#so cruel to put this woman in front of my stupid face when she's in a relationship and she's probably gonna go away soon anyway

[i-appear-misssing]

Sweet lord help me she leaned over my shoulder and touched my arm and I had no blood left below my neck

[plutoswritingplanet]

In My Back (Remmick x Female! Reader)

a/n: sooo uuuh... basically yeah... never in my life had i been on such a long writer's kick. idk what they put in this irish freak but im eating it up (this is a long one, like 11k words i think). Cross Posted on AO3

Warnings: Canon Violence, Carpet Munching like crazy, P in V, just... Smut y'know, Some Plot, Manipulation, General Vampire Shenanigans

Summary: Three times he comes in the night, with offers a plenty on his fingertips. The third night, he leaves you with a gift. A Devil's kiss and a taste for freedom.

MASTERLIST

"And then, when you least expect it..." your cousin's voice dips down into a menacing tone, that only serves to push a giggle out of your chest "They sink their teeth, and suck the blood straight outta your bones"

She snaps her mouth at you, teeth clinking together, and you push her away, laughing at the story. She laughs as well, dodging skillfully, as you swipe a wet rag at her. 

"Stupid" you huff, trying to act exasperated with her antics, and failing miserably, as always. "I told you not to bother me with those silly stories."

She shrugs at that, twirls around the kitchen, like a fine lady in a coarse dress, her bare feet sliding over the linoleum tiles. You watch, as she dances out of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the table. You almost scold her, but decide to let it go, as you usually do. It's hard to be mad at her, damn near impossible to be honest. She always had a way of melting coldness around her. 

With a small sigh, you go back to cleaning, wiping the counter and the windows, your mind wandering to your cousin's stories. It's always ghosts and goblins with her. Some new, terrifying thing, that would surely snuff sleep off your eyelids, if your feet weren't planted firmly on the ground. That's how it's always been, since the moment you both learned to crawl. She was the flying one, the one with her head in the clouds, too preoccupied with counting the stars to look down.

And you were the complete opposite. Grass at your feet, a clear road ahead of you. No wondering, no straying. 

Sometimes you envied her lightness, sometimes you remembered, it was a burden. Especially for a woman on this earth. Despite that, she never lost herself. Despite hardship after hardship, she remained strong in her openness, in her will to think beyond, what the world offered her. How she did that, after living the past she's had, was beyond you.

God must be a cruel, cruel man, you think. For condemning the most unequipped for the biggest disappointments. 

Still, you made sure, your cousin would never have to face her life alone. Not while you're still standing, unmoving, like an ancient pine tree. You would always give her shade, always protect her from the rain, pull her down if need be.  

The sun starts to set over the horizon, the last rays of light flickering behind the woods. Your house was small, and well hidden, despite its proximity to the town. Your parents knew what they were doing, choosing this place to settle down, and you couldn't be more grateful. Before your cousin begged for shelter, you lived here alone, picking up both your parents' professions. And so, along with baking and feeding the entire area, you also became mean with any car troubles. A woman's and a man's job, both of them dancing under the sweat of your brow. 

Your cousin begged you to leave that "dirty work". To focus on opening a legitimate business, a bakery at the marketplace. She cussed, cleaning out grease stains from your skirts, and you didn't have the strength, nor patience to explain to her, how you're only able to afford the soap in her hand, because the "dirty work" payed better, than any baking. 

And so, when she stops you at the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her nose scrunched. She's looking you over, taking in the rough gloves and the utility belt, contrasting almost comically with the flowy material of your dress. 

"Don't start" you point at her with your wrench, and she raises her hands in a mockery of surrender.

Her mouth twists in a way, that betrays her inner thoughts, betrays her need to say more. But, to your general surprise, she swallows, shaking her head. Then, her eyes find yours, and you feel the tangible warmth of comfort, at the slight, teasing pull of her mouth.

"Don't let any monsters in" she chirps behind you, as you open the door, and start walking towards your late Daddy's workshop. 

All you can do is laugh. A rough sound, deep and dark like freshly brewed coffee. A mourning dove, and a wise owl, that's what you two were. 

Lamps guide your steps through the darkness, as you make your way towards the workshop. It's a spacious raggedy shack, your father built himself, every nook and cranny marked by his strength. You feel as if you're stepping into a church, every time you slide the barn doors open. 

It takes you a moment to light the place up, as you skip around a beaten down Buick, your feet padding softly over the recently swiped floors. The silence of the night calms you down, adds a layer of something almost sacred to your work. Night birds call out in the woods, crickets chirp in the grass, and you inhale the crisp air with your whole lungs, until they hurt. Until you feel the wind in the essence of your being. As soon as the workshop is ready, you find the ghost of your father inside every clink of metal, every grease stain. 

That's why you do, what you do. That's why you hide the woman in your pocket, tug your skirts up, tie them to your belt, throw your hair out of your face. Your father's hands guide you, years spent looking over his shoulder marr your movements. It's not work anymore. It's a ceremony, a communion. 

The Mississippi heat covers you with sweat, salty drops mixing with grease and motor oil, staining your skin. And as you wipe your face with a coarse rag, you entertain the thought, that this, here, is freedom. Your own, personal brand of freedom. Or at least some ghost of it. 

That's how he first finds you. 

Skin glistening under the warm lights, making you shine in his eyes. Your breasts exposed to a scandalous degree, your skirt hiked up so high, he sees the small stretch lines on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water, literally. Such a wild thing, the sickly sweet scent of gasoline clinging to you, as you stretch on the little stool. A groan pushes past your lips, and he has to grip the doorway with his claws, to stop himself from pouncing. Even if he can't really do it, while you're in the safety of your workshop, he feels as if he'd be able to tear down any rules of ancient times, just to taste the nectar of your blood. 

Then you start humming. Some unknown tune from far away, long ago. Your voice dripping like molasses, filling his ears with something, he was sure damnation took away. You move around the workshop, tidying up after yourself, legs strong like an ancient tree. A tantalizing image of skin, muscle and a jiggly layer of fat, that makes him want to sink his teeth in, over and over again. 

Such temptation could not be ignored. Shouldn't be. It begged him to indulge, and who is he to deny the sweet embrace of sin? 

"A woman with a wrench is such an uncommon sight these days" he starts, and skillfully dodges the aforementioned wrench, as it flies towards his head. "Now hold on there, darlin'..."

You spin around like a storm cloud, heart jumping into your throat, at the unfamiliar, male voice. He stands in the shadows, just out of reach for the outside lamp, leaning on the workshop's door frame. His face is barely visible, but you notice the paleness of his wrists, peaking at you from his front pockets. A sillhouette of a banjo on his back, tied with a frayed string, that's digging into his chest.

The world becomes quiet around you. Not a night bird, not a cricket. Just you, and him, and the increasingly fast beating of your heart.

"Who are you?" you demand, and the suspicion in your voice lets him know, he'll have to work for it "What are you doing here?"

Raising his hands in a mockery of a friendly gesture, he takes a slow step backwards, offering space. Your shoulders don't relax, hand creeping towards the folds of your skirt, where you hide a kitchen knife. One, you've never had to use, but God help you, you will. 

"Apologies, darlin'. I didn't mean to startle you" he says, keeping his tone light, as if he's just an old friend, paying you a visit "I was walkin' down to the town, but I must've lost my way."

"Yeah, you must've." you eye him cautiously, the tartness of your voice making the corners of his mouth curl. 

"Best get back on the road then."

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, as he swipes a look around the workplace. 

"I saw the lights, figured there might be some good folks up in 'ere" he comes even closer to the door, lingering just outside, his well worn out boots kicking at the pebbles. 

He makes a pitiful expression, as he looks up at you through his eyebrows, and for the first time, you can take a good look at his eyes. Blue, you think. But at the same time, strangely dark. It makes your eyebrows furrow, because despite your weariness, you can most certainly say, this stranger is a handsome one. With nicely toned arms, broad shoulders, and features that look warm in their softness, as well as dangerously sharp. 

You don't like it. This strange impasse, that's seized your muscles. Like a deer stuck in the crosshair of a predator, it makes your skin crawl, and your insides tighten. 

"No good folks here, just me." your voice is like a bell in his ears, slightly out of breath from all the work, and so, so dark. 

The stranger laughs, and the sound sends an onslaught of shivers up your spine. Your fingers twitch nervously.

"See now, I find that hard to believe" the lightness in his tone starts to get to you, slithering under your skin like a snake "Surely such a sweet darlin' has some good in 'er"

God dammit, the way his head tilts to the side, as if trying to coax this mystical goodness out of you, chips away at your defenses. Your brain wrestles with your natural, tart disposition, and the facts presented before you. Here he stands, a respectful distance away, his hands in view. You don't see any weapon on him, but you see the sweat clinging to his dark hair. You see the dirt on his clothes, under his fingernails, the labored breathing he tries to conceal. He seems harmless enough, but looks can be decieving, and you'll be damned if a soft smile and a twinkling eye will be your downfall.

"You a travelin' musician or somethin'?"

He laughs, in pure delight. As if the notion is something he'd never consider, but he loves it either way. His laugh makes your cheeks tingle with warmth, and you curse yourself for such a strong reaction. 

"Something like that..." he nods, eyes shining with mischief "I follow music 'ere I go."

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump, as you throw the dirty rag at the car.

"I'll get you some food and drink" you concede "Then, you can go on your merry way, yeah?"

"Yes Ma'am" he agrees immediately, his eyes following you, as you exit the workshop, sliding the door closed "D'you live here alone, darlin'?"

The question makes you remember the knife in your skirts, but you don't falter in your steps, as you make your way towards the front entrance to your house. It's not wise, running from a predator, if he indeed turns out to be one. 

"That's none of your business, is it?"

"Fair enough" he nods, walking behind you, teetering the line of being much too close for comfort "Though it's a curious thing, don't you agree? A woman of your young age, alone in the woods. No ring on your finger either..."

He knows you're not alone. He smelled the other woman, felt the lazy drag of blood through her veins a mile away. But you don't need to know that, nuh huh. 

Your right hand tightens into a fist on instinct, at his observation. Skipping the steps to the porch without an answer, you leave the door open for him. 

But he doesn't enter, stopping right at the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the painted door frame, mirroring his stance from before. You shoot him a questioning glance over your shoulder, and once again, he scratches the back of his neck with a sigh. Such a boyish, shy gesture. Or a camouflage. You're undecided yet. 

"Would be improper, to walk in without an invitation..." he explains, voice quiet, and almost timid. 

Something tugs at the back of your mind. The story your cousin told you just hours ago, rings out like a sermon between your ears, and gooseflesh erupts all across your arms. Stupid. Utterly stupid and impossible, and yet... Your shoulders jump up, and down, in a nonchalant shrug, before you disappear into the kitchen. No use pondering over demons. The night is scary enough without them, and strange men can be worse than all the ghouls combined. 

As soon, as you're out of sight, Remmick growls under his breath, finger scratching at the peeling paint on the entrance. He can smell you in the house, sweetness and musk, gasoline and cherry pie. Your heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but he knows, the cards he's been dealt are tricky to play. Good thing, he's a skilled gambler, and you've already extended a hand of hospitality. Already let him see a glimmer, of what's hidden under that hard shell. The sweetness of the fruit within, warmth like the sunlight he's been denied for so long. Your blood will be exquisite, he's sure of it. But before that...

There's a thrill like no other, when playing with one's food. 

"There you go" you announce, slipping out of the kitchen, your clothes in proper place this time, obscuring the sight of your bare skin from him "Water and food, for your journey"

His eyes trail over your body, before landing on the glass in your hand, along with a package, wrapped in cloth. Another smile graces his features, this time however, he looks less like a shy farm boy, and more like a pleased man. All skin, and bone, and muscle. The transformation is quite jarring, and you have to blink a couple of times, not allowing yourself to be distracted, by the gentle shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 

"Thank you, lass" he answers, taking the water first, and downing it all in one go, causing a small laugh to rip through your lips, almost despite yourself.

 "Forgive me, seems I'm more parched than I thought" he inclines his head, and you hand him the package. 

This time, his fingers run the length of your palm, sweaty and rough, as they retrieve the offering, and your mind goes to some very unsightly places. His eyes trail up slowly to your face, and you swear, you can see his pupils shining, just for a split second. 

Danger. The word climbs up your spine, takes root in your mind, as his tongue slips out to wet his chapped lips. Pink, and soft. 

Don't let the monsters in, your cousin's voice follows you. But she didn't mention anything about letting the monster stay a while, right at the threshold. She didn't mention the shivers you feel, prickling at your skin under his inquisitive gaze. And she sure as shit didn't mention, how your breathing gets slower, deeper, when you recognize that traitorous need in the depths of his eyes. 

It's been a while, since you've had a man, but you still remember, what it looks like, when you're wanted. When there's hunger crackling like fireworks between two people. And the hunger this stranger exudes, is nearly overwhelming, suffocating in the best way possible. 

Time to end this, cut the weeds out, before they overpower all rational thought.

"You should get on your way" you say, and shiver at the way his eyes snap to your lips, drinking in their shape as you speak. 

"Just one more thing..." he murmurs, low in his throat, so quiet, yet so unbelievably loud in the oppressive silence of the night. 

This time you're the one wetting your lips, preparing yourself for something, although you're not sure for what. The air feels sticky, smooth like honey, passing between you and him. An intimate sort of exchange, that slowly, but surely, melts your insides. Makes you feel a bit lighter, as if your cousin's spirit has invaded your usual hardness. 

Is this how it feels to be her? And if so, when will the first crash of thunder bring you down? Just like it brought her to the ground, again and again.

The man's eyes move back to yours, capturing your gaze and holding it hostage. 

"A cigarette for the road?" his words are a whisper now, and you feel ashamed, at how long it takes you to register his words. 

When you finally do, a single arch of your eyebrow makes his lips pull into a lazy smile. One that has no right working on you as much as it does. Alas...

"I saw you smoking in the workshop" he explains.

"...Ah..."

Your hand slips into your skirts, fingers brushing over the knife handle, and you take out a half empty pack. You offer it to him, and he reaches for the cigarette, his fingers sinfully elegant, as he presses it against his mouth, licking lightly at the tobacco. Something tightens low inside you at the movement of his pink tongue. 

He's good. You'll give him that. 

"I shall be off, then" he takes a slow step backwards, keeping his eyes on you, like he tries to pin you in place. "G'night, darlin'"

As soon as his boots hit the soft ground in front of your porch, your senses come back to you like a flood, as if some ancient spell has been lifted off your shoulders, and you straighten out with a sharp breath. 

You don't know what compels you. What wild, unfamiliar force beckons you, but before you can stop yourself, you're calling out to him.

"Stranger!"

He twirls on his heel, like a dancer on a stage.

"What's your name?"

"Remmick" he answers, voice carrying through the night. 

Then, he jumps up, dances a little jig that pushes clouds of dust into the air, and you can't help yourself. You laugh. A clear, honest sound, that surprises you in it's lightness. 

Remmick bows, turns around, and walks into the shadows of the woods, leaving an indent in the shape of his curved smile in your brain. 

"Remmick..." you repeat under your breath, before shaking your head at your own antics, and closing the door of your home.

The moon laughs at you as well, her light slipping into your room through a half open window. It's not a merry laugh however. It's a mournful, hopeless one, to which you are none the wiser, falling into dream-filled sleep. And as soon, as your eyelids close, as soon as your consciousness slips, a shadow rises from the earth, hanging over you like an executor's axe. 

***

You awake in the early morning, sweat clinging to your feverish skin, your hand squeezed tightly between your thighs. You don't remember what dream has put you in this state of mess, but your limbs shake as you stand up, your heart beating right out of your chest. It's a little disappointing, really, you think to yourself, as you wash off the slick from your thighs, that you've become reduced to this so easily. Surely not because of last night's visit. You're stronger than this. Stronger than some wanton virgin, who's never felt a man before. 

And yet, as you skip into the kitchen, and prepare for the day, you can't seem to shake the image of him from your brain. Like a sickness immune to all ointments, Remmick lingers under your skin, slithering and burning. 

Your cousin joins you downstairs some time later, lured out of bed by the smell of freshly baked goods.

"Whooo! Baby!" she sighs, taking in the kitchen, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes "You gonna sell these?" 

The sluggishness with which you turn to her, makes you realize just how distracted you've truly been. Ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, and for what?

"Yeah" you nod, wiping flour off your hands into your apron "Gonna head to town in a bit. Sure you gonna be alright on your own?" 

Your cousin rolls her eyes, and steals an apple from the fruit basket. 

"I'm not a lil' kid no more" she tells you, like she's reminding you of homework, and it's your turn to roll your eyes at her. 

Ain't you?, you wanna say, but you bite your tongue in time. She doesn't deserve your crudeness. So you cross the kitchen and peck her cheek affectionately. As if to make up for the thoughts, that are left unsaid.

"I know, I know. And you know where the shotgun is, in case trouble comes a knockin', yeah?" she nods once, with a resolute expression.

You recognize the irony in your words. Last night you practically invited a strange man into your home, just 'cause he smiled nice. In your stubborn refusal to admit your own transgression, you tell yourself, you'd shoot his ass to high heaven's, if he tried anything. Even if the notion rings hollow in your own brain. 

"What's on your mind, cuz?" 

Her voice drags you back to reality with harshness, and you take a sharp breath through your teeth. One, she immediately notices, her eyebrows scrunching into a frown. 

"Nothin'." a weak lie, a pathetic one, really "Just... Ghost and Goblins"

Concern melts into a teasing smile, as your cousin starts packing up the still steaming bread. 

"Ah..." she laughs, bright and airy "Some stranger in the night sunk his teeth into you?" 

For a moment you watch her expression carefully, trying to decipher if she knows, if she heard. Even if she sleeps long and hard, like the dead. All you can see on her face, is a smile of someone proud of her stories taking root. Relief and guilt mix in your gut, and you have to look away, before you crack. 

It doesn't matter. Nothing happened, and you'll never meet the smiling stranger again, so why do you feel so... What is it exactly that you're feeling? Disappointed? No, disappointment is for people like your cousin. For people who hope, who fly. Then what is it, biting at the back of your spine like a bloodsucking flea?

"I'll be back from town before you know it" your voice is quiet, dismissive, but she doesn't seem to hold it against you.

"Have fun" she calls after you. Then, silently, she adds "God knows you need it."

The road to town goes by smoothly, your truck jumping and bumping over stray stones. The bustle of the market welcomes you like an old friend, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to miss it. The people, filtering through the streets, laughing, talking, keeping friendly despite the underlying tensions in the air.

Your father would take you here often, while he was alive. He'd stand under the very same sign, you're lifting over your truck now, letting people come to him with business. You'd listen, like a diligent little student, soaking in the wisdom of the trade, helping him run books, count the money, catch conversations.

They all knew you here. From the very moment you've been old enough to stand on your own, you were part of something bigger, than just your family. Always your parents daughter, but so much more at the same time. And now... Now you're a ghost of your own choosing. Respected, liked even, but always on the outside, no longer part of something, but a welcomed guest nonetheless. 

Bread goes out first, then sweet rolls and pies. You've been slaving away in the kitchen since the break of dawn, but as the sunset comes closer, you'd be damned it it wasn't worth it. Soon enough, your purse is filled, and you're packing your stand back into the truck, arms burning from work. 

Wiping the sweat off your face, your neck, you make your way across the street, to the supplies store, where, as soon as the bell above rings, you're greeted by the owner. A woman, who could've been your peer, could've been a friend, if you were someone different. If you were your cousin, or at least, not a ghost.

"Look what the wind blew in." she leans on the counter, hair slipping out from under the scarf on her head "Haven't seen you in a while."

"You know me, always busy..." your eyes already scan the products, landing heavily on the prices.

She doesn't know you, though. You've never given her an opportunity to know you, and perhaps, that's why you always choose this shop. Perhaps, that's the only time you allow yourself to hope. That maybe this time, you'll be different, this time you'll let yourself be open. That's the reason you know, disappointment is for the hopeful. 

"You got some flour for me?" 

The shopkeeper nods, crosses the floor and jabs her foot into a couple of bags by the window.

"Got some milk too" she says "Hell, even some sugar, if you wanna"

To that you shake your head.

