#we don't speak of Him here; their glory days are long dead

[explodingstarlight]

the emo trinity is alive, well, and prospering in 2023

[threepandas]

Bad End: Soldier A

I'm pretty sure you know the story. Everybody does. Chosen Hero, Demon King, they fight, save the day, yada yada. Everybody supposedly lives happily ever after. Everything sunshine and roses. Puppies and farting rainbows. But... but it's NOT.

It's really fucking NOT.

I used to love reading stories like that. They were escapism. Grand adventures in a terrible, grey, slowly crushing hellscape of a world. But... but, FUCK. At least there weren't drauger! No demon wolves or skeleton soldiers! Or the FUCKING little flying bastards. God. I HATE those ones the most.

They have sharp, needle-y little claws and teeth like a SHARK fucked a TREE THRESHER. And they scream. Just... yowl and yowl in this ear splitting high pitch like they're trying to DEAFEN you ON TOP of trying to rip you apart.

That life was peaceful.

I was a fool to wish for anything else.

I am not the Chosen One. I'm not even a supporting character. I remember this bullshit little yarn, and I? Am NO WHERE fucking in it. I am just... just some rando, in this struggle of demons and Gods. The child of Some Dude. We... we had chickens. Fat, happy, lil hens.

I remember being ENTRANCED. I had lived all my life, before, in suburban sprawl. So chickens? Strutting around and chasing bugs? Tiny me was hypnotized.

It saved my life.

I half wish it didn't, some days.

That I died, sudden and without the chance to truely comprehend, along side my family. That my neighbors eldest hadn't seen me by the coop. Grabbed me desperately as he ran for his life. Our entire FUCKING village...

There were six survivors.

I was one of them.

And it's... it's all just? FLAVOR TEXT for the Chosen One's tale of Glory. A reason for why she's so NEEDED. So BELOVED. Look how AWESOME she is! Saintess, because when are they NOT? Hero, because it's all about HER. A god damned LOVE STORY thrown in, because THAT'S important, while people are suffering! Dying!

Are? You? KIDDING ME!?

Legends speak of a "Hero's Party". I know damn well it's true. That it WILL succeed. But FUCK that. FUCK waiting for her to "be ready"! To gather allies and turn from some sheltered little rose, into the warrior we ACTUALLY NEED. It's my world too. I was the one who had to help dig out survivors! Tend to the wounded! Fight off swarms! Hold back the dead!

I...! I was the one who had to LOOK PEOPLE IN THE EYE and... AND-!

B-Because sometimes? SOMETIMES?! Those bites DON'T HEAL. Can't heal! They are filled with so much demonic power, that the only thing they CAN do is corrupt. Fester. Poison. Sometimes you're already DEAD and nothing short of the oh so precious SAINTESS could possibly save you.

But she's not HERE... is she?

So you have a choice.

If you're lucky? It's JUST a limb. A chunk of flesh. But more often then not... well... The lucky ones have time to say goodbye. The unlucky ones get to be twisted and used against their friends. Their family's. And if you care. If you CARE AT ALL? You put them down before that happens.

Because they wouldn't want that.

It... it feeds a HATE in me. An ANGER.

No, that's not right... it's more like? It feeds...

A RAGE.

An ugly, burning thing. That's hollowed out my chest. Wrapped around my bones. Fueled by the memories of every innocent I failed to save. By the fear and the suffering, that just keeps dragging on and on and ON. An endless slog that seems designed to break men down. Destroy us.

I feel like it's killing the humanity in me. The kindness I once had. Like I am burning away everything but purpose. And will have nothing left when I am done. IF I am ever done. It... it used to scare me.

Now I am to angry, too tired, to be afraid.

Let me die. I do not CARE. So long as I TAKE THEM WITH ME. Burn them ALL. My brothers in arms, my sisters of war, those that fight and fight and FIGHT? They feel the same. We didn't fucking WAIT. Refused to watch the slaughter. Gaining ground only to lose it, losing ground only to claw it back.

Holding the line.

We can't actually KILL him. We know that. Only the Saintess can actually fucking END this nightmare. But his monsters? Those still fall too steel. And if we are to die regardless, why NOT in defense of our homes?

We've managed to push a path, deep into the Demonic lands. A spear point to stab the heart of HIS damned empire. We... we can hold it. MUST hold it. At all costs. For that flimsy, weak willed, half trained NITWIT of a child. So when she FINALLY gets off her ass and stops making goo-goo eyes at her trainers? She can come and finish the job.

Then get crowned queen of forever or something.

I don't know, I don't CARE. I'm going to buy some damn chickens. Fill a yard with them. Honor my parents and be the best damn farmer this world has ever SEEN.

Another crash against our shields. Screams as someone's arm breaks. As someone else is savaged through a crack in our barrier, as something probably gives. I slam my spear forward. Vital point. Vital point. Ignore the strain. The way your arm feels like a giant is stepping on it. Like some is trying to rip the shield from your grip. Hold... HOOOOLD!

Go for the eyes. Aim for the throat. Kidneys. Arteries, arteries, heart! The spear is wretched from my grip. I shout for another. Reach blindly, trusting my countrymen. I feel the grip of another one pressed into my hand. I slam my spear forward.

The fight goes on.

For hours.

It was some sort of ape-bear chimera things this time. But bigger and with spikes. No ones quite sure if they're in the "fucked up monstrosities" book yet. I'M certainly too dead on my feet to check. I sit an eat some fucking soup. Mmmmm, rations soup. Technically edible! My favorite flavor.

In the distance, sits the Demon King's fancy ass doom castle.

Any closer? And HE might be inspired to actually "deal" with us. I can't wait for the day it-An explosion of noise from the command tent. Everyone's heads whip around to stare, alarmed. But... but that didn't sound... BAD shouting. It takes us a long, long moment. It had honestly been YEARS since some of us had HEARD such a noise. But...?

W...was that?

Excitement?

I passed off my soup to a newbie. He honestly needed it more anyway. Told him to eat. Then got up and headed for command. Something was happening. As I got close, the flap was all but ripped open. A commander, actually? Smiling!? What the fresh hell?

A commander looking for someone. Spots me. Waves me over and in. I jog over. The tent is practically HUMMING with excitement. And there, on the tabke with the war map? Is an old, OLD dagger. Very... magical girl, in design. Flourishes, sparkling, and lovely dispite being what must be... what, centuries old? Worn to hell and back? What IS that?

It's the weapon of a previous Chosen One.

A Holy Blade.

Holy Shit. HOW. Where?! Where AND HOW!? I thought the royal family snapped all those fuckers up too show off! If not them, the Temple! I'm met with seni-hysterical laughs of disbelief.

A PRIEST stole it.

Nearly DIED doing so. Temple's probably FURIOUS. Gonna come to get it BACK, most likely. We're gonna have to move FAST. We're gonna only get ONE chance at this. I nod. Ready for whatever command needs me to do. Hold off some holy knights? Punch a priest? I'll get... SUPER excommunicated, but? Fuck it. If it saves lives.

No.

No they need me to wield the blade. I'm sorry?? WHAT.

It's apparently Maiden Locked. Fucking... Maidens Only! Got lucky? No holy weapon for you! Married but a virgin? Weaponless! Oh, fffffuck yooooou, creepy perv deities. There are LIVES ON THE LINE, in this, a GOD DAMNED WAR, and you LOCK the import weapons behind "mint condition pu-"!!!

The commander cuts of my, frankly, VERY understandable rant.

Hands on my shoulders. Looks me in the eyes. Will I Do This? I would have to take the knife and sneak behind enemy lines. Into the demon kings castle. And try to get the jump on him. NO ONE would be able to go after me. Help WOULD NOT be coming. If I fail... that's it. Game over. The demons would have me.

I laugh.

It is... not a cheerful sound. Not like it once was.

Is it even a choice? Of course I am. Frankly? I hope it hurts. I hope it's slow. Hurts every second and feels like eons. That he BURNS from the inside out. I'm gonna make him EAT IT.

Waiting until night would be suicide. They get stronger at night. Can blend in to the shadows. But they're cocky. They won't expect an attack just before that. So twilight is when I'll strike. Afternoon, when I head out. I... I leave my gear behind. Say my goodbyes.

I'm not the Chosen One.

Just some farmer's daughter with a grudge.

It don't think I'll be making it back. Don't really expect to even succeed. But by the gods... I plan to HURT him. Every piece we chip away, is one the soul behind us doesn't have to fight. I do this not for me. But for the child who will never know the FEAR that I did.

I will die so they don't have too.

The castle is dark. Humming with power I can FEEL but can not understand. Grand and sweeping architecture. Great windows that should let in far more light then they do. A blood red carpet upon bone white floors. The walls are black. It... some how merely stepping inside, seems to suck all color but red from the world. All heat.

I see no one here.

But I hear whispers.

I tighten my grip around the weapon. The only thing that feels WARM. These hallways are designed to make you feel small, I can tell at a glance. I refuse to give in. I am a farmer. A soldier. I do not CARE about your damn castle! I dig deep into my memories, keeping to the walls, and try to remember where the hero found her foe.

I trace the path in my head. Cut out the lost wandering as best I can. Right slightly, then forward, I think. If I am wrong, I can double back. Follow the book's path exactly. I move slow. As quite as I can.

Still... I find no one.

No servants, no gaurds, no resistance of any kind. Something like fear sighs like a specter down my spine, cold and vague. Something is not right. I do not let down my gaurd... but the longer it persists? The worse my paranoia grows.

Finally. The throne room. Magnificent beyond measure, in blood red and monochrome. Rare touches of gold glint and catch the eye. Stained glass giving it all a surreal scene from high above. The runner at my feet plush enough to render my foot steps silent. It is red... so very, very red.

The Demon King leans against one fist, resting on his throne, magnificent and beautiful like a statue brought to life. Carved of pale ivory and obsidian. Just as feeling as stone. A monster. Living testament that what's inside counts most of all. For inside him? Is nothing but a void. A malicious PIT.

I will see him dead.

On silent feet, I sneak forward. Only to freeze at the foot of the stairs to his dais, my eyes locked on his face. Horror seeps through me.

An amused smirk.

"Oh don't stop NOW, you're so close." Breaks the silence. Golden eyes open, lazy and entertained. "By all means. Try."

My grip on the dagger felt almost painful, for how hard I was gripping it. He... he wasn't even bothering to move. Didn't even see me as a threat. F..Fine. Fine then! If it was a mistake on his part or NOT, I would TAKE IT. Any chance. Any chance at ALL.

The pressure of that gaze felt immense. But I tilted my head up, put my shoulders back, and moved. One step. Then another. Up the stairs. Onto the dais. Forward, slowly. I paused, just beyond his immediate reach. Not that it was anything like real safety. I stared. Shaking. Knowing I was shaking and unable to stop.

He sat splayed. Reclined and leaning against his fist, robes rich and arranged just so. The very picture of indolent decadence. It was deceptive. I KNEW it was. A trap. But to get too him... I had to step closer. My eyes moved from the splay of his legs back up to his face. His smirk had grown teeth. I... I refused to run. I would finish this.

I stepped forward. Between his long legs, feeling distinctly like I was balanced over a bear trap, and lifted the dagger. I refused to hesitate. Wait to see if he changed his mind. I slammed it forward. Right through his heart. Glaring, as I looked him right in the eyes. The blade HISSED. Like acid meeting stone.

He laughed.

Grin full of unhinged glee, a vice in the shape of a hand clamped around my wrist, and the world SPUN. I slammed against the floor, the Demon King straddling me, at the foot of his thrown. He loomed. Behind him, above me, shown a magnificent window the lit him from behind. Like a halo.

"You didn't even HESITATE. You'd rip my heart out, if you could. Wouldn't you?" He says. Almost an whisper, nearly a groan, filthy with something that terrifies me and shouldn't BE there. "I KNEW I sensed something. KNEW you were out there."

I desperately try to push the knife deeper. Use everything I can to... to just-!

All I want... All I NEED? Is to see it come out the fucking OTHER SIDE. Please. Gods, PLEASE! End this! I'm gritting my teeth. Snarling. This BASTARD. I HATE him! I HATE HIM!

"Ah~ That's it, little one." He groans. Not even bothering to hide that he's apparently getting off on this. I'll kill him. I'll FUCKING KILL HIM! "Good~, that's right. Just like that. Give IN~♡ I'll take SUCH good care of you. I've always wanted a little pet. Focus it all on me. Give it ALL to me~"

My brain feels like it's on fire. My lungs filled with ash and flame. I hate. I hate and hate and HATE! I can't think. Something is... wrong? Wrong! The blade hurts to hold. Like it's rejecting me. No. NO! I HAVE TO KILL HIM! I may not be the Chosen One but-!

It finally becomes too much. The pain of holding the blade out weighing my hate. It's like ACID. My hand spasming away like I was trying to touch a hot stove. My palm is an ugly red. Wounded.

In one fluid movement, my wrist is released, the blade pulled free, tossed aside, and my wrist recaptured, before I can claw his fucking eyes out. I grit my teeth. Fangs grinding togeth-... wait.... what?

I stare at my hand.

At the black talon like nails where normal nails were, just this morning. And feel... horror. My... my teeth feel weird. My eyes hurt. Sides of my head too.

"Got you~"

He throws his head back in a triumphant laugh. The sound echoing like a nightmare. Even as I watch, the pigment of my skin is changing. Draining away to something even. Something almost too pale. Unnatural.

"I'm so glad you've decided to join me, darling." My hands are slammed down on either side of my head. His face inches from my. Eyes burning with something terrible. "I haven't had a bride in SO long~ following your progress has been FASCINATING. And now! Oh little thing, I get to KEEP you all to myself. Make you GOOD for me. Learn every inch of you. You should be excited, darling~"

"I'm going to make you a Queen."

[ludoka]

So.... What would happen if SOMEONE decided to rewrite Freaky Fusion but eliminated the fusions, left the plot of the hybrids and the time travel plot?

Long text after the cut:

The fic would begin by introducing the hybrids and the students' reaction to them. Cleo and (I think it was her?) Draculaura would give the same comments as in the movie. But here the hybrids already established in the series would not be ignored. Lagoona would talk about how she herself is a hybrid. What's more, we could even add that she is the fruit of a freshwater Nymph and a sea monster.(I just made this up while writing. I have no idea if it's canon or not but I like it.) Your intervention in the conversation could leave the atmosphere a little tense. Frankie tries to lighten the mood by insisting her friends go to class.

