#tw abuse reference

[official-lex-luthor]

Even if no one else believes you. I do. Both batman is an abuser and superman is a danger to us all and should never marry.

I think I'm being gaslighted by people. It's so awful.

[teaboot]

Adult ProTip, from a security professional: If a kid tells you, "My parents are gonna kill me / kick my ass / kick me out" for something relatively minor, don't respond with shit like "Really? ;) that sounds a little extreme, don't you think sweetie?" because that shit really does happen.

Instead, respond as though whatever threat they are afraid of is fully valid, and offer whatever you can do to help- ask if they believe they are in danger of being hurt in any way, and work accordingly.

If they're overreacting, they'll usually realize and dial it back, self-correct and begin thinking a bit more rationally.

If they're not overreacting, and the danger is real, then they'll need a level-headed adult in their corner, not another condescending authority figure who doesn't believe them.

[sancturary-keeper-marshal]

How is dad even more exhausting

[allfortheslay25]

Well Both Be Fine chapter 25, 29, 31, 39 spoilers

Milo and Andrew in the chapters vs how it looked in my heart

[torchflies]

Hi TG Fandom!

I love thinking about an AU where: Pete Mitchell is eight years old and used to being bounced around from foster home to orphanage to group home to foster home. An eight-year-old Pete who is scrappy and world-savvy and angry, just imagine a Maverick before he's Maverick — all that Maverick-ness balled up in this pint-sized Pillsbury biscuit can of whoop-ass. He runs the show wherever he goes with his loud mouth and sense of righteous fury. 

But then there's this new boy at the group home, this chubby nine-year-old blond boy with broken glasses held together with duct-tape and a big sweater with patches that covers his hands and half his face. He doesn't talk and spends most of the day hiding in his bed or reading an old Chemistry textbook that he brought from wherever he came from. Pete doesn't get him, thinks he's weird and the fact that the boy always looks so scared makes his tummy feel squirmy. 

So, he starts to sit next to Blondie, shares his food — basically the only thing of value he has, and starts talking, and talking, and talking and talking if only to fill up all the space that Blondie doesn't with his own words. Eventually, Blondie starts scooting closer to Pete, leans against him and starts to talk in a small whisper that only Pete can hear. 

Blondie’s name is Tommy. 

They grow up together in that group home, they bond to each other in a way they've never bonded to anyone else. They make plans to get out and join the Navy together one day, to fly; and they promise to never be apart or alone again.

Then Tommy gets adopted. 

Pete cries; Tommy screams. They might be teenagers now but it takes three men to get them to pry their hands off of each other. Tommy gets carried down the hallway howling, hands outstretched, yelling louder than Pete’s ever heard him speak before. Suddenly, the world is meaner and colder than it has ever been before and all he has left of his Blondie is that same scuffed up Chemistry textbook and a pair of broken glasses.

Pete runs away that night, glasses in his pocket and that heavy book stuffed into his backpack, but he never finds Tommy again… he finds Nicky Bradshaw instead. 

He starts to move on from the hope of ever seeing Tommy again… until Top Gun and Animal Night at the O Club, when Pete catches sight of the first boy he’s ever loved, hiding with shades on and a vodka glass in his hand, instead of a patchy sweater and a Chemistry textbook. 

Pete’s still a pint-sized Pillsbury biscuit can of whoop-ass and the world has changed them both into new people…

But when Iceman comes at him with bravado and snapping teeth, stinking of the alcohol that used to scare him when he was Tommy, regaling Maverick with tales of a father who loved a bottle more than him…

Pete reaches up to slip a little boy’s pair of broken glasses onto the blond’s face with a gentle, “Hi, Blondie.”

And Iceman crumbles away, leaving a crying Tommy in his place.

“Pete.”

He still says it the same way, like he's saying home.

