#there was still an argument. probably a worse one. but they do the ritual

[gnawednoble]

i know canonically that if any of the origins are dead its definitely maharial but so far i can't convince myself that elrion dies. he has shit to do, the blight can't take him

[howlett-n-morgan]

Take Me Home

3. Worthiness

Arthur Morgan x Texas Red!Reader

A/n: Apologies for taking so long in between to repost these chapters, it's almost fashion week and I am CRAMMING everything my ass can handle into the next few weeks lmaooo. pls enjoy and let me know what you think!

Summary: Abigail gains a new friend and gossip partner to chat with over meals, and Pearson has had enough of it. Luckily, Dutch has something lined up and ready to take the kid out of camp.

Warnings: Mild Language, gun violence. Game typical violence. Robbery/heist shenanigans. Fluff and Angst, because who doesn't love that combo? Arthur and reader get into a fight and want to kill each other for like a split second but it ends fine I swear.

WC: 6.1k

“I think I could drop you where you stand.” You were all talk, now, and he knew that… but it still boiled under his skin the way you challenged him.  “You make quite a big to do of yourself… M’guessin’ that’s where most of your reputation came from,” he smirked, but he should know better than to taunt you about those men you shot dead. “Before I got here I barely spoke a word to no one… I got my reputation from shootin’ folks so fast they didn’t have time to repent to God.” 

You’ve taken to a new hobby. You’re not quite sure the word that describes it right, but to explain what it entails, a bit of background needs to be added for understanding. 

Abigail is borderline nine months pregnant. 

John Marston, the everloving man that he is, has taken it upon himself to steer clear of her in the last stages of her pregnancy. 

Given this unfortunate situation, Abigail finds herself eating more and more food to try and relieve the stress. She also finds herself ranting to you about the dimwitted man that impregnated her, because you seem the most open to listening without offering advice. Truth be told, you just enjoy the company of a woman that doesn’t shy away from you, or try to woo you over. It brings about a sense of normalcy. 

Now, in the past weeks that this has been happening, you’ve taken to eating at the same times as Abigail, shoveling more and more into your plate like she does. It’s now become a ritual, or as you would like to call it, a hobby, to sit and devour food while shit-talking John Marston as he’s away. ‘Keeping his distance,’ whatever the hell that means, when the woman you’re with is nine months pregnant. 

In the midst of this new hobby, Dutch and Pearson have had many arguments. Dutch was always less than concerned about it, whilst Pearson nearly threw a fit every time either of you came to get portions for a meal.

“I’ve had enough of it. They come, they eat, they leave! That new boy of yours hasn’t done anything since he got here but eat us out of our stock,” Pearson complained for the hundredth time. Though you’d kept up with chores around the camp, (trying to help Abigail pick up some of her slack) you hadn’t really brought any money into the camp, which was what Dutch brought you here to do.

“Arthur’s been trainin’ him well, I’m sure it’ll be no time at all before he starts runnin’ jobs with us.” Dutch knew what this was really about…

Pearson was madder than a hornet when John first got Abigail pregnant. Even worse when he found out she would be traveling with the gang from then on. Feeding a pregnant woman was sometimes like feeding two extra men… not to mention the fact that you joined her at every meal. He doesn’t want to say anything about Abigail, especially in the state she’s in… but maybe if you didn’t sit and eat with her all the damn time, it wouldn’t be as bad, and the rations would last longer. 

“He better start earnin’ his keep. If he doesn’t I’ll skin him, make a stew.”

Dutch let out a boisterous laugh, clapping Pearson on the back and shaking his head. 

“I have a feeling he’ll probably bring in as much as Arthur… There’s some sort of competition between them. I think as long as they don’t rip each other to shreds, they’ll be real beneficial,” He started towards Hosea, passing by you and Abigail on the way and tipping his hat. “Top of the mornin’ to ya.”

“Mornin’,” you nodded with a smile, taking a sip of your coffee before digging back into the bread and jam you both raided from Pearson’s ‘kitchen.’

He ducked into his tent, and you turned back to Abigail, listening intently to all she had to say. Today, she had news of an argument between her and John the night before. 

“It’s been all, ‘how do I even know that kid is mine?’ and ‘what if I don’t want to be a part of it anymore?’ since about the five month mark. M’startin’ to think that maybe I should’ve just left the gang, convinced some poor drunk dope from the town it’s his.” She gave her best John impression when quoting him, and as funny as it was, all you could feel was grief for the young woman. She was too young to even be thinking this way. 

You’ve not spent any one on one time with John, but he sounds like a real ass.

“As sad as I am to say it, Miss Abigail… I believe most of us men are stupid as they come. We can’t tell what’s right in front of us, even if y’all are screamin’ and shoutin’.”

“If that ain’t the truth…” she trailed, sighing with her head down. Even though she portrayed her sorrows in a comedic light, you could tell it weighed on her. 

You weren’t sure if you should even offer this, because you had no idea if you would even be hiding your secret this long, but the longer you go without revealing anything… you’re starting to think of your little secret more permanently.

“If push comes to shove… You can tell the kid it’s mine. Not too sure it’ll believe you, what with the carrot head I got, but if you want to…”

She laughed lighthearted, and sighed again, but this time out of contentment. 

“I guess not all men are stupid. You’re not even the first one who’s offered that to me,” she explained, nodding towards the outskirts of camp where an open tent fixed upon a wagon sat neatly kept. “Arthur said the same thing when all these problems with John started.”

You smiled, looking at his empty living space, barely anything to show that he occupied the place. He had a simple cot and bedroll, a small table, and just a few sentimental pieces here and there. He didn’t need anything fancy or grandiose to his name, just a gun and his hat, and he was satisfied. He’s even kinder than you thought, too, hearing it firsthand from Abigail. A good man, and a great outlaw. You found yourself longing for him nearly every day now, and it would only get worse from here. 

“He’s sure something, ain’t he?” You tried to be nonchalant about him, and it seemed to work in the eyes of Abigail, but if she’d known just one little thing about you, her entire mind would be changed. 

“Oh, yes. I’ll be damn straight with ya, I almost wish it were Arthur I met last year. Wish it was him that found me at the brothel. I do love John, but… he breaks my heart sometimes,” she let out, trying to hold herself together. She’d long since begun crying herself to sleep at night, pretty much since John decided she could sleep on her own. Now, though, was not the place to break down. You’ve been kind enough to listen to her, and she feels as though using your shoulder to cry on would be taking advantage. So she changes the subject. “While I’m on the topic of love… I’ve heard you got an admirer.”

Your cheeks grew red from embarrassment, and she thought that maybe you were blushing, but she didn’t know how far off she was. “I guess I’ve heard a thing or two ‘bout that…”

“Tilly is a sweet girl, I’m sure you both would get along fine,” she added, going back to her food. 

“She’s one of the kindest souls I’ve met,” you told her, trying to be as honest as you could without divulging anything she didn’t need to know. “I’ve just never…”

“You’ve never… what?” 

You shrugged, huffing a sigh and eating the last piece of jam covered bread on your plate. Already you could tell you’d be hungry again soon. “Never been in a relationship like that before.”

“I see. Is that something you think you’d want?” Her patience is why you liked speaking with her. Sometimes she had a short temper, but it was almost always warranted and towards those who deserved it. 

You took her question to heart. You’d not even considered a relationship since the day you ran away. Your self-found freedom had been from an arranged marriage. It had been your choice to leave that way of life. You never thought you’d ever find love in the aftermath of your liberation, but thinking about it now… You looked to Arthur’s tent, just a single glance to see if he’s returned yet.

“I hope so, maybe someday when the time is right. I just think that right now, I’m not so sure about anything at all, and it wouldn’t be fair to Miss Tilly to start up something I ain’t ready for.”

She sat and stared into your downward expression for a minute, meeting your eyes when you looked up. 

You smirked a little at her gaping expression, trying to make light of it. 

“I got somethin’ on my face?” 

“No,” she shook her head, knocking herself out of whatever trance she just fell into. “S’just that… I think you’re mighty wise for someone your age. And for a man, too.” 

“I reckon that’s a real fine compliment, and I’ll take it well.”

You both shared a laugh before going back to the stashed food for seconds. 

-

Dutch had an idea… a dangerous thing, but sometimes a very lucrative one. 

The worst part about this dangerous and lucrative idea? Arthur, Javier, John, and Bill were on board. It meant there was gonna be one hell of a party this afternoon, and no one in their right mind would have the courage to stop it. 

You were unaware of said idea until around lunch time, when Pearson just ripped you a new one for taking food before it was even ready. You shared it with Abigail of course, you’re not an animal.

Dutch and Hosea were making the plans for this afternoon, and came across you both sulking in the grass, just inches away from Pearson’s space. They grabbed some small provisions for themselves, as they hadn’t quite eaten much today, and you overheard some of their chatter. 

“I’m getting too old for all that excitement. One job here and there is all I can do anymore,” Hosea tried to reason with his dearest friend. 

“I need another gun or it doesn’t work,” Dutch sighed out, scratching the back of his neck as he thought of another solution. 

You stood up and peeked over the barrel you’d been resting against, leaning over it and making your presence known. 

“I got a gun,” you smirked, halfway joking incase he shuts you down. He hasn’t told you directly that he doesn’t want you riding with them yet, but he has asked Arthur if he thinks you’re ready… to which Arthur always replied, ‘almost.’ 

Dutch narrowed his eyes at you, looking back to Hosea, but the man held his hands up in mock defense. He was gonna sit this one out regardless.

“How’s your horse with gunfire?” he asked, genuinely considering your offer today. 

“He oughta be fine, otherwise I can take someone else’s.”

There was another moment of pause, and Hosea spoke up. 

“Sean would be happy to go, he hasn’t seen action in a few weeks.” 

You sighed, doing your best to act as if you weren’t upset, then started to speak loudly.

“That’s fine by me. I’ll just stay here and have lunch with Abigail…” you trailed, and immediately Pearson whipped himself around from his station. 

“No!” He shouted, and though you were partially joking, he didn’t want to find that out for himself. He’d had enough of you, and likely of Abigail, too. “As God is my witness, I will pack my shit and never look back… take him, I’m beggin’ ya.”

Dutch found his little outburst quite comical, as did you. He chuckled lowly and rolled it over in his head once more before deciding. Maybe what you really needed to learn was being thrown in the deep end. Hell, he knew what you were capable of. It was the very reason you stood on this ground in the first place. Now he needed to put those fiery trigger fingers to the test. 

“Son,” he turned back to face you with a look of sheer confidence, hopefully this didn’t mean the pressure would all be on you. “Saddle your horse, load up on ammo. You’ll be going with John.”

The smile you had immediately left your face. 

“Yessir,” you said quickly, leaving the group to do as he said. 

John Marston, the man you’d been shit talking for over a week now. Not to his face, of course, but to his lady it was enough, even if she was doing just as much if not more in sullying his name. 

You had a bad taste for him, that much you could say. It wasn’t going to be fun, but you’d prevail. You had to. It was time to start earning your keep. 

You found the rest of the men by the hitching posts, strolling up as confidently as can be. You enjoyed the baffled looks of confusion they wore, unsure of what you were doing here. Surely you wouldn’t be joining them…

“Howdy,” you teased, tipping your hat to them with a sideways smirk. Your young looking ‘boyish’ features gave them an inkling of annoyance with the look you wore, all cocky and arrogant for show. “Give me just a second, I’ll be ready to head out.”

“You’re coming with us?” Bill questioned, though it wasn’t out of sheer curiosity, but agitation.

“Damn straight,” you muttered quieter, done joking for now since they all seemed to be absolutely against you riding along. You got along with them in camp, why did they seem to exclude you now that a job was concerned? Why did they look like they were about to fight tooth and nail to keep you here?

You ignored their sarcastic chatter over your ‘scrawny’ appearance, and made ready your horse. You’d taken him riding several times since getting here, but he hasn’t gotten to see much action other than running down the side of the river bank. 

“What the hell are you doin’?” Arthur came up beside you, trying to gain your primary focus and lead it away from the horse… not exactly a hard task when you look like Arthur Morgan does.

“Dutch said I’m ridin’ on the job,” you explained, making it very clear, first and foremost, that you had permission to go out with them from the boss.

“When? Just now? Because as it was told to us, you weren’t goin’...” 

“I get y’all don’t exactly want me here, but he needed another gun. I happen to have one, matter of fact, and I’m pretty damn good at shootin’ it. I don’t understand your hissy fit, but it ain’t gonna stop me from goin’, so I hope we’re not gonna have a problem, here.” 

He kept his mouth shut. He needed to think and rehash his words in his head before he let something fly that he didn’t at all mean. 

“I’m tryin’ to protect you, kid.” He was even closer than before all of a sudden, and you had to make him the center of your attention once again.

“Protect me from what? I shoot faster than you, remember?”

You made a point, but he made a better one. 

“You mean ‘the one shot you know how to take?’ Is that the one?” He recalled your words from many days before, the day he began teaching you everything you needed to know. You’d been here nearly a month now, if you hadn’t learned enough already, you never would.

“Look, Arthur,” you turned away from him using all the strength you had, because dammit, you did enjoy looking at him. “I know you don’t think this is ideal, but it’s not your call to make. Take it up with Dutch.”

You strapped a rifle to your horse and grabbed its reins from the hitching post, leading the dark, glossy stallion over by where the boys were finishing up. 

“Marston,” you called, all traces of light hearted fun were gone from your tone, completely dulled and sullen from the loss of excitement. “I’m with you.”

-

Arthur rode with Dutch nearly the whole time.

You were on the caboose end of the cavalcade, and watched them talk up ahead. There was no doubt in your mind it concerned you, because that’s why Arthur is so high strung, so angry about this job. 

Javier gave you the run-down on the first few minutes of the ride. It’s a quick job, and shouldn’t get drawn any attention from the neighboring towns. Essentially, there’s a procession of carriages coming from the north and heading south east, and most of the folk traveling are fairly wealthy. The kicker is, all the valuables from each person are said to be stowed on a ‘safe cart’ in the middle of the procession. You’re not sure how they figure that, but you know Dutch has incredible sources. Using the team assembled, you’ll all have to separate the safe cart from the rest of the caravan, leading it off the trail and far enough away that it can be easily raided with no repercussions. The only downside? The safe cart is heavily guarded by several armed men and is manned by experienced drivers. 

Once Javier started getting into the logistics and details of the job, you zoned out, focusing on the conversation happening with Arthur and Dutch up ahead. You had no clue what they were saying, but the body language and facial expressions said a lot. 

Arthur likely expressed his concerns to Dutch, and thereafter, was told he need not be concerned… But Arthur was a persistent animal, he didn’t just dip his head and turn away. 

You think that Arthur may have listed a few points for Dutch to consider, and that the man did so, with the fact in the forefront of his mind that you were still on the job. 

By the time everyone reached the lookout, the two of them circled around to face the rest. 

“There’s been a change of plan,” Dutch called out, looking over every face and the horse they accommodated, and they lasted longer on you than the others. “John, you’re taking the frontside of the caravan with Javier.”

And just like that, you’d been replaced. 

“Where am I goin’ then?” You tilted your head in confusion.

“You’re with me, Red,” Arthur let out, his tone not nearly as angry as earlier. Now you gotta know what happened during that talk with Dutch.

“Yes, you and Arthur will bring up the back, makin’ sure there’s no surprises.”

You weren’t sure what to feel. Was he trying to keep you where he could see you? Did he think of himself as your babysitter? Why would he put up all that fuss just to give in as long as you rode with him?

“Alright,” you sighed out, acknowledging that bringing up the rear of the operation was still better than not coming at all. 

The rest of the plan stayed the same, and soon, everyone split off with their respective partners for this heist. 

You rode off with Arthur in silence to the waiting point, not daring to say anything until you’d been sure nobody was around to hear it. You weren’t going to rip into him about this, but you had questions. He clearly was concerned over your wellbeing if he fought so hard to make sure you wouldn’t be riding in, guns blazing, on your first job. You were just going to cover the rear, a measure of security. 

When you stopped just short of the trail, you hitched your horses, taking cover behind some bushes and trees to lay low. You turned to Arthur with a huff. 

“What the hell was that?” 

He was taken aback, but not jumpy about your outburst.

“Don’t start with this again, kid. I’m tryin’ to help you,” he crossed his arms, leaning against the tree and watching the road. It was still too early for the caravan, but he didn’t want to meet your eyeline.

“You ain’t helpin’ me, you’re holdin’ me back,” you grumbled, stepping on a small gathering of dead leaves, becoming even more enraged - for no good reason - when they didn’t crunch beneath your boot. 

“You’ll thank me one day…” he trailed, lighting a cigarette from within his pocket. You would have decked him in the face if you thought it would help. 

At first you’d been grateful to him, for seeing you no differently than the others, and even showing you the ropes to become better equipped. Now you could see it was all a ruse. He underestimated you and kept telling Dutch you weren’t ready. He kept ‘training’ you to keep you busy. You weren’t falling for that shtick again. You didn’t care how pretty his eyes were, anymore. 

“Where do you get off, Morgan? The shit you’ve been putting me through these past weeks…” you scoffed, finding it amusing almost just how unbothered he seemed to be. Maybe he really was just as mean as the town’s folk say. “I’ve been able to match or best you at everything you’ve thrown at me. Maybe I should just take you out of my way.” 

He chuckled, standing upright and creeping towards you with slow steps. His eyes narrowed, and for once, you felt you knew what it was like to be prey. 

“You wanna give it a try?” he taunted, towering over you with a threatening stare. Just seeing how intimidating he could really be, you wanted to back off. Of course, you didn’t. “You really think you could take me?” 

His voice was all too quiet, all too calm. The words he spoke held such heaviness, but it didn’t show in his tone. He was teasing you, and if you gave in, he’d likely give you a humbling. You knew he’d been eyeing your hand, as if hovered closely to your gun belt… so you dropped it to your side to defuse him a little. 

“I think I could drop you where you stand.”

You were all talk, now, and he knew that… but it still boiled under his skin the way you challenged him. 

“You make quite a big to do of yourself… M’guessin’ that’s where most of your reputation came from,” he smirked, but he should know better than to taunt you about those men you shot dead.

“Before I got here I barely spoke a word to no one… I got my reputation from shootin’ folks so fast they didn’t have time to repent to God.” 

Your dead eye stare caught him. He didn’t back down, didn’t waver… he was so staunchly preserved in his way of life that he didn’t even let it show in his eyes just how much you got to him with that line.

“Your twenty-one notches ain’t shit to me.” He’s sure that by now he’s killed hundreds, maybe thousands. Sure, most he shot in the back, but the number in which he didn’t still far surpasses your miniscule little twenty-one. 

“Then let’s make it twenty-two, yeah?” You didn’t plan on shooting it, but you drew your pistol faster than he could think, trying to put it against his chest to scare him, but his reaction time was faster than you had initially thought. He grabbed the gun from your hand before it ever neared him, and threw it into the grass behind him before shoving you down.  

“Damnit, Red! You have no clue, do you?” He stood over you angrily, looking at your frozen figure like you were an animal he was hunting. “You got a gift that none of us have. Hell, I’ve been doin’ this for sixteen years and I still ain’t as fast as you. You could be the best of us, but you’re too damn stubborn, and too damn arrogant. You’re never gonna get anywhere if you’re dead.”

You stood to your feet, staring at him silently. You didn’t have anything to say to him, and honestly, you weren’t sure what would even be okay at this point. He was still angry, but his arms were no longer tense, and he wasn’t seething through harsh breaths anymore. You turned away from him and walked to your horse, sitting back down by the base of a tree and tipping your hat over your eyes. This was going to be a long day.

-

It was approaching sundown when the caravan actually arrived. You’d been napping when Dutch and Bill first gave the signal. Arthur had been watching for it the entire time, and scoffed when he turned his head to you, finding you still fast asleep as if you had nothing to worry about. 

He took a few steps over towards your resting place, kicking your boot and startling you out of your peaceful slumber. 

“What?” you asked, annoyed. Your hat was still over your eyes, so he couldn’t see how dazed you actually were. 

“Sorry, miss… didn’t mean to disturb you,” he teased, his mood having cooled off since the hours after the fight you had. “Just thought you should be conscious during your first job.”

You huffed and stood to your feet, fixing your hat and making sure you hadn’t left anything on the ground. 

Arthur went back to the lookout position and watched through his binoculars for any signs that it was about to go down… you still weren’t one hundred percent clear on the plan, so you thought you might try and annoy him a little by reiterating it.

“So… Dutch and Bill are gonna close in on the sides, leadin’ the safe carriage away from the rest, and that’s when Javier and John stop it from the front. I got that right?” 

“You got it right,” he droned on mindlessly, trying his best to pay more attention to the small flaming signal in the distance. It’s getting closer, but until they put the fire out, there’s no need to mount your horses. 

“Then it‘s a four man job, they don’t even need us.”

“I s’pose you never heard the term ‘backup’ then, have you?” He snickered, still not even giving a glance in your direction. He was firm as stone in his resolve, and you figured it would be no use trying to entertain yourself further. 

“Didn’t take you as the ‘backup’ type…” you grumbled under your breath, mumbling some other incoherencies that he didn’t get a chance to hear. He was almost sure he saw Bill creeping over to the torch, and became positive when the light went dark. 

“Get on your horse,” he became quieter, more focused. You instantly figured it out that he was the type to zone in on his jobs, and maybe you could learn from it. If you really wanted to be his equal, you needed to learn to meet or best him in everything he thrives at. 

“You get the signal?” 

He nodded, “they’re coming down the trail, we gotta be ready to chase em’ when they come through.”

You both pulled up onto your saddles, holding the horse’s from moving too much. If your position was given away, they might derail the caravan from the trail. You reckon this many rich folk traveling in a pack oughta know someone’s gonna be stupid enough to steal from them. It’s why they have a safe carriage in the first place. 

Within a moment, you can see the caravan coming over the hill. It’s dimly lit as the sun lowers completely behind the mountains, small lanterns clinging to every vehicle on the trail. You look up to the ridge that Arthur had been scoping out all this time, and you see Dutch and Bill riding downwards in a rapid attempt to split the caravan. That’s when you spot it… the stone cold metal wagon, weighing probably more than all the horses in camp combined, and armed to the brim with men on every corner. They carry heavy repeaters, their heads on a swivel. They haven’t seen Dutch or Bill yet, but as they round the corner, they all raise their weapons, just for the sound of horse hooves. 

“Cover ‘em,” Arthur told you, grabbing his rifle off his horse’s saddle. You did the same, not hesitant to start shooting at the men in the distance. You had relatively good cover, and couldn’t really be seen, but upon seeing so much fire come from your side of the trail, they began offroading towards Dutch and Bill. 

“Do we go?” you asked, switching to your pistol as you prepared to let your horse run. 

“Not yet,” he held his hand for you to watch, leaning sideways to see around another tree. He had to make sure the rest of the caravan wasn’t following the safe cart. When he saw that most of them stopped in place, he flicked his wrist, pointing in the direction you needed to go. “Now.”

