, @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol, @deathbyarabbit, @unacceptabletatertots, @beyond-the-ashes (no sig), @babypink224221, @titty-teetee, @ivarandersen, @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @icarus-fell-in-spring, @piebytheocean, @strangunddurm, @atequila, @rekdreams247, @justacrush, @ivarswonderlust, @peachesnpisces, @elenawrit, @equalstrashflavoredtrash, @roxxck, @dylanowhyyien, @ilvebeenabad, @vikingsmania, @huntingbears, @My-Little-Wolfe, @seize-the-droid, @Certifiedpoison, @hotshotstar, @deans–chevy–baby, @moondustmemories, @colourmeinblue, @ilvebeenabad, @squirtleandeeveearethebest, @rubyquartzshades, @queenmissfit, @calaena-banrion, @hallowed-heathen, @Kirah34, @lulura, @looneytunes20033, @Imamom-makingadifference, @sunlightdaniel, @neeadinghugs, @Funmadnessbadassvikings, @mblaqgi, @Natmors, @triumphantreturnofpies, @dmv49, @imavulcanatheart, @attorneyl, @nina2697, @iconicvaleria, @lovelynerdytraveler, @tierneygonzalez, @zabee113, @meganjudee, @nininstinct, @sdcyumyum, @ms-allenbrown, @pancake-blonde, @ivarswickedqueen, @starkiddreamer, @Orange Darko @austenkingmylady, @thisisparadisemylove, @pinkrockstar19, @jeowjungkook, @threewintersoldiers, @end-of-night, @yaminax-kuss-a , @gruffle1, @arses21434@natalie-rdr, @tempt-ress, @Sirena-wesker, @thevikingsheaux, @poisonedjoinery, @smokealone, @chewythecatus, @glopsifum, @laughinglikenialler, @lefrenchfrye, @she-walks-in-the-moonlight, @mybarnesmyhero, @vengefulflange, @imcreepininyourheartbabe, @therealmrshale, @that-goodgirl, @supernaturalvikingwhore, @athroatfullofglass

[lokis-lady-death]

Part 2 The Dominant

Loki x Reader (SMUTTTTTT)

New to the series? Start with The Prologue ;D

This takes place during The Avengers. It is a third installment in a series I am doing on each movie featuring everyone’s favorite God of Mischief, read the Prompt if you haven’t seen it already!  Taking Tag Requests <3

WARNING: This chapter contains some sexual violence. If you’re uncomfortable with it, please move on. 

Part 2 The Dominant

An entire year passed before you discovered the truth.

In the year since Loki had fallen into the abyss, you had rose in the ranks as one of Odin’s most trusted and powerful soldiers. You were known for following orders. But in all honestly, the last night you saw Loki, you still regretted not breaking away to check on him sooner or questioning why he would send you away from Asgard. It always haunted you, not knowing if you could have done something more.

One day, between patrols, Odin asked to speak to him in private. There he sat, alone, on his throne. His face was contorted, so much so that you asked if his highness was alright.

“Y/n, I have news,” he strained.  

When he didn’t continue, you pressed, “What news, sire?”

“My son. Your prince. Loki. He is alive.” It felt like your heart stopped in your chest at the realization of his words. Before you could fathom this information, he continued, “He has traveled again to Midgard. I am afraid he is wreaking havoc.”

And like that your chest felt empty.

“Y/n, you are my most capable soldier. A trusted friend of this family. I want you to go and retrieve my son. Stop him before he can cause any more trouble amongst the midgardians. Bring my son home.”

“Your highness,” you responded, unsure how to feel, “wouldn’t Thor prefer to go in my stead? I just don’t know if I should…”

Odin cut you off, “I have a task for you that Thor would not be able to commit to. One that I trust you to fulfill as a member of my royal guard.”  

You knew before he spoke the words, knew before he could even make the suggestion, as tears welled in his good eye, that Odin would ask you to end Loki should he prove too difficult to manage.

Loki had already devastated so many before, betrayed Asgard, betrayed you.

And you had always followed orders.

*****

Odin had hidden away a second means to travel between the realms, which he had shown you once before when he brought you back from Alfheim. The only items you travelled with were the cloak on your back, a pound of gold for trade, and a simple dagger with a deactivated tracker implanted in the hilt. Should you fneed help, pressing the beacon would call back to Asgard.

But you had no use for the dagger. Just the beacon. You just knew, deep down, that Loki would listen to you. Listen to reason. Whatever dark place he was coming from, you could pull him from it.

