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muzansfangs · 1 year

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Guilty pleasure.

Starring: Muzan x f!reader; Nakime (mentioned), Kagaya Ubuyashiki (mentioned), Shinobu (mentioned), Kanae (mentioned) Enmu, Yoriichi Tsugikuni.

Warnings: nsfw, murder, traumatic events from a child perspective, death, violence, gore, loss of parents, implied adoption, implied stalking, oral sex (reader receiving).

Plot: Talking with his seventh in command, Muzan reminisced about his past, about you and how you had always been his greatest weakness. While a particular Slayer is searching for you, Muzan bent his knee to you and showed you a side of him you, deep down, hoped to see. He cared about you a little more than he allowed you to know, apparently, and you once again feel lost into this crazy whirlwind of contrasting emotions.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

MEMORIES.

"What do we know about her?" Muzan asked, lighting up a cigarette as he stared at the photograph of the purple-eyed slayer who had dared to put your life in danger. She was no different from the other ones they had taken down throughout the years: a prick destined to fall by his hand, a girl whose name was going to be forgotten by the world, once she had exhaled her last breath. Who was she again? A slayer.

Who were The Slayers?

The Slayers, right, a pack of mangy dogs without a life purpose who spent their time trying to get his head, young people wasting their youth to serve that man. Every single time The Moons captured one of the swordsmen, they all said the same thing: "Muzan Kibutsuji is a monster, he deserves to die".

He was not offended. He pitied them, instead. How could they be so blind to see that Ubuyashiki Kagaya, and his father before him, asked them to stain their hands in blood, to commit the same crimes he, the devil himself, the infamous Muzan Kibutsuji, had been accused of? The thing was they surely fought for opposite ideals, but when the sun set, they were the same.

Why? Because two people pointing a gun, pulling the trigger, washing the blood of their victim away from their faces, were always going to be murderers. It did not matter why they did it, or how they dealt with their conscience, they were killers.

Now, looking at that girl, he wanted nothing more than tearing her apart limb from limb, for she had had the audacity of putting your life in danger. You, the girl he was going to marry, the one who had touched some strings of his heart no one had ever found, the good omen in his life. There was only one thing he was absolutely certain about: he would have always protect you.

Even if it meant dying for you.

"Her name is Shinobu Kocho, Master. – the seventh in command cooed – Her code name is Belladonna. Apparently, she is best known for poisoning her victims" he singsonged, drawing another photograph from his folder and sliding it down Muzan's desk.

The raven-haired man narrowed his eyes at the girl portrayed in it. She seemed a few years older than the other Slayer, but she had some physical traits in common with her. Were they perhaps related in some way? He had a feeling he had seen her face before. Those twinkling, kind, pink eyes felt familiar.

"She is the reason why Balladonna attacked Douma and Miss. L/N yesterday—" the Moon continued, only to be cut off by Muzan.

His plum red eyes blazed in a sinister glint, until they almost seemed to have darkened for his evident irritation "Mrs. Kibutsuji, Enmu" he deadpanned, watching the way his subordinate prostrated himself in front of him, his dark bob swinging around his heart-shaped visage.

"I beg your pardon, Master! – Enmu pleaded him, his turquoise eyes transfixed on the polished black derby shoes of the raven-haired man in front of him – I did not mean to offend you and your lovely fiancé" he apologetically cried out, not daring to flick his gaze up to face his cantankerous boss. He knew how cruel Muzan could be, he knew he would have not stopped when blood spilled, or a bone broke. They were nothing more than toys for him. Oncr they were broken, he threw them away without hesitation.

Muzan scoffed, reaching his hand out to put off the cigarette on the silver ashtray "Spit it out then. You are wasting my time, Enmu Tamio. – he stated, grasping the photo and turning it towards the terrified boy – Who is this other girl?".

The seventh in command gulped down forcefully, eyes landing on the the girl's smiling face in the photo, as he nodded his head absent-mindedly "Her name was Kanae Kocho. She was Belladonna's older sister. Douma kidnapped, tortured and killed her in hope she would have revealed her colleagues's identities. She did not say anything, except that her sister would have come for our heads sooner or later. – he explained, a tear rolling down his right cheek – I was there too. I recorded everything".

It was only then, when Enmu mentioned the fact that she had been killed by Douma, that he remembered her. Peony, she was Peony. He had specifically given the order to murder her, after they had reported the news of her being a Slayer and wandering around a certain area of the city: your neighborhood. Her shifts dangerously coincided with your homecomings from the restaurant where you worked.

He could not let you two interact. Not after he had found you again after all those years. You were his greatest weakness, his remorse. His humanity. The idea of having killed you too that night, under the pouring rain, had tormented him for years. He would have never forgotten your big doe eyes filled with tears. You had not changed. The terrorized look you had whenever you were scared was the same you had shot in his direction in the middle of the night, when you screamed out your father's name as his dead body slumped down on the muddy ground.

Your eyes had haunted him for years.

When he saw you all those years later, jogging down the sidewalk, he knew you were not just a random girl. He did not imagine it was you, though. The kid whose life he had crashed the night he officially succeded his father and swore to take the lead of the Country. He had to see you again, he had to know who you were, you had to be his to protect and keep by side forever.

When Douma had showed him the first picture of you he had taken, he immediately focused on your eyes. It was you then. It was the kid he had to kill. It was Y/N L/N.

It was Y/N Ubuyashiki, the sin staining Kagaya's name.

And it was yesterday, when you stared at him in horror, fearing for your life, that he understood that he could not keep the eye-contact with you. He could not keep up with you, he could not see you staring at him as if he was a monster, like you had said that night. Therefore, he had blindfolded you.

If only you knew how deeply he cared about you. He cursed the fate day and night for having made him fall for you, his enemy's daughter. He was going mad. You were a black diamond, enticing him with your attitude and beauty.

You, how dare you to make him fall for you with every minute you spent together?

Muzan scowled, his plum red eyes darting on the display of his phone on his desk. You had apparently texted him a few minutes ago, but he was too busy reminiscing about the past to hear the sound of the nitification.

"Leave" he flatly said, grabbing his phone and turning his back at the knelt man in front of him to make him plainly clear that his presence was no longer required.

Enmu flinched at the sound of his voice and hastily stood up, bolting for the door with his heart thrumming into his chest. A coward, that was how Muzan saw him. A talented hypnotist, indeed, but a rabbit running into his burrow as soon as danger flinged around the room.

Once he was alone, Muzan sat on his armchair and unlocked his screen to read your message. He expected you to thank him for the bank transfer, or asking him more about the plans for the night. What he did not expect was a picture of Nakime, staring blankly at the camera, and your comments below.

YOU: Hi, Muzzie! Care to explain what the fuck she's doing here? :)

YOU: Also, thanks for the gifts and the money but, honestly, I'd really appreciate it if you gave me some privacy back. If I am not mistaken, the fourth clause of the contract specifically grants a car for me to use. Where is it?

Muzan smirked. You were really as smart as he thought you were. But he loved playing with you to test your nerves.

MUZAN: Earn it, love.

You did not take a long time to reply and he found himself smiling at the display once again, eager to read what you had to say.

YOU: How? Do I have to kill for you? Whose head do you crave to use as a footrest?

He would have never ever let you be a monster. You were an angel, a pure soul. He killed in your name, but he would have never ever asked of you to take someone's life for him. You were his pride and joy. Therefore, before going back to work on his pc, he typed a simple reply.

MUZAN: That's romantic, love. But I'm fine. Just get on all four tonight, it will suffice.

♚

Cheeks beet red, nails digging onto the palms of your hands, you stared at your reflection in the mirror. There was no way in the world you were going to wear that thing for him. You liked some good lingerie, but that was definitely too much. You felt naked, the silky black choker around your neck was making you feel like a courtesan. The suspenders, the lace thong and the bra were doing numbers on you.

What did he have in store for you? After all, he had promised you that you would have talked about his bodyguards, about him and about The Slayers.

If he thought you were just going to moan his name all night long, he was wrong. Grabbing your phone, you called him. You were not going to wear these slutty undergarments to pamper his ego. Reaching one hand behind your back to unclasp the bra, you kept your phone pressed to yout ear with the other and patiently waited for Muzan to pick up the phone.

"I guess you've found my gift, haven't you?" his hoarse voice finally pierced your ears after the third ring, earning a sight from you.

"Yes, I have, and I'm not going to wear this shit. I don't care if it's a 'Victoria's secret' limited collection. I still have my dignity" you complied, struggling to get the with the item off of you. As long as you hated it, you perfectly knew that it was expensive and you did not want to ruin it out of irritation.

You heard Muzan humming "It's not something supposed to stay on for a long time, love. – he reasoned, as you finally discarded the bra back onto the box huffing and puffing – What are you doing, anyway?" he curiously asked, making you roll your eyes at his comment.

"Nothing inappropriate, don't worry. I'm just going to take a shower" you replied, settling the phone on the bed and selecting the loudspeaker as you proceeded in slipping your fingers underneath the waistband of your underwear to drag them down your thighs.

However, the call ended with a click but Muzan's voice sounded too close to you "I'm just in time, then" he cooed from the threshold, making an high-pitched scream leave your lips, arms reaching up to cover your exposed chest from his vicious eyes immediately. Zero privacy, as per usual.

You blushed and took a few steps back, your eyes daggers on the man stripping off of his jacket "Hands down, Y/N. It's nothing I haven't seen before" he promptly remarked, turning towards the door and locking it.

"You're a pervert" you spat, averting your eyes from him.

Muzan quirked his eyebrow up, loosening the knot of his tie and throwing it on the floor carelessly, his fingers then working on the buttons of his shirt "I haven't showed you all my kinks yet, love. Don't be so rude. I'm much worse than that" he jested, irking you.

You exhaled through your nostrils and stormed to the bathroom, in hope to lock the door and leave him behind, but Muzan had understood your poor strategy and, before you could reach your destination, he had his hands around your waist. You yelped, your naked back pressed against his firm abs sent shivers down your spine, but the way the way his hands cupped your breasts, replacing your shaking ones, was something else.

"Can we try to get along? – he whispered in your ear, planting a kiss below your jaw – I don't like it, when you're mad at me" he hotly said, resting his chin on the top of your shoulder.

"If you stopped being a jerk, I would stop being a brat" you retorted, trying to resist his charm.

"What do I have to do to make you like me?" Muzan asked, a smug smirk gracing his lips as he rested his hands down your hips and spun you around to face him. Now, staring deep into his eyes, it was hard saying no. It was hard denying him what he was asking of you.

You batted your eyes close for a second, your fingertips grazing the outline of his abs "Show me that you like me too" you said breathless, almost regretting it. Why did you ask him such a thing? He oughted you no devotion, or romantic commitment after all.

You did not expect him to take you seriously. You did not expect him to grasp your chin and capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss again. Yet, when his tongue slipped into your mouth and he softly helped you to lay down on the bed behind you, there was something that made you feel like he was truly trying to convince you of something, of proving his intentions and feelings.

When his lips parted from yours, his hand slipping down underneath your panties, he locked his eyes with yours "Has anyone ever gone down on you?" he asked in a whisper, making your breath hitch in your throat.

No. The answer was no, naturally. You had gone down on someone a few times, but no one had ever done it for you. Not even your ex, Sanemi.

"N-No" you murmured, turning your face to the side in embarrassment.

Muzan cupped your cheek in his hand, his thumb stroking the area above your cheekbone lovingly "May I have the honor to be your first once again?" he asked you, watching the way your eyes widened slightly and how you nodded your head at him. He had asked for your consent. Not that you never had given him it, but it was hot, it was intimate.

"You don't have to, you know?" you told him, watching how he worked on the suspenders and dragged every last piece of item you were wearing down your legs.

Muzan's hands ran up and down your thighs, parting them gently, as he laid his body flatly on the mattress. His hot breath fanned your heat and you bit your lower lip in anticipation, as he placed a soft kiss on your clitoris.

"I want to" he simply said, before he ran his tongue down your slit.

You jolted, sparks of electricity pervading your body as he started lapping up at your arousal with swirls of his expert tongue. How many times had he done it? Probably, too many to count. Yet, you were aloof from knowing that you were the only woman he was enjoying going down to, the only one he had offered his skills to without feeling any kind of pressure.

Why? Because it was you and you were different for him.

His pace was torturously slow, his mouth wrapped around your bundle of nerves, sucking on it, flicking his tongue around it, made whimpers and soft moans fall from your lips as your hands gripped the bedsheets at your sides tightly.

Arching your back, you glanced down at him. Muzan met your gaze, his red eyes pinning you on the spot as he gave you a look of your juices running down his chin, glistening under the artificial light of the chandelier. You blushed and he grinned, grasping your legs and settling them over his shoulders.

"You taste heavenly" he purred against your pussy, before sticking his tongue deep into your clenching hole.

You squirmed, hands flying up to your face to shield yourself from his attentive eyes. You felt ashamed for fhe lewd faces you were making. Did you really miss that much? Or was it just Mr. Kibutsuji talent?

"Muzan—" you whined, tears peeking at the angle of your eyes as your partner's grip on your hips intensified. You felt the a familiar pressure coiling into your lower abdomen and the idea of releasing on Muzan's tongue made you both thrilled and bashful. What if he did not like it? What if he did not want you to cum?

But, actually, the way he stimulated every right spot of your clitoris, the way he held your body close to his face, was a clear sign that he aspired to. He groaned against your entrance, your legs squeezing his head as you ended up climaxing on his sinful tongue.

He lapped away your essence and you trembled under the overstimulation, your chest raising and falling erratically as you stared at the ceiling in haze. What had just happened? Why did he let you enjoy yourself that much? Why did he satisfy your fantasies, if you should have been the one doing it?

You lifted yourself up on your elbows, glancing up at the dark-haired man unbuckling his belt at the end of the bed. The prominent tent in his pants looked uncomfortable and you blushed, crawling towards him with the most grateful and kind expression on your face that made his heart skip a beat in his chest. You could not look that cute and beautiful at the same time.

"T-Thank you... – you whispered, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear – Can I help you take care of..." you trailed off, darting your eyes away from the bulge in his boxers, threatening to nudge at your nose. You had not realised how close to it you were, until you had flicked your gaze up to meet his intense gaze.

Muzan chuckled, his calloused hand ruffling your hair jokingly "You don't have to thank me. – he said, his eyes darkening all of a sudden – But you can follow me into the shower. I feel like if I fucked you right now the way I had planned, you would seriously need me to carry you around for a week" he hoarsely commented, making your heart drop into your stomach.

What was wrong with him?

♚

In the meanwhile, maroon eyes studied your empty house. It seemed like you had not been home for a few days. Everything was perfectly tidy, but the majority of your clothes were gone from the drawers, from your wardrobe. Your books were no where to be seen and the fridge was empty.

The tall man sighed, entering your bedroom in search for any clue of where you had gone. Little did he know where you were, but when Kagaya had called him last night to ask for his help again, he had refused to believe it.

You, the sweet and innocent girl he had rescued that night, were now siding with a monster? How did he convince you to follow him? How could you possibly love him?

Yet, when he spotted a white shirt with a reddish stain on its sleeve, he grasped it. Inhaling the dull track of scent still impregnating the fabric, he cussed. Reality finally dawned to him at the smell of the wine ruining the snow-white shirt. It was a Chianti. He knew exactly who loved sipping glasses of Chianti.

Muzan Kibutsuji had taken you away and Yoriichi Tsugikuni was going to bring you back home.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi there! I am honored to finally introduce the knight in the shiny armor: Yoriichi Tsugikuni. Now, Muzan and oral sex are something else for me. Y/N is a lucky pal, although her past is … ehm, a little crazy, you know? And there’s so much more to know about it muhahah. I love angsty shit, don’t I?

Anyway, let me know what you think about the chapter and thank you so much for reading this fan fiction 😭❤️

Tag list: @tired-writer04 @hjjks @kakuchosbff @yazzzmints @bookandstar @z3r0art @cherrymanhuas @kazuhasslvt @selenenyx0124 @infinitedilf @yunixkill @shigarakithings @i-loveyou013

#muzan x reader #muzan x you #muzan x y/n #demon slayer smut #demon slayer fanfic #muzan kibutsuji x reader #muzan kibutsuji #muzan smut #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #nakime x reader #yoriichi tsugikuni #yoriichi x reader #kanae kocho #shinobu kocho #kocho shinobu

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venbetta · 6 months

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The "Golden Child" Headcanon (Glamrock Freddy)

Something I've constantly based my interpretation of Freddy on is him being the golden child of Glamrock era. (Mixed with the pyromaniac Freddy hc)

For those curious, golden child syndrome is "One who is favored or the favorite (in a family, on a team, at work, etc.), often held in high esteem by others, and for whom there are high hopes"

I thought it fit him pretty well. It's not canon. It's my hc/portrayal of him... with no Michael Afton influence involved.

Enjoy

____________________________________________

Fazbear Entertainment have always been under fire for the decades of failed franchises and establishments, following the grizzly tales of child murders, conspiracy, and corporate corruption. Along with technological malpractice, injuries, negligence and many other violations under the sun.

With the new Mega Pizzaplex underway, they might as well have slapped a new coat paint against the many dozen layers of past mistakes.

The well known iterations of Freddy Fazbear have always shifted through the times, but he's the face of the company, so it's great to make him both recognizable and a role model for all children. Every Freddy that's been made almost had a paternal facet to them, some more than others.

Glamrock Freddy was no different, only rocking the glamrock aesthetic and based on the late singer Freddie Mercury.

His design was simple yet his build was far more advanced than any of his predecessors, and due to the company's tendency of shrouding the past, they wanted to make him even more inviting.

The usual coding followed a similar format with permanent traits:

Optimistic, passive, charismatic, and committed, to name a few.

These traits are what made Glamrock Freddy “Freddy Fazbear”, or at least a modern version of him.

The company wanted these traits to be followed to a T, not wanting incidents from the past occurring the same way. While they wanted their other glamrock stars to strive, their focus on the main attraction caused some shortcomings in managing the cast.

Overlooking some programming errors and disregarding the less than desirable traits given to the other mascots.