"I've got some sugar left still. And I'll pick up some eggs on the way back, from Ol' Johnson's farm"

A beat of silence.

"Oh? You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?" you don't sound too interested, already pulling out a bunch of dollars and sliding them on the counter. 

The shopkeeper walks over to you slowly, a solemn expression on her face, and that finally gives you a pause. The sun paints the inside of the shop a deep orange color, your neck tingling with heat and sweat, hair sticking to your skin. 

"Ol' Johnson's dead. God rest his soul" the shopkeeper says, swiping a sign of the Cross over her heart, and you repeat the action, like it's second nature. 

Coldness seeps through you, a strange sort of feeling, like there's something more hidden in the revelation. Some terrible truth just waiting to bury you. You swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself. 

"What happened?"

Another moment of tension filled silence passes, as the shopkeeper takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching in sorrow. 

"His wife came back from her family down South. People said she found him, dead and burning in the morning sun."

Cold turns to freezing in your bones, brain working overtime under your skull.

"They burned him?" you ask, mindful not to sound too curious, too insensitive.

"Sheriff said they killed him first, mangled the poor man beyond recognition."

"Jesus...." you sigh, trying, and failing to push away an image of the old man's face, scorched and bloody. "What about his widow?" 

"She's staying at the Motel until they burry him. I think she'll head back South after, there ain't nothin' keeping her here anymore."

You nod solemnly at her words. A quick thought passes through you, a worry, where you'll get your eggs now. But you scold yourself hard in your mind for such heartlessness. This is not the time, nor the place for wondering about trivial matters. Not when a man's life has been snuffed out, and so brutally at that. 

"The funeral's tomorrow, if you care" the shopkeeper's words snap you back from your cold thoughts, and you realize, that yes, you do care "We'll have a small thing for him at the Joint"

"Yeah..." you speak before you have the time to think on it "I'll be there."

She helps you load your groceries into your truck, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you, and once again, you wish things would've been different. Instead, you thank her with a dollar bill, and start the car on the road back to your home, where you're not alone, but solitude still awaits. 

By the time you arrive, it's dark outside, the porch light guiding your steps. The house is quiet, your cousin asleep in her room, buried under heavy covers. You linger in her doorway for a moment, mind lost deep in thought, as you watch her peaceful form. Something tugs on your heart. Some undeniable feeling of sorrow, dragging your heart down to the wooden floors. 

What you're mourning, you're not sure. But it brings a tear to your eye nonetheless, and your feet carry you outside, into the peaceful darkness, the crisp evening air. There, you can finally breathe, you can let the tears flow easily, without worrying about your sorrow staining the warmth inside. 

Hands clutching your head, your shoulders shake in silent sobs, the heaviness, and the cold of today reaping it's spoils on your body. And you stay there, soil soaking up your tears greedily, until the steps of the porch creak loudly, tearing your heart straight from your chest. 

You shoot up, turning your whole body so fast, you nearly collide with one of the pillars supporting the roof over the porch. Hand wraps around the handle of the knife, perpetually hidden in your skirts. And then you see him.

"Heaven's you startle easy, darlin'" Remmick raises his hands, giving you a sympathetic smile. 

Here he sits, right at the porch step. The man you were sure you'd never see again, same clothes, same twinkle in his eye. He gazes at your tear stained face, with a calmness of someone who's seen more sadness, than you can comprehend. 

"The hell you doin' here?" you try to demand, but your voice is still too shaky, and your hand too weak, to hold the knife any longer. 

"Heard a bird sing in mourning" he answers, something warm slithering into his voice "Followed it's song all the way here."

You should be better than this. Stronger than this. Hell, you are stronger than this. But there's something so gentle in his presence, so different from the hunger you've felt the first time you've met. And your bones are tired, and your head is pounding, and God... 

Slowly, like a wild animal learning to trust, you sit back down on the porch, a safe distance from him. But nothing can shield you from the warmth of his body next to you. From the unexplainable sense of calm, that floods your veins with every breath you take. And the night is so quiet, not a noise around you...

"I could sing you a song" he starts, and you scoff at the notion, a wet, broken sound "Something that would lull your pain to rest..."

"I don't need cheerin' up" you cut him off, and he smiles in a way, that makes you feel exposed like a bleeding wound.

You look down at your hands, woman's hands marred with signs of hard work. No longer soft and gentle, but trembling and covered with callouses. You're proud of them, of every scar and blemish, and you wish they were clean at the same time. You wish they were made for holding silk instead. At least just for tonight, in the dead silence.

"No" he murmurs "No you don't"

His eyes meet yours, when you risk a look in his direction, and what you find, makes your heart feel light as a feather, and heavy as a stone at the same time. 

"Cheerin' doesn't bring anythin' for you, does it." he says it like it's a fact, like he knows you from within "You know the value of sufferin'."

God damn him, you think, new tears already stinging your eyes. He leans in, cold breath tickling your cheeks, and to your surprise, you don't run. You don't want to run. Not even a flinch passes you, when his fingers brush the stray hairs out your face, pushing the rest over your shoulder. 

A small hiccup rips through your throat, because you never want to be touched. Never, until now, until him. Any other boy from town would already have his neck scuffed, for even daring to get this close. But this stranger, this man, this...

"Remmick..." you whisper, something wet and broken in your tone, something you haven't heard since your mother's funeral.

He hums, deep in his chest, as if he's pleased you remember his name. As if somehow, in this state of brokenness, he's the most proud of you. Your head ducks on instinct, when he moves closer, taking a long whiff of your hair. 

"You know" he continues, low and intimate, his lips moving like the wings of a butterfly over your forehead "That tears can be sweeter, than any smile, any laughter.

Fingers pinch your chin, pulling your head up, until your glassy eyes meet his once again. For a moment, he searches your face, gaze drifting over your wet eyelashes, your trembling cheeks, your mouth opening and closing.

"Because tears are honest" he finishes, and a ragged sound of a gasp escapes through your teeth.

Your hand finds purchase on his chest, feeling the rough material of his shirt, the buttons hanging on a couple of flimsy threads. You could mend them for him, you could offer him food, drink, your bed, anything. If he'd only ask. 

But he doesn't. Instead, his large hand presses gently over the flushed skin of your cheekbone, thumb running gently under your eye, gathering saltiness as it goes. 

"Let me taste it, Sweetness" he whispers, pleading, his face leaning impossibly close "Let me taste your honesty."

His breath mingles with yours, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, so close, yet not close enough. Your fingers tighten on his chest, dragging the fabric beneath your nails, and finally he dips down. 

But before you can feel him fully, before he drinks you like communion wine, your cousin's voice rings out throughout the house.

Heart jumping into your throat, you nearly rip yourself away from him, the spell of his honeyed words gone as quick, as it appeared. You stumble back on your feet, flushed and confused, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Something flashes through his expression, quick like a band of wild horses, but you catch it, you always do.

Perhaps, just a trick of the lights, something insignificant and unreal. But just like your cousin's stories, it lingers. 

If tears are honest, then what do you call the sudden meanness in his eyes? The ghost of irritated anger, that pulls his mouth down, sets heavily over his brow? 

Danger, you brain supplies again, and as your cousin calls out your name again, dread climbs up your back. 

He repeats your name, so silent you can barely hear him, but even so, he looks victorious. Defeated, but victorious nonetheless, and your instincts kick in tenfold. The handle of the knife is cold in your grasp, a grounding weight against your hand. He doesn't move, just stares at you, expression of utter calm gracing his confusing features. 

Now that's how a proper predator looks like. Half hidden under the shadows, his mouth open and panting, as if tasting the lingering scent of you from air alone. There's no tension in his figure, only steady confidence. He's gotten your name, he's almost gotten your trust, your honesty. 

You wish you were stronger. You were taught to be stronger. 

The front door creaks open, and you turn to push your cousin back inside, scream at her to stay back, stay where it's warm, and safe. Where the darkness won't catch her. 

But just as she steps outside, her thin sleeping gown flowing around her form, your eyes flicker to the porch steps. And he's gone. 

Not a trace of the strange man, of Remmick. Only the moon and utter silence. 

"You're back" your cousin wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you inside "I fell asleep waitin', I'm sorry"

"No, I..." you try to respond, barely hearing your voice over the thundering sound of your own heart, eyes scanning the tree line, every shadow looking like him. 

"You good? You look like you've seen a ghost" 

Finally, she drags you over the threshold, closing the doors behind. 

"You've been cryin'?" 

"No it's just..." you swallow thickly, throat tight "Needed some fresh air, don't you worry your head about me"

Your cousin looks beyond skeptical, a strange reversal of your usual roles, but she doesn't push, God bless her soul. Instead, she kisses your forehead, wiping away the ghost of Remmicks lips, and at last, your shoulders relax. 

"You work too hard, y'know" she murmurs, sleep still clinging to her "It's not good for the nerves" 

You know exactly what's not good for your nerves, and it sure as shit isn't your work, but you can't say that. You can't reveal the true source of your frazzled state, if only to shield her from all the confusion. All the dread and longing, that's mixing dangerously in your gut. She's been through enough, and suddenly awave of fresh guilt crashes over you. 

Carelessness is a sin, you never thought you'd commit. Yet here you are. God forgive you, because you cannot do it yourself.

***

Leaving the window open is your continuous mistake. One, which Remmick uses generously. 

His body levitates in the cold air, unmoving like a hanged man's corpse, scraping his nails over the window frame. Stuck in perpetual stillness, the warmth of his breath fogs the glass. Two dots of red cut through the darkness, overpower the moon's cold light behind him. Like a shadow of death to come, his presence looms over your room, over your sleeping form.

You never sleep under covers. He noticed it a while back, when you didn't know him, when he still thought you were just a bag filled with blood. His for the taking, to sate his never ending thirst. 

Now, he sees the bag has arms, that curve elegantly over the pillow. He notices the smoothness of skin, the delicate slope of your neck, where your blood sings a hymn just for him. Such a sweet thing, the ripest of fruits, just waiting to be devoured. 

Later. 

He has to remind himself to be patient, no matter how hard the pull of your saccharine scent calls to him. He needs you pliant, he wants you at your fullest. He wants love dripping from your fingertips like a fountain. Just so he can lap it up like a hungry dog. 

For now, he satisfies himself with this image of you, splayed out on the covers. A ghost of a Babylonian queen, come to life in this abandoned neck of the woods. 

Remmick takes a deep breath, humming to himself, as your scent fills every pore of his damned body. Dark and heavy, sweet on his tongue. He closes his eyes, nose pressing into the glass, teeth biting into his lower lip. What sweet torture this is. Being so close, yet so far away. 

Makes the spoils all the more worth it, in the end.

***

Ol' Johnson was a good man. 

He never took more, than he needed. Greeted everyone with a smile and a story, told in a voice roughened by years of smoking cheap tobbaco. He helped you, when you couldn't bring yourself to call on anyone, and kept helping you, until you've learned to accept it. 

And now he's dead. And all you have to remember him by, are dwindling memories, and a glass of lukewarm whiskey in your hand. 

The funeral service was a miserable affair. His crying widow nearly drowned out the sounds of the sermon with her sobs, and your heart broke for the poor woman, who lost everything in one night. She didn't look at you, when you offered her condolences, and you couldn't blame her. Tear stained eyes stayed  fixed firmly on the wooden coffin, as they lowered her husband into the ground. And they didn't move an inch, when ground covered him forever. 

She's a good woman too. Kind in a natural way, that seems to spread warmth wherever she goes. Always willing to give more, than what's expected of her. Now, the burden of being warm falls on the shoulders of the town. And they all take the mantle in stride, holding her through her grief, offering her comfort, that can only be found in community. 

You don't fit in here anymore. Besides, who would want comfort from a ghost. 

So you linger at the back of the Joint, sipping whiskey through your teeth, trying to remind yourself, that solitude is what you chose. You chose safety, you chose your cousin, your family. You can't regret that, you're simply not allowed to. 

Soon enough, mourning of death becomes a celebration of life, as musicians take stage, and bodies filter onto the dance floor. Sweaty, greased with alcohol, and yearning for a moment of recklessness, they dance. And with every step, every twirl, every pull of the guitar strings, you feel Ol' Johnson's spirit. You feel every story, every helpful hand, every puff of cigarette smoke. 

You can't stay still. Despite your promises, your responsibilities, you can't let his memory fade into a sad song. So you abandon your glass, your lonesome seat at the table, and you join in dance. You dance like you've never danced before, heels stomping on the wooden floor, sweat dripping down your face like tears would've. The music swells, and swells without stopping, and you're not stopping either. Not until your legs are burning, and your breath gets stuck in your throat. 

Then, you're stumbling out the Joint, passing by the bouncer into the cold night's air. Where there's stars, and the endlessness of the skies. You want to keep dancing, even if your legs beg you to stop, even when you collide with the cool metal of your truck's door.

This is freedom. This is love. This is the only regret you have. 

Digging out the keys from your purse, you eyes catch something in the dark. Two shining points, deep ahead of you. Your blood boils under your skin, a familiar feeling, which you keep forgetting ever day. Because you know this sight, deep within your bones, it settled a long time ago, a memory of something so terrible, your mind had to protect you from it. Had to keep forgetting. It can't protect you now however, and as the familiar spell of curiosity roots you into place, Remmick steps out of the shadows. 

Moon paints his skin in glowing paleness, something otherworldly clinging to his every step. 

No knife will help you now, you realize, as your back presses further into the cold side of your truck. And no one on the Joint will hear you, should you call for help. That's the price you pay for being a ghost. Music still plays inside, a quick tune that borrows it's rhythm from your feverish heart. 

"You followin' me or somethin'?" voice cutting through the night, you feign confidence, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Such a flimsy shield, one he'd tear without even trying. But he stops, a safe distance from you, his palms raised high in a placating gesture you know too well. There's not a trace of that alarming meanness from the night before, a lazy smile gracing his features instead. 

"I told you" he starts, tone light and friendly, like before "I follow music, that's all"

God, you wish you could believe him.

"This here a Juke Joint?" he asks, and once again, suspicion rears it's ugly head in your gut. 

"Ain't you a traveling musician? You should know where to play" 

He laughs, sheepishly. Although you're more and more convinced, it's a wolf laughing underneath sheep's hide. You can't shake the image of his face, twisted in anger, the two red dots hanging in air, just where his eyes could've been. 

"Folks wouldn't let me in" he shrugs, and you notice the considerable lack of the guitar on his back "A private celebration I think."

"A wake." you cut swiftly.

"Ah..."

He doesn't ask who died. You would've found it strange, if you didn't know. You don't want to know, fighting that awful feeling of your guts churning in premonition. But you do, and despite that, you can't run. Still, after all the dots connecting in your mind, you can't run from him, his shining eyes and his curling smile. 

Remmick comes closer, measured step after another, as if he's approaching some feral little animal, thrashing in the hunter's binds. Or a killer, that's found an easy victim. Your blood runs cold in your veins, gooseflesh covering your skin. Still, he doesn't snap his jaws, not yet. 

"You dance mighty fine, darlin'." the comment doesn't even sound like a flirtation, just a pure, bare bones fact "Saw you through the window, twirlin' and stompin'."

He doesn't wait for your reply, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, and pulling out a cigarette case. You recognize the design despite the darkness, and your throat tightens, until you can't breathe properly. God forgive you, you've almost let a killer into your home. Would've let him into your heart, if he'd ask. 

"Where'd you get that?" there's a tremble in your voice, one, that puts an edge to his easygoing smile.

"My Daddy gave it to me, for the long road ahead."

Lies come like second nature to him, leaving his lips dripping with honey. Once again, he licks at the end of the cigarette, eyes flickering up to meet yours. 

"My friend had one exactly like that" you note, still trying to cling onto some semblance of hope.

Alas, hope only breeds disappointment, you know that too well.

A slender flame from the lighter flickers in his pupils, as he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke. 

"Maybe we've got the same Daddy" he muses, clouds of white slipping past his teeth.

You'd laugh, if you were light as a feather. 

Another drag of the cigarette, and Remmick closes the distance between the two of you, standing foot to foot. Your body fails you, at this crucial moment, because all you can do is watch him, eyes wide, stuck between pleading and anger. 

"What are you?" the question leaves you, before you can catch it, and the man before you sighs, shaking his head.

"Told ya'. Travellin' musician" 

Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, flicking the cigarette to the side, and grabbing ahold of the back of your neck. You grab at his wrist, but don't go any further. His hold is gentle, despite everything you'd anticipate, and he leans his head towards your ear, like a lover whispering a secret. 

"Shhh..." he shushes you quietly, cold breath tickling your feverish skin "I've already decided I'll help you."

Confusion overrides any rational feeling, and your hands slip to the coarse fabric of his well worn shirt. The buttons are still barely hanging, but now you'd rather be caught dead, than mend them. Hell, you probably will be. Something mean and dark rises in your throat, pushing past your teeth with a hiss of a venomous snake.

"I don't need savin- ah!" 

A small, surprised moan tears it's way through your throat, as Remmick runs his tongue over the delicate spot behind your ear. His fingers bury themselves into your hair, gently massaging it in a way, that is almost grotesquely delicate. You can feel his mouth, running the length of your jaw, up your cheek, where he presses delicate kisses. The tip of your nose is next, then the softness under your eyes, the wrinkle of conflicting emotions between your eyebrows. 

"C'mon darlin'." he whispers into your hairline "Won't you let this sinner in?"

Once again, he doesn't leave time for you to reply, diving down towards your lips, taking them into a slow kiss, that makes your insides flutter. You should hate yourself for the way you're not pushing him away, for the way you chase his mouth with your own, when he pulls back for just a second. 

You should hate him for everything, but most importantly for the moan he gives out, when his tongue slips into your mouth. Such a beautiful sound, it shakes every bone in your body, makes your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

He tastes of iron, an unmistakable bloody residue, but it's so sweet on your tongue, you can't seem to care. Like poison attacking your senses, you let yourself be carried away, mind going deliciously blank. His hand still continues to coax you with the gentle movements of his fingers in your hair. While the other takes it's fill of your body, warm palm pressing against your waist, your hip, pushing the silken dress up your thigh. 

Then it moves higher, until he's grasping at your heart through the plush flesh of your breast, and this time you're the one moaning. His thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, pulling another sound from you, like he's playing a fiddle.

Heat rises within you like the tide, every touch, every caress building up a storm of want. Soon, it doesn't matter anymore, that he's surely the monster from your cousin's stories, because he kisses like an angel. 

His mouth leaves yours, a sticky mess of saliva that should disgust you, but God, you've never tasted anything sweeter. Once more, he attaches himself to your neck, kissing it with fervor, broken sounds escaping him, like a starved dog feasting for the first time in months. His hand palms at your breast one last time, before reaching back, and soon enough you hear the click of your truck's door. 

There's no time for questions, for concern. Not when the need runs so deep, and begs to be satiated. He pushes your body inside, splays you out on the back seat, amongst old blankets and empty bags of flour. Your thighs fall apart, to accommodate him, when he climbs over your body, like he can't bear being away from it even for a second. 

"The door..." you pant out, against the hunger of his lips.

"No one will see us" he huffs into your shoulder, and the utmost certainty in his voice makes you believe him. 

This time it's your hands doing the massaging, as you grip the black strands of his hair, trying to bring him closer. Trying to morph the Devil himself into your body. He hikes your leg up, over his waist in response, and you can feel with damning clarity, his burning hardness pressing against the flimsy cotton of your underwear. 

You want him inside so bad, it's nearly breaking you apart. 

"Too damned sweet..." he murmurs into the running pulse of your neck, and your entire body freezes, when he teases the place with surprisingly sharp teeth.

"...no..." 

It's a quiet, barely audible whisper, but he straightens himself on his arms, hovering above you with a questioning look on his flushed face. 

"No biting..." you repeat, louder this time, your heaving chest brushing over his "No pain. I don't wanna hurt tonight."

A blink, a gasp, and Remmick morphs between your very eyes. His expression turns into something so gentle, so caring, you're sure a man like him shouldn't be able to look like that. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, a broken sound emanating from deep within his chest. And then, he kisses you again. Slow, intimate, until your head is spinning.