[cripplecharacters]

hello!! I am making a rewrite of a. Very very bad comic. Now, my MC is a disabled trans woman (knee chronic pain sustained from a pretty mundane highschool track injury, im not one to do tragic disability storylines, seeing as I’m physically disabled and that trope sucks). This ask isn’t about her, though. I’m planning to add a sort of cameo of a main character from the original comic, Shanzay (the comic spelled it Shanzey but no ethnic group actually spells it that way, so… white ass comic writer). Her original disability is caused from. Ableist trope after ableist trope. It’s not gonna come up how she was disabled, since it’s a cameo of my MC helping her and her girlfriend with furniture around their house, basically a plot device for her to tell her about the club the MC and her friends are gonna visit, which causes the main inciting incident of the story. I would, however, like to change how her disability happened, even if it comes up, because it’s REALLY handing itself over to the ablebodied gaze (essentially, perfectly vertical eye scar and cataract caused by abusive father doing unspecified thing to her eye that only her mom is traumatized by, not her apparently). If y’all can come up with either really stupid mundane accidents to cause it or a way to draw the scar so that it’s not stupid and unrealistic lmk 😅 to clarify my physical disability is POTS, and very likely but undiagnosed reproductive disabilities, so I don’t have the experience that people with half blindness or other eye related disabilities might here

Hello!

So the perfectly vertical scar is unrealistic for a couple of reasons. Main one is that very few scars are perfectly pointed in any direction, especially not traumatic ones (surgical ones might be but I'm not familiar with any procedure that leaves a vertical scar through someone's eye). Second, for the eye specifically, it just doesn't make sense anatomically (?) since eyes tend to be set deeper in the skull so that this exact thing doesn't happen - they're sitting in two big holes surrounded by bone. The third is that if someone did actually get slashed in a face with enough force to make the second point irrelevant they'd likely either die or have something much more significant happen to them (behind eye is where the brain is stored, so...). Or at least lose the eye, since the globe just got cut in half.

With this in mind, you have a few options.

A: Leave both the monocular blindness, scar, and backstory in and just make it make more sense. For example, maybe she was hit (can fit the original cause) and had an orbital fracture (can leave a scar or just general asymmetry in the area), it got infected and she started having eye problems (endogenous endophthalmitis). I'm honestly not sure how probable cataracts would be here since it's really mostly a progressive condition, but if she was to receive some sort of trauma to the lens then a cataract could form there. Just keep in mind that other things would probably happen as well, it'd be impressive to hit only one specific eye structure (whilst doing it hard enough to cause a permanent problem).

B: Leave the cataract and scar. Hell, they can be unrelated. Maybe she developed the cataract as she grew older and also had a scar from, IDK, (there really isn't anything that results in that kind of scar so cut me some slack) a laceration from some machinery that she had when she was younger and had to get it stitched up, which left a more-or-less vertical scar. Keep in mind that if she has an eyelid scar, that will affect its functioning - for example, if it sticks out, she might not be able to fully open the eyelid.

C: Leave the cataract and give her a more common kind of scar instead. This is easy since literally any scar will be more common. Some ideas; hit the forehead on the roof of a car while getting in, had a tumor that had to be removed, born with a facial cleft, got a really bad skin infection, had meningitis, boiling water fell from a stove top, needed brain surgery, born with (anterior) encephalocele, minor injury that she kept picking on and it healed poorly, family dog bit her, broken nose from getting accidentally elbowed in the face by someone, car crash where she hit the dashboard with her head, part of skin had to be removed due to skin cancer... The choice is yours. Literally anything would be more realistic and interesting (since the vertical eye scar is just treated as a visual quirk the same way a mole is rather than a Thing caused by Something most of the time and a Thing caused exclusively by swordfighting the rest of the time).

As to drawing it, you probably could make the scar either less extensive with the same severity (e.g., only shows on the brow bone and cheek) or make it more severe with the same extensiveness (it does show up on the eyelids and general eye area, but there is visible asymmetry, skin/bone indentation, ptosis, etc.).