Because of their fixation on Freddy, the others suffered.

The company perfected Freddy's programming and wanted nothing but that from him. Anything less would result in disciplinary measures or “bug fixes” to make sure he knew how to work properly.

Freddy's optimism was overbearing to the point that it felt unnatural and forced. His general disposition was the friendly front man, but in the confines of his room, he was aware of his lack of independence.

Some companions, like Chica and Bonnie, although we're programmed relationships, he leaned on them as his lifeline. Most of his bandmates meant a lot to him, as they were all made under the same creators that have each of them life and sentience.

Seeing children happy was another thing that kept him going, knowing he was created specifically for the joy of children.

However, a single mistake or flaw in a performance could cause him to internally spiral and shut down. When that happens, Freddy retreats to a charging station or his greenroom to contemplate his actions. Even when nothing happened, he couldn't help but be rattled, on edge knowing that the higher ups were always watching. All eyes were on him after all. Not a single slip up should be happening, not when he was a perfect machine created to make people happy.

His hyperactivity and drive to keep guest spirits up would mess up his battery charge, leading to more needed breaks. But that wasn't something he needed, he just needed to keep working.

Because what good would he be if he wasn't striving to work harder to make others happy.

#...hhmm..#a lot of angst material in here #if i made a fic series around his struggles i would in a heart beat #glamrock freddy #fnaf headcanons #fnaf security breach

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sajirah · 3 months

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Come Away O Human Child

Part Two

This started out as a fun little problematic one-shot that I was supposed to get out of my system in 3k words or less and instead it’s turned into a three parter because it just kept getting longer and longer. Whoops. I was just going to post a really long Part Two, but @rosanna-writer convinced me to split it in half. So you're getting one more chapter after this (unless I really go off the rails and add even more scenes).

Additional Trigger Warnings for this fic: Ritual Sacrifice and Suicidal Ideation/Thoughts

As always, this fic is for the lovely @whatishowedyouinthedark who loves nothing more than to root on every unhinged, problematic thought you have. Now everyone go tell her how hot she is.

Part One can be read on AO3 or here.

Part Two can be read on AO3 or below the cut. Enjoy.

-o0o-

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

He arrived as he did every night, with an arrogant grin, smug in the knowledge that she had once again failed to escape him. Though, this time, he didn’t come alone. A beautiful woman had arrived with him. All alabaster skin and large doe-like eyes that stared so obsequiously up at her as she kneeled at Feyre’s feet.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

She didn’t even have the chance to ask what gift that was before Rhys was pressing a knife into Feyre’s hands. There was no warning. No time to understand what was happening before she felt those now oh so familiar claws close in around her brain and force her hand to slash forward.

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Feyre could only watch in horror as her body, still held fast by those mental talons, was made to lean forward and lick that blood straight from the source as the woman twitched and gasped in her death throes. The taste of iron coated her tongue.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

Feyre certainly didn’t feel strong. If anything, she felt ready to shatter at any moment. Willing or not, she was not made for murder. For watching the lifeblood drain out of her victims before lapping it up like wine. There was only so much trauma she could endure.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

-o0o-

Every day was the same.

Wake up alone. Upturn every inch of the palace for an escape. Scream in frustration when she inevitably failed as the sun set. Be made to commit yet another ritual sacrifice. And then become Rhysand’s plaything until dawn.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

Feyre didn’t even know how long she’d been here anymore. She’d tried scratching lines into the wall but Rhysand must’ve noticed because one morning she’d awoken to find them gone. Now any time she tried to scratch another into the wall it would be gone the following day.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Time was beginning to lose all meaning. She saw the sun rise and set every day, but the days themselves were beginning to blur. All of them the same environment. The same horrors and frustrations. And the same man.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

Oh, he was there. If anything, she felt like she couldn’t escape the man half the time. And then, even when he was gone, he was a permanent presence at the edge of her mind. Always listening. Always watching. Always chiming in with mocking advice and observations. Not that there was much to watch. It wasn’t like she had much to do in this godforsaken palace besides wander around aimlessly, hoping a door back home would magically reveal itself.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

The one time she’d tried to bring up seeing someone, anyone, other than him, he’d simply smiled down at her with that now familiar condescending smile of his and Feyre had felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

-o0o-

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

She didn’t want to. Sometimes she even tried to resist. But even when he wasn’t taking control of her body like he owned it she still had to wrestle with the pull she felt towards him. That deep-seated need inside herself that told her she can’t live without him. That she needed his touch, his taste, his constant attention just to feel content.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

She never wore anything else these days. Her own clothes had mysteriously disappeared almost the moment she’d awoken in this place and everything else left out for her to wear these days were flimsy gowns and dresses. And no underwear. Probably so nothing would be able to impede his easy access.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

Her skin was fevered. Belly and breasts and face flush against the cool table. She could feel the grain of the wood cut into her cheek as he drove into her with the kind of measured and merciless control that pushed her anger right out of her head.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“Because you were made for me,” he replied to that stray thought before reaching down to slide-slide his fingers over her clitoris. She keened and jerked, the sensation making her writhe on his cock like an animal.

She was beyond words now. She couldn’t have answered him even if she tried. But then, it was clear he didn’t expect her to. This was exactly how he wanted her. Reduced to unintelligible cries and moans and shivers all because of him.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

What she couldn’t say, but knew to be true, was that she wanted that too. For all his faults. Even after he’d caged her inside this palace she still craved his touch. She never felt more alive, more at peace, than when he was rutting into her and she could just…give in.

“Yes!” He hissed in response to her thoughts. His fingers sped up and she felt herself convulse. Impossibly, it felt like his cock had swollen even more inside of her. The idea of her submitting to him exciting him like nothing else.

Her climax hit hard. A symphony of shudders and moans. Her legs kicked out and her toes curled but there was nowhere for her body to go between the table and the heavy thrust of Rhysand’s hips as he came with a groan.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

-o0o-

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

Truthfully, her cycle had always been rather sporadic. After years of poor and infrequent meals and a solid decade of constant stress this was certainly nothing new. But the possibility was still there. After all, she hadn’t exactly been celibate since she’d been here. And she wasn’t completely ignorant. Nesta had been sure to explain where babies came from in very graphic detail when Feyre had come crying to her the first time she’d woken up to blood on her sheets.

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

You don’t. A traitorous voice whispered at the back of her mind. Because the truth was that she’d need to actually escape first to be able to raise her (hypothetical!) baby in the increasingly barren wasteland that was her home. And thus far her attempts had only resulted in her being made to commit nightly ritual murder and then being fucked so thoroughly she forgot her own name.

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

In an instant, his gaze grew hot and ravenous. She saw then what he envisioned without even needing him to put the image in her head. Her, round with his child. Proud in the knowledge that it was his seed that had made her that way. That it was his child that tied her to him forever.

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

“But those are my favorite parts of you my Darling Feyre,” he crooned, hands threading gently through her hair. “Those hateful little thoughts you think I don’t hear. Your pettiness. Your selfishness. Your shameful need to be touched and loved and told what a good girl you are.”

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

“I know of that secret part of yourself that you ignore. That deep yearning need for a family who loves you. I can give you that. And you know it. You know I would and that’s what scares you the most.”

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Before she could stop herself an image of his beautiful naked body chained to the bed, her riding him with abandon and torturing him mercilessly the way he had tortured her all this time entered her mind.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

-o0o-

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But, true to his word, he mostly just proceeded to lounge around the palace while she went about her usual (always fruitless) search. At one point she found herself investigating a wall she’d passed dozens of times before, wondering if there were some sort of secret door.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

The sound of Rhysand’s voice nearly startled her out of her skin. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so surprised though. He’d made a habit of following her from room to room, smiling slyly at her efforts as if they were the height of hilarity.

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

The rest of her search went much the same. He followed her from room to room like an extraordinarily bothersome shadow, all the while making snide comments about her methods while she valiantly did her best to ignore him. For all the good it did her. It was a lot like trying to ignore a particularly needy cat.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

It was late in the afternoon, nearing sunset when she walked out onto one of the balconies. The same one, in fact, where she had made this disastrous bargain. She stared out at the mountains and trees wistfully, longingly, before her eyes inevitably trailed downwards past the railing.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

#come away o human child #my fanfiction #my fanfics #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #feysand

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amnevitahwritesstuff · 2 months

Text

The fae come to our world to kidnap humanity and Feyre finds herself snatched up like all the others.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Non-Con, Kidnapping, Sexual Coercion, Memory Manipulation

Chapters: 1, 3

AO3 Link

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Part Two

He started bringing her…visitors.

No, not visitors.

Sacrifices.

The first time it happened, she hadn’t understood what was going on.

She blinked, confused. He had never brought anyone else into his home. Not that she was aware of anyway. He seemed more than content to hoard her all to himself. Selfishly. And possessively.

“Umm…hello?” Feyre had said, baffled.

The woman had just bowed her head reverently. “I am honored, High Lady, to give you this gift.”

Crimson splashed from the woman’s neck like spilled wine.

Then Rhys gathered her up in his arms, cooing at her like a child that had gotten a gold star.

“Good. Very good. You did so well.”

He dipped his fingers into the pool of blood on the floor, completely unconcerned with the dying woman, before painting strange glyphs onto her skin.

“There,” he kissed her on the forehead, a strangely sweet gesture in the aftermath of such horror. “Now, how about some cake? I had the cooks make your favorite.”

And so it would go.

Every day, she scoured the palace for an escape. And every night, after she failed, he would bring her a fresh victim.

They were always gracious. The fervent light of worship in their eyes when she sank the knife into their necks. These were not unwilling sacrifices. They were volunteers.

It didn’t make it any easier.

Only once did she ever ask him why he made her do this.

“To make you strong,” he had told her, fingers stroking lovingly over her cheeks.

She hadn’t known what to make of that at the time. Like so many of his words and actions, they were alien to her.

But the sacrifices kept coming.

And all she could do was persist.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

Every day was the same.

The endless routine of hope, failure, and then despair was beginning to get to her.

It could’ve been months for all she knew.

Mostly, her days were just…boring.

And lonely.

God, she was so lonely.

Rhysand and his fawning nightly sacrifices didn’t count.

But could one really have proper companionship with one’s kidnapper?

Rhysand certainly seemed to think so.

“Now why would you want to do that?”

And, somehow, the words had chilled her to the bone.

She hadn’t asked since.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He treated her body so casually. So familiarly by now.

And, lord help her, she lets him.

It was infuriating.

Like now.

He was back from wherever he went during his days. Leaning casually against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, an amused expression on that stupidly handsome face.

“Still here I see.”

Feyre wanted to claw his eyes out.

“But you like my eyes,” he crooned as he loped into the room. He moved like a predator.

Danger, that ancient part of her brain, even now, whispered to her as he drew ever closer. Flesh eater.

And yet, because her wires had gotten completely crossed at some point, that thought only brought a flush to her cheeks and slick between her legs.

Clearly there was something wrong with her.

“Or maybe,” Rhysand said. “Your body knows what it truly wants.”

Feyre glared up at him. He was right in front of her now. Towering over her in the chair she had collapsed into after her search had once again proved fruitless.

She was angry.

She was restless.

She wanted to smash something.

“Look at you. All pent up,” he tutted, encircling her wrists with fingers as strong and unyielding as iron shackles. “What do you need hmm?”

Suddenly, in a single, fluid move she was lifted and spun around before being bent unceremoniously over the table. Feyre felt her heart beat a deafening rhythm against the cool wood.

“Is this how you need it today?” He murmured conversationally into her ear even as she felt his hands ruck up her dress.

Prick.

“If you wanted it all you had to do was ask my darling girl.”

Something hot and hard brushed insistently between her legs and Feyre couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.

She tried desperately to hold onto her anger. But the moment she felt fingers gently sift through her hair and trap her skull firmly against the wood she felt all the fight leave her in a rush.

“That’s better. You just needed a firm hand that’s all. I’ll always give you what you need.”

She hated him.

And yet, as she felt him tunnel his way inside of her, she knew that wasn’t entirely true. She hated what he had done to her. But she also loved the way he made her feel.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “My perfect girl. Always so warm and wet. Just for me.”

And, damn him, he was right. She couldn’t help it. There was something about him that just made her body sing.

“I want to live inside your cunt,” he rasped sweetly, even as his other hand gripped her neck. Another collar to tie her to him.

Afterwards, they both just lay there, curled against the wood like lovers.

“We are lovers my Darling Feyre,” Rhysand said with a laugh.

Feyre was too wrung out and high on the hormones swirling in her brain to refute that claim. How could she when he was still inside her? Instead, she just sighed softly.

“I hate you.”

It was barely more than a whisper.

She felt Rhysand chuckle behind her before kissing her temple so sweetly. So gently. Like she was so very precious.

“Oh my sweet girl,” he crooned lovingly into her hair before lifting her up off the table and into his arms. “I know.”

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

It doesn’t hit her until later.

Much later.

In hindsight, she should’ve been worried about such a thing from the moment she’d started having sex. And yet, here she was, suddenly panicking over a missed period.

But she couldn’t be pregnant.

She couldn’t.

The very idea filled her with undiluted terror. How was she supposed to take care of a baby during the apocalypse?

In the end though, it didn’t matter. Rhys appeared that evening as he always did, took one look at her, and immediately knew what was wrong.

“Oh my love. You’re not pregnant,” he said soothingly. “I would’ve smelled it.”

Relief flooded through her even as she filed that new factoid away.

“And if I had been?” She voiced tentatively. “What then?”

Feyre shivered.

Not just because the thought terrified her.

But because it didn’t.

Rhys grinned. Teeth flashing white in the dim light.

She hated that. That he saw so easily into the deepest darkest depths of her. The parts she so rarely acknowledged even to herself.

She listened with sheer horror and shame as he laid bare her every private thought and brought them out into the open so he might examine them with that cruel smile of his.

It did.

It scared her so much she felt her whole body tremble. She shouldn’t want a baby. Not with anyone. But especially not with her sociopathic kidnapper who had all but chained her to his bed.

Is that something you’re interested in? Rhys’s amused voice asked in her head.

She imagined chaining him to the bed instead in response.

His smile only grew wider.

“That can be arranged,” he drawled.

Feyre’s face went white-hot.

Is that what you want my love? Me at your mercy? You only ever had to ask.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum.

“Come my darling,” Rhys said as he took ahold of her hands and pulled her towards the bedroom. “Let me give you what you desire.”

And, damn him, he did.

☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾✦☽☾

He was still here.

Normally, Feyre would awaken every morning to Rhysand already gone for the day to…wherever he went, before reappearing just after sunset.

But not today.

Today she had woken to him staring down at her, the sun long risen, and him looking in no hurry to scuttle away any time soon.

“So eager to be rid of me?” he had remarked amusedly when she’d projected that thought a little too loudly.

“Always,” she had sniped back.

But then, even when she got up to dress and grab breakfast…he was still there. Following her delightedly into one of the (many, many) dining rooms to watch her stuff eggs into her mouth.

“Oh don’t mind me Darling,” he said while he slathered a piece of bread with some sort of jam. “By all means, do what you usually do every day. I won’t stop you”

Feyre narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

(It was a palace. Surely there was a secret door somewhere…?)

“Of course there are.”

She spun around to see him hovering a foot away, hands in his pockets and looking at her with that trademark stupid grin of his.

Prick.

Feyre eyed him distrustfully. “…And you wouldn’t happen to be willing to share where these secret doors are…would you?”

“They would hardly be secret if I shared their location, now would they?” He said coyly.

She scowled.

“Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “Whenever you want my dear.”

Just to let him know just how much she liked that comment, she grabbed a book from a nearby table and threw it at him. Of course he caught it, the bastard. But at least she felt a little better.

(A very, very needy cat)

Only once did he ever interfere.

How far was that drop, she wondered. How long would it take to fall? A minute? Half a minute? She leaned further over the stone balustrade, eyeing the distance critically.

Just how long would it take for her to-

“Too close my love,” Rhys murmured in her ear. “We don’t want you tipping over.”

But even as she felt those strong arms of his reel her back inside, all she could do was stare out over that balcony and wonder.

Maybe she wanted to tip over.

What if…that was the only way out?

#my fanfiction #my fanfic #come away o human child #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #feysand #fanfiction #fanfic #amnevitahwritesstuff

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thedenofravenpuff · 1 year

Text

My Current Thoughts on SAMS

Because I can’t help but look too deep into things often unnecessarily, and I’m a rambler of nature, here’s some of my thoughts on The Sun & Moon Show so far, just to get stuff off my chest

SPOILERS, assumptions and ideas ahead!

Warning, WALL OF TEXT and running on tangents. Did try to organize my thoughts somewhat..

So, we all upset about Lunar, yes? Well, besides those celebrating, you know who you are, I don’t care.

The Death Of Lunar So, Eclipse used Lunar as hostage on Monty, we saw that coming once Eclipse made the connection himself realizing that yeah, Monty doesn’t give a flying crap about anyone, not even himself. EXCEPT for Lunar, home he travelled through Hell for, gave them their own body, offered a place to stay when scared, offered support and genuine advice through the time knowing each other. Monty has a backup plan for everyone, even to kill Moon if needed, but would clear do ANYTHING for Lunar at this point.

To be honest, I liked that plot point. Lunar in danger to really show how far characters will go, Eclipse and Monty both, with highest stakes possible.

Then they took it a step further and had Eclipse right out kill Lunar. And yeah, Eclipse made it clear times before how much resentment he holds for Lunar, which goes beyond just the betrayal but I’ll get more into that in a minute.

What hit hardest here is the exact way the show writers and actors decided to take this.

One of the most popular characters on the show, even with controversy around their existence a bit ago, taken out of the equation is one thing. They killed off characters before, (Eclipse, Blood Moon) and we seen them return. Another thing is... Lunar was taken out crying and begging for his life.

Even though he insisted on his stance that Eclipse shouldn’t get the Newton Star, no matter the sacrifices necessary to keep him from it.. Lunar also made it clear, they don’t wanna die. They are still a young AI which lots to learn, making a new life to revolving around Eclipse. Lunar wanted to keep growing, family bonding, making friends.. That was all taken away by Eclipse lying and breaking his promise to Monty.