It only took an hour walking through the Midgardian city of New York to realize you were clearly an eye sore to its people. But you didn’t want to blend it. You needed Loki to see you.

And see you is what he did.

The world around you vanished and you were inside of an underground bunker, clueless as to how you got there.

Dressed like a Midgardian, carrying a bizarre walking stick, Loki appeared before you with a man encasing the brovada of a trained killer standing at his side.

“Lady y/n,” you heard Loki speak, his eyes locked onto yours. “What a pleasure. Barton, we have a guest, stop looking so serious.”

Your brow furrowed as you fought the urge to cry out. Seeing him standing there, as well as ever, as cocky as ever. The last time you saw him he ordered you to leave Asgard, an order you foolishly followed. He had tricked you before betraying so many others. And now, here he stood.

You reared back and slapped him across his the face.

The metal of Barton’s gun was on your temple but your resolve never faltered. Your eyes were still steaming into Loki’s.

“A pleasure indeed. Really, Barton, bullets would be useless against her,” Loki spoke clearly, a half smile across his face. “Now leave.” The man did as he was asked without a second of hesitation. A midgardian willingly following Loki’s orders was concerning.

“You coward.” Tears threatened to fall but you managed to keep your composure. “Hiding away all this time? From your parents. From Thor. From me. How dare you.” Your rage flared again and you swung at him, only to have your hand caught before grazing his cheek.

Loki’s smile left, a crazed look left instead, like a wild animal. “Tell me, darling, was it Allfather that sent you here?”

You didn’t answer.

“Of course he did. So where is Thor, hm? Surely Odin’s favorite is somewhere around here. Skulking around, chasing after the midgardian women, no doubt.”

“I came alone.”

Loki’s interest peaked and you saw a shift in his demeanor. “Alone?”

You yanked your hand away from him. “I am only here to bring you home, Loki. Odin wishes you to return..”

His eyes narrowed as he hissed, “You expect me to abandon my efforts here and return with you? To Asgard?” He scoffed. “To spend the remainder of my life in prison? What a hard choice you have given me, y/n.”

“There is nothing here for you, Loki,” you pleaded. When you saw anger start to rise in him, you took a step towards him, lowering your guard, adding, “If not for Odin, do it for me. Come home. Whatever trials you face, I will be at your side, Loki. I swear it. Please.”

“Come home with you…” he echoed.

You weren’t sure how to read him, he was not usually so stoic. His fingers tightened on on the staff in his hands and you thought you saw a blue sheen go across his eyes.

“No,” he said sharply, bringing the tip of the staff to your chest, “I think not.”

A surge erupted starting at your chest until you lost all sensations. You weren’t cold, weren’t warm. You couldn’t smell, couldn’t taste. You could only see.

“Follow me,” Loki ordered and, with no reaction on your part, you followed.

‘What is happening?’ Horror overcame you, feeling trapped within yourself. You legs moved like they were your own, your arms at your side, your head straight. But it wasn’t you.

As you followed Loki out of the room, you realized the span of his agenda. Several, if not a hundred humans were here, typing away on computers, working with weapons. He turned around another corner and saw Burton about to press other matters. “I will deal with it in a moment, I have urgent business to deal with now,” he told him. Burton stepped aside like a robot. These Midgardians were under the same control. How Loki got ahold of such power you were unsure.  

Up a flight of stairs, Loki held a metal vault door open for you to walk past him. When you entered, you saw nothing more than a simple bed in the corner. “Lay down,” he commanded, and you did so. With a flick of his hand, he willed chains from the wall above the bed to come down and encase your wrists. You were trapped.

Loki’s eyes were menacing, but you noticed something else. The blue hue that was there before. Was it possible Loki wasn’t himself? In all the years you had known him, in all of the years you both insistently teased one another, he had never acted in such a way. He sounded like himself, but the cruelty of his words and actions were much more than the god of mischief. This was the work of someone who was truly chaotic.

Once you were secure, he touched your chest again with the staff. You looked up at him, confused. “Loki, stop, whatever you’ve done, it can all be forgiven!” You pulled against your restraints, pleading, “Let me help you!”