"The things you do to me, woman" he whispers into your mouth, and starts to crawl lower. 

His tongue laps at your collarbone, lips sucking into the skin of your sternum. Your body arches off the seat, as he dips into your cleavage, letting your breasts spill out the top of your dress. He kisses them, like they're more than just a body part. It feels sacred, feels like a prayer in a language you don't fully understand. 

Another series of kisses over the fabric covering your stomach, and soon enough, he's making a home for himself between your thighs. Your body starts to shake in anticipation, half lidded eyes following the movements of his dark haired head, as he leaves wet kisses on the inside of your thighs. 

"Christ Almighty..." he groans, as his thumb runs over the wet patch steadily forming on your underwear "Like Heaven's Gates opening for me"

Your hips buck in a stuttering motion, as he puts his mouth over the cotton, tongue lapping at the fabric in a promise of things to come. 

"Knew you'd be sweet" he comments, voice dipping down so low, you can feel it in your insides.

Then, your legs get thrown over his shoulders, and before you have time to adjust, he pushes your undergarments to the side, and nearly drowns his face in your cunt. 

The sound you make is nothing short of scandalous, as he begins to lap at you, greedily soaking in the very essence of your being. His tongue finds your clit faster, than any man before, and as his mouth close over the pulsing bundle of nerves, you throw your head back. 

He's good, so good in fact, that your stomach begins to tighten in seconds. Your hands flail at your sides, nails scraping over the backseat, over your dress, his scalp. You don't know what to do with your body, completely surrendering to the ancient magic, he pulls from you with every drag of his tongue.

And God, the sounds he makes. You've never met someone so vocal, so utterly devoted to drinking every last drop you have to offer. Soon enough, your thighs start to shake, the pressure building inside you reaching levels you never thought possible. And he doesn't stop, not even for a moment, licking, sucking, flicking his tongue until your voice becomes hoarse. 

"Remmick..." you mewl.

The sound of his name feels right, leaving your lips, feels like truth. Like that mythical honesty, he wanted to taste in your tears. 

His grip on your body tightens, and it's as if he's been possessed by some demon of desire. You can feel his face pressing closer, deeper into you, and that's the final straw. Stars erupt in your vision, as you come, hard and fast, earth shattering around you. Body nearly flying off the car seat, your breath gets punched out of your lungs with the force of the most delicious of sensations. 

Remmick seems almost reluctant to part with your cunt, licking at the swollen flesh, until your hand slaps him away, too sensitive for any more attention. His face is glistening in the pale moonlight, and his sinful tongue cleans everything with an almost inhuman groan. 

"You're heaven, mo ghrà" his voice breaks "You're sunlight incarnate"

There's devotion like nothing you've heard before in his tone, and if you weren't so completely wrecked, you would've blushed. Instead, you reach for him, and he obeys, coming back up, until you can kiss him again. 

His arms sneak around your waist, pulling you up into an embrace, and your boneless body let's him do what he likes. Let's him settle you into his lap, legs nestling on both sides of his thighs. Forever greedy, he ruts into your twitching core, and you're cruelly reminded about just how empty you feel. 

"You'll never be alone" he whispers, voice muffled by the skin of your chest "You'll never be forsaken, not while I walk this earth." 

Something in the way he says that, makes your spine tingle with a dreadful sort of shiver. But there's comfort in his words, enough of it, for you to throw caution to the wind, and reach for the button of his trousers with shaky hands. 

You'll worry later. For now, you want him to make you forget what worrying even looks like. 

And as if reading your thoughts, he obliges, pushing your hands away, to do the work himself. His trousers fall open, and he frees himself with a choked groan. His cock rests on your lower stomach, hot and ready, smearing drops of precum over your skin. Your muscles tighten in anticipation, hands squeezing his shoulders.

"My girl" he murmurs "My sweet girl, let me in"

All you can do, is nod. 

Remmick lifts you up, as if you weight nothing, positioning you just right, before he slowly lowers you onto him. Your combined groans fill the silence of the truck, as you stretch around him. He's gentle, letting you adjust before pushing into you a bit further, until he's buried to the hilt in your heat. His head falls back against the headboard, hands roaming your body. You can see the treacherous light in his eyes, now, finally a tangible truth, rather than a figment of your dreams.

It doesn't scare you though, nothing scares you now. Not when he fills you up so completely, you feel like you belong for the first time in years. This moment of stillness, of silence interrupted only by laboured breathing, doesn't last long. 

Nails digging into the bottom of your thighs, he rocks you in a steady, almost languid rhythm. You flutter around him, small gasps of pleasure leaving your lips, and that familiar pressure introduces itself once again. He speeds up, guiding your hips in an up and down motion, that soon makes your teeth clink together. 

"That's right... God in Heaven... So warm... Mmmmm..." his voice flows between murmurs, groans and whispers, every word making your insides twitch, making your eyes flutter.

 "Take me in... Good... Deeper..." 

You can feel him, pressing into your bones, nestling into the deepest parts of your soul, and with every ragged moan he breathes, something close to sweet affection blossoms inside you. Honey and milk, they drip from your fingertips, as you caress his face, contorted in a beautiful image of pleasure. You could love that face. You won't, but Heaven's above, you could. 

"Christ" he chokes out, hips bucking off the seat "My sweet girl, mo ghr- ah..."

The sound of his voice alone makes you come again, lighter, but no less pleasurable. And as you tighten around him, a choked sound leaves his throat. His arms encircle you whole, pushing himself so close, he might as well find home in your chest cavity. Soon, his movements stutter, face hidden in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair, and with a last, decisive thrust, he spills himself inside you. 

Bodies covered in sweat, you both shake in each other's arms, for a small, blissful moment being completely alone, shielded from the world. Remmick holds you, like you're his only hope, mouthing gently at the skin of your throat, whispering things you barely comprehend. Prayers, that are marked by something ancient, older than the trees and the rivers. Worship, that flows like blood from a wound. 

"Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí dui..."

You want to whisper back, but there are no words, that could compare to his. So you do the next best thing, running your fingers through his hair, tracing circles into his back, mapping his features with delicate kisses. He basks in the affection, eyes fluttering closed, a familiar twitch of renewed desire stirring your insides. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, still wet with whatever mixture of fluids, and he parts his mouth under your touch. 

And that's when it all comes shattering down. 

Because hidden beneath the chapped softness, are teeth that don't belong to a human. Sharp, pointed angrily, perfect for tearing at flesh. 

Remmick hums in his throat, feeling the way your body seizes with dread, and as his eyes slowly open, you're met with another damning sight. 

Those aren't human eyes either. They shine at you, reflecting moonlight in a haze of red that makes your skin crawl. 

People who dare to hope, are the one's crushed by disappointment. How dare you forget that?

"It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" he asks in a low voice, all traces of gentleness gone in an instance "The nightly visits, the quiet in the woods..."

His finger traces a line from between your breasts, up to your bobbing throat.

"The pull you feel, even now." a slow roll of his hips makes you choke on air.

Remmick's smile turns cruel. There's no denying, what you're seeing, and it's no longer the man you almost could've loved. It's not a man at all, but a monster your cousin's stories warned you about. Things you believed to be impossible, come to life before your very eyes.

"What are you?" your voice breaks, and he smiles, as if the question has become some sort of a joke shared between the two of you. 

"How about I make you a deal?" 

You've never noticed, how sharp his nails are, not until they drag back down your throat. Gentle enough not to break skin, but brutal enough to leave imprints in their wake. 

"I'll race you back to your house, and if you get there first, I'll leave you two be."

Dread turns your blood into ice, and all you can do, is stare in shock, as Remmick lifts you off his lap. His cock slides out of you languidly, and for the first time, since you've met him, you feel disgust. At him, at yourself, at the whole waking world. 

He brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead, claws dragging over your face as he does so. Then, a quick press of his lips to your temple, and you shiver in your spot. 

"Be quick" he instructs in a tone that is entirely too cheerful, before he shoots you a wink, and climbs out of the truck. 

Three seconds, that's all you need, before you realize the severity, the absolute hopelessness of your situation. And as you scramble to the passenger side of the truck, thighs sticky with evidence of your misplaced affection, all you can see is your cousin's smiling face. 

***

The door to your home slams against the wall, when you stumble inside, feet barely catching up with your panicked movements. 

You scream her name through the halls, pathetic and desperate. Silence greets you, not a sound to be heard, and as tears spring from your eyes, you sprint towards the stairs. You climb the steps, hunched over like a wild animal, adrenaline pushing your every movement. And then, with the entirety of your body weight, you slam into the door of your cousin's bedroom. 

You can smell the blood, before you see it. A stench so profound, you'll never be able to get rid of it. 

And then, a scene so terrifying, so profoundly heartbreaking unfolds before your very eyes. 

Remmick stands in the middle of the room, hands folded casually behind him. His jaw clenched tightly over your cousin's throat, her lifeless body half hanging from the bed. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, on the sheer dress she wore to bed. And then, red eyes find you. 

Your cousin's form falls onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound, as Remmick let's her go, licking her blood from his gums, his chin.

"Now I understand..." he claps his hands lightly, and once again, you can't move, frozen to your spot, eyes glued to the heap of fabric and flesh, that was once your family "Why you've kept her hidden, like a princess locked in a tower."

His boots leave bloody prints on the wooden floor, as he steps closer to you, crossing the bedroom in long strides. 

"There's no worse thing, than a cruel man. Not for a woman like her." 

You can't look away from her. Not even, when Remmick's hand covers the side of your face, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gentle caress.

"I can see it all now, y'know" he murmurs "All her memories are mine. I know what a bastard her husband was. It's no wonder she ran away."

Another step closer, and his other hand finds the softness of your stomach, sharp nails scratching gently over the delicate fabric of your rumpled dress. You can still feel him, a dull ache between your legs, a stickiness of your bodies joined together. 

What a damned fool you are.

"And you took care of her so loyally" he continues, a hint of admiration entering his words "Sacrificed so much... But not anymore."

Finally, you dare to look up, and he sighs in delight, as tears fall on your cheeks. 

"I promised you" a whisper, a cold breath against your skin "No more alone, no more forsaken"

His lips kiss away the saltiness, with gentleness so unbefitting his monstrous nature, it makes your breath lock itself in the column of your throat. 

"There's only love in your future, mo ghrà. Only love."

The bundle of fabric moves. A jerky sort of motion, and your eyes snap behind his back, as your cousin's hand jumps against the bloodied floorboards. Remmick let's you go without a fight, and you stumble on your feet, falling to your knees, next to the slowly awakening corpse of your cousin. 

Her name is a prayer on your lips. You're begging for the impossible, you're aware of that, but she moves nonetheless, lifting her face. 

"Hey cuz." she croaks, the wound in her throat moving as she speaks "It's all gonna be alright now."

It's a fate worse than death, seeing the unnatural, golden shine in her eyes. The monstrous, sharpened teeth peaking from behind her smiling lips. You reel back from her, vision blurry from all the tears. She follows you, on her fours, as if she's forgotten what it means to walk. 

"I know it's scary" she stands up, blood dripping from her dress, her mangled body "I was scared too. But now... Now it's all bliss. It's all love."

Your heart breaks into a million scattered pieces, dread and pain nearly knocking you off your feet. But you keep backing away, until you stop at the very top of the stairs, swaying in your sorrow. 

"You did so much for me" you cousin closes the distance, drool slipping out her mouth, mixing with crimson on her chin "Let me repay you, let me give you a better life."

It's only as she reaches for you, fingers digging into your shoulders, teeth bared and ready to bite, do you react. A sharp yell rips through your throat, and you don't think anymore, that primal instinct of survival taking root. The world becomes a mess of limbs and screams, and soon it all spins around you. Wood of the railing breaks under your weight, when your cousin slams you into it, blood of your blood sends you flying. Your fingers grip her nightgown in a death grip however, and the both of you crash to the floor below, with a thunderous crack, that carries through the entire house.

For a moment you can't breathe, your vision going black as night. Then, everything spins, but you don't feel any teeth, any claws. Just waves of pain crashing over your back. 

You will never forget the next sound. It will haunt you through your life, turn every dream into a nightmare. The broken, ragged intake of breath on your left.

"Cuz..." 

Your head turns, and there she is. The dreamer, the flying dove, her chest split open by a stray piece of wood, blood spilling out her mouth like a fountain. 

"...no..."

Despite the blinding pain in your back, you rise to your knees, falling over her, hands trembling and for the first time, you're at a loss. What can one do in this situation? How can you fix this?

"No, no, no, no" your cousin's body twitches, her eyes growing more and more glassy with every ticking second "Please, God... Help..."

But there's no God in this house, not anymore. He's been casted out, with your cousin's last breath, and so, as desperation shakes your being, you call out to the only other option. The only way that's in the cards for you, until you too leave this earth.

"Remmick, help me!" it's hypnotizing in it's irony, you calling out to him, begging him.

He stands behind you, watching your shaking shoulders. Watching those fascinating, calloused fingers rip out hairs from your scalp. He knows, somewhere deep inside his rotten, ancient heart, that he would help you. He'd come acrawling for just one word. 

He also knows, you've been crying over a corpse, as soon as wood pierced your cousin's heart. 

And so, he lingers, a silent statue in a house, that was once a home. Like a pillar of marble, devoid of guilt, of heartbreak, stirred to life only by the misplaced fondness for a woman, who dared to hope in his presence. 

Time ticks by, your sobs turning into heaving breaths, which soon fade, leaving silence in their wake. That's when he finally makes a move, bloodied soles of his boots dragging closer, until your abused back leans against his side. It's a small touch, but for him, it means more, than any before.

There's no more strength in you, no more fight. Like a block of clay, begging to be shaped into a masterpiece, you surrender.

And it's all he's ever wanted. So then why...?

"Leave this place" his voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears "Go far, far away. And live."

You don't even lift your head, don't look at him, but he knows you listen, he knows you understand. A brush of cold lips against the gentle curvature at the back of your neck. There's no shivers, but your heart stutters, that's all he needs.

"A gift for you, mo cuishle"

***

A month later you're standing on the platform, nails drumming anxiously on the leather surface of your baggage. 

You're going far away, like he's told you, leaving behind the town, Ol' Johnsons abandoned home, the shopkeeper's smile, and the ghosts haunting the small house in the middle of the woods. 

And life goes on. You find your place in a shop of your own, in the middle of a town, that's buzzing with life. You put your talents to good use, and soon, people remember your name. They wave at you as you pass, they visit your shop, and talk to you, as if you've lived here from childhood. 

You make friends, good ones, that last through thick and thin. And despite waking up every night, covered in sweat, with the haunting images of that fateful midnight flashing behind your eyes, you're happy. You find lightness in your step, in your mind. You cradle the community within your calloused palms, and let them cradle you in turn. 

So, when the new Juke Joint opens, you don't think twice, about letting your dearest friend, Pearline, drag you with her. For a night full of drinkin', dancin', and cheerin'.

[polkadotzzzz]

pretty sheriff!

18+, mdni, power bottom caitlyn, sub top reader, strap on, nipple play, cheating, brief mention of vi.

a/n: i lowkey hate this,,,,,,,but enjoy the crumbs while i work on requests

i can't stop thinking about caitlyn and her young little assistant that she brings everywhere to important meetings, fancy dinners, fundraisers. she stays stuck by the side of a young girl who has dreams of being more than she ever could be, but little did everyone know that this 'assistant' has the strong sheriff of piltover making such whorish sounds for her.

"s-so pretty" you stammered, pushing your hips deeper into her. the silicone cock was dripping with caitlyn's arousal.

the moans that left caitlyn's lips was downright pornographic. her slick tight walls squeezed taut around the toy, and you couldn't help yourself as you plunged even deeper for her, trailing your hands down to her ass to spread her open, watching her hole wetly flutter around you.

she was so stern, so level-headed. never in a million years would you have believed this would happen. it's so dirty, so forbidden, so horrible of you, especially since her spouse was slaving away at work all day........

"p-please!" you whimpered loudly with each thrust the harness pressed into your sensitive clit sending sparks of pained pleasure up your spine her nails dug into your shoulders, creating small indents in its wake.

"so shameless" oh, so perfect. caitlyn breathed out guiding your movements, bucking her hips up to meet yours. "fucking a married woman, aren't you ashamed sweet girl? i'm so much older than you."

you tried you really could, but you couldn't speak. all you could do is moan and slobber all over her tits. you've always enjoyed her breasts, heavy to the touch and nicely shaped. they were always accentuated in that stupid sheriff's uniform and could never stop staring at them, and finally you've got the chance to touch.

caitlyn's raw bitten lips part with a soft gasp as you tug at her nipple with your teeth, sucking on it afterward to soothe the sting. had you known she'd enjoy that, you'd have had your mouth on them sooner?

blooming red marks littering her body varied in stages of healing. they weren't yours. they were never yours. the whole point of this was to not get caught yet seeing those marks the hickeys her spouse had left just the night before triggered something within her.

you wanted to mark her up too── no you had to mark her.

"hey now──" her hands delved into your hair with a wince as you dug your teeth into the collarbone. it stung, drawing a droplet of blood. "what has gotten into you?" she scolded, not giving any care to your glossy eyes. "biting me?"

"you like it when she does....." god, you can even recognize your own voice as so soft and meek and jealous.

caitlyn rolled her eyes. "of course i do", she spat, slightly smug, slightly teasing. "violets my wife, i love her."

this is just a game for her, working you up, spitting cruel words, putting you on desk duty at work, not letting you look up from your papers. for one moment, she switches from the generous heir to the spiteful domineering woman. she did all this because she knew you'd never leave her side.

"keep going", her cool breath hits your face, "before i get bored with you."

and god do you keep going even as your muscles ache, and your breath starts coming out in your pants, you keep snapping your hips into the vevelty walls because you don't want this to end. how would violet react to seeing her spouse being fucked on their bed? caitlyn enjoys your little show of power, but she thrives even more on the thrill of control you give. all it takes is a brush against your jaw or a finger tracing the drool sliding down your chin, and you were putty all for her.

the front door downstairs opens.

your heart stutters, your hips halting your breath from getting caught in your throat.

violet wasn't supposed to be home, yet not for another three hours. no, no, no, no, no──

your head was yanked back, harshly, sneering lips pressing towards yours. you whimpered, falling against her breasts, kneading needily at them like a stupid dog slobbering all over her lips using way too much tongue drooling all over her.

caitlyn broke the kiss to laugh. she didn't care that her wife was currently trekking up those very stairs. right at that moment, she couldn't care less.

caitlyn forced her tearing eyes to meet her, smirking when a droplet rolled down your cheek. it was satisfying and gratifying she could cum from watching you cry.

the door opened.

"cupcake! i──"

violet came to a screeching halt in the doorway, a million different emotions crawling onto her face: shock, sadness, hurt, betrayal, lust.

oh

caitlyn adjusted her position, locking her legs around your waist, tugging you closer and you whimpered loudly as the harness dug into your sensitive clit. fat tears are rolling down your cheeks now.

caitlyn chuckled slowly in pure amusement, nothing else.

"keep going dumb girl, make me cum, make my wife watch as you fuck me"

[freakenomenon]

So sorry if I’ve asked this before dementia core but thoughts on Ellen x A.M? (For a lack of a better term I’m so sorry I don’t mean in the traditional shipping sense I mean the ‘A.M-is-a-terror-who-wants-and-envies-the-concept-of-being-human-so-badly-the-only-one-of-the-five-he-can-‘love’-is-the-woman-the-other-men-hate-more-then-they-do-A.M’ sense )

you have NOT asked this before... i think i don't know, my memory is also that of a spilled milk carton. ( funny little note before i answer this, i think its comedic that i thought the question 'why do you like ellen' was loaded and for some reason could not just put something stupid or simple down like 'i think shes neat' or 'i like to think about her character writing a lot.' but for the question that begs the implications of my idea on shipping and how it corelates to dynamics and all that bullshi: nope, just fine. ) any-howdy. i think ellen and AM's dynamic is pretty interesting on its own when looked into more, despite the scraps of what we have. considering her fate in the short story, and her torture in the game. it's pretty safe to say most of his anger lashed onto her sexual or at least sexual autonomy related. especially with how a big element of her character in the game is viewing emotion, which includes desire, as flawed. and hating that part of herself entirely due to trauma. i'd imagine AM is enraged by this further, despite the fact he would have definitely exploited her sex ( as in assigned sex at birth ) and sexual assault trauma whether or not she had this response. how dare she have a body and not use it to its full potential. how dare she toss these PRIVELAGES away due to something as benign and useless as 'tRaUmA' beyond AM being AM, i find it incredibly interesting as well that the first thing AM mentions when dangling promise in front of ellen's face as he did all the others, is that he immediately comments on her looks. and that she'd thrown her 'promise' all away by growing 'hysterical' or irrational. all very typical misogynist jabber meant to demean her. just as all his other praise is, he coos at her like she's something precious and fragile and dumb.