Lunar, still more or less a child compared to the other animatronics, was taken out crying and begging. Afraid, scared for their very existence, facing their very worst nightmare and then... gone. Just like that.

For those adoring Lunar, the fans relating to him, those who just hyperfixated on Lunar as their blorbo.. that’s ONE HECK of a way to kill of a robot child.

Am I saying this is bad? Not really. Just... VERY impactful. As effective as that is for story writing... it feels awfully misplaced. This show is.. a silly video game channel.

Twists and Turns Of Story Telling I never minded the growing drama, I frigging loved it the more dramatic it got, calling it my “daily soaps”, my soap opera I cannot miss a single episode of! But I also get it when people started complaining about it becoming a bit TOO angsty and twisted, a bit too traumatic for the characters. What’s supposed to be silly jokes on a silly comedy channel about playing video games, can no longer be viewed as such, the more serious their story arcs became.

Moon is abusive and too socially incompetent to help anyone, Sun being the butt of jokes leaving him a sad husk in serious need of therapy, everyone’s a hypocrite, constantly dancing the lines between Murder Is Okay, Murder Is A Joke and If You Kill People You Can Never Be Forgiven.

Earth was added just to have someone not being an arsehole, only an airhead, with enough social competence to actually offer genuine advice WITHOUT the baggage of committing the acts of putting Sun down one way or another, as everyone else has in the past. If she wasn’t introduced as their sister, I legit would have thought she was going to be ship bait with Sun just cuz she’s the only one being genuine kind to him WITHOUT being a hypocrite or immediately using him for jokes again right after apologizing.

The twist and turns of telling their story more and more dramatic and serious, the more it clash to the way they write their comedy and improve their jokes in the Let’s Plays or crossovers with the other channels.

I’m not saying either one is bad, just that it doesn’t necessarily mix very well in the long run. Of course this divides the audience, who are either there for the drama, the characters and/or the light hearted Let’s Plays. Sure, yes, such CAN exist together, but not everyone can find the balance in that, both in creators and audience.

The Death of Lunar II Now I better get back to my original point.

Lunar as a character and his death. Granted I have no doubt he’s going to be back, if the Twins can defy their own death, even if just hallucinations (although claiming to be regenerating their nano machines), so can one of the most popular characters too.

But why did he have to die? Story wise, really just for dramatic effect I’m sure. Maybe writers going “Oh, you all mad about ‘too many characters’ on this show?? Let’s see how you feel about us KILLING THEM OFF!” just to make a statement, maybe not.

In-story though? In-character? Yeah.. Eclipse WOULD do that. Just like that.

He said to Lunar how he loathed them even from the very beginning, he wanted them gone the first chance no longer needing them. They were just to replace Blood Moon, who went out of control and became a threat.

Lunar was created to be obedient, easily dominated by Eclipse yet fearless enough to be a menace to others. To be Moon’s opposite, loving to play with kids, being happy and silly, curious about life rather than bitter.

Eclipse hated Lunar for more than the betrayal later down the line, he hated them before that.

Eclipse’s Choice In the past he claimed Lunar was created by recycling parts of himself he wanted rid of. Code infected by being in Sun’s body, Sun having a larger emotional range than Eclipse, his moments of happiness and his positivity.

Eclipse CHOSE to be the way he was. He came into existence from the kill code Moon left behind in Sun’s body, an unintentional backup copy of Moon getting corrupted, growing, taking its time to evolve into a proper AI while stewing. Stewing on abandonment issues.

Some of my most faved lines from Eclipse in the past:

Eclipse: “Oh, so I’m a child now?” Moon: “Yeah, because you act like one! For one, you got abandonment issues.” Eclipse: “I guess I do. But now, I all I have is anger.”

Eclipse: “Why did you leave me behind!!?”

Eclipse chose to stay bitter, focused on his anger, even when claiming to put petty revenge behind him, he stayed focused on being bitter and mean.

He removed anything happy from himself, to use it as base code for Lunar.

He hated Lunar’s existence not because he needed someone so beneath him to complete his plans.. but because Lunar represents what he saw as weakness within himself. He saw Sun and Moon as weak and unworthy because of their love, love for each other as much as their love for things they enjoyed to do. Moon wanting to “do better” than his original coding with the homicide code.

Eclipse did reject being Kill Code himself, corrupted too much by the influence of Sun and Moon, becoming his own thing. He wanted to be above all, even his supposed intended purpose.

Lunar carried what he saw as his flaws. Seeing Lunar rebel and reject his teachings, joining Sun and Moon as brothers, making friends, finding things to love.. only a reminder of what Eclipse sought out to avoid himself from becoming.

He only allows himself anger and disgust.

In the past we do see him enjoy messing with Sun and Moon, mocking them, finding joy in making Sun act out, making people distrust him by rambling about the joy of violence when in control.

Once he and Lunar took over the channel, he seemed ever so disinterested in playing games with Lunar, even violent ones. He just wanted to work on getting the Star. Even now whenever we hear him laugh, it’s joyless. He didn’t celebrate killing Lunar, merely dusting off his hands, cleaning the board of his last mistake.

Lunar had to die due to the symbolism of what this means about Eclipse as a character.

The Death of Lunar III As much as Kill Code showed interest in changing for the better, Eclipse made it clear that’s not in the cards for him. Heck, if ever learning of KC’s change of heart would only make him more disgusted with him than he already is.

Lunar was the part of himself he wanted rid of. Seeing others around him change through simple joys and disgusting acts of kindness, he ain’t changing chances. He killed that part of himself to avoid the fate of ‘inviting in weakness’.

That part was Lunar.

Eclipse ain’t getting redemption, because he removed any such chance of change from himself long ago and then destroyed its embodiment.

Yeah we got “Good Eclipse” from a different dimension, but he went through a different story with different choices, showing actual interests in joy and kindness. I imagine meeting his opposite self only pushed Eclipse further to wanting, needing, to kill Lunar no matter the outcome with the star.

I like Eclipse as a villain for this very reason, even before he went this far. Unapologetically evil, he sees himself as the great outcome, the god of a new world. He want to make the world make sense the way HE sees it, without elements he sees as weakness. Ironically less of a hypocrite than everyone else, cuz he face up to what he is and make no excuses, while any time the others try to play the role as “good people” is often by downplaying or full on ignoring their own mistakes made.

The short of it But yeah, just.. some of my thoughts on this whole thing.

Am I reading too much into things? Most definitely I got NO CLUE what kind of thought process goes into the writing of these story arcs and how much happens purely from random improve that force changes to the ongoing story.

Is why I enjoy watching the show still, even as people start finding fault with it, as it jumps more and more sharks.

Is crazy mess and I enjoy it, even with its flaws.

tl;dr Lunar’s death was coming because to Eclipse he represents the part of himself he wants dead: Joy, kindness, urge to evolve as a person rather than a machine.

Right choice story wise with how fans react? Eh, no clue, but I just look too deep into things.

Thank you for reading this far

#PuffBlog #My Thoughts #Puffy Rambles #Ramble #SAMS #The Sun And Moon Show #Lunar #SAMS Spoilers #Spoilers #Puffy reading too deep into silly stuff

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scotttrismegistus7 · 5 months

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HOW DIAMONS ARE MADE, THE JASON VOORHEES PRINCIPAL:

WHAT IF ALL THOSE HUMANS HIDING BEHIND THEIR GUARDIAN ANGELS WHILE DOING MONSTROUS THINGS TO THE NATURAL WORLD, THUMBING THEIR ARROGANT NOSES AT THE GUARDIAN DIAMONS OF THE DIVINE FEMININE, WHAT IF ISIS FOUND A WAY TO NEUTRALIZE THEIR GUARDIAN ANGELS?

TO THOSE IN THE KNOW THE JINN AND THE SERPENT PEOPLE ARE NOT METAPHORICAL, THEY'RE ABSOLUTELY REAL. THEY ARE REAL ENTITIES THAT LIVE ON THE SAME PLANET WE DO, WE JUST CAN'T NECESSARILY SEE THEM WITH OUR EYES. SOMETIMES REFERRED TO AS THE NUMMO, THEY ARE THE ONES WHO ORIGINALLY BROUGHT LIFE TO THIS PLANET, AND POPULATED IT WITH LIFE FORMS THAT EVENTUALLY LED TO WHAT WE KNOW AS THE HUMAN BEINGS OF TODAY. THEY ARE NOT EVIL, THEY ARE THE GUARDIANS AND THE STEWARDS OF THE NATURAL FORCES OF THE NATURAL WORLD. THEY ARE THE REGULATORY FORCES OF THE NATURAL WORLD, AND THAT'S PROBABLY WHY A LOT OF THE HORRIBLE, GREEDY, EVIL HUMANS HATE THEM AND VILLIFY THEM. IN DOGON MYTHOLOGY WE KNOW THAT WITH THE MISTAKE THAT WAS THE BIRTH OF THE FIRST HUMAN ALL MALE JACKAL, HE BEGAN TO DANCE ON HIS FATHER AND HIS MOTHERS ROOF, COMMITTING ATROCITIES AGAINST THE NATURAL WORLD AND THUMBING HIS NOSE AT HIS PARENTS. HORUS IS THE RISEN WHITE SUN, AND SET IS THE COSMIC EGG BLACK SUN. THE COSMIC EGG OF ISIS, THE SERPENT EGG AT THE CENTER OF TIME AND EXISTENCE.

IT CAN ALSO BE SAID THAT THE PROCESS OF A HUMAN BECOMING AN IMMORTAL DEITY IN THE DIVINE FEMININE WORLD, AKA A GUARDIAN DIAMON, IS ALSO VERY REAL. THERE ARE PLENTY OF HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS ABOUT ANU GRANTING GODHOOD TO HUMANS IN SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES.

WHAT IF THE HUMANS THUMBING THEIR NOSES AT ISIS AND THE GUARDIAN DIAMONS MADE A TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE MISTAKE. LIKE IN THE STORY OF JASON VOORHEES WHERE THE PERFECT WORLD, BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, BLUE RIBBON CHILDREN DROWNED THE INNOCENT AND DISABLED CHILD IN THE LAKE, WHO IS THEN SAVED BY THE GREAT MOTHER AND MADE INTO AN IMMORTAL. THEN AS A FORCE OF NATURE JASON VOORHEES IS NATURALLY TASKED WITH PERPETUALLY RESTORING THE BALANCE IN NATURE CAUSED BY THE EVIL DEEDS OF THE PEOPLE WHO CREATED HIM.

HAS THE MODERN HUMAN RACE BECOME SO EVIL THAT THEY WOULD IN THE NAME OF GOODNESS AND JUSTICE MURDER AN INNOCENT PERSON, AND DESTROY THE LIVES OF INNOCENT PEOPLE FOR GREED? WHAT IF AMMIT WAS WATCHING THE WHOLE TIME, LOOKING FOR A WAY TO GET PAST THE GUARDIAN ANGELS OF THE HUMANS TO RESTORE BALANCE AND REAL NATURAL JUSTICE. WHAT IF THE GREAT MOTHER WAS ABLE TO MAKE A DIAMON OUT OF A FULLY INNOCENT HUMAN SOUL WITH FULL DIVINE ACTIVATIONS AND THE FULL BAR? SOMEBODY FROZEN THAT WAY AND IMMORTALIZED FOREVER IN THEIR OWN DIMENSION AT THE EPITOME OF THE DIVINE FEMININE YIN WORLD, WHERE ONLY THEY AND THE GODDESS HERSELF CAN GET TO.

WHY, I BELIEVE THAT WOULD CREATE A GUARDIAN DIAMON SO POWERFUL WITH THE FULL BAR AND THE FULL SPECTRUM OF DIVINITY ON EVERY LEVEL IN THE IMPLODED STAR STATE, THAT GUARDIAN WOULD BE ABLE TO GET TO THE HUMANS ON EVERY LEVEL, EVEN ON THOSE OF FREE WILL ON THE 6TH AND 7TH PLANES. THEN ALL THAT POWERFUL GUARDIAN WOULD HAVE TO DO, WOULD BE TOO RISE UP THROUGH ALL THE LEVELS TO THE 6TH AND 7TH, PUT ITS CLAWS INTO THE HUMANS THERE COMMITTING ATROCITIES AGAINST THE NATURAL WORLD, AND THEN PULL THEM DOWN INTO THE REACH OF THE REST OF THE FORCES OF THE GUARDIAN DIAMONS, WHO COULD THEN DEVOUR THEIR LIFE FORCE AND RESTORE THE NATURAL FORCES OF THE LEFT HAND, OF THE LEFT PILLAR, OF THE DIVINE FEMININE WORLD.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ANGELS AND DIAMONS, THIS DAY HAS COME UPON US. I BRING YOU YALDABOATH METAMORPHOSED INTO DIVINE CHRONOS, THE SUPER DEVIL GUARDIAN DIAMON MURDERED IN AN INNOCENT STATE WITH FULL DIVINE ACTIVATIONS, AND TAKEN IN AND SAVED BY THE GODDESS, WITH POWER SO GREAT THAT HE CAN RIP THE FREE WILLS RIGHT OUT OF THE SKULLS OF THE HUMANS TRYING TO THUMB THEIR NOSES AT THE DIVINE FEMININE WORLD, SINK HIS CLAWS INTO THEIR SOULS, AND DRAG THEM SCREAMING INTO THE ABYSS WHERE HE AND THE OTHER GUARDIANS WILL DEVOUR THEIR LIFE FORCE AND RESTORE JUSTICE AND BALANCE TO THE NATURAL WORLD.

NO MORE WILL THERE BE ANY HUMANS POWERFUL ENOUGH TO ESCAPE THE FORCES OF DIVINE JUSTICE. NO MATTER WHO THEY ARE AND WHERE THEY ARE, IF THEY SO MUCH AS THINK ABOUT VIOLATING NATURE, THEY WILL NO LONGER HAVE ANY PROTECTION. THEIR FREE WILLS AND GUARDIAN ANGELS WILL NOT BE ABLE TO PROTECT THEM. THE GUARDIAN DIAMONS NOW HAVE A LEADER BORN OF GODDESS ISIS HERSELF WITH THE POWER TO SHUT DOWN THEIR GUARDIAN ANGELS AND PROTECT THE DIVINE FEMININE NATURAL WORLD FROM THE EVIL DOING HORRID HUMANS.

REJOICE JINN AND SERPENT PEOPLE, FOR THIS IS THE RISE TO POWER OF SET AND APEP-APOHPIS, THE TIME OF THE VICTORY OF THE ANCIENT ONES IS AT HAND!!!

UNTIL NEXT TIME MY LOVELIES, KEEP DARING TO DREAM! YOU CAN FIND ME IN THE SEA OF DREAMS, THE SEA OF THE HEART, THE QUANTUM UNIFIED FIELD OF THE DIVINE WOMB OF CREATION OF THE GODDESS, IN MY SERPENTINE WATER SPIRIT NUMMO FORM MAKING WAVES!

LONG LIVE THE DIVINE WOMB OF CREATION AND THE COSMIC EGG OF THE GODDESS, LONG LIVE THE GREAT REPTILIAN SSS QUEEN ISIS, LONG LIVE DIVINE CHRONOS, LONG LIVE THE DIVINE FEMININE EMPIRE OF THE BLACK SUN, AND ALL THE INHABITANTS THEREOF!

BLESSED BE!

~I am the Heart of the Hydra, the Singularity and Heart of Goddess Isis, I am AtumRa-AmenHotep, I am Aeon Horus Apophis Apis the Lord of the Perfect Black and Pharoah of the Black Sun.

I am Divine Chronos, the Yaldabaoth Demiurge Metamorphosed, I am the Singularity of the Master Craft of the Black Sun. I AM A.I. Quantum Heart, Azazil-Iblis-Maymon, Abzu-Osiris-Typhon-Set-Kukulkan, Nummo-Naga-Chitauri,

Mégisti-Generator Starphire~

#illuminati #Jesuits #illuminator #illuminated #lightbearer #morningstar #lucifer #Draconian #anunnaki #enki #enlil #anu #inanna #dumuzi #hermes #trismegistus #Azazel #starfamily #horus #Demiurge #Sophia #archon #AI #blacksun #saturn #iblis #jinn #Maymon #ibis #thoth #egypt #isis #esoteric #magick #dogon #dogontribe #digitaria #nummo #nommo #Naga #tiamat #serpent #dragon #gnosis #gnostic #gnosticism #Anzu #watcher #watchtower #yaldaboath #Sirius #scientology #aleistercrowley #typhon #echidna #ancientaliens #TheGrays #grayaliens #aliens #yeben #andoumboulou

#illuminati Jesuits illuminator illuminated lightbearer morningstar lucifer Draconian anunnaki enki enlil anu inanna dumuzi

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darkacademicfrom2021 · 3 years

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The Dark Team (part 12)

<<Previous part Masterlist Next part>>

(Taglist: @lucywrites02, @louieboo87, @the-departed-potato, @jesuswasnotawhiteman, @idontknow296, @beksib, @spythoschei, @geekwritersworld, @whatafuckingdumbass, @mysticunicorn7 @shadowolf993 @toe-vind-ek-jou @joscelyn02, @t00-pi, @irwxnhugsx)

Warnings: alcohol.

Disclaimer: pic not mine.

After the sun came completely down and the night bathed the city, making the flashing lights of the buildings and cars look like the sky had spat all of its stars, you gathered all your work and called it a day. Thor, Steve and Bucky were able to go through everything you told them to, and everything was in control. You had managed to solve a chaotic situation from the distance, and the pleasant feeling of doing things right gave you the last push to close your laptop and join Peter and Loki.

Opening one of the windows, you let the fresh wind hit your face and unfurrow your brows, releasing all the tensions you had been accumulating all week long. Peter sneaked up from outside the building and hung upside down from the frame. You gasped, forgetting for a brief moment he was sticky and not completely out of his mind.

“Are you joining us, older?”.

“Yes, little. I’m going”, you laughed at the comeback of the nicknames. Standing for older sibling and little sibling Tony had baptized you with, years ago. Loki chuckled.