You rode quickly and out onto the trail, passing the other carriages. You could vaguely hear women crying and men yelling. They ain’t gotta be afraid for their lives, so long as they stay put. 

It wasn’t hard to catch up to the gang, as they had taken the remaining guards off on the way to stopping the carriage. There was one rogue horseman that Arthur turned and shot before he could get too close to the area, but other than that, they were able to get the damn thing stationary enough to rob. 

“John, hold him off,” Dutch commanded, watching the younger man hold his gun to the carriage driver’s skull. The man cried out for mercy, not knowing that Dutch would spare his life regardless. He was unarmed, and wasn’t standing in their way, so obviously they would let him go. The Van Der Linde’s did have a code, after all. “Arthur, you open the back.”

And so he put his gun away and strolled up to the back of the wagon with his head held high, happy this robbery went according to plan… until of course, he opened the back, and was unprepared for a heavily armed man to aim right for his chest and pull the trigger. Two guns sounded at almost the same time, but yours sounded first, and it was just quick enough to skew the aim of the dead man, and he landed a non-fatal blow to Arthur’s shoulder. Both men collapsed, but one was still alive. Twenty-Two…

“Arthur! You alright, son?” Dutch yelled, running over to check on him. You’d already knelt down by where he had fallen back to, trying to sit up, but failing because of the pain. You immediately put pressure on his wound, trying to stop the bleeding on your own accord. You ripped the bandana from your neck and tried tying it up, but it was just barely long enough to go around his entire shoulder and underarm. 

“M’fine, s’just a minor shot, it went through.”

“Brooks, you oughta take him back to camp, see if any of the girls know how to patch him up,” he gave you direct orders, and you nodded, helping a moaning and groaning Arthur to his feet. 

“How’d we make out?” Arthur asked, looking into the open wagon, where Bill and Javier seemed to be rolling in money.

“Pretty damn good,” Dutch replied, giving a pat to your shoulder, since Arthur’s is in disarray. “And Brooks?” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, a hopeful look on your face, longing for the approval of someone besides yourself for once. “Yeah?”

“You did good.”

And there it was, the signed seal of approval from none other than Dutch Van Der Linde himself. 

You and Arthur remained pretty silent on the ride back to camp, mostly because he was in a shocking amount of pain and distress, but he did his best to hold it in.

You hitched and unsaddled his horse for him, doing the same with yours before following him into camp. He made way for one of the ladies, maybe Abigail if Jack was asleep already, or Karen if she wasn’t busy workin’ some of the town men. 

“Hey,” you recognized what he was doing, so you pulled him by the opposite arm in the direction of his tent. “I’ll do it.”

His living area was just wide open space in the trees, unlike yours, however, he got quite a bit more elbow room than you did. Perks of seniority

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m tryna apologize, you should let me.”

He laughed a little, a soft smile on his lips.

“What’re you apologizing for?” He asked, sitting down into his cot as you rummaged through the supplies he had on hand. Maybe not the best stuff around, but to stitch him up and wrap it after, it was fine. He’d survive. 

“Bein’ an ass, and taunting you when I know you could snap my neck in one hand.” You were flat in your tone, too focused on threading a needle to put any effort behind your words. 

“I’d never,” he said, laughing a little. He seemed to be in a cheerful mood for just having been shot. 

“You might,” you tied the thread off and bit the end to break it from the spool. Very hygienic, you know, but you didn’t find a pair of scissors. “You’ve only just barely reached the surface for just how obnoxious I can be.”

“Oh have I now?” 

“Mhm…”

You pulled at his shirt collar, opening just a few more buttons until it could pull back over his arm. He didn’t stop you, or even wince, just sat back and waited for the sting of a needle.

“This ain’t gonna tickle,” you braced him, but as soon as you started digging into his skin, making the actual stitches, he was surprised. You were pretty good at this… the reasoning behind it was probably just another one of your many secrets, he’s sure.

“S’not so bad, actually. You do this a lot?” 

“Not anymore… but I was a little rich girl, remember? Did embroidery and needlepoint since I was a little kid. I kind of miss it, actually.” 

“A gunslinger misses doin’ needlepoint?” he chuckled, feeling the hole in his skin being patched back together. Now you just gotta do the other side. 

“Well sure,” you furrowed your brows, leaning forward to bite the thread again and pull his body so you could see the exit wound. “I used to sit on the porch of my house and do it with my mama.”

He felt sorrowful all of a sudden. “Were you uh… close with your mother?”

You nodded, not speaking in fears you’d tear up, or your voice would crack. The way you both were sitting, he couldn’t see the direct look on your face, but he understood it was probably a sensitive subject. 

Oh to think, what a life you may have led if you were not born a girl. You missed your mother, and your old friends from school. You missed being able to do needlepoint, and other more feminine activities. 

“You know what I hate most about this life?” you uttered, your voice shallow, but you didn’t seem to care all that much anymore. He seemed to take a genuine interest in your problems, and your personal feelings. It was more than you could say about most men. “I haven’t worn a dress in four years… and I really love dresses.”

This wasn’t the meltdown you saw yourself having in front of Arthur, but he didn’t mind it. He placed his opposite hand on your shoulder as you bit off the last thread to seal his wounds. 

“How about this… someday, when you’ve told everyone that you’re- y’know…” he trailed, nodding his head around for emphasis. “I’ll buy you a dress in town. Whichever one you want.”

You couldn’t help but smile. In the span of one day, you’d gone through nearly every emotion you possibly could with this man, but in the end, your resolve had again been weakened, and you found yourself falling into his crystal eyes once more. 

“Thank you, Arthur… You’re a kind man, you know?” 

He shook his head. “Not so kind to most.”

You knew not to argue with him, as you were learning, he was very self deprecating, and there was no changing his mind. You took a leap, unsure of what might come of it, but you wanted to show your gratuity some other way. 

You quickly leaned forward, kissing his cheek ever so softly, almost as if it didn’t even happen. When you sat back, his eyes were a bit wider, and his brows were raised. He seemed to be frozen in surprise, and words failed him. You didn’t want him to possibly find words that could hurt, so you stood up to leave, calling after him whilst walking away. 

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

And that would have been good enough, but your heart skipped a beat when your sentiment was returned. 

“Night, Red.”

Tags: @photo1030 @sheepdogchick @snoopysshark @strvberrydoll

[yuri-is-online]

oof that's a really good morally grey pwp idea... if darkwick tells mc her curse cannot be lifted but can be passed on to a child -> the new cure is for her to be impregnated by a ghoul (better chance of whatever makes them ghouls overpowering whatever makes mc cursed), give birth to that child and for darkwick to kill the newborn immediately... but to prevent any of the ghouls from forming a real attachment to the fetus and somehow busting into the delivery room to save it, they can't know who the father is -> cue a multichapter pwp fic (with the exception of rui)...

(sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, please delete if so!!)

( • ̀ω•́ )✧ fufuufufufu no I don't mind this, I lack the technical skills to write it but yes that's a really good pwp idea. Poor Rui this might be enough to make him actually lose it, can you imagine being someone whose main character trait is being a whore, but being denied your godgiven right join the school sanctioned gangbang? They're even encouraging you to hit it raw fuck this stupid baka life he's done. I also like how you excluded Rui but not Zenji because that would make it even worse... the ghost gets to hit it but he doesn't? ED GETS TO HIT IT BUT NOT HIM?!?!?!!!!

I was thinking about smut when I typed that of course but I didn't really spend a lot of time thinking about the plot because I was too busy inventing new ethical questions. Would Taiga want to eat the baby? It is technically part anomaly... he doesn't want to eat Ed or Lyca so I would guess not but still. What about guys like Romeo, Ritsu, or Jin? Would they even agree to participate in something like this given how important children are to rich fussy families would they see making one like this extra wrong? Or would the horny kick in and they not want to allow the chance for MC's baby to be anyone other than theirs? Oh and on Ritsu, I feel like he'd be making a bunch of weird legal arguments trying to justify wanting to get the mc pregnant. He's just repressed, the arguments don't matter, but would he then try to make a bunch of arguments to keep the baby alive? Is there a legal standard of personhood in Japan and do I even want to research that-

Speaking of personhood, Lyca, Ed, and Zenji. I feel like Lyca wouldn't be able to let go of the idea of MC as his mate and that child as his baby. He wants to live with humans and be human, part of that seems to be him wanting a real family so if he was the baby daddy this would just be extra cruel. His instinct and desire is to love and protect, and even if he didn't have that he knows what Darkwick is like. Danger or not he doesn't want them killing you or the baby. Ed probably just wouldn't see what the problem is. Yes, his baby is an abomination from hell part vampire part Kyklos (so little human he doesn't need to mention that). No, he will not be letting Darkwick kill them and yes he will know if the baby is his, he has a sixth sense for these sorts of things. Now now don't cry, he might be an old man but he's not above taking responsibility, Japan was getting boring anyway. He can drop you off in whatever hole he crawled out of to can rest and recover while he watches the baby and shows them man made horrors beyond their comprehension (conspiracy youtube videos). I brought up Zenji just because the image of MC wanting to get dicked down by a ghost and conducting a dark ritual to let him do it. Also idk Zenji feels like another extra tragic because he also is someone who values family so I don't think he would want to see his child die, but also if it could save MC he'd really want to try and help.

Yuri would be very smug about this being a solution, volunteer to help, realize that everyone thinks he wants to fuck the MC, and then pass out from screaming denial and the mental image of her bare neck. I feel like he'd be one of the "worse" choices in Darkwick's mind because he would probably want to keep the baby to experiment on, but be completely unable to see them as anything other than his child and devolve into the same desperate search to cure them as he was on with MC. And he expects child support! He will not be a single father, MC get back here and take some responsibility for your actions!!! Jiro also feels like someone who would volunteer not realizing the method he was volunteering for but unlike Yuri he just rolls with it. He's so unashamed of nudity, yours or his, and what is sex if not nudity with some extra steps-

(My mind more went towards artificial insemination, so Rui wouldn't be excluded from the pool and there was no chance for the ghouls to form an emotional connection to either the MC or their potential baby. Oh I also don't think Darkwick would tell MC or the dad that the kid is going to be killed. They would probably lie about it and act like the child would be fine, just maybe an anomaly they would need to keep an eye on. And then they lie to MC and say the baby was still born but they just keep them in a little padded room and experiment on them their whole life, which just starts the Kyklos cycle anew except this time the monster is sentient and out for blood with intent.)

[gothcsz]

𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 / Chapter XX.

GIF by bestintheparsec

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Original Female Character

SUMMARY: The night of the ritual.

WORD COUNT: ~9.1k

RATING: 18+ Explicit topics such as sex, drugs, murder, the occult, religion, cannibalism and other triggering matters will be explored in this body of work. Minors DNI.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC TAGS: dead dove: do not eat!, kidnapping, mc is held hostage, allusions to SA (nothing explicit. will be explained later on), hallucinations, humiliation, wound care, hurt/no comfort, crime thriller vibes are vibing, demon worship, cult ritual, supernatural elements, non-consensual drug use, angst, whump, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i'm missing any other tags please let me know.

DISCLAIMER/WARNINGS: The Javier Peña referenced in this body of work is solely based off of the character that appears in Netflix’s Narcos and not the actual person. Very canon divergent and I will tweak things as I see fit to compliment the narrative of this story. While efforts have been made to be accurate in terms of canon timeline, a lot of details will be fictionalized.

A/N: i’m going to hold y’all’s hand when i say this... i am putting paloma through it 😓 i was initially going to just bang everything out and post it in one big chapter, but as i was writing... i just felt like it would be better if we let the suspense of it all do its thing and end with a cliffhanger. i am a sucker for ‘em, even if they’re so frustrating (in the best way possible) 😭 i hope that all the lore revolving the cult has been concise and strong enough to hold up during the ending bit of this. i wish i could say things are going to get better from here but they’re not… they’re actually going to get worse 🤠 as always, feel free to drop any type of feedback/support on this blog or on ao3. i'd really appreciate it 🖤

♰  read on ao3. ♰

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When ten minutes pass, Javier brushes it off. She’s probably just caught up in something. It’s nothing to worry about.

But when twenty minutes roll by, that’s when the unease creeps in. He starts pacing the living room, fighting the urge for a cigarette, glancing at the clock.

Where is she?

By the time half an hour has come and gone, he’s dialing the library, wondering why Paloma hasn’t come home yet. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. His stomach tightens, and he wills himself to remain calm. She’s probably fine.

At the hour mark, Javier’s behind the wheel, speeding into town. Maybe she’s still upset from the argument they had earlier, and instead of coming home, she went to Tammy’s.

But when Tammy tells him she hasn’t heard from Paloma for a few days now, a knot twists in his chest.

Panic threatens to take hold, but he pushes it down. He can’t let it consume him—not yet. Not until he has a real reason to worry.

But she has that damn habit of disappearing to sulk in random places when she’s upset. And that habit is gnawing at him now.

He drives to every spot he can think of, the abandoned tracks, the clearing behind the cemetery, the creek—but there’s no sign of her.

That terrible feeling grows, heavy and unshakable. He marches into the sheriff’s department, jaw set, not caring who sees the frantic look in his eyes.

He storms the file room, ripping through boxes. His hands tremble as he plucks out the file he’s searching for.

“Fuck!” He curses under his breath, jaw tightening as the photo of Paloma’s mother stares back at him.

Now, he has a reason to panic.

He should have known when he first laid eyes on it. The familiarity of her features—her eyes, her hair, her smile; it was all too close to Paloma. Too close to ignore. But he had, all because his mind was completely elsewhere at the time. Now look where that got him.

It’s like a scene from a horror film, where everything snaps into place too late.

The recent victims; brunettes in their mid-twenties with similar features, similar backgrounds—they resembled her.

The staged chamber, the gore, the man who killed himself.

All of it was leading to this, tying up the gruesome mystery with a neat little bow, like a gift Javier wishes he could burn. They had been played—manipulated, distracted from seeing the bigger picture.

Whoever orchestrated this whole thing has been after his girl from the very beginning.

He fights the urge to smash his fist into the nearest wall, to tear down every shelf in the room in a fit of blind rage.

But what would that solve? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Rage won’t lead him to her. Fear won’t undo what’s already been set in motion. All he can do is cling to hope, even if it’s slipping through his fingers.

The ultimate goal of this fucked-up cult—their twisted mission—is to birth the flesh reincarnate of their so-called, bullshit deity.

His blood runs cold at the thought of Paloma being used in some horrific ritual, being touched, violated, forced into madness.

He’s shaking, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. But he forces himself to breathe—slow, deep, steady breaths, locking the perturbation away. 

Javier puts out an APB, his voice tight as he details her car, her appearance. Every word feels surreal, like it’s not really him saying it, like he’s watching someone else’s nightmare play out.

Romeo’s going to hear this, and he’s going to have to explain how they missed all the signs, how Paloma has been in danger this whole time.

The weight of it presses down on him like a thousand pounds of guilt.

Gathering what he needs and delegating some of the overnight officers at the station, he frantically drives to the Leighton house.

He’s already chain-smoked half a pack. That nasty habit he’s been trying to shake is clinging to him. The file in his hands feels too light for the bomb he’s about to drop.

How the fuck is he supposed to do this? How do you tell someone their wife’s past is tangled in a nightmare, and that their daughter—a woman they both love—is at the heart of it? How do you stay composed when you’re barely holding yourself together?

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

Javier’s barely set foot out of his truck when Romeo’s fists twist in his shirt, shoving him hard against the vehicle.

The impact rattles through him, but all he can see is the wild, desperate look in the sheriff’s eyes—a terror that matches his own but runs even deeper, cutting into every line on his face.

“Romeo, listen to me!” Javier’s voice is authoritative, that familiar guarded wall of stoicism building as his trademark defense mechanism to the absolute anxiety that’s gnawing away at his body. “This is gonna be hard to hear—I’m barely making sense of it myself—but I need you to listen if we’re going to figure this shit out.”

Romeo’s grip tightens, then slowly loosens, and Javier seizes the moment, shoving the older man back, no longer giving a fuck about keeping the peace.

He yanks the folded photo from his jacket pocket and holds it up, letting him get a clear look. “Tell me. Is this Paloma’s mother?”

Romeo’s gaze flits to the photograph, and the recognition that floods his face is immediate.

His fingers snatch the photo from Javier, and his expression cracks, aging him in just a matter of seconds. “Where did you get this?” His voice is barely a whisper, “What the fuck is going on?”

Javier’s own dread deepens. “From the old files,” he says, voice hollow. “The ones from the original group. She’s connected to all of this. They both are.”

He takes a breath, then begins to explain everything he knows. He lays it out, bit by bit—the tangled web of what Paloma had uncovered, the twisted threads that pointed to this cult, the fake leads that had kept them chasing shadows. Every word feels like glass in his throat.

Confusion, fear, anger—every emotion etched on Romeo’s face makes Javier feel like he’s the one who has failed. 

“Did you know about any of this?” he asks, though he already knows the answer from the lost look in Romeo’s eyes.

His mouth opens, then closes. He seems to gather himself, shoulders dropping under a weight he’s only just begun to grasp. “None. When I met Abby… she was just a woman startin’ over. She’d moved into a small house near the church. Said her parents had passed and she needed a fresh start. Picked a random town—that’s how she ended up here.” The sheriff’s gaze drifts to a place Javier can’t reach, caught in the bittersweet memory of his late wife. 

“Paloma said she found this out by going through her mom’s things,” he says carefully, each word a stone dropping into his gut. “But I don’t think she was telling me everything.”

Silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded as they lock eyes in an unspoken understanding.

They need answers, and every second they waste is another second Paloma could be slipping further away.

“Before we make accusations,” Javier says, forcing himself to stay grounded, “we need to dig through their belongings. There has to be something there—a lead, a hint—something that’ll tell us who’s behind this.”

“But you already know who it is, don’t you?”

Javier’s eyes darken, and his jaw locks as one name barrels into his mind, clear and hateful: August.

The red flags he had dismissed, convinced they were just a byproduct of his hate for the guy, now stand out like beacons.

He meets Romeo’s gaze, a grim certainty settling into his features. “I believe it’s Augustus Dixon and his group.”

Romeo’s face twists with anger, and he grits out, “Motherfucker—” His fists clench, his whole body radiating fury.

“Be pissed off later. We’ve got a job to do.”

They stalk up the stairs, both men moving with purpose—Romeo heads for his wife’s things while Javier makes his way into Paloma’s room.

It feels surreal, even wrong, to be rummaging through her life like this. The last time he’d been in this position, it was in Jessica’s room, and even then he could see the resemblance her space shared with Paloma’s—but he’d never thought he’d be here, seeing his girl as a victim.

His fingers skim over a leather-bound book tucked away on the top shelf in her closet, hidden behind a jewelry box. It’s as if she’d placed it there purposefully, stowed away out of reach.

When he pulls it down, he realizes it’s a scrapbook brimming with photographs and clippings.

Inside, he finds images of Calmana, surrounded by groups of men and women, all dressed in matching, traditional attire. A towering cathedral looms in the background, religious iconography scattered throughout—symbols he now recognizes from his research.

Maps, faded with time, span several pages, and in the center lies an intricate, sprawling family tree with Paloma’s name written at the bottom.

He spots envelopes tucked between the pages, each one addressed to her in cursive hand.

He calls out for Romeo, and the sheriff is by his side almost instantly, his expression a twisted mix of hope and dread.

“What’d you find?” 

Javier silently hands him the scrapbook, keeping the envelopes for himself. 

One by one, he opens them, unfolding each paper. His breaths come out ragged, and he feels his stomach drop as he reads.

They’re love poems—explicit, filthy in their adoration. Line after line, they detail all the things August wants to do to her, each word penned with obsession.

The praises he lavishes on her, how he calls her a spectacle, the power he insists she wields—it’s like poison seeping into Javier’s mind. 

His hands start trembling, and the implications tighten around him like a noose.

Romeo, sensing his agitation, reaches out, his voice rough. “What’s that—what did you find?” 

Javier jerks the papers away, swallowing hard. “Trust me. You don’t want to see these—not now.”

“Let me see them, Javier! Goddammit, my daughter is in danger!”

Before their back-and-forth can spiral any further, Javier’s walkie talkie crackles sharply, an officer’s voice coming through:

“A dark green, 1970 Buick Electra matching the APB put out an hour ago has been found in Lake Fraiser alongside an unidentified female body.”

The air thickens and shatters as Javier and Romeo lock eyes, both of them wearing the same look of wide-eyed horror. 

“Romeo—” Javier tries, reaching out, but the man is already out the door, the scrapbook falling from his hands and hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud that reverberates in Javier’s chest.

He mutters a quick fuck and scoops it up, rushing after him, yet the sheriff is a blur, tearing down the driveway with the kind of desperation only a father can muster when everything he loves is on the line.

Now that he’s left alone, Javier grips the railing, and the weight of it all—of losing her—comes crashing down. His heart’s splintering, his chest tight, mind skidding out of control.

This is what he’s been running from all along—failure… loss… grief. Now it is all coming back, circling like vultures, ready to take the one thing that’s ever brought him true happiness.

But he forces himself to breathe, to anchor his mind to the one cold comfort he has left. “He wouldn’t kill her. He needs her.” The words taste bitter, chilling him, but they hold him steady.

Paloma is at the center of this plan—there’d be no sense in taking her, just to end it so abruptly.

Despite everything, he finds a sliver of reassurance in that cruel logic. He clings to it with everything he has, because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Javier pulls up to Lake Fraiser, where the scene is a flurry of first responders, flashing lights reflecting off the water’s dark surface in sharp reds and blues.

He parks haphazardly, barely cutting the engine before he’s out of the truck, heading straight toward the area cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape.

His heart slams against his ribs as he spots Romeo, kneeling by the edge of the lake beside a body draped in a white cloth, his face blank, almost empty.

Javier’s eyes dart to the surrounding officers, scanning each one, trying to get a read on the situation before he speaks.

“Is it her?” His voice breaks the stillness.

Romeo doesn’t look up, his gaze locked on the covered body. “…No.”

Relief floods through him, dizzying him for a moment before his gaze lands on a tow truck pulling Paloma’s car away from the scene. 

He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to swallow back the bitter uncertainty rising in his throat.

Romeo stands slowly, brushing the dirt off his hands, his expression hardening as he relays, “Just got a call from the hospital. Our girl from the woods finally woke up. Tonight of all nights.” He chuckles dryly. “Asked to speak with me specifically. So I’ll head that way tomorrow after she’s been stabilized properly… which means you’ll be in charge of all this.” He gestures around them vaguely.

The pulsing emergency lights cast fractured shadows over their faces.

“It’s best for you to step back momentarily. Clear your head. You’re too close to this,” Javier adds quietly, “She’s your daughter.” And while Javier is her lover and every inch of him is fraying at the edges for her, he understands that his pain won’t amount to the agony that Romeo is drowning in.

The sheriff’s silence stretches, words hesitating on his tongue, until finally, with a quiet confession, he murmurs, “I was too harsh on her. On you. I was an asshole, and if it’s any reconciliation—thank you for tryin’ to get her out of this shitty town.”