( note; this idea that her being 'hysterical' or more bluntly, traumatized, somehow undermining everything she's done and everything she's worked for leaks into her theme, the problem is it's never called out by the narrative that this is a flawed way of looking at trauma skewed by ellen, the main focus. ) regardless, this theme is also tied into the fact that ted refers to AM as patriarchal. cruel and dystopian in a jealous, masculine way. 'He snickered. It snickered. Most of the time I thought of AM as it, without a soul; but the rest of the time I thought of it as him, in the masculine … the paternal … the patriarchal … for he is a jealous people. Him. It. God as Daddy the Deranged. ' it only makes sense that AM represents prejudice in more ways than one, being a war machine and all. and thus, will project his insecurity, rage, powerlessness, onto others. in a sense, ellen is like a little doll to him. when he's feeling particularly frustrated with his sexuality ( or lack thereof ) , appearance ( or lack thereof ) , emotion , ect. why not project it onto the one person in the entire group who's been especially kicked in the nuts about all of those things her entire life! YAAAAAAAAAY DIVERSITY WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and, just as AM wants. ellen reacts every time. she insults him, she curses him. she whines and complains and cries and shrieks and makes herself look insane, small in the process of trying to come across as bigger. even as she tries to come off unbothered as she does it.

this is, of course, only drawn to a shrill fever pitch when surrounded by triggers. she's one of the only survivors in the game to directly curse AM and tell him to fuck off consistently, or more than once. ( gorrister and benny both do the same at least once, but end up prioritizing their 'goals' directly afterward. ) she's also the only one of the survivors to still have the amount of hope, or maybe delusion, to directly beg AM to stop. as described by nimdok.

ughhh this is becoming a drag to articulate, this is only amplified if you take ted saying that AM gives ellen pleasure as partial fact. plus the fact that ellen and ted are the least tattered, ellen staying pampered for the men, doll motif, yada yada. you get it. AM essentially has ellen on a longer leash than the men, she's able to curse him out, push away, and then crawl back crying for forgiveness, for luxury. this entire process needing minimal effort from him, just as the existence of her dynamic with the men as a whole. ... sorry i talked about ellen and AM's dynamic too much, point is. the same with tedam, i do find the 'ship' interesting in a vacuum. unfortunately, i cannot yuri this up enough to make it lack the straight edge that makes me want to gag. still, generally, i think in a one sided sense, and within the context of shipping in the way WE are using the term. i like it. i like ellen x AM **** EVERYONE THROWS TOMATOES AT ME AND KILLS ME REALLY HARRD AND I GO TO HELL!!!!!!!!!!****** i think it would be really funny if AM's praise were something genuine, at least to some extent. ellen's discomfort , disdain , disgust and 'i want to kick his ass'-ness is just a perk. which is a testament to how fucked up this pairing is. but i do think they're interesting. hehrrgghh......................................................... huryyhhgfffhhh. drink.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hi! So at the end of Loki how he becomes part of the multiverse tree and everything resets. but what if the reader still remembers Loki so she goes to look for him and try to give him a happy ending.

It's so sad because Loki should have a happy ending and seeing what happens in the finale of the show I would like to see him not end up alone.🥺

A/n: I WILL GIVE LOKI HIS HAPPY ENDING, p.S…Wanda is also alive cause I said so. So yea obviously I changed a lotttt of things.

Side note: was gonna make Sylvie switch places for Loki’s but I didn’t want to be called stupid 😂. But if you want it as an alt end then I’ll write it.

You didn’t understand, you couldn’t understand why people couldn’t remember him. Why? Mobius,Sylvie, not one of them remembered Loki.

You refused to believe this, he couldn’t be gone, you had to do something, you had to fix this. Ignoring Mobius calling out your name, you were determined to find him, you will save Loki and you had to go to the one person that would help, the one person that could help.

Wanda

Your heart hammered as you came upon the home, the same little house you had found for the woman, one reality where she can finally be happy. You just hoped she would remember her love. You hoped that what ever Loki had done hadn’t reset this life.

Taking a deep breath, you made your way to the door. Your hand knocking on the door though relief flooded your body when the woman said your name, her head tilted to the side.

“You remember me?! Oh thank god…Wanda I need your help?”

Wrinkling her nose Wanda stepped side letting you come into her home. “Why wouldn’t I remember….what’s wrong?”

Patting your lips you ran you nervously bit your lip as you started explain everything to your friend. “And now he’s stuck in the Loom and nobody remembers him but us and he’s alone and I can’t.” Shaking your head you grasped the edge of your shirt. “Please Wanda! You’re the only one that can help me.”

Wanda hated seeing you like this, you were one of the kindest people she knew. You were the only one that helped her, the believed in her. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded her head as she grasped your hand gently. “Of course, let’s just find a place that’s not my front yard.”

Giving one last look at her family she tugged you to her car. While she knew what this would mean, she was grateful for your friendship.

•

Stepping through the portal, you glanced over your shoulder spotting the woman struggling to keep it open. “It’s okay Wanda you can let go.”

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Brooke gave you a weak smile. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, and thank you.” Turning away from the closing portal you took a deep breath taking a glance at your surroundings. Did he really subject himself to this? It felt so lonely here, so isolated.

You didn’t care if people will forget you, it didn’t matter because you would have Loki, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

A smile formed on your lips as you spotted the man sitting on a thorn. The once heart broken look on his face was replaced with a look of disbelief, your name spilling from his lips.

“It’s can’t, this must be a cruel joke.” This bad to be some illusion, something is mind made up to push back the loneliness he felt.

Giving him a teasing smile you stepped forward kneeling down in front of him. Your hands grasping his gently. “I’m not very good at jokes but I can assure you that I am very real.”

Clutching your hand tightly he was afraid that if he let go than you’d just vanish. “You must go back you can’t-.”

Placing your hand on his cheek, you let your thumb glide across his skin. “Well, it’s a bit to late for that now.” You then pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips then smiled resting your head against his feeling Loki draw you in close. “So now you’re going to have to put up with me.”

“Thank you.” Loki whispered holding you tight, hr might be stuck protecting all the time lines but at least he wasn’t alone anymore.

At least he had you.

[blingblong55]

Vigilante shit -John "Soap" MacTavish

Based on a request:

HELLO. You said you were gonna close the request soon so I'm writing this. Okay so. I have this idea but I'm a terrible writer unlike you and every other writer in this platform so I need your help to make this come true but you can decline this if you want.Drug Lord!Fem!Reader who was caught by 141 after 4 years of hunting because she was involved with General Shepherd for illegal shipping (She's a courier like Valeria). She was being all sassy and cocky that 141 had trouble interrogating her. Soap who wasn't present when the others arrested her came to the interrogation room, and was shocked to see reader, his ex-girlfriend. Reader who was bright, sweet, and funny was identified as the drug lord. You made meth, sold it, and made a whole drug empire in a span of 4 years. When they broke up, Soap told reader that his job was too dangerous for her so they couldn't be together anymore. This triggered reader to be dangerous. With her degree in Chemistry, she started this dangerous life so she can be with Soap again. Reader is a bit messed up on her head but Soap never noticed, until now. When reader saw Soap again, she was so happy and squealed in excitement. She was the opposite of how she was when interrogated by 141. She was sassy and cocky towards them, but with her Johnny, she was like her old self before she became a drug lord. The rest is yours. Thank you for your consideration. I wish you a very great day. 😷 ---- F!Reader, chemist!reader, ex-boyfriend!Soap, drug-lord!reader, revenge, lovesick ----

A/N: I love this idea and it makes me get out of my comfort zone, so thank you for this anon

Guns ran through the air, white powder scattered on the cement floor. Thirteen soldiers holding guns all directed at you. "Put your hands up!" The lieutenant barked. And you did just that, standing from your desk and turning around, holding your hands up. What? Did they think men can be the only ones to play the dangerous game? What a surprise when a beautiful woman like yourself faced them. "You're Grim?" the captain would ask and all you did was smile, bowing in front of them. "The one and only, gentlemen." Shame that all these men forget that with beauty comes wisdom and oh you had lots of wisdom. 

It had been exactly 1461 days since they started the search for you. It had also been 1681 days since someone tipped Laswell off that a new drug lord had entered the list. Valeria Garza, being your supporter, helper in making trails to transport drugs and a friend was the reason why you made a name for yourself so easily. Your past and present are all in a file. Photographs of you meeting associates, clients and workers all in a box and that same box contained that same white powder many want. 

1712 days before, John MacTavish, your five-year boyfriend sat you down, and told you that it would be mean and cruel if he led you on any longer for his job is dangerous and he may never come back. You cried and he left, leaving you with nothing but pain and that stupid feeling in the back of your head where you needed to prove him wrong. Not always is danger away from home, it can brew in a lab and make a crown for someone. 

So, without knowledge, Valeria Garza found her newest associate. She wanted to get into the cocaine business with a bang and she knew who to talk to first. The men and women in the field of science, specifically those with a chemistry background. You were smart, she knows that, so when she flew you to Las Almas, she gave you the throne to the cocaine business, as long as she had a cut of it. With that deal, you had to use that pretty head of yours to help her in another business. This involved a general, General Shepherd to be exact and he and his men wanted you two to help him ship his containers. 

If you helped them, your cocaine would be exported without worry to important people. And within just seven months of you starting the so-called dangerous life, you made a life and empire for yourself. If men could do it in a year, you did it in almost half of that time and that raised alarms for many government agencies. Throughout the first year, Valeria helped you keep tabs on Soap, a man she would come to hate later on. 

Time progressed and now, you are here, sitting in a chair, legs crossed and a smirk on your lips. "Who are you working with?" Price stands with the other two men, looking at you and all you did was clean your nails. "I work for myself," you say without looking at him or them. "Bullshit, you can't build a business this quick without help, so tell us," Gaz would soon say in a threatening voice. "Sometimes, the help is on your side of the field," you look up and smile.

"Laswell, she isn't saying much," Ghost told the radio. "Make her, you know how," Laswell's voice broke the silence in the room. Ghost nods towards his two teammates and he rests his gun on the floor. Throughout the interrogation, you kept giving them small signs that really, the helo you received were men who once worked with them but of course, you wouldn't say that directly. Not a snitch, not a stitch on that pretty face of yours. 

It had been two hours and then the doors opened, Alejandro, Rudy and Soap walked in. "Where is she?" Alejandro was frustrated, he wanted his home place to be clean and the last dirt spot was you. Once you turn around, Soap's eyes widen, that sweet girlfriend he wished he married years ago is now under interrogation for numerous crimes. "Hi Johnny!" you smile and everyone in the room points guns at him. "You betrayed us!" Alejandro was about to push Soap to the floor but you raised your hand, like some school girl with an answer. 

"What." Ghost awaited you. "He has nothing to do with me, no man helped me raise it, I got help until after it was afloat but he has never been a part of my reign." 

Alejandro chuckles, "You want me to believe you?"

"Yes, or how else would I tell you the rest, trust me, he has no part in this, except for my plan."

"What do you mean by that?" Price would question.

"Oh, did he not tell you he had a girlfriend back home? That she has a respective degree in chemistry and he broke up with her because it was all too dangerous? What a surprise." 

"Lass-"

"I should thank you, for being the reason I am this drug lord," you stand up and clap but Alejandro and Rudy quickly sit you back down. "Ruining the celebration," you mention. "Shut the fuck up," Alejandro barks. "Party pooper," you chuckle and he scoffs. "Leave us alone," Soap demands and before Rudy opposes, Ghost nods and leaves the room, the others following suit. 

"R/N-"

"I see you kept the mohawk, Johnny-"

"Why are you here and what the fuck happened?"

Within three hours, you told him all, from the end of the relationship with him to the very hour 141 detained you. As he sat down and listened, you slowly persuaded him to be with you and slowly, that began to work. "You are under arrest," he begins and you shake your head. "What, you won't want one kiss to seal the deal?"

"There's no deal, lass."

"Oh but there is, for every soldier's name I give, you owe me a date in my cell and make sure it's a pretty one," you say as he handcuffs you. "Don't make me tighten the cuffs?" He warns as he pushes you to the door. "Why, are you afraid I might moan?" you chuckle and he stops walking, pushing you to the wall. "What have you done with my sweet and innocent R/N?" His breath hits your soft skin. "You killed her along with her heart, shame isn't it? The potential she had in a normal world, was a good thing she died or else I would've never survived. You should've attended her funeral, it was sad." you laugh and he shakes his head. 

"You're crazy-"

"Crazy for you, Johnny."

A/N: I wanted to go for a Harley Quinn kind of vibe

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[rs-hawk]

Mermay: Day Seven

Glaistig

Gen!AFAB Reader x Fem!Glaistig

When you heard the singing coming from the river, you were instantly captivated. There was a voice coming from there that seemed to draw you in. As you wandered towards the water’s edge, you thought for a split second you saw a goat, but after you blinked, you saw the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Her log red hair that was clearly curly when dry fell in a wet curtain down her back.

You couldn’t move closer. Could’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at her. When she turned around and saw you, she seemed surprised .The singing stopped. Then, in a cloud of steam, she vanished, leaving you standing alone on a bank. Only then were you able to finally move. Deciding to go back to the trail, you thought that you had just imagined the woman. There was o way that a woman as strong, as almost overwhelming other worldly, as her really existed. no, surely it was just a daydream. Your mind playing tricks on you.

As you walked along the trail, you saw a peculiar stone sitting in the middle of the path .You stepped over it. After all, you were’t stupid. As you continued on the path, you kept seeing the strange stones. After seeing several stones, you decided to do something stupid and followed it off the path. They were randomly scattered throughout the trees just off the trail, luring you into a false sense of security before leading you deeper into the trees without you realizing.

While you followed the stones, you started to hear the singing again. Your heart skipped a beat. The stones ow lay forgotten as you began to follow the voice. This time, when you followed it, you were led to a small cave just off from the river. Peeking your head inside, you saw a small pond, and in it was the beautiful woman, but now, you could also see her glistening tail reflecting in the sunlight that flooded in from a hole in the cave’s ceiling.

Again the woman turned to look at you, but instead of disappearing, she smiled. Her mouth full of too sharp teeth that did little to make you be put off. When her pale hand reached out, gesturing for you to come closer, her song ever faltering, of course you obeyed and walked over to her.

“Long lost, love lost girl with tired eyes,” she san, gesturing you closer.

“Why do you run from tender ties?

They cannot turn your heart to stone…

So stay in my arms, where you’re never alone.”

You hesitated, just out of reach of her hands. You know something was wrong but her song was still drawing you in. Your lips parted but no words came out.

“The world is cruel to hearts like yours, like ours,

But I can give you all my soft hours.

Come now, rest your love in my skin

Where shame fades and love can begin.”

“You don’t know me,” you whispered, forcing your feet to stay still.

Her gorgeous face flashed with anger that you didn’t immediately come to her. After a pause, a smirk curled her lips. She pulled herself out of the small pond, laying on the cool cave floor, only the fins of her tail in the water as she sang again.

“Come now, my new love, rest your head.

Beneath the sun where our love can be fed

Here at silver waters with moss so sweet,” she paused, her tail shifting in blinding silver light to legs and feet. She stood, walking over to where you’re standing rooted.

“And lay your heart down at my feet.”

Your knees buckled as you looked at her, sinking to them in front of her. “You, you don’t know me,” you repeated, barely audible.

“I know your sorrow, your pain,” she almost purred as she ran down like nails across your jaw.

“Let the wind erase your mind and name

Give your blood to me and see

What really lies beyond the mortal sea.”

Everything in you was screaming no. Screaming to stand up and run, ever to look back, but your lips betrayed you. “Yes,” you whispered, leaning forward to let her run her fingers through your hair.

Her long fingers curled around your upper arms, pulling you to your feet. It was like you were in a fog. She pulled you to the edge of the small pond. As soon as her feet touched the water, she transformed back. Then, you were falling. She was pulling you into the water with you, and you could’t breathe. Through the water, you saw her transformed to what you suspected was her true form. Deer like antlers spited from her head. Her skin took on a green tinge that reminded you of chlorophyll.

And the water was so cold as it flooded your lungs. You didn’t know that you could feel this cold. By now, you couldn’t tell which way was up and which way was down anymore. Just as you felt like you were well and truly going to die, the two of you burst from the water. Several greedy gulps of air filled your lungs.

As oxygen expanded your lungs, there was the pricking of fangs piercing your neck. Your vision was still blurry from the water and lack of air, but you were certain that you saw her leaning closer. You knew you had when you felt her hot lips on your neck.

Despite yourself, arousal twisted in your gut. Her hands held your head in her hands, above the water, ensuring that you didn’t drown as she fed. Finally, she licked and lapped at the two small punctures o your neck before laying you down o the bank.

“Don’t disturb the wildlife here,” she said with a small grin, pulling a picked wildflower from your pocket. “Do’t take more than what you are willing to give back.”

“Yes ma’am,” yo I whispered before watching her disappear under the water again.

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[lolitawestcoast]

I rarely write or post things on social media because I am more of an “observer”, but after finishing season 2 of HOTD, I realised that I, too, want to share my “unpopular opinions” (as some may say they are) with the world. I guess I got inspired by all of you whom I follow and whose posts I consistently read that are truly in sync with what I think about the show overall, especially the greens and other characters I like.

So you are welcome to read this rant/ mini essay and give your two cents about the topic. I will be discussing a few characters who I have firm opinions about and what I think we should actually focus or take away from the series.

I will start with my personal favourite, Alicent Hightower. I swear I am in minority when I say this, because all the people that I know (including close people and friends) dislike/hate her and that’s totally fine, nobody should force others to like a character but the way they talk about her (all completely stupid arguments that miss the mark) as if she’s this insufferable, evil, bad mother. She is so layered, so tragic, ugh, it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about what Viserys himself has put her through, not ONLY Otto. I say this because a lot of the conversations I’ve had with others NEVER acknowledge his part in her trauma and when I mention it I am immediately shut down, it’s kind of sad and disturbing.

In their opinion, Alicent is a BIG part of what happened leading to the war. Excuse me? Have you seen season 1? Have you followed the plot at all? That woman is a victim. I’ve been reblogging and reading a lot of people’s posts here that were completely spot on about how many sacrifices she has made as she puts it herself (“What have I done, but what was EXPECTED of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law.”) While Rhaneyra gets to do all she wants (“While you flout all to do as you please”) with no consequences because the king favours her and turns a blind eye to her actions, forever defending her even if he CLEARLY knows (and sees) what’s in front of him.

For example, that whole Alicent-Rhaneyra confrontation in season 1 was such a divisive discussion in my family, ugh, I felt like Alicent herself against everybody saying that she wasn’t in the right but you know what? She totally was. I would have had the same reaction (“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s TRAMPLED under your pretty foot again!”) Her life as a queen was forced on her by the MEN around her. What do you expect? How is she supposed to just take what’s happening to her and not stand up for herself and her child whose eye was fucking SLASHED. Aemond lost an eye. I just know, as a mother, I would have gone FERAL. No doubt. How can she not ask for justice, an eye for an eye (“And now you take my son’s eye and to even that you feel entitled.”) Couldn’t have said it better myself. Later on, when Aemond kills Lucerys, Rhaneyra herself wants “a son for a son”. Isn’t that the same philosophy? Why is Alicent unreasonable when she is asking for Lucerys’ eye in that moment? I don’t see much of a difference. This is one of the examples where I can’t look away and just hate someone like others do, because she has a point.