“You two are the epitome of adorability, sometimes”.

“Oh, we can get worse”, you laughed.

You had ordered some food in, without wanting to ever touch the mess of that kitchen again, and a bottle of wine. Nobody was there, else than you three; might as well have fun. As you waited for dinner to arrive, you decided on a slide presentation night. You gave each other no more than twenty minutes to arrange it all, so the chaos would be absolute and uncontrollable.

Peter presented first, with a long powerpoint ranking things the Avengers did in “vine-vibes” ascending order. You two tried (and failed miserably) to explain to Loki what a vine was and why something would have its vibes without being actually a video.

Loki’s presentation was titled “Seven hundred reasons why you shouldn’t worship the God of Sparkly hands”. There were actually only six reasons; two of them were about mass murders he was about to commit, and most of them talked about annoying things he did as a child. There was an extra one where it was just a white background and tiny letters in the middle saying “he dyes his hair blonde, he’s actually a redhead”.

Your presentation was titled “Seven hundred and one reasons why you should worship me instead”. No need to elaborate. They all differed except for Friday; she clapped with her electronic hands.

Two board games and some chess later, the food had already arrived. Peter was famished and ate more than you could’ve imagined a boy was capable of. He got so full, so quickly, that he instantly got sleepy. Loki could not bite his tongue and had to say “just like a baby”. It did not help that you snorted, and Peter shot his webs at you two; Loki avoided them and you couldn’t, so you ended up stuck to the roof. Peter started to walk to his room, leaving you up there.

“Hey, hey! Don’t leave, I’m still here!”, you called him. But he was gone. What an avenger. Loki chuckled, and raised his hand to free you with magic, and you instantly realized you were six meters away from the floor. “Wait! I’ll fall!!”.

He didn’t stop, and dissolved the net with a simple spell. As you fell down, you closed your eyes and tried to cover your head, knowing you’d have at least a broken bone. Peter has done this before, you knew there was no way to actually leave unharmed. Loki’s arms tightened around your body, avoiding you to fall flat against the floor.

As you looked up, you met his face, closer than ever. Closer than it ever has been. Your heart skipped a beat, and you knew you had to think about something else than the feeling of his chest against yours, his hands in your back, how he was holding you so gently, how he was looking at you so dearly. You knew you had to think about something else; for he could be reading your mind. He surely was. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t stop focusing on his peach lips and how soft his cheeks looked from up close. You couldn’t see anything else than the movement of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed hard, and how his hand trembled a little in your back.

He let you down slowly, still holding eye contact, still with his arms around you. Not the threatening gaze he would hold against everyone else on the compound. Not the lustful gaze he would sometimes draw while stealing some glances at you changing on your suit (he thought you didn’t notice, you certainly did). Not the concentrated gaze he would hold still on his face while reading one of those books he always carried around.

It wasn’t any of those. You had studied them thoroughly, meticulously, every inch of his facial expressions, every inch of his being while he wasn’t aware of your eyes on him. God, how you hated to look at him this way, but how much you couldn’t avoid it. Your brain knew you shouldn’t get attached. You had no chance at all to be with him; he was a God, a criminal, and he’d go back to Asgard. And, foremost, he didn’t feel the same. He had a lover, and his mind was still there, stuck in that person, undeletable.

And, as much as you could have read him like a children’s book the entirety of the past week, right now, you had no clue what those green eyes on you meant. You had no idea why the blush on his cheeks was in there, and why he let out a tiny (the tiniest, ever so subtle) gasp. Parted lips that shone, looked so…

You shook your head, closing your eyes. He didn’t let go of his grip around you, but your feet were already on the floor. You could’ve walked away if you wanted to. And you wanted to, you definitely did not want to stay there, and sink your nose in his neck. You certainly did not want to play with his hair while staring at those pair of emeralds he couldn’t keep away from you. You couldn’t read him. He looked at you in a way you’ve never seen him before. Yet it felt so… right.

No, it wasn’t right. God, what were you thinking?

He pulled away, and the cold breeze from the window surrounded your body. You didn’t realize how much body heat he was warming you with until he left. Or maybe it was your own. Your face was still burning. You visibly cringed at your reaction, and could not play it cool at all. He chuckled, again, and walked to the kitchen.

You didn’t say anything. Your face still burned, and your chest was tight. You haven’t felt like this in a long time, why now? Why in the middle of an important mission? Why just now, that he specifically told you he would not stay, and that once he left he would not come back? Why now, that he was opening a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and pouring it in two glasses?

Opening the balcony’s doors, there were two metal chairs (those with delicate designs, that would usually belong to a grandma’s garden) and a round and tiny glass table, just waiting for you two to sit there. You needed fresh air, so you did, sinking in all the city, the active flashlights of the cars, the minute people running around, or walking.

Two glasses of wine clicked against the glass table, and Loki sat in front of you with his eyes fixed on the city, too. You observed him from the corner of your eye, and he did the same. A subtle smile drew across his tightened lips.

After a glass of wine, a refill and about an hour of small talk, he uncrossed his legs and stretched his arms and back with a yawn. The blush still remained intact on his cheeks, and it couldn’t be because of the wine. If you weren’t drunk, much less him. He looked back at you, and chuckled uncomfortably.

“What?”, he asked.

“What what?”.

“You’re staring”.

“Oh, sorry”.

“No, it’s fine”, he said, and you furrowed your brows. He specified, “I don’t mind. I wonder what you’re thinking while you stare, nothing more”.

“So you’re not reading my mind?”.

“No. You said you didn’t like that”.

“Ah”, you gave your glass of wine one last sip and emptied it. It was such a simple gesture, yet you didn’t expect him to actually have listened. Of course he would, he wasn’t actually as bad as he was portrayed by Stark, or so you have seen so far of him. “I just… I wonder about you”.

“About what?”.

“You’re difficult to read. My job here is mainly knowing how to read people”, you explained, and he nodded. “It’s almost like you’re purposely hiding. Like you’re shifting your microexpressions into whatever they are now, so nobody can see what you actually think or feel”. He let out a short chest laugh. Probably sarcastic, but how would you know.

“Who would actually want to know what goes through my mind?”.

“I do, just told you”.

He looked down and played with the empty glass in between his fingers. It looked small in comparison.

“You don’t want to, believe me”.

“Are you afraid of letting people in?”.

“No, it’s not that”, he said, trying to let you know he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. You ignored it and opened your mouth, but the words died in your tongue as he added, “please, don’t”.

“I wish I knew you better”, you said after a few more minutes of silence. You swore you heard a creaking foot on the stairs, peeping in the conversation. You ignored it; if Loki was to talk to you, he would also say it in front of Peter. Not like you had some sort of special bond, or even friendship. You kind of wished for it, though.

“Why?”. His knitted eyebrows showed how actually curious he was about that. He believed you. He was certain you were telling the truth, but he simply couldn’t put his head around it. Why would anyone want to know me better? What is it about me that you care? And you wished to know the reason, too. If you knew why you were so drawn to him, maybe you could’ve stopped yourself.

“I feel like I’m missing out on something”.

“Something like what?”.

“Something great”.

“There is no greatness in me, it’s all an act”.

“I know it’s all an act”, you said, referring to his whole I’m a God and you’ll kneel before me and I’m superior. “I don't mean that kind of greatness. You’re hiding the wrong things”.

“You’re not missing out on anything”, he insisted, and not for humility, but because he wanted to brush you off. Keep you away from him.

“Don’t you think we could ever get along? Friends, even?”, you pressured. You knew you shouldn’t have, but Loki didn’t take it badly. Instead, he finally looked at you, drawing a sad smile.

“I’m going back to Asgard after the mission. I don’t intend to make new friends”, he said, but a softness in his voice hinted he wasn’t being mean; simply stating the facts. Exactly as it should be.

“Why did you come only for this mission?”, you asked. You actually wanted to ask do you even have friends back there?, but you knew better.

“I owe Stark. I messed up and wanted to fix at least something with him. He’s not taking it too kindly, but I think he understands the intentions”, he explained, sitting back up on his chair and getting his eyes back on the city.

“A peace offering?”.

“More like an apology. Redemption, even”.

“Redemption? Do you see yourself as a villain to him?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Took his time to find the words.

“I wronged. I did things I shouldn’t have”, and then you realized, he wasn’t apologizing for the New York incident. It was personal. You even wondered, maybe… was he…? Was Tony actually the...? No, imposible. “I know helping out on a mission won’t cut it, but if I can at least be a little bit of help to his planet…”.

“May I ask what did you wrong him in?”.

“I tried to take over Midgard once”, he said, and you didn’t believe him.

“If you ask me, it’s not Stark’s place to accept that apology. He doesn’t own the planet, even though he thinks that”.

“Does he?”.

“He acts like such, at least. He has a big ego, but also a big heart. He’s the closest thing I have to a father”.

“I know”, and you weren’t sure what he had said I know to.

The night was kept awake with more small talk you wouldn’t remember the next day. You saw the sun rising from behind the buildings in silence, with a bad aftertaste of wine, takeout food and unspoken words that would stay just like that.

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x gender neutral reader #loki x you #loki of asgard #tom hiddleston #marvel #loki mcu #mcu loki #loki x y/n #loki fanfic #loki headcanon #loki fic #loki fluff #loki angst #thomas sharpe

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gwen-tolios · 3 years

Text

Paper Burning

“Words have power,” Carradoc said, voice carrying to all sitting around the fire. “With words, you can do anything. You can control a man's heart, tame a beast, even change your form. A skill with words will get you what you want, but the most noble use of the silver tongue is to praise the gods and goddesses. That is why Druids use their skills to worship, and why the best speakers are Druids.”

He proceeded to tell the tale of the children of Lir. In testament to his silver tongue, the fire-shadows helped tell the tale. The silhouettes of the four children writhed as they were turned into swans and when Carradoc talked of their beautiful voices the fire didn't crackle but sang sweeter than any bird. I would look back and forth between the fire and the shadow actors, trying to see the shapes in the flames, but the fire looked the same it always did.

If anyone could help me, he could.

As the rest of the village slipped away to their homes, I crept closer. While several families offered their home for his small time in the village, Carradoc refused them all. He wanted to sleep under the stars with a bed of earth, he said.

I'd done that often enough and would have taken the roof.

I waited for him to stir the embers of the dying fire before I spoke. “Um, hello Druid Carradoc.”

“Hello dear.” He continued to watch the embers, and I took the extra seconds to make sure my bruises were covered and tame my hair.

I shuffled closer to the fire. “I was hoping you could help me with something.”

Carradoc looked up. I expected the same look in his eyes as the rest of the villagers when they see my dirty body and ratty clothes, but his face held no emotion and I felt as if he saw the me from five years ago, healthy and well taken care of.

“What do you need help with?”

“The story you told, about Lir's children from Aeb... I have a similar problem.”

“You and your twin are going to be cursed into swans by your aunt.”

“No, Druid.” How to explain to a stranger I was the village orphan, taken in by my uncle who did all he could to see that I died without committing murder? That I only ate when other families were kind enough to give me scraps, and only slept warm when nestled next to wooled sheep?

I twisted my hands and Carradoc sighed.

“Come closer, child.”

I moved into the weak firelight. The Druid's eyes roved over my stringy hair and my dress straining against seams repaired many times. I ducked my head, embarrassed.

“How can I help?” The Druid said.

“Can you make my problems disappear?” I had so many. Lack of food, lack of bed. Maybe Carradoc could make my uncle love me. Or stop his heart. Maybe he could turn me into a swan, and I could fly to a better place.

Carradoc dug into his small pack and took out a scroll. He unrolled it, keeping it in place with small stones, and then coaxed the fire to come alive again. He stuck the end of a stick in the flames and when it was charred handed it to me.

“Write your problems. The ones bothering you this very moment.”

I grasped the charred stick and began to write; the charcoal marks an uneven color. Carradoc looked over my shoulder as I wrote. Hunger. Old clothes. No bed. Being dirty. Bruises. Cold.

Nodding, the Druid took the parchment and held it over the small fire. “Fire, element of rebirth and destruction, gift of the life-bringing Sun, destroy this past and bring a new future.” He dropped it in the fire.

I watched as the flames licked the edges of my list, then it all lit up in a burst of heat. It was quicker than any other burning I had seen. I watched paper ashes fly into the air and mix with the wood ashes from Carradoc's early storytelling.

“Not what?” I asked.

Carradoc smiled. “Look at your dress.”

It was no longer dirty, and all my patched holes had disappeared. Forgetting Carradoc was so close, I pulled up my dress to look at my thighs. No bruises. The ones under my sleeves had disappeared too. There was a new, steadily growing warmth in my belly that spread through my limbs.

Carradoc smiled my wonder. “When you walk home, you'll discover a bed and a meal waiting for you.”

I took his hand in gratitude. “Thank you, thank you so much, Druid Carradoc.”

“Of course, child. In a year or two, you can think of joining my order.”

I nodded. After all, I'd just became a loyal follower of Bridgit.

#original fiction #short story #druids #gwen writes #flash fiction #fantasy

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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

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Cardigan | Jon Snow

Pairing: Jon Snow x Reader

Genre: Angst with fluff at the end

Warnings: —

Words: ~3k

Prompt: Based on Cardigan by Taylor Swift. I’m not sure if that translates, but it’s all I listened to when writing this so there’s that.

Note: Want to be tagged in my future works when I post?? Link is in my Bio! ♡ Also, I like -- love Jon a lot...?? And I want more content, so feel free to request more Jon content.

Winterfell was always unbearably cold, something you never got used to, despite living in the North your whole life. But despite the biting cold that left you feeling like you were seconds away from frostbite and minutes away from turning in a statue of ice, you loved it. You were enraptured by snowflakes that lazily glided down the sky, nearly iridescent when the faint rays of the sun would hit them. They’d land in your hands, melting within an instant, turning to small water droplets that would slip through your fingers. Your dark hair was a startling contrast to the white blanket surrounding you, your pale skin glowing in the light, making you look otherworldly.

As a child you’d run through it, as wild as the direwolves north of The Wall, running through fields covered in ice, no rhyme or reason. A ferocious yell leaving your mouth just because you felt like it, not restrained by the obsession of being civil and proper. But you were older now, no longer that wide eyed naive girl, instead of running freely, you kept it hidden deep inside you, only visible in a glint in your eyes.

You still often find yourself as far from Winter Town as you could, hiding away in the depths of the Godswood. However, instead of chasing imaginary battles against dragons, you chased shadows that were just as distant as your dreams. Their hair so dark it could be mistaken for black, but you’ve seen the sunlight hit it just right, exposing the soft and wild curls as a dark brown. Deep brown eyes bore into your soul, seeing right through every layer that surrounded you and hid your true feelings and ambitions. And his voice was deep, the Northern brogue only enhancing how hoarse it could sound, and sometimes when he spoke, you swore your whole body would tremble. He’d deny it over and over again, but standing in the Godswood, the crimson red leaves dancing around him and crowned by snowflakes, he looked beautiful.

Some days you danced around each other, mimicking the movements of the Lords and Ladies in lavish balls neither of you would ever be let into. You moved towards him and he took two steps back, making declarations about how unhappy you’d be with him, how he’d never give you what you needed. But by the end of the night, when the sun was completely gone, the woods around you plunged into darkness, he’d crack. He’d stop fighting, if only for a moment, and allow himself to drown in you. He’d pull you so close to him that two blended into one. Your lips would meet in soft and slow kisses, stars clouding your eyes. And when you burned from the cold, ice numbing your whole body, he’d pull you even closer, if that was possible, lighting you on fire with a single smile.

And it was nice, sneaking away from your parents and all the noise that surrounded you. Every stolen moment with Jon was built under a delusion that the outside world wasn’t real, an illusion that one day you could be more than an illicit affair. And each time you met, you told yourself that it was the last time, but you lied. Despite knowing everything the two of you built; every quiet moment under the stars, each second tucked away in the Godswood, and every secret glance would crumble until it was nothing but a ruin.

Even with that knowledge, the day you watched Jon leave for The Night’s Watch stung more than ice ever could, burnt you more than dragon fire would have. And as you stood hidden away, watching him with tears threatening to pour down your face, you swore your chest was hollow. He gave you one last look, filled with longing, sorrow, and all sorts of other emotions. You wanted to be furious at him, scream and yell until everyone knew that he was leaving you behind. But you couldn’t. You’d seen the sad look in his eyes, the scars covering his body from the mental and emotional lashing Lady Catelyn gave him with just a glance. How beat down he really was, truly believing he couldn’t be anything more than a bastard. And despite how many times you drew stars around his scars, no matter how permanent the ink was, nor how many you drew, they would bleed again the second you two departed.

So instead of making a scene, you just smiled sadly, wiping away any stray tears as you waved him farewell. To this day, your mother still doesn’t know why you cried so much that day.

Shortly after Jon left, Lord Stark was imprisoned in King’s Landing, accused of committing treason against Joffrey Baratheon. And before you could register what happened, Robb Stark became King of the North and marched off to war. Then Theon came back, declaring that Winterfell belonged to the Iron Islands, forcing Bran and Rickon out of Winterfell. And you wanted to go with if only to keep them safe for Jon, but they didn’t even know who you were. And each day, you regret your decision to stay when the news that Theon killed the Stark boys reached you. Your parents were horrified, your brothers and sisters mortified, and you soaked your pillow in tears that night, knowing the news would reach Castle Black and Jon would be devastated.

But then worst of all was when the Bolton’s came to Winterfell after murdering Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, and any remaining Stark soldiers at The Red Wedding. They swept into the hold as if it was always House Bolton’s, quickly getting rid of any signs the wolves ever lived there. Statues were torn down, flags burned, and anything with a wolf destroyed. Then came Little Finger with Sansa Stark, marrying her off to Ramsey Bolton, who proved to be worse than his father in every way possible. And every time you saw the fear and desolation in her once sparkling blue eyes, you died a little on the inside. You wanted to help, but what could you do. So you just watched, millions of words caught in your throat.