In another part of the school, Deuce and Jackson are in the former's locker talking about the same topic. Or rather, Deuce is nervous and frustrated by how everyone is reacting to the hybrids. While Jackson doesn't care too much. He has already had his conflict with the students regarding what he is. You already know this is temporary until the novelty of the matter cools down. This resolution does not reassure the gorgon at all. In fact, it frustrates him enough to vocalize his concerns. The whole topic was really making him very uncomfortable. On a good day, he's already having trouble coping with the fact that he's a hybrid. This only makes you feel worse. To the point of being terrified that other monsters will know what he really is. Jackson tries to console him but the bell at the beginning of his first class forces them to cut the conversation short.

What they didn't know is that a certain gossiping ghost, who was collecting information for his blog, was listening to them.

The first class is Dead Languages ​​with Professor Rotter. Class is pretty boring today. Which causes some students to become distracted and murmur among themselves. Cleo is one of them and tries to talk to Deuce (who is more in the clouds than on earth)One of the topics he brings up is about hybrids, which he immediately realizes is the wrong topic to talk about. Since she sees how her boyfriend tenses very visibly. Which makes her remember that she's been on thin ice ever since she almost got her boyfriend's best friend killed just because of her pride. Said friends... It is also a hybrid. Cleo is seriously thinking about asking Frankie to sew her mouth shut so she doesn't screw up again. (I'm thinking about placing this after my own version of Ghoul Rules. I feel it is appropriate. It seems like he's been building up these nerves since before this day. It's more ✨ dramatic ✨)

The rest of the class passes without pain or glory. Only at the end does Rotter remind his students that in the last period of school they have to present their family tree work. (because I don't remember how the homework they were given in the movie was written)And he points out that Frankie will be the first to speak.

A stressed Deuce is the first to leave the classroom, closely followed by a worried Cleo. She is a couple of steps behind him. Thinking about how to talk about whatever is bothering the gorgon. Just when you think you've finally found the words, a mass notification from Spectra's blog catches your attention. She is about to ignore it but when she saw how the students began to stare in her direction, she decided to quickly check just in case. The title leaves her baffled. "Deuce Gorgon, the most handsome cool boy in school, is a hybrid?" That was the huge title that headed the blog. Cleo looks up with the mission of searching for answers but notices how terribly pale Deuce is while looking at his cell phone. She catches his attention. He looks at her scared. In fact, Deuce becomes hyper aware of his surroundings. He notices how everyone is looking at him and starting to whisper around him. This sends him into a spiral of panic and he ends up escaping the scene. It ends somewhere in the school, near the indoor pool. That's where Lagoona finds him. Deuce realizes that she is not alone. She is accompanied by Sirena von Boo and Neighthan Rot. When he asks about them, Lagoona tells him that she became friends with Sirena in their previous class. They saw him run out of the hallway and read the blog. Lagoona and Sirena went to look for him, they ran into Neightan and he joined the search. (mainly because Avea and Bonita were still in class)

This is where I cut the explanatory text and give the concise points of this particular plot:

The plot itself has the hybrids talking about feelings and experiences. Trying to help each other in all this sea of ​​rumors and staring. Mainly by comforting Deuce and letting him open up to them.

There would be some scene with Draculaura and Clawd talking about their relationship. The topic of vampire biology would be touched upon a little. How they age and mature slower than other deadly monsters.

I would also have Deuce and Cleo talking about this matter.

Also the reaction of the students, encouraged in a negative way by Toralei, towards Deuce and his "deception".

In general: Lots of feelings, heavy conversations and ✨drama✨

Now you will ask yourself: Where is the time travel plot in all this? Good. Let's go back to the moment of Rotter pointing at Frankie.

After watching the teacher leave the classroom, Frankie lies down on his table and writhes in his misery. Robecca and Ghoulia who were by her side comfort her and ask her what's wrong. She explains that she has nothing useful to expose. His parents avoided the topic of family too much and gave him nothing to work with. So you're probably going to fail the class. Invisibilly appears (because he is another gossiper) and comments that he also goes through the same thing. His father isn't the most talkative when it comes to whatever turned him into a monster. Billy has a suspicion that it was an experiment gone wrong but he has no idea. He believes his father is looking to take the secret to the grave. Here Jackson Jekyll joins the conversation. (because in this school the concept of "private conversation" does not exist) Jackson comments that if there is a family that loves to keep secrets, it is the Jekyll family. It was easier for him to help Heath by putting together the family tree of his elemental family, than it was for Holt to find SOMETHING about his mother's family. They know that their great-grandfather is the one who started the whole Hyde thing but they don't know anything else. Not even what year his grandfather was born or how his great-grandfather Henry Jekyll and his great-grandmother met. It all seems like a big secret that no one should know about.

As he listens to them complain, Robecca has an idea. His father, before he disappeared, was a lover of science in general. He lived many years collecting information, meeting other scientists and doing his own experiments. She suggests they look for something in her father's workshop. Hopefully, they can find something regarding the Stein or Jekyll family. (Robecca apologizes to Billy for not being able to find a solution to his problem but he rejects her. He doesn't care much) Ghoulia was going to say something regarding work but after watching Deuce and Cleo leave the room, she decided that it was easier to help this group with their homework.

This is how Robecca, Frankie, Ghoulia, Billy and Jackson go to the Hexiciah Steam workshop.

While there, they don't find much. At least until Billy stumbles upon plans for a time machine. This draws the attention of the rest. Robecca takes a look at the plans and searches the workshop if there is something similar there. And, indeed, it was a large machine that was in the middle of the room. As they examine the machine, Billy comments that it would be great to test if the thing works and use it to do his homework. That makes them pause and contemplate the idea. The first to be against it is Ghoulia. She doesn't think it's very smart to mess with the timeline just for a school project. Frankie and Jackson support her. But Jackson also comments on how MAYBE if they didn't interact with anyone and were just there to watch, they wouldn't actually be doing anything. It also suggests it could be a good thing for Robecca. After all, it's the most direct way he can find clues to his father's whereabouts. This raises the robot's hopes. Ghoulia is still against it but after seeing her friends' hopeful looks, she decides that MAYBE it's not such a bad idea. As long as the necessary measures are taken. The girls and boys celebrate this beforehand and look for anything about the operation of the machine. They discover that for the machine to work and there to be a way to return, someone needs to be in the current era. Monitoring travelers through bracelets that serve as trackers and controls that allow them to travel by time and place. Ghoulia and Jackson note that there is a very specific way these bracelets work but decide to find out later. Since this was just a round trip to see if the machine worked in the first place. So with everything prepared Robecca, Frankie, Jackson and Billy get ready for the test trip. Ghoulia gives them the go-ahead and turns on the machine. The quartet enters the machine and goes to a year not too distant, just to try it out. More specifically 1950's New Salem.

In fact, the machine works! After watching a bit, the four try to go back to their time to tell the zombie. But can not. No matter how hard they try, the bracelets don't send them back to their time. In reality, it sends them randomly to other places and times. They panic a little (A LOT).

Currently, Ghoulia is worse. The disused machine was broken enough that it had imperfections that none of them noticed. So now the machine was causing fluctuations in time itself. Making time go slower or faster randomly. This is also causing beasts and animals from different places and times to appear today. Not to mention that, for some reason, his friends can't come back. So it's up to Ghoulia Yelps to fix the time machine, prevent the timeline from being destroyed, send the beasts and animals where they belong, and bring his friends back. It's... A pretty normal Monday, if Ghoulia is allowed to comment.

So this subplot has:

Jackson, Robecca, Billy and Frankie traveling through time. Uncovering family secrets and finding clues to the whereabouts of Hexiciah Steam.

To them trying to survive times that they only read about in books, saw in movies or paintings.

And Ghoulia saving the day behind the scenes.

Yes... A standard Monday.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. I hope you have a happy new year and I wish you the best of luck in meeting your new year goals. 🎆❤️✨🎆

[storymaker14]

The House (House of Worf Part II)

[This was originally posted by me on another site on 26 July 2019; it has been copied here with only one word changed, thanks to canon being updated.]

Okay, so maybe Star Trek, especially Worf's story, is really on my mind... my thanks to Memory Alpha, Memory Beta, and various Google searches starting with "Klingon word for...".

Ten days after the Romulan supernova

The destruction of Romulus meant that Chancellor Martok of the Klingon High Council was extremely busy. It also meant that Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire Alexander Rozhenko was extremely busy, as was his wife V'Lin, attache to Councillor T'Latrek of Vulcan.

Being gin'tak to the House of Martok meant that former Starfleet commander -- captain, technically though briefly -- Worf was always extremely busy. He would not have it any other way, if he were honest with himself. And if recent events led to the chancellor being far from the House almost constantly, and Worf's son and daughter-in-law being off-planet, so be it; he would remain to keep all things in order as they should be. Still, he decided that a brief respite to watch the news was understandable and proper. And the company was enjoyable as well.

"You see?" Worf said, pointing to the screen as the newsreader discussed the misfortune of the Empire's long-standing rival and occasional ally with untoward glee. "They speak of the glory and triumph of billions dead. As if a star could act intentionally and honorably." He growled his displeasure and turned his companion, seated beside him. "Absurd, don't you agree?'

The response was a thoughtful burble and a furrowed brow beneath a ridged bone crest that seemed barely formed but still resembled his own. The small Vulcan-Klingon-Human hybrid shook the wooden block clenched in her fist as if expressing an echo of her grandfather's frustration with the news. Then as if remembering there actually was a block in her fist, she popped one corner of it in her open mouth.

"I see you do," Worf said with satisfaction, returning his attention to the screen, even if it did increase his frustration to watch it. He lasted barely a minute longer before making a noise of determination and shutting the screen off; his granddaughter found the noise very accurate and copied it. "Will you rest?" he asked her. "Or will you join me?"

The small hand reached in his direction answered that question.

"Good," Worf smiled, picking her up and putting her in the carrier he wore. "Then come; we have a lot to do."

On the matter of naming their daughter, Alexander and V'Lin had decided they wanted something neither definitively Klingon nor Vulcan, but random phonemes would be unacceptable. An investigation of their ancestor's names had determined that the child had great-grandmothers named Kaasin (his side) and T'Kandra (her side). Add to this the fact that both had Human ancestry -- he two generations ago, she two centuries ago -- and a small modification to a Human name had been suggested by V'Lin; after trying it out for a day, Alexander had agreed.

As they walked into the kitchen together, they were greeted warmly by Kaga, the chef for the House, whose chest could be charitably described as immense and barrel-shaped. "Gin'tak Worf! And the young Kaasandra! What can I do for you both?"

"The chancellor has decided to dine at home tonight," Worf said, while Kaasandra continued to thoughtfully suck on the end of the block, the Klingon letter on each of its sides of less interest to her at her age than the taste and feel of the material.

"Ah... did you have something in mind?"

That prompted another smile from Worf; for him to even dare suggest anything to Kaga would have felt ridiculous, if not inappropriate. Both Martok and Worf had dined at Kaga's Klingon café on the old Deep Space Nine, at a frequency that had more to do with the quality of his food than the fact that his was the only Klingon cuisine on the station that didn't come from a replicator. Kaga had been more idle than he cared to be after the station's destruction, even after the new station was completed, so being head chef for the chancellor's House had been an opportunity at which he jumped. "I am sure whatever you decide would be superior to anything I might."

That immense barrel chest lurched as he gave a hearty laugh. "I'm sure as well." Turning to the child at Worf's chest, he asked, "And you, young one. I have prepared a fine grapok sauce; do you suppose you would be allowed a taste?"

Kaasandra gave him a look that fit more with her pointed ears than her crested forehead, as if deciding whethereating grapok sauce was truly logical.

"If you will not," Worf said to her, "I certainly will." With a nod, Kaga brought forth a bowl filled with the brown liquid and a spoon; Worf dipped the latter into the former and tasted, well-pleased. "I recommend it," he continued, offering the tip of the spoon to her.

A sniff and a cautious opening of the mouth, and a moment later Kaasandra showed her obvious agreement with her grandfather with whole-body lurches of pleasure at the taste.

"Now if only she might try something to put it on," Kaga chuckled. "Maybe I should speak with V'Lin again, to see if I might give the young one gagh or racht… perhaps just the one worm."

Whether by necessity of living on a multi-species space station for years, or simply by a desire to feed all beings of all species, Kaga had shown himself quite willing to be creative when it came to satisfying a Vulcan's preferences -- though Worf still wondered exactly how she managed to maintain, and Kaga support, a vegetarian diet on the Klingon homeworld. Knowing the difficulty, V'Lin had made it clear she did not expect her daughter to participate in the same restrictions... though even she could not hide just a hint of distaste at her daughter eating live food. On the other hand, though, not even a full Klingon child would necessarily eat live food at Kaasandra's age. "It will be discussed," Worf said simply.

Kaga nodded agreement, then turned to shout for his assistant. "Birktal! Come; we need to prepare a feast!" Turning back to the gin'tak and child, he bowed as low as his belly would allow. "We will be ready for the Chancellor."

"I have no doubt," Worf said, and without further preamble turned to go. There was still much to do, not the least of which was his next duty. His granddaughter still at his chest, he made sure that the handful of other workers know the head of the House would be home shortly, and that all must be in order for his arrival. Once this was done, however, there was one place that Martok would surely visit that Worf felt was only worthy of his attention, none other.

The room had once, long ago, been shared by sisters Lazhna and Shen, daughters of Martok and Lady Sirella. Since their deaths, and their mother's soon after, it had become a place of remembrance for the great women that Martok had lost. Five years later, Martok's son and last surviving child Drex had joined them in Sto'Vo'Kor, and his remembrance was added. Martok would unquestionably come to pay his respects, though he would not linger to dwell upon the past. And so it fell to Worf to ensure it was in order.

But to the surprise of his gin'tak, Martok was already there. "Chancellor," Worf said, straightening up involuntarily. "I was not told you had arrived."

The chancellor stood, removing his robe of office and simply becoming Worf's old friend and adopted brother. "No one was told, Worf," Martok said. "But when the chancellor wishes to be transported somewhere directly and for no one to be told, that is what happens." He smiled seeing the child escorting Worf. "Hello, Kaasandra; bringing glory to the House of Worf already, are you?"