He ignored you. “Do you know why I lifted your enchantment, y/n? Because I want you to be fully aware of what is happening.” Before you could speak again, he grabbed hold of your face, his palm over your mouth, his fingers digging at your cheeks. “When I make you scream- oh and I will, pet, countless times- I want it to be the real you. Unencumbered by influence. Unmasked. Purely, simply, you.” He reached into your cloak and presented your knife. He began cutting away at your shirt, never leaving your gaze as he continued, “I want you to feel every part of this. I don’t want there to be any confusion of what I am about to inflict upon you.” As the last of your clothes were torn away, he stood straight and took in the sight of you. “Because there will be pain, my darling. Never ending. But also pleasure. I will promise you that.”  Running the knife down the chain binding your hands and then down your arms, he went on. “You say you came because Odin asked you to? He wanted you to bring me home? And I’m sure to kill me should I refuse?” His knife stopped at your breast, the edge gently scratching against your soft skin. “I want you to remember that. Remember he is the one who delivered you to me. Remember he is the reason you are here now. With no help. With no hope.”

You shook your head away from his hand. “Loki, stop this madness...”

“I am madness!” he roared back. Your eyes widened as you looked at him, feeling an ache in your heart for the Loki you once knew. Could he be so far gone? “Do you know what I am, y/n? Do you know what I truly am?” You sulked back, biting your lip. “Say it.” You didn’t answer. “Say it!”

“I know you’re a frost giant. I don’t care. It didn’t change things before I knew and it doesn’t change things now.”

With a wave of his hand, Loki’s garments vanished and he stood before you in all his glory. “It has changed everything.” He moved between your legs, laying across you and bringing a hand up the back of your head. His fingers tangled in your hair, gathering it up in a tight grip that felt like it could rip your scalp. You tried to ignore his growing eagerness rubbing between your thighs, tried to ignore the turbid desires forming in the pit of your stomach. “Odin is not your king. I am your king.”

Your jaw tightened as you stared back at him, your eyes mere centimeters apart.

His hand jerked your head back. “Say it!”

Again you didn’t answer.

Loki brought your leg up straight against his shoulder, pressing your knee against your chest. The stretch was sharp between your thighs as you did your best to muffle back cries. Of anger. Of fear. Of frustration. Of anticipation. Your mind was a whirlwind.

Loki brought his mouth to your ear, breathing lightly into as he whispered, “You do look lovely when you’re helpless.” Your arms pulled hard against the restraint as he buried himself deep inside of you in one powerful thrust. His girth and length surprised you. You let out a scream, your back jerked violently against him. Still holding tightly to your hair, his other hand snaked up your body to your breast, squeezing the tender flesh, his fingers pinching and teasing your nipple to attention. He pulled away and pumped back into you with the same force. Again you screamed, this time mixed with a moan as your flesh melted against his.

He lifted your other leg just as high, both knees folded against you as he towered over you. The pressure was too much and your thighs moved against him. His hands took hold of both your ankles, pinning you down at that angle. “No, darling, you are to keep yourself open for me. You’re going to be a good little pet, y/n, you just need proper training.”

With every hard thrust, with every slam of his hip into yours, you were losing yourself. Your stifled back cries, fought as hard as you could, but in the end you succumb. All these years of thirsting for the god of mischief were your undoing and you found yourself moving along with his erratic thrusts. Your hips moved with his, your moans becoming ragged breaths of ecstasy as you spiralled within yourself.

“Who is your king?” he asked, his husky voice warm against your ear. You fought not to answer until he leaned up, pushing your ankles with such force you thought he’d break you. “Who! Is! Your! King!” He commanded between each powerful thrust.

“Loki!” you screamed, “Loki!”

His mouth crashed against yours as you felt his seed erupt inside of you. The sensation was enough to make you reach your height. You moaned into his kiss feeling yourself release.

Loki held you in your awkward position while he collected himself, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair. When he finally pulled away, you felt the incredible ache in your legs when they unfolded from you. You couldn’t hold back the whimper.

“My sweet pet,” Loki laughed, bringing his hands down your hips and digging his fingers into your flesh. “We’ve only just begun.”

For three days Loki took you, hour after hour, sometimes leaving to do whatever tasks he was doing with his enslaved midgardians. Always coming back to you, ravishing you, taunting you and breaking you. He didn’t speak to you for any other reason than to spit commands at you. You were left chained to the bed day in and day out.

But on the fourth day, when he came to you, he was dressed in his midgardian clothing again, carrying the awful walking stick.

Loki looked you over and you saw, for the first time, what resembled remorse and hesitance in his eyes. “Oh, darling,” he cooed, tracing a finger up your jaw. His hand caught your chin and tilted your head up to his, lightly brushing his lips against yours. It was the most gentle he had been to you since you came to Midgard. He pulled back, pressing his forehead against yours. You wondered if a part of his old self was bubbling back to the surface, but his words shook you when he asked,  “Would you stay with me? Would you stand at my side as I rule over these pathetic people?”