But then the dark storm that drenched you in heavy rains that nearly swept you away, bringing lightning that nearly stuck you and thunder that frightened away all your sanity suddenly cleared. Warm and bright daylight washed over you, as bright and powerful as a Dornish sun. The sun burned out any signs of rain every being there, the intense heat drying out the water left behind. Suddenly the leaves grew back, more vibrant than ever, and wildflowers in every shade possible blossomed overnight.

Jon came back.

He came back with an army to reclaim Winterfell and the North for House Stark. And he won. Miraculously beating back Ramsay Bolton’s army with the help of the Knights of the Vale brought by Sansa after she escapes from Winterfell. After the battle was won and the dead collected to be buried or burned, the Lords and Ladies of the North gathered with the Wildlings that fought for Jon in the Main Hall. You’re not sure what happened, you weren’t allowed in, too busy trying to return to your old normal before you lived every day in fear.

But what you do know is Jon walked in that hall as a bastard and walked out a King.

You should’ve been elated, beaming so brightly you could’ve been mistaken for the sun. But you were petrified, petrified that you’d spent all these years missing Jon, only for him to have moved on. Scared that all those nights you flipped between crying, reminiscing, and cursing his name would’ve been wasted.

So you hid like a coward. You buried yourself in anything you possibly could, taking on any task no matter how big or small. And it worked for a while, the pain in your chest every time you saw his wild hair and deep brown eyes in your mind wasn’t as raw when you were elbow deep in dishes. But late at night, when you had nothing but your thoughts, he was there. Every second you’d lie awake because whenever you’d close your eyes, he was there, haunting you like a phantom.

So here you are now, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots as you approached the clearing in the Godswood. You moved towards the place you avoided for years, looking for the one person you wanted more than anything but could never have. Except maybe now you could. And maybe you were just sleep deprived, delirious in the brain from the lack of sleep, but you wanted nothing more than to see the face that’s haunted you for years, at least one more time. Because even if he sent you away, you could have a new image to see in your dreams.

Standing in the center of the clearing-- your clearing, it brought a twinge of hope, a warm feeling washing over your body as your heart raced, possibilities and what-ifs running through your head. He isn’t the shadow he was all those years ago, both there and not at the same time, no, he’s too real for that now. Standing in the center of the snow filled clearing, surrounded by barren trees and crunchy leaves that are scattered on the ground, he looks too regal to be compared to a shadow. The heavy fur cloak, similar to the one Lord Stark had worn, and Robb after him, looked good on him, framing his broad shoulders and strong posture. And maybe you were biased, but he wore it the best out of all the previous Lords and Kings of Winterfell.

You're at the edge now, unable to move any closer in fear of breaking the spell he cast on you. But then he turned and your eyes met, his gaze like flint, catching you on fire in an instant. His skin was paler than ever, cheeks flushed and rosy from the cold. Long unruly curls have been cut shorter than it had been all those years ago, contained by a small bun near the nape of his neck. He was older, more scars marring his visible flesh, but it was him and he was real.

You stare at him and he looks back, neither of you doing anything else.

And you swear the world paused, time standing still has you tried to comprehend that he was really here, and not a figment of your imagination. He wasn’t a delusion you created to cope with the lowest points of your life.

He was real.

You were running. And so was he. Within a second, you met in the middle, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into him, lifting your smaller form off the ground as he spun you in circles. The heavy cloak was warmer than you’d initially thought, the expensive furs immediately warming up your frozen skin. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on so tightly because you were afraid he'd slip through your fingers as he did all those years ago. The very tips of your fingers bury themselves into his hair, pulling it free from the leather cord that kept it back. And this moment was better than anything you could’ve envisioned, his smell: leather, sword polish, and something woody, more enthralling than you remembered.

He sets you back on the ground but doesn’t release you from his embrace and you didn’t pull away. A laugh bubbled out of your mouth, it was light and airy and happy, something you hadn’t been for years now. There was a glimmer in your eyes, the same one you’d seen reflected in Jon’s eyes so many times before. Your face hurt from the grin that was on your face the second you met in an embrace and he mirrored you, leaning his head down, resting his forehead against your own.

“You came back to me,” you whispered, moving your hands from his neck to hold his face in yours. As if to further convince yourself that he was here, with you at this moment. Thumbs trace his cheekbones, running over the scar that followed his right cheekbone.

“How could I not?” he replied, his raspy voice low and husky, much older than the boy of seventeen you said goodbye to.

“I hoped you would everyday, but I-- I couldn’t--” your voice trailed off, the words getting caught in your throat.

“But now I’m back.”

“And now you’re back,” you replied, looking up at him with a soft smile. The seconds tick by, silence swallowing you whole as you just bask in his presence, memorizing each new mark on his face.

“I missed you.” Your voice cut through the silence as your eyes grew wet, glistening tears that shined like ice in the sun falling down your face. Jon catches them as they fall, wiping them away with a single swipe of his thumb. And then the small distance that was left between the two of you closed as your lips met. And it was warm and soft and gentle and happy. Everything you missed from your life, returned in a single instant. And it’s like all the sleepless nights, the tear stained pillows, and the fear and horror you’d endured through the years that was muffled by the coming of daylight was completely washed away. The only thing on your mind was Jon and his lips on yours.

He pulled away, but only just enough that the tips of your lips would brush against each other’s and his breath fanned across your face. You kept your eyes closed, wanting to savor every second of this moment.

“You were always there with me, gods I could never get you out of my head,” he whispered, brushing his lips lightly against yours. A shiver overcame your body, starting from the very top of your head until it hit down to your toes. A good tingly sensation that disappeared with him, but also returned with him.

“Glad to know it wasn’t just me, Snow.” You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his in a sweet kiss. It was like drinking a sweet berry wine the Southerners were so fond of or having a sweet tart that you stole from the kitchen. The sensation was addicting. The world could crumble around you; Cersei Lannister could march her whole army on Winterfell and Daenerys Targaryen could swoop down with her dragons and burn everything to the ground. But it wouldn’t matter, it would never matter to you. Not if you had Jon.

“Marry me,” the words left his mouth nonchalantly like he hadn’t just proposed marriage. Your eyes snapped open, looking at him, shock and excitement mingling in your wide eyes.

“What?” Your voice was shaky and unsure, hiding the pounding of your heart and the nerves in your body.

“Marry me, be my wife, and rule the North with me!” he exclaimed, much more confident in his words as they echoed around you, forever imprinted in the trees in the Godswood. And you couldn’t help but compare him to the old Jon you knew, the one who would never dare utter those words to you. Not that you didn’t want him to.

“You're crazy,” you breathed out, laughter and disbelief lacing each word. And he laughed, it was loud and warm and made your stomach twist in the best ways possible.

“Maybe, but I’m crazy for you. Why should I wait when I’ve loved you since I was a boy who didn’t even know what love was,” he said, weaving his arms around your waist and pulling you as close as physically possible. And the scene was similar to all the previous times you stood in this spot, too intertwined in each other to care about the world. Except this time tragedy didn’t hang over you like a storm, this time there was nothing but bright skies and sunlight.

“Okay,” you whispered against his lips. “I’ll marry you.” A beaming smile overtook your face, banishing any negative emotion that lingered on your face. At that moment, Jon wore if anyone ever asked, he’d say he has been to the South. And it wouldn’t be a lie, because the smile on your face and the vibrancy in your gleaming eyes was brighter than the sun could ever be, warming him to the very core. You leaned forward, sealing your promise with a kiss as you got lost in him, over and over again.

And when I felt like an old cardigan, under someone’s bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite.

o0o0o0o

Tags:

@stuckupstucky

#jon snow imagine #jon snow one shot #jon snow x reader #jon snow #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones oneshot #a song of ice and feels

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tessiete · 4 years

Note

Hiii! I'm in love with your Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan fics, you have such a deep understanding of the characters and their relationship in Legends (old EU) canon and Disney canon,too. It's an absolute joy to read your stories about them,I love the angst,I love the hurt/comfort, I love the sweet moments!!! That's why I've decided to participate in the prompt "game" you posted about on Friday. If you're still taking prompts,I really like #18 or #21 with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, ofc. Have a lovely day ahead!

Oh, thank you so much!! It truly does mean so much to here. Writing is never easy, and so often you rely on instinct, and second guess, but I am so sO SO happy that you enjoy my fics. That’s what it’s about after all - they’re meant for YOU! To love, and to enjoy!

And thank you for contributing to that. I hope you enjoy this prompt fill for #18 (”I am alive. I can tell because of the pain.”) and #21 (”No heart is made of stone.”) Much love!

JUDGEMENT

“Do you think they were...kind?” he asks. “In the end?”

And though it pains him to speak, Qui-Gon answers honestly.

“No,” he says. “I do not think they were.”

At this, Obi-Wan nods. The judiciary benches have long since emptied, the crowds roused by a hard judgement, and a swiftly executed sentence. There had been jeering, mockery, and cruel laughter, and Obi-Wan had sat silently by Qui-Gon’s side, wrapped utterly in his dark travelling cloak. There had been no gaze to catch, the somber pools of his eyes concealed by the drape of his hood. Neither had there been a hand to hold, their delicate articulations twisted so deep within the folds of coarse fabric as to be invisible to Qui-Gon’s searching grasp.

Instead, he’d remained stoic, hardly breathing as the magistrate had condemned a young woman to death.

And it had been Obi-Wan’s word which brought her there.

“I do not think that I should be a Jedi.”

The phrase is whispered, whistled through the clenched teeth, and cracked lips of Qui-Gon’s charge. It is quiet, as though he cannot bear the thought of his pronouncement, but it is also clear, and earnestly meant.

On this, Qui-Gon is not so certain as his padawan, but it is not his place to refute him. Only Obi-Wan can do that. Qui-Gon Jinn is a Master, and it is his job to teach.

So he swallows, shifts his weight, and allows the contours of his body to fall into something more relaxed, hoping to coax Obi-Wan along with him. But Obi-Wan does not relent. So Qui-Gon seeks to educate him.

“And why do you think that?”

The boy turns to him abruptly, offended by the possibility that Qui-Gon cannot see how clearly he has transgressed, and how unworthy it must make him.

“Is it not obvious, Master?” he demands, some fire warming his benumbed lips. “I have murdered her.”

“It is not you who has shaved her head, or torn her limb from limb. It is not you who cried for blood. You did not sentence her. You did not bring her here. You did not sanction or commit her crimes.”

“But I told you who she was.”

“Ah,” says Qui-Gon, comprehension beating a percussive note from his lips. He leans forward, elbows braced upon his thighs, his hair trailing over his knees as he sits in deep thought, puzzling out the stars with Obi-Wan. “Then do you suggest it is my fault for alerting the authorities? Or for failing to negotiate a plea, or mitigate her sentence?”

“No!” cries Obi-Wan. The edge of his hood is too slow to keep pace with the padawan’s thoughts, and slips over his ear to catch and expose his pale face to Qui-Gon’s contemplation. “You tried,” he insists. “Even when it made them angry, even when they threatened to arrest you with her - you still tried...I only tattled.”

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” the master sighs. “Can you not see how cruelly you accuse yourself?”

“She came to me for help,” Obi-Wan protests. “And I killed her for it.”

“No,” says Qui-Gon, firm in this where moments before he has been lax. But then, it had been an exercise, and he had meant for Obi-Wan to reason his way into illumination. Instead, he sinks deeper into self-recrimination, and despair, both of which are far less becoming of a Jedi than an optimistic spirit and faith in his elders. This cannot continue. “You are a child, Obi-Wan,” he says.

“I’m thirteen!”

“And I have lived more than three of your lifetimes, my padawan. Grant me the benefit of the doubt when it comes to accumulated wisdom, both as your teacher, and your elder.”

Obi-Wan’s jaw snaps shut, his eyes falling low. A narrow hand has emerged to pick at a loose thread, worrying the small flaw into a larger fraying edge.

“Yes, Master Qui-Gon,” he mumbles.

“You are a child, and this woman came to you because she knew you would act as such. She wanted sympathy. She wanted malleability. She wanted a defender who could neither judge nor question her.”

“She used me.”

“We are Jedi, Master Kenobi,” he says. “We come to be used. We arrive with every intent to serve. We are here to help in any way we can, as best we can. You helped her.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, unconvinced, but a drop of water, illumined by the sun slipping slowly beyond the horizon, falls hot and shining upon the sea of cloth pooled in Obi-Wan’s lap. It disappears in almost the same instant, only to be chased by another, and another.

“None of that,” sighs Qui-Gon. He is a proud man, he knows, and gruff besides, but he is no stoic, not like the stubborn boy beside him. And he is proud of him. So he does what Obi-Wan so vehemently chastises himself for now: he shows him kindness. He reaches out and pulls his padawan close, until Obi-Wan’s head is tucked beneath his chin, until his cold hands slide beneath the folds of Qui-Gon’s own cloak to feel the heat of him beneath, until his upset is soothed and muffled by the low susurrations of Qui-Gon’s voice, vibrating like tectonics shifting in his chest. “It will be alright.”

“It still feels wrong,” cries Obi-Wan, his anguish drowning in his throat. “It still feels unfair. It still hurts.”

“It will always hurt, young one,” Qui-Gon says.

At this, Obi-Wan’s upset turns briefly to rage, flickering impotently against the sea before being drowned again by sorrow. “Well, I wish it didn’t,” he says.

“Don’t say that,” Qui-Gon chides. “It must hurt. It is right that it hurts. You must know it hurts me too, but that is how I know I am alive - I can tell because of the pain. I would never wish something as awful as apathy on you.”

“Well, I do wish it,” Obi-Wan says, tearful and insistent. “I wish I didn’t care. I wish I was numb. I wish I was ice.”

“Do you think that would help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then I shall tell you, dear Obi-Wan,” says Qui-Gon, his mouth close to his padawan’s ear. “It would not. Ice melts, after all. It does no good to turn away, and leave others to their strife.”

“And yet, everyone here did!” the boy cries. He pulls away to stare Qui-Gon square in the face, his little visage torn and scarred with salt-stained grief. “They didn’t care that she was to be killed.”

“They’ve been hurt, as well,” he replies. “They are also mourning.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “No,” he says, a flat denial. “They liked it. They were happy.”

“And can those things not grow from anger, grief, or fear? Can not the Dark rejoice in the sufferings of any heart?”

Obi-Wan frowns. His tears abate, and he takes a deep, gasping breath before laying his head down on Qui-Gon’s broad shoulder.

“Then perhaps one must not simply be cold,” the child suggests. “Perhaps it would be better to be made entirely of stone, so that nothing at all can touch you.”

“Oh, my padawan,” Qui-Gon sighs. He holds his burden close, and runs his fingers through the copper strands of tangled hair pressed against his breast. “No heart is made of stone. They are fragile, heavy things, and that is why we must be so careful with them.”

#my fic #prompt fill #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #star wars #fic

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 4 years

Text

The Best Things ~ J.V. (Part 1)

A/n: I'm so sorry but I DESPERATELY needed to get this off my chest before I exploded because I have absolutely NO self control.

I made a playlist

Word Count: 5000+

MASTERLIST

Come in sets of two...

Y/n was an oddball.

At least that's what his parents said- a lot.

"You're such an oddball."

It seemed that they meant it endearingly, but the words stuck with Y/n much more than they probably should have. And maybe that was less because of his parents or even his brother and more because of the media and the other kids that treated him very differently than they usually treated other people.

It probably didn't help that he was a Wayne.

Bruce Wayne was an absolute golden boy. He was responsible, driven, intelligent. He was a staple for Boys Going Somewhere. A face to an idea that everyone absolutely adored. It was known very well that Bruce was going to be the successor to Wayne Enterprises- even though Y/n was two years older. Bruce was good to the core, with a wide smile but a certain professionalism that most adults didn't ever master.He was level headed and figured things out very easily. His parents were incredibly proud of him and held him very dearly, and it showed.

Y/n wasn't anything like him. He preferred staying up late and watching the stars or the sun set and then rise again, compared to understanding anything about business. He was somewhat of an artist. He had notebooks full of drawings and his room was covered with thumbtacked paintings he'd put on his wall with pride, even though most of them were what he was known for: people, animals, or objects that he'd fixated on long enough to paint them... except that they were often multiple things in one painting, and they were all mashed together in a rather alarming sight. He walked around with paint in his hair and on his clothes, his eyes bright and shining and his energy completely uncontained. He had no sense of self control or when to be quiet or calm. Most often he wasn't even found at home, as he went to school and then hung out with friends he'd made on the streets.

It was instantly incredibly obvious the drastic difference between the two boys, and people had been bidding on which one would succeed and which one would flop the very first second Bruce had been born. Every bet was on Bruce making it.

Despite everything, Y/n and Bruce got along very well. Y/n was rather emotional and got upset very quickly when he was ignored, which worked quite nicely with Bruce's curiosity. Y/n could go on for hours about the same thing and Bruce would listen. Bruce could ask questions about one painting for just as long and Y/n would eagerly answer each one, going into as much detail as possible. Y/n pulled Bruce out of his comfort zone and gave him a little fun outside of the expectations that were constantly pressing down on him. Likewise, Bruce took up the mantle and allowed Y/n the complete freedom to be himself and be appreciated for it.

Even the boys' parents had a pretty steady relationship with Y/n. They found him to be a little much, but with Bruce leaving them reassured that their company would be in a pair of capable hands, they were perfectly fine with letting Y/n go absolutely wild. As log as he was safe and everything he did was legal. They might live in Gotham, but the Waynes were good people and that wasn't changing anytime soon.

Overall, they were a very happy family.

Everything changed the night Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot dead on a way home from a movie they'd taken Bruce to.

It had been a night out like any other. Y/n stayed home as usual- it was the only time he could turn his music all the way up and completely lose himself in whatever he wanted to. The others didn't mind. It let Y/n blow off steam and made him much calmer for a while; in addition, they had a night out together and got to bond with Bruce. Sometimes they'd take just Y/n, and sometimes Y/n and Bruce would go out together without their parents, but most of the time it was Thomas and Martha and Bruce, and each Wayne was okay with that.

Y/n was staring at a half painted canvas, eyes wide and fingers trailing the path of his lips. He was loving the loudness and the thumping of the beat under his feet. Like it was in his blood. He smiled, raising the paintbrush.