Another example is when Rhaneyra tells her that she doesn’t want to be “trapped in a castle” and “made to squeeze out heirs”. I swear, when they showed Alicent’s face after that line, I had tears in my eyes, I felt like I wanted to hold her because she DID NOT need to hear that, it was cruel. She broke my heart so many times, I almost want to say I rarely feel this way about a character in a show: “Sadness is a condition of motherhood”. My dearest Alicent, THEY WILL NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU.

Is she a bad mother as they say? Not at all. Would a bad mother literally SHIELD Aegon with her body when threatened with a DRAGON? Would a bad mother (again) use her body to protect her daughter Helaena from the smallfolk during the riots? Would she stand up for Aemond and DEMAND justice, putting herself in danger as well as in a unfavourable position with the king as a bad mother? HOW DOES SHE NOT LOVE HER CHILDREN? I mean, I have a mother who would do the EXACT same thing for me, literally take a bullet for her child. And like Alicent, my mother has her flaws, she’s been through things in life beyond my understanding (having an abusive husband), so she isn’t perfect, but she loves me with all her heart nonetheless. She has projected some things onto me and has hurt me many times with her words, like Alicent sometimes does with Aegon, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him. Even after the incident with Aemond happens, she regrets her actions, mainly slashing Rhaneyra’s hand: “It was an ugly thing, I regret it”. Otto is then the one who praises her for what she has done: “And yet, I’ve never seen that side of you, my daughter…We play an ugly game.” Once again, he is the mastermind, using Alicent as a pawn in his search for power. She is not power hungry herself.

I think it’s hard for her sometimes to look at her children, especially Aegon I think, her firstborn, whom may I remind you she had VERY YOUNG, a child herself and not see her whole grief, trauma and abuse through him. The way Emily has portrayed young Alicent, specifically in that scene where she holds her baby and she just looks defeated, sad, depressed, EXHAUSTED. While Rhaneyra gets to have children with whom she pleases (Harwin Strong is someone who she loves and cares about, judging by the loving and tender looks they give each other in some scenes) because she has an open marriage and she was lucky enough to get that. Nothing was forced on her. She had the freedom to look for her own suitors, a thing that Alicent calls “romantic” because in her mind, she would have absolutely dreamed to do the same.

Moreover, how can you say that Rhaneyra and Alicent don’t have love for each other? They make that CLEAR in the show so many times with small, beautiful details (the page, their 2 conversations from season 2, beautifully acted by Olivia and Emma). Didn’t Alicent vehemently defend Rhaneyra against the “claims” made by Otto that her and Daemon got into some inappropriate actions together? Even though his informer was right. She believed her and vouched for her to the king. She has never been jealous of her in that sense. She was envious perhaps of her freedom, yes, for sure, but who wouldn’t be, given her situation. She still loved and cared for her deeply.

When Otto is dismissed as hand and they have that conversation in the rain where he enforces on her that she has to prepare Aegon to be king because Rhaneyra will put her children to the sword otherwise, because she will be challenged by Aegon; the manipulation from Otto she has received time and time again runs deep into her adulthood. After he leaves she is alone at court, nobody in her corner. She doesn’t realise she is being used as a pawn in a man’s power games, but she becomes paranoid and determined to defend her own family. Cut to the wedding scene: after she finds out about Rhaneyra’s indiscretion with Cole, she fully embraces the colour green, representative of the Hightower house, subtly declaring war by showing up in that beautiful gown in the middle of the king’s speech (an iconic, awesome scene if you ask me). At that point, she was disappointed, angry and possibly fed up with her having to honour her duty as a queen, while her dearest friend lies and gets away with things. As much as you love and care for someone like that, you cannot overlook their wrongdoings.

I’ve also seen that she was called a “bitch” for wanting to see Rhaneyra’s child immediately after giving birth. However, she didn’t want HER to come to Alicent physically and show the baby, it was after all, Rhaneyra’s decision to go. Being her third child and Alicent probably seeing the other 2, of course she wanted to see for herself if he’ll look the same. She is the only one pointing out that they are bastards and everybody KNOWS IT. Her husband, Cole, all the people at court, hell even Harwin’s father. It is so blatantly obvious; it’s actually hilarious how Viserys dismissed Alicent and everybody who brought it up, which is fair enough from their perspective, even for Vaemond when they are discussing the succession of Driftmark. How can one NOT be frustrated? How can she not be furious? Later on, when the king states “Anyone who dares question the legitimacy of my grandsons, should have it (their tongue) removed” as Rhaneyra looks at Alicent with some sort of entitlement and power: “Thank you, father”. The rage I felt for her in that moment was so intense, because it is so unfair.

Here is another hard pill to swallow for some: Viserys has divided his family by always favouring his first daughter (he even refers to her as his “only daughter/child). He wants peace in his family but all he does is create “war”, hate, resentment, bitterness etc. Maybe he wasn’t Viserys “the peaceful” after all, at least not when it came to his own family. Never acknowledged or cared for his other 4 children he has with Alicent which in turn made them (particularly Aegon and Aemond) the way they are. Aegon even mentions how his father “didn’t like him”. Can you blame him? He yells in his face when Aemond’s eye incident happens, doesn’t give A DAMN about the fact that his son , “HIS BLOOD” , had lost an eye because he cares more that his precious daughter’s sons were insulted: “MY SON HAS LOST AN EYE FOR AN INSULT?” Yes Alicent, I was in fact, also enraged when that happened. How does nobody look at that man and see what he has done to his own family? Maybe HE has more of a role in the dance later on, together with Otto and other MEN who plotted the usurping. Maybe things would have been different had he been a better father/husband. But they sure like to blame the woman, the “scorned bitch” who’s jealous of Rhaneyra.

Even so, despite all this, make no mistake, the love and affection between the two women never fades away. That scene from season 1 episode 8, where she softly squeezes her hand (ironically the same one that has the scar she inflicted on her) and lovingly tells her not to leave after their children have an argument. You can feel their chemistry: it’s like they found each other again, after such a long, tumultuous time, at last, Rhaneyra and Alicent together like old times. That whole dinner scene was so peaceful, literally the calm before the storm. The poison runs deep in the family, it can’t be erased just like that, in one night. You can see that whatever foundation Viserys thought he had built within his family and the realm, it all crumbled down in the end.

Alicent needed someone to support her and remind her that it is NOT her fault: what happened to her, that she was used, abused and her innocence stolen from her. She was so desperate for this.

I won’t even have enough time to write everything here about Alicent’s life, at least nothing that hasn’t already been said (beautifully put by others that I read so far, you are all making me feel seen by the way!❤️)

Maybe I am too emotionally attached to her, but I can’t understand the constant hate she gets from CERTAIN people. It is so frustrating to try and explain everytime all the details in the scenes with her to others, I guess it doesn’t matter in the end. “It’s just a fictional character” they say; yes, indeed. I get very passionate sometimes because I was a film student and movies/tv shows are and will forever be my life and I am always analyzing all the details (force of habit, because I had to do this a lot for my assignments).

I don’t even have a side (team green, team black) fuck that nonsense. Personally, that strategy marketing which HBO constantly tried to shove down our throats is just bullshit; in the end, NOBODY (except Helaena) is truly a role model or a “hero”. The whole idea of this entire show and its events is about the smallfolk and the dragons who are nothing but collateral damage in this foolish civil war. While the privileged fight for a throne, the others suffer, the real innocents.

When I watch the show, I don’t even care about childish things like taking sides, like this is just a basic argument between two people, I just have a couple of characters that I root for or feel close to because they speak to me in a very specific manner. Also, the actors are tremendously talented so they literally make the characters compelling, maybe beyond what they get on the page of that script (which sometimes it’s not much or enough, if you ask me).

Hopefully I am not alone and I’ve seen here that I am not (I almost feel like part of a community at this point🥹), but in general I prefer the team green characters (which DOES NOT mean that I dislike or hate anyone in team black), I just think they are more complex, fucked up, relatable, and acted so damn well (although EVERYBODY in that cast is exceptional). I think I like the whole “dysfunctional” family vibe the greens have.

That being said, I like Rhaneyra as a character, for sure, I don’t dislike her at all, but I don’t know if I like what they are doing to her, script wise. Emma is exceptional in their portrayal of the character with what they are given anyway, but the writers are certainly making her more seem like the “hero” of the story, although I can see she has a lot of flaws. She is FAR from perfect. What I gathered from her as a character is that she is quite hypocritical in many aspects, especially when it comes to Alicent. In certain scenes in season 2 for instance, she points fingers at her for the things Rhaneyra herself has done. Blames her for starting this war when in fact, it wasn’t Alicent.

Unfortunately some fans are way too biased and are so blinded by what the show is feeding them to see and acknowledge her wrongdoings and see beyond this “rightful heir” tag she has. I am starting to see more interesting and complex things from Rhaneyra, mainly from season 2 and I am hopeful to see what’s in store for her in season 3. Although, I’ve always seen her as someone more nuanced, thanks to Milly and Emma’s stellar performances. She isn’t very likeable to me, because I see through her, for what she is. But I like when she gets more like her book counterpart (if you know what I’m saying). I like to see that: more complexity.

Furthermore, I was absolutely gutted when Rhaenys died (she really should have been queen🫡), what a great character. I love that Jacaerys got some more personality in the last few episodes of season 2, because I wasn’t convinced before of him as a solid character. This also leads me to the idea that Rhaneyra is definitely a bit selfish in pursuing her claim to the throne and totally overlooking his (valid) feelings towards the other bastard Targaryens claiming the dragons. I loved his speech and how he stood up for himself in a way.

You have to objectively look at these characters most of the time while watching the show and it is truly unfortunate that many people in the fandom are so blindly biased and defensive of some of their favourites, especially Rhaneyra because I see that happening mostly with her. You can’t judge them, but god forbid you tell them you like the greens, especially Alicent, Aemond (even Ageon) or Cole (speaking from my own experience) then you are definitely going to be judged because they are somehow seen as the antagonists of the show.

In my humble opinion, the show DOES NOT have protagonists or antagonists because like I’ve mentioned before, that’s not the point at all. Each one of us has their own “favourite war criminal” and that’s that. Let us, the audience just enjoy supporting the characters we like and stop judging each other. This is not real life, it’s not that deep. I like when I talk to someone and they express their love and passion for a character, even though I don’t feel the same, it’s quite nice to do that without criticising and getting into an argument with that person. We respect each other’s opinions and move on.

Anyways, went on a bit of a tangent there but moving on, Baela is also a character I like a lot, because I need somebody that supporting and wise in life by my side, for real. She is a gem. When she says something, I listen.

I know this might sound odd but I don’t actually HATE anybody in this show. I can say I dislike Daemon for pretty well known reasons at this point, no need to list them here, although I don’t feel hate for him necessarily. I am raising my eyebrow a bit at how Aemond turned out so far, although I still think that Ewan made him one of the coolest, most compelling characters in the show, especially in season 2. He is a delight to watch because his presence on screen is just THAT fucking gripping. I still see him as an underdog, especially looking back at his childhood and what happened to his eye and all that. I still feel for that child, for how he was bullied and undermined. I can’t completely overlook the things that happened to him which lead to the events of season 2. Although, as a book reader, I am a bit disappointed in some of the writing regarding his character (a discussion for another day).

This is a big one, but I also didn’t get why SO MANY people HATE Criston Cole, like he’s actually universally the most hated character in the show so far (based on how Fabien Frankel himself was harassed on his instagram which breaks my heart). It is such a sad, but funny thing to see at the same time.

This guy is certainly NOT the worst character in the GOT universe; if you rewatch GOT (which I’m currently doing) he really is no match for some people you see there. He was clearly wrong in many aspects in this show, especially with the event of Blood and Cheese and what followed. I would say that I disliked his behaviour and I certainly did not align with many of his actions and opinions at certain points in the show, although I do feel that he is remorseful and has had quite the journey in season 2. By the end of this season he went through quite a horrific experience (the battle at Rook’s Rest) which I think changed him mentally and you can see that, courtesy of Fabien’s great performance (when he has that conversation with Gwayne in season 2 finale, which I loved).

I’ve seen the memes with him and the constant topic being brought up of him being “bitter” and hung up on Rhaneyra because she turned him down when he suggested that they should run away together, but I don’t even think it goes on for too long, at least in his mind. Yes, he calls her names and talks shit about her at times (indirectly) but I think later on he’s moved on from that, at least since he started to be more intimate with Alicent (who he says is the “beacon” he follows) because rightfully so, she saved his life in many ways, I guess literally and metaphorically. He doesn’t have time to think about his bitterness towards Rhaneyra anymore, with all that has taken place since they had that encounter, at least I don’t think so.

He has had quite the journey and at this point I just think the hate and the jokes are getting old and more like, there is no other character we can hate so we are all pointing fingers at “Crispin” as I’ve seen and heard people call him. I just can’t even bring myself to hate him, I respect how smart he is and how skilled in battle he proved himself to be. Surely he is not as one dimensional as people are making him out to be. Yes, the memes are funny and all that, but some people are too mean spirited, it makes me think they are projecting a little bit too much. Even Fabien himself is moved when somebody praises his character or says something nice about him (I saw that in an interview some time ago, he was genuinely happy someone complimented him because he has seen the hate and I just wanted to go through the screen and hug him, he is so kind, bless him). Give him a break guys, please.

Again, this might be quite an unpopular opinion, but isn’t Cole justified in a way to be upset and resentful over what happened between him and Rhaneyra? Wasn’t he used that night to satisfy her needs and quite frankly her frustration because she didn’t get what she wanted from Daemon? She could care leas about him as a person, about his honour, his duty. Most of the time she was too carefree and ignorant of these concepts. Wasn’t there a power imbalance between them? He tried to resist, he didn’t pursue her. What was he to do? I wondered often what would have happened if he denied her that night.

After their affair, he asks her to run away with him (which I admit it was a bit funny the way he put it, to leave behind her privileged life to go somewhere and sell oranges or whatever) but in that moment, the way she looks at him and answers, I’m sure broke his heart, because he thought she might have feelings for him. I didn’t even see them as simply having “sex” but more like “making love”, it was quite tender and beautiful. I don’t think he was wrong in assuming that, after all, they were each others’ firsts. He feels hurt, cheated and used: “So you want me to be your whore?”. I can’t lie, I felt for him in that moment. Everything he had to his name, as he says, was taken from him. Can we not feel some sympathy for this man? Is he not justified in thinking that Rhaneyra is “a cunning spider”? As far as he is concerned, she has fooled him and stolen his honour, left him with nothing to his name. He was already by the standards of those times, a nobody.

Can we just be reasonable as an audience and just stop following others like sheep on this “chain” of hate?

Don’t even get me started on Aegon. I won’t even expand here why I also never hated him (although I want to make it CLEAR that I DO NOT condone what he did in the show, under NO circumstances) even though again, I am disappointed on how his character was changed from the books (if you know, you know). I feel he has been treated unfairly just like his mother and there are a lot of reasons he is the way he is. Like I said, too much to get into. But once again I praise the actors for giving such nuanced performances, THEY are making the characters come to life.

I feel I already said too much and I don’t want to get into the book and the parallels with GOT because I would have to write a thesis then and this has already become an essay.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you, I appreciate you reading this; it is my first time posting something like this. I don’t really post my opinions online because the internet is mean and toxic but I really wanted to get this off my chest. Maybe in hopes that someone else shares the same views (which I think we’ve established there are quite a few people here on tumblr who do). I am so excited to read more posts/opinions and hopefully be part of healthy discussions about this show and its characters. Please be respectful.

[tlaragihai]

Okay so. I have seen some tlovm criticism about season 3 and I think I have enough words to say my opinion.

I think one of the flaws of this show, not only in season 3 but in general, is that the writers invent some cool and important thing, but don`t consider the tone and/or implications. And the whole scenes are ruined because of that.

Examples (that i can think of right now):

1) Remember the flashback in season 1 when Anders teaches Cass and Percy about the residuum? At the end there Anders is disappointed and hissing something like "No one appreciates me" and "Pray you never find reality knocking at your door" - right in front of Percy and Cassandra. Right in front of the children of the lord of these lands. Like, why. Like, we get it, they had to establish Anders's bitterness and betrayal.

Okay, but. Why. Does. He. Threaten. Them. Right. In. The. Face. They can just go to their parents and tell them the whole story! As a result, Anders looks like a caricature stupid villain who is so evil that he can't hold his tongue, and we the viewers are left to wonder how Anders still maintained his position after making such threats. And it has a very simple fix! Let him say this - with the closed door, where no one can hear him! Wow, smart, cool, we have a villain and no one of the characters suspects.

2) Kaylie reveal. Yes. Because, to me, the scene is too romantic. Kaylie seems interested, laughs, playfully suggests the ropes, the whole tone sounds like there is going to be a sexual scene.

Except she knows they are related. She has zero romantic interest in him, because she is here to give justice to her failed father. If she's just pretending in order to deceive him - okay, but they should have made it more clear from the start. And if they were showing her through POV of charmed oblivious Scanlan - they also should have made it more clear. Now the scene looks like she wants something bad - and okay, maybe she will rob him after sex? Maybe she'll use him in some other way? Anyway, the sexual thing is goi.... oh no, she's his daughter.

No. No. Tlovm writers, please. Why you are showing it like this.

3) And the whole last dialogue between Percy and Ripley. Would it be cool to show how much Percy has changed? Yes. Would it be cool to have him deceitfully killed by this very cold and merciless woman? Yes.

Then why, why, WHY the dialogue goes as it does??????

Percy knows her. He knows she is cruel and unstoppable. Damn, they hit us, the audience, for two seasons with an idea that Ripley is evil, evil, cruel, has no ethics, and doesn't want to change her ways in the slightest.

Then the fuck why he's talking to her like he does in the show? Okay, he wants redemption, he himself was saved, after all. Understandable. So WHY you are showing that "redemption moment" not as a last-second hesitation, not as a second of doubt that cost him his whole life, but as a FUCKING THOUGHT-OUT SPEECH???

Percival de Rolo would never ever believed her in any way. Hell, they themselves showed this in ep 2 when he pretends to cooperate but builds a fucking bomb instead!! Guys!!! Wake up, you've already established that he knows the danger and doesn't trust her!!!!

And at the defining fucking moment we have "i think your mind is brilliant you can do great things just change" something instead of "I forgive you, but I cannot let you live"

I am fucking sorry??????

That is the thing. She is too dangerous. Death is the only thing that can stop her - and Percy knows it and we the audience also know that. He kills her not because of his vengeance - he kills her because this is the only way to put this to an end. You want Percy who has forgiven? Percy who finally let his vengeance go? You just had to pull this out from the campaign! Okay, but seriously. Show me Percy who hesitates for just a second. Show me this tiny moment of doubt, when "I forgive" outweights "I can't let you go"

(And THEN she would kill him).

Instead we got a whole speech. As if Percy believes he could save her. Haha. And his death looks like a STUPID, NAIVE move because of that!

And! And!!! This all is happening after Whitestone. After the change they themselves brought into this adaptation and fucking ACKNOWLEDGED IN THE SAME GLINTSHORE EPISODE. Ripley destroyed Whitestone. His home. Twice. The city that the whole audience was rooting for for three seasons. They showed us how it was rebuilt. They showed us how much Whitestone means to Percy and Cass, to VM and their allies. It was truly a home. Seeing it destroyed was a tragedy. Percy was begging Vex "to end [Ripley] for good" because of what she has done. In episode 7 he tries to kill Anna for that and says something like "I want nothing to have with you after Whitestone".

And then. He gives her a redemption speech. I can't. I want him to acknowlegde mercy and second chances and everything - but saying this to a woman that doesn't show any remorse or desire to change falls flat. I just want the writers to consider not only their cool ideas, but other things and context they've created.

[thegreymoon]

The Story of Minglan

Honestly, I don't think any of this was cruel to Wang Ruofu.

First, she backed her sister when she stuffed a concubine into Minglan's house in a clear attempt to shit all over her marriage. Then she poisoned Granny Sheng when she rightfully punished her for it. She deserved both her punishments. In fact, they didn't go far enough, IMO.

***

I cannot anymore with this fucking woman 🙄

Who gives a fuck who gave birth to him? That is his GRANDMOTHER. Whom you tried to POISON. Also, he is a government official, and a moral and sensible man. Him covering up for your crimes would have been a failure on all fronts.