The thing below is something I drew really quickly right now for reference, IDK how helpful it is but just be aware that the way eyes are placed in the face is designed to specifically avoid things getting into them. So if you're bypassing that, the actual structure of the face has probably been changed.

Hope this helps!

mod Sasza

[katblaze]

Ella focused post-canon long post ahead:

I like the idea of Tadius having to reign Ella in when she has a mean streak towards particular peasants who had perpetuated her abuse in the past. The peasants who verbally and physically taunted/abused her. The people who disregarded her pleas and distress, writing it off as madness, violently sending her back to her abusers just to get her out of their sight. Because her circumstance and uncleanliness was uncomfortable to be around. Maybe she can't stand to be cordial or impartial to the very same people who she watched drag her mother into the square. Or maybe, at her lowest, she says some unpleasant things about all peasantry, flippantly stereotypes them in a moment of temper. Let's her trauma blossom into rage, into a simmering desire (not necessarily action, mind you) for petty cruelty.

We see her deconstruct a lot of her (admittedly not crazy large) bias against peasant and servantry in the show; this being easier for her to accomplish because she was forced into servitude and squalor herself. For example, one of the first things she jabs at Tadius with is his rank as a servant. She establishes her status and her power over his well-being, potentially his life (and this is important for us to see for her character! this is the first time we see her so confident in her dialog in the show. she is finally reclaiming the autonomy, power, and safety she lacked for potential years, even if this isn't "perfect victim" or kind behavior). This threat could easily have been genuinely fear inducing for Tadius if he hadn't perceived her comment as banter/wit (or he, at the very least, thought she couldn't do anything to him as the prince's right hand servant because she's not from a reputable house). But later, we see her call Tadius "a good man" instead of "a good servant", signifying her growth. She acknowledges where she went wrong in the past and asserts Tadius's position as an equal. Textbook character development.

She also originally vows to the fairy godmother to take vengeance only on those who deserve it, who have taken everything from her and seek to destroy more. She makes clear that her blood lust is for specifically her step family (edit: if Justine and Lucy represent Ella's core values and dreams then Justine establishing kindness to those socially lower to them as an admirable trait makes a whole lotta sense for Ellas character going foward). Hell, she is said to be a good queen by the whole kingdom, implying the peasants favor her rule after she's gained it. She is known by all for her kindness and love which is carried out just as fiercely as her justice.

Does this mean she doesn't have low points? Does this mean that at her lowest Tadius doesn't need to council her and advice her against her (valid, but potentially unfair) anger? That she doesn't let her new found power make it so that, at times, she speaks down to those she deems morally lesser (and could that perception of who is lesser, by this measurement, be influenced by class bias/her past peasant inflicted abuse)? Ella's main character motivation is vengeance in the show, even if her morals are steadfast throughout, I think it would be an interesting conflict between Ella's own ethic values vs. her (again, valid) trauma-induced feelings/vitriol, and how that conflict influences her decisions not only as queen, but interpersonally.

This could also lead to some great tension between Ella and Tadius (who are at this point good friends, partners, or at the VERY least close coworkers). With some communication Tadius would be given better insight into Ella's past, interworkings, and decision making. It would also grant Ella an outlet to talk about all this awful shit that happened to her and how it comes back to affect and shape her presently.

Not to mention Tadius's own trauma regarding aristocrats who belittle their subjects. Maybe at her most cruel (aka in a very bad emotional state) Tadius becomes clinical and emotionally disconnected, just as he was with the prince? Unconsciously or not, sinks back into giving stony irritated advice and doesn't talk to Ella in their normal affable manner for the rest of the day, or longer. Maybe it takes them a while to get to the point of healthy communication because of both of their past isolation (ella is purposely isolated by her supposed "madness" and has no one to talk to, she is overjoyed to vent to a literal frog + no one recognized tadius's wit before ella, implying he is not close enough with anyone for them to know who he is personally) makes it difficult for them to talk in a productive manner at first.