Martok laughed even as Worf responded. "This is not the House of Worf, brother. It is still your House."

"In name, yes," Martok agreed, even as he looked around at pictures of his daughters, his son, his magnificent wife. A low eloquent grumble rattled in his chest. "Too much loss," he said, and Worf could see that both the recent death of faceless billions, and that of four dearly loved in the past, weighed upon him. "But you," he said, turning back to Worf. "You and your son, his wife, your grandchild--"

"Grandchildren," Worf interrupted softly, and at Martok's confusion, he added, "V'Lin has found she is due again."

"Grandchildren!" Martok laughed, and even the normally-serious Kaasandra waved her block in happiness. "And you still say this is not the House of Worf?"

Worf, for his part, did not laugh or smile. "I would not presume--"

"I know you would not," Martok said, waving away his objection with his hand. "But even if my cousin inherits the House when I am gone, this will still be your House in reality." He looked at Kaasandra, then at his gin'tak. "May I..?"

That finally elicited a smile. "Of course," said Worf, extracting the child from her carrier and passing her to Martok, reflecting as he did that he found himself smiling far more these days than he had in too many years.

He took her in his hands, the joy at simply being a man holding a child seeming to undo years of age and turmoil in his face. "A proud young girl, of a proud family," he declared. "I doubt anyone could stand in the way of whatever she decides." He sat on what had been Shen's bed, lightly bouncing her on a knee.

At this, however, Kaasandra grew a bit restless and concerned. She reached a hand up toward Martok's face, unfortunately choosing the side of his missing eye, which meant he didn't catch her movement. Worf, however, did, taking a long step and intercepting her tiny hand. Her lip quivered in frustration even as he admonished her. "Kaasandra… puqnI'be'oy… only with me and your parents."

"What is it?" Martok said, turning his eye toward them.

"She has proven... precocious at certain Vulcan talents," he replied, taking her back, to her mild displeasure.

A pause as Martok processed this, then he roared with laughter. "Unless she intends to give military secrets to the Kinshaya, I don't mind if she does as she wishes!"

"Still," Worf said, his apprehension fading even as he tried to remain gently stern toward his granddaughter, who was now reaching for his face. "Only us, for now."

As Kaasandra lightly touched his temple, he felt the gentle stirring of his mind as her own brushed against it. He pushed forward the strong impression that Martok meant safety, and there was no danger; she accepted it, adding the abstract association to her own thoughts. A quick addendum that Martok's mind was not to be touched, and he gently pulled his head away from her hand, then gave the child back to Martok. This time, she clearly enjoyed the bouncing on his knee, to the degree where she even offered him her precious wooden block.

Martok laughed again and pushed the block back toward her. "Please, keep it. I have many other things to hold onto." His eye flickered around the room once more, and Worf knew to what his friend was referring. "But thank you." The tip of the block returned to her mouth.

As he watched them, Worf returned to the touch of Kaasandra's mind to his own. Of course, he had not been the only one that Kaasandra had touched; her mother's impression was strong and lingered, and her father had clearly shared his mind with her too. Kaasandra clearly saw her grandfather as to be loved and trusted; her mother respected and admired him. As for her father...

Whenever Worf's mind touched hers, the lingering remnant of Alexander's mind sensed his, and there was an almost reflexive bitterness toward him. But as time went on, the feeling that followed after the reflex had grown warmer in stages. The last ten to twelve years had begun to mend Worf's relationship with his son, and the last year had accelerated the process greatly. The wounds still existed, but were healing; his actions were not forgotten, but they were gradually being forgiven, with restitution being silently offered and gratefully accepted.

The House was Martok's… but perhaps this world, this dwelling, with his family, truly was Worf's home.

[0v3rcast]

A GIFT(?)

"Sir," she calls out, snapping a quick salute as she comes up the ridge and stands before the armored titan. "Thank you for the aid. I'm not sure we'd have lasted much longer."

After the soldiers in her command were ambushed by hover bombers¹ and driven into a nearby cave system, they'd been hiding until this giant of a man before him and his cohort of troops came to their aid.

He nods to her, plated helmet glinting in the waning afternoon light, the tan fur of some kind of pelt collar ruffled by the breeze. "A pleasure to be of assistance," he replies, voice tinny through the inbuilt speaker. "It would be cruel to abandon fellow members of the Conglomerate² at such a dire time. May I know with whom I speak?"

"Kanna Valtus, sir. The current leader of this warband, now, what with the commander dead," she sighs, gesturing back behind them to a small camp her troops have set up for the night. "They were a good leader. I hope I can do their station proud."

"You kept these soldiers alive this long, despite being leaderless and cornered. That is worthy of praise. I'm sure your commander smiles down upon you from their afterlife."

She sniffles and wipes a tear away before it can well up in the corner of her good eye, the other still bandaged after the slapdash surgery to remove the metal shard. "I think I needed to hear that. Thank you."

"You are welcome. It is what I would need to hear, too, in a time like this."

The sun slowly sets over the ridge as they stand there in a companionable silence, watching the forests and plains in the distance.

---

Despite her worries of a nightmare about what she'd seen in the past few days, her sleep is that of the dead. Perhaps that is a mercy.

---

"I suppose it's time for us to part ways?" She questions, shifting slightly in place as she watches the sun rise from the newly-established command tent. "Your second³ said we have objectives on nearly opposite sides of this landmass."

"Aye. Your glory is to be won elsewhere, as is mine." He simply responds, voice even and body still.

"I don't suppose you have any advice for the campaign ahead? New tactical data?"

He chuckles. "You came here second, Commander Valtus. Your maps and positions were newer than our own by perhaps a month and a half."

She draws in a pained breath through her teeth. "Fuck."

"I will trust something else to your care, though. A good luck charm." He reaches up onto his back, grabbing the pale tan ruff, and holds it out, uttering a simple phrase as she accepts the charm on instinct.

She blinks, flabbergasted, at the small creature now in her hands. It stares up at her with oddly intelligent eyes, sticking a small pink tongue out.

"I, uh, wh-what?" She stutters, looking back up at the man. "This is a fox from Terra. Why do you have this? How do you have this?"

"She is the mascot. And a wizard⁴. Her name is Kiki." He counters.

"W-wizard?!" She squawks. "Magic isn't real!"

He leans in. "That's what they want you to think," he whispers.

"Who are 'they'?" She asks.

"We don't talk about them." Is his only solemn response.

He and his troops are gone a mere hour and a half later, with none of her questions answered.

"I guess it's you and me?" She suggests to the fox she's now carrying.

Kiki responds by biting the tip of Kanna's nose.

"Motherfucker!" Kanna yelps.

Kiki begins to make a noise similar to laughter.

---

¹: Hoverships are not considered actual aircraft in the modern day, despite the fact they are well able to fly in the atmosphere and over both land and water. Their lack of atmospheric reentry and exit relegates them to attack runs on landbound targets, harassing more advanced craft into making fatal errors, occasional civilian joyrides, and on-planet bulk cargo delivery.

²: the Coalition of Allied Species, an all-inclusive group of various races. Coalition governmental meetings are the most ridiculous and stressful Zoom calls in existence.

³: short for second-in-command.

⁴: Magic is considered both not real and, in fact, a poor excuse for either technology or psionic powers. Those who firmly defend the existence of magic as the source of their abilities are considered to be mentally unstable.

[lindajenni]

it's a seasonal thing

"to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven." eccl 3:1 there certainly are seasons and times.  right now, we know we are in the christmas season.  there are seasons in the worldly sense, i.e. football and baseball seasons, as are there seasons of life.  but do you so easily recognize things in their spiritual season? right now, we are in the one of the most significant spiritual seasons ever.  i don't know if you're like me or not, but when i contemplate this season, i feel as though it is almost surreal; a touch of irrational reality.  and yet, here we are; chosen from all that ever lived to be here in this last generation. right now the history of the end of this age is being recorded in God's books.  but don't let the devil bind you in his prison of pressure.  don't let him silence your tongue from expounding the hope we have set before us.  we are all called to testify.  "and they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death." rev 12:11 most of us will never write a book, compose a song or garner influence over a large number of people.  but each of us has a whisper of influence over those within our realm.  perhaps by the words we speak, but certainly by the witness we live.  "but you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be witnesses to Me in jerusalem, and in all judea and samaria, and to the end of the earth." acts 2:1 we might be the only bible anyone will ever read.  what i mean is that the unsaved might be exposed to the gospel by your very Christ-likeness.  when we are living a life of obedience and reflecting the attributes of God like long-suffering, patience, and love, people see that as attractive and winsome.  when we are walking with Christ, we should be looking more like Christ every day.  use your life for His glory in making disciples of all nations, and live like you really believe it. Jesus once said that "you are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned?  it is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men." matt 5:13  so either you’re like the natural salt, which enhances the flavor and also acts as a preservative, or you overdo it, which sometimes stings in wounded people.  unless God’s wrath is revealed against unsaved sinners, God’s mercy will not be relevant. during the gruesome black plague in the 1300s, there was an estimated 75 to 200 million people who died.  those who weren’t christians started noticing that the christians’ funerals were as hopeless as the funerals they had for family.  the christian funeral actually offered hope beyond the day.  that hope is found only in Christ.  those outside the church began to be drawn to this hope, and then they heard the gospel of Jesus Christ where He said, “I am the resurrection and the life.  whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live.” john 1:25  speaking of God, “He is not God of the dead, but of the living, for all live to Him.” luke 20:38  these christian funerals began to bring people to Christ because they’d say, “these christians suffer well.  why is that?”  of course, we know why.  we have hope beyond hope.  yes, even a full assurance! the christian is a person who makes it easy for others to believe in God since we are the salt of the world, we are lights in a darkened world, and we suffer well because of our hope in Jesus Christ.  when we reflect Christ, we let people know what He’s like, and that might help to open the door for the gospel to enter their heart. be salty, be light in a darkened world, be Christ-like in all you do or say.  this is the age, the season of grace.  "let us be glad and rejoice and give Him glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and His wife has made herself ready.  and to her it was granted to be arrayed in fine linen, clean and bright, for the fine linen is the righteous acts of the saints." rev 19:7-8

[writing-for-life]

Thanks for the tag, @rey-jake-therapist

Man, I have so much to say about this and so little time. I have two metas in a vegetative state in my drafts that go exactly into these questions, one about "Overture", one about Morpheus as the architect of his own downfall (which isn't the same as saying he planned it exactly this way, or that he wasn't dead from the start anyway, because none of it is mutually exclusive), but they need so many panel references etc that I just can't get them done at the moment. One day...

So here goes, and due to time constraints with a few links to my other metas and the most important panels/references.

Do I personally think Morpheus wanted to stay? No.

Do I think he wanted things to go down the way they did though? Also no.

And these two statements are not at odds. I do believe he wanted a way out for a long, long time. I wrote about this before (also feel free to look at my pinned post because I wrote about this tangentially in several metas), and there's much more to it I really don't have the time to go into, but he was tired. He didn't want to go on. Mikal Gilmore wrote in his intro to "The Wake":

"In the end, Morpheus' heart could not be fixed or healed: it could not be set right by his own will, or therapy, or medication (gods--or their equals--do not get to opt for therapy or medication) and Morpheus, in these tales, has come to understand the futility of living with a heart that cannot be fixed--especially living endlessly with such a heart."

And I agree with that assessment (and I would reckon that the foreword wasn't chosen out of thin air, but was in line with what wanted to be conveyed) where it concerns Morpheus' view. I don't agree with it as a general truth, otherwise I wouldn't be a therapist, but that just as an aside.

I think the panels in "Overture" that are the most important ones in this context are actually these:

In conjunction with this:

The latter one then really leads into the panels where it is very clear that both Desire and Despair start to forget, but it's also fairly obvious later on that little bits and pieces still stayed imprinted on their subconscious, so to speak.

Dream knew a lot of things since Overture, in one manner or another, and he is the only one who remembers (and we could obviously also go into the headcanon territory that unlike for his siblings, subconscious and conscious are one and the same for him). We've discussed many times elsewhere how much and in how much detail, but funnily enough when I was hunting for these panels, I noticed that the online version of Overture in the newer book 6 that came out with the Netflix show is actually missing a bunch of panels that are in every hardcopy I know (I cannot speak to every edition). More specifically, literally everything between Dream pulling the ship into reality and then ending up in the binding circle. Because there's a whole set of panels in between (it's actually a foldout under the black page with the blip, and they really didn't put that into the online version, I can't believe it) where he talks to Glory, and if someone has never seen those, it will absolutely change their interpretation I guess.

From where I stand, I think he does remember, because a lot of stuff wouldn't make sense if he didn't. And I think that also means he had at least an inkling that it wasn't him in his current aspect who gave back the saeculum. Add to that his imprisonment and how it changed him, and especially how he relates to Death in The Sound of her Wings (that poem!), I personally don't think he wanted to stay. And that becomes more and more obvious as the plot progresses.

Do I think though he wanted it to happen as it did? Also no. I think he would have planned for a smoother transition, for lack of better term, with far less fallout. But due to who he was, with all his rigid sense of duty (and even Delirium already told him in Overture that he doesn't care if it all ends. He just cares that it is his fault), he painted himself into a corner until there was no other way out. That's why I always preach to people to read the last three issues (without a shipping focus) and Dream Hunters, because so many questions get answered in there. The most underrated issue of them all is "Exiles". And this is Daniel, who knows everything Morpheus knew and yet has a different point of view on it and sees it for what it is/was:

Put that together with the previous panels where Master Li talks to Morpheus (who is as rigid in his sense of duty as he is) right after he had killed Orpheus (because the sage they talk about, who can't really mourn his son? Yeah, about that...), and you just know who we are referring to here.

But do I also agree with all the rest, as in: He was haunted by the narrative and dead from the start? Yes. Everything is stacked up against him while he is also the architect of his downfall and death.