“Stay with you? Here?” He nodded. “Loki…” You felt tears sting your eyes, felt the years of longing that exploded in that very bed in the last few nights. Abandon Asgard. You knew this wasn’t really Loki. You knew he was corrupted somehow and you couldn’t bring yourself to believe in this lie. “No, Loki, I cannot.”

He exhaled sharply and moved away from you. There was nothing else to be said. You hung your head, knowing there was a real chance you may never see your god of mischief again.

When you looked back up, he was holding your dagger in his hand. He had seen these Asgardian devices, knew what it was for. He looked back up at you as he pressed the beacon and tossed it at your side.

“I wish you luck in all future endeavors, lady y/n,” he said simply before removing the chains from your wrists with the same motion that locked you there. He turned and left you naked in the bed.

Your head laid back. Your body hurt so much from the days of strain and abuse that you couldn’t move. “And I’ll pray for your failure, my prince.”

It was less than an hour before you heard a banging on the vault door. Suddenly Thor came bursting in.

“Y/n!” he exclaimed. He saw you, all of you. The god of thunder stood in utter disbelief, unsure of what to do. You struggled to sit up, your elbows buckling under your weight. Thor rushed to your side, wrapping the bed sheet around you. “Y/n….” His voice deepened, you could hear the rage behind his tone. “Did Loki do this to you?”

Your fingers drew the sheet closer to you and all he could do was lift you up in his arms. In all of your shame you couldn’t admit that you didn’t hate every moment of it, which was probably the worst of the pain he had caused you.

Thor took you back to Asgard where Odin and Frigga were awaiting you. When she saw your state, Frigga lashed out at Odin for putting you on this mission without speaking to anyone. She set you up in the palace in a room with attendants around the clock to help you heal. Before Thor left left your side to return to Midgard, you grabbed hold of his wrist. 

“Something is wrong with Loki,” you told him. You saw Thor’s jaw clench but you pressed on, “Someone is making him do this.” You made him promise to bring Loki back to Asgard. To you.

The Avengers managed to defeat Loki and his army. By the time Thor brought him back, you were well enough to walk down to the throne room to see him be brought before Odin for punishment. You were at the doors, one of the first to see Loki being brought in on chains. When his eyes met yours, you felt a shutter to you core. He wasn’t the cocky, heartless man you had seen on Midgard. He was a broken shell of the Loki you had once held in such high regard. You could see it all. The torment of his lies, the pain of his betrayals. His conscious had come, just far too late to help him. His lips moved but you couldn’t hear or make out the words he said.

“Oh Loki,” you sighed as he passed, his gaze not leaving you until the chains forced him past. “What have you become?”

TAGS!!!! I’m pretty sure I got everyone. If you wanna get added to the tag and be the first to know when the next part goes up, hit me up ;D

@cas-has-ass  @jessiejunebug  @tinysquirrrrrelgirl  @ maladaptive-ninja-returns  @ slytherins-assemble-to-fightsith 

Part 3 The Broken is up!!

[rogeramir]

A Code For Authentic Living

I have been trying for many years now to come up with a short summary of all the key principles (the golden principles, as I call them in my journal) I want to have in life in order to live meaningfully and, what I now call, living authentically. This is how it looks currently (and I’m sure I’m going to add to this list and re-blog it very soon):

Remember always: there is only The One. You and others are all images of The One. And you contain The One. The One lives inside everyone of you. Just as The One is called ‘divine’, so is each one of you divine. And you are not separate from one another. You are all one, like the fingers on your hand or like the waves in an ocean or like the leaves on a tree. Don’t focus on the temporary separateness, focus on the eternal oneness. Once you catch a whiff of the fragrance of this eternal oneness, you are on your way to reclaiming your own eternity. You have found yourself. (This is the most critical part of the Code and I deliberately start with the spiritual element. For me, this is the first and the most important element for a life worth living. You can throw away everything else included here and just keep this part and you’ll end up in the same place. Every other element of the Code is derived from this one.)