Javier’s caught off-guard but doesn’t show it, the self awareness on his behalf is appreciated. “I’d do anything for her.”

Romeo studies him for a moment, as if measuring the resolve behind his words, then he nods, his expression taut, “Gonna start combing through everythin’ back at the station. Probably call Olsen, see if he’s got any cameras ‘round the library so we can get a timeline goin’.”

These two men are similar in that regard, backing themselves into their jobs to mask the turmoil inside. They talk through some of the procedures before Romeo is pulled away by other officers, leaving Javier to handle things here.

He forces himself to switch gears, to summon every bit of authority he has left to do his job. He’s got a dead body to assess, a team to command, and then—then he’ll focus everything he’s got on finding Paloma.

Paloma stirs awake, the pitch darkness of the early morning pressing in from all sides.

She’s disoriented—a dull ache in her head and the sting of thick, abrasive rope biting into her wrists.

Her hands are suspended and bound above her, tethered tightly to an old, rusted pipe overhead, which creaks slightly as she shifts her weight.

She can feel the grit of dried blood matting her hair against her temple, the aftershock of Sloane’s vicious hit with the bat ringing sharp behind her eyes. Her boots are missing, leaving her barefoot against the cool concrete ground.

As reality sharpens around her, she realizes this isn’t a dream and it nauseates her, instilling panic in her heart.

She barely remembers the car ride or the way they dragged her down here, everything muddled from the hit she’d taken until she’d finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

Now, the throbbing intensifies as she tugs instinctively at the ropes, her wrists burning, but no amount of pulling loosens her bonds.

Frustration and terror mix, unwieldy coiling in her chest and tears sting at her eyes despite her attempts to fight them back. She doesn’t want to imagine what they plan to do to her.

She knows Javier and her father have to be looking for her. They must be tearing themselves apart with worry. She can almost hear her father’s harsh reprimands and Javier’s quiet, determined rage—they’re relentless when it comes to protecting her. 

They’ll find her. They have to.

The cellar door creaks open and she freezes, her pulse skittering as August, Sloane, and Gabriel descend the stairs.

The dim light barely touches their faces, but she doesn’t need to see them clearly to know what they’re capable of.

She tries to hold her head high, pushing back the tears, refusing to let them see the fear that’s boiling inside. She won’t give them that satisfaction, not if she can help it.

Their footsteps echo against the walls of the basement. August stops just close enough that she can feel his presence invading her senses, suffocating, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, P,” he drawls, voice dripping with the charm that managed to slither its way into her heart.

What she once found magnetic in him is now hollow, a mask that hides something so unfathomable. 

“Pretty nasty cut ya got there.” Sloane’s voice drips with fake sympathy. Her eyes glint with that special brand of cruelty she’d always kept hidden behind a guise of friendship.

The satisfaction in her tone is unmistakable, like she’s savoring every moment of seeing Paloma in such a vulnerable state.

The urge to spit in their faces, to lash out, is almost unbearable, but she remembers her daddy’s lessons, advising her to stay calm, to never let them know how afraid she really is.

Every word of advice he’d ever given her about self-preservation hangs heavy in her mind. 

She keeps her face blank, her mouth a hard line.

“Silent treatment, huh?” August steps closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingers are inches from her forehead when she sees the sick satisfaction in his eyes, and she can’t suppress the involuntary grimace as his fingers hover over the gash near her forehead.

The moment of weakness feels like a win for him, his smile widening as he grazes her wound, pressing just enough to send a wave of pain radiating through her skull and a fresh stream of blood to trickle out.

Sloane watches her reaction, faux innocence weaving through her sneer. “You make for a pretty damn good damsel in distress. Thought you’d put up more of a fight, if I’m bein’ honest. You really disappointed me, doll face.”

Paloma’s grip tightens around the rope until her knuckles ache. She wants to tell her off, to fight and scream—but instead she just turns away, refusing to even look at them.

August’s hand cups her chin as he forces her to meet his eyes, eyes that once held promises of affection and loyalty now filled with something so dark and consuming.

His fingers dig into her soft skin. “I need you to look perfect, little dove. All stitched up and pretty.” His thumb trails along her chapped bottom lip. “Gabriel,” he calls, not even glancing back at the other man, “Tend to that. Tonight’s a big night, after all. Lots to prepare for.”

There goes that trepidation again. Her mouth twitches, half-ready to break her silence and demand to know just what the hell he’s talking about. But she’s already committed to keeping quiet.

Gabriel lingers behind them, shifting uncomfortably, the first aid kit clutched tight in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just stands there as usual, eyes flicking from Paloma to his partners, some part of him clearly unsettled yet too cowardly to intervene.

He’s her best shot of getting out of here, she just knows it.

“‘S’okay, you ain’t gotta talk,” August’s coos. “I actually prefer you like this—makes things a hell of a lot easier. The others…” He snorts, shaking his head.

How many other unfortunate women had been dragged down here, suffering at his hands?

“Too squirmy, too squeamish—like fuckin’ pigs.” His laughter is mirthless and Sloane joins in with loud, exaggerated snorts that mimic a pig’s squeal. The sound claws at Paloma’s ears.

There’s this twisted admiration in his stare as he studies her. “That’s why I knew I needed to have you. No one else on this planet holds a candle to the magic you have, Paloma. You should stop bein’ so scared and embrace it.” He murmurs, dropping his voice to a whisper.

His hand snakes down from her jaw, tracing her neck, lingering in an unsettling crawl between her breasts before settling at her hip.

His fingers dig in, and she flinches, her body stiffening in revulsion. He smirks at her reaction, savoring her discomfort like a fine wine.

“I’ll be back to check on you later, alright?” His tone is falsely tender. "Gotta make sure everythin’ is perfect. Can’t afford any fuck ups now—I’ve been way too patient for this."

He steps back at last, allowing Gabriel to shuffle forward with the kit in hand.

With a jerk of his chin, August motions for Sloane to follow him. She blows Paloma a mocking kiss and winks with a saccharine sweetness that really piles on the hatred that burns a little hotter for her specifically.

The heavy cellar door slams shut, casting them back into dim silence as the first pale light of dawn begins to creep through the basement windows.

Paloma’s heart pounds as their shadows disappear, leaving her helpless in the creeping morning light.

“What are you goin’ to do to me?” Her voice is hoarse, each word scraping her dry throat like sandpaper, but she can’t keep quiet now that they’re alone.

Gabriel wordlessly drags over a stool, placing the first-aid kit on top. He opens it, sorting through supplies as though she isn’t even there.

Paloma yanks at her restraints, the old pipe groaning in protest. “Fuckin’ say somethin’,” she snaps, anger edging her desperation. “It’s the least you could do—just… tell me.” She hates the pleading tone that slips through, the last thread of her control unraveling as she imagines what fate awaits her.

His gloved hands move to clean her wound, and she clenches her jaw against the sting, glaring at him as if she could force him to talk through sheer will. He’s careful and practiced, clearly having done this before.

“The Crimson Rite,” he mutters, brows furrowing as he concentrates, his voice a barely audible murmur. “It’s where the conception will happen… on the altar of incarnation.”

Paloma’s heart stumbles, her mind racing to piece together the fragments. “What the fuck are you even sayin’?” Her voice wavers, but there’s no denying the chill in her spine.

She knows what those words mean on their own, but together, they paint a picture she’d rather not face—the harrowing reality of how August truly plans on using her.

“August’ll explain,” he replies, brushing her off with the indifference of a man following orders. “He’s better at that shit than I am. I just do what he asks and stay outta the way.”

“Like a fuckin’ coward,” she spits.

The needle pauses, its sharp tip hovering an inch from her skin, and he raises his eyes. “You get all lippy with me, but keep your mouth shut around them? What, I ain’t intimidatin’ enough for you?” 

She holds his gaze, defiance simmering behind the exhaustion in her stare. “Nothing about you’s intimidatin’ enough to keep me from tellin’ you exactly what I think.”

His lips twist downward, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he resumes stitching, each tug at her skin rougher than the last. 

“At church that day, you were warnin’ me, weren’t you?” Her voice is barely a whisper, the memory of that awkward conversation rattling in her mind. “S’not too late, Gabe. You can still help me outta this… We both can be outta here ‘fore the sun comes up.”

There’s a lapse, just for a second, in his eyes—something she wants to believe is regret, a part of him she hopes she can reach.

The sliver of optimism she’s mustered might awaken that dormant part of him buried under layers of August’s bullshit and the bitterness life has forced him to swallow.

But he shakes his head slowly, avoiding her gaze as he finishes stitching her wound, his hands deft. “You don’t get it. Don’t matter if I do the right thing. He’d find us—he always does.” He sprays her wound with a numbing mist then covers it with a small gauze.

“He wouldn’t find us,” she insists, her voice fraying. “Daddy would protect us. He’d make sure we’re safe.”

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? He promise you that or somethin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standin’, you don’t look all that safe.”

A bitter, frustrated cry escapes her as he begins to pack up his kit, her pleas bouncing off him like stones against steel.

“Please, Gabe, don’t leave me down here alone,” she chokes out, and the words twist something deep inside her, pulling her further into a desperation she’s been trying to keep at bay.

“Breakfast’ll be down in a few hours,” he mutters, almost as if talking to himself, keeping his voice low and detached. “Probably get you a shower at sundown so you ain’t all sweaty and grimy. Needs you all fuckin’ pristine.” The last words slip out like a hiss, a disgusted edge in his tone. “S’gonna be a long day for you down here. Scream all you want; ain’t nobody around worth a damn to hear it. You got a better shot at rubbin’ the skin off your wrists than gettin’ out of that rope.”

Paloma snaps, her control breaking in a flood of panic and fury as she yanks at her restraint, her wrists burning as she curses him, calling him every name her mind can summon.

The words pour out in a desperate torrent, trying to cut him, to provoke something human out of him, anything.

But he stays silent, barely flinching, his face a mask as he gathers his things, turning his back on her without a word. 

When the cellar door finally slams shut, it echoes through the basement, and her last shreds of resolve crumble as she sinks into sobs.

The thoughts come in fragments, jagged and bitter, cutting her deeper than any wound.

The way things were left with her father—how they’d argued and he looked at her with that final, dismissive silence, like she’d become a stranger for daring to chase her own life beyond their town.

The love that took root so unexpectedly, so completely with Javier. He came into her life at the perfect time, pouring a rare, tender kind of intimacy into her soul; the kind that made her feel seen for the first time in her life.

He was a good man who’d endured his own share of hardships —and she let their last conversation end in anger and frustration. She’s just like her father.

Perhaps if she had told him the full truth about how she came across her mother’s past, she wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

This mess—it’s her inheritance. Not a blessing like August wants her to believe, but a curse Calmana left behind, the forced sins of her mother she didn’t choose but can’t escape.

Her suicide is starting to make more sense.

It all makes her feel like a lamb at slaughter, her life never really hers, and now her blood and body are an offering to feed whatever he believes she’s meant to bring to life. 

The promise of an explanation later on hangs over her like a guillotine. Does she even want to know? Will it make a difference?

She got herself kidnapped by trusting them all, falling for August’s romantic words and impressive knowledge. All of his lies. She’d thought she was smart enough to see through him, to keep a grip on her own heart, and instead, she’d unknowingly let him manipulate her.

Sloane was right—she is the helpless damsel she always denied being, someone who hadn’t fought hard enough to save herself. 

Paloma has to believe she’s got people searching for her, that they’re smart enough, relentless enough to find her before night falls. She has to cling to that hope, however fragile, because right now it’s all she has.

Her cries fill the empty space around her until exhaustion claims her in silence.

The basement is her prison as the sun traces its lazy arc above.

The day drags on in a haze of stale air and the natural sounds of bugs chittering about. On occasion, she’ll hear people walk by or see their shadows through the small windows.

She's trapped here, the only visits marking the hours coming when Gabriel brings a bucket for her to relieve herself—like she’s some kind of animal—or sets down a tray of food she refuses to touch.

“You need to eat,” he says, setting the tray with her dinner on the floor. His hands working on cutting the thick rope binding her wrists, each tug and scrape freeing her a fraction at a time.

“What’s the point? M’gonna die anyway,” she mutters, exhausted but still pissed. “Won’t matter if I’ve got a full stomach or not.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not goin’ to die, Paloma. You’re too important to all this. How haven’t you realized that yet?”

“Oh, forgive me if I haven’t picked up on all your twisted bullshit,” she snaps. “You all speak in fuckin’ tongues and riddles. No one’s told me a damn thing that makes any sense.”

At last, the final fiber of rope snaps, and the weight drops from her wrists. She lets out a low, relieved sigh as her arms fall to her sides, stiff from the hours of suspension.

The ache in her shoulders is intense, and her wrists are lined with red from the coarse bondage.

“Don’t try anythin’ stupid,” he warns, his voice low. “They might not kill ya but they’ll hurt you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead.”

She doesn’t doubt it, so she reins in her impulses and instead glances at the food, the bitterness slowly giving way to resignation.

If the chance to escape comes, she’ll need her strength. She takes the cup, drinking greedily, barely noticing the water spilling down her chin—it’s just a relief to feel the dryness ease, something grounding in a nightmare that feels endless.

The meal tastes dull, but she swallows it down anyway, each bite a fight to hold onto her sense of self, to stay sharp.

Gabriel watches her with that quiet, unreadable expression.

“I tried leavin’ years ago, when August first started buildin’ the group.” He looks down, his mouth pressing into a grim line. “But he caught me at the train station. Gave me the ass-beatin’ of my life. Locked me up in a shed in the middle of the woods for days, left me there until I learned my lesson. I swear, I lost every bit of myself in that dark place.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “After that, I never thought ‘bout leavin’ again... not until he got his sights set on you.”

Paloma’s chewing slows, her eyes flitting over to him, reading the conflict etched in his expression.

For August to treat Gabriel, his so-called “brother,” with such brutality to keep him in line... it makes all too much sense now, why he is August’s silent shadow, obeying every command.

“His obsession with you is different. Everythin’ suddenly became different. He has this way of makin’ you submit to him that gets me wonderin’ if all this Eurynomos shit is actually real.”

The twisted loyalty, the deep-seated fear that’s tangled around them like shackles, intertwined with stories of divinity.

She’s barely scratched the surface of what August is capable of.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers, sympathetic to what he’s been through. “I’m sorry... ‘n I get why you’re scared, but there’s two of us now. We could make a run for it, slip away while we have the chance.”

Her food is forgotten as Paloma edges closer, her gaze steady and imploring. For a moment, he genuinely considers their escape.

But the heavy, thunderous creak of the cellar doors breaks through the moment, both of them jerking apart.

She scrambles backward until her back presses against the cold, damp wall, her heartbeat racing as Gabriel stands abruptly from his stool, his face hardening again. 

It’s only August this time, his usual shadow—Sloane with her biting sneers—thankfully absent.

He strides down with a bag in one hand and shower supplies in the other, eyeing her like she’s some prized possession he’s been itching to inspect. 

“Unrestrained, ate her dinner, and didn’t even try to run? My, my. Little dove, you’re such a good girl.” He passes the items to Gabriel as he steps closer, and she hates the way she’s wedged in a corner, wishing she could melt into the wall or skitter away like a mouse.

He crouches, gently moving the gauze out of the way, his sharp gaze examining the stitches worked into her head wound. “S’lookin’ better already. Now, let’s get you a shower. I can smell you from here, and, sweetheart, it’s not exactly appealin’.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks, the cruel curve of his lips almost congratulatory. “There she is. Glad to see that fire hasn’t died just yet, my love.”

With a vice-like grip, his hand latches onto her arm, dragging her up to her feet and across the basement to a sad excuse for a shower—no curtain, nothing remotely resembling privacy, just exposed plumbing and mildewed tile. He shoves her into the cramped space, gesturing at her with a command that chills her: “Strip.”

Her stomach tightens, and she squares her jaw. “Turn around.”

A laugh bursts from him, sharp and mocking. “You think you’re in any position to make demands? You may be special, darlin’, but that don’t mean you’re runnin’ shit. Now strip, or I’ll tie you up and rip that little outfit off myself.”

She grits her teeth, fists clenched. “No.”

His smile vanishes, replaced by a darker, crueler expression.

In a flash, his hand is around her throat, shoving her harshly against the slimy tile, the back of her head meeting the hard surface making her cry out in pain.

Her breath snags as his grip tightens around her neck, the cool press of a switchblade grazing the scar on her hip, making her pulse hammer in her ears. “Don’t push me,” he growls, the blade’s edge nicking her skin just enough to sting. He knows exactly where she’s sensitive, and he revels in her flinch. “I’ve told you—I don’t like hurtin’ you, but I will if I have to. Strip. Now.”

He releases her, the air rushing back into her lungs, making her cough.

Her hands tremble as she peels away her clothes, starting with the long, flowing skirt that puddles around her ankles, leaving her in just her underwear and camisole.

August’s eyes rake over her, and his silent demand pulls at her last nerve.

She swallows back her tears, fingers shaking as she slides the straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric fall to the floor and then stepping out of her underwear, kicking the pile aside.

Now entirely naked, her arms wrap protectively around herself to shield what she can. She looks away, the sting of indignity making her skin crawl, willing herself not to cry.

August steps forward, adjusting the shower’s dial, and the pipes clank and groan as water finally bursts out of the rusted shower head, icy at first. She shivers, her teeth clattering, and only once the water turns warm does the chill ease up.

A snap of his fingers brings Gabriel closer, setting the shower supplies within reach. August then places them at her feet, his mocking gaze never leaving her as he drags a worn wooden chair up, seating himself like a perverse audience settling in for a show. 

Paloma doesn’t move, clinging harder to her body, her nails digging into her own skin, praying he’ll lose interest and turn away. But he just smirks. “Don’t be shy, P. Not like I haven’t seen you naked before.” His tongue drags over his lips, blue eyes glittering darkly, drinking in her discomfort.

She would rather die where she stands than have him touch her, lingering his hands over her body like a wolf savoring his meal. Slowly, reluctantly, her arms fall to her sides, shoulders curling inward, as she begins to wash herself.

The hot tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks, each drop hiding the sobs she’s swallowing.

August’s stare trails over her figure, his smirk deepening every time she flinches under the weight of it.

He doesn’t hide his hunger, watching her every movement—the rise and fall of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the sway of her shoulders as she soaps herself in silence.

Gabriel’s eyes stay firmly on his boots, shame evident in his posture. 

Finally, she shuts off the water, chest heaving as she swallows down the humiliation, covering herself again and feeling his satisfaction lingering in the room like a toxic cloud.

A towel lands at her feet, and she grabs it, pulling it around her trembling frame, feeling like her skin might crawl right off her bones. 

“Got this dress made just for you,” August says casually, standing then pulling out a white dress and red flats from a worn bag. He tosses them onto the chair he’d just been sitting in, not making any effort to move or look away, and she swallows back the lump in her throat.

She’s barely holding herself together, her fingers fumbling with the towel as she dries off, eyes darting between the two men.

One won’t meet her gaze, too timorous, and the other stares at her with lecherous eyes.

She slips on the dress, it’s something she would’ve picked for herself under different circumstances; calf-length, delicate ladder lace along the trim, cap sleeves, and three charmeuse red ribbons that match the shoes.

But the beauty of it feels like a cruel mockery against the ugliness of this moment. 

“You look so beautiful,” August purrs, “Get a good look at yourself.” 

She’s forced in front of an antique mirror, the glass warped and cracked, but she can still make out her reflection. 

The dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised skin, the way her hair clings to her damp skin, the faded pallor of her face against her outfit—she looks like a ghost.

His hand slides to her shoulder, pushing her hair aside as he leans in, trailing his nose against her skin and inhaling deeply. “You smell like summertime.” He presses his lips to her neck, and bile rises in her throat.

Then, he pulls back, her mother’s cross pendant in hand, fastening it around her neck with a satisfied smile.

Her heart clenches once she sees it. She’d left that at Javier’s, tucked away safely with all the other things she moved out of her childhood home in preparation for their big trip.

The thought of August being in his space, doing God knows what, gets her alarmed. “What did you do to him?”

August looks momentarily confused by her query, but then his smirk grows as he eyes the pendent and sees that look in her eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your precious narc. He ain’t been home all day. He’s out there, sniffin’ around for you like a lost dog. Thought about killin’ him, but… I think he’d suffer more thinkin’ he failed you. Just another life he couldn’t save, huh?”

The words press against those bruising, sore spots on her heart. She scowls, throwing back as much defiance as she can muster. “You wouldn’t get close enough to try.” Her voice trembles, but she knows Javier and what he’s capable of. 

He just shrugs, the malicious glint in his eyes unwavering. “Maybe not. But Sloane?” He grins, knowing how even mentioning her gets under Paloma’s skin. “Now, I think she could.”

He doesn’t give her time to respond, moving to bind her hands again, this time in smooth silk restraints that feel uncharacteristically gentle against her wrists.

Time moves in slow motion, she becomes unresponsive, like a melancholic statue, as he brushes her hair, fussing over her appearance as if she were some doll, changing the gauze over her stitches.

Her hope of getting out of this has diminished. Gabriel won’t help her and August has run the two men competent enough to figure this out in circles, so tangled up in deceit to find her.

The evening melts into night, shadows deepening when he finally leaves, just to return moments later with a steaming cup of tea that smells rancid and earthy, like decay.

“Drink up.”

She shakes her head, refusing it, but he pries her mouth open, forcing her to swallow the scalding liquid. It’s bitter and burns her throat, her tongue singed as she swallows unwillingly. 

“See? Wasn’t so bad,” he taunts her, wiping away some of the remnants that spilled from the corner of her mouth.

The effect is immediate; her mind hazes, thoughts swirling, until her body feels sluggish, as if it is no longer tethered to her.

Just as her vision starts to fade, a red, body-length veil is draped over her, the fabric casting her world into blood-hued darkness.

“I need to see it again.” 

Javier pinches the bridge of his nose at Romeo’s request, fingers then pressing hard against his closed eyes as the footage gets rewound. 

It’s the only evidence they have—a single security camera capturing what transpired. The grainy video shows her crossing the street, pausing, and then August and his accomplices stepping into view. She runs, disappearing off-camera for what feels like a lifetime, before being dragged back and shoved into the bed of the truck.

Each time Javier watches, another shard of him breaks away.

Romeo shifts beside him, watching the screen with unrelenting focus. He’s insistent, searching for anything, some small clue to pinpoint where they went.

Javier, though, is at his limit, fighting the urge to hurl the screen across the room.

“Romeo,” he begins, a little strained, “we’re not going to find anything new here.”

“We missed shit before. Can’t afford to miss anythin’ now.”

They’d spent the whole damn day combing through the trio’s hometown, hoping for any piece of intel, some breadcrumb that would lead them to the group’s hideout.

The search had been maddeningly fruitless. Fayette’s local authorities helped spread the word, but there was nothing, no tracks, no whispers, no real leads to follow.

Every registered address tied to the three was a dead end. Their only childhood homes, a trailer park, had burned down over a decade ago, leaving no trace, no history to sift through.

Everyone close to them—parents, guardians—were either dead, in prison, or admitted. The few family members with any sense had cut ties long ago.