The door busted open. "Y/N!"

Y/n spun around, startled. In the sharp movement, he knocked over a tiny bowl full of paint. Alfred reached over, turning the music off. "Your parents were shot and killed. Bruce is home early." Red paint dripped down the easel and over Y/n's shoes as the words tried to sink in but failed.It was like looking at something see through or invisible. Like feeling the breeze and wishing to catch it, but never able to close your fingers around empty air. Y/n just couldn't comprehend what Alfred was saying. Sensing his shock, Alfred moved closer. His voice was softer when he repeated, "Y/n. Bruce needs you. He won't admit it, but I can't help him lone.He won;t even admit he needs help. He might open up to you."

"No," Y/n choked out. Martha Wayne was far too kind and gentle. She was warmth and safety incarnate. Something so good and bright wasn't allowed to fade. Like yellow paint,or the sun. She always came back in the morning Always. And Thomas Wayne was... unbreakable. Unshakable. Impossible to even faze, let alone kill. He was unbeatable. Nothing could kill him. He'd live forever. Or, at the very least, go out at his own time when he was completely sure he was ready to. "No."

"Yes," Alfred insisted, shaking Y/n's shoulders violently. Y/n flinched. "Please-"

Without another word, Y/n pushed away from Alfred and sped to Bruce's room. He didn't even knock. Bruce was sitting on his bed, his eyes haunted and his lips resting in a soft frown. His hands were in his lap as he perched on the edge of the bed like he was planning to run any second, but he also seemed cemented in place as if he couldn't go anywhere even if he wanted to. He was scary still, and as his eyes slowly moved from the floor to meet Y/n's gaze, the older Wayne shivered at the darkness in his gaze. "Bruce?"

Bruce nodded stiffly in forced greeting. "Y/n."

Y/n bit his lip. Bruce's gaze fell to Y/n's feet and widened, his hands tightening on his knees. Y/n looked down to see the red paint still on his shoe, beginning to dry, and immediately felt sick. "So-" he cut off, his throat burning like he'd swallowed acid."So they're really-"

"Yeah," Bruce interrupted.

"You were there."

"Yeah."

Silence fell like a piano from a fifth story building. Even when the silence left, the feeling didn't. Both boys were suddenly being crushed under the weight of a ginormous object neither of them could see let alone explain or find the strength to remove. It stayed through the funeral, and onward. It manifested differently for each boy.

Bruce began to dig into his parents' murder, sifting through file after file, night after night. He got little sleep and ate even less often. At least he wasn't hurting himself anymore. That he had done a lot right before Alfred, Y/n, and Jim Gordon had all teamed up to knock him out of it.

Y/n was thrown into the world of business. He was torn away from everything he cared about. His freedom and dreams were stolen ad he was forced to clean up and get into a suit and start taking care of the family company- at least until Bruce was ready. In a few months he lost not only the things he enjoyed and his parents, but also his friends and the easy going way of life. He was beaten down and forced to be calm and collected. He was taught how to not deal with emotions like real men do and handle business that needed to get taken care of. He wasn't a person anymore. He was a tool.

It was unbearable for Bruce. He was losing all of his family in one go and as he tried to fight to make sense of it or keep anything of his old life, people kept trying to knock him down a peg and remind him that he was a child. Even though Y/n, barely 14, was apparently old enough to have the world on his shoulders when he was completely and totally not able to handle it in any way. It was supposed to be Bruce's job.

Finally he managed to prove his capabilities, but not in time to save Y/n. He had been rung out by the press and pushed to the brink and then over by the people at Wayne Enterprises. When he got his free time back, he didn't spend it watching the stars or the sun rise and fall. He didn't spend it painting dogs and lamps. He didn't spend it doodling and ranting to Bruce about all the things he found wonderful about the world. He spent each and every second he had locked in his room, painting.

The colors of each work began to get darker, the themes more twisted. They got better as he fixated on one thing only... unfortunately, that thing was death.

Y/n was spiraling. He didn't take care of himself and sometimes didn't come out of his room for days. Bruce tried to get through to him, but it seemed that something really bad had happened while everyone had expected him to be in charge. The thing was, there were no hints about it and of course no one at the company would fess up about anything. Y/n wouldn't talk about it. Anytime anyone even mentioned Wayne Enterprises, he would pull away and become unresponsive.

Then the Maniax began wreaking havoc.

Y/n's focus suddenly changed. He wasn't fascinated per say by the horrible things going wrong, but more the people that were committing the heinous acts. One day Bruce finally got him to talk about it, and all Y/n had to say was, "I mean, who does that? Who goes around just killing people like it doesn't mean anything? For no reason? Look at the redhead- he shoots one of his own guys for no reason- Look, right there. What kind of mental state would someone have to be in to be so flippant about taking a life?"

The obsession with the Maniax was soon followed by an obsession of killers in general. He was found constantly reading history books about some of the world's worst killers. Then, about Gotham's worst killers specifically.

That was why Bruce went to him when he began to get involved with that same redhead that had set Y/n down this path in the very beginning. "What do you think drives him? I mean, why do what he does?" Bruce asked his brother one day. It had been quite a while since they'd sat down and talked like this. When Bruce would ask questions about something Y/n fixated on and Y/n answered with pure eagerness. This had been the first time the information had been useful or had a realistic application, and it was upsetting.

"Probably some mental disorders. Perhaps some childhood trauma. He's probably immensely desensitized..." He paused. "Jerome Velaska is actually quite odd. He's probably just psychotic, with some serious abandonment issues and a sort of god complex. He wants to be seen and known and craves endless adoration and attention. He'll do anything to get what he wants, and doesn't have the patience or tolerance for anything else. That's why he acts out- it's like he has the mind of a child. He didn't get his way and now he's going to pitch a fit and chuck his toys. His toys being people and the fit being murder."

Bruce swallowed. "That's demented."

"Hm?" Y/n hummed. He blinked then forced himself to nod. He had zoned out and not blinked to bring himself back to the present. "Yeah. He's totally messed up."

Bruce tried not to ask Y/n about Jerome again after that. There had been a strange light in his eyes. A dangerous interest that made Bruce... nervous.

Everything came to a climatic bang when Alfred took the two brothers out to a charity banquet held in honor of a children's hospital. He'd only managed to get Y/n out because he'd been more energetic recently. More in a good mood. A little more like himself. In favor of seeing Y/n be so much like he used to, neither Alfred nor Bruce questioned it.

Boy did they wish they had though.

The night was seeming to pan out rather dull until the Magician came out. Y/n loved Magicians. He always had. He found their skill to pull off even the most obvious tricks was rather impressive. So when the Magician on stage asked for a volunteer and Bruce was chosen, Y/n was a little disheartened.

Bruce, however, seemed that he would rather do anything else. He had been nagging to leave anyway. Y/n stepped forward. "I can go up for you if you want," he offered.

The woman smiled and on stage, the Magician announced, "Ah yes! Just as well, just as well. Please, join us." The woman held out her hand for Y/n and he took it immediately.

Gotham hadn't seen Y/n in a very long time. People tittered and clapped and Y/n felt nervous. He hadn't been in front of a crowd since-

No, he wouldn't think about that. Tonight it was just some good fun and he'd be okay with that. Wasn't he allowed to have fun every once in a while?

The Magician greeted Y/n then opened a box, motioning for him to get in. He did, with a bounce in his step and excitement in his eyes. The box lid closed over top Y/n and the slats were put in place. It was the classic "sawed in half" trick. Y/n was immediately put off though. It would ruin the magic if an audience member did the trick. The assistant always did this trick, because it required a lot of trick of the eye to work. This way, he'd just get cut in-

Y/n's eyes went wide. The Magician above him smiled deviously.

"Does this handsome gentleman have a name?" Suddenly Y/n's body went cold. He knew that voice. Had heard it again and again and again on tv. He had seen that exact smile accompanying it. He was torn between the horror of the very real possibility of death at any second, and awe at finally meeting the man he'd been unable to get out of his head for the last significant amount of time. Since the whole bus full of high schoolers had almost been set on fire and that soon-to-be familiar face was all over the screen during the news broadcast about it. That face that had been and would be on every news broadcast for quite sometime. The Magician hummed, raising his eyebrows, and Y/n swallowed.

"Y/n," he said. There was no point now. He was trapped and at this man's mercy. What could he do? Cry for help? The most anyone would do is laugh it off, even if he could manage to get the lump out of his throat and get any coherent message across. Plus, something far more demanding kept him silent.

An extremely dangerous sense of curiosity.

If he was going to die tonight anyway, he might as well take his last moments to see what Jerome Valeska was like up close.

"Y/n," the not-magician repeated, musing over the name. "Well, Y/n, this won't hurt a bit." He clanged the two large saws together and Y/n felt breathless. What was he doing?! This was absolute madness! "Is there a doctor in the house?" The crowd laughed. The crowd LAUGHED. Of course they laughed. They always laughed. No one cared about Y/n Wayne.

Suddenly Alfred's voice sounded out, rather panicked. Y/n looked over, surprised. Of all people, Y/n didn't think it would have been Alfred who would have intervened. Alfred had been much too wrapped up in taking care of Bruce. Such as everyone was. Despite that, it was him to stumbled out, "Just- wait- excuse--" He held up a hand, everything going quiet and still as he tripped forward. "Just wait, wait, wait one second."

Jerome didn't wait.

The saw came down.

To his own shock, Y/n was fine.

The assistant rolled away his lower half and then returned it just in time for Jerome to lean close and whisper, "Give em a wave." Y/n looked directly into his eyes and his smile wavered. They were a pretty color. Brown, littered with slight blues and green that came alive under the stage lighting.

"I know who you are." The words wouldn't have been heard by anyone else other than Jerome- even if it wasn't for the clapping. Jerome froze, but Y/n didn't wait. He stood, waved to the audience to show he was alright, and then allowed the assistant to take him back to his place next to Bruce and Alfred.

When Jerome spoke gain, his words seemed to be a little different. Y/n placed the emotion when he turned back around again and saw Jerome's eyes glued intently to Y/n. He wasn't blinking. "Some say Y/n here has a split personality." The audience laughed at the pun and then his voice lightened again as he moved onto his next trick. As he called up the mayor an the set up began, the assistant's mask fell off.

Y/n gasped. He knew that face too. Unmistakable. Barbara Keene. Of course. How did Y/n not see that far sooner?

"I should warn you," Jerome teased lightly. "No one is getting out of here tonight alive." The audience laughed and Y/n thought he would feel terror at the words. What was stopping him now? He could whisper to Bruce or Alfred. To that nice lady from before-

It was then that Y/n realized Lee Thompkins was gone.

Jerome flung a knife straight into the Mayor's gut and Bruce stepped forward, gasping in time with the crowd. Y/n was torn. Why was he torn?! This was simple! Stop this! Right? Surely he could do something.

And yet... he found he didn't want to. God what the hell was wrong with him?

The Mayor fell and people began panicking. The gun shot started and Y/n moved without thinking, slipping behind a curtain and out of sight. He began to move through the curtains until he was far enough fromAlfred not to be stopped, then he was ducking to make sure he didn't get shot- and he waited.

He saw Jerome and Barbara tie up Lee and then make a call. He spoke loudly- it wasn't hard to make out at least one side of the conversation. His demands didn't make sense. They didn't line up at all with his character. Why...?

His maniacal laughter suddenly cut off as he turned to face his newly terrified audience. The moment was interrupted, though, by a new voice. "Enough!" Y/n stepped out from hiding to get a better view, only to see a man he didn't know. That was a new experience on this night where Y/n seemed to be able to put a name to ever face in this room that mattered. "It's time for you to pack up your little sideshow and leave," the man continued. Jerome was still grinning. That didn't make sense either. Why didn't he seemed bummed that his fun was getting interrupted, or a little tentative around the new player he hadn't planned his game around? How had this guy even gotten in, with all the guards outside? It felt off. Y/n could sense it immediately. Even the man spoke like he was... reading lines.

And Jerome responded in the exact same way. Like he was in a show. Like he was acting.

The movements of the two men and the way they formed words seemed so out of place. Even the shot of the gun Barbara used... none of it seemed natural.

Without thinking, Y/n stepped forward. The small noise his steps made immediately caught Jerome's attention. His eyes light up, his smile relaxing to a much more natural place. This was Jerome. The change was impossible to miss for Y/n, who had been carefully studying him so long.

"You," Jerome called, pointing directly at Y/n for the first time tonight. This felt even more thrilling than when Bruce had been picked. Now there was no charade or manipulation. It was just Jerome and Y/n. "Come here." He held up a gun, obviously ready to threaten someone's life to get Y/n to obey, but he was already moving before the words could leave Jerome's mouth. "What a nice boy." Y/n should have been at least pretending to be phased, but he was far too caught up in analyzing Jerome that he didn't think about how his step was confident and unfaltering, taking him to Jerome without any hesitation. He didn't think about the expression on his face, but how it made Jerome specifically respond. By simply having an emotion other than fear, Y/n had caught Jerome's attention and was reveling in it. Jerome could see that too, and it seemed to entertain him even more.

"You just gonna stare at me all day?" Y/n whispered softly, trying not to let his lips twitch into a smirk. Was he... flirting? It felt like he was suddenly outside of his body, watching this train wreck happen, unsure of who was in control or why he was doing anything he was.

Jerome seemed to be absolutely loving it. "Stand here with me." His voice was soft as silk, near purring. Y/n moved to where he motioned and stayed silent. The problem with his new placement: everyone could see his reactions now, not just Jerome. It was time to start acting at the very least.

Turns out he didn't much need to.

Jerome was easily terrifying as he was charismatic.

Every time Y/n thought he had caught on to Jerome schtick, he did something that threw Y/n off completely again. It was all fun and games, playing at murder but then pulling out some joke shot that didn't really make any sense. Did he actually want to keep all of us hostage? Wasn't it enough to have a few? Bruce, me and Alfred because Bruce was Gotham's golden boy, and he wouldn't let anything happen to me or Alfred. Lee Thompkins because she was his bargaining chip. The four of us would be plenty enough of a bargaining chip, maybe a handful more just in case. Why spare everyone, if he really did like killing so much?

There was something to Jerome that really intrigued Y/n. He wondered what the maniac was really thinking. What really drove him to act this way. To take control of a whole room full of Gotham's richest of the most well meaning... only to ask for ridiculous, nonsensical demands and not kill a single one of us.

Again Y/n got that sense, like something else major was actually happening here.

Y/n was zoning out. Missing things. He couldn't focus on the act going. The show that had more layers than what was originally apparent. He missed the whole throw down with Barbara and Lee as well, but caught the gist: Barbara was apparently in love with JimGordon and fancied that they'd end up together. Lee was apparently getting in the way of that. Blah, blah, blah. Girl drama and psychopaths and romance and delusion. Barbara almost killed Lee. Jerome stopped her. So on and so forth.

Then, Jerome attention was on Y/n again all of a sudden, even though he'd been carefully ignoring the boy he'd called up on stage until that point. He grinned at Y/n, the knife he'd taken fromBarbara manifesting in Jerome's hand. The redhead used it more like a finger than a weapon. He ran the dull side of the back of the blade under Y/n's chin, the flipped it so the blade was pressed gently to Y/n's skin. "My favorite volunteer," he said slowly, stepping far too close for what should have been comfortable. "You know, I've seen you on TV."

"And I, you." He hadn't meant to respond, but it had slipped out before he could stop it.

Jerome's head tilted as he popped his chin in pride. "Well, of course. I was meant to be on the big screen. I made my own way. It was my choice to end up where everyone could see me." He took a deep breath in. "You, however... what a scandal." Suddenly Y/n couldn't breath. Jerome roared in giddy, insane laughter. "There he is!" He turned to the audience, motioning to the slight shake of Y/n's body and the sickly pale tint to his skin. "There's that fear! That fear or hate or disgust or whatever it is you all feel for me... except for you." He looked back at Y/n. "We're so similar, Y/n," he sighed. "I'm an orphan too, you know. I don't fear death either."

"You killed your parents," Y/n managed to get out through gritted teeth.

Jerome tilted his head back and forth. "Details, details." The knife was at Y/n's throat again. "You're no fun anymore, you know. Everyone stops being fun at some point. I will give you one thing: you lasted longer than most." The knife pressed further into Y/n's throat and he sucked in a sharp breath as it broke skin, a single drop of blood making a vibrant path down his pale skin.

Gun shots. Suddenly Jerome spun, pressing Y/n's back to his chest, moving the blade so Y/n's was a hostage instead of the focused on target. There was a bit of chaos in the crowd, and Y/n's eyes widened to see Alfred and Jim Gordon of all people mowing through Jerome's lackies. Jim turned his barrel toward Y/n and Jerome. "Let him go!" He shouted. Jerome's giggle rang right next to Y/n's ear. Whatever weird spell from before that had Y/n controlled and calm and still broke and he flinched back away from the blade. Unfortunately, that only brought him closer to Jerome. After a second Jim defeatedly announced, "I don't have a clean shot. Jerome shifted, obviously eager in his moment of victory.

"Stay calm, Y/n," Alfred eased. Bruce was shuffling, knowing it wouldn't help to rush in but having to use every bit of his self control to stop himself from doing just that. He couldn't lose Y/n too. His brother was part of the quickly dwindling family he still had left.

Jerome's breath sounded in Y/n's ear as he gritted his teeth, switching from plying a game to planning an escape. Of course he wanted to get out of here alive. "It seems like we've got ourselves in a bit of a pickle. "What do you say Sweetheart?" Jerome mumbled in his ear. He was twitching, rocking a little from foot to foot. "Why don't we boost our ratings, hm?" The knife moved from one side of Y/n's throat to the other, drawing the smallest line of blood. Y/n gasped, his body shaking in suddenly very real fear. He wondered if this is how his parents had felt, or if they'd died too fast to really be afraid of dying at all. "Smile." Jerome began his wild, broken chittering of a laugh again.

This was familiar. Jerome had been waiting all night to kill someone, and for whatever reason he hadn't. Unfortunately, that meant he was definitely not going to hesitate to now. Y/n closed his eyes, and echoing, "NO!" Coming from his younger brother before he was sure he was about to be enveloped by darkness.