(I do not mean to say this is the only interpretation of Ella's character or the headcanons you should adopt post-cc. Maybe Ella never let's these internal biases (that I've picked up on) influence how she treats her subjects/how she rules. Or, shes developed and grown entirely past them. Maybe Ella and Tadius never have this kind of conflict between them. This is also tackling a very specific negative trait I enjoy exploring, which I personally could see presenting itself in Ella post-canon. I love her. I don't doubt she is a great queen who rules with the working class's benefit, along with the rich's detriment, in mind (in fact, I definitely like to believe she does). I just really like characters having character flaws, even if they are a good person, even if they are the hero, and even past their happily ever after)

[williceunleashed]

I've been having major autism on an AU version of Dardanne so I think it's time I share it here !

Basically, the AU is about Ghetsis never finding N and looking for a replacement for years. He ends up setting his sight on a vulnerable but compassionate kid, whom he calls Miséricorde, and makes them the replacement spear head of Plasma. N grows up amongst Pokémon, until he is found by Alder a few years later. N has a happy childhood, and becomes the protagonist of BW1.

AU will be tagged as #miséricorde au ! The AU version of Dardanne, called Miséricorde, will be tagged as #oc: miséricorde !

TW : Abuse, violence, cult stuff (Plasma Classic™), dysphoria

More infos under the cut !

TW : Abuse, violence, Cult stuff, dysphoria, Ghetsis in general

For this summary, Miséricorde is gendered as she/her before BW1, during BW1 and BW2, and is gendered as he/him post BW2, following his own development and experience with gender.

Early life :

Same as Canon Dardanne. She was born in a rather wealthy family. Her father was the Kalos water Gym Leader, but got dismissed after the League learned of his treatment of his Pokémon and family. Their family moved to Unova after that.

Ghetsis sees that as a great opportunity to find a replacement for the "child who talks to Pokémon" he never found. He becomes a family friend by helping the father become Unova's water Gym Leader thanks to his connections. He witnesses the unhealthy dynamics in the family, and quickly concludes that the middle child would be the best option for his plan, being the direct descendant of an excellent battler and having great compassion for Pokémon.

One day, said middle child goes missing. Her parents look for her, worried as she left without even taking a Pokémon or a bag with her. Ghetsis comforts the family.

Ghetsis returns to his home, in which he has taken in the daughter, saving her from her abusive home life. For better or worse.

Plasma Time :

Quickly after Ghetsis rescued the girl (This is literal kidnapping, don't let Ghetsis fool you), he starts to put his plan into motion. He realizes how hard it's going to be for the girl to have a special bond with Pokémon, but he manages to find a solution. He tells the girl that she might be worthy of a great destiny, but they need to test this hypothesis. If the girl lets a previously abused Pokémon attack her without trying to retreat or fight back, she'd prove her special bond to Pokémon and her compassion to them.

Girl passes the test. Ghetsis quickly persuades her of her special bond with Pokémon, and renames her Miséricorde. Her title becomes Martyr, as her bond is based on shared suffering with Pokémon. Ghetsis would never let her be a Queen, because in his opinion she isn't even half of what N is.

In general, Ghetsis has some very sexist biases and educates all his daughters (Miséricorde, Anthea and Concordia) to be nurturing, kind and gentle. He is upset that the spear head of Plasma isn't male.

Miséricorde grows to dislike her body and the way it changes as she grows up. She envies the men around her, but her concerns about her body and gender are quickly shut down.

Miséricorde goes through a lot of academic classes, like Natural does in canon, under the supervision of the Sages. She considers Ghetsis like her adoptive father and refers to him as "Father".

Several more "tests" happen. Ghetsis calls them "purity tests", and they are meant to ensure that Miséricorde still doesn't fight back or retreat when she gets attacked by Pokémon, showing her "compassion and love for Pokémon". This process ensures