“They were hellraisers,” the retired sheriff had muttered. That’s all the town could say, the simple acknowledgment that the trio had always left destruction in their wake.

The only useful piece of information they dug up was that August had left his job at a local grocery store to work for some woman, an outsider no one really knew.

She’d shown up, taken August with her, and he’d returned a few years later with a more hardened resolve, recruiting Sloane and Gabriel.

After torching some local acreage and serving time for arson, they’d vanished from Fayette until the recent spree of murders started.

“He’s been planning this for a long time, Romeo. They knew how to hide; they’ve done this before.” Javier mutters, frustration simmering in his tone.

They’d tried running a partial plate of the truck, only to come up short once again.

Javier moves near the blinds, unable to keep watching her kidnapping, glimpsing the sea of people that make up their search parties gathered in their too small department.

The faces blur together, civilians and first responders alike, all waiting for direction.

“It’s probably best if you go to the hospital and get Harper’s statement. She’s cleared to talk, right?” 

Romeo takes a beat longer to respond, clearly grappling with his own anguish. “Yeah. Got the official call ‘bout ten minutes ago.” 

“If anyone’s got something to give us that can break this open, it’s her.”

The room is quiet except for the low murmur of voices spilling in. The tape finally ends and Romeo’s gaze falls to the corner of his desk, where a lone photo of Paloma sits; she’s grinning with his cowboy hat perched high on her head, radiating joy.

He stares at it like he’s trying to draw strength from that moment, then he slowly picks it up, pressing his lips together in thought, handing it over to Javier.

“Here. This is the one I used for the flyers.”

Javier swallows hard, taking it, his thumb grazing over the image, his own heart sinking. This is the Paloma he can’t let slip through his fingers, the one who belongs right here, laughing and safe. Not wherever she was now. 

Romeo’s tone holds firm determination. “Do what you gotta do. For her. You understand me?”

Javier just nods, no words left to offer in the face of everything unsaid.

The sheriff lets out a long, heavy sigh, the kind that speaks of too many hours awake, too many close calls, too many second chances lost to bad luck or timing or whatever fate is left to them.

He grabs his jacket, slinging it over his shoulders, steeling his expression as he leaves the office, moving through the throng that instantly swells around him.

They close in with questions, worry, and hope—all of it colliding in one tense space.

Seeing them converge on Romeo, Javier takes a steadying breath and steps out right behind him, his presence commanding even in his silence.

He straightens, letting the authority in his stance speak for him, his gaze hard as he begins relaying their plan with swift, unyielding precision.

The world tilts and sways as Paloma returns to half-consciousness, vision still muddled from the drugged tea that has her head feeling like it’s filled with lead and limbs sluggish.

She’s seated upright in an ornate, over-decorated chair with her hands still bound in front of her. She tries to blink away the fog clouding her mind, but the red veil over her face continues to shroud her vision.

Her stitched wound throbs faintly, then suddenly, she’s being lifted and carried by four indistinct figures.

The swaying motion makes her sick, but she’s too weak to cry out, her voice nothing more than a ghost lodged in her throat.

She starts to feel the dampness of the humid Texas night pressing into her skin, the scent of flowers floating in the air, sickly sweet as it mixes with the distant smell of incense.

She’s paraded down a candlelit path where kneeling figures line the walkway, bowing in silent reverence. The sound of murmuring voices hums around her like a distant, dreadful lullaby. 

Finally, the procession stops, and her chair is lowered to the ground.

Her surroundings feel unreal, like a fever dream she’s trapped inside. A dark shadow moves in front of her, reaching to pull her to her feet. She tries to make out their face, but it’s just a dark, hollow blur.

Her legs tremble as she takes a few shaky steps, guided by an iron grip that steers her from the soft earth to a hard surface. Somewhere to her right, she hears a voice—August's—so sharp that it almost makes her ears bleed.

“We have to capture this moment.”

Paloma’s body is positioned, hands adjusting her like she’s an ornament rather than a person. She can barely keep her knees from buckling, her body swaying as they try to hold her up.

Her mind is a mess, every thought tangled, every movement slow, as if she’s moving underwater.

She falls, just as she hears the flash of a camera, her legs finally giving way, but hands grip her before she hits the ground, lifting her, steadying her as her head lolls to the side.

Then, in one swift motion, the veil lifted from her face.

August stands there, close enough that she can see every cold line in his face, conforming into possessive delight. 

He’s dressed to match her, red bows on his collared shirt, the same lace design on his pants.

Her skin crawls as his fingers trace the side of her face, his voice a leering purr. “My special little dove.”

He pulls her close, spinning her so that she faces their creation in her honor. The white marble gleams in the halo of the candlelight, surrounded by a sea of blood-red spider lilies, their spindly petals stretching out like claws.

Candles of every size and shape cast their shadows over the altar, illuminating the intricate carving of their emblem, miniatures and other offerings strewn about.

“All for you,” his lips brush against her ear.

The hands surrounding her are unyielding as she’s lifted and maneuvered onto the cold slab, the hard surface unforgiving beneath her back.

Her wrists are freed only to be tied again, the silk binding each one to a small stone pillar at each side.

Her ankles follow, strapped to the pillars near the end of the altar, legs bent slightly and spread, leaving her trapped and exposed.

Her breath quickens, each ragged inhale catching in her throat as the reality of her fate crashes down with brutal clarity. The red veil is drawn back over her face.

Tears blur her sight, mixing with the snot and sweat as she starts to sob, desperate cries spilling from her lips, pleas tumbling out in a desperate stream that echo out into the vastness of the field.

“Please… please, let me go. You don’t have to do this, please.” Her words come out strangled and slurred but she’s ignored. She jerks against her restraints, each movement growing weaker as the drug saps her strength.

August stands before his followers, his voice low yet electrifying, every declaration steeped in reverence and simmering triumph. 

“For centuries, we have waited in the shadows, prayed in whispers, bound by oaths that our forebears swore. Those before us dreamed of this moment, yet they were weak, too fearful to claim what was rightfully theirs. We will not repeat their mistakes. The bloodline of the first, the birthing bloodline, flows through her veins, and she is ours. Eurynomos will have a body made of flesh and bone, a place in this realm, because of us.”

Paloma shakes her head side to side, desperate to block out August’s devious words. Just as a surge of strength flares within her, sharp fingers dig into her shoulders from behind, pressing her back down, anchoring her in place.

Through the haze of drowsiness, her blurred vision lands on Sloane, looming over her with a short, black veil shrouding her face. Beneath it, Paloma can make out an expression as evil as it is watchful.

“No more dreams. No more consuming or offering flesh that rots before dawn. Our devotion, our patience, has led us here. We are the last of our kind—the ones who bring forth the new age. Now is the time for fulfillment. Now is the time to step into the eternal night and bring our deity home.” 

His gaze sweeps over the bowed heads, the flicker of candlelight dancing in his eyes as his words coil around them like a vow.

Sloane relinquishes her hold, seemingly fading away.

He approaches her slowly, each step deliberate, his hand drifting up the length of her body. His fingers come to rest on her cheek, stroking gently, almost reverently.

August leans in, his nose brushing against hers, and without a word, he presses his lips to hers, a slow, possessive kiss over the sheer material of the veil.

She wants to pull away, to resist, but she’s trapped within herself, her will slipping as though he’s holding the reins to her very soul.

When he pulls away, his voice lowers to a rhythmic timbre, the words twisting together in an incantation she can’t understand.

Each syllable makes her sink further into delusion, the compromising position heightening her vulnerability. 

The weight of her own helplessness crushes her as she lies there.

Suddenly, the speaking stops. An unnatural silence blankets the moment, thieving sound until it’s just her shaky, pitiful cries. Even the cicadas quit their insistent chirping.

Paloma blinks, barely able to see through the veil, but she watches August step back until his figure is swallowed by the darkness beyond the altar. 

She shivers as a chill wind flows over her body, extinguishing the flames around her and plunging her into the night, save for the heavy, luminous moon hanging full and merciless above.

Two glowing eyes flicker into view at the far end of the clearing. They hover, eerie and inhuman, watching her with a predatory patience.

A twig snaps in the shadows. Her breath catches. Another snap, closer this time.

Blood rushes in her ears, but above the pounding, she hears something else—labored breaths, thick and wet, the sound too guttural to be human. 

Her body locks up and quivers as a shadow casts up to the very heavens, emerging from the backdrop of trees, its form towering and monstrous. It seems to stretch endlessly, merging with the dark sky above, as if it could reach out and seize the lunar sphere.

Paloma tries to scream, but her body is frozen, paralyzed in a state of unholy dread.

Her eyes widen, tears leaking silently, her throat closing tight as the figure moves forward.

The dark, hulking mass leans over her, and she feels something press down on her belly, then sharp claws caress her bare legs, creeping upwards, scratching at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. 

Her chest tightens as if she’s having a heart attack, fright coursing through her like poison. She can’t breathe, feeling herself teeter on the edge of consciousness.

Black spots swallow her field of view as her eyes roll to the back of her head, and in that instant, she’s slipping away, her mind yanking her away from this horror, casting her into the darkness of her own making as she loses herself, the terror too great to bear.

[the-mercurial-star-o-vesper]

Going on from Trinimac (He's my favorite god of the Elder Scrolls), the way his story goes is interesting.

So.

In story, we know he gets "consumed" by Boethiah and Boethiah takes his form, and talks to people about Truths, and afterwards, Trinimac is diminished into Malacath and Boethiah goes on to lead the Dunmer.

This? This is interesting for several reasons.

( Now for the sake of me not doing a bunch of research, pulling sources, and trying to parse the esoteric deep lore of TES and the manic writings of Kirkbride, I'm sticking with Morrowind's in-game books, such as "The Changed Ones" and "Variaties of Faith". I'll prolly get to more esoteric stuff at a later post? When the thought hits me. )

They know that its Boethiah Talking and not Trinimac.

Trinimac Worship is not picked up again after this, even though he was the strongest and more favored god.

There has been no attempt to turn Malacath back into Trinimac. As impossible as this sounds, I need to point out the power of belief in the Elder Scrolls and the idea of objects and rituals. If you can Break Akatosh, Time itself, you can reverse what happened to Trinimac (who was changed by considerably less strenuous means). If you can mantle the Dead God Lorkhan (Talos), then you can revive the God Knight. ... Nobody has done this, however.

Orismer are then paraih'd from the Aldmer / Altmer, with no attempts to reunite, renegotiate, or anything--just an immediate marking them as no better than Ogres and Goblins. Worse still, if you read "Pig Children", it seems that a lot of the sentience on Tamerial don't like orcs.

Trinimac's story, by his own former people, the Old / High Elves, is reduced to propoganda made against Dunmer worship. And this, is coming from the same peoples who want to return to pre-dawn and despise Lorkhan. You'd think that they'd keep Trinimac worship for that reason, if nothing else.

Boethiah is the deceiver of nations, they're one of the worst daedra to run into given their ruthless bloodthirsty nature, and they're attached to conspiracy and deceit.

... So if they knew it was Boethiah, why listen? Why trust it?

Especially if you know that this Daedric Prince, anathema of Auri-el and Aedra, is prancing around in your most favorite of gods? I'm pretty certain playing puppet with someone else's body is a violation worthy of raising alarm.

There's only one reasonable answer:

It wasn't Boethiah.

Something to note about the Aedra of the Elder Scrolls. They're bound to interpretation. The closest we're gonna get to pre-dawn et'Ada (What everyone was before the creation of Mundus and Nirn, so Before the "dawn") are certain Daedra.

To take example.

Kyne of the Nords, and Kynareth of the Imperials, are of the same "Oversoul" or rather, the same Aedra, but are not the same God. In fact, Kynareth was created / born from Cyrodiilic interpretations of Kyne. Kyne and Kynareth are fully capable of meeting each other as unique individuals, inspite technically being the same person, and potentially, even being against one another.

( Find any Auri-el vs Akatosh argument. Auriel doesn't like Nirn or mortality or probably humans, but Akatosh likes the place and doesn't like anyone fucking with it or the mortals. )

Collective belief will create Gods, provided there's an Aedra niche for them to come from.

( Probably the price of sacrificing bits of yourself to create things, plays into now only having power if someone can perceive you. )

( It also kinda brings in the idea that a Daedra can, in fact, become an Aedra if they are willing to sacrifice parts of themselves to expand the Mundus. Gotta remember that most of them are all Et'Ada, they are fully capable of performing those feats. Daedra and Aedra are just outdated perspectives by Aldmer. )

Anyway.

Why isn't it Boethiah.

Because, following how Aedra work? Boethiah was the Velothi Aspect of Trinimac. But because they were Aldmer undergoing a schism, it wasn't so cleanly defined as Kyne and Kynareth or Stuhn and Stendarr.

The God tore himself, under the schism of multiple interpretations.

And because each interpretation was, in of itself, a live God, and because most of those interpretations didn't fit with the greater popularity...

... Suddenly, your most Favorite God pops up into his Temple and talks about how He was Wrong. Speaks about what the Mundus is really meant to be, and how to work it.

And with that? Because that's a God talking, that's THE God talking, things he says must be true...

That's when you get the massive underlying cultural shift.

Trinimac is branded an oathbreaker, a liar, a hypocrite, and against his own aspect, by the very Aldmeri populace, and the result is that the gods schisms so badly that it divorces itself from the Mundus, and falls to pieces.

Those who still believed in him after this, were changed to Orcs, and were branded just as pariah as their god. And that's how you got Malacath, the only surviving piece and not even that good of one.

Those who believed his new truth, that part walked away as Boethiah, and lead Veloth, and the newly changed Chimer. And in fact, that's where the idea that Boethiah wore him came from, because that was the aspect that survived to keep speaking the new truths.

( There are other surviving fragments, but I'll get into them at a later time. Trinimac didn't completely succeeded in killing his Men-Counterpart )

And though Trinimac is still acknowledged as champion of Auriel, there are no more new worshipers. The truths he spoke were too terrible to return to his old worship. Because why worship what you know are lies?

Of course, as time rode on, Malacath and Boethiah were further and further estranged from their old roots. Boethiah doesn't lead peoples anymore, and Malacath sticks to his strongholds over reigning vengence against people (let alone the Altmer or Dunmer).

But its funny how a certain point of view can make the difference.

ADDENDUM:

And what of Veloth? Well, a dude can't just randomly get visions out of the ether and decide to leave home to go into the wilderness for no reason. Visions, here, are granted by gods.

This schism, it started somewhere. While it ended in the fragmentation of a god...

... It might just have been started by that very god.

There is no greater lie than the lies we tell ourselves, when we know we've done something horrible, to ourselves and to others.

That perhaps, under orders and belief, in a times of war and betrayal, a knight-general over armies killed the shieldbrother of the enemy king, and then tore the heart from that king.

[ down in front of his army and reached in with more than hands to take his Heart ]

Perhaps it was ordered by another king. Perhaps it was justice for lives now forever lost in creation as earth bones. Perhaps it was simply because so he could prove he Could.

[ As their aspects began to die off, many of the et'Ada vanished completely ]

[ shook his head at this, for he was akin to Tsun and did not care much for logic-talk as much as he did only for his own standing ]

And then he was left behind by the new king.

In such grief, its easy to ask... Why. He did everything right. He got Justice, he proved He could. He did everything right, so why?

[ Everything is spoiled, for now, and for all time, and the most we can do is teach the Elven Races to suffer nobly, with dignity, and chastise ourselves for our folly, and avenge ourselves upon Shezarr and his allies ]

Gods aren't meant to feel grief. Perhaps he went a-searching.

Perhaps he consorted with Daedra. Found the xarxes, and read direction. Looked upon Dawn and Dusk, and found beauty. Found the Web, saw the secrets.

( After all, it was murder, wasn't it? When you cut out the heart of a god and kill him perma-dead, leaving only his ghost, that is murder. That is consorting with Mephala. )

[ Know that battle is a blessing. Know that death is an eventuality. Know that you are dust in the eyes of-- ]

Found the Cycle, and he was apart of it. Revenge is always a Cycle. And when your first remembered act is murder, Death becomes your domain.

[ I am alive because that one is dead. I exist because I have the will to do so. And I shall remain as long as there are signs of my handwork, such as the blood dripping from this blade. ]

Perhaps he found himself, in the man he killed to find the now dead king. For after all, if death was his domain, surely he would know where souls go--

[ Died defending Shor from foreign gods ]

-- and merely found himself.

[ fell at sunrise and became replaced by mirrors ]

That perhaps One King over the Other was merely a perspective.

[ would hate the same-twin on the other end of the aurbrilical cord ]

[ I AM NOT ]

Death is merely finding the End, and at the end of it all, was a Tower, and he had the Key.

[ is the heart of the world, for one was made to satisfy the other ]

and you don't become sheild-thane god for another god for no one, and not for no reason.

[ the ashen-amalgamation of his sons that had survived ]

When your various dream selves are bound by interpretation, all this means is waiting for someone to tell the knowledge to. Someone who has just the right belief and understanding, that you can reach.

Especially you cannot reach the wandering, because you felled the self that could have talked to them.

[ and swore blood vengeance on the heirs of Auriel for all time ]

That perhaps this all started, because of the grief and guilt of the son who stole his fathers' lives.

[ then ascended to heaven in full observance of his followers so that they might learn the steps needed to escape the mortal plane ]

[ withdrew from the creation of the world at the last second, though it cost him dearly ]

[ dooming him to the underworld ]

[ He was undone ]

And for those who are trapped--

[ cast down their jailer king ]

--but have a chance to escape.

[ the rules of Psijic Endeavor ]

... And he just needed the right ear.

( Sorry for the trippiness. But I do so like writing something that looks like it could've walked right outta "V for Vendetta". Lots o quotes from lots o places. )

[dreamwatch]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt: Sloth | Word Count: 1313 | Rating: M | CW: MCD | POV: Gareth | Pairing: None | Tags: Gareth, Jeff, Matt (Freak), Angst, Horror, ambiguous ending, because it's Halloween!

Gareth wakes up in the early hours of March 28, 1986 to find half his town missing and a shadow in his left eye.

All in all they’ve been pretty lucky as a family, they haven’t lost much and they’re all safe and well. The phones are down so it’s not until late that afternoon that Jeff and Matt find him; they’re safe and other than Matt’s mom’s car being at the bottom of a ravine and Jeff’s garage crumbling to dust, they didn’t lose too much. Gareth crumples with relief. He can’t bear the loss of more friends right now. 

There’ve been no sightings of Eddie. 

The three of them help out at the shelter at the school, handing out food, helping with collections. He watches every day as Eddie’s uncle takes down a defaced poster and replaces it with a fresh one. He’ll be back tomorrow to do it again. Gareth watches that board all day long and hasn’t caught the fucker doing it yet, but he will.

He’s folding clothes with Matt a couple of days later as he watches Wayne repeat his daily ritual, and then watches as Dustin Henderson disturbs it. He nudges Matt and the two of them watch on as Dustin limps closer to Wayne with his hand out.

“Holy shit,” Matt whispers.

“What?”

“That’s Eddie’s necklace.”

Gareth can’t make it out, the stupid dark spot in his vision obscuring it. As he turns his head from side to side trying to get a better look, Wayne drops onto a cot and even hidden behind the shadow in his eye he can tell Wayne’s crying.

“Shit.”

Matt sniffs hard. “I’m going to talk to Henderson.”

The shadow in his eye feels like it’s moving. 

Matt confirms it later that day: Eddie is dead. 

Gareth feels like he’s been punched in the chest. The hows and whys are sketchy as fuck. They’d all like to know why Dustin was with him when he died, and why Steve Harrington seems to know so much about it. But they feel like questions that are too big for the answers they can give them today, so Jeff goes to the fridge and comes back with three bottles of his dad’s beer.

“To Eddie.”

Gareth feels like a child as he bursts into tears.

He misses his alarm and is late for school. He sits at the back of the class for every lesson, books open, trying desperately to keep his eyes open, ignoring the looks from other students. When he finally makes his way to the cafeteria he can see Matty, Jeff and Dustin having a stand up argument with Andy and some other jock fuckhead. He should help. 

There’s an empty seat there that will never be filled again.

Gareth turns around and heads to Eddie’s bench in the woods. At least he can sleep there.

Reading in class is getting harder so his mom takes him to the ophthalmologist. They make him read some charts and they look in his eye with a light, but his vision is fine. It’s probably just all the stress, they tell him.

The shadow flickers.

The blackness changes, wisps of red and green swirl in his vision. And it’s spreading, the blindspot growing increasingly larger. He’s desperately trying not to panic, but somehow that’s making it worse.

“I’m scared I’m going blind, man,” he says to Jeff one night. 

Jeff shakes his head, huffing a small laugh. “You’re not going blind, idiot. And if you do, Matt will be your seeing eye dog.”

“Fuck off, Jeffrey!”

They’re laughing, but Gareth doesn’t find it that funny.

Gareth stands in front of his bathroom mirror, trying to gauge how bad it’s getting. He closes his right eye and his breath catches as he realises half of his vision in his left eye is taken up with the swirling cloud. He swaps, closing his left eye instead.

The shadow jumps to his right.

“Jesus Christ!” he screeches, stumbling back from the mirror. 

He should tell his mom. Tell the doctor.

They’ll lock you up.

He climbs into bed, his heart still hammering in his chest. His eyelids close almost instantly. 

“He’s lazy, Gwen. When was the last time he did his chores? Or cleaned his room? It’s a pigsty up there. He’s going to end up like that friend of his.”

“I think he’s sick.”

“Sick of hard work. He’s bone idle.”

Gareth lays in bed staring at the ceiling. His bedroom is right above the kitchen, his parents know he can hear everything they say because he’s done it before, feeding back tidbits of information not meant for his ears.

He hears the thud of footsteps on the stairs, and then his door is flung open.

“Gareth! Get up, it’s after noon for Christ’s sake.”

His dad rips the curtains back and the light blinds him momentarily, and for just a second he thinks he can see the outline of a figure in his bad eye. It disappears just as quickly.

He can barely lift his head off his pillow, so he falls asleep with the noon sun shining through the thin skin of his eyelids and a cloud dancing in his eye.

His mother takes him to a specialist in Indy. They run test after test, the constant stab of needles and the chill of the x-rays machines drive him mad. The doctors tell his mom that they can’t find anything wrong with him, that the exhaustion is likely caused from the stress of the earthquake and schoolwork, the loss of his friend. He needs time off school to recover. So she takes him home and sets him up on the couch with the remote, his walkman and a couple of magazines. He’s asleep in minutes.

Jeff and Matt visit but he can’t lift his head off the sofa. It’s like he has a weight on him, pushing him into the cushions; he feels like he could sink to the bottom of the couch, fall through it to the basement, through the earth all the way to hell. 

They ask how he’s feeling, tell him they’ve missed him. He nods occasionally, answers the odd question. They’re leaving for college soon. He should care deeply about that, about being left behind and on his own, but he just wants them to leave so he can close his eyes.