The ‘others’ are you. It is a myth that you are separate from others. Whoever you meet, you meet yourself. And all of your relationships are with yourself. Help these others without getting attached. Advise them if they need advice and if you are experienced enough to advise. Do not judge them. Do not fear them. Do not compare your life with theirs. In your interactions with others, try to rise above the everyday rules of behaviour that you have been using all your life and just remember the eternal oneness. With practice, patience and perseverance, this remembrance will bring a new kind of relationship and a new kind of love. Judgment and comparison will give way to understanding and compassion. This will happen on its own, without any struggle. A new love will arise, which you will not understand in the beginning. This love will be without any attachments, it will be towards everyone you come across and it will be without any give and take. Once you can see yourself loving everyone without exception and without any attachment at all and loving everyone without needing anything at all, then, for the first time in your life, you have experienced real love as opposed to the commercial love that we all practice which is based on a very well-defined give and take. (This is my conclusion on how to develop spiritual, positive and non-toxic relationships.)

This life is like a short trip and you are already on your way back from the trip, like a wave rising in an ocean and then going back to the ocean. You will rise again as a wave in another life. Observe and understand this process and live accordingly. (From the moment we are born, we are all on our way out. But we forget and we indulge in the ego-based life, which leads to temporary and meaningless pursuits.)

Practice minimal living – all needs, goals and attachments are like chains. Observe these chains in your own life and know that you have the option to free yourself. (The body lives in a world based on money. Money is needed when you are born and, unless you have broken free of the world of money, it will be needed when you die and at all times in between. And human desire is a bottom-less pit. It will never be fulfilled. If you are moneyless or jobless, you desire a nice well-paying job. If you earn in thousands, you want to become a millionaire. If you’re a millionaire, you dream of becoming a billionaire. And so on and so forth. Keep that in mind and watch your desires. Just observing yourself and your changing desires will bring about a change. Slowly, step-by-step, you will become less desiring and more content. Master the art of budgeting and living frugally. And you will notice your stress and anxiety levels going down. The less stress and anxiety you have, the more meditative you are. If you plan to leave the world of money, then plan the departure accordingly. Do not leave unfulfilled any prior obligations. The great Buddha ran away from the royal palace leaving his parents (the King and the Queen) and his wife and kid behind. He came back (as per some traditions) to apologize and tell his family what happened to him. His family eventually understood and forgave him and became his devotees, but the point here is that may be he could have done things differently instead of running away from his responsibilities. Yes, there is always the possibility of analysis paralysis i.e., not taking any action to fulfil your great purpose in life, but that can be avoided too. In any case, the world of money, possessions and attachments cannot be combined with the world of God, meditation and silence. Anyone who chooses the path of God will have to start letting go of all material possessions, tangible or intangible.)

Live truthfully today, not in the future. Whatever you keep for tomorrow will never happen, because there is no tomorrow. Tomorrow is only an excuse to maintain status quo. There is only today, this moment. Have the courage to grab this moment and live your life, as you think it should be, in this moment. If you keep postponing your ideal life to the future then this postponement will become a habit. If you start living your ideal life, then such ideal living will become a habit. In the end so much of what we want to achieve depends on our habits. (Start cutting out all the BS you practice in your relationships and your professional and social lives. And live today the life that you want to live; don’t postpone to future. Take small, decisive steps towards the long term objective.)

Live your life like a well-sharpened pencil and don’t spread yourself thin. Focus on doing what you really need to do or what you feel you are most passionate about. Find and focus on doing what you would do even if you are not paid to do it. That would be the thing that is really worth doing. It is like being with a woman or a man that you fall madly in love with, as compared to being with someone that you maybe like a little bit, or not even that. That is the kind of profession you need. Something that you fall in love with. Not something that you do 9 to 5, five days a week, and dream of getting off work and enjoying the weekend. No, once you find the right profession, then your whole week is a weekend. There is no difference between the week days and the weekend. You enjoy through the whole week. Work becomes play. Once you have found it, focus on it. For the rest of your life, just trim it as much as possible, so that you can give all of your time to your passion. Realize and cut out all the crap that you fill your day with just because you don’t have anything better to do. Find that something that will consume you like a raging fire. That is the one thing you should be doing. It is better to do that one thing very well than to do many things not so well. (I hope to give you at some point in future the name of the author and the book where I read this many years ago and it just got stuck in my mind: ‘live your life like a well-sharpened pencil’. If someone knows, plz forward to me too. Another author, Gary Keller, in his book titled ‘The One Thing’ says the same thing in different words, ‘don’t spread yourself thin’.)

Travel, explore, learn and share your learning. (That’s my agenda for the remaining life. One day I might find the place where I’d like to stay till the end of this present journey of life. Or I might find that all places are the same and that the differences are only in my mind.)