The Furies absolutely had it for him. His own siblings put the nails in his coffin, and I sometimes wish people wouldn't just think about Desire in this context. Because I hate to say it: When the shit really started to hit the fan, Desire was the only one to actually proactively try to prevent it and/or stopping to be involved (I already wrote about this here). They hated the guts out of him, but when they truly noticed it was going down, they didn't push him further. Unlike Destiny, Delirium and, yes, Death. As siblings, they cared for him. As personifications of their functions, they brought him closer to taking the fall (I always feel like reminding people what it means, in narrative terms, that Dream is closest to Death and arguably loves her most. Whenever she "advises" him, she is also her function. It can't be any other way: She is Death, not a person who happens to steward it). All three of them:

Delirium showed up after he broke up with Thessaly--that's no coincidence in narrative terms. He wasn't thinking clear. And Delirium (in her own moment of clarity) is what gets him going again after he broke down in Destiny's Garden. That's metaphorically so heavy, I don't even know where to start.

Death told him off after he had called off the search for Destruction (another one, although more tangentially but still very obvious)--that's why he apologised to Del and they started again, and this time, he fell back into all his rigid understanding of duty because people had already come to harm and he felt responsible to at least not let their deaths be in vain.

And Destiny--well, I guess no explanation needed. He is the closest to the Fates in narrative terms, basically kicked off SoM with calling in the family meeting and other than that is stoicism personified, although he did try as a brother in terms of what his function allowed him to say, but I really can't pull those panels out right now.

With regards to: Did Morpheus want to die and was everything stacked up against him from he start, it truly, at least in my view, is a story of "both, and," not "either, or."

Do y’all ever think about how life just got to be too much for Morpheus and the things that he lived through didn’t make him stronger they just made him tired and how in the end no matter how much the love he had for his siblings and for his realm and for Hob and for humanity made him want to stay, he couldn’t? I do.

[riflewounds]

Whumptober, day 26 | No One Left Behind ("Why did you save me?")

He'd been left alone here. No food or water for a second day in a row and the pain gnawing at his legs and twisting his gut only grew with each passing hour. The ground was cold, too, but he was thankful he wasn't forced to keep sitting on that god-awful chair.

He barely slept at night. Shallow and short stays in the warm darkness, only about two hours at a time. He woke up - repeatedly - at boots passing by the door. 

Rabid hounds of war, doing what their masters wanted of them, to rip and tear and torture.

Soft thumps down the hall. Muffled screams. Gunshots. Durant perked up, as much as his broken body would allow.

Many boots racing down the hall, hushed words speaking of an intruder, some lanky man with a gun.

Wait, is it--

"Left side, left side," came a muffled yell from the hall.

Durant counted two shots right after. Followed by a nice little burst from the two men close by the door. Three more shots. From further away. At least one hit because there was a piercing scream just outside the door. Followed by more panicked words he couldn't quite make out through the haze of pain.

Another shot, quick retaliation of several three-round bursts, and two more single shots from a different gun.

A rifle clattered to the ground. Faint gurgles just in the hallway.

Deathly silence. No barks of gunfire, just the buzzing in his head and some disgusting sinking feeling.

Could it be his boss? Maybe, but this didn't sound like him Precise, yes, maybe a little too much for the man himself. Did he hire someone? To soften up those contractor fuckers, so he can then sweep in and claim all the glory? 

He would've laughed if not for the piercing pain in his ribs. Fuchs had the resources, he had people, it wouldn't be unlike him to hire some extra help for the job.

He could afford the extra bodies.

And he could afford to find a different loyal gun, puppy.

Different gunman to fill his place. Take over his role of the loyal bodyguard willing to sacrifice limb and life. 

Even if the guy was a dick.

Durant couldn't hear a single sound aside from his quick ragged breaths. He'd grown a little accustomed to the pain, but his legs felt full of red-hot knives slicing away at his flesh. 

He stilled once he heard those footsteps in the hallway. Light, so vastly different from the steel-toed boots that ran through the hall only minutes ago. No, these were loafers, a light blend of leather and vulcanized rubber. Tap, tap, tap, the sound was closing in, until the door handle moved and Durant stilled completely.

Either it's Fuchs, or someone else. 

He blinked as the door swung open. Silver glint of a Beretta. Muzzle trained right at him, before it wavered and pointed towards the ground as the man's hands fell. 

"Durant?" 

He... came back for him...

"H-Hey," he rasped, breaking into a little cough at the sudden motion. Too deep of an exhale. His ribs still ached, stabbing pain clawing at his lung with every cough.

Broken ribs had nothing on two shattered femurs...

Fuchs slipped his gun away for the moment, taking long, hasty strides towards his gunman. "We don't have much time before the rest of those jack-booted fucks come down here."

Durant estimated they had ten minutes at most. Realistically, it's less. A lot less.

More like five minutes. 

Fuchs kneeled beside him, took a pair of wire cutters to the zip ties binding the gunman's wrists. "Let's get out of here."

Two snips, and the pressure at his wrist was gone. Durant flexed his hands, splayed his palm, curled his fingers into a tight fist before he loosened them. But just as quickly as the pressure was relieved, Fuchs was already hooking his arm around the gunman, about to lift him up.

"No no no, wait, wa--"

Then the bones in his leg shifted and he screamed loud enough to wake the dead. That piercing, blood-curdling wail--

"Shut up!" 

--he screamed until his lungs seized with lack of air.

"For fuck's sake just shut up!" 

Followed by desperate lungfuls of that precious, precious air, cut shallow by his broken battered ribs, fingers curling against the floor and nails scratching away at whatever was under his hands.

Please god make it stop, make it stop, make it stop--

"Oh shit--" 

Darkness blotted out his sight, drowned out every sound, his body was sagging into that painless warm void, but he was plucked out of those deep dark waters only moments later. Sweaty. Back against the bumpy ground, his entire body ached and throbbed and his guts were twisting into tight knots under the strain.

"Fuchs..."

Moist eyes, dry throat. He could only croak as he twisted on the ground. 

His boss fell quiet, just looking at his gunman, unsure what to do next. Barely touching him, just lightly resting two fingers on Durant's shoulder.

"I took a couple guys with me, they're waiting outside." Fuchs spoke, considerably more gentle than only minutes ago, "I need you to stay quiet."

Quiet, huh? Durant wasn't sure it was even possible. "Then gimme drugs. Or knock me out. Please."

Desperate words, quiet urgency. This would go a lot smoother if he wasn't screaming with every little movement. Even now, even when he was lying completely still, Durant was only hairs away from screaming his lungs out. Words didn't come to him as easily as they usually did either, they came mangled and incoherent through the haze of pain. "My legs are fucked. Broken. Fuckers broke my legs."

"Yeah, I figured."

Then he could've-- he could've stopped sooner!

"And since you can't stand up, I'm gonna have to drag you."

Fine, fucking fine, "Just get on with it," Durant grumbled. Impatient, frustrated, anxious. Conflicting feelings mixing into some horrible painful mess. "You gonna give me something, or we goin' raw?" 

"Raw."

God-- he swallowed. Every little bit of motion of his legs plunged him into throes of agony so intense he could no longer keep conscious.

Fuchs produced a single tie, he folded it in half twice, and brought it down to the gunman's chin. "Here, bite this."

And he did. Fuchs positioned it between Durant's teeth, and he bit down on it. It'd help, even if just a little. 

"Alright."

White and orange hues of pain. It felt as if legs were being torn apart, pulled off his body like he was some insect. 

Paralyzed. Eyes blown wide open, he was stiff as a board and his body tried to screech, yet breath halted in his throat, it wouldn't budge, nerves overloaded with this unspeakable agony. 

He couldn't take it. Couldn't do it. As if rigor mortis had set in while he was still alive.

Durant could hear a word, quiet and mangled in the haze, a single "Finally" as the gunman slipped under.

[blackhakumen]

Mini Fanfic #1007: Breakfast Meal For the Birthday Bro (Persona 5)

9:33 a.m. at Niijima's Apartment's Dining Room.......

Ryuji: (Happily Chewing Down on Fix Stacks of Pancakes Makoto Made For Him) ('Munch') ('Munch') Ah man. ('Mmm') ('Munch') (Points at his Food in Front of Him) These. ('Munch') ('Munch') These has to be the best damn stacks of pancakes I've ever tasted right here. ('Mmmm') ('Munch') And your coffee's as good as ever, Coffee Bro!

Ren: (Places his Hand on his Chin) "Coffee Bro", huh?........(Starts Smirking a Bit) Has a nice ring to it.

Makoto: (Smiles Softly) We're glad you're enjoying your birthday breakfast, Ryiji, but could you try not to talk woth your mouth full? You're starting to make a mess on the table.

Ryuji: (Stops Eating For a Second) Oh...right. (Swallows his Food Before Smiling a Bit Sheepishly) Sorry 'bout that. But anyways, I'm thinking we should bring everyone from the Smash here, show 'em around the place, shop, eat out somewhere that less expensive, after that, we head on down to the theater and watch the movie of my choosing of course.

Ren: Hey, as long as we're not watching that new Minions movie, I'm more than welcome to watch whatever. Getting tired of these little twerps already.

Ryuji: (Rolls his Eyes) Don't we all.... But rest assured, my fellow party goers,the movie I'll be choosing will wayyy more awesome than that one!.....Hopefully. And the meantime, once all of that's over with, we head over to the mansion and some good old fashioned Mario Party all night long. (Starts Smirking Evilly While Rubbing his Habds Together) Which will give me all the time in the world to come up with a perfect, devise plan to fially beat DP in his own, cheap game.

Makoto: You're really dead set on getting him back this time, aren't you?

Ryuji: Hell yeah I am! The guy's been constantly screwing me over since the day we first started play. Ain't no way in hell I'm letting it slide any longer, especially on the celebration of my birth for crying out loud! I just hope whatever plan and strategy I do come up with, works out in my favor....(Turns to His Bro) You think you could help me out this, Ren?

Ren: And let you potentially bully my angel brother throughout the remainder of the night? (Smirks as Well) Count me in.

Ryuji: (Grins Happily While Hi-Fiving Ren) Hell yeah! Operation Screwing Dark Angel Boi Over is indefinite go! (Turns to Makoto) Wanna tag along, Queen?~

Makoto: (Sighs While Shrugging a Bit) I might as well....(Smiles a Little) It wouldn't hurt him to go down a peg for once.

Ryuji: Exactly! Add a few more pegs down and we'll be golden! (Starts Taking a Few More Bites Off his Pancakes and Finish Drinking his Coffee Before Sighing and Slowly Looking Away) Soooooo....anyways, I've been thinking......

Ren/Makoto: (Raises an Eyebrow at the Birthday Boy) Abooouut?.......

Ryuji: You know.....the plans for my future and junk.

Ren: (Eyes Widened a Bit in Genuine Surprise) Oh wow, really?

Ryuji: Yeah, man. (Takes Another Bite of his Pancakes) I mean, at first, I thought about taking up being an up 'n coming track athlete, but now.....I think I might wanna give this whole......P.E. Teacher gig a shot someday.

Makoto: (Eyes Begins to Widened in Genuine Surprise as Well) For real?

Ryuji: (Chuckles Lightly) Yeah. I mean, I know it'll be a hassle and all, but....(Shrugs a Bit) I dunno. I...guess I wanna make more of an impact in my life than just trying win all the fame and glory that'll probably won't last a lifetime. Plus....(Smiles Softly) I think having some of your students look up to you could be a pretty cool feeling, you know? If I have what it takes obviously....

Makoto: (Gives Ryuji a Supportive Smile) I think you have what it takes.

Ren: (Smiles at Ryuji as Well) Me too. (Smirks Again) Just try not to let those kids make you pull your hair out too much and you'll Ave yourself smooth sailing from here.

Ryuji: ('Scoffs') You're kidding? (Points at Himself) You're speaking to the most easy-going person in the planet here. There's no way I'm gonna crack that easily.

Ren: (Immediately Gives Ryuji a Deadpinned Look on his Face Along With his Girlfriend) Really? You. Ryuji Sakamoto. An Easy-Going person.

Makoto: (Crosses her Arms) The same easy-going person who gets easily provoked whenever someone hurts and insult himself, his friends, and family?

Ren: The same easy-going person who Blurts Out every cuss words in existence except for the F-word....somehow?

Makoto: The same easy-going person who constantly butt-heads with an alley cat for a mascot.

Ren: Ooh! And how about the very same easy-going fellow who cries every time he gets played in Mario-

Ryuji: Alright, alright, alright, I get it. ('Sighs in Defeat') So maybe I'm not always the most easy-going person here.

Ren/Makoto: (Teasingly Raises Their Eyebrows) Maybe?

Ryuji: (Glares at his Friends in Front of Him) YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN, DAMNIT! (Takes a Deep Breath Before Putting on a Serious Look on his Face) But I'm really serious about wanting to do this kind of thing down the road. So if I have to settle my happy ass down and get into more shape to do it, then I'll step up to the plate and do it. That's a promise and a half.

Ren: (Happily Nodded) Spoken like a true P.E. Teacher. You'll do great out there, man.

Makoto: (Smiles Softly Again) And we'll always love and believe in you no matter what happens.

Ryuji: (Heart Begins to Melt as He Begins Smile Brightly) Many thanks, guys. I'll always love and believe in you crazy people too. That being saiiid....Would you say that you two love enough to give some birthday cash?~ (Blinks his Eyes in a Soty of Cute Fashion)

Ren: Take it down a notch, Skull Boy. We're not that generous.

Ryuji: Damnit.

Makoto: Buuuuut we could give you something that could suffice~

Ryuji: Liiiike?

Ren/Makoto: Your Birthday Kisses!~

As the Joker and Queen went by and give their respective kisses on both of his cheeks, Ryuji's eyes widens for a few seconds before he starts snickering and letting out a snort as he finally begins to burst out laughing, much to his friends' sight amusement.

Ryuji: Ohhoho my God, you guys! Birthday Kisses? Are you for real right now!? (Continues Laughing Nefore Wiping a Tear From his Eyea) I swear, you two are gonna end up being the dorkiest parents towards your own future kids if you keep this up.

Ren: ('Scoffs') You kidding? I'll be the coolest parent my future kids will ever have!....Can't say the same for Makoto unfortunately.

Makoto: (Gasps Before Pouting at her Boyfriend Right Next to Her) Excuuuse you!? I could be just as much as a cool parent as you could be! I can ride motorcycles, I am a black belt in the Arts if Aikido Karate, as well as a proud leader of the Bunchimaru-Kun's Fan Club.

Ren: You're also a goody two-shoes, was almost every teachers' pet throughout high school, not to mention that you're also known as The Mom of each of our groups of friends. (Puts on a Teasing Smirk on his Face) Need I say more? Cause I can go on all day.