***

No.

Your best hope is that Granny will not live longer than ten more years since she is already quite old. And if she does, that she will have moved over to Minglan's house by then, so that she doesn't have to look at your stupid face every day.

***

And after all this, she still continues to be driven by grudges and resentment.

Of course he will have no love for you. Of course he will try to get some recourse for his dead mother. It's no wonder that none of the illegitimate kids love you because how have you treated them? Certainly not well. You may not have sold them into slavery the way your sister did with the kids in her home, but if it had been up to you, all three of them would have died of neglect and you would not have cared. Changfeng and Molan luckily had their real mother with them until they were grown, and Minglan had Granny. You deserve nothing from any of them.

***

I AM ANNOYED BY YOU!

DOES THAT COUNT? YOU ARE STARTING TO GET ON MY VERY LAST NERVE.

My guy, you cannot force trust and intimacy and yelling at her about it is not helping your case!

I find him so pointless as a male lead. He has not done a single plot-relevant thing since he married Minglan. He just whines and whines about how he's not getting enough attention from her while she goes out and about, making new friends and solving Imperial marriage problems. In this last arc, he just swooped in at the very end to take credit where none is due because of course, the writers couldn't have had Minglan resolve the situation, no, Mr. Feng Shaofeng had to have a place in the spotlight too. After everything she did, right at the end, they made her so bumbling and helpless, so that he could swoop in to rescue her. I'm beyond pissed.

***

LMAO, imagine bringing up Wang Ruofu as a role model for anything.

Shut up, shut up, shut up. This drama was miles and miles better without you looking for trouble where there is none.

***

I am on her side here.

I'm super aroace, though, and I can't stand whiny, needy men encroaching on my space and time, demanding more than I am willing (or able) to give. Seriously, fuck off.

***

LMFAO

Minglan did him the biggest favour.

***

Wait a minute.

Doesn't that make Old Master Kang her grandfather??

Gross.

***

What you don't know and don't want to know not only about your daughter but about your entire family, could fill not just a book, but an entire library.

And she is like this because you are worthless and spineless.

***

LMAO, she read him to filth 🤣🤣

I love her so much! Definitely one of my favourite heroines, if not THE favourite right now!

***

Pathetic.

***

Wait. Her??

Didn't Sheng Hong get rid of all of them?

Also, what happened to her leg? Did she also get caned or tortured or something?

Terrible fate, she had such a comfy life with Concubine Lin for so many years and now she has to do hard labour with no hope for things improving.

***

LMAO, so what?

It's not you who has served three Emperors and it's not your memorial tablet being worshipped in the Imperial ancestral hall.

***

LMAO, that's right Minglan, put them on the spot!

They want you to do their dirty work for them.

***

LMAO, of course, let's change the topic quickly, now that the spotlight is on them.

***

Ah, so all of them are slaves, after all.

MInglan gave her the greatest gift. Her freedom to live as a free citizen. I hope she does the same for the rest of them, if she hasn't already.

[zigrethsnotebook]

Hey! I was talking about idea prompts, and here I am, really, really soon… Hmm. My head works way too fast sometimes. I'd like to suggest two Stan prompts (again, you don't have to do both, just the one you like).

Stan and the Northwest relative. The idea is that the Reader is a distant relative of the Northwest family, who is not very beloved in the family, since she chose her path through a very scary teenage rebellion and the subsequent construction of herself as a person and her career. (Considering that Pacifica's father literally WON his wife in a race, and raised his daughter with a bell, I think the attitude towards women in the Northwest family is a little… Dismissive?). After Pacifica's family goes bankrupt, the Reader comes to town because she loves Pacifica. The Pines find out about this through Mabel, and naturally they are prejudiced against the Reader - rich, arrogant, all that. But at the same time, they don't know her face. And the Reader meets Stan at some point. Flirting happens - and she loves this strange "stupid" kind of flirting. They become close in some simple, everyday little things, they are very comfortable with each other. But from time to time the Reader hears a discussion of herself in a somewhat negative way. It doesn't bother her, she even treats it ironically. She likes Stan, she knows for sure that he likes her (a confident woman), the rest doesn't matter. And then at some point Pacifica comes to the Shack with the Reader and the truth opens up. I think this can be interesting and even comical. But this is just an idea

This is a platonic idea, I hope you like it. The Reader is a small child from another dimension destroyed by Bill, whom Bill took and gave to his "friends" for fun. A portal opens, and the Reader sees salvation in this. Ford is thrown into the multiverse, and the Reader manages to jump into Stan's basement. And here's the interesting thing: she is not a human (perhaps she can adapt to a human appearance, but only with age and not completely), she understands only her native language, she is scared. Stan is in despair, anger, grief, does not understand what this is and generally considers it all a very cruel joke. As if the portal took his brother, and in return spat out this squeaking thing. Stan is very negative, but he understands that there is a child in front of him. And he could not throw a child out into the cold. Therefore, he leaves the Reader. And they begin to get used to each other. The reader feels safe with Stan, tries to comfort him after the fake funeral (in her own way, for example, by bringing him a beautiful pine cone), tries to copy human appearance. Stan teaches her to speak out of boredom, tries to figure out what to feed her when she goes out into the city out of curiosity, still not looking completely human, he protects her from teenagers (the same ones who had a hand in the death of the store owners. I think they look a lot like bullies)… I think it might turn out to be a cute story. They are both very lonely, they find support in each other.

Again, it turned out too much (I really want to learn how to write briefly), but I hope you like some of these ideas. Thanks in advance) =^._.^= ∫

Wow! Okay so these are two very different ideas and I do like them both!

That's why I won't put the stories into this post but instead link the first one here and the second one here.

By the way, with ideas so well tought out already, you could also write them yourself if you wanted to. I think you could be very good at writing! But I totally understand if you don't have the time or energy to write and I am more then happy to write them for you!<3

[faerunsbest]

RUST

so @tealfling and @barbwillbrb and me did a little fic game where we spun ocs and tropes and this is my part!

featuring my girl Dwylla and barbs Mortimer

Exhaustion hung to his bones like too many blankets on a struggling clothes line, his body sagged limply in the guards arms. Wrists shackled behind his back, the guards gripping him by his elbows as they dragged him through cold narrow stone halls. 

“All the cells are full where are we supposed to put him?!”

The taller guard asked his partner, worry tinting his inquiry. Difficult not to worry as the place was damn ear overflowing with broken crying bodies and the weight of unfair sentences. 

“...I guess shes gonna have to share.”

“But shes dangerous!”

“Oh well I guess”

“...are you serious?”

“We don't have another cell okay.”

Mortimer wheezed as he was hefted up for them to get a better grip and pulled along to a much longer hall…for a time only the long cold stone decorated the path. Not a cell near this one. Solitary confinement.

Mortimer huffed, a string of saliva dripping from a busted lip as he grimaced, feeling his cuffs come loose before a cell door, thicker and heavier than the others was unlocked. The steel key turning with jagged forceful thumps, inner tumblers groaning as they were forced out of place. The heavy door dragged through a path gouged through the old stone before Mortimer was thrown in. as he arced in the air, his eyes flashed wide as he whipped his arms around his stomach, curling in on himself as he landed. Head slamming against the stone, he could only groan in pain as he turned over onto his back. 

One of the guards eyes went wide, laying there on the floor in the small beam of light from one small high window. The bulge of his stomach was clear on display in those stripes of light. The guard swallowed dry as he stared and looked to his partner

“What was this one arrested for?”

“...theft”

“What did he steal?”

“...bread”

They listened as Mortimers bones popped while struggled to sit up, blood dripping down from under his hair down his face. The guards stared at the blooming bruises,looking away as they pushed the heavy door shut again, announcing his confinement with the loud turning of that damn key. 

“Shit..”

Mortimer leaned forward, pressing his injured head against the cold metal of the bars when he was overcome with the feeling of being watched. Blinking as slowly as he turned mortimer found he wasn’t alone in that cruel cold, he squinted into the dark recess of the cell and found a woman. Tiefling woman with her knees strapped to a bar that bit into her kneecaps, her hands behind her back and folded so painfully, elbows pointed down and her wrists cuffed and bound between her shoulder blades. Even her tail was twisted into a tight coil and wrapped with rope to keep it from moving, on her face was a steel caged muzzle and the thick rusted collar on her neck bolted to the floor with a short chain, trapping her in a steep kneeling bow.

“...oh shit…what the fuck?”

Mortimer stared before his vision began blurring vision as he slumped low against the bars and passed out. The last image he took with him into unwilling slumber, hateful dark eyes with burning red pits. 

When finally he woke up he saw a lump on the stone floor in front of him, slowly carefully he pushed himself up, setting a hand over his stomach. While his vision slowly cleared he laughed as he found himself staring at a bare loaf of bread on the cold stone. He grimaced as he felt his baby turn over, the pressure leaving an ache in his pelvis. 

Snatching up the loaf mortimer sunk his teeth in annoyed, why did he need to be in here to get the stupid bread? While chewing his eyes wandered the room, for a moment he found his unwilling companion and eyed her proud horns, curling backward and jutting forward. Marred with red stains and small chips in them as they jutted out from a nest of messy matted black hair.

“So, i was thrown in here for stealing bread. You?”

He asked as his eyes settled on the collar on her neck, old and rusted unlike the rest of the cuffs and chains. Shes worn that a long time…

He looked down at the stale bread in his hands, turning it over. A thought came to mind as he pushed himself up and stood, wobbling as dizziness came over him. He gripped the bars to steady himself and went over to the woman trapped in that pitiful bow

“So, i don't have a lot of time. I cant be in here too much longer. But i don't have much left in me…if i help you will you help me?”

The woman tilted her head as he looked at her, her expression shifted. She was inspecting him. Mortimer tore a small piece of bread off his loaf

“Here, a peace offering?”

Thin shaking fingers pushed the bread into her muzzle, she wrinkled her nose though her tongue flicked out to take it. For a while he just sat there pushing food little bits of bread in until he asked again.

“So, will you help me if i can help you?”

She stared at him with an unsettling stillness before offering a slow deliberate blink. As much of an answer as he would get it seemed. Though he wasn't sure how much help he would be as he found he was dizzy again, slowly he crawled to that little bit of sunlight and laid down to sleep until the feeling passed.

When he woke again he found a bowl of thin soup and another small loaf, stone cold and stale. Again he moved slowly to feed her through the muzzle before feeding himself and trying not to gag as he forced it down. Together they counted watching and waiting for the guards to do their rounds.

When they came to take the bowl, mortimer huddled against he wall away from his companion. Feigning fear. Once their foot steps faded away, he hurried over to focus as much as he could. He set  his hands in air over her twisted up arms, watching the wat her muscles tensed. Fair.

Magic was difficult now, it seemed his little one was siphoning it from him. 

He focused with everything left in him, just one lock. One. he could do one, right? 

“Dissera pulso”

Mortimer whispered, watching the padlock turn over in place though remain tightly shut. A wave of nausea threatened, he turned away, hand clamped over his mouth as he fought to keep everything down. Of all the times to not be able too afford it!

Feeling his baby kick against his belly, mortimers brow set deeply as he forced himself to breathe deeply. She was coming soon and he couldn't be in here when that happened. With as much strength as he could muster, he extended his hands to the small lock holding her wrists in place

“Dissera pulso!”

Her eyes went wide as she heard the lock pop, she twisted and jerked trying to free herself. But it was only one of many locks on her form. 

“Free?!”

Her voice ragged and rough as if she'd screamed for hours, the singular word sounding foreign on her tongue. Mortimer reached down to pluck the lock off and fell back against the wall, more exhausted than when he arrived. How could a single but if magic cost him so much?

From the corner of her eyes she watched him slump against the wall and slide down. The little words come at a cost? She worked her jaw as he rolled her wrists, pulling until she heard the chains around her hands tinkle, they were moving! Carefully to not make noise she worked her hands until she felt the cold metal slide down landing on the stone in a light clatter. Her dark eyes darted around at the noise worried someone would hear.

“Can be free…soon.”

She whispered to herself as she struggled to lift and straighten her arms, though she was still bound at her elbows, her stiff hands were free. Reaching down extending her fingers, she felt her nails tap against the thick rope that bound up her tail.

Under her iron muzzle a smile spread so wide it split her dry lip, she curled her hands into tights fists and  spread them open wide, flexing the small amount of freedom she had. Unable to turn her head much, she could only look at mortimer passed out on the stone floor from exhaustion. He did what he could… she would have to work now so work she did. Extending her fingers to tap and scratch at the rope binding her tail into a loop, it was as much as she could hope for. Dragging her sharp clawed fingertips back and forth, grinning so wide her face hurt as she heard the soft tearing of one fiber at a time.

Another day came and went in much the same routine, with the addition of mortimer unable to keep down his meager meals and settling to just feed his companion. Today he lay on the floor in that small bit of sunlight as the sound of heavy clanking footsteps faded down that long hall and looked up at the woman, the only person he’d found himself curious of in a long while. Though to be fair he was trapped and her more so, confined as tightly as possible. He wondered why, how dangerous was she?

“Hey…”

Her ear twitched, eyes crinkling in her rest before slowly opening to look at him. The man was fading, worry panged in her chest as she looked at him.

“My name, my name is mortimer…who are you? Why…”

He struggled for a moment to breathe deeply, tongue wetting his lip before he tried again

“Why are you tied up like that?”

Dark brown eyes looked up at her from his place on the floor, her own luminous red returning his tired gaze. The woman worked her jaw before finally opening her mouth and forcing out jagged syllables

“Mmmort  eh merrrr”

How strange he felt himself smile at her as he heard his name in someone else's voice for the first time in ages. In the distance a heavy door opened the guards were coming back, so soon? Mortimers smiled dropped as he realized it was probably for him, he was to be sentenced… and theives don't live long once they've been caught. His heart began to race, huffing and puffing, her eyes darted out of the cell bars where a familiar silhouette approached. Adrenaline quickly flooded his veins as the guard came, no food in had

“Well thief, time to go-”

Frail and thin as he was Mortimer summoned every drop of strength in him, outstretching one hand towards his cellmate and bellowing 

“DISSERA PULSO!”

The lock that kept the short chain on her collar bolted to the floor, popped open, another soft pop behind her back unbinding the chains that held her arms begins her back. One last pop of a lock unfastening and the muzzle on her face hit the ground. The guard stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide and pupils blown wide in terror as he watched the prisoner unfurl her arms, tail snapping the remaining rope around it. As she stood, she folded her hand around the bar that had been pressed to her knees and ripped it up from its place bolted in the ground. The guard slammed the door shut, opening his mouth to yell for help but not fast enough. That ripped up bar was rammed through the cell door into his windpipe and out the back of his neck.

As the guard pressed his hands against his neck desperately trying to stop the bleeding, the prisoner wore a face splitting smile, revealing sharp black teeth. Her small hand held tight to the bar impaling the guard, watching him thrash and kick until finally he stopped. Slowly carefully she set him down to keep his armor from clattering before she turned around to look at Mortimer. Mortimer who stared up at her, his body shrieking to run as she grinned down at him 

“I.  am. Dwylla. I. am. strong.”

She said still grinning while she looked around the room and went to the high window shining down from far above their heads. 

“...Dwylla?”

He knew that name, but he couldn’t place where he knew it from. The thought nagged at the back of his mind while he watched her grimace, bending her knees to jump and grab hold of the bars on the small window. Mortimer cocked his head to the side wondering what she was doing, that window was just barely bigger than a standard textbook. Neither of them would fit through it.

Unless she ripped the bars out, unless she clawed at the old stone and ripped it apart to make the damn thing bigger

“Come, we go”

Not willing to question it, mortimer forced himself up and went over standing at the floor under her

“I, i cant climb up…”

She looked over her shoulder, down the man was sickly, he’d given her all his food the last few days. His stomach bulged with a little life that sucked from what was left of his own. Dwylla stared down thinking only a moment before her long thick tail hung low for him.

“Hold on.”

Taking a deep breath as he did, mortimer grabbed on to her unusually spiny tail as tightly as he could. Stunned when he felt his feet lift up off the ground, her strong tail raised him just high enough for her to grab hold of the back of his robes and pull him up to the torn open wall. Finally he felt warm on his face, though behind them the distant door creaked open. The other guard shouting on his way in

“Whats taking- WHAT!?”

He froze at the sight of his friend dead on the floor, looking up to the torn open wall where the prisoners escaped. Outside Dwylla moved to run off, they got out. She helped him. That was enough, right?

Mortimer kept one palm against the prison wall, limping away as fast as he could. She stopped at prison corner, stomped her foot and ran back to grab mortimer.

“Huh!? What are you doing- run!”

Dwylla lifted him up in her arms like a sack of potatoes and bolted across the green while bells sounded, notifying the entire prison of their escape. Guards in clanking armor came spilling out of every door to search the grounds for them, one in tower blowing a horn as he pointed in their direction. Entire regiments suddenly hauling in their direction

“RUNNING!”

Dwylla shouted as, mortimer grabbed hold of her shoulders clenching his teeth and trying not to scream when the approached the prison gate. She just, jumped kicking the top of the iron fence to thrown them over to the other side.  He watched her swallow an agonized yell when her knees nearly cracked on the landing. Pain shoved to the side they rammed through crowds, Mortimer realized she didnt this place and pointed to an alley

“THAT WAY”

Wordless she followed his direction together they wove through the maze of alleys until the din of yelling soldiers faded to a distant cacophony. Carefully, Mortimer was set down on his own two feet again. He huffed as he leaned against dirty brick walls and spotted a door with a rotting knob, abandoned.

“I think we can hide in here”

“Hide?”

“Yes, we have to hide until those soldier look somewhere else. We can try to sneak away later.”

Dwylla stared at him, nonplussed about to walk off when a pain shot up her leg from her knee. That landing hurt more than she knew and the adrenaline masking it was wearing off

“...yes, we hide”

Grimacing she followed mortimer to the door and forced it open. The door shut with a soft ‘thup’ against its rotting frame, leaving the two to look around a dust laden kitchen. Adrenaline faded quickly leaving the pair panting on the floor,in dusty yellow light spilling in from cracks in boarded up windows Mortimer looked at Dwylla. He looked at the thick collar still on her neck, the way skin bunched up around it. Sickly discoloration as if her skin had torn and healed around that foul metal. It must hurt so bad. 

Dwylla raised a leg to rub her sore knee, that stupid bar in the cell had damaged her more than she wanted to admit. The sound of armor and yelling clattering in to the alley caught them off guard, both staring at the door as muffled arguing took place inches away. Their armor clattered like dropped kitchenware as the cluster of guards ran out the other end of the alley, leaving their prey behind.

Mortimers felt his eyebrows go up as the corner of his mouth twitched, hand clapped over his mouth to stifle the sudden burst of laughter. Dwylla whipped around to look at him,heart thundering in her chest before she felt a sound bubble up without permission.

Together the pair laughed so hard their eyes watered and their gut hurt, eventually Dwylla pushed herself up to her bare feet and reached down to grab Morts hand and pull him up. She went to go open the door to let them out, surprised when the knob just slid off the handle, mortimer looked down at the rust rotten bit of brass then at the door. His gaze went up to the frame, realizing part had fallen low. Even a brick feel loose, just low enough to push down and wedge the door jammed shut.

“We cant get out without making a lot of noise this way, lets try somewhere else”

Things they failed to notice as they walked through, were fading brown stain spattered across the counters, the leg broken off a thrown over chair or the clever wedge up in the ceiling, but who would look up for that? The uneven door complained on its stiff hinges, leaving a scrape in the wood flooring. The long hall spattered with unknowable stains, some food and bile long since dried to just a discoloration, old frames with torn painting hanging haphazardly on the walls. It is only in the living room that it becomes apparent that this home once was filled with luxury. A crashed chandelier in bits on the floor underneath a massive scorch on the vaulted ceiling, a turned over candelabra thrown on its site under tattered burned curtains. Furniture thrown all over, a leak in the ceiling leaving a musty smell in the room and puddle of still water in front of the fireplace. Mortimer skirted around the splintered wood to peek out the front doors peep hole, it looked out onto a main street. Speckled in the crowd were guards pointing around and shouting

“No good they’re still out there.” 