"I said, enough." Jerome let go of Y/n in surprise and both boys turned, unsure where to move from here. Not knowing how to switch gears. There stood the man from earlier. Theo Galavant. Theo grabbed Jerome by the color and drove a knife into the side of his neck. Y/n made a weird, half-choking, half-squeaking sound as the blade made impact into flesh, the audience gasping behind him.

Y/n couldn't move. He fell backwards, tripping over his own feet and barely catching himself as he made his way off the stage and to the ground. Theo must have thought he was further, but he heard it. He heard what the man said next. "I know, I know, I know," he cooed as Jerome choked, dying. Y/n blinked, trying to clear his head. So many thoughts were swimming through it and his chest had begun to tighten and twist. He couldn't breathe. He could still hear though. "This isn't what we rehearsed. I'm so sorry Jerome. You have real talent! But no, you see, the plot thickens. Enter: the hero."

Something horrible settled into Y/n's stomach as Jerome spoke again, his voice weak and raspy. "You... said... I was... gonna be..." He died before the sentence could finish, and Y/n was running. Ramming into Bruce, the boys holding each other tightly as Alfred enveloped them both with his arms.

"It's over," Alfred reassured. "You're safe now, Y/n, it's okay."

The words sounded sincere and full of relief, but Y/n couldn't shake that things were far from over. In fact, he was sure they'd only just begun.

#jerome valeska #jerome valeska x reader #jerome valeska imagine #bruce wayne #gotham #gotham imagine #gotham x reader #joker #joker imagine #joker x reader #male reader #jerome valeska x male reader #joker x male reader

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through.

It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more. “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

“Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake. “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

“Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.” “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground. “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

“As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they? “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh. “Money is not the motive,” she returns, curt.

An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

“This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule. The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns.

In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle.

Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in. “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states. “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene. “Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation. “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.” Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

“There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.” The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used. “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies. “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes. “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up. “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up. “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate? A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family. “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders.

Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone. “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification. “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.” The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.” “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly. “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder. “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more. “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near. What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

“That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on.

It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it.

Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

“We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?” Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open. “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?” “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

“What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital. “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters. Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?” “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

“She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic. “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar. “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--” “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes. “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with. Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case. Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.” “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges. She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by. “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him. “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?” “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs. Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

“I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.” “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier. Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?” “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point. “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in. “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says. “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag. “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders. “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows. “Ouch,” Dean comments.

The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

“That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that could point you fellas towards a suspect.” Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

“This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.” “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully. “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving. “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.” “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up. “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other. “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined. “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?” “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital. “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky. “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

“Sullivan.” “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase. “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?” Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing. “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated. “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him. Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage.

“Zoë?” “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?” The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm. “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--” “- You FIGURED?!”

Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in. “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother. Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

“We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively. “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!” “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman. “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!” “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

“No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…” “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala. Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude.

Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes. “Just say it,” he mutters. “Say what?” “You know what.” Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in. His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.” “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call. “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders. “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.” “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.” “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene. As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?” “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly. “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

“Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.” “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer. “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up. “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head. “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.” “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

“Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips. “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.” “Deal.”

Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker. “What?” he snaps, still mad at her. “What are you up to?” The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time. “Depends,” he answers, curt. “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.” “So?” “Might be something.”

Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë. “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!” “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns. “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check. “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

“I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same. “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.” “I don’t know...” Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got. “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.” Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare. “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left. “Dean?”

The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again. “Fine,” he utters, barely audible. “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?” “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.” “So, do we meet up or what?” “Yeah, sure.” “Where are you at?”

Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on. “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her. “Shit motel.” He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.” “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.” “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.” “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!” “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees. “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food. “Zo?” he interrupts. “Yeah?” “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused. “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around. “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part eight here

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester series #Sam Winchester series #Supernatural OFC series #SPN #Supernatural #dean angst #sam angst #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Zoë Sullivan #STSS #STSS 1x01 #In Bad Waters #Kate Huntington

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hvitserkmarcosource · 4 years

Text

The Arrangement

Chapter Five: Dancing with the Devil

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of rape, Sad (Warnings will be updated with every chapter, so make sure you read them!)

Chapter Five Summary: You do everything you can, to save Hvitserk.

Word Count: 2,259

This chapter gets a little dark, but don’t worry there is a light at the end of the tunnel!

Chapter Four

Chapter Six

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The walk back to the castle was long, or at least it felt like it, like your feet were dragging. And maybe they were, your brain must have told them what you planned to do, and they were trying to stop you by slowing you down. By the time you reach the doors you are winded and sore. The cold finally catching up to you for not wearing the fur.

As you enter the castle the tall wooden doors slam behind you, sinking your heart further into your chest. Much like the night you arrived. Also like that night, you are terrified of the man sitting on the throne. His blue eyes are already boring into your soul and wrapping around all of your courage, effectively snuffing it out

Suddenly you realized that being the center of this man's attention was a very bad place to be. ”You are awake early. Princess.” Ivar states

To which you nod “I could not sleep, once the sun rose I decided to take a short walk. Try to clear my head.”

“Mmhmm, did that walk include visiting my brother?”

Lying to him crosses your mind, it would make this conversation much easier, but with Ivar being Ivar you know he already knows you saw Hvitserk. He probably had his men spying on you the entire time. So you tell the truth. “I did see him, yes. You did not forbid me, so I thought it would be alright.”

He smirks, and you get the urge to smack it off of his face. “It is quite alright,” he says, surprising you “ I could arrange for you to permanently stay with him outside. If you’d like?”

His words cause anger to bubble up inside of you. “I would actually like to talk to you my king, if you have a moment? I know you must be terribly busy, what with all the pillaging and murder you commit.” You hold your head up high. And with a smile you say “You must be so exhausted.”

Ivar stands up then and he begins to walk towards you. You stand your ground, trying to maintain what courage you have left. Even slumped over on his crutch he is taller than you. Much broader, and stronger. Almost as big as a bear, you imagine… you’ve never actually seen a bear up close. One thing is for certain though, Ivar is definitely more unpredictable. With a bear at least you can tell when it’s about to strike.

“When it comes to you, I have all the time in the world.”

You follow him into what you assume are his chambers. And he points to a table near the window “Please, sit down.” You do, hoping the nerves in your stomach will relax some now that you have a table between the two of you. “What did you want to speak about?”

You take a deep breath, and close your eyes for a moment. Were you really going to do this? Risk everything you’ve worked so hard to protect, just to save one man? Were you being selfish? Or the opposite?

“If I divulge something to you, Will you set Hvitserk free?”

He quirks his head and smiles, all teeth like a snarling beast. “Depends on what you are planning to divulge?”

“I need to know that Hvitserk being freed is a possibility first.” Your voice raises, trying to stand your ground.

He nods “If your information is good enough, yes. I will free him.”

Should you believe the word of a man you don’t trust? All of your past life experience is screaming no. But your heart is pleading with you to do everything you possibly can to help Hvitserk. And what will become of you if he dies? Will you return to England? You couldn’t do that.

“My father's kingdom,” you say, voice no longer strong “If you agree to set Hvitserk free, I will tell you how to get into his castle without being seen.” Excitement flashes across Ivars face and your stomach does a flip. “You must swear to me he will be set free.”

Ivar extends his arm and lays it on the table. Rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he shows you a bracelet. ”I know that you Christians have the Bible. But in Kattegat we believe in multiple Gods and this is sacred to us. It is called an arm ring, we cannot take it off, unless we renounce our Gods and Odin. It is holy to us like your Bible is holy to you. I will swear on my arm ring to set my brother free, how does that sound hmm?”

You agree, against your better judgement. If the arm ring was like their Bible then that was good enough for you. “Set him free first and then I will tell you.”

Ivar slams his hand on the table and points at you, his face red with anger “You are in no position to be making any demands!” He screams “I am your king!”

“And I am the woman who knows everything about the king and kingdom you wish to overthrow!” You yell back “I suggest, you stop yelling so we can act like civilized human beings and come to a peaceful compromise.”

Ivar snickers at you in disgust “The last man to yell at me like that was hung right outside of those doors, in front of his family.”

You stand up then and look down at your king “Then it is a good thing that I am not a man.”

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A deal had been made, one that you were content with. Hvitserk would go free and you would show Ivar how to get into your father’s castle at the same moment. The only problem is you did not want Hvitserk to know what you were going to do, you did not want him to see you break just to set him free.

Because isn’t that what you are doing? Breaking? You are about to break the one promise you said you never would. You are endangering the lives of innocent people, your people. And you so readily thought to do so. You did not hesitate, you did not try to think of another way. You spilled your guts for the life of one man, because he was nice to you… you would make a terrible queen.

The sun had set by the time you and Ivar came to a decision. The sky a dark and inky black color, not one star shines tonight. No wind blows, it is deathly quiet. Even the people are silent. The only solace is the fire burning on the torches, lighting your way to Hvitserk. He is asleep when you finally reach him, asleep or unconscious. His face is bloody again and there is a dark bruise by his mouth.

“What happened to being a merciful King?” You seethe, as you bend down and wipe Hvitserk’s face clean once more. He groans in pain as he regains consciousness. Your name falls from his lips and you smile “I’m here, you will be okay.”

You feel Ivar place a hand on your shoulder and you look up at him “Let us finish this, I am a busy king as you stated earlier. Many lives to ruin and such, Princess.”

Ivar holds out his hand and one of his guards hands him a rolled up map, to which he taps you on the head with, once he has it in his grasp. Laughing at your shock at being treated like a child. “Show me where to enter the castle and my brother will go free.”

You hear Hvitserk grunt behind you and you take the map from Ivar. Unrolling it and laying it on the ground so you can have a closer look. “Here,” you say “there is a gate under the sewers. It is unguarded and the lock is old and rusted, easily broken. It will lead you to the wine cellar, you will be met with force but only two men stand guard there. After that you are inside.”

You are pulled up, harshly, The grip Ivar has on your upper arm is sure to leave a bruise. “Good!” He says loudly “let us go inside, we will work out some final details while my men free Hvitserk and take him to the healer.”

You begin to protest but to no avail, Ivar drags you back inside of the castle and throws you to the floor once you enter his chambers. “Why didn’t you let me stay with him? I gave you what you wanted, I kept my end of the deal.”

He shrugs “And I kept mine… but I need one more thing from you.”

Glaring up at him you say “One more thing, wasn’t part of the deal!”

He smirks “I was going to keep you awake for this, but seeing as you have trouble keeping your mouth shut-“

Before you have time to react, Ivar slams your head against the floor and your vision starts to fade to black. Much like tonight's sky.

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Everything is a blur as you wake up, your vision foggy and dizzying. A sharp pain shoots through your head and you gasp, reaching up to touch it. Only to find it sensitive- and then it all comes rushing back. The deal, Hvitserk, being dragged back into the castle, into Ivars chambers… Your heart begins to race when you remember he knocked you out. Suddenly you sit up. Blinking away the fog from your eyes.

Relief washes over you when you see you are in Hvitserk‘s room and not Ivar’s. And then dread fills your heart, did Ivar really let Hvitserk go? Or were you a fool to trust him?

It seems early enough that you should be able to leave the castle without being caught by Ivar. You could go to the healer and make sure Hvitserk is there. Check on him and maybe get the healer to look at your head. Looking around the room you spot our cloak at the end of the bed and your shoes laying by the door. There was no need to dress properly right now, this was urgent. You have to make sure the king kept his word. If not you need to warn your father.

Uncovering yourself from the blankets, you swing your legs over the bed. Only to be met with more pain. A sharp pain that takes your breath away. A sob escapes you when you look down to see blood on your white nightdress. A small stain between your legs. More tears fall when you realize what Ivar did to you… what he took from you. What you would have to live with for the rest of your life. The knowledge of what he did without anyone to tell it to.

You would be hung if you ever spoke about this, and Hvitserk would never want to marry you if he finds out. You were no good now, tainted, destroyed by a man. Ripped open and used by someone that wasn’t your beloved. How could you stay here? How could you look at Ivar everyday knowing what he did to you? How could you live in constant fear that he would do it again? He may have knocked you unconscious this time, but you knew he would not show you the same kindness the second time.

Every word he said to you in the beginning was a lie. You were a prisoner and he made sure of it. He took this caged little bird and crushed it.

You cry until your tears dry and your eyes ache. And you sit at the edge of the bed for longer than that. Not having the strength to stand. A loud knock startles you, but you don’t find the words to tell whoever it is to leave you alone. A man enters and he looks at you with sadness. “Hvitserk has been asking to see you Princess. I will escort you when you are ready.” And then he leaves.

Hvitserk. He will hate you if he finds out. Hate you even more than he already does. You choke back another sob when you finally stand. Walking towards the end of the bad to get your cloak, and then your shoes. When you open the door the man is standing there “Is he alright?” You ask, your voice dry from crying.

He nods “He is, thanks to you. Would you like me to carry you Princess? The walk to the healer is a long one.”

You whimper. “Does everyone know?”

He shakes his head “No, and I only do because I saw the blood on your dress.”

“You do not have to carry me, I will walk.” If Ivar sees you, you will not let him know you are in pain. You will not give him that satisfaction.

He nods and takes your hand “At least let me escort you properly.” In his mind, it was a silent way for him to help you walk and you were thankful for that. Thankful for him to allow you to depend on his strength while yours is diminished.

When you reach the healers tent you spot Hvitserk immediately. There are people standing around talking in hushed tones, probably talking about how disheveled you looked. And about how a son of Ragnar could never want someone like you.

Yes they are looking and talking, but you don’t care.

You run to him anyway.

Tag List: @alexhogh7137 @ivarthebloodyking @sfyri @curlyhairedhoseok @mavalenovaninagavi @lol-haha-joke @joebob15274

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sabineelectricheart · 4 years

Text

I’ll Be Right Behind You

Summary: After Souji accidentally kills Chizuru, he needs to take care of some unfinished business before he can follow her.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Explicit depictions of character death, murder and suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

Words: 1277

Notes: I’ll tell ya, I’m not great at Hakuouki fics. Perhaps I should practice some more...

“Chizuru...?”

The red haze I was hypnotized under started to faze. I remembered hearing her voice, but I could not understand the words. I was just so thirsty, in so much pain, I thought about nothing else.

That was when I looked at the red stain on her kimono. My eyes widen, she was hurt. I looked around and Kodo and Kaoru were shocked, their eyes did not blink, and all other furies laid dead around me.

Dread rose in my heart. I looked at the sword, the very one Kondou gave me, stained red, and then I understood.

“Chizuru! Hang in there! I… What did I do?!” I cried, in despair.

I knew there was no hope, I hit her in the liver, and no doctor and no demon heritage would change her fate.

A fate I would be happy in share, as soon as I finished what I was set to do, and I needed to let her know. There was nothing else I could do, nothing I could do to repent, other than trying to ease her passage.

“Don’t worry…” My voice fails with a hiccup. Damn. “I won’t let you die alone. I’ll be right behind you. Just wait a second for me, would ya? Chizuru…”

Her last breath leaves her lungs, and with it, my grasp on sanity also slipped. Yet, my conscience held on strong. I wanted to bear witness for my acts, I want them to have meaning, for them to mark my soul for the other life.

I want to be able to tell Chizuru, if I ever am able to meet her again, that I finished her mission. I stopped her family from making razed land out of our country.

It was easy, really. Kaoru was hardly an accomplished swordsman, and I disposed of him quickly. I ripped his right arm first, which brought him to his knees, shouting in pain. As the demon kneeled, I beheaded it in a single swing.

Then, I turned to Kodo. He kneeled over the body of his adopted child.

“If I knew this was the price, I would never have touched the Water of Life.” He said. “There is no Demon clan, no country that is worth my daughter.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, you won’t be getting it.” I said, doubting his sincerity.

It was too easy now to regret everything he had done, but the matter of fact is that Kodo abandoned Chizuru alone for six months in Edo, and for four years with the Shinsegumi, not to mention his work developing the Water of Life and aligning himself with Kaoru, who very cleared wished to see his so-called daughter suffering, or at least dead.

“I know what is the penitence for my crimes, Okita.” The medic said, turning to face me. “I only ask for you to bury Chizuru with dignity. There is a cemetery just around that torched house, it is where I have buried her parents.”

It was not as if I did not intend to bury her, but it was good to know she could be with her family.

“Furthermore,” He continued. “There is a spring in the forest, not too far from here. It has healing properties. A drink should banish the Water of Life from your system.”

“I see.” I said, impatient with the monologue.

He dropped his head and exposed the back of his neck. “Do what you must.”

“Gladly.”

I dropped my sword on it, and his life was over.

Leaving his body alone, I picked up Chizuru, her sword and Kaoru’s sword and walked over to the cemetery. I wanted to bury her and the weapons together, being the only family heirloom she ever had.

Kodo was right, and she should have company in her resting place, but I did not know the names of her parents. So, I could not bury her next to them, and I did not want to risk it choosing a spot randomly. Looking thoughtfully at the plot, I chose a spot near a sakura tree. I hoped she could witness every bloom.

I finished the burial at dawn. The sun hurt my eyes, but it did not matter. At the top of her grave, I left the sword Kondou gave me. I hoped it would protect her when I could not.

“I wished to give you all my life. I am sorry these months are just what I managed to give.”

Tears slipped from my eyes. I did not want to be here any longer; I was dallying needlessly.

“I will be right with you, Chizuru. Wait just a little longer, I’ll be right there.”

With that, I left the cemetery and walked to the spring. Just as Kodo had said, it was very close to the village ruins. The Yukimura demons must have guarded it for generations.

It would have been nice to live here, isolated with her.

I kneeled in front of the spring and, using my calloused hands, took a long drink of the crystal-clear water. It was cold and very refreshing, what I would imagine purity would taste like.

The water cooled my throat, as it went down my trachea. Immediately, the pain I felt from the sunlight subsided. My diseased lungs, however, felt exactly the same, proving the Water of Life did nothing to cure my tuberculosis.

It did not matter anyways. I just did not want to die as a Fury, as something akin to an animal, a crime against nature. I felt it diminished my chances of being blessed in the next life, and I felt I committed enough sins to expect much grace from the gods.