He feels trapped in his body, boneless, muscles made of mush; lifting his arms, his head, it’s all so hard now. He needs help to eat, help to bathe, help to take a piss. And that fucking thing in his eye is worse, almost solid now, bloody and white and green and black and he keeps thinking he knows what it is but it escapes him every time.

“Mom?” he whispers one night.

“Yes baby?” It sounds awful the way she says it, coated in worry and fear.

“What’s wrong with me?”

His eyes slip closed. But that’s ok because he doesn’t think he can bare to watch her crying again.

Gareth wakes up in the hospital. He struggles to turn his head to the right. His dad is holding his hand. There are cards and flowers. It’s nice. 

Gareth tries to tell him he’s scared but he can’t make the words.

Jeff and Matt are shoulder to shoulder by the window. 

When he turns to his left he sees his mom. She gives him a watery smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

The shadow is gone.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again it’s dark. His mom is asleep, his dad is crying.

Eddie is standing next to his bed.

“You did so good, Gareth,” he says, gently, a smile pulling at the deep scar on his cheek. “So good.”

This time when he closes his eyes, it feels like flying.

@the-unforgivenn (I'm sorry!)

Ok, I know these have all been a bit dark, but it's Halloween! I'll try and slip something funny in, I promise! 🎃

[quitealotofsodapop]

[Once Mac learned that Wukong got possessed trying to take down LBD, the shadow monkey almost 99% decided that he wasn't going to lose his King to that bony biotch. And depeneding on how messy the Samadhi Fire ritual goes, the last thing Wukong says to Macaque is along the lines of "You ruined everything!", and Macaque doesn't want those to be the last words he hears his King say…] + [And soon Macaque started to remember how much him and Wukong discussed Having a family once the war on heaven was over, and how much they both wanted to be parents…]

he spent this whole time trying to put the... whole thing with Wukong on hold until he was free from LBD's control. keyword being trying, ofc. things don't really work like that when you're tasked with hunting the other monkey in question and his friends down, so he accidently made things worse and know he's trying to reign everything back in long enough to have even a chance to fix it.

[Its also around the time Macaque really has it sink in that; "Oh sh-t. I attacked the Monk and fought Wukong when he was pregnant. No wonder he killed me." He isn't sure how to build himself up to discussing this fact with Wukong yet, but he'll get there.]

it's probably something he decides to bring up shortly after the whole s4 debacle. Between the fight from right before ep 1 to the world almost ending again, he doesn't want to risk his death potentially being another surprise argument that gets out of hand or risk another world ending event getting in the way of any substantial healing again. he knows disagreements are normal and even healthy in any kind of relationship, lest the relationship be codependent, but he'd rather not fight about that.

[Red's hair is ruined with baby monkey drool by the time someone gets Yuebei off of him.] + [Nezha, angry flames flaring up: "You mean to tell me that you were "with Stone Egg" during the ritual to separate the Samadhi Fire!? She could have suffered the same fate as Ao Lie!" Wukong, guilt-ridden: "Yeah. Don't remind me. She kicked me non-stop for days afterwards."] + [Yuebei: *tries grabbing Nezha's skates to test the "spicyness"*]

Wukong is laughing at Red the whole time.

Ne Zha def feels a bit guilty about his first reaction being to bring up Ao Lie's death, probably knowing how Wukong feels about it.

and aww no, no I'm picturing Wukong so in pain from Yuebei's distress that he's basically bedridden. I imagine he'd spend this time resting with Ao Lie until they both recovered (atleast on the surface) while the other pilgrims fuss over both of them.

Ne zha can only squawk indignantly when Yuebei manages to get her mouth around one of his rings, immediately trying to pry it from her little jaws. with him and Wukong combined it takes 10 minutes and the promise of a lot of fruit to get her off. luckily the rings aren't perpetually on fire.

[And the dragon's last words to assure his friend that he never blamed him for the accident, nor his baby. Ao Lie was just sad that he'd never be able to meet the cub in this lifetime. He just wants Wukong to stop being so hard on himself for it. If only the dragon he tell him that in person.]

Scroll of memory! Ao Lie already broke the mold by interacting with Mei, he breaks it again when MK + Macaque are scroll diving for Wukong by telling him to pass on the message to the king that his stance on the matter hasn't changed.

[He def makes an awkward apology once they run into eachother at the start of S3. He refuses to let Wukong get into danger or exert himself tho - Nezha's a momma's boy at heart after all.]

Wukong insists it's fine, and that Ne Zha couldn't have known that he kept it from basically everyone, but Ne Zha still feels bad about everything regarding the ritual. he intends to make up for it by doing whatever he can to protect Wukong and his little one now (even if Wukong insists its not nessecary)

[Spider Queen hears the sounds of a thousand knuckles cracking and realises that she's looking at the person who might as well be the Monkey King's Mama. SQ ain't even mad by the end of it.] + [And although SQ kinda trusts the demon a little more, she's far more hesistant to step on the Monkey King's toes than before if his Mama's gonna respond. SQ is a lot more scheming for the rest of S2.]

I love the mental image of Guan Yin using their hundred hands to aid in their righteous beat down

Spoder Queen knows she kinda deserved this, she did put a heavily pregnant person who is practically made of magic in a magic draining web. she was basically asking for this.

she will take this loss with the dignity and grace of the queen (believes she) is and not bother Wukong again (yet) she promises- please don't punch her again.

[LBD almost in the same fashion it tried absorbing the Samadhi Fire so many years ago - guess his baby found the ancient demoness "less spicy".] + [BTW I love the art you did for this scene!! Stone Egg had enough of LBD's nonsense and was Hangry, and Bama had spoken some sense into Baba, and now Nom NOM NOMNOM.]

she is very icy!

and I'm glad you like the art!

[Oh gosh Macaque realising that the baby looking like him brings Wukong joy too would make him cry even harder. He almost cost his mate everything by risking the world over his own debt to the Bone demon. Mac would gladly have died all over again if it kept the baby safe.]

Macaque is an inconsolable sobbing mess of emotions for a while after first meeting Yuebei, for a lot of reasons. and imagine how hard he cries when Wukong first names her out loud officially calling her "Sun Yuebei Xing" for the first time, Yuebei being a moon inspired/adjacent name. he's practically wailing at one point.

[She plants a big kiss on Yuebei's forehead, forgetting that her lipstick stains. Her husband chuckles, still teary-eyed, at his wife's embarassment at planting a big kiss mark on the baby's head.] + [MK is having unknown instinctual urge to curl up with Yuebei (his honorary sister) next to the other monkeys. Pigsy laughs that MK did the same with his fave plushie for years.]

Wukong laughs at the befuddled chirp Yuebei makes when PIF kisses her.

he would also very much welcome MK into his nest with his sleepy little family.

[Also, Mac is def the kinda guy to use exaggerated versions of the Brotherhood's voices when narrating villain characters in Yuebei's books. The little raspberry noises (or "Boos" as Mac likens them to) she makes at the voices encourages him even further.]

I love this. He so would. Wukong would be laughing his tail off the first time he hears Macaque voicing a villain with an over exaggerated Peng voice, Wukong actively encourages him to do this as well.

[And considering Yellowtusk is the only one with the sense to feed and bathe the hostage infant, he's not surprised when she turns on Azure and Peng specifically.]

I'm now thinking of a scene where yellowtusk manages to get Yuebei away from the others long enough to give her bath, and she's fussy about it but baths with her Baba and Bama in the mountains hot springs were usually fun and calm and she felt better afterwards so she didn't put up much of a fight when Yellowtusk tried to get her into the water. anything that reminded her of her parents is comforting right now. but she's crying the whole time and chirping for her parents as she's very far from home and with no one she recognizes, but this elephant is giving her fruit and cleaning her as best he can, so maybe he's okay? she ends up clinging to his trunk like how'd she would cling around her parents neck, and thats how he got his sore trunk during Yuebei's "tantrum". it wasn't her getting mad at him the same way she got mad at Azure and Peng, she was just scared and clung to the first person she felt was safe with, her uncontrolled baby strength leaving it's mark despite him being the only one she didn't really feel threatened by.

kinda sad note on Yuebe missing her parents, but I feel like she'd have seperation anxiety after the s4 debacle. she needs at least one of her parents in the room with her at all times when she's awake or she's wailing at the top of her lungs.

[Some of Peng's feathers are stolen too (Yuebei had a mouthful of them) and Macaque and Sandy turned the feathers into a cat toy. Mo and Yuebei both adore it.]

this is amazing Macaque would so let Yuebei keep a "trophy" of her victory over Peng in the form of a baby appropriate toy. he also is def never letting Peng live down that they lost to a baby if they ever meet face to face again. hell, they day he got Yuebei back he was ragging on Peng for their loss before the bird could even be peeled off the ground

Sequel to this Slow Boiled au post.

[he spent this whole time trying to put the... whole thing with Wukong on hold until he was free from LBD's control. keyword being trying, ofc.]

Yeah, Macaque is having a not-so-fun time trying to get used to being alive again, being still in love with his former mate (who killed him), having his soul indebted to a omnicidal Bone Demon, his former mate having a baby etc...

After finding out about MK and the Stone Egg; Mac was sorta half-hoping that he could duck LBD enough to slowly absorb the whole Wukong situation, maybe meet up with some old allies, get some answers, that sort of thing. The Mayor kidnapping him really threw those plans out the window.

[it's probably something he decides to bring up shortly after the whole s4 debacle. Between the fight from right before ep 1 to the world almost ending again, he doesn't want to risk his death potentially being another surprise argument that gets out of hand or risk another world ending event getting in the way of any substantial healing again.]

It's def a super awkward thing to approach, especially with Yuebi literally just being born and stuff.

Wukong now knows that Mac knows, and is super guilty for not having told him back then. At the same time, Wukong is confused why Max seems so... ok with it suddenly??? Like;

Wukong: "Dude, I killed you." Mac: "Yeah, and I attacked you while you were carrying a baby. Lets call it even." Wukong: "You didn't *know* at the time!" Mac: "Don't matter. Lets just drop it ok?"

Mac does have his own super complex issues regarding the whole "being killed by your former mate"-thing, but in his mind - he really could have killed Wukong and Yuebei if he hadn't been careful. He also knows that in his heart-of-hearts, he wouldn't have even considered fighting Wukong had he known about the Stone Egg ahead of time. He ultimately doesnt want to open up any old wounds Wukong has from the incident since he's been living with the outcome of that fight far longer than Mac has.

Bumping around Wukong's memories in S4 really dredges Mac's buried resentment and confusion about the last fight to the surface. Questions like; Why was Wukong protecting the monk that hurt him? Why was Wukong going on this Journey and not returning to his throne? Why did he hide the Stone Egg from the world?

MK is politely trying his best to let Mac vent to him about what happened between him and Wukong, but ofc they quickly stumble into MK's shared history with the Monkey King.

Lots of hugs, peaches, and family counselling is required afterwards, not doubts about that.

[and aww no, no I'm picturing Wukong so in pain from Yuebei's distress that he's basically bedridden. I imagine he'd spend this time resting with Ao Lie until they both recovered (atleast on the surface) while the other pilgrims fuss over both of them.]

Ao Lie and Wukong are quickly panicking over eachother while their other bros are forcing them to rest after the Samadhi Fire Ritual. Wukong was in so much pain that he was convinced that he was going into labor, or that he even lost Yuebei as a result of joining in the Ritual. Eventually though, the Stone Egg calmed down. Ao Lie's pain did not.

[Ne zha can only squawk indignantly when Yuebei manages to get her mouth around one of his rings, immediately trying to pry it from her little jaws. with him and Wukong combined it takes 10 minutes and the promise of a lot of fruit to get her off. luckily the rings aren't perpetually on fire.]

Yuebei mistook the rings as chew toys and liked the shiny gold colour. It takes Nezha a solid minute of apologizing to Wukong for his past behavior to notice that the little monkey cub has clamped her mouth over one of his skates. Wukong is laughing hysterically, especially as Nezha tries his best to gently remove the ring from Yuebei's mouth without activating it. Luckily all it takes to distract the baby is for Experienced Dad™ Pigsy to pull the oldest trick in the book.

Pigsy: "Got your nose, mooncake!" Yuebei, drops ring: :O! Nezha, quickly picks it up: "How did you know to do that?" Pigsy, still holding Yuebei's "nose" as the baby grabs at him: "You'd swear MK was half-garbage disposal from how much stuff he tried to eat as a toddler. Stealing his nose always worked." Wukong, a little wistful: "Tell me more, please?" Pigsy: "Sure thing. Guess little monkeys aren't much different from little MKs." *gives Yuebei her nose back*

Nezha makes note of hiding anything flammable whenever he visits the monkeys.

[Scroll of memory! Ao Lie already broke the mold by interacting with Mei, he breaks it again when MK + Macaque are scroll diving for Wukong by telling him to pass on the message to the king that his stance on the matter hasn't changed.]

Oh gosh... Imagine this though... Wukong trapped in the Scroll, busting on through his memories. Suddenly he hears a familar voice...

Ao Lie: "Wow! She really did make us all wait, huh?" Wukong, frozen in his tracks: "What?" Wukong: (*slowly turns to see the memory of Ao Lie, far older/frailer than what Mei had seen, standing by and watching the memory of Yuebei's first day of life.*) Memory!Ao Lie, smiling: "She's a perfect little pup... Mei was right on the money when she called her a ball of cuteness! She really looks like you! The blue eyes are a little unexpected, but considering that your mate dragged himself out of Diyu to be there - I guess anything could have happened!" Wukong, lip quivering: "No... you're just that memory curse. Ao Lie never got to see her! You're not real!" Memory!Ao Lie, frowning: "Why are you so stubborn to admit that it wasn't your fault? I really truly never blamed you, or her." Wukong, crying: "Why were you so ok with it? Because of me, the Samadhi Fire it... hurt you." Memory!Ao Lie: "I would rather die protecting my family than live and let them be hurt in my stead." (*quietly moves to hug Wukong*) "That includes you and your pup, Wukong. Always has." Wukong: (*now sobbing, hugging Memory!Ao Lie tight*)

Eventually the Memory!Ao Lie has to remind Wukong that he has friends to reunite with in the present. Wukong hesistates to leave Ao Lie alone again - the memory reassures him that he'll be fine as long as his pilgrim brother lives his life without the weight of the Ritual upon his shoulders. And to make sure to spoil Yuebei in his stead.

[Wukong insists it's fine, and that Ne Zha couldn't have known that he kept it from basically everyone, but Ne Zha still feels bad about everything regarding the ritual. he intends to make up for it by doing whatever he can to protect Wukong and his little one now (even if Wukong insists its not nessecary)]

Ofc Nezha feels like garbage for treating Wukong's actions during the Ritual as a failing.

Wukong thinks he has it bad with DBK, PIF, and Pigsy forcing him to rest? Imagine how stubborn Nezha is when he's worried over the Monkey King.

[I love the mental image of Guan Yin using their hundred hands to aid in their righteous beat down] + [she will take this loss with the dignity and grace of the queen (believes she) is and not bother Wukong again (yet) she promises- please don't punch her again.]

Spider Queen isn't sure who she's afraid of more; the spooky ancient bone demon pretending to be a little girl, or the 1000 Armed Bodhisattva that just whooped her hard (but mercifully let her live) for hooking the Monkey King to the power-draining Spider Mech. Spider Queen makes sure not to directly target or interact with the Monkey King or his protege if she can for the rest of S2.

The Spider Gang has nightmares of Guanyin coming to beat the rest of them up like she's a Jojo stand.

[she is very icy! and I'm glad you like the art!]

It's really great art!!

Also LBD's soul probably tasted like shaved ice with a hint of chalk. Lots of it, but pretty bland. It filled up Yuebei at least!

[Macaque is an inconsolable sobbing mess of emotions for a while after first meeting Yuebei, for a lot of reasons. and imagine how hard he cries when Wukong first names her out loud officially calling her "Sun Yuebei Xing" for the first time, Yuebei being a moon inspired/adjacent name. he's practically wailing at one point.]

Aww ohoho! Macaque makes so many joyous squeaking/hooting sounds during Yuebei's arrival. To hear that Wukong has named her his little "Moon Comet Star" just makes him cry harder, especially with how casually Wukong names her. Like he'd had it it long before this moment, before he even knew that Macaque was back in his life.

I think in older Chinese traditions, the parents typically wait for the Man Yue (30 Days) celebration to publically announce the baby's name. But I bet Wukong is just so happy that he tells everyone Yuebei's name long before that time.

Nezha insisted on being at Yuebei's Man Yue to bless her, as that's his whole Patron God of Children thing.

[Wukong laughs at the befuddled chirp Yuebei makes when PIF kisses her. he would also very much welcome MK into his nest with his sleepy little family.]

There's def a bunch of photos of the incident with Yuebei looking at PIF with the most confused doe-eyed look ever, a huge red kiss mark on her head. The Princess looking embarassed and adoring all at once. It's PIF anf DBK's fave baby photo of Yuebei - besides the one where she tried eating Red Son's hair.

MK is very tired after the battle, so the gang has no problem just letting the kid rest in the nest with the monkeys. t

[I love this. He so would. Wukong would be laughing his tail off the first time he hears Macaque voicing a villain with an over exaggerated Peng voice, Wukong actively encourages him to do this as well.]

Heehee, Macaque finally agrees to read Yuebei a kids-friendly version of JTTW at MK's insistence, and when he gets to Camel Ridge, he pauses before looking towards Wukong for confirmation. At Wukong's excited nod, Macaque grins evily.

Macaque, narrating: "In the kingdom of Lion Camel Ridge, there lived three Great Demon Kings." Macaque, exaggerating the real voices: "Azure Lion! Yellow Tusked Elephant! And the Golden-Winged Peng!" Yuebei: *blows raspberry at the villains!* >:P! Macaque, normal voice: "Yeah, boo! These guys sucked!" Wukong: *laughing hysterically!* MK, sitting cross-legged on the floor: "Did they really sound like that?" Wukong, trying hard not to cry from laughter: "It's closer than you think!"

Macaque also deliberately exaggerates the voices of their allies like PIF and DBK so Yuebei doesn't accidentally associate their voices with the muddy past shown in the book.

[I'm now thinking of a scene where yellowtusk manages to get Yuebei away from the others long enough to give her bath, and she's fussy about it but baths with her Baba and Bama in the mountains hot springs were usually fun and calm and she felt better afterwards so she didn't put up much of a fight when Yellowtusk tried to get her into the water. anything that reminded her of her parents is comforting right now. but she's crying the whole time and chirping for her parents as she's very far from home and with no one she recognizes, but this elephant is giving her fruit and cleaning her as best he can, so maybe he's okay? she ends up clinging to his trunk like how'd she would cling around her parents neck, and thats how he got his sore trunk during Yuebei's "tantrum".]

Awwww..... :(

Yellow Tusk brings up the matter shortly after their takeover. Their former ally's cub is very fussy (especially since Azure has had her for about half a day now) and is starting to smell... ripe. Peng takes one sniff and recoils in disgust. Azure is clueless and isn't sure if monkey cubs work like lion cubs or not. Yellow Tusk has the sense to ask the remaining servants for help with tending to the infant - a group of seven brave orchard maidens stepped forward to run the baby a bath and prepare her a meal. Yellow Tusk is sure that he recognises them.

Baby monkeys instinctively cling to whatever is nearby - especially in situations where they feel scared or unsafe. So when the elephant gently put Yuebei in the warm bathwater and offered her mashed fruit, she instinctively clasped around his trunk like it was the arm of her parents, making sad hooing sounds as she sucked on her fingers. Yellow Tusk felt his heart break at the sight. He simply cannot fathom harming her in any sense of the word.

Azure must be mad to think that Sun Wukong won't kill them all to ensure this child's safety.

[kinda sad note on Yuebe missing her parents, but I feel like she'd have seperation anxiety after the s4 debacle. she needs at least one of her parents in the room with her at all times when she's awake or she's wailing at the top of her lungs.]

Absolutely.

Baby monkeys are already super clingy - the trauma of Yuebei's kidnapping during S4 only intensified this. She fears that if either of her parents leave the room, that they might not come back. Considering it was her parents arguing and "something" (aka the Scroll) taking her Baba away preceeded her kidnapping...

The first few times it happens, Wukong and Mac + the extended fam are terrified and aren't sure *why* Yuebei is so distressed. Eventually they figure out it's her anxiety, and are able to at least keep a clone posted to ease the worst of her worries when the others babysit. MK thankfully is one of the figures that Yuebei is calm around, and while she loves her uncles and aunts; Yuebei still starts wailing after a few minutes of realizing that she can't find her Baba or Bama.

It takes a long time for the baby monkey to be comfortable to not have her parents in sight. And considering how worried and overprotective that Wukong and Mac can be of her, they aren't in any rush to force her independance.

[this is amazing Macaque would so let Yuebei keep a "trophy" of her victory over Peng in the form of a baby appropriate toy. he also is def never letting Peng live down that they lost to a baby if they ever meet face to face again. hell, they day he got Yuebei back he was ragging on Peng for their loss before the bird could even be peeled off the ground]

Imagine the smug look on Macaque's face as he sees Peng reduced to a chicken burger on the ground by a *baby* with not even a tooth in her head. Mac would make a show of picking up his baby girl and kissing her all over while commenting in baby-talk; "Did you have fun with the birdy and kitty, moonlight? Yeah? Do you want Bama to take something to remember your little play date?"

And before Peng could make a snarking comment, they squawk! at the feeling of feathers being removed. They look up and see Yuebei playing with a handful of golden feathers. The Shadow Monkey grinning like a cat who's caught a mouse. The celestial bird faints from embarassment.

Macaque has one of the feathers preserved as a bookmark. It brings him great joy.

Again tysm for being so invested in this au!

[timur-pannonicus]

Zuko and Azula had no reference for what a normal or healthy sibling relationship is like

To address the always present argument about whether their relationship was abusive and who abused who. People point out that being mean and competitive, sometimes to the point of being hurtful, is not unusual for siblings.

I agree. But my point here is that Zuko and Azula don't know that.

Neither is either of them in their early to mid adulthood where the majority of people who had siblings they never got along with start understanding and forgiving.

Azula and Zuko most likely think that their rivalry is NOT a common thing. They lack examples from others in their lives.

I know bringing up the comics is justifiably frowned upon but in the Search, Zuko is absolutely bewildered by Sokka's and Katara's behavior towards each other, which was nothing more than fun bickering. But let's look what can be concluded or assumed from the show.

Iroh and Ozai were both well into adulthood when Zuko and Azula were born and they sadly did not reconcile their differences. They most likely behaved very icy to one another but the demands of court probably required them to act in a very civil and respectful seeming way. In Zuko Alone we can conclude Ozai didn't say anything nice, warm or funny about Iroh to Azula as seen by her attitude to her uncle and Iroh likely didn't tell any fun anecdotes either due to either being away at war or because he didn't want to risk a fight with his brother.

Ursa might have had siblings and cousins but nothing in the show confirms that and the comics clearly say she did not.

Mai didn't get a brother until she was 14.