Dwylla turned her head to the staircase with its loose bannister slumped tiredly outward. She pointed her clawed hand to the top where it looked like light spilled in

“Window?”

“Why cant we have a door?”

He sighed before heading up the stairs, huffing with every step, one hand on his bulging stomach. Dizziness swayed him about halfway up, he grabbed the bannister to steady himself only realize termites had eaten it as it crumbled in his hands. His heart jumped into his throat as he tumbled toward the lower floor, only to feel a the top of his robe tighten before Dwylla yanked him back. 

“Bad place, is broken.”

“Yea… yes. Very much”

The higher up they went the more off something felt, Mortimer looked around. Suspiciously eyeing the strange markings on the walls, the cracks and gouges here and there. Broken vases and picture frames, ruined rugs and finally, a wide tall window with perfect glass. Dwylla went to the window frame grabbing the handle and pulling, glad when it didn't fall off though annoyed when the window didn't budge.

“Maybe the wood is swollen?”

“?”

She looked at him confused before grunting as she gripped the handle tighter and yanked. Not so much as a squeak, annoyed and insulted she pulled her fist back. Mortimers eyes went wide

“No no we cant make noise!”

Dwylla grunted surprise when fist connected and bounced back from the glass, both stared with wide eyes as a small blue ripple rolled across the glass. She tried again, fist bouncing back once more, eventually panicking she took position and began wildly punching. Only for a burst of energy to launch her backward, throwing her across the landing flat on her ass. Mortimer hurried over to check on her freezing when a whisper was heard leaking from one of the rooms.

Dwylla shot up to her feet, looking at the door that slowly creaked open. A tide of cold fog rolling out with the rising sound of distant sobbing. He eyebrows went up but her shoulders dropped

“Is cloud crying?!”

Mortimer huffed as he realized the same wave of pain was gripping him again, the wailing in the spreading mist sounded miles away. Mort placed a hand on Dwyllas arm, hunching as he spoke.

“Ghost, i guess its haunted and… we’re trapped”

“Dead things?! Already dead how to kill already dead things?!”

Backing away the pair hurried into another bedroom, just as ruined as the rest of the house. They slammed the door and found that the windows in here were just as firm, Dwylla put her hands in her tangled hair. She whipped her head around at the sound of splattering.

Both of them looking at gloss spilling across the dusty floor as mortimers water broke, both frozen as they realized what was happening,

“NOOO BAD BABY!”

Dwylla yelled as Mortimer took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he realized he was going to have his baby after escaping prison in a haunted house. Anger bubbled up in him as he felt the fog seep under the door, he whipped around  brow knit in a sharp glare as he barked

“NO!”

 Magic laced the simple syllable and the small cloud was slammed backward, crammed back under the door. Dwylla froze again, standing straight with her hands curled against her chest and tail between her legs as she gawked at mortimer. Mortimer now shuffling to the dirty bed and climbing on

“Well, this is happening now…”

“...but-”

“TOWELS BLANKETS WATER!”

Dwylla yelped as she ran for the bedroom door to check the house for the requested items, out in the hall she glanced around. Surprised to see the area so bland, the fog had rolled back into the open door that was now nearly shut. Standing there in the bland room Dwylla wondered how strong the starving weakling that had fed her for so long actually was. She shuffled around the place into rooms, yanking blankets off beds and beating the dust off them. Dwylla tore open cupboards and drawers searching for towels.

Annoyance and worry wrinkled her brow as she searched before she ran to another room not knowing what might lie within. How stunning when the room was pristine, a little standing cage up against he wall. No top, just wood carves in pretty swirls around the little bars. Inside it a squishy puff all covered in blankets and pillows, pictures of little animals jumping in cartoonish shapes across the fabric. On the floor was a round rug tan in the middle, dark brown circling out and darker brown framing the shape and few little leaf shapes popping out on one side.

Off to the side a dresser, sitting at the top was a basket of fabric and safety pins, tiny bonnets with ribbons. Toys and stuffies scattered across the surfaces, a rocking chair that swayed back and forth on its own. Sitting on its cushion was a lump of yarn and two pointy sticks, the chill in the room left goosebumps up her skin. A shadow swinging across the floor caught her attention, looking up hanging from a ceiling beam was a noose.

Dwyllas breath caught in her throat, she knew what that was. 

Someone had given up, given up entirely. The rooms strange cold sank into her bones as she turned away to leave finding the door had closed behind her. Gripping the knob she tried to push it open, twisting and jiggling as she struggled to get out. That strange fog pooled at her feet and the sobbing voice sounded as if across an ocean, the voice treading across the water and leaving a chill biting deep into her skin.

“...give her back…give her back…” 

As the voice drew closer, Dwylla dropped the stack of blankets to grip the knob with both hands squeezing hard and pulling furiously. The brass knob crumpled under her grip though the door didn't budge, she turned over her shoulder to see the fog pool together. It clumped together sculpting itself together into a miserable figure. A woman clutched at the empty folds of fabric of her belly where it should bulge, anger and mourning twisted up her face

“GIVE BACK MY BABY!!!!!!!!!”

Her face twists and contorts as she shrieks before freezing in place, in the room down the hall Mortimer can be heard stifling a yell as his contractions grow stronger. The figures face softens and for a moment she is beautiful, her mouth moves though there are no words. Panic turns Dwylla cold as she watches the woman pass through the wall, the lock in her hand suddenly clicking. 

No time to be afraid, she rips the door out of the frame rushes back down the hall and bursts into the room where mortimer sits up in bed. Trousers tossed on the floor knees raised and parted as he whips around angry and confused. She didn't bring a single thing with her what had she been doing?! About to yell again, he whipped around to see a ghostly figure glide forward through the wall.

The woman held out her hands with a grateful smile

“My baby!”

Mortimers face drained of color, he watched Dwylla leap in the way trying to block the ghost from getting to him, though it ought to pass right through her. He raised a hand only to grimace and wail as as another wave of contractions knocked the wind out of him. He looked around  there wasn't a useful thing in here, for a moment his eyes locked on the collar around Dwyllas neck. Rust like that only showed on Iron.

Breathing in a rapid pace, Mortimer leaned as forward as he could grabbing hold of Dwyllas tail, he yanked her closer to him then reached for her neck. Another massive wave of pain and a strange shifting of weight as he screamed

“DISSERA PULSO!”

The last bit of magic in him shot forward surging through the iron around Dwyllas neck, the rust wasn't strong enough to hold it down anymore. The binding chunk of metal tore itself open ripping off layers of rotten dead skin away from her. The smell of death and ilk flooded the room as dwylla yell out in pain, she grasped her hand around it pulling it away in a wide arc.  As the ghost moved forward it collided with the collars path and she shrieked as the old dead iron collided with her near intangible form.

It seemed the reality struck both of them, both Dwylla and the ghost stared at each other until dwylla shifted her hold on the busted metal. Clutching it like a knife she charged

Mortimer fisted his hands in the sheets, clenching his teeth as he leaned forward pushing until he couldn’t stop the scream. When finally he opened his eyes, blue scattered across the room like dust.

Dwylla whipped around, throwing her collar into a corner as she heard a small cry. Mortimer reached down to pick up his baby, the baby he fought so hard to keep. An exhausted smile broke across his face as he lifted her up against his chest loving the sound of her little angry yells. Dwylla stared with wide eyes before frowning at the new baby.

“Bad baby! Why you not wait!?”

~

One year later

Just outside Candlekeep was a small house, a rough circle make with stacked rocks and mortar. Open gaps as windows with little magic shields keeping the elements out. Rosemary and lavender swayed by the simple wooden door, tall lemon grass riddled the area around the house. Tall sticks stuck up from mounds of dirt, vibrant flowering vines of beans crawling upwards out of a bed of melons.

Mortimer stood at the top of a small hill as he watched his companion walk around their yard, gripping the woven sticks that served as their fence and shaking the posts. As she went along testing the posts and making sure it was sturdy her tail swayed lightly behind her, a small girl with dark hair and red eyes toddled along holding the end of Dwyllas tail. She babbled as she followed along, pausing to reach out to grab the fence, wiggling her butt instead of the fence and looking up at Dwyllas pinprick red eyes.

“...yes, very good”

From his place on the hill Mortimer smiled and laughed. It was hard sometimes to just let them be, but he needed the moment care for the garden. Overhead a few slip dusty clouds rolled by, he looked around their small home that the pair of them had built together. As he looked around it occurred to him there was hardly a scrap of metal anywhere in sight.

Not a damn thing here would ever rust.

[jjksugurugeto]

Satoru Pays Attention This Time

Satosugu, Fix-It

What if Satoru was there for all the moments when Suguru needed him most?

----

Suguru is sitting with Haibara in the hall in front of the vending machines when she walks in. 

“Hey! You with the hair… Are you Geto? I was wondering what kind of women you go for?” She struck a pose. 

Suddenly, Suguru was even more tired than he had been before. He could just tell just by looking at her that this conversation would end up being really draining. 

“Who are you?” He said, instead of answering the woman directly. 

“I like the type of girls that eat a lot.” Haibara said, with his typical uncensored enthusiasm. 

“Oh?” She said, with minimal interest.  

“Haibara.” Suguru could only manage, at his junior’s naive audacity. It made him feel that much older and ten times more exhausted.

“Don’t worry about her, Geto. She’s not a bad person. I can tell, I’m a great judge of character.” Haibara said, confidently. 

“I always kind of thought you were stupid, Haibara...” Everyone looked around as Satoru walked up to the group. “...but now it’s confirmed.” Satoru grinned, looking right at Suguru. 

They hadn't seen each other in a while. All the curses rattling around inside Suguru, in his gut, making him nauseous, keeping him up at night, seemed to settle down as he and Satoru made eye-contact.  

“Satoru.” Suguru said, just to say his name, then,“You’re being rude.” 

Satoru walked right past the strange woman and sat between Suguru and Haibara on the bench, spreading his legs annoyingly wide so that his knee pressed against Suguru’s. He put his arm around Suguru on the bench top behind him. 

More wild and cruel things settled in Suguru’s chest. 

“That’s okay, Geto. Gojo’s not a bad person either, y’know?” Haibara said, enthusiastic smile still firmly on his face. 

Poor, sweet, Haibara. A child born of summer and watching too much Power Rangers. Suguru bit back the impulse to shake his head pityingly and simply say “Haibara” again. 

He and Satoru exchanged a look. 

Suguru bumped his own knee against Satoru’s.

Be nice. 

Satoru grinned at him smug like a well-fed cat. 

“Well, I guess I’m out of here!” Haibara said, jumping up suddenly. “I’ve got to go meet up with Kento for our next mission. Don’t want to be late!” 

Before anyone could get out so much as a, “goodbye,” he was around the corner and out of sight. “He’s annoying.” Satoru said, but his smile was kind, “And so much energy. How does he do it? Hey, Suguru, were we that annoying when we were his age?” He leaned into him as he said it, pushing his face close to Suguru’s, like he was trying to monopolize his view. 

For a moment, Suguru was lost in thought. They had been that boyish at one time. What a difference a year could make.

“So,” the woman cut in, “Do you plan on answering my original question?” She said, smiling directly at Suguru. 

“What question?” Satoru asked, butting in. 

“Not until you answer my question first.” Suguru said.

“Suguruuuu what question?” Satoru said, poking Suguru’s arm, and then his cheek when Suguru ignored him. 

“Who are you?” He asked her, continuing to ignore Satoru as he started a barrage of pokes, with both hands now. 

“Don’t ignore me, Suguruuuu.”  

“Special Grade Sorcerer Yuki Tsukumo.” She said, striking another pose. “Does that name ring any bells?” 

“Suguruuu. Suguru. Suguru. Su-gu-ru.” 

Poke. Poke. Pokepokepokepokepoke. 

“Wait, so you’re her?” Suguru said.

That got Satoru’s attention. 

“Oh, I like the sound of that.” She said, beaming. “What have you heard?” She purred. 

Satoru had finally stopped poking Suguru and was staring at the side of his face instead as if he too was waiting, rapt, for Suguru’s answer. His stupid laser-beam eyes burning a hole in his cheek.  

“That you’re a special grade who never accepts any missions.” Suguru said, bluntly.

“Yea,” Satoru cut in, with relish, turning his stare on Tsukumo, “A real good-for-nothing. Who I heard has been wasting her time abroad.” He said, smiling his most angelic smile at her. 

Suguru couldn’t understand why he seemed to dislike her so much. Maybe they had history Suguru didn’t know about? 

“Man. I really hate Jujutsu High School.” She said, slumping suddenly. Clearly pouting. 

Suguru and Satoru exchanged another look. 

“I’m joking. Though it is true that I don’t get along with Jujutsu High’s policies.” She said, coming out of her slouch. Her tone suddenly more serious. 

That caught Suguru’s attention. 

“All they’re interested in is treating the symptoms of a problem.” She continued. “And I want to do something to treat the cause.”  

“You… want to treat the cause?” Suguru asked. 

Satoru was looking back and forth between Suguru and Tsukumo now. Probably annoyed they weren’t paying any attention to him. 

“Right. Except rather than hunting cursed spirits, I want to create a world where they don’t get born in the first place.” 

“I love cutting off my own nose to spite my face.” Satoru said, turning to Tsukumo with a smile fixed in its dulcet acidity. “Except I would never do that, because I’m not stupid, and also because I have a perfect nose. Don’t I, Suguru?” He turned again and started pushing his way into Suguru’s line of vision again, trying to get him to make eye contact, but Suguru wasn’t really paying attention. 

He leaned forward. Yuki Tsukumo had his full attention now. 

“Would you care to learn a little lesson?” She said, quirking her eyebrow like a challenge, once again looking directly at Suguru.

“Uhg. Boooooring.” Satoru said, drawing out the word obnoxiously. 

“Hush.” Suguru said, cupping one hand behind Satoru’s neck and the other over his mouth. 

Satoru licked his hand. 

“Satoru, that’s disgusting. He said, mildly, “Where are your manners in front of our guest?” Then pushed his hand harder into Satoru’s face, attempting to smother him.

Satoru flailed accordingly.

A brief scuffle ensued. 

“I can see you’re busy.” Tsukumo actually seemed a little irritated now. She didn’t have the same tolerance for the Satoru Gojo Effect as most people on campus. You had to build it up slowly. Like resistance to poison. “Maybe we can talk more about my research some other time, Geto?” 

“Like that’s going to happen.” Satoru said, finally managing to pull Suguru’s hand away from his mouth. 

A shame. His face had been turning the most lovely shade of purple, Suguru thought. 

He turned back to Tsukumo then, not really feeling apologetic for their behavior at all. 

“Yes. I’d like that.” He managed, giving her a charming smile. 

Satoru made a noise like cats fighting. 

“Maybe next time we can discuss things more privately.” Suguru could see Satoru’s hackles raising, inexplicably, from the corner of his eye. “And hey, maybe next time you’ll tell me what kind of women you go for.” She said, as she walked away, with a wink over her shoulder in Suguru’s direction. She did not, Suguru noticed, say “goodbye” to Satoru. 

“Blehhh.” Satoru stuck his tongue out and pulled the skin on his cheeks to make a ghoulish face at her back as she too disappeared around the same corner Haibara had earlier.

“Jeez, what a weirdo.” Satoru said casually, like he hadn't acted like a feral cat the entire time they had been talking. He leaned back, crossing his leg over his knee and placing his arm back on the bench behind Suguru's back.

It would be weird if Suguru leaned into it a little, right? He did it anyway.

They both sat there, not looking at each other, staring down the hallway instead.

“Did you know her?” Suguru asked. He was genuinely curious. 

“Never met her in my life. In fact, I still haven't met her. I refuse to have met her. Who are we talking about again?" Satoru said, in a rush.

Suguru pressed his fingers into the space between his eyes, which was sometimes the only correct response to anything Satoru said or did. 

Also, he was still extremely exhausted. 

"Besides,” Satoru said, finally becoming a little more serious, “you know what she was talking about, right? Genocide.” 

Suguru froze.

There it was, really. Laid out plainly in the space between them.

“C’mon. Have you had dinner yet? I’ll take you out to eat and point out all the many many reasons why Yuki Tsukumo is wrong. And why I’m always right.” Satoru said. 

Treating it like a game, a philosophical argument. Not like Tsukumo and by extension, Suguru, was entertaining mass genocide as any kind of viable solution.

Which, Suguru wasn’t, not really….

[charmante-mp3]

Devilish - Ch. V

The more I write on this the more scared I get, knowing damn well I can't write action scenes for the life of me.

--

Warnings below; - This is a demon!Ateez x angel!reader (not for long however) so there is talk of religion. As an atheist I really don't refer to 'God' or Jesus but I do not mean any harm for religion. In this writing I do, however, use real religious names, that being said, this is purely fiction! - Also for confusion purposes, I do cut back and forth from present to future. If you see '~' that is currently what is happening, so be aware! - Descriptions of injury/violence

(This entire thing might just go unedited but it's nice to warn ppl)

Prologue <<prev.<< | >>next.>> 1.0k

Months or even years passed, no angel would speak or look in my direction. It confused me, I wasn’t aware they would be this cruel. Of course that was until I met Ye’un.

“Excuse me?” A voice spoke from behind me, I had assumed it wasn’t for me so naturally I ignored it and kept walking. Then, a girl with dark brown hair stopped in front of me.

“Hi, you look a little lost and sad. You alright?” My eyes widened. No one had spoken to me before, so why was she the first?

~

“And where have you gotten this nonsense from?” A new king had risen to power in the underworld. An older woman, alive since the start of war between demons and angels. She stood in front of the eight divines, bringing forth a prophecy.

“I assure you it is not nonsense my king, for years people spoke of an angel falling from the heavens to be the next queen. She’ll rule beside the descendant of Azazel and his council. All that has to be done is stopping this war,” Hongjoong couldn’t tell if she was genuine or just wanted all of this to be over. Then again he did want to put a stop to this pointless war anyway, but it wouldn’t benefit himself in the eyes of hell. 

“I’ll consider this pointless prophecy, that’s all I can say. You are dismissed,” The woman had made her exit and Hongjoong had turned to his council. 

“An angel ruling beside us, that’s intriguing I will say,” Seonghwa spoke his opinion first. 

“I wonder if they’re as pretty as they say!” Wooyoung spoke loudly. Hongjoong had thrown his head back, as the other members debated this information. 

“Alright,” Hongjoong had interrupted the noise, “Let’s test this stupid prophecy,” and he sent a letter to the archangel himself. 

~

“This is quite peculiar,” The hierarchy of angels spoke, addressing a personal message from the demon king. 

“Since when have demons proposed to end this nonsense, they started it,” A man spoke to the left of Michael. 

“Azazel himself has been reincarnated yet I don’t understand why they would hold different ideas,” Another had spoken. 

“There is talk of a prophecy, once the war has ended an angel would fall. Seemingly the angel would rule at their side,” Michael started, “I would assume the king is not very happy with that arrangement, but who am I to turn down the end of this war,” He finished.

“And who would be foolish enough to fall from our heavens?” One of the men had questioned. 

“I’m sure it would be our newest descendant from Asbeel,”

~

The pain started to make me dizzy, I could feel the blade slowly detaching my wing from my back. 

“Ah maybe I should give you a break, wouldn’t want you to pass out before I’m finished would we,” His words sent a chill down my back. This unknown demon had made it clear, he wanted me to feel everything.

“You’re kind shouldn’t be allowed to have such beautiful feathers,” He said before going right back to slice open my wings. 

“Ah maybe I should introduce myself, I would like you to know who took these lovely feathers. My name is Dagon, of course that soon won’t matter,” Dagon chuckled after those words. The man was taking his time, not rushing to make this painless. Tears ran down my face, as I just wanted this to be over. 

“Dagon!” A voice had boomed from behind us, it was familiar but fear consumed me, convinced only more pain would come my way. At least that’s what I had assumed. I had felt the man be thrown off of me, jumping up and assessed the harm done to my wing. Instead of the lovely white, it was now dripping with red as blood fell down the feathers. I jumped as a hand made its way on my shoulder, I looked over to see one of Hongjoong’s council members. For a second I was blown away by the beauty of the demon. He had slightly longer hair than the others, but he did carry half horns like many of the others. They bled from a beautiful green to black. Once he had looked over to me, his eyes made me uneasy. They shouldn’t have, his eyes were soft, almost sad as he looked over me. 