Makoto: (Crosses her Arms) I don't know, Ren-Ren. (Gives Ren the Cold Niijima Glare) Do you want your cuddle sessions to be revoked for the rest of month?

Ren: (Cowers a Bit in Fear) No, ma'am.

Ryuji: Ha! Whipped!

Ren: Don't start.

Happy Late Birthday, Skull Boy!!

@keyenuta

@princekirijo

@26shann

@cyber-wildcat

@caleb13frede

@theweebmaster31

@albion-93

[ssatoritendou]

Old Spice, Breakfast, & Memory Lane

Pairing: Itadori/reader

Yuuji Itadori

+ summary: Yuuji takes notice that you slept in his sweatshirt. In which leads into a conversation about your future, and talking about your past as well.

Word count: 1.7k

Genre: fluff

Warning: hornee Yuuji

“___, you won’t believe what this cursed- Shit you are sleep,” Yuuji said putting up his hands feeling guilty. He switched to whispering. “Sorry, Babe.” He placed his hand on your head gracefully stroking your hair.

“She looks delicious to eat,” Sukuna said mouth appear on Yuuji’s palm licking the hair under his hand.

Yuuji slaps his hand to his face. “I thought I told you to never do that to her.” He growled.

“Too bad though she smells like you.”

“Just ignoring me fine. What do you mean she smells like me? She always smells fresh like a clean spring day, refreshing.” Yuuji smiled.

“Maybe because she is wearing that gross yellow sweatshirt of yours and smells like your old spice. I have to live with it every day for the rest of my life.”

Yuuji stopped listening to the demon living inside of him and looked at his beloved girlfriend wearing his yellow sweatshirt, that desperately needed to be washed.

He smirked. He got up from crouching and took off his uniform. Slipping into bed behind you wrapping his arms lightly.

You wiggled up against him. He groaned when you did that but he suppressed that thought letting his chin rest on your head.

“No talking for the rest of the night you. She needs her beauty rest.”

“You can say that again.”

As much as Yuuji wanted to fight Sukuna for even muttering another word, he didn’t want to go wake his sleeping angel.

There were only four things that woke up Yuuji. 1) the bright sunlight pouring into his room when he forgot to roll his shades down. 2) Nobara when they need to go on a mission. 3) a wet dream. 4) the smell of food being prepared.

This morning it was the smell of breakfast. He could smell the eggs and sausage being cooked on the small hot plate. He sat upon his bed, fixing his pillows. He found himself staring at you in all your glory still wearing his sweatshirt. He let his eyes stop at your ass and his head fall to the side as he leered your round cheeks peeking out of the grey sweat-shorts.

“Morning Yuuji.” You said without turning around.

“Morn’ baby.” He said in a gravelly morning voice.

You turned your head slightly to say, “breakfast will be ready in minutes.”

“Thank you, baby.” He chuckled as he putting arms behind his head. “Do we have any syrup?”

“Yuuji you think I don’t already have it out for you?” You said to point your spatula towards his bed tray with a bottle of syrup already on it and a small glass of apple juice.

Now you were putting the food on his plate. Turning around with the tray in hand which was set up beautifully, his silverware wrapped in a napkin, his apple juice had a straw in it, a bottle of maple syrup to drown his eggs and sausages in, and a small vase with some wildflowers that grew on the jujutsu tech property.

You did this every time he came back from a long mission.

It was your way of telling him you love him, happy that he was safe and thankful for him.

“Thank you, angel.” He said picking up your hand and kissing it.

“How was the mission?” You asked.

“It was fine. The cursed spirit was weird looking. It was yellow, this was the first yellow cursed spirit I have seen. It looked like a Picasso painting."

You nodded understanding his description. You have only seen them briefly in high intense situations but you don't see them as frequently as your friends.

"It is not like I look forward to them. We are just doing a job and trying to find the fingers as well.”

He started to shove more food into his mouth syrup dripped down onto his chest. “You want to clean this up?” He asked in a flirty tone.

You only rolled your eyes picking up the napkin wiping his chest.

“Worth a shot right?”

“You know I love when you are overly flirty.”

He laughed. “I love it when you wear my clothes.”

“Oh, you noticed?”

"Of course I noticed, I notice everything about you." He said playing with your fingers resting on his leg.

“You even smell like the rat. That god awful old spice body wash and body deodorant.” Sukuna chided into the conversation.

“Stay out of this Sukuna.” You said picking up a sausage sticking it in the demon’s mouth. The demon willing took the sausage and chewed on it.

“You looked so cute last night,” Yuuji said. “I wanted to wake you up and tell you how pretty you look.”

He put his hand on your cheek as you rested against it. “I just can’t see myself ever living without you.” You said.

“Hey don’t think that way. I’m always going to be here. I need you to know that.”

“Yuuji…”

“___ baby, if I weren’t a jujutsu student we would’ve never met.”

That was true. You were Mei Mei’s niece. No clue how it was possible but your parents were both sorcerers and passed away at young age doing their job. Mei Mei became your parent. She never stayed in one place because of her job. You never developed curse energy. Mei Mei was thankful for that. Jujutsu Tech offered you, board. In return, you helped around the grounds.

You remembered the day you met Yuuji.

He and Fushiguro were hanging out by the open concrete archways. He had been sipping an apple juice pouch overly petting Fushiguro’s demon dog. You had been tending to the garden when the carton of apple juice had landed into the bush. You picked up the pouch and stomped over into their direction.

“New blood?” You asked Fushiguro.

“____ this is Yuuji Itadori. Sukuna’s vessel.”

“Yeah, idiot Satoru mentioned it in passing. He never gives the full explanation.” You said grunting.

Itadori was sitting there starring at you during a brief conversation with Fushiguro, finally speaking up when there was a small silence. “That is the most I have ever heard him talk.”

You laughed a little bit. You smiled turning towards him, “Itadori is it?” He nodded. “Keep your trash in the trash bin or live to regret it.” You walked away.

“Who is she?” He asked Fushiguro.

“Thats ____, ___. She is a sorcerer's niece. Her parents were sorcerers. She was raised here for the most part. I’ve known her for a long time. She doesn’t have cursed energy she is normal. But Gojo did teach her how to fight. Be afraid.”

It wasn’t long after that he “passed away” but you were cleaning some of the rooms and you heard a movie playing and walked in and saw Itadori sitting there sipping on his 4 can of soda holding a stuffed bear by its head.

“Itadori? How? I thought—you should be dead.”

“Trust me I don’t understand it either. But no one can know. A small number of people know.”

“So I can’t tell anyone?”

“Exactly.” He said with a thumbs up. And then the stuffed bear knocked him in the face.

You laughed so hard that your insides started to hurt.

Itadori pulled the stuffed bear off of him and got it to calm it down to sleep. He started staring at you again. He started laughing too.

“You want to watch movies with me?” He asked.

“Sure.” You said sitting down and eating some of the chips and drink what was left of Itadori’s soda. “Sorry about that. I haven’t really eaten anything today.”

‘Inadvertent kiss.’ He thought for a minute looking at you in the eyes making an awkward silence in the air. “Uh..yeah it’s fine. What do you want to watch?” He gestured to a stack of DVDs.

You scanned the titles. “Let’s watch Scream.” You said holding up the case.

“Really a horror movie?”

“You fight curse spirits every other day. This is nothing.”

“I just don’t want you getting scared.”

“Pfft.” You said.

You hated to admit it but Itadori was right you did get scared. Only when it was gross. You shoved your face into a pillow.

“You can come over here if you want.” He said looking away from the tv and your direction in general. You moved over closer to him. Over time while watching the movie he put his arm across the back of the couch slightly touching your shoulders.

When the credits started rolling you said. “Itadori if you wanted to ask me out or kiss me you could have.”

“What?”

“Never mind then.” You sighed.

“No no no…I do want to ask you out just didn’t think you would say yes.”

“You don’t think highly of yourself?”

“…I don’t usually have any luck with the ladies.” He said rubbing his head.

“Consider this lady impressed by you.” You giggled.

Itadori leaned down and kissed your cheek.

“You missed.”

“What do you mean I missed?”

You turned your head to him and straddled his lap. “I mean you missed.” You kissed him on the lips.

He was a little stunned by your boldness. He wasn’t sure what to do at first. But soon he melted into the kiss soon putting his hands on your waist.

You pulled away.

“So are you my girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course dumbo.”

Now you were here laying in his bed holding onto him to dear life. Tears were rolling down your cheeks and you were sniffling.

“Angel it will be ok. I can handle myself. You have seen me fight.”

“Yuuji I know that. It’s just the ending…”

“That’s a long time away.”

“Yuuji it’s going to happen. I don’t know what I will do if it happens. Yuuji if you fully turn into Sukuna I might try and save you from our friends.”

“___…”

“Yuuji it’s you. If there was a chance I could save you….” You couldn’t even finish the thought your face started to crumble.

He picked up your face. “___ I understand if it were you I would fight off everyone any way I can.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I promise everything will be ok. We will be ok.”

You nodded your head in his hands.

“Come on little lady let’s watch a movie together.” He pulled you closer to him.

“Scream?” You asked.

“Oh yeah definitely Scream.” He chuckled. Putting the movie on. “I love you ___.”

“I love you Yuuji.” You pecked his lips. He squeezed you in returned.

[cordeliaflyte]

Thoughts about Yellowjackets 🐝:

- Shauna and Jackie had a toxic codependent relationship. I always sensed some homoerotic vibe from them though. I honestly even thought Shauna was in love with Jackie until the scene where she fucked Jeff. Lmao. 😂 Even after that, always thought there’s something gay brewing in there. 😂 Ella Purnell even thought so because she said in an interview that she loves how she and Sophie Nélisse gave off gay vibes. 😂

- Lottie and Laura Lee also gave off homoerotic vibes. That ship sunk before it can sail though. RIP. 😂 But seriously, the potential for drama between them. Laura Lee is ultra religious so the internalized homophobia would be so bad. Lottie is off her meds and mentally ill and then you add some gay awakening? Chaos. 😂 Anyway, Jane Widdop said in an interview that they don’t think Laura Lee was a homophohe because they were asked if Laura Lee would have judged Van and Taissa when they came out if Laura Lee was still alive. Queen behavior. Wasn’t even aware Jane is nonbinary and grew up catholic so I’m guessing they related it to Laura Lee in an extent.

- Travis and Natalie are so toxic from the get go. I was never really that interested with them together though. I find them boring. Kevin Alves and Sophie Thatcher don’t have much chemistry together. In fact, Kevin had more chemistry with Ella.

- Misty Quigley is the champ. Definitely my fave. I love them psycho. 🤗 Kind of a bummer that we didn’t see her potential friendship with Jackie to blossom. Jackie, unfortunately, became a popsicle before it can happen. RIP. 😔 Misty also seems to have a soft spot for Natalie in particular in the present day so I’m curious what brought that on considering they didn’t have much interaction in the wilderness so far.

🐝 buzz buzz buzz 🐝

Actually if you think about it Shauna fucked Jeff because she was in love with Jackie. Like if you can't fuck someone the closest way to get to it is fucking someone they fucked. I fully believe Shauna still loves Jackie more than she loves Jeff after all these years.

I know it's a popular theory but I personally don't see Lottie/Laura Lee. Laura Lee was an anchor to this simple black and white morality that kept her worldview safe in her All-American home, and I think she realised it wasn't tenable in the wilderness, but still tried to cling on the rules she was always taught would apply even if her reality was shattered.

I feel like there's a stark difference between her and Lottie in that they both feel isolated, but Laura Lee doesn't push her religion - reminiscent of their old environment, but historically relatively new (evangelicalism) on others too forcefully, but will accept potential converts - like Lottie - when they come to her (which is very at odds with evangelicalism but oh well).

Lottie, who has been isolated, seeks glory for herself through the conduit of a religion that is starkly new to all the characters, but is implied to be, in some ways "primordial" - this is something that has been brewing here for a long time, a Venus flytrap that has enticed its victims since at least the old French Canadian guy.

I wonder whether they'll explore the colonial implications - like, I sincerely hope they don't go "oh yeah wacky indigenous religion". I think it's interesting that when Lottie gets possessed, she speaks the words about spilling blood in French - the language of the (implicitly colonial) dead guy in the cabin.

I wasn't really invested in Natalie/Travis because umm in the nicest way the men in this show do not matter very much. Travis will be the lost Lenore motivating Natalie and I'm fine with that.

I think they're anchors to each other because (so far) they're some of the very few people who haven't succumbed to Lottie's influence, and Travis was explicitly made a victim of their new culty ways. I want to know who killed him and especially what Nat was right about. Like couldn't you have been less shadowy in your cryptic note... Also since men don't matter they are DEFINITELY killing coach next since he's another "anchor" to the old world

Misty is great I love her ❣️ full disclosure before watching the TV show and based on gif sets on here I thought they were in love. I have not abandoned the idea of Misty being in love with Natalie yet. There's so much I want to know about Misty... I don't think she's invested in the cult anymore. But I do think she could be a serial killer. Just for a laff

🐝🐝🐝

[riewritten]

05 BIRD IN A CAGE

DUSK IN THE BRIGHTEST | chapter directory

erwin smith/fem!reader, erwin smith/you | slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff & smut, mutual pining, pining erwin smith, canon AU, college/univ AU, professor erwin smith, commander erwin smith, non-linear narrative, manga spoilers

Trigger warning: canon-typical violence, graphic description, explicit sexual content, suicidal thoughts, mental health issues, trauma, implied/referenced sexual harassment, implied/referenced abuse, attempted murder, overdosing

Plot: It was always the nightmares, really. Entrapped with walls, human-eating giants, fighting through metal strings and swords – utterly violent, dreary, recurrent. But behind the blurry faces was a man with menacing blue eyes and vivid features; eventually appearing before you as your new reputable professor, Erwin Smith. Since then, the disaster had slipped beyond your subconscious. AO3

art cedits to miico.jpg from ig! pls check them out they’re one of the greatest AOT fan artists on IG! (i’m a sucker for their animations AAAHH)

You woke up with a throbbing head and just like a usual drunkard, you barely remembered everything aside from the fact that you want to disappear, too nervous for Erwin Smith, and dead drunk. Fortunately, the nighttime troubles are mild enough that crying with a bad hangover won't be necessary. It was gloomy but comforting, to say the least. The thought of Squad Leader Erwin not being a full-on scary bastard slightly eased your worries at the Erwin you have to face here. Furthermore, you faintly recalled an occurrence of him asking for repentance but you can't connect it to the lucid one. Nonetheless, it's a nice thing to imagine.