Ty Lee has six sisters but it's quite possible that each of them had a "pair" in their matched set and Ty Lee was the only one left out, made worse by the fact that her parents seemed to barely acknowledge her. It's possible that only her friendship with Azula made her stand out at all, which likely contributed to her desire for uniqueness and independence too. In any case she likely didn't have much interaction with her biological sisters.

There seems to have been no other kids in the palace with whom Azula and Zuko could interact, limiting their scope of experience and insight.

Zuko not realizing that little siblings tend to be annoying and mean and do pranks has been discussed in detail by others and I don't think I have to add anything.

But, AZULA did not realize some things about older siblings either. They can be entitled, patronizing, attention hogging, dismissive, rude and even cold. Countless older siblings have told the younger ones that they were adopted or found in the trash or said and done even worse things.

One way to simplify the rivalry between Zuko and Azula is to say each was jealous of the attention the other was receiving from a parent.

However, sadly for them their parent's relationship was strained either from the start or after a while, to put it lightly.

Add the fact that they were sheltered and secluded royalty and what they learned about what siblings should be like most likely comes from official ceremonies and rituals, state approved stories and plays, idealized versions that don't correspond with reality.

Plus due to the Fire Nation being a blend of East Asian cultures it's likely they have some form of Confucian ethics. According to those the younger sibling owes obedience to the older and the older is bound to protect the younger. I think it's not too much of a stretch to believe both Zuko and Azula felt wronged in that regard by the other but both were too stubborn to give.

I can't blame Zuko too much for not realizing Azula was trying to help him a few times. Boy was brought up to believe that little sisters SHOULD be very kind, nice and demure. Even if he had acknowledged her efforts he'd still be inwardly pushed to believe she was doing it wrong.

So yeah, both could use a very long life changing field trip with Katara and Sokka, who were both allowed to develop their relationship naturally.

I think I've said enough for now. This is how I see things AT THE TIME OF WRITING.

I tried, really tried to be as fair to Zuko as possible and not harp the poor Azula harp. But if anyone wants to scream at me and be rude over my obviously wrong opinion on either fire sibling, don't expect a response from me.

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 23: Blackness of blackest darkness close to day

It took Gerry almost a week to convince Tim that what happened to Martin wasn’t his fault.

He told him over and over again that he’d had no reason to go and check on him, that if Martin was sick it was perfectly sensible for him to want to be left alone, and if he wasn’t responding to his texts that was no reason to get suspicious. He’d also pointed out that if Tim had gone over earlier and run into this Jane Prentiss, no amount of knowledge of the Fears would have kept him from being caught off-guard, and it was likely he’d have just ended up getting consumed himself and made things worse all around. Eventually he convinced him to palm the disk they’d transcribed Martin’s statement onto and bring it home; once he’d read through it, he’d pointed out the numerous places where Martin emphasized that he’d done what he did out of fear that Jon wouldn’t think he’d done enough. Even if Martin had known about the Fourteen, and the dangers they represented, he still probably would have kept pushing ahead, because the consequences of that would have, in his mind, been lesser than the consequences of telling Jon he hadn’t looked into every conceivable line of inquiry and pursued it to a satisfactory conclusion. And from what Tim had said about Jon, even if he’d known about the Fears…well, he might not have sent Martin to look into it, but he probably would have looked into it himself, and it would have been that much less likely that anyone would have known what happened to him.

Gerry hadn’t actually meant to say out loud that Tim probably wouldn’t have cared as much if it had been Jon, but the guilt that flashed through Tim’s eyes at that told him it wasn’t entirely untrue.

They’d discussed the possibility of having Martin stay with them instead of at the Institute, but they’d eventually discarded the idea. For one thing, Tim didn’t think Martin would actually agree to it, but for another, Gerry was pretty sure he was actually safer at the Institute, Elias notwithstanding. He’d remembered where most, if not all, of Gertrude’s traps and wards were, and Tim had quietly gone around and shored them up, so it wasn’t likely anything would get in to attack him without alerting someone. (Tim never said anything, but Gerry knew he was hoping they would alert Gertrude and that she would pull a King Arthur and return in the Archives’ time of greatest need or whatever, because he was hoping the same thing.)

The bigger discussion they’d had was over whether or not to clue the others in. After all, now they were actively being hunted by Jane Prentiss; surely it would be better for them to know the whole truth. Somewhat to Gerry’s own surprise, Tim was the one making that argument, while he was the more reluctant. In the end, he’d convinced Tim that, for right now anyway, knowing about all of the Fourteen would make things worse—Martin and Jon were both paranoid enough—so it was probably safer to let them think this was an isolated incident. At least until Gertrude got back.

God, please let Gertrude get back soon.

The notes Gertrude had given Tim were pretty much exclusively about the Unknowing, and while she’d mentioned a few of the other rituals—and not just the Extinguished Sun—neither of them could recall her ever saying anything about the Corruption’s. Which might have meant she didn’t consider it a worry, or might have meant that she’d already disrupted it, or might have meant something else altogether. Either way, it was possible that the Crawling Rot was attempting to remake the world in its own image before I Do Not Know You did, which meant they would be scrambling to stop it…and worse, they’d be having to start from scratch. No notes. No precedent. No Gertrude. Tim was smart, and Gerry had a good deal of practical knowledge of the Fourteen, but they weren’t Gertrude Robinson and they might not be able to fix it.

Less drastic for the universe at large, but every bit as concerning to Gerry, was the fact that Tim’s nightmares were getting really, really bad. He hadn’t woken up swinging since the first one back in January, but five nights out of eleven he was waking up screaming or with tears rolling down his cheeks, and Gerry didn’t know how to fix it. Logically, he knew there wasn’t really anything he could actually do, short of getting him good and tired before they went to bed and hoping that would make him sleep too deeply to dream or being there for him when he woke up—and Tim kept assuring him that was plenty. Still, he kept wishing there was a way to just wave a wand or flip a switch and make it all better. Which was a new experience for him. Not just the feeling, but having someone he wanted to do that for.

The first day of spring topped out in the low teens under a leaden sky—so pretty typical for London—and Gerry spent most of the day in his studio. Someone who’d made an appointment to ask about a book had gotten distracted by the painting on the wall and asked if Gerry took commissions, and Gerry had surprised himself by saying yes, so he was working on a piece for the man’s living room. The thought of giving over the rare book business, which he wasn’t all that keen on to begin with, and being able to make a living as an artist was an enticing prospect, but it wasn’t much more than a pipe dream at that point. Still, he hummed along with the music as the image began to take shape.

Once the light passed the studio window, meaning it was gone five o’clock, he reluctantly put down his work, closed the door to the studio, and took Rowlf for a walk before starting on dinner. He’d found a recipe book that claimed to have been put together by some ladies’ auxiliary or other, probably as an effort to raise money for a new roof or some such, in one of the boxes his mother had never bothered to go through, and since it didn’t appear to be a book of power—unless Indigestion had emerged as a fifteenth Fear—he was determined to find out if any of them were worth eating. Most of the gelatin molds could be dismissed out of hand, but the recipe for chicken paprikash intrigued him, so he was giving it a go. Evidently, he was doing well with it, since Rowlf was sitting at his side with his ears perked, very attentively watching everything Gerry did, nostrils twitching the entire time.

Suddenly, Rowlf’s ears pricked further and his tail started thumping. A second later, he leaped to his feet and ran towards the front of the flat. Gerry heard the jingle of keys in the bowl and called, “Dinner will be ready in about twenty, I hope.”

Tim waltzed into the kitchen, almost literally, with Rowlf prancing about his feet. His eyes were sparkling with excitement and mischief in a way Gerry hadn’t seen in close to a year, and he was carrying the folio Gertrude had given him. Gerry considered trying to guess what was up, then decided that would take all the fun out of it. “What happened?”

Tim danced over to Gerry’s side and kissed him on the cheek. “Hither Green.”

Gerry blinked, trying to figure out what that cryptic phrase meant. “Whither green?”

“Are you doing some kind of—no, never mind, you haven’t seen Young Frankenstein.” Tim glanced at the simmering chicken momentarily, then turned his gaze back to Gerry and grinned. “Got another real statement today.”

He had Gerry’s attention. Maybe not in the way he wanted. “And that’s…good?”

“Yeah. How much attention do you need to pay to that?”

“It’s simmering right now, and I don’t need to start worrying about it or the pasta for another ten minutes.”

“Good.” Tim hitched himself up onto the counter and unzipped the folio, then pulled out a few sheets of paper that looked like notebook paper rather than official Institute stationery. He rattled it in Gerry’s direction. “This was in a box that came down from Research about six months ago that we’ve just never got to. Martin unpacked it and cataloged everything in a fit of nervous energy last night and Jon told us to parcel everything out. I snagged this one. Couldn’t justify taking the real thing, but I copied it out. Here.”

He handed the paper to Gerry, who took it and glanced at the top. The statement number clearly labeled it as being from April of the previous year, a couple weeks after they’d got back from the Faroe Islands and found out Gertrude was AWOL, which meant she hadn’t seen it yet—smart of Tim to snag it before anyone else did, especially since they wouldn’t know if it would be important or dangerous. If he was this excited about it, Gerry assumed it was to do with the Unknowing somehow.

It wasn’t. Gerry’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline, not that they had far to jump, as he began reading further into the statement. The words church and evenings and light bulbs jumped out at him, painting a coherent picture even before he got to the really meaty bit. As soon as the man who’d given the statement repeated his girlfriend’s roommate’s phrase—it wasn’t long until they were collected by Mr. Pitch—Gerry knew exactly what was going to happen.

He lowered the pages and looked at Tim sharply. “She was preparing for the ritual?”

Tim rolled his hand eagerly. “Keep going.”

Gerry resumed reading. The woman had attempted to recruit her roommate—failed, thank God, or that could have been bad—and when the statement giver had gone back to have it out with her, she had vanished. That her room was sealed against the light was completely unsurprising, but what caught Gerry’s attention was the paper the man found: A drawing of a closed eye, backed with the words Hither Green Dissenters.

He looked up at Tim again. “Hither Green Dissenters. You think that’s how the People’s Church of the Divine Host is rebranding themselves these days?”

Tim shook his head. “It’s a chapel. When they laid out the Hither Green Cemetery in 1873—it was Lee Cemetery then, that’s what parish it belonged to—they put up two chapels. One was the Anglican chapel, but the other was for ‘dissenters’—nonconformists, people who weren’t Anglican, specifically Protestants. Which was kind of a big deal back then, since burials were still largely controlled by parish churches until 1880 and a lot of urban chapels didn’t have graveyards attached, so having a cemetery where people of multiple faiths could be buried was kind of important.”

The inklings of understanding began to niggle at Gerry’s brain. “When did all this happen?”

“He just said ‘a few weeks’ before he came in to talk to the Institute, but I ran a search on Natalie Ennis.” Tim’s grin notched up a bit. “She was reported missing by our Mr. Bilham on the eleventh of March, 2015. You and I were still in Sicily, getting ready to head to Prague.”

“So right before…” Gerry let out a long, low whistle. “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later.” Tim slid off the counter. “You finish reading that, I’ll get the pasta started. Did you have something in mind?”

“The recipe calls for egg noodles,” Gerry said distractedly, fumbling for a chair with one hand while trying to find where he’d left off in the statement.

“Northerners are weird.” Nevertheless, Tim reached for the cupboard.

Now that he didn’t have to pay such close attention to the food, Gerry let himself sink a little deeper into the statement, slowing down and paying attention to the details. The man had investigated the Hither Green Dissenters Chapel, gone in—as stupid as that was for someone unprepared—and tried to find the missing woman, to no avail. And then, of course, the torch had gone out and the Dark had attempted to claim him, or at least remain undisturbed. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to read that the floor had seemed transformed. His skin crawled, though, as he read the description of the man’s having found some kind of metal grating and touched hands with something…odd. It could have been a worshiper, but then again, it might not have been. Either way, the man was damned lucky to have survived it.

Especially given the timing.

Slowly, Gerry lowered the last page to the table, pursing his lips thoughtfully. He looked up at Tim, who was watching him from the corner of his eye as he stirred at what he presumed to be a pot of noodles. “Does ‘nee alisund’ mean anything to you?”

“Yep.” Tim popped the P sharply. “Ny-Ålesund is a small town in Norway, and except for research stations, it’s actually the most northerly human settlement on Earth.”

“I thought that was the Faroe Islands.”

“No, that was just the northernmost place we could get to without flying, remember? Ny-Ålesund is on Svalbard, but we could see it from where we were.”

Gerry mulled that over for a moment, then said slowly, “So, a Dark statement, about an incident that took place nine days before the solstice, that mentions Mr. Pitch, the culmination of three centuries of waiting, and the place we’re pretty sure Gertrude was going to charter a boat and take us over to if she’d had to meet us in the Faroe Islands instead of staying in London to do what she needed to do, which is incidentally the same place where this statement largely occurred? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably. Should we bring the dog?”

In the end, they didn’t have a choice; Rowlf invited himself along whether they wanted him or not. Gerry had to admit that it was probably for the best; they were armed with a heavy-duty torch plus the small one on Tim’s keychain, but if the Dark was still hanging about those could become inadequate, to say the least. Rowlf’s nose might, key word was might, come in handy. Since the cemetery closed at five and it was gone eight before they even left the house, they were dressed in all black, and Gerry took out a few of his more noticeable piercings. He also managed to persuade Tim to let him give him a bit of a makeover, on the perfectly legitimate grounds that if they got caught, they could pretend to be a goth couple looking for romance in a crypt or something.

The eyeliner suited him, actually, and Gerry almost wished he had a mobile phone just so he could take a picture and make it his background.

They parked about two miles from the cemetery and walked the rest of the way, trying to look casual despite the late hour. Fortunately, there weren’t many people to observe them. As they approached the gates, Gerry started thinking about how they were going to get in unobserved.

He needn’t have bothered. Something clattered on the path inside the cemetery; Rowlf’s ears perked up, and he leaped forward, seeming to jerk the lead from Tim’s hand as he slipped through the bars of the gate.

“Noodles!” Tim called, which surprised Gerry for a moment until he shook the gates, cursed, and glanced around—rather obviously—before hauling himself over the wall. Then Gerry got it.

“Jesus,” he hissed for the form of things, then shinned over the wall himself. Thank God he’d quit smoking or this would have been a lot more difficult.

He caught up to Tim and Rowlf just off the path. Tim had once again taken hold of the lead, and Rowlf was sitting attentively, tail thumping. Tim blinked innocently at Gerry. “Sorry, officer, our dog was chasing something and we had to catch him.”

“You devious bastard.” Gerry gave Tim a quick kiss. “Come on. Where’s this chapel?”

“Near the back. Where else?” Tim glanced up at the sky. “I’m not sure if we picked a good night for this, or if we should’ve waited a couple weeks.”

Gerry understood what he meant. The clouds of earlier had passed, leaving the sky clear and pristine, and the moon was near enough to full that it bathed the cemetery in a silvery glow. It was going to be hard for them not to be detected. On the other hand…

“Well, it’s got to be easier to tell if we run into the actual Dark this way,” he pointed out.

“Good point. Let’s go. Carefully,” Tim added. “Mind your step.”

Gerry nodded and looped his arm through Tim’s. Rowlf stayed close to Tim’s other side, although he was certainly sniffing about, as they headed deeper into the cemetery.

“Tiptoe…through the graveyard…” Gerry sang under his breath.

“Cemetery,” Tim corrected him.

“What?”

“It’s a cemetery. Not a graveyard.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Graveyards are attached to churches. Cemeteries are unattached, and usually well away from populated areas.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s a Robert Frost poem, ‘On a Disused Graveyard’, that we studied in one of my A-levels. Someone in class asked why a cemetery wouldn’t be used anymore and our teacher gave us an impromptu lecture on the difference between cemeteries and graveyards and why they stopped burying people on the church grounds.” Tim checked over his shoulder, then clicked on the torch he was carrying. It did more than Gerry would have thought. “Further up and further in.”

Gerry hummed in acknowledgment. “So why did they? Stop burying people on church grounds, I mean.”

“Overcrowding. And they were too close to human habitation. The decomposing bodies were starting to affect the water supply. Especially after the cholera epidemic of 1831.” Tim swept the beam of the torch ahead of them; Rowlf chased it momentarily. “That’s why they built the Magnificent Seven. Hither Green isn’t one of those, it came about fifty years later.”

“And…why is this chapel so far back?”

“Dissenters,” Tim reminded him. “Most of the cemetery is for good C of E Christians—you know, the official religion. This place wasn’t built that long after they stopped requiring you to have taken sacrament in an Anglican church in order to be eligible for public office, so there were thirty-nine acres for the Church of England and fifteen for the Nonconformists.”

“Got any relatives buried here?” Gerry asked, and he was only partly joking.

Tim, however, shook his head. “No Catholics here. Not from back then anyway. Nonconformists really meant other Protestant denominations—Baptists, Methodists, Moravians, that kind of thing—plus atheists, or anyone who didn’t openly express to being religious. There are two Catholic cemeteries in London, Saint Mary’s and Saint Patrick’s. Four Jewish cemeteries would’ve been open at the time Hither Green broke ground, too, since I know that’s going to be your next question.”

Gerry waited until they had darted across a paved road and started making their way between the mausoleums before he spoke again. “Whose rule was that? That only Protestants and atheists could be buried here, I mean.”

“Kind of both? There was a lot of anti-Catholic sentiment up until the 1940s, really, and anti-Jewish sentiment was, and is, way worse. But even besides that, the fifteen acres where they buried the Dissenters aren’t consecrated, so you can’t have a proper Catholic burial in that.” Tim tugged Rowlf’s lead, steering him away from a headstone, and nodded to it. “Pardon us, ma’am.”

Gerry assumed Tim could see the name carved on the front, because otherwise, there was no way of telling a woman was buried there. “Religious people are weird.”

“I am a religious people, and I agree with you. Come on, I don’t want to be caught out here if the moon goes behind a cloud.”

Eventually they found what they were looking for—a small, clearly abandoned stone structure that had once been a chapel, with a pointed bell tower and boarded up windows. The double doors stood open, or at least slightly ajar. Gerry eyed them for a moment, then turned to Tim. “If something in there springs out and tries to attack us, I want you to know that I will live the rest of my life without feeling the slightest bit guilty that I tripped you and left you to die in my place.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “And if we walk in there and everything is laid out for a grand ritual sacrifice, I want you to know that I almost decided you were worth not going through with the last stage of my plan to ascend into godhood.”

Rowlf barked softly and wagged his tail. Gerry leaned down and scruffed his ears vigorously. “That’s right, boy! When you shed this earthly disguise and reveal your true monstrous form, you will be merciful enough to kill us both before you enslave the world and bend it to your will!”

Rowlf’s tail wagged harder. Tim squared his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What are we actually looking for, anyway?” Gerry asked as they took the last few steps and paused outside the door. “It’s been a year. The bodies will definitely have decomposed by now.”

Tim shook his head. “If Gertrude was going to kill them all, she’d have blown the place to bits. The fact that it’s still intact means she did something else to disrupt the ritual.”

“We’re absolutely certain it was happening here, then?”

“Part of it was. Gertrude reckoned it was going to happen in stages, sort of. Like a gradual eclipse. Disturbing any one part of it should have disrupted the whole thing, and the fact that it never got to the point where she had to come up to Ny-Ålesund means it definitely worked down this way.”

“How do you know that?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Anyway, I’m not reckoning on there being anything dead in here. But I am pretty sure we’ll find some sort of hint as to where Gertrude is. At least what she did to disrupt it, which might give us another clue.”

Gerry shrugged. “Right. On three, then?”

Tim nodded, put his hand on the left-hand door, said, “Three,” and slipped in.

“Motherfucker,” Gerry said under his breath, but he followed his partner and dog into the building.

The chapel was exactly as Mark Bilham had described it: dusty, littered with junk, and utterly empty. It had maybe been used to duck in out of the weather and have a smoke or a drink—or a shag, Gerry thought, nudging what was clearly a spent rubber with his toe—but nobody had worshiped here in a long time.

“When did they stop burying people here?” he asked. On an instinct he didn’t know he possessed, he kept his voice low.

“It’s still an active cemetery,” Tim said distractedly. “Burials are only in the mornings, though…damn. Ger, do me a favor, would you?”

“If I can,” Gerry said, a bit warily.

Tim held Rowlf’s lead towards him. Rowlf was sniffing enthusiastically at one of the pews. “Take the dog and stand by the door, would you?”

Gerry assumed he was worried about Rowlf messing up a trace, or possibly eating a cigarette butt, which…was probably valid, actually. He took the lead and clicked his tongue; Rowlf trotted over to him and sat, eager and attentive. Gerry fished a cold cube of chicken out of the little canister attached to the lead and rewarded him for obeying orders. “Any clues, Holmes?”

Tim looked up at him. Gerry, very suddenly, did not like the look on his face. “I’m about to do something extremely ill-advised. If I scream, for God’s sake and mine, run. All jokes aside, I need to know you’ll be safe if I fuck this up, okay?”

Gerry swallowed hard. “Tim, what are you going to do?”

In answer, Tim took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and clicked off the torch.

The boarded-up windows, combined with the fact that the moon was directly overhead at best, meant that the interior of the chapel was now pitch dark. Gerry tightened his grip on Rowlf’s lead and held his breath. He couldn’t hear anything but the rapid thudding of his heart and Rowlf’s very, very faint whimpering, couldn’t feel anything but the encroaching cold and the leather biting into his hand. He clenched his free hand into a fist and kept his eyes fixed on the spot where he had last seen his partner, hoping, praying to a god he didn’t even really believe was there—

The sound of Tim cursing was the sweetest of music to Gerry’s ears, second only to the click as the torch came back on. Tim stood exactly where he’d been before, looking none the worse for the wear and maybe just a little disappointed. “I should have guessed.”

“What the hell was that all about?” Gerry dropped the lead without thinking and strode across the floor to embrace his boyfriend, because fuck it, after a scare like that he could use that word and not be ashamed of it. “Were you trying to summon the Dark?”

“Yeah,” Tim admitted, hugging Gerry back. “I know it’s stupid, but…I thought Gertrude might be hiding in it. Or stuck in it, maybe. You know, Elias was surprised she’d texted me on the twentieth, I thought maybe she got attacked by something, came out here to finish the Dark off, and it…I dunno, held on to her or something. That if I could lure it out, it would at least let me step into it and find her, the way I stepped into the Night Market.”

“Jesus, Tim.” Gerry rested his chin on Tim’s shoulder for a moment, then slowly, reluctantly, eased back. He kept hold of his hand, though, even as he bent to pick up the lead, Rowlf having trotted over to join them.

“I know. I know. But it…it’s not here anymore.” Tim stared down at the floor, his forehead puckered in a frown. He untangled one of his fingers from Gerry’s and worried at the ring on his finger for a moment.

Gerry slid the loop of the lead around his wrist, brought Tim’s hand up, and tugged the ring off for him—damn, it was unusually tight, it took him a second to work it up to the knuckle, never mind yank it over it. “Whatever Gertrude did disrupted it good and proper, I guess.”

Slowly, Tim shook his head. “Gertrude didn’t do it. Not from here, anyway. Don’t do that if you’re not serious about it.”