“We should get you fixed right?” He spoke, holding his other hand out to me.

“Who are you?” my voice had wavered from the pain surging through my body. 

“My name's Yeosang, come on let's get you to a safer place,” I shouldn’t have trusted him, but my hand found its way in his and I let him carry me back to the castle I just escaped from.

~

“Dagon!” Hongjoong’s voice echoed in the air. While he wasn’t ecstatic about the prophecy coming true, the scream had filled his veins with such anger and worry. Mingi was quick to throw him off the girl. Yeosang rushing over to help her as she scrambled up. I could see how her wing had been hanging on by a thread. As soon as Yeosang had carried her off my attention flew to the man who caused such a stir. 

“Why do you insist on such disruption Dagon?” San spoke. I could feel the rage radiate from his words. 

“I’ll be damned if I let an angel rule hell itself,” Dagon said words he had already said time and time before.

“Well Dagon it seems as if that’ll work out, hell is exactly a place for the damned,” Wooyoung said. He had tried to speak in a joking tone but he held just as much rage as the others. Dagon started to struggle in Mingi’s hold, succeeding very little. 

“Take him back with us, I’m sure he’d enjoy the same pain he had inflicted on the poor angel,” Seonghwa suggested, and I definitely was not opposed to this idea. I could see anger and fear flash through the demon's expressions. 

“I do think it’s time to introduce you to the oubliette,”

[stesierra]

Word-finding tag game thing!

@writernopal tagged me in a game! I have no idea how to do these tag games but I'll try my best! My words are: savor, listen, feature, badge, and custom.

Am I supposed to tag someone else??? How do you know who wants to be tagged? Please tag yourself if you want!

Writing under the cut.

Savor- Court Phoenix. Kerra's POV

One of the guards kicked my legs out from under me. I landed hard on my hands and knees, and wisdom kept me there. I didn’t need an introduction to this woman. This was Gehiral, who Chujulan and Batoktoa had sworn would beat me if I treated her like a real person. Nothing I did would impress this woman. Better to stay humble and escape as soon as possible.

The regalie gazed down at me, her fingers clenching around the arm of her throne. She said, “You are Kerra, the fireling.”

My head hurt, but I nodded even though it made the world wobble.

She leaned forward, pinning me under a poisonous glare. Coolly, she said, “I summoned you yesterday, and you did not attend me. You are here to explain yourself and receive your punishment.”

My jaw dropped, and I struggled to find words that wouldn’t offend. “I’m very sorry, regalie. But no one came to tell me.”

Her frown was beautiful, not even creasing her skin. “I ordered my servants to send word. And you claim that they did not?” Her gaze shifted to a girl who sat on a pillow at the edge of the room. “Did you or did you not send a summons to this woman?”

The girl bowed until her forehead touched the stone. “Regalie, we sent a letter.”

The letter. That stupid letter. I said, struggling to keep my voice humble. “I did receive a piece of paper. But I can’t read, regalie. It meant nothing to me.”

Her eyebrows flew up, and she looked at me as though I were a dog that had failed to do a trick. Her laugh rang in my ears, elegent as chiming bells. “You are pitiful, aren’t you? Landbound and ignorant. I thought perhaps you might be interesting, since my brother asked Father so sweetly to let him keep you. But you’re nothing.”

My temper flared, and my head pounded, and unwise words formed on my tongue. I bit it until I tasted blood.

“Well, as long as you are here, you may entertain me. Show me your magical power.”

“Have your servants bring me a torch, and I will, regalie.”

“Why do you need a torch? Summon fire for me.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. No human can. My only magic is that fire doesn’t hurt me.”

Gehiral’s laugh was crueler this time. To her servants she said, “Bring the torch. Bring clothing that is not fireproof. Burn her alive, and let us see if her magic will save her.”

I stood in front of her until they brought me a coarse gray dress, patterned with stripes of black and white.

“Put it on,” Gehiral urged.

Was I supposed to undress in front of this crowd? Humilate myself in front of the regalie’s eyes? I opened my mouth to refuse. But I couldn’t look away from the cruel amusement on her face. Chujulan was right. She would beat me, or worse, for defying her.

I rose to my feet and yanked my shift dress off over my head and stepped out of my trousers. For a moment, I stood naked except for my breastband and underthings. Then I dropped the gray dress over my head and tugged it down to cover my bareness.

The servants carried in the torch next. Fire danced at its head, and black smoke curled up to taint the air.

“Give it to me,” the regalie said. She took the torch when they brought it and rose from her throne. Her steps sashayed towards me. She came close enough that I could’ve reached up to touch her face. Close enough to see her faint smile.

She thrust the torch into my chest, and fire climbed the robe, transforming me into a bonfire. The servants took the torch away as she returned to her throne. And I? I stood there and burned.

The robe blackened and fell apart, but the fire chased away the dizziness that had troubled me since waking. It stilled the drummers in my head. The regalie thought me a performing monkey, and she didn’t care if I died to amuse her, but fire was, as always, my friend.

When the last of the robe turned to ash, the fire ran out of fuel to burn, unable to spread to the stone floor. It sputtered out, leaving me blackened but unharmed.

I wanted to punch the regalie’s smile off her face. She said, “I suppose you are a legend after all. You had best dress properly, fireling. Or shall I send you to the Judge for being out of uniform? She will see you never repeat the mistake.”

Chujulan had mentioned the Judge when she’d told me to wear only the clothes she sent. The way the regalie savored the words told me I didn’t want to meet her.

Listen- The Halfway Revenant

When she finally reached the archive, three of her cousins waited outside for her to unlock the door. She let them in, murmuring greetings, and went to wait for Shad.

He finally arrived ten minutes later and raised his eyebrows at the sight of her sitting at his worktable. “Something up, Mindral?”

“You could say that,” she said, pushing a chair out for him. “I found something last night. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

He plopped down on the chair and faked shock. “You? Not know something? That’s impossible.”

She shoved his shoulder. “Shut up and listen. I found evidence that the Cherefs committed a murder. That they stole the transcription device plans. It was never their invention at all.”

Shad gaped at her, his fake shock turning very real. “What? That’s—You can’t be serious.”

She squeezed her hands into fists. “But I am. I found a journal. Kuldeev Nimina’s journal. He invented the transcription device, not the Cherefs. And somebody stole the plans. The next day, he died at the bottom of the canyon. Don’t you see? It wasn’t an accident.”

Shad tore at his hair, still goggling at her. “This is huge, Mindral. This is too big. Too much. Way too dangerous.”

“I know that,” she snapped. “We can’t publish this in Shaneh. The Cherefs would fall on us like wolves. But if we can get the information to the Niminas, they can rip the Cherefs down for us.”

His lip wobbled. “I don’t think it’s worth it. You should bury this. Just destroy the journal and pretend you never found it. Doing anything with it… It’s risking everything.”

“Shad, this isn’t a little scandal. This is a murder. This means that liars and murders have risen to rule over us. Don’t you think we have some responsibility to see justice done?”

“No,” he exploded. “It’s too dangerous, and when was that ever your job? You’re a researcher, not a detective. You’re a member of a lesser family. Leave that business to the key families. Stay safe, here, and forget it.”

Feature - Mud-Child

She reached the pit and leaned down to grab the handle of the door and yank up.

Rebeka muttered a curse and turned towards the clay pit, tossing the dry clay in one of her slop buckets as she passed. It spattered dirty water across the brick floor.

The door lifted half an inch, squelched and stopped.

Rebeka frowned. She tugged again, then set her heels and heaved backwards with all her weight thrown in.

The door didn't move.

She shoved at it, and wriggled and pried. Sweat ran down her neck. A cool evening? It was broiling.

The door ripped from her hands. Tore her nails, studded her palms with splinters. It shot towards the roof, and Rebeka's feet skidded in a puddle. Her back slammed into the floor. Her head bounced off brick. Somewhere nearby, the door clattered to the ground.

For a moment, she lay still and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. She was old enough that a bad fall might mean more than just a day or two in bed. But nothing seemed broken and—

Hair rose at the back of her neck. Something was in the room with her. Something wrong.

She'd done nothing to make a door move like that.

Rebeka eased her eyes open a little at a time. The ceiling overhead didn't have a door embedded in it, but it seemed darker than it had minutes before. Something was blocking the window. Or someone.

Before her paranoia could whisper any more mad notions, she shoved herself to her seat and swung towards the window. There would be a logical explanation for this, just like always.

She stared into clay. It towered above her, gleaming wetly. Her hand prints still marked it, given when she'd kneaded dry earth with water and jammed the result into the pit in her floor.

She'd buried it under wood, but door was gone now, and her hand prints were fading. The clay rolled towards her, the last of it snapping free of the pit like a viper's tail.

"Gods!" Rebeka scrambled to her feet, snatching up her broom as she passed it. "Oh, gods!"

The top of the mound shifted, turning on a nonexistent neck to follow her flight. Rebeka swore it was looking at her without eyes.

This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. It was just grandmother's tales. If she'd lost her spark, her child-making-magic, she would've felt something. Would've felt this moment of terrible birth.

Arms peeled from the central mass, as Rebeka might sculpt a doll. A real neck stretched out. A head rounded its end.

Rebeka stifled a shriek. The tales weren't supposed to be real. Damn Simun for being right about anything.

Rebeka whacked it over the head with her broom. "Get back in the pit! I didn't dig all that up only for you to waste it! Get out of my clay!"

The clay oozed towards her, half her height now. It stretched high as her elbow when it grew legs. It turned a featureless face towards her.

The whisk stuck to its brow as though she'd dipped it in pine sap. She yanked back for another blow.

"Get out, you damned spark!"

The handle snapped. Rebecca staggered back with half a broom.

The monster stopped. A fingerless hand plucked the shattered broomstick out of its head. The broom left a bristling halo of straw behind.

The other hand, a formless pad, stretched towards Rebeka.

Rebeka impaled the monster on the broken end of the broom and ran. She bruised a hip on her work table, and one of her cups toppled and splattered against the ground, deforming to a squashed bird's nest. She charged out of the house, tripped over the cat and grabbed it up. Ran with it between the hills, towards the weed-choked road.

Rebeka had muscle, but she wasn't twenty anymore. She faltered at the edge of the dirt track, a red iron burning beneath her breastbone. "Got to go for help," she gasped to the cat, "Got to tell the town—" She stopped.

Tell them what? That she couldn't stop what she made? That Simun was right?

The cat wriggled from her arms and bolted home. Rebeka stared after it. Her jaw set. Damn it, she was not going to let Simun be right.

Rebeka got the ax from the shed. The last of the setting sunlight glinted off the honed blade. On second thought, she grabbed the shovel, too. Ax in her right hand, shovel over her shoulder, she stalked towards the house.

The studio door hung open, but she circled to the other side of the building and peered through the windows, like some peeping tom in the bushes. Lurking in her own bushes. What had the world come to?

The monster crouched near the work table. It had no definition, only vague shape, like a child swathed in wrinkled gray. The broom lay beside the pit, pieces fitted together and covered over in clay. Rebeka blinked. The monster did nothing more.

She circled back to the door and entered with her ax at the ready, the shovel clutched tight. The monster straightened. It had sparse hips and broad shoulders, which prickled the hair on the back of Rebeka's neck. So did she.

The cup that had fallen from the table sat on the ground before it. The monster had merged the split cup back together, crimping the seam like a pie crust. Now it picked it up and tried squishing the corners back into a round. The cup simply squished flat in the other direction.

Rebeka stared at it and lowered the ax. This wasn't like the old stories.

It made one more awkward attempt to right the cup, then held the vessel out to her, still crouched low to the floor.

This wasn't at all like the old stories.

Sorry, I never use this word.

Badge

Custom - Court Phoenix, Kerra's POV

Chujulan opened one last door and revealed the center of the building. It had no roof and Hes took off to wing into the sky. She and the full moon dimly lit the white sand that filled this circular courtyard.

I stepped into the sand, and my shoes sank in deep. Stone seats circled the edge of the courtyard, but no one sat upon them.

Behind me, Chujulan said, “This is where you need to watch your shoes, Kerra. Don’t wade around out there."

I tensed, but before I could step out of the sand, Hes landed on my shoulder, and in her light I could see everything.

To the right, chains and shackles covered the wall, and six cages lined up in the sand, too small to hold a person comfortably. Yet someone's torn tunic lay locked up inside one, fluttering in the night breeze.

A block of wood crouched at the center of the sand pit. Stains darkened its surface. It glistened, and the sand around it was soaked and splattered red. Something had been dragged through the red sand, towards the left. Left, where I could see more red out of the corner of my eye—

Chujulan had stepped down into the sand with me. She put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don't look over there, Kerra.”

But it was too late. I stared at a pile of a dozen naked bodies. They lay smeared with gore, and the stumps of their necks still oozed red. Their heads sat lined up in the sand as if watching me, eyes open and empty. My stomach rose into my mouth, sour and sickening, and I knew if I opened it I would vomit all over the sand.

Hes squawked, and we both looked up. A bony woman stood on the other side of the pit, behind the horrible block. Voluminous green robes draped her, striped with gold and black. Her sleeves were stained with blood. A very tall axe stood against the wall behind her.

She wore her hair and makeup just as Chujulan did. Almost. A golden shape adorned her freckled forehead: a thick bar that stretched from brow to brow, and two circles that hung from each end.

Chujulan stepped away from me and said, “Judge.”

“Marshal,” the woman said. Her gaze flickered across me, and I flinched backward. “I do not recall inviting you to my domain. Leave.”

Chujulan strode forward, across the bloody sand. “No, I don't think I will. What's going on here?”

“Excuse me?” Such polite words should never sound so dangerous.

Chujulan kept walking, right up to the block. “You can hardly blame me for asking myself 'has my father's judge turned into an axe murderer and slaughtered all the servants?' I mean, you already have the axe.”

Behil glared. “The servants work when the sun is up, as befits their station. At night, they mind their own business, in their own rooms. You would be wise to do the same.”

Chujulan put a boot up on the execution block and leaned towards the judge. The judge twitched. “It is my business. Do you know who made it my business?”

“You?” was the sour reply.

“The sagan.”

Behil wilted. “What?”

“He sent me to check on you.”

“Why?” She sounded angry. “I have kept up with my duties. As long as the guilty are delivered to me, I will always carry out my duties.”

Chujulan glanced left. “Yes, I see you're already ahead of schedule for the night. But you're acting strange. Did you really think he wouldn't learn of it? He has his own eyes and ears on all of us rials. We aren't allowed privacy, not from him.”

“Define strange.”

“Shutting up the servants at night. Leaving all the lights off. Wearing clothes that don't fit. Kerra, send Heslibra over.”

I opened my mouth, but Hes was already taking to the air. She wheeled once around the rials before diving to land on Chujulan's unprotected arm. To her credit, she didn't flinch at the impact, or the talons, or the fire. She held the phoenix up like a torch, and even I, on the other side of the pit, could see what it revealed.

“You're pregnant,” Chujulan breathed. “Are you mad?”

Behil said, “I am not. I am going to be a mother. It is a joyous thing.”

Chujulan said flatly, “It's illegal. You're the damned Judge, and you can't claim you didn't know. Father is going to—”

“I know what he would do. I am, as you say, the Judge.”

The two rials stared at one another. Hes took to the air with a rising shriek.

“And when he orders you to judge and execute yourself?” Chujulan said, touching her burned arm gingerly.

Behil's chin stayed high. “Then his will be done. But I do not think it will come to that.”

“Father sent me to check on you. Your secret is not safe.”

“Yet keep silent, and no judgment need ever be made.”

Chujulan dropped her foot to the ground and settled into a fighter's stance. Fury was in the lines of her back, the set of her shoulders. Suddenly, I was frightened of what might be unleashed. “And drag me down with you, when you get found out.”

“Only if you did it for my sake.”

“As opposed to?”

The judge folded her hands above that pregnant belly. “The babe's. By our laws, if a woman conceives and chooses to carry to term, no other order or custom takes precedence above preserving the life of her and her unborn child. Even the sagan's.”

“You would know.”

“Yes. I would.” She tilted her head towards me. “Just as I know your companion is out of uniform. She is landbound, and her dress lies about her status and claims rights she does not own."

I flinched. I looked towards the heads that lined up in the sand, watching this unfold, and wondered what it would feel like to be decapitated.

Chujulan snarled, “The sagan has approved the outfit. Don't you ask me for mercy, Judge, and then turn round to threaten me and mine.”

The Judge raised her eyebrows. “Is she yours, then?” It was the same question I was thinking.

“Close enough. I like her better than I like you. Sister.”

“We are rials. We do not have sisters. Only competition.”

Um. Let me know what you think?

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

THE WATER TORTURER

(To remind me why I wake up at 2 in the morning wanting to scratch my own skin off in unexplainable rage. I will put the energy here and not engage. I will put the energy here and not engage. If I read this enough times maybe I can absorb and become immune to the patterns. Time will tell! Will not engage. Will not engage.)

[Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?]

The Water Torturer's style proves that anger doesn't cause abuse. He can assault his partner psychologically without even raising his voice. He tends to stay calm in arguments, using his own evenness as a weapon to push her over the edge. He often has a superior or contemptuous grin on his face, smug and self-assured. He uses a repertoire of aggressive conversational tactics at low volume, including sarcasm, derision—such as openly laughing at her—mimicking her voice, and cruel, cutting remarks. Like Mr. Right, he tends to take things she has said and twist them beyond recognition to make her appear absurd, perhaps especially in front of other people. He gets to his partner through a slow but steady stream of low-level emotional assaults, and perhaps occasional shoves or other minor acts of violence that don't generally cause visible injury but may do great psychological harm. He is relentless in his quiet derision and meanness.

The impact on a woman of all these subtle tactics is that either her blood temperature rises to a boil or she feels stupid and inferior, or some combination of the two. In an argument, she may end up yelling in frustration, leaving the room crying, or sinking into silence. The Water Torturer then says, See, you're the abusive one, not me. You're the one who's yelling and refusing to talk things out rationally. I wasn't even raising my voice. It's impossible to reason with you.

The psychological effects of living with the Water Torturer can be severe. His tactics can be difficult to identify, so they sink in deeply. Women can find it difficult not to blame themselves for their reactions to what their partner does if they don't even know what to call it. When someone slaps you in the face, you know you've been slapped. But when a woman feels psychologically assaulted, with little idea why, after an argument with The Water Torturer, she may turn her frustration inward. How do you seek support from a friend, for example, when you don't know how to describe what is going wrong?

The Water Torturer tends to genuinely believe that there is nothing unusual about his behavior. When his partner starts to confront him with his abusiveness—which she usually does sooner or later—he looks at her as if she were crazy and says, What the hell are you talking about? I've never done anything to you. Friends and relatives who have witnessed the couple's interactions may back him up. They shake their heads and say to each other, I don't know what goes on with her. She just explodes at him sometimes, and he's so low-key. Their children can develop the impression that Mom blows up over nothing. She herself may start to wonder if there is something psychologically wrong with her.

The Water Torturer is payback-oriented like most abusive men, but he may hide it better. If he is physically abusive, his violence may take the form of cold-hearted slaps for your own good or to get you to wake up rather than explosive rage. His moves appear carefully thought out, and he rarely makes obvious mistakes—such as letting his abusiveness show in public—that could turn other people against him or get him in legal trouble.

If you are involved with a Water Torturer, you may struggle for years trying to figure out what is happening. You may feel that you overreact to his behavior and that he isn't really so bad. But the effects of his control and contempt have crept up on you over the years. If you finally leave him, you may experience intense periods of delayed rage, as you become conscious of how quietly but deathly oppressive he was.

This style of man rarely lasts long in an abuser program unless he has a court order. He is so accustomed to having complete success with his tactics that he can't tolerate an environment where the counselors recognize and name his maneuvers and don't let him get away with them. He tends to rapidly decide that his group leaders are as crazy as his partner and heads for the door.