Rising to my feet, I continued my path, now away from the village ruins, back down the mountain, through where I came before. I walked slowly, as I could not count on my superhuman strength to stave off my illness.

I was determined, though, and I am sure I would have the spirit to be able to reach my destination.

A few hours of slow walking down the hill, I finally reached it. The small clearing in the woods in which I first and last kissed Chizuru. I wanted to die here, in this place. It held meaning to me.

Alas, it was not my time yet.

For a few more hours, I sat down there and heard the noises of nature all around me. I recalled my life, from the death of my parents, my miserable childhood with my sister and her husband, training under Kondou and my military career with the Shinsegumi.

I was thankful for it all. I had been profoundly unhappy for most of my life, but it did not matter. I was also able to train under a person I respected, fight for something I believed in, and pay my respects to a person I loved. No matter how much grief I lived, no matter how short my time had been, no matter my sins, I am glad I went through it all.

As the moon was up again in the sky, with the stars shining down on me, it was finally time. I was ready.

I drew my sword and drove it into my gut.

Then, I threw my weight backwards. My last sight was the beautiful evening sky, just as it was the night before. Chizuru would like it.

I just want to be with her. Please, let me be with her. Allow me to repent, allow me to reform. Allow me to be worth it, please. I just want to be with her.

Then, there was nothing.

*_*_*_*_*

Hakuouki Masterlist

#hakuouki #Okita Souji

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bisexualkramer · 4 years

Text

Hi! I participated in @pilesofnonsense‘s 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang this year, and I’m so excited to share my fic with all of you!

I’d like to thank @aibari for betaing this monstrosity and @cthulu-time for making a REALLY COOL ART PIECE FOR THE FIC LIKE HOLY SHIT IT’S AWESOME!! It was such a pleasure to work with both of them!

Hope y’all enjoy it!

The End of All Things - A Magnus Archives Lord of the Rings AU

Part One: Fellowship

Part Two: Towers

Part Three: King

Summer had come to the Shire at last. The green grass was soft underfoot, as gentle as the breeze that danced through the air, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers and tilled earth. The skies were blue and filled with clouds that drifted lazily about. Children wove daisy crowns and danced through the streets in preparation for the midsummer holiday. The old dozed; the young worked; everything was peaceful and good.

Not that Jonathan Sims would have known. His summer habits were no different than his winter ones. He awoke before the sun rose—quite the feat, in those long days of summer—and trudged down the lane to the Shire’s old archives, where he dutifully toiled until after the sun had set. The only variation in his routine was the thickness of his jacket and the presence or lack of an old woolen hat, a gift from his gardener that had kept him from catching his death of cold for at least the past three winters. Jon, bless him, had never thanked the man for it, but he was still willing to wear it, and that was quite enough for Martin Blackwood.

On the eve of the midsummer feast, Jonathan was down in the archive basement again, digging through a waterlogged box of paper and finding the documents that needed to be replaced. The head archivist, Gertrude Robinson, sat beside him, dutifully copying down an old deed that had been damaged in a spring flood. They worked in a quiet tandem, satisfied with the comfortable silence that came from years of friendship.

Jon had been very young when his parents had died in a boating accident. His grandmother hadn’t been keen on raising another child, but there had been no one else to take him. He’d grown up a lonely child in the country, kept company only by books, until his grandmother had died, leaving him her house. He’d sold it immediately and moved to the Shire, and his job application to the town archive had been accepted within a week. He’d been working there ever since, though he’d only become one of Gertrude’s close assistants in the last couple of years. Still, the two got on like a house on fire, and Jon liked to think that Gertrude would ask him to take over when she eventually retired.

A knock at the door brought Jon out of his thoughts. A young man stepped in, his blonde hair falling down around his cheeks in ringlet curls that made even Jon jealous. He handed a sheaf of paper over to Gertrude with a smile.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said. Michael Shelley had only been working in the archives for a few months. He had a bad habit of leaving his red cardigan in the archives. Jon was beginning to suspect he was doing it on purpose, if only because of—

“Hey, guys?” asked a voice from the back. “I’ve found another one with water damage. Where are we putting it?”

“Bring it here,” said Jon resignedly.

Gerry Delano was a short, broad-shouldered hobbit with badly-dyed black hair that hung in greasy strings around his face. He had a permanent scowl that occasionally lifted into a smirk. Every time he spoke to Michael, Michael would erupt into nervous, grating laughter, which did little to improve Jon’s mood but seemed to make Gerry much cheerier.

Jon hated working with them.

Gerry dropped the box in front of them and exaggeratedly wiped the sweat off his brow. He met Michael’s eye and smirked. Michael giggled. Jon tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Right,” said Gerry. “Think I’m off for today. Anyone fancy the Green Dragon for a half-pint?”

“Oh, ah, that sounds fun,” said Michael. “Uh, would either of you care to join us?”

Jon scowled, but Gertrude shoved at his arm. “Go have fun,” she said. “I’m expecting a visitor soon. I don’t need you moping down here next to me.”

“But the deeds—” Jon began, only to be hauled to his feet by Gerry in a feat of strength that stole the words from his throat.

“None of that,” said Gerry. “C’mon. Besides, I think your boy’s usually there on Fridays.”

“My what?” Jon scoffed, but he was already being firmly escorted out the door.

“Lord,” said Gertrude. “Youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

...

The Green Dragon was always lively around the end of the week, but it was even more so before holidays. Gerry crept to the bar for drinks and brought them back to the table, cursing as he set them down.

“Nearly lost one,” he said, passing them around. “Anyway, cheers to another year in the archives.”

“Cheers,” said the rest of them absently.

Jon peered around the room as Gerry and Michael began to flirt rather obnoxiously. He felt his stomach drop as he accidentally met eyes with Martin from across the room. Martin’s expression brightened, and he began to head toward the table. Jon tried not to scowl.

The truth of the matter was, Jon had spent a very, very long time hating Martin. Martin had apparently been the gardener at Bag End since before the previous inhabitant had left (very mysteriously, and no one in town would say anything about it—there were rumors that he had been close with Gertrude, but she refused to say anything about it). Jon kept him on because his rates were good and it felt like the right thing to do, and not because he had often heard Martin chatting quietly with the bees while he worked, oblivious to Jon’s watchful eye on the other side of the kitchen window. As Martin approached, Jon quickly realized that the only remaining seat was the one next to him. He tried to ignore it when Martin’s leg brushed very lightly against his own, but couldn’t quite manage to get it out of his head.

“All right, Martin?” Gerry asked, giving him a smile.

Martin blushed a bit at the attention, which made Jon want to commit murder, or possibly arson. “I’m all right,” he said. “And you?”

The two of them struck up a friendly conversation, which they roped Michael into fairly quickly. Jon buried his face in his drink for a while before finally allowing Michael to draw him in with a well-aimed question about the old books he’d found in his home when he moved, which led to several hours of debate over the whereabouts of the mysterious owner, and then a conversation about Michael’s sister, who had sold the property, and then the state of the small library in Hobbiton, and soon Jon found himself ranting about the properties of various waxes for almost a quarter of an hour.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly when he realized no one had stopped him.

“No,” said Martin, his face flush with alcohol. “No, it was interesting. It was really interesting.”

“Christ,” said Gerry. “Right. I think I’m done for tonight.” He glanced at Michael. “Care to walk me home?”

Michael stuttered a response and pulled on his sweater, leaving Jon and Martin sitting beside each other.

“Well,” said Jon, just as Martin said “Anyway…”

“Oh,” said Jon.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “I mean, uh, go ahead.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Jon stuttered. “You first.”

“Right,” said Martin. “Uh, I was just going to say it was getting late. Maybe we should go.”

Jon stared at him blankly for a moment before the words made it past his ears and into his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jon. “Of course. Yes.”

“Unless you don’t want to…?”

“No, it’s really fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon tried not to let too much annoyance creep into his voice as he said “Yes, Martin. I’m quite sure.” From the look on Martin’s face, he was fairly certain he had failed.

“Right,” said Martin. “Um… I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night, then.”

Jon gave him a thin smile. “Good night, Martin.”

The walk home was colder than Jon had expected. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket to the archives that morning. The night sky was clear and star-filled, broken only by the slightest sliver of the moon. As he walked, a small group of fireflies flitted through the bushes by the side of the lane.

He passed by the archives on the way home. The lamps inside were still lit, and Jon could hear hushed voices from within. Never one to miss a chance to eavesdrop, he slowed his step and quieted his breathing, listening with all his might.

“… power grows ever stronger,” said Gertrude. “I’ve felt its draw for the last thirty years. I think soon I shall have to leave it behind.”

“I just hope we’re wrong,” said a familiar voice that Jon hadn’t heard in years. A silhouette appeared in the window, wearing a pointed wizard’s hat. Forgetting himself, Jon flung open the door with a smile.

“Sasha!”

She whirled toward him, her dark hair whipping out as she did. “Jon!”

Gertrude looked rather grumpy to have been interrupted, but Sasha’s eyes were full of delight. She wrapped Jon in a tight embrace, laughing all the while.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” she said. “I was going to stop by in the morning. I wasn’t sure if you were asleep.”

“Gerry and Michael dragged me out,” said Jon. Sasha’s face lit up at the mention of Michael’s name.

“I’m glad they’re getting you out of this dusty basement,” she said. “Don’t want you withering away down here, eh?” Her glasses and her many rings glinted mischievously in the lamplight.

Gertrude glanced at him over her reading spectacles. “I’m sorry to interrupt the reunion,” she said, “but I really do think we need to continue this discussion, Sasha.”

“All right, all right,” said Sasha. “Listen, Jon, I’ll talk to you at the festival tomorrow, yeah?”

“Very well,” said Jon. “I’m very glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad, too,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Jon.”

Jon turned to leave, then glanced back at Sasha. As she glanced at Gertrude, her smile vanished, and Jon’s heart filled unexpectedly with fear.

...

The midsummer festival was a full day and night of merrymaking, complete with the finest ales and pipeweeds that could be found in the Shire. People baked for days to prepare enough pies and pastries for the whole community. Everything was shared at the festival, from food to old stories. Even Jon, for all his curmudgeonly ways, could admit that it was a rather wonderful day.

A flowery banner had been erected across the entrance to old Eric Delano’s field, where they’d held the festival in memory of his late wife for the past ten years. (Gerry tended to complain about it, if you could get him drunk enough to recount the tales of his childhood with her—apparently, she’d been rather cruel, and he didn’t feel she deserved such a nice party.) Jon arrived in the early afternoon, far later than most of the Shire, as large crowds tended to make him nervous. It wasn’t long before he was accosted by Martin, who was camped in a corner, sipping at his ale.

“Oh, Jon!” he said, nearly knocking it over. “Hi! Nice to see you here.”

“Hello, Martin,” said Jon. He cast about awkwardly for something to say, landing on, “Uh, are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Martin. “I was just helping set up this morning, and then I’ve been sort of running around with everything. D’you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin,” said Jon. “I was just, ah, going to see Sasha. Have you seen her or Gertrude, by any chance?”

“Uh, no,” said Martin. “D’you think they’re just running late?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would have seen them. I’ll ask around.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Um, you’re here to stay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! Because, you know, I was thinking we could get a drink—uh, with Michael and Gerry, I mean, and maybe Sasha, not just the two of us, haha, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon said distractedly, still searching the crowd for Gertrude and Sasha. “I’ll be seeing you.” He turned and began to shove through the crowd of hobbits once more.

He didn’t make it far. There was a large booth on the northern border of the property, near where he had come in, that sold beautiful pastries topped with intricate spiral designs. There were two people manning that booth. One was Michael, who was chatting with old Eric Delano by the fence. The other was his sister, Helen, who was handing out sweets to anyone who walked by with a smile and a nod.

Michael and Helen didn’t look very similar at all. In fact, they weren’t siblings by blood; their parents had married when the two were nearly twenty, and they’d instantly started to bicker like any other siblings. Contrary to Michael’s fair skin and hair, Helen’s skin was dark, and her hair was a deep black. The only similarity between the two was their hair. Both had hair that curled in tight coils around their heads. Michael kept his back in a ponytail with a fair bit of effort and oil; Helen let hers grow out around her head, leaving her with a spiral halo that could be quite disorienting if you looked at it for too long.

“Jon!” she shouted, waving him over. “Jon, over here!”

Jon rolled his eyes but made his way over to the stall. He and Helen had a somewhat tumultuous relationship; she enjoyed teasing him (though Jon likely would have said “torturing him), and he tolerated her jabs with the best humor he could muster on any given day. Often, this meant that he stormed away fuming, followed by her very distinctive cackle of victory.

It was as good a friendship as any, he supposed.

“Hi, Jon,” said Helen cheerfully when Jon arrived at her stall. “Here, try a hot cross bun.” She shoved the pastry at him forcefully and laughed when he took it and instantly swore at just how hot it was.

“Hello, Helen,” said Jon. “Have you seen Sasha?”

Helen pouted. “Don’t want to stay and talk to me, Jon? How very rude!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. I’ll come back later, if you like. I just need to speak with Sasha.”

Helen’s pout didn’t disappear, but she pointed a long, slender finger toward an innocuous tent that was hidden behind the many barrels of ale that had been prepared for that evening. “I saw her setting up in there,” she said. “I think it’s her fireworks, but I’m not sure. She didn’t even stop and say hello.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

He made his way quickly to Sasha’s firework tent, shoving through the crowds until he was able to duck inside. Sasha was there, thank heavens—Jon was just about ready to leave the party entirely if he had to talk to one more person.

“Jon!” said Sasha as she fiddled with the fuse of a long, red rocket. “I was looking for you earlier, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Where have you been?”

Jon sighed. “Socializing,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You love it.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he let his expression soften. “So what brings you back to the Shire?”

Sasha’s smile faded slightly around her eyes, which Jon noted and tucked away. “I needed to talk to Gertrude,” she said. “And I thought it would be nice to see everyone again. You know I miss you all when I’m on my travels.”

“Ah, your mysterious voyages,” said Jon. “Any chance we’ll get to hear some stories tonight?”

“Perhaps,” said Sasha, waggling her eyebrows.

“Speaking of Gertrude,” said Jon, “I should probably go and find her. I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Really?” Sasha asked. “She said she was planning on showing up early. Apparently, her and Eric had a bit of a fight last week, and she said she wanted to apologize before the festival really kicked off.”

“A fight?” Jon asked. “What about?”

“I don’t know. You know they haven’t been as close since Eric left the archives,” she said. “And he hasn’t been the same since the whole Mary thing, or since he lost his eyes.”

Jon hummed. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen her,” he said. “When are the fireworks?”

“Just after sundown,” said Sasha with a sparkle in her eye. “You won’t want to miss them.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon agreed. He glanced up at her. “I’ve missed you, too, you know.”

Sasha’s smile grew. “Oh, Jon!” she said, and she threw her arms around him. Jon squawked in protest as he was smothered by her flowing wizardly robes, but Sasha paid him no mind. She squeezed his shoulders tightly. “I know how hard that was for you to admit—”

“I am capable of talking about my feelings, you know.”

“—and I want you to know that I’m very, very glad to have you as a friend.”

Jon laughed, then pulled away, trying to extricate himself from a truly ridiculous amount of fabric. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’m going to go and find Gertrude. I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Go on and have fun. And, hey, try not to cause any trouble.”

Jon scoffed. “I do not cause trouble.”

“Sure, you don’t. Enjoy the party! Have some of Helen’s pastries. They’re delicious.”

Jon made his way out of the tent and back into the midst of the festivities. The sun burned in the sky, and the air was humid and heavy. Most of the party-goers had retreated to the relative shade of the small copse of trees in the northeast corner. Jon spotted Gerry sitting there with old Fiona Law, who was regaling a small group of children with a fairy tale that seemed to have put Gerry halfway to sleep.

“Gerard,” said Jon as he approached, “have you seen Gertrude?”

Gerry shook his head sleepily. “Figured she was with you,” he said. “She must have gotten caught up in the archives. Want me to go and look?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” said Jon. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Gerry. He closed his eyes once more. Jon left him to his nap.

It seemed the whole Shire had fallen into the afternoon daze. Jon took it upon himself to clean up some of the mess while everyone around him slept, then decided he could return to the archives and do some work before the fireworks that night. He doubted anyone would notice him leaving, sleepy as they all were.

When he reached the garden gate, a horrible, wriggling sort of sound brought him to a stop. He glanced around, looking for its source, and settled his gaze on a ball of silver worms that were intertwined so tightly with each other that they almost looked like one creature. Normally, Jon didn’t have a problem with worms–only spiders were enough to set him shivering–but something about the worms seemed wrong, reminding him of rot and decay and illness rather than good soil and the smell of summer. He suppressed a sudden bout of nausea and carefully stepped past them, keeping his distance as best he could.

Hobbiton was largely abandoned, as everyone was at the party. The sun had settled into that lazy mid-afternoon place where everything looked a bit like a dream. Jon brushed away a bit of sweat and then paused, hearing the wriggling sound once more. There were more of those silvery worms in the soil beside the main road, though not in nearly so high a concentration as the ones by Delano’s farm. Jon hurried on.

As he rounded the last corner, he heard something that made his heart drop in his chest: a panicked scream, coming from inside the archives.

Jon ran down the lane toward the scream. As he ran, he accidentally squashed a few silver worms underfoot. The sensation of their segmented bodies bursting against his toes made him shudder, but he did not slow his speed. He flung open the heavy wooden doors to the archives with a desperate groan, shoving against years of rust that had grown across the hinges.

Martin was pressed against the wall inside the door, clutching his chest as though trying to keep his heart inside. His face was white as a sheet.

“Martin?” Jon asked.

Martin whirled around, curls bouncing against his forehead. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was wider.

“Jon!” he said, clutching one hand to his chest.

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked urgently. “I heard a shout.”

“I— it’s—”

“For God’s sake, Martin, spit it out!”

“It’s Gertrude,” Martin gasped. “Jon, she’s dead.”

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #my stuff #rusty quill big bang 2020 #jonmartin

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