Gerry paused for no more than half a second as he contemplated what Tim had just said—both of the things Tim had just said—before mentally shrugging and resuming sliding the ring onto the slightly smaller finger between his middle and pinkie fingers. “What makes you say that?”

Tim took both of Gerry’s hands in his, squeezing gently, and gave him a look that was both confused and worried. “Gerry, I might not have been able to step into the Dark, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t see what it left behind—the shape of the ritual. It was here. They were doing something here. But Gertrude never touched it. She wasn’t here. I don’t know what that means.” He swallowed hard. “And I don’t know where the fuck else she could possibly be.”

[thecallofthecrow]

Happy Imbolc and Welcome to My Tumblr!

Hi, my name is Kuro. I'm a Pagan/Witch/Somewhere in that realm who has been practicing Witchcraft since the 8th grade. This seems like something someone really edgy would say, and it's gonna be worse when you learn which Goddess I worship and call "My Matron."

The Morrigan, by the way. The Morrigan chose me, and as Izzy of The Morrigan's Oracle has said, she likes to weave a story. So before we go into the FAQ/Strawman Argument section, let's go into my history.

Why Witchcraft?

In the time I converted to Wicca (I don't really count myself as Wiccan anymore as I don't ft the mold perfectly so I go with the more "Pagan" overview) I was undergoing a lot of pressure. I had just gotten out of a dangerous situation at home, living with people who cared for me, and wanted me to explore my life and what I wanted for myself.

I was also in a very abusive and manipulative relationship at said time, so I was looking for help in all the places I could. I was relaxing at my local library down the street from my school, and exploring the various aisles of books as I tended to do. The library, after all, was my favorite place on the planet. I've always been a reader - and still am to this day - so fate aligned and in a little small town in a very Christian and conservative area, I stumbled upon a book.

This singular book, "Wicca: The Complete Craft" by D.J. Conway came into my hands like fate screeching into my body full force. I had been raised Catholic, but at the time was non-practicing. However, I have always been very open minded. So with this interesting book, and a lot of time to kill, I sat down and began reading its pages with great interest as to what it had to say.

Needless to say, something connected. The open feeling I felt reading the contents of Conway's book filled me with such interest that I then checked that book out and went home to read it.

My Grandparents weren't thrilled. I don't actually know their religious backing, as they were non-practicing and never went to Church. Same for my Dad, he didn't practice actively either, and I wasn't in much contact with him at the time because he was going through his own journey at the time and we didn't intersect much. However, no one stopped me from delving into the pages of this interesting book.

I understand not everyone is lucky enough to have been given this luxury. Had my family been more fanatical, or practicing Christians, or less open minded, I probably would have been forced to return the book and never bring it into the house again. However, that was not the case.

To make a long story short, I converted to Wicca. I kept myself in the broom closet for a long time, before finally revealing at one point to my Grandparents,

"Grandma, Grandpa, I'm a Wiccan now."

They didn't really question me. I think they thought I was going through a phase and this would end. Well, here we are at age 30 worshipping the Morrigan and about to do an Imbolc ritual this very nice, with offerings lined up to go and plans made. I have an Oracle and Tarot deck (having bought my first tarot deck legit yesterday and the Oracle deck years ago now). I have an entire altar now.

This doesn't mean the journey was easy. I posted a Facebook post at one point revealing this factoid of mine, my transformational journey, and my Dad saw it. Pardon my sailor mouth, but he flipped the fuck out.

He came storming over to the house and yelled at me for like, two hours for not asking him for guidance to find the love of Jesus again, for not asking him to take me to church and see the love of HIS god. He was very disappointed in me. The argument devolved, as it always does, into him screaming at me and me calmly responding with reasonable arguments, and then after he left me crying my eyes out because all I've ever wanted was for him to love me. A bit TMI, I know, but I guess Daddy issues are common in this community from what have understood over the years.

But, I did not let it deter me from my craft. I continued working with my Gods and Goddesses, primarily with - who I thought was - Artemis, who turned out to be the Morrigan but we'll get into that when we get to more recent stuff.

I would commune with her when I had time to kill, pray to her, do altar work with her. Some of my school friends, through middle and high school, also converted over. One of these "friends" who we won't get into stole my pentacle necklace, my prized, blessed possession and one way of expressing my faith and beliefs. He would later, in high school, be told to take it off during class because it was "a gang symbol." Even though he was an awful friend who - in the end - got what was coming to him, I was angry on his behalf.

Justice is an important thing to me. We live in an unjust world, as many of you - especially on Tumblr - know to a great degree. There is much discrimination and mistreatment of people of all creeds and birth. I won't get too social justice-y so we can stay on topic, and I understand that with the modicum of personal information I'll give out that I have a certain inherent set of privileges that I am learning more as time goes on I need to keep in check.

These privileges did not keep me from facing some discrimination. I am on the ace spectrum. For a long time, before the whole Wicca thing, I showed no interest in relationships. The one I was in when I converted to Wicca was out of interest for the person. However before that, my family confronted me constantly with the question "are you gay?" At the same time, I am also disabled, with several mental illnesses, however we will get to that in the FAQ section.

I also faced religious persecution, just like said "friend" in high school. When people found out my faith, they reacted negatively, by and large. Oh the woes of living in a non-open minded world. I'll give a particular example that gets my blood boiling.

I was talking to my friend, we'll call her O. The topic of religion came up, one I'm very interested in having studied various theologies over the years. I'm not afraid of backing up my choices, but I am not closed minded to the whole "I'm right and le Christians bad." I had several Christian friends of various denominations, even at the time.

My friend asked some interesting questions, to which I explained my points on. Then some asshole from across the room, who was apparently listening, jumped into a conversation he was not even remotely included with "You are going to burn in hell."

It caught me by surprise, because he was sitting right by the teacher. The teacher kinda looked at him, then at me. I asked him to repeat himself, so he gleefully did. I tried to counter with something, I don't remember what, but respectfully, and the teacher told me to be quiet. She was staring directly at me. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe she just didn't want a religious argument breaking out in the middle of fucking Geometry, I dunno. All I know is, I stopped all pretenses of playing nice after that when people would pull the same shit.

I will admit, I got a little petty. I unleashed my full witchy pride and gleefully told people about my faith and my experiences. I wasn't afraid of backlash anymore, as I had gotten it several times by then. Nor did I stop having theological discussions about the Bible and scripture with my Lutheran friend. We'll call him D. He was very kind always and never delved into insults, but we liked to joke that I was a godless heathen. I still do that joke with my Grandparents and we get a laugh out of it every time.

But never did I stray from my path. I did my craft, I communed with "Artemis", and practiced spells. Over the course of my life, some of the work fell by the wayside, but I always kept my Goddess' requests in mind. Eventually, I entered college, and moved out of home and never had a space for an altar until literally yesterday. But I held faith that all would be fine.

Why the Morrigan? Isn't She Evil?

Alright so let's dispel (heh) some notions right now.

A lot of people find the Morrigan in various ways, and I even got this question today on Imbolc of all days, the celebration of Brig, the Morrigan's daughter.

The way Izzy put it on The Morrigan's Oracle was that "she likes to weave a story." She will often change shapes and trick you into thinking you're talking to someone else. So, since I was a Hellenist at the time, I got put with Artemis, which is weird because I'm a dude, so that should have been red flag number one.

I worked with "Artemis" for years. Called her mom, she took care of me, and all she ever asked of me, no offerings, no requirements, no rituals (as a lot of the worship happened when I had fuck all space), was to fight; fight my battles (which were many and constant) and better myself. She wanted me to get my shit together, which was made harder by me being diagnosed with schizophrenia. Shocking, I know; the person who thinks they can weave magicks is psychotic. We'll get to that, please be patient.

Eventually, fast-forwarding about 10 years after working with Artemis through high school and college, something didn't feel right. I felt doubt for the first time, even after converting from Wicca to more vague Paganism. "Artemis" was quiet, and the few times she did speak up she told me to "keep going." This is something I needed, dealing with suicidal tendencies and psychotic problems. It runs in my family, and we'll leave it at that.

But a couple years ago from around now, I discovered this odd attunement towards crows. I first was afraid of them, as you will hear many worshippers of the Morrigan state. But then, i grew weirdly attracted to their presence. They weren't tellers of doom to me, but a sign. I delved into research, trying to find a Hellenistic answer to the question and drawing up little.

Then she appeared to me. Not in a hallucinatory way though, let me explain.

Her presence was made known to me when I finally found a Goddess linked to crows, who was also known to be a triple Goddess. I had an affinity towards triple Goddesses all the time, yet I never even considered the idea that a Celtic Goddess, with my Irish roots, was even a possibility as a point of worship. But when I made that link, I felt something as I read up on her. I remember at one point I felt like something of a feeling of divine amusement as I finally made the link.

Broke out that Oracle Deck, which I will include the picture of as it is my favorite Oracle Deck (Seasons of the Witch Oracle: Samhain) and put out a feeler. I got a strong answer back, in which she finally removed the mask. It was her, the Morrigan, in full presence.

I was kinda scared shitless because she's often associated with Death itself, and many other bad things. But as research will tell you, she's not really that scary. I call her "theatrical" more than evil. Yeah, in some stories she does some fucked up shit, but honestly, in regards to the Gods and Goddesses of myth, all of them have done something arguably disagreeable, and they usually have their reasons.

So does that mean you don't believe in Artemis' existence? That's kinda fucked up if you believe that.

I believe Artemis exists. I'm in that weird zone of Paganism that says any pantheon probably exists. I have Norse, Hellenistic, Celtic, and various other people who go for different Gods and Goddesses as friends, so I believe their experiences are valid and their connections to their deities are real and valid. I believe anyone who believes any religion should be seen as valid unless they use it to harm people.

Harming people through religion is not alone in Christianity. I was manipulated by some very awful people who were Pagan, and I will never forgive those people for what they did to me. Fuck those guys lol, we'll get into that later.

But as for why I don't think Artemis was really the one communing with me, and it was Morrigan "weaving a story" as some of her other worshippers state, is because all her requests line more up with her than Artemis. My mind was small, I liked Hellenistic beliefs, but my mind was too small to address the Morrigan at the time, and when I finally made the connection, it was the right time. I do truly believe the Morrigan is watching over me.

So what then, you're a worshipper of the Morrigan now? What about other Celtic Deities?

I believe they exist. As mentioned earlier, the Morrigan chose me, not the other way around. Other deities choose their followers. I have a friend whose mom worships Lugh, though she's a terrible person. However, NO ONE FUCKING ASKED my opinion on her, so we'll leave it at that.

I don't mess with Lugh much because any time I even think about him I get this kinda hostile energy. There's others, but the three I'm drawn to right now, and technically one of them is three Goddesses, are the Morrigan, Aine, and Brig.

Okay, can we address some stuff now?

Sure, let's advance to the FAQ section. I'm gonna try to speedrun this because I've been typing for like, an hour or two and I've got shit to do.

FAQ

So you're a Witch, does that mean you curse people and do magic for Satan?

I know this is literally what I earlier joked to be the Strawman section but this one was just too funny not to do.

I don't do curses. A concept I kept from Wicca, which isn't exactly exclusive to Wicca but not all Pagan's believe it, is the Law of Threes and the Wiccan Rede.

The Law of Threes is basically defined as something where whatever you put out into the universe - be it curses, hostile energy, hate, whatever - comes back to you three times in strength. So curses are a big bad. In the same way, revenge magic is a big no no, and some gods, even who reside over Justice, don't like you asking for Justice when it comes down to dolling out your own sense of justice, or even asking for it. Your mileage may vary depending on the practitioner.

As for the Satan question, I know I mentioned all deities probably exist, I don't believe in Satan, or Hell, or any of that. The Underworld definitely exists, as does the Hedge, but the Underworld isn't as scary as it sounds. It's kinda just... A thing. Do your own research on that and don't ask me.

To summarize, no; I don't curse people and worship Satan because I don't curse people and I don't believe in Satan.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You've been a Pagan for a long time, so are you an expert?

Hell the fuck no. I haven't actively practiced in ten years, and even before I was shit at it. I need to seek out lessons from people more informed from me to get shit right and last night during my own ritual I was so nervous i forgot how to draw a star that Kindergarteners learn to draw. The Morrigan was very amused.

Are all Witches in a coven? Are they scary?

Man fuck covens. I was in a coven once; most high school drama ass shit I ever encountered. I don't do covens, and covens with (gasp) men allowed in it seem to be rare as is. I guess that's my gender reveal I was trying to avoid.

Wait how can you be a dude and a Witch? Aren't those all girls?

I will summarize this specifically, and it kinda varies so YMMV.

Warlock is kinda a mistranslated word from my research and means oathbreaker. I identify with the word Witch, and a lot of sources back me up while a lot of other sources say it's a male witch. You choose what you want to be called, but I would prefer to be referred to as a Witch or if you don't feel comfortable with that feel free to just call me a Pagan (or crazy, that's valid too).

You're a schizo, do you really think you can hear your Goddess?

Valid point, but this is different. There's a lot of theories as to the scientific backing of "hearing your god." I feel energies rather than directly "hear" something. It could be nothing, it could be something. I just go with my gut.

Atheists reading this might be like "oh yeah he's nuts." That's your prerogative. Home Button is right there and if you want to avoid the whole entire subgenre of this thing, there's some interesting tags you can blacklist if Tumblr still has that feature. #witchblr is a great place to start with avoiding this content.

I'd like to not get people going into my comments saying I'm utterly nutterly butterly, but I expect I'll get some of that. My advice to other witchs, Pagans, and Wiccans, and everything in between to just block or not engage. Really, as someone who works in social media, they're just giving you more engagement and spreading your content around. This can be a good and bad thing, but you decide what is best for you and don't listen to my psycho ass.

Magic doesn't exist, you're just crazy. Take your medicine.

It's on my desk, I already did, and surprise surprise I still believe in this shit. Chill, my advice to the hardliners is just to avoid my content if you don't want to read it. It'll be better for both of us if you just ignore me, or block me, or whatever you want.

So, what is this Tumblr gonna be about, really?

Let me address this plainly. I'm a creative, and I need an outlet to talk about my faith. My friends are starting to get annoyed because half of them are either atheists or agnostic and don't care or some sect of Christianity and think I'm a devil worshipper ooOooOooOH so spooky.

So I'll publish, as you've seen, poetry that comes into my head after rituals, teatime, communing, or whatever comes across my mind. I will also try to, ironically, demystify the whole thing regarding witchcraft and explain, from both a metaphysical and scientific lens, explain how all of this exactly works. A lot of magic and ritual is more psychological, and not all that crazy to understand, so I'll do some articles on how magicks work. Not in the crazy New Age Starseed psychotic way (everyone say it with me, fuck DOLORES CANNON), but in a way of how all of this works on a practitioners psychology. There is always a logical explanation for why we feel certain things work, even if in reality, it could be mystical or metaphysical. I will approach things from both lenses.

And let me just say, because from my first post you might think I'm a channeler, and that the Morrigan literally speaks through me, I feel more like she's my muse and sends me ideas. I'll be at a zen state and words just come into my head, then I write it down and post it. Some of it might be utter garbage. I never said I was a great writer.

Wrapping Up

Thank you for reading this gigantic wall of text. If you made it this far, feel free to reach out to me any time. I'm seeking out mentors and guides to learn the more ins and outs of more interesting aspects of the craft, and I will always have questions that need answering. If you feel like reaching out, my DM's are open.

All of you have a wonderful Imbolc, and Blessed Be.

Kuro

[allthingseddie]

Hayloft

Inspired by the song Hayloft by Mother Mother.

Note: I do not know a whole lot about the court system. This is written for entertainment so if I got something wrong forgive me lol!!

Warnings: Has mentions of violence and sexual assault.

The news had spread all over Indiana like wildfire. No one could believe the twisted so called love story that was being displayed all over the news, let alone the fact that it came out of a town as small as Hawkins. The media had been all over the case as soon as they caught wind of it. Not only did it involve the town freak (or criminal as others would call him) but it also involved the preacher and his daughter that had moved to town not even a year ago. The media never fully reported on the condition of the criminal, only that he had survived the attack of the preacher.

The preacher was telling everyone that he was merely protecting his daughter. He had walked into his home late at night to hear alarming noises coming from his daughters bedroom. He grabbed his gun and when he opened the door he saw the criminal assaulting his daughter. He did what he thought was best and aimed and fired. He was an intruder in his home. He gave him the warning to get out of his house, but he said that it was out of pure fatherly instinct that he had fired the gun at the criminal. It wouldn’t have been as interesting of a case if the preachers daughter didn’t spin a different tale from her own father.

Everyone was enthralled in the fact that the young girl of only 19 years old was testifying against her father in defense of the criminal. What could possibly make someone so young so stupid. The town was divided. Some say that her acts could only be out of pure love. There would be no other reason why she should go against her own father. Others were convinced that the criminal had turned her away from God. He himself was rumored of taking part in satanic rituals. The media would only report on certain parts of the trail after talking to each respective lawyer. The trial itself wasn’t even being televised, yet everyone thought that they knew the whole story. They all took sides and either rallied against the preacher or the criminal.

Today was a special day in the trial. Today would be the day that they would finish up their questioning and make their closing arguments. The jury would then be left to their verdict of who they saw was at fault. Everyone was on edge, especially those personally involved in the case. The criminal had family and friends rallied for him in the audience. The preacher had some of his supporters from his church sat on his side of the courtroom. There were glares being traded from each sides support team.

————————————————————————

“Mr. Adams, can you please tell the people of the jury what you saw when you walked into your daughters bedroom the night of June 10th?” His lawyer questioned.

“I saw that monster on top of my daughter sexually assaulting her,” He replied, pointing to Eddie Munson, who sat across the courtroom looking worse for wear. There were gasps and murmurs in the audience of the courtroom and people started staring at Eddie to see his reaction to the statement. He was clearly still weak from the attack from Mr. Adams and the surgery that followed. Getting shot in the chest can have that effect on a person.

“Was your daughter showing sings of discomfort when you found her with Mr. Munson?” His lawyer continued. Mr. Adams was quiet for a moment before he responded.

“She was making sounds as if she were in pain,” He responded, his eyes not leaving Eddie while he answered.

“What happened next Mr. Adams?”

“I warned him once, and when he didn’t listen, I protected my family.”

“That was when you fired the gun?”

“Yes, it was. I did it for the protection of my only child.”

“How did your daughter react to this?”

“She was crying. Probably from the trauma she had just experienced.”

“Objection your honor, speculation” Eddie’s lawyer piped up.

“Sustained.” The judge responded.

“No further questions your honor,” Mr. Adams lawyer responded. It was then time for everyone’s favorite part of the day. The part where Mr. Adams daughter would take the stand to tell her side of the story. She sat down in the stand after taking her oath to tell the truth and Eddie’s lawyer made his way over to talk to her.

“Good morning Ms. Adams. Can you please tell me the events that led up to your father shooting Mr. Munson.”

“I was at home by myself and I called Eddie and asked him if he wanted to come over. We have been seeing each other for a few months now.” She said looking over at her father ,” I took him into my bedroom and we had consensual sex. Then my dad got home, busted into my room and shot Eddie when he saw him. I started crying and I called 911. Now we’re here.”

“At any time, did your father say anything to Mr. Munson to indicate that he was going to use his firearm if he did not leave his home?”

“No he did not. He opened the door, Eddie and I jumped apart from the sudden intrusion and he shot Eddie in the chest.”

“Was there any indication that your father could have had to think that you might be under attack?”

“Only if he’s never heard a girl moan before, which doesn’t seem unreasonable”

“Let’s try to stay on topic, shall we folks,” The judge intervened.

“Ms. Adams, was there ever a time where you were in Mr. Munson’s presence where you felt threatened or worried for your safety?”

“Not a single time.”

“Did you ever get the impression from Mr. Munson that he would harm you in any way?”

“No.”

“Have there been any times where you felt threatened or in danger from your father?”

“Yes. When he found out I was friends with Eddie.”

“Has your father ever shown any malice towards Mr. Munson?”

“Yes he has.”

“Is your father a violent man?”

“Yes. He is.” Whispers could be heard in the courtroom. No one could believe that the new preacher in town could be violent. He did fire a gun and admit to it, but it was for good reason, right?

“No further questions” It was now Mr. Adams lawyers turn to interrogate his clients daughter.

“Ms. Adams, you say your father is a violent man. Why would you continue to live with someone dangerous after you’re a legal adult yourself? You could have easily moved out.”

“My father wouldn’t let me.”

“How could he stop you?”

“He won’t let me get a job. He says it’s a woman’s job to cook, clean and raise children. I can’t support myself if I don’t have a job, therefore I can’t afford to move out.”

“So you’re still currently living in the same house as a dangerous man?”

“I am actually in the process of moving my things to a friends house.”

“You said your father had shown previous distrust towards Mr. Munson. Why is that?”

“My father is a hypocrite. He preaches about loving thy neighbor yet he judges people harshly before getting to know them. That’s what he did with Eddie. He thought he was a delinquent just because of his looks and where he lives. He also believes rumors that are spread without fact checking them.”

“Surely he had a right when there is some truth in some of the rumors that are spread. Mr. Munson has been to juvenile detention and has gotten citations. I wouldn’t be too happy either if my only daughter was hanging out with a known criminal.”

“People make mistakes. Mistakes that can be forgiven if you put in the effort to prove that you are righting your wrongs. Shooting people in the chest isn’t a mistake.”

“Your father stated he wanted to protect you. That you were his only child. If he thought he was protecting his only child from someone he assumed was a criminal, couldn’t that be seen as forgivable?”

“Not to me.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh? He is your father. The man who raised you. Shouldn’t you feel some empathy towards him?”

“The only person I feel any empathy for in this situation is the only man I love. Which is not my father.”

“I do not have any further questions for Ms. Adams your honor. I would like to call Mr. Munson himself to the stand.” Ms. Adams joined Eddie’s uncle Wayne in the row of seats behind Eddie’s seat. Eddie himself then got up and made his way to the hot seat, using a cane to do so as he was still injured. The courtroom was completely silent as he moved and made his took the oath to speak the truth. He sat down and Mr. Adams’ lawyer wasted no time jumping down his throat.

“Mr. Munson, had you ever had the impression before that you were not welcome in Mr. Adams house?”

“From him, yes,” Eddie replied matter-o-factly.

“Why, then, would you return to it?”

“I was invited over by my girlfriend.”

“Did you have any reservations in coming to the house?”

“I did.”

“And yet you still came over when you knew you weren’t welcome by the houses rightful owner?”

“Again, I was invited over.”

“Mr. Munson, how long have you known Ms. Adams?”

“Around 8 months.”

“Did you know that Mr. Adams did not approve of you and his daughter associating with each other at any point during the time you’ve known her?”

“I did get that impression from him.”

“So you went against his wishes?”

“Seeing as Ms. Adams is an adult, I assumed that she could make her own decisions about who she keeps in her company.”

“Why not invite Ms. Adams to your house instead?”