Your heart dropped in utter surprise when the door banged open and naked Isabel stood in her glory with wet hair. The towel that's supposed to cover herself is wrapped on her neck instead.

"Good fucking morning!" She shouted and you hissed in hangover pain. You threw a pillow at her instead of shouting back.

"All this for ensuring you end up home safely after being splattered on the floor!" She huffed and picked the pillow up. You looked at her in complete disbelief.

"What happened?" You exclaimed. "No, wait, never mind that. Put on clothes first. Please." She followed suit, completely thrilled to turn you into complete shame.

"So! We heard you wailing like a fucker outside, and when we rushed to you you're already knocked unconscious!" She beamed as if that was a very happy thing to know. "Make sure to apologize to Erwin though, you interrupted his smoke and made him carry you all the way here."

"Oh my god! What the fuck have I done?" Nothing but horrifying things, probably.

"Don't know. We just found him holding you from splattering on the ground completely. Saw his lighter and cig on the floor. What a waste, I thought. It seemed like the poor man caught you up even before lighting his smoke." You screamed in shame as you imagined what she said. There's no way you could recall something like that even if you pushed your brain to its fullest potential. Isabel seemed to be proud of your reaction so she clicked her tongue to say more. "So things happened. Mom picked your fucked up body, Levi glowered at Erwin because he thought Erwin did you badly—like punching you dead or something. Don't know. I also thought he knocked you out into silence because you're noisy, but that man's too gentle to do that." Then she wiggled towards you. "But I'm sure you'd get elated when I tell you my brother went like 'What have you done?', something like that to him! He looked so concerned for you! You're gushing, aren't you? You're all over Levi, aren't you!" You continued screeching in your pillow, too caught up to even clarify you stopped liking Levi a long time ago.

And oh god have mercy, she's not done speaking.

"Then instead of just letting us go home after a tiring day, you made Erwin drive here with me and Levi. But don't you worry, we ensured you're tucked in nicely." She chuckled devilishly. "When my brother said your mother doesn't seem to be coming home anytime soon— well it's three in the morning after all— they told me to sleep with you! So here I am, your guardian and savior. Kiss my foot while you're at it." She flashed it on you.

"Then why didn't you bring me to your place instead! That would save everyone from so much bother!"

"Well, we thought your mom would be home! She's not in our house after all!"

"Oh my god." You sat and curled up on your knees. Never mind the relatively better dream, never mind the hangover. You just want to bury yourself down the ground.

"Oh, don't be so sad! You have no idea how amused we are seeing you that wasted. You finally let your guard down after a long time of being tensed as fuck! I think the last time I remember you causing a commotion was in high school."

"You are the one who caused that ruckus back then. And bad for you, you didn't see me faint on my first day at Erwin's class." You howled. 

"What! God, I should've gone to college. Can't believe I missed something like that!"

You shot her a glare. "You're fucking terrible. Get out of here."

"I’m joking! It's not like I can enter a uni like that, fucking smart ass!" She huffed and slapped your back. You just groaned weakly on the pillow in pain. "So what happened? Why did you faint? Were you even getting enough sleep? Did someone catch you when you fell? Let me take a look at your head." She grabbed and examined it carefully.

"No, I didn't bang my head. Historia's there when I fainted." And so you told her everything, including the thing about Erwin. You clarified that she doesn't need to believe you and that you just wanted to let it out. Much to your surprise, she really did believe you easily.

"Well, you're not the type to lie on something so serious. And I believe in spooky shit, it would be strange of me to not believe you." She flashed a thumbs up and a grin. "But we've known Erwin since Levi's college days. They both went to the same uni abroad. You must've seen him somewhere with us." You shook your head.

"I heard Erwin's a prominent writer, maybe you saw him in a magazine by coincidence before dreaming 'bout him." She prompted again.

"I don't read magazines and I never knew he's famous until you told me so. I took the major out of my will so I don't have many writers to look up either."

"That's weird. What does the Erwin in your dreams look like?"

"Horrifying, ruthless, cold, but in my recent dream, he's gentle. I think all my life I remember him as my commander, but when my dreams became vivid and subsequent he was just a squad leader. It's nothing important but the gist of his character is some dominant bastard."

"That's way too far from his actual attitude. He's very gentle and reliable. Knows a lot of things and is heavily aware of his surroundings. How do I describe him…" Isabel mused. "Ah! I heard we're just using ten percent of our brain but he uses his in a hundred percent! Believe me!"

"He's that great?" You lamented. Isabel's overreacting but it might not be far from the truth.

"He is! Not as great as Levi, but great enough to be parred with him! And now that I think of it, he would certainly look good as a leader. When I first saw him he really had a very intimidating vibe. But maybe that's just because he's huge. He could easily squish you into a pulp if he wants to."

"I don't think he'd ever want to squish me like a pulp."

"Don't you want to, though? He's hot!"

Your phone alarm went on loudly and realized you must be preparing for your afternoon classes by now. Also, this kind of talk with Isabel would lead to nothing but disaster. "I have a class with him today. Kill me."

"Yeah, after you eat. To die with your stomach full is to die without regrets." She jumped out of the bed to ready herself as well.

Upon your jittery arrival at the cafe, you immediately noticed Historia waving from her seat with her laptop open. Isabel scowled at her presence. "Don't go to her. Eat with me instead."

"I've had enough of you being a naked crackhead. Now stop mixing me in whatever beef you’ve had with people."

"I'm done with that beef. I just started to dislike her all over again when I discovered Furlan got a crush on her."

"I don't have the time to tolerate your brother complex as well."

"No! It's just much better when it's you who Furlan likes. Gives me more security 'cause I know you're a good girl."

"She's a good girl. She just got a girlfriend so Furlan doesn't stand a chance." When you turned to her, you laughed and ruffled her hair. "And you're not a kid anymore. Stop pouting like that."

"I know and I don't care, but she's certainly not a good girl." Isabel puffed and stomped towards where Furlan was because she knew you'd go to Historia nonetheless.

"Hey, I brought what you asked of me. Sit down.” She faked a cough and channeled her low man voice. "So, what I'll be reporting today is Mr. Erwin Smith's background." Then grinned playfully afterward. You shot her a dead stare in repulsion. She seemed to be in an awfully good mood today. "He may not be too famous here, but he's insanely prominent in some countries. He's known to go to lots of places all over the world as if it's his calling in life. Had many books published under his name, from literary pieces to academic journals. Oh my god, he's a big-time in your field. No wonder he got accepted to teach in our uni so fast. Why don't you know him?"

"I would if I was passionate enough." You sighed awfully and slouched your head on the table, very much contrary to Historia's glimmer. "When he's this good then I won't be able to avoid him for the rest of my life. I shouldn't have pursued writing at all."

"No sulking yet, I'm not done with my report." She tapped on your head continuously until you raised it again. She turned her laptop on you. "Look at this website. He got all his creative pieces in here. From personal drabbles, book promotions, his credentials, even." You browsed all the books under his name and indeed, the covers are awfully familiar. You're certain you saw Levi reading some of it.

"Now, the first piece that made him boom in the market was a short story called "A Bird in a Cage". It was published in an anthology featuring five other authors. The title sounds as angsty as your dream so I tried my best to look for a free PDF but it seems like we really need to buy it." You just nodded away and so she continued. "I browsed the reviews and it seems like a simple short story that's easy to read, something to be put on high school Literature books or something. It's about a civilization stuck on an island with no other neighbor lands, only the sea around them."

There it is. The terrifying reminder again.

A civilization unaware of everything outside them, trapped in a small land with an imminent threat to life— there's no way such similarity is coincidental. The thought of Erwin Smith having the same thing as yours made your blood run cold. You'd rather kill yourself, seriously, than see any possibility of that world being real in any way. It can't be real. You ran away from it all your life. It won't be fair to have it slapped on your face now.

"Would you like me to buy the book?" Historia asked as the thrill in her voice completely diminished. If ever this is the worst-case scenario and you'd be able to have answers worth all the years of your life with just this book and Erwin Smith himself, you won't be able to take it just yet. Sounds resonated in your ear again; stomps of titans, horrifying screams, your heart racing as loud as your innate willto survive, and your family being messier than it already is. You shook your head no to answer her question. No running thoughts but the danger that you'd be crushed by a monstrous titan the time you set foot outside this cafe.

It took a while until Historia's voice and presence came back to you and now she's gripping your hand tightly. "You're not in danger, okay? You'll be with me when you see him later, and I am your reminder that things are normal. This isn't the world in your nightmare." She ran her thumb on your hands in circular motions.

You let out a sad laugh in concurrence. "I just thought I'd rather see this occurrence as a hallucination or pure coincidence. I don't think I could ever ready myself to think otherwise."

"Then don't. You really don't need to have answers to everything. If this is what would make you go on and survive then so be it. It's not like we'll go away with whatever choice you'd make."

"Right. I apologize. This isn't supposed to be heavy."

"I'm not the one to decide whether it's heavy or not. If this feels like too much for you then it really is heavy." Historia replied firmly then just urged you to finish your food quick.

Indeed, having someone to accompany you whenever you cross paths with him is helpful. However, this is just the first session of his class and you have two more before you could drop it. You have to get accustomed to his presence one way or another because the last thing you want to become is someone utterly reliant on others. You've burdened them enough. You thought about anxiety meds but it can only do so much. There has to be a change in this situation so you can move forward.

Well, there really is a way to change this situation. I'm just too afraid to take it because it could do more harm than good.

You were completely a statue the time he entered. Not even a grip on the pen nor a glance away from the whiteboard was granted by your own body. When the lesson's over and you were grouped into six, the students moving all around finally eased the tension in your muscles.

"How did we end up with this subject?" Ymir lamented. "It's very heavy on requirements and each activity takes a lot of time to finish. It's all fucking writing."

"Because it's a writing subject. I can't believe you enlisted this when you don't even have the slightest idea how to write." Historia scoffed.

"I thought it'd be easy as fuck, and I just want to be in the same class as you. Shouldn't have done that." 

"That said…" Armin started in his usual shy voice. "How did you guys end up taking this subject? Except for those who were required to take it like us." He pointed at you.

"It's also required for me." Historia raised her hand slightly.

"You forgot about it?" Eren frowned at Armin. "When you discovered that this subject could be taken by students in any degree program, you begged us to do it so we could be classmates. You have no idea how much I regret it now."

"Armin bribed me with food," Mikasa replied flatly, and so you realized this would be a hard one— having group mates with utter disinterest in the course.

At first, it dismayed you that this group will be permanent until the end of the semester especially because most of the heavy activities aren’t graded individually. But then again, it’s not like you’ll pursue this subject at all. Despite feeling bad at Armin who’d be left behind by then, you have no luxury to mind other people when Erwin’s involved.

The activity somehow distracted you from being bothered by it altogether but when your eyes landed in the direction in front of you, Erwin was standing nearby. He’s completely immersed in the paper he’s been holding and you were too dumbed to look away. Perhaps it was your mind trying to grasp how different this man is to prove that the nightmares are just mere nightmares. 

His attention stopped on the paper and as he looked around again, he caught your eye. He didn’t hesitate to reciprocate the gesture, his look was asking, even, for you to speak your concerns. Apart from it was the sense of familiarity because the time your face changed into dullness and dread, he seemed to know the reason why and how to respond to it— gentle and reassuring.

No way he’s the same man— but wait. He might be. Actually, no. He can’t be.

Your head rang painfully again. You shut your eyes tight and held on your temples.

"Are you okay?" Historia inquired.

"No." You looked down the ground. "If he won’t let me drop him I’ll drop the whole college. I'll go with Isabel and forget all my responsibilities in life."

"Hey, look at me." And you did. "I'm real, right? Not with the military, not even with the military leader. Just here in the classroom, pretending to be a good girl." She flashed a wide grin.

You snorted at that. "You really are good at pretending to be one." But then again, for some reason, you could still associate that line in the world of your nightmares. Why is that?

"Yeah, I lived my life like that."

Despite his stare that’s still noticeable from your peripheral, you repeated Historia’s remark: not in the barracks, not threatened to be eaten alive, not scared shitless of your squad leader, not even with disgusting titans. You’re in the classroom, trying to survive college despite being left behind, and this man is your professor— a prominent writer, and a man who seems to like winning arguments a lot.

When the class was concluded and the number of students decreased, you’re still glued to your seat for reasons unknown. Are you about to ask him about your life? Or just apologize? He carried you twice now, so much for expressing your disdain for his presence every single time. Then your ponders shifted into scrutinizing his features, his long sleeve polo shirt tightly clasped on his body (if you’re not scared of him you’ll be amazed at how perfectly chiseled it is), the trivial features of his face such as eyebrows curling as he remained indulged with whatever he’s reading, his thin silver glasses, and— oh no. Now he’s looking.

"Here you are. How are you feeling?"

"I'm sorry for causing you inconvenience last night. I was very irresponsible and rash for drinking that much and ending up on the ground.”

“At least I saw you. It was past midnight when I noticed you outside. Completely drunk.” Indeed, how shameful. Now do me a favor and kill me. "It's okay, though. We're able to ensure your safety and that's what's important." He added.

"No. Isabel told me it was three in the morning and we have classes. It must've disrupted your rest a lot."

"I don’t mind. Just don't drink like that again when you're not with Levi's family. You won't be safe by then. Do you have any recollection of yesterday?"

"I remember everything before being dead drunk. I was nervous and tensed, and I felt bad for not being able to jive with the happy energy. But I don't remember myself going outside. Isabel said they heard me crying and by the time they went out, I'm already being held by you. Again, I apologize for my recklessness."

Erwin pondered for a while before speaking again. "You seem to be having a very rough time so I'm more than glad to help."

“It came to me that you carried me for two times now. That must be extremely inconvenient.” You flatly blurted out.

He held back a smile, perhaps a sneer. “Again, I don’t mind.”

“You should.” And realize this whole ordeal, and drop me. If not from this class then to my death.

“Well, do you mind? I apologize then.” He sounded shy and apologetic, but he’s not. He’s about to laugh. Fuck. He’s holding a damn laugh. “Do you perhaps prefer anyone else to carry you instead? I might not be there the next time it happens but I’ll try to inform everyone of your preference nonetheless.” And now he’s trying to joke around.

Now you don’t feel scared. You’re completely embarrassed instead. When you pursed your lips tight and furrowed your brows in shame, he stifled a laugh. “I’m kidding. Sorry. It must’ve been hard for you, but don’t beat yourself up for it.”

Pointing it out makes it even worse. “No, I’m rather thankful about it.” You forced a lie.

“That so?” His smile widened a bit. He knows it’s a lie. “If you’re thankful then might as well tell me how’s your first session in my class.”

You’re screaming in your mind, and it’s getting evident with the flush creeping up your face. Still, you responded. "It's no denying that the requirements are heavy and it would really make me learn a lot of things. But I don't think I could make up for all of it considering my condition."

"That's why we have extra sessions, so I could make sure you're keeping up with the pace that suits you. That said, could you tell me what time you're available so we–"

"Actually!" You stood up and cut him off abruptly. "I'll try harder to compensate so extra sessions wouldn't be necessary."

"You really don't need to pressure yourself like tha–"

“Ah, my stomach hurts. Might be the hangover.” You faked the pain with a weak mumble. He's about to laugh again. A car throwing you off the road would be less tormenting. “Thank you so much for your consideration. I’ll try to compensate for it somehow.” Then turned your back on him to hurriedly leave the room.

"Wait, you dropped something–" Erwin pointed out but you ignored his remark. Whatever that is, nothing’s more important than saving your grace and shambling mind.

previous chapter | next chapter

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[herstarburststories]

you and me and the devil makes three.

Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader, Demon!Dean Winchester x reader, past Lisa x Dean

Summary: Dean is a demon, he will take whatever he wants.

A/N: This got darker than I expected. I wanna make it clear I don't condone or engage with Dean's acts on this. This is my submission for @jawritter 's Make Me Cry Challenge. Congrats, honey! Hope you like it. Dividers by talesmanic and gif credit here

Prompt: I guess I should have been more like her.

Warnings: non consensual kissing, language, UNHEALTHY BEHAVIOR, non con (kissing and touching but no sex), dirty talk

Dean Winchester was a dreamer.

In the rawest way of the word, the meaning in the dust-collecting dictionaries and not the idealistic form. His eyelids shut close and, just like magic, Dean’s head was as haunted as the home he swore he’d never come back to in Kansas. The ghosts of the past, not ever so very friendly, coming to greet him at least three times per week. Sometimes they were happy films he could never starre in real life, his mom singing or a picnic with a lover saying that they needed to hurry up to get their kid at the baseball. The nightmares were sleepy visions of flesh and blood, mostly about his time underneath, Sam hurting, or his father spilling out his worst fears at his face. 

Maybe it was how the eldest Winchester’s brain compensated for the lack of bedtime tales and docile affairs growing up. The own way that his brittle soul discovered and molded not to let him collapse, or to always keep him on red alert. 

Good and bad deals are mostly a matter of which side you are betting your money on, really.

Because yeah, Dean did wake up feeling like he had shut his forest eyes briefly for twenty minutes instead of hours when he dreamed, but he also had never spent so long trapped in a better place. The green eyed hunter didn’t know which one was worse: the good dreams or the horrific ones. After all, he had went through all the atrocity and made it out alive, but the engulfed craving for light-hearted scenarios was suffocating. The hunter could never have it all. Trust him, he tried. Then, which is more agonizing: to have everything you ever wanted for a couple hours and have every scrap of it taken from you, or to undergo the calamity that accompanied your breaking point? 

Dean didn’t know, he didn’t even know what to tell Sam when he wondered what his brother had dreamt about to wake up sweating and screaming, all the light and stupid apple pie desires and the sharp brutality crawling out of the back of his mind. He made a joke, Megan Fox really liked knives, man. He kept it in, shoved down a good amount of alcohol, and mocked the worry of doing the lawn. Ready for another day. 

But now he was a demon, and apparently whatever he was made of - sulfur, cruelty, and black eyes under garden ones - wasn't worthy quiet reliefs in the middle of the night, or even frightening figments of memory. He became his worst dreams and all the dreams slipped beyond his reaches because of that. Demons, those unholy creatures, didn’t get the human peculiarities. You know what? Fine by him.

Who needed dreams when you don't need sleep, anyway? Even better: who needed dreams when you don't care about what you gotta do to put your greedy hands on the prize you had been eyeing for years? 

Dean Winchester was finally free. Free for the first time since he was a four years little boy who watched his mother burning with a terrorized expression, ironically mimicking the one Mary wore on the ceiling. His dad’s shouting for him to grab Sammy and run, take your little brother and run, echoing through years and years. There was never time for Dean, for his grief or his questions or whatever the child frozen in time under his rib cage could come up with. They said, stupid psychologists with their fancy degrees and malicious bartenders with a unfriendly grun under the counter who learned a little too much, everybody said that when someone was so traumatized as a kid, that person would tend to get frozen at that age. Therefore, how tremendously alleviating was to kill any reminiscing emotion of the whiny child he used to be. 

The kind of freedom that no traveler longed for; when one’s ruined and damaged enough not to care, and just take and take and take like hunger itself. Dean was an evil thing now, what else could he do but act on the figments of the worst intentions?

And feel so fucking good when doing that. 

‘’Where do you think he's going?’’ Your eyes raked over the street, darting between the asphalt under Baby’s wheels and Sam’s weary features.

‘’I don't know.’’ He sighed, attempting to organize his thoughts. Even as a demon, his brother wouldn’t just run miles and miles away by himself for no apparent reason. There had to be something you and Sam were missing out, some unseen clue or a hidden meaning. ‘’What the localizator says?’’

At least you had managed to put a tracker in his boots during your last encounter. Whatever Dean was thinking of starting there, you and Sam wouldn’t let him.

‘’Still Cicero, Indiana.’’ You sighed. Sammy furrowed his eyebrows, a long forgotten memory rising. ‘’What?’’

‘’We had a case there once years ago.’’ He explained, opting not to elaborate. Your and Dean’s relationship was troubled enough with his new self. Sam didn’t want to blow it up completely. His brother would need you once he came back to himself. The look on your face, though, reported how you weren’t buying his cheap excuses. The long haired hunter sighed. ‘’Did Dean ever tell you about that?’’

‘’No.’’

He stepped on the accelerator.

To find the woman was excruciatingly easy. The freckled demon couldn't believe he opened his computer many times and gave up before today. He glanced through the glass window and there she was, standing in all her glory with a body that seemed to forget how to grow old. Her tan skin still glowing, as appetizing as ever. Brown eyes shining so bright, tiny hands that always seemed to know where he wanted to be touched. She was laughing like there was no tomorrow, holding a glass of wine with one hand and her cellphone with the other, while her dark hair was falling so perfectly over her shoulder, like waves against the rocks in the sea.

Dean can’t wait to smell her again, to taste her, to prove her. His fingers were tingling, begging to touch what was his as he hopped off the car, walking towards the porch. He had been gone for a long time, but now he was back. 

He will destroy that quintessential, sequin woman so good.

The Winchester buckled in front of the white door, graced with the sound of the female giggle. Thin walls, he thought, those will be useful to make sure the neighbors know who’s back home. Her steps on the wood floor growing closer and closer as he heard a goodbye, probably aimed at whoever she was on the phone with. It was almost like the caramel skinned woman knew that whoever was on her doorstep wasn’t gonna be a hustled visitor. Or so the demon’s arranged mind said.

‘’Hey, Lis.’’ Dean’s voice lacked any cherishment as she opened the door, who would know that the absence of a soul wouldn't be gelid, just dry? As for her, Lisa’s face was drained of love. For all she was aware of, he was a stranger who knew her name. The male let out a chuckle empty of joy. She really didn’t remember, huh? ‘’Whoa. Cass really fucked up your head, huh? At least he did one thing right.’’

‘’Excuse me?’’ The man with dirty blonde hair and perfect teeth smelled like alcohol. She wasn’t having any of this tonight. ‘’Listen, I don’t know who you are and--’’

‘’Don’t worry.’’ He tranquilized her, although the lopsided grin on his lips held anything but good intentions. ‘’I’ll make you remember. I have a spell. You won’t believe how much you missed me.’’

The mocking laugh that left her lips utterly aggravated him. ‘’I don’t know you. Please leave or I’ll call the police.’’

Dean didn’t need a crowd for that part, a bratty woman in need of a firm hand should get a particular lesson. 

‘’You always liked a little cat and mouse.’’

Speaking of, the demon pushed the door wide open without any effort. Lisa jumped at the sudden move, every instinct inside her deciding that man was a threat and not some harmless wasted guy. Her body was quickly erect, thinking about ways to run and get help, but Dean swiftly pushed her to him and kicked the door closed-- her small figure collided to his chest.

Human savagery was cut in urban ways, molded to civilize the animalistic instincts. Imagine meat. A dead animal on a silver plate, and we couldn’t wait to chew every inch of it. We couldn’t wait to eat it, put that dead thing inside us and hope it’ll be enough to control the predatory hungry. Humans will always be animals, but so will be their rests that constructed the demons. 

Dean may not be a hunter anymore, but he’s still a predator who can't wait to taste his prey. He could small it, the fear in Lisa’s sweat making his mouth water. How much she tried to fight against him and scream other names when his was the only one he wanted her to need tonight. The resistance of a poor human barely made the monster shiver.

He closed his hands around her arms, throwing her against the wall like someone tossed an old toy away. There was no space for delicaly. In that moment, Dean Winchester was a tiger, a lion, the big bad wolf attacking the omega. Lis winced, her back hurting as her fibers. She couldn’t believe this was happening, that man was about to do something so terrible and disgusting to her in her own house, the place she was supposed to feel warm and safe. Why did he seem to know her? Why did he say she was gonna remember? Was he crazy, hallucinating, or drugged? Why was he so satisfied with how frightened her tiny body looked? How could she use all that information to somehow push him away?

‘’Let me go!’’ She demanded, her legs kicking the demon with ferocity. ‘’What’s wrong with you? LET ME GO NOW!’’

The brunette’s skilled body moved itself desperately, and the act of resistance only brought a hysterical laugh out of Dean. The wrong kind of goosebumps washed her skin, she had to run away for her life. This man was mad.

‘’FIRE! FIRE!’’ Lisa started to scream. Well-aware that people were most likely to come around and help a woman screaming if she said fire. ‘’THERE’S A FIRE. SOMEONE HELP ME!’’

One of his hands went to her neck, wrapping his fingers around it to shut her up. That was rubbing him off the wrong way. Lisa Braeden used to beg for his touch, how dared her not to want him anymore? Now that he was better, stronger, and thicker.

The brown eyed girl went quiet, probably scared by his brutal behavior. Dean smiled, a blood stained grin that carried mischief and pervertment. He licked the tears savoring the salty horror coming from her. Just like the day he was a vampire who almost gave in to drinking every drop of her luptuos blood. She may not remember but he did and he couldn't wait to get inside her, those tight walls squeezing his hard cock.

‘’You’re gonna do as I say, Lis. And I won't hurt you… Much.’’ He risped, crooked nose stroking her wet cheek. She whined. ‘’Don’t worry, honey. You loved it. Bet you’ll scream so much once I fuck you good.’’

‘’Please, don’t do it.’’ She begged as he coaxed his body against his. That man was stronger than her, she had no other choice but to plead to his human side. If only she knew.

‘’Begging already?’’ Dean lifted his head, smirking at her. Lisa just wanted to cry and close her eyes until everything was done. How could someone do that? ‘’I told you, don’t worry. I’m gonna make a lil’ spell that will give your memories back and you’ll remember everything. And then we’re gonna have so much fun, Lis.’’

His last murmur was finished with a kiss. A harsh, ruthless kiss. Actually, she wasn’t even sure if she could call it a kiss; teeth against each other, his vicious mouth pressed to her weakened lips, his tongue invading her like a robber and showing an unrequited dominance.

‘’Dean!’’ Your voice resonated stridently, louder than the door Sam had stormed open. You couldn’t believe what your eyes witnessed. ‘’Stop it!’’

Dean groaned, as if you and Sam were stepping on his territory. He simply turned his head to you two, not pulling away from Lisa. You couldn’t see her face, your boyfriend’s large shoulder and tall body covering her up. His eyes were still green, which set the scene in an even more atrocious light. 

Your thoughts were racing. How could he come to her, crave her so badly that he drove away miles and miles as a demon? He was supposed not to feel a thing. You prepared yourself for a cold man, not an obsessive one. Apparently, a heart hidden under the black smoke. Choose if it's a gift or Pandora's box. Sam told you their history. Of course he would want that and not you. Dean never left Lisa because he fell out of love for her, he was ripped out from her life. You were so pissed at yourself; how could you picture playing the woman in his veins? How stupid were you? He may be a demon guided by wants and not emotions, but what was love but an amount of outrageous desires laced up with some pretty words and flavored with dependency?

‘’Y/N and Sammy--’’

Love was the wrong word here. Anyway. Go head and unwrap it.

‘’Please help me!’’ Lisa’s voice came to life once more through her quiet cry. Dean hardened the hold around her throat, making her cough a little.

Suddenly, your body is frozen. That, whatever that is, whatever he’s doing to Lisa. It wasn’t love. She didn’t want it. When his frame moved to face you and Sam, you caught a glimpse of her face. She was petrified, her delicate features contorted in wrath and fear and beg for help.

‘’Quiet.’’ Dean howled, glancing at her rapidly before his eyes fell on you and Sam again. ‘’You two are such killjoys. I told you to let me go.’’

You couldn’t believe what you were witnessing. You wanted to puke your guts out.

‘’And what? Kill your ex? Or do something even worse to her?’’ You elicited with disgust.

‘’She’ll come around eventually. Just playing hard to get. You know how frisky women are.’’ The corner of his lips curved into a barbaric grim, one of his hands touching Lisa’s cheek. The victim winced at the touch. ‘’Besides, I’m not just gonna take her. I’ll make her remember and she’ll want me.’’ He shrugged, unbothered by the horrified looks of everyone in the room. ‘’Are you really worried about Lis, Y/N? Or are you just jealous that I didn’t go for you?’’