“My uncle works 3rd shift and sleeps during the day. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

The snide lawyer had no more questions for Mr. Munson. It was then time for his own lawyer to ask him about the attack he had endured.

“Mr. Munson, did Ms. Adams at any time tell you that your sexual advances were not wanted or welcomed?”

“No she did not.”

“Who initiated the act?”

“Ms. Adams did.”

“When Mr. Adams entered the bedroom, what was his body language like?”

“He came into the room holding his gun and immediately pointed it at me. I would say his body language was intimidating and violent.”

“Have you ever felt threatened by Mr. Adams before the day of the attack?”

“Yes I did. He had told me to stay away from his daughter when he found out we were in a relationship.”

“Why did you continue the relationship if he had threatened you?”

“Because Ms. Adams and I are in love. I couldn’t imagine being away from her.”

“Was Mr. Adams aware of the feelings you and his daughter shared?”

“Yes, she told him. She tried to introduce us and he was not happy.”

“How do you know that he was not happy with the prospect of you and his daughter together?”

“He told me that I was a no good low life who didn’t deserve his daughter and that I would corrupt her.”

After questioning was over, both lawyers made their closing statements for their clients. Mr. Adams side talked about how Eddie was unwelcome in his house and he had made that clear yet still didn’t respect his wishes. They also talked about the fact that Mr. Adams was under the impression that his daughter was being attacked and he had to protect her. Mr Munson side talked about how the two were in a relationship and were both consenting adults. They talked about that fact the the couple had disclosed their relationship to Mr. Adams prior to June 10th when this all went down. They also discussed the extent of Mr. Munsons injuries and what he had to endure to even be in the courtroom when he did.

The jury exited the courtroom to deliberate what they had heard and come to a unanimous decision. While this happened, both clients were able to talk with their friends and family.

“Steve, I just want to thank you again for helping me get a lawyer to defend me. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Eddie exclaimed to his friend. He sat next to his girlfriend during the recess and held her hand.

“Hey man, don’t even worry about it. You’re innocent and my dads friend owed us a favor so I cashed in on it. I would do it again,” Steve replied.

“I really couldn’t have done this without any of you. I know they haven’t reached a verdict yet but I appreciate all of the words all of you guys spoke for me during your testimonies. I definitely have a better chance at winning this thing with you guys behind me,” Eddie replied to all of his friends and his uncle. He especially meant the sentiment towards his girlfriend who was testifying against her own father on his behalf. She rested her head on his shoulder in a quiet understanding.

It felt like forever before the jury had finally come back out and said they had reached a verdict. Everyone took their places back in the courtroom. There was tension in the air as one of the jurors stepped forward to make the announcement of their decision. Eddie held his breath as nerves washed over him. He knew that most people already thought he was a criminal just from the fact that he was his fathers son. They would have no trouble believing that he would be following in his fathers footsteps. He felt queasy at the thought as he patiently awaited for his fate from a stranger.

“The jury finds Mr. Adams guilty of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. The jury also finds Mr. Munson not guilty of sexual assault,” The juror announced. Relief washed over Eddie and he felt like he could breath comfortably for the first time in weeks. After all was said and done, Mr. Adams was sentenced to 10 years in prison and received a $5000 fine. Eddie walked out of the courtroom with his girlfriend on his arm and his lawyer helping him avoid the reporters standing outside waiting for any chance they could to get the latest piece of gossip from him. He made his way home and he and his friends and family celebrated the justice that was served to Mr. Adams. For once he didn’t feel viewed as a criminal.

[carlos-in-glasses]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tags @reyesstrand @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @alrightbuckaroo @lemonlyman-dotcom @catanisspicy @bonheur-cafe @goodways 🥰

My evening played out slightly differently so I'm actually around to share something! I wrote this today for Flashback Fic:

At daybreak, horizontal sleet is pin-sharp. The dark blue sky creaks open with purple light. Shadows deepen the flat cityscape. Black water turns gray.

Owen and TK stand on the banks of the Hudson watching two boats smoulder because three college students decided to perform a Viking-style ritual for a friend who died. The problem with being someone who symbolically douses a dinghy in gasoline, lights a match and then nudges the burning vessel into the water with a hockey stick – is that you're probably not someone who takes fire safety into account, or currents. All three students sustained burns to their arms, legs and torsos; one lost their eyebrows. The dinghy drifted straight into a large boat revamped into an oyster bar. Up it went.

"Nothing like firelight to bring out your glare," Owen says to a slightly sooty TK as he begins to snake a black hose back into the truck.

TK frowns, keeps reeling the hose in, feeding it through his gloved hands carefully.

"TK."

"Cap."

"Son!" Owen whisper-shouts, looking over his shoulder to check that the rest of the crew are occupied elsewhere. "Please can you tell me why you're mad? You've been giving me the cold-shoulder for two days."

TK keeps his eyes on the hose as it smoothly curls into place. "You don't like him, do you?"

Owen makes a petulant sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan – as if he's been caught out.

Dinner between TK, Alex, Owen and Gwyn had been stilted; TK did everything he could to keep the atmosphere bright and conversation flowing. He feels like he virtually talked non-stop because he had no choice. He could swear Owen and Gwyn were agitated and making eyes at each other. At first he thought it was because they'd had an argument. Then he realized they were in agreement.

"I don't know him," Owen says simply.

"That dinner was all about getting to know him."

"And still." Owen shrugs. "I do not know him."

TK abandons the hose and moves closer – stepping up to his father, unafraid, pointing a thickly-gloved finger at him. "Have you been speaking to Mom?"

"No," Owen answers, and sounds genuine. "But I know she feels the same way I do. Doesn't that tell you something?"

Quickly, TK doesn't feel tough so much as despairing. Gutted. "Dad. I've never felt this way before about anyone. Alex – he's different. He makes me feel... as soon as I met him…like I wanted to change. I'm sober. I'm doing well. Don't you see that? I'm better at work now. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed." He knows how pathetic and pleading he sounds, and he hates it.

What's worse is that Owen is smiling at him softly. "That's down to you, TK. Not Alex or anyone else."

"No!" TK insists, his voice rasping and loud enough for a couple of people to turn around. "It's Alex."

"TK." Owen steps up to him, but puts a hand on his shoulder rather than pointing a finger in his face. "I know how you feel about Alex. That much was clear. But–"

"But what?"

Owen stares at him with galling sympathy. "He's just not that into you."

I feel like everyone has been tagged so I'm panic-tagging @taralaurel because we're having a chat lol and also @lightningboltreader and @freneticfloetry and @liminalmemories21 if you want to share/ haven't already! And anyone else! Open tag butterfly net and feel free to tag me! ❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

[streamdotpng]

Clio was, quite frankly, not paid enough for this shit. Being a nurse at Nevermore wasn't always such a bad gig but damn sometimes it really did feel like the universe at large was out to get her. Specifically. She idly wonders if she can find out if a past life had somehow royally screwed her over cause this couldn't just be her own singular bad luck.

She was pretty sure she hadn't done anything to cross any of the more arcane inclined outcasts but honestly one could never be completely sure.

Somehow, some way she is just constantly shadowed by the fucking Addams brood.

Clio was not in the habit of carbon dating herself like Weems so loved to do but she had also attended Nevermore at the same time as Gomez and Morticia. She and Weems would sometimes commiserate about the things they had unintentionally seen and heard during their years as students.

Weems, of course, had it worse than her as she had shared a room with Morticia but Clio hadn't lucked out much better given that she shared a wall with Gomez. Sounded like a damn active construction site.

All that to say that Clio had her fair share of Addams eccentricities and above all else: Addams courting rituals.

If she were still the academic she was as a student she would have loved to study the various steps for the ritual and the origination of said steps. But she wasn't.  Instead, when Weems took over as Headmistress and offered her a job as a nurse, she devoted herself to making sure none of these knuckle-headed idiots got themselves killed during the course of the year.

And damn did these assholes try.

(For all her talk, she took her role seriously. She remembers the names of every child who has passed under her care. Every student she has failed. Every grieving family that entrusted her with their safety. She knows each and every one of them and quietly she grieves for them all.)

Despite having been a nurse for some years now and despite being far too acquainted with the Addams and their "quirks"... she has to admit that the Addams girl standing in front of her is perhaps the most interesting of her ilk.

"So to make sure I'm understanding this correctly, you are asking me to write up what amounts to a 'get out of jail free card' for the use of what is quite literally one of the most lethal poisons we keep on hand?" she asks, though she's pretty sure what answer she's gonna get.

"Correct."

Yeah that's what she thought.

"Not happening." without another word she turns around to at least attempt to focus back in on the paperwork piling up on her desk.

She expects an argument. Something purely logical that befits the scion of such an ancient bloodline. What she gets instead sets off blaring red sirens in her head.

"Please."

She whips around in her seat fast enough to nearly unbalance her. There is no way she heard that correctly. Wednesday Addams does not do "polite". She's willing to entertain this further if only for the sake of her curiosity.

"Alright, I'll bite." she says. The girl goes to speak but she silences her with a raise of her finger. "I'll only write the script and deal with the ensuing hell that will be raised if you tell me why. No bullshit answers, Addams, we both know I'll see right through it."

Clio watches as her words sink into the young girl's head. It's interesting and definitely amusing watching this young one struggle with what she remembers her parents being oh so happy to willingly (and loudly) share.

Yes, Clio is fully aware that Wednesday is asking for wolfs-bane and nightshade extract as some sort of ingredient in her courting of Enid. Yes, she is fully aware that the two have grown extraordinarily close after what happened the semester before. And, yes, she is also aware the Enid is probably very unaware of the fact that the Addams scion is attempting to court her. She is completely aware of all of these things but also her job gets boring and this seems like it'll keep her entertained for at least the semester.

It seems during her musings , Wednesday was finally able to gather her words.

"As I am sure you have already gleaned, I am planning to pursue a courtship with Enid. Part of my family's rituals requires that we take that which could harm both ourselves and our intended and use it in a way that expresses our desire to keep them safe from that harm. Obviously due to her being a werewolf, wolfs-bane would be require for this portion of the courtship." Wednesday explains in the detailed manner that Clio has come to expect from her.

"Fair enough." is all she says as she searches her desk for where she put her script papers.

There is silence between the two as she writes down her permission for the use of both poisons and the amounts she was approving. She hands over the small form but keeps a grip on it, not yet relinquishing.

"A word of advice, Ms. Addams?" she offers.

Wednesday tilts her head slightly in acquiesce.

"Don't overthink things with Enid. I'm not saying you can't make things special or to not go above and beyond for her. I'm saying that sometimes the fastest way between two points is a straight line. Be direct. Too much room to interpret can lead to miscommunication." she says. She hopes she understands what she's telling her.

Wednesday stares at her for a moment and Clio can feel that her words have gotten through. Good. While she looks forward to the entertainment of watching an Addams court a wolf like Enid, she doesn't want either of them to struggle unnecessarily. That would just be cruel.

The young Addams goes to leave and a thought catches her attention.

"Ah, before you go." she calls out.

Wednesday pauses at the threshold of her infirmary.

"I remember your father almost tearing his hair out trying to figure out what to do for his Gift. Wolves have their own history that was often passed down orally through stories. Enid strikes me as the kind of girl who loves a happy ending. Maybe take a stroll through the mythology sections of the library. Worst comes to worst, you could always reach out to her father and see which stories she liked to hear growing up. Take some inspiration from them." she says, feigning nonchalance.

The goth glances back at her before fully taking her leave.

Clio hopes that her nudges work. She feels a certain kinship with the two. Outcasts among outcasts as they are. Wednesday an Addams who as a whole tend to put even fellow Outcasts on edge. Enid a late bloomer and now a Grimwolf. Herself as a clairvoyant, specifically a mind-reader. All three of them mistrusted for one reason or another. She shouldn't have favorites among the students but even she has to admit she tends to let things slide a lot more when it comes to those two.

She thinks to herself that the two would make a cute couple.

(And she's right... for a time.)

I think diving into what Morticia and Gomez were like during Nevermore is so fun. They're so much more open and dramatic with their feelings.

(Lore Dump: Clio is a long-suffering old friend of both Morticia and Gomez. She didn't have much control over her abilities at the start of attending Nevermore so she was constantly bombarded with everyone's thoughts.

She stumbled across Morticia while looking for somewhere quiet to hide. Tish had such control over her thoughts that even Clio couldn't read them and it was like a breath of fresh air being around her.

Clio got to know Gomez cause they were next door to each other and Gomez thinks so loud she could hear him through the walls. It was only ever opera music though which she thought was weird as hell but after a while she kinda developed a taste for it so.)

Okay this is all cute and games but knowing that Wenclair lost contact made me think what Wednesday did backfired badly

I'M HOPING IT DIDN'T BUT I DO LOVE THE WORD BUILDING

Rip to clio bc Gomez is a very full hearted person so you bet so are his thoughts

[peppymint1986]

MadaTobi Week Day One: Magic and Marriage

Adventitious

Uchiha Madara, known in some circles as the Calamity, took a moment to reflect upon how he had ended up in this situation.  The answer was of course a group of meddling elders who were incapable of minding their own business.  It had started with subtle, and some not so subtle hints about settling down and had quickly escalated.  

Soon he couldn’t turn around without one of the old fussbudgets droning on about his duty to the clan and that it was time and past he wed and produced an heir.  The whole concept was ridiculous.  He was only twenty-six.  There was still plenty of time.  

Unfortunately that argument had not worked on the elders at all.  Nor had the one about him being busy.  The only debate where he had won any ground had been on avoiding an arranged marriage.  Uchiha, by and large, married for love.  The clan would have been up in arms if the elder’s council had tried to force the issue.  

Izuna had been no help at all.  Oh his brother was happy enough to flirt with anyone who was appropriately strong,  Likewise the other spent a not inconsiderate amount of time engaging in activities Madara did not want to envision his baby brother participating in.  But commitment?  Not a chance.  

He almost wished Izuna was less responsible with his liaisons.  A child out of wedlock would not be the end of the world.  In such a scenario Madara could easily arrange for the babe to be brought into the main house.  It would probably even get the council off his back for awhile.  Alas, it was not to be.  

In an act of desperation Madara had even tried claiming he preferred men.  It was true, mostly.  It was at this point one of the wrinkled bastards had whipped out an authentic Uzumaki grimoire all about fertility spells and sex magic declaring a male spouse would be no issue.  How Yoshito had managed to get his hands on the thing, Madara had no idea, but he had.  

Even worse, another of the elder’s had thoughtfully put forth the idea of performing the Ritual of Harmony.  It would, he claimed, provide Madara with a compatible spouse.  Love, the elder had piously exclaimed, would come with time.  

The Ritual itself had been around for centuries.  And while it was true it would bring forth a compatible match, resulting in some truly cloying love stories, it was rarely used.  Most people just were not that enthusiastic about marrying a complete stranger they knew nothing about.  Especially given that seperation was not an option.  Once a pair was bound, they were bound for life.  There were likewise a number of horror stories about attempts by third parties to circumvent or break the bond.  Such attempts never ended well.  

So here he was, barely a month after the suggestion had been broached, wearing a sober formal kimono and waiting for his bride.  Madara tried one last time to think of a way out of this, but failed.  It was also, he reflected as the priestess finished, too late anyways.  The painted ritual lines pulsed once, twice, before condensing in a ball of light which shown like the sun for a brief moment before fading to leave a figure behind.  

Madara’s breath caught in his throat.  Pale silvery white hair, crimson eyes, the man was unmistakable.  Senju Tobirama.  Madara almost panicked before common sense reasserted itself.  He had already consented but all the Senju had to do to get out of this was . . .

“I accept.”

As the bond snapped into place Madara could only stare.  What?  What?!

While Tobirama had initially been shocked, it had barely taken him an instant to grasp the situation.  This morning, he would have never even considered marrying Uchiha Madara.  But if the Ritual of Harmony had brought them together there was clearly more to the other man than he had ever considered.   And of course, there were other factors.

“You,” Madara still had not quite regained the use of his tongue.  

“I will of course expect you to make peace with my kin.”

Madara stared stunned.  Tobirama was his husband.  Hashirama was his brother-in-law.  This changed everything.  It was at this point that one of the elder’s knelled over with a groan, clutching his chest; immediately sending the rest into a tizzy.  

Too bad, Madara thought dispassionately as the elder was rushed off.  In his mind, the other had brought it upon himself.  Looking back at his new spouse, he almost smiled.  Maybe this marriage thing would not be so bad after all.  

[scaryspears]

KK2 Chozen Analysis

I'm not gonna say anything that has already (probably) been said, and I'm just going to make some quick points.

In Karate Kid 2 Chozen talks about honour and so on, and how he needs to reclaim it. Now I've read some opinions on Chozen where people have demonised his actions (for good reason), but I got the impression that they didn't understand him. What I mean by this is that Chozen's culture and perception of honour is different from ours (westerners). He comes from a place where Senppuku used to be a thing, so when Chozen is talking about his honour and stuff... it feels like a double edged sword when we, the audience, judge his character.

To make things technical or complicated depending on your opinion, Senppuku is the act of deleting one-self in real life, and Samurais would do it to avoid dishonouring themselves. If a Samurai did not commit Senppuku then they would be labelled a Ronin which wasn't good. Being a Ronin was a great dishonour, and a worse life than death. There's also Jigai, the female version of Senppuku, though I'm not sure why it was done.

In the Yakuza there's a thing called Yubitsume, where a member would cut off one of their fingers as an apology. Yakuza, as most of you know, still exists today. And there's evidence that members in the 80's and onwards have done this ritual. So with that being said, honour is a touchy subject regarding Chozen and not something that can be easily spoken on as a western audience.

The slight issue in this argument is that Okinawa and Japan are two different places. Okinawa, while a part of Japan is not in Japan. It's an island located between Taiwan and Japan. This makes me believe that how honour is perceived and practised in Okinawa is much different, in the sense that it may have been very important even when Japan banned certain practice before the 50's.

To be fair, I don't know how many teachings of honour were drilled into him, nor do I know when people stopped prioritising it. But just something I wanted to touch on.

Analysis 2:

In the final showdown between Chozen and Daniel I always saw it as a severe thing for Daniel. Not just because they're fighting to the death, but because Chozen is wearing black and yellow, which is something I always deemed to be a Cobra Kai colour before the Cobra Kai show came out and made it red. The only difference between Johnny and Chozen's karate gi is that Chozen has more yellow to his. Chozen's gi even makes him look like he's imitating a snake judging by the patterns, and I've always wondered if this was intentional by the director or whoever designed it.

The diamonds made me think of scales. So when Daniel is going up against him it feels like Johnny Lawrence all over again, just much worse. There's no cheering crowd, and there's no rules.

Before I watched Karate Kid 2 or found out what the plot was I saw this picture of Chozen and thought it was Daniel vs another Cobra Kai member. And then I watched the movie only to be genuinely surprised that wasn't the case. (I was 13-14, but still)

[giftofshewbread]

Toxic Traditions

 :: By Edwin Tan  Published on: February 1, 2023

Some of us still have quite a bit of baggage from our heathen past to contend with after giving our lives to the Lord Jesus Christ. Traditions handed down from our ancestors are part and parcel of this unwelcome package. For those who walk in the Living Word, the enabling and empowerment of the Holy Spirit is more than sufficient for an understanding of the significance of these practices. One thing is for sure; we get it in our heads that there are elements of the fallen nature that have no place in our lives – these run counter to what is stated in the Word of God!

“He answered and said to them, ‘Why do you also transgress the Word of God because of your tradition?'” (Matthew 15:3).)

Bear this in mind; once we have surrendered our lives to Christ, there is no room for impartiality – the Lord is displeased with the double-minded! The insistence that there is no big deal where a needless digression is concerned amounts to a fallacious idiosyncrasy. There are those who think that the Lord would not mind a wee bit of stepping back. Absolute hogwash!

It only gets a whole lot worse when this line of argument dictates a lifestyle. No such thing as getting away with a solitary fling. There is that propensity to have another one at some point, and it just goes on with a string of follow-ups. Just like a little leaven that eventually messes the entire loaf!

Peer pressure would be a popular excuse for caving in. Simply for the sake of pleasing the crowd, there is that keeling over. Herein is the problem: these folks see God as someone who lived up in the heavens and half bothered – whereas the people in their immediate social circle mattered more. A blatant lie from the pit of hell! The root of the problem is that they do not have the time to know the Lord and believe wholeheartedly in His Living Word. These folks have the erroneous assumption that all will be lost should they displease their family, friends and colleagues. There are probably a lot of people with this kind of mindset groping around in the dark.

“Then Jesus said to His disciples, ‘If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it'” (Matthew 16:24-25).

On a personal note, the above-said passages from the Gospel have been my bulwark when challenged with peer pressure. This is especially so during the Lunar New Year, which is celebrated by ethnic Chinese. A lot of the traditions reek of worldliness. There is the emphasis on luck which clearly runs counter to believing in the unfailing promises of our Lord. There is a ubiquitous presence of good fortune’s deity during this season, a figurine that purportedly ushers in luck!

I certainly do not entrust my destiny to lady luck but rest wholeheartedly on the grace and mercy of the Lord. I have in the recent past demonstrated this in gatherings that included some practicing Christians. They would enthusiastically participate in the ‘toss’ – a practice that is supposed to herald an endless flow of good luck. The ‘toss’ involves a salad comprised of uncooked vegetables and raw fish. The participants would stir the large plate with their chopsticks for a little over a minute. Then they would have a loud utterance (luck in Mandarin or dialect) before partaking of this concoction. I stayed away from this, but surprisingly, almost all the participants of this ritual respected my position as a workman of Christ!

“For do I now persuade men, or God? Or do I seek to please men? For if I still pleased men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ” (Galatians 1:10).

At the end of the day, we must sincerely believe what we have been taught. We must put the Word of God into practice with all seriousness and diligence. In this manner, many will see the salt and light in us, that we be effective ambassadors for Christ!

We are, without question, living at the cusp of Daniel’s seventieth week. There is heightened demonic activity as the Tribulation draws close. The adversary and his minions are relentless in their onslaught against all of humanity, especially the Body of believers. The malevolent forces will pounce on every crack and crevice that gives them the upper hand. What might appear to be a harmless practice could serve as a springboard for an all-out spiritual assault.

So there is no place for leaving everything to chance. We have to make up our minds right at this moment, jettisoning the things of the fallen nature and putting on Christ in our lives. In so doing, we deny the enemy that opportunity for devastation and destruction. Not even a fraction of a millimeter to be yielded!

Take to heart what is said in 1 Kings 18:21.

“And Elijah came to all the people, and said, ‘How long will you falter between two options? If the LORD is God, follow Him; but if Baal, follow him.’ But the people answered him not a word.”

For those who are caught in that neither here nor there quagmire, it is time to get serious. Time is indeed running out. That quicksand of half-belief is enough to hold you down while the rest of the Body of Christ gets suddenly and mysteriously taken out of the world at an unspecified moment. The deal is not sealed until every element of unbelief is done away with – earthly traditions included!

“Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit, according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world, and not according to Christ” (Colossians 2:8).

It is time to forget about the perishable things of this fallen planet. Time to focus on an imperishable eternity with Christ.