‘’Enough, Dean.’’ Sam groaned, holding the gun up. It felt oily. ‘’Let her go. And come with us.’’

The demon tossed the brunette away with a simple sleight of hand, pulling his sleeves up with a marred beam. His eyes switched from starry green to black, showing his true facette. It was a peculiar relief. It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Dean. It wasn’t Dean.

Yet, Dean’s gruff voice said in a twisted playful tone:

‘’Come get me, Sammy.’’

Dean Winchester was cured. For most people, to heal is to let go or to learn with things. In the doctor’s case, healing is leaving a bruise to cover up a wound. Everyone believed the war started and ended, and that was it. But when something so ravaging is gone, you gotta deal with the trauma.

He was a trauma. Cured from a sickness, drowning in sorrow and waves of woe. All the worst things Dean ever did, he knew now, weren’t to himself or to the monster he so proudly killed. His unspoken acts were against the people he cared about.

The hunter never thought his hands, his bruised and tough hands could ever hurt Lis. The woman who was his lifeline when Sam died, who allowed him to be a father and live in his dreamland of suburban life. All she ever did was to love him, and what did she get for it?

He was disgusted with himself. What almost did to her was enough to hunt him and make him sure he was going back to hell, very deserving this time. Threating to do that to a woman, and enjoy it… Dean couldn’t bear driving into memories. He was selfishly glad he didn’t remember about that, only Sam’s explanation was enough: he went to Lisa, he kissed her without her consent, and Sam and you stopped him going any further. Would his unscrupulous, demon self go ahead? He was too scared to wonder, even though his brother said that he apparently had a spell to make Lis remember and wasn’t planning on just taking her. A forced kiss was disgusting enough. He just wished Sam had put a bullet in his black eyes right there.

You walked in the bathroom that you once shared with the eldest Winchester

She was everything he ever wanted, all the suburban dreams and acceptance of hunter reality without being in it. Lisa loved him completely and you could only love him sideways-- you never wanted to be a mom, or to have a family or live in a suburb. Those were valid goals, just not yours. You thought you and Dean were on the same page about it, but this other side, not only the pervert demon but the domestic man, hadn’t been shown to you until a couple days ago. Sam had cured his brother, his dirty nature washed away with holy water, but you couldn’t help the bruises that came from the dog days. Lisa had her memory erased by Cass again, you didn’t have the same unfair luxury.

‘’Dean.’’ You said, making him look up at you. Bags under his eyes and wrinkles more evident than ever. ‘’We need to talk.’’

He sighed and wiped his face. ‘’Y/N, I don’t want to talk right now.’’

‘’You never do.’’ You scoffed, gaining an incredulous glance from him. ‘’I know that what happened was disgusting and sick and the worst thing you could ever do, but we need to talk.’’

He took a deep breath. ‘’What do you wanna talk about?’’

‘’You went to her.’’ You stated as a lawyer in front of a jury. Dean furrowed.

‘’What?’’

‘’Lisa. You went to her.’’ When the arrow hit someone so damaged, it was like an animal with his teeth there that wouldn't let go. Yeah, his human soul wasn't the same brittle glass as before but it lingered in his demon self in the shape of delusion, and it was distorted by whatever he was made of, violence and darkness, and turned into something disgusting. ‘’You love her.’’

‘’Love?’’ The word burned his tongue, Dean didn’t think he had the right to ever use it again. ‘’I was a demon, Y/N. I didn’t love or feel anything. What I did--’’

‘’You didn’t do anything.’’ You interrupted, loyal as a soldier.

‘’I forced a kiss on her and wanted to bring her memories back to have sex with her. That’s disgusting and I did half of that.’’ He pointed out aggitadly, plump lips moving fast and voice deeper. ‘’It wasn’t love. Leaving her years back was love.’’

You didn’t miss how Dean didn’t even dare to say her name. ‘’So you don’t think about her? Not even once?’’

He scoffed humourless. ‘’Are you kidding me?’’

‘’I guess I should have been more like her.’’ You hugged yourself, glancing at the wall. You didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not again, not for another woman. That wasn’t even your cicatrix to ache. 

‘’Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about?’’ The fully green eyed man raised to his feet, glancing at you with disbelief. He couldn’t face how messed up it was. ‘’I can’t believe you are jealous of what happened. I thought I was the broken one here.’’

‘’I’m not her.’’ You two shared it, the glance that only two women who were hurt by the same man could. You both understood that when he got inside you, it was like the syringe in an eutanasia. Once you were happy because you loved him, now you were scared and not so sure this was what you wanted. ‘’I’m not her and you knew it. When you became just instincts and selfish and did whatever you wanted, you didn’t come to me. You came to her.’’

‘’I hurt her.’’

The next words fly out of your mouth, as weak and totaled as you felt: ‘’Why didn’t you hurt me?’’

‘’This is the most unhealthy shit we ever went through.’’ Dean’s right. You have her expression mesmerized on your brain. Dean was the man on top of her, teaching her how to hate. How to fear. You can’t trust yourself. ‘’I can’t believe you.’’

‘’Neither can I.’’ You were so sick. How ravaged and annihilated one had to be to wish to be a demon's object of obsession? To get jealous that another woman almost died in the arms of a beast that cried his blood out once he came back to being a man and saw what he had done? ‘’I hate it. I hate feeling like this. I was there and I saw how scared of you she was, how all she wanted was to push you away and run because she was so disgusted--’’

‘’Stop.’’ He groaned, but it came out more like a whine than anything. ‘’It wasn’t me. I would never hurt Lis. I would never force her to do anything! I--’’

You gave him a sad smile. ‘’You love her.’’

‘’I love you.’’ Dean approached you, fumbling in despair to fix yet another thing his hands destroyed. If Rome was built in ruins, he was a kingdom. You pulled away before his tough hands landed on you.

‘’But you love her too.’’ The hunter stopped on his spot, unable to answer. ‘’I ruined myself for you, Dean. I can’t-- I won’t do that again. You are right. This is unhealthy. The fact that you’ve been pining for her for so long, pushing down those feelings to the point they are twisted into something so cruel and disgusting. You need help.’’ What kind of ugly you have to have inside you for a monster to love you? And, even worse, what kind of sickness you have trapped, written in your blood to want it to be spilled out in his name? ‘’You really are venom. If this is how you love, it’s scary as fuck.’’ When you loved a broken man, you were never sure if his shattered pieces would glisten or cut your hand once the light came in. Here’s your answer. His parts crawled inside you through pulled up scars, scraping your insides to make into ruins, but you never liked Rome much. You had to be better than that. ‘’Goodbye, Dean.’’

He couldn’t bring himself to go after your steps.

Once again, it’s the kind of freedom no traveler wants. When you lost it all and didn't have any person or place to cling to, when you had to leave because you were becoming the girl you swore you’d never leave, when you walked away willingly without a map.

Still, it was all you had. You’d make a good use of it. You’d be okay. No more ugly emotions or sentiments that made you unrecognizable. No more knives that cut both ways, or situations so complicated you weren’t sure where your morals could rely on.

You’d be okay, healthy, and happy.

You’d be okay.

Comment & reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my masterlist ♡ Tags in reblog!

[yostresswritinggirl]

Where I Can't Follow

Vibe for sad

Icarus is flying too close to the sun. And his wings may not melt, but this time it can break. Where the wind takes him will not be enough.

Pairings -> Venti x Reader?

Word Count -> 1416

Themes -> Sad hours, Abandonment Issues, ACTUAL short fic

Series -> #Sojourner Specials (600 Followers Event)

Warnings -> I seem to only know how to hurt Venti

"Can you tell me more about Celestia?" The said island of where ancients dwelled passes over past the moon as it was noticed and mentioned.

A strum. "The land of the divine?" A nod. "Why, it's a land of bland wine!"

A chorus of their laughters passes over as Celestia once again departs from the skies of Mond.

"Come now, Venti, tell me more!" A hum.

And his demeanor changes when his teal eyes bore on yours, a smile so soft and small, almost unnatural. "Celestia takes more than what we offer, and it is those that it takes which I loathe for."

Do not praise Celestia, for one day it shall take you away too.

Venti had yearned freedom for another. And you remember this tale much more vividly than the others. About the bard, who fought valantly for freedom.

When he sings to you, despite the fact that you had lived thosands of years past the deceased you feel the remnants of the pioneer, like the enigma the Anemo Archon is that stands before you.

You've heard the tales of the bard while by the hands of the Archon's statue and he speaks fondly of him, and ever since then Venti never speaks about him beyond that area. The bard's name or tale seems like a sacred tale that can only be spoken in that divine place. When you sit next to him and watch as his eyes distantly lingers at a land far away from reach, you realized that the direction he faces was where the ruins of the old city lays.

"He was my first friend." You also notice that beyond his mantra that the rhymes loosen up, disappear in the winds when you two sit there. As if he was stripped bare of what he made himself to be. That it was not the image of the bard that he has reincarnated himself to was speaking but the sprite from the war that only wishes to dance with the thousand winds under the symphony of a human's lyre.

"But you're here now! Just like the good old times! At least now, there's nothing that can kill you."

You give him a deadpan at the humor that was not at all. Even if he makes light of the situation you knew he was still aching and trembling inside, his resolve shedding the more he thinks. The more he remembers.

The word death was a touchy subject for him despite his immortality, and he can never finish his tale despite the many times he recited the whole story to you. Why would he detest it? After all it was his sacrifice that has given thousand of years of freedom for the populace. You want to be a hero? Then you'll have to die like one.

Another icon he speaks of so fondly was that of Venessa, the flame-touched knight that became the exemplar of freedom as its hero. When he had awoken to the new age of aristocracy, it was their chance meeting that had made him aware of the changes he dreaded.

Solitude and 500 years away from Mondstadt and its people, to grow on their own without the issue of divine intervention was his recipe for the exercise of freedom. But they turned unhinged and he once again had to intervene to revert it back to its glory.

Venessa was the epitome of paradox over the concept of freedom and slavery, and that of devotion for her people and for Celestia.

"I don't see what's so good about Celestia really," Venti grumbles to himself as you two lay under the shade of the Windrise tree, "but far from this place, I see the appeal of divinity."

You've always liked Windrise for its glorious towering crown as well as the history behind it. This is where the hero ascends to Celestia, her prayers she had uttered her whole life finally received as she ascends to be one of the four winds that continues to protect Mondstadt.

The word feels distasteful on the tip of his tongue, almost spitting it with venom. And you've never seen Venti look over anything with such distaste, besides cheese. But it seems it isn't just Celestia that hurts him now.

And maybe, despite the facade he has shown as the ever-loving God Barbatos, when Dvalin begged for release and freedom from his duty as one of the four winds— despite the years that he had waited for his cleansing, singing to his friend and calling for him to keep it together.

You knew Venti had lost another friend. He didn't want to be selfish, he couldn't be selfish, for he would be a hypocrite of a god to do so.

You can see the longing in the way his eyes twinkles whenever he looks up at the skies, a third layer of masked sadness dwells within it. And when he hugs you tightly as he weeps for both the loss and unshackling, there was a desperation and silent prayer in the way he squeezes you.

You and him realized it together that day. The other side of the coin that is freedom, had taken too much from Venti. And despite being its archon, he was tied down to his city, until his non-existent death he would be there forever. Watching every person move past his life, ascension after death, and death and death.

You thought to yourself, if immortality had given you all that is forever to live it, why does it feel as tho it jails your beloved Venti?

You always knew the capabilities of Venti and his permanence in this world, but as you rush over to his slouched form by Windrise, you couldn't help but release a tear in how broken and drained he looked. You took him in your arms and he succumbs like a lifeless doll so easily.

"It's okay, I can still heal myself," the gnosis that acts as the badge of his archon status had been taken away from his forcefully, beaten by a woman to the ground, his powers yanked out by the use of forbidden power meant to deter the likes of him.

You slip down to the grassy bed, his head laid on your lap as Venti tries to regain his strength without the help of the device that contains a huge chunk of his divine power. The hands on his cheeks tremble and he smiles to himself, nuzzling it. Silly human, he mumbles, I'm not going anywhere.

You were not knowledgeable on his capabilities without his gnosis, and you were scared that like the tales of the end of gods, he'd slip from your hands in the form of a fleeting somber wind. His element.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pour out all the desperation and pleas in your loud mind, please don't take him away, please be safe, please make him come back to how he was before.

In the dead of night with only the sound of the breeze lulling your silence, way above towers—

Celestia listens.

To the heavens may you fly.

Venti's glare was much, much harsher than the biting frost that threatens to tip him over back to the snow hundreds of feet below. The tip of Dragonspine's mountain held no regards for those who need to breathe, a crown of swirling clouds shying it away from distant and prying eyes.

He strums his lyre fiercely as a gale current of the same intensity manifests around him, his wind glider manifesting and instantly opening at the force. He managed to lift himself high enough to break through the clouds and it was a magnificent, magical sight of dazzling blue.

And yet his hand can only reach out at the dot of an island that was thousand of years away from his grasp, his weakened powers dissipates and he floats back down the winter land on his knees.

Venti bangs his fists against the snow as hard as he can and sobs, his tear immediately freezing over before it even passes his cheek. He can't reach that high up, he can't fly over in such a weakened state, despite being the archon of the winds himself.

Curses, he screams at the vortex that eats it whole, the divine has taken from him once again.

"I told you, not to go, where I can't follow."

Now he is alone, stuck in the city of freedom. Maybe he has been awake for too long.

@ellitx @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3.6k

warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.

rating: m/t

notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.

i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!

Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.

Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.

One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.

The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.

“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”

The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.

“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”

She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.

It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.

He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.

Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.

John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.

He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.

“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.

“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”

She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.

He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.

He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.

A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?

“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”

“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.

Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.

He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”

Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”

She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.

“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”

“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”

There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.

“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”

Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.

“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.

Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.

He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”

She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?

“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”

She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.

He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”

“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”

“Euphie—”

By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.

“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”

Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.

Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.

He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.

The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.

Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.

“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”

“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”

Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.

A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep

Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.

“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.

“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”

“So no, then.”

“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”

“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”

Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.

She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”

“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”

“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”

She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.

“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”

“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”

“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”

“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”

She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”

Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.

She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.

“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”

“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”

She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—

The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.

“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.

“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”

There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”

“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”

She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.

The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?

“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”

Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.

Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.

“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”

She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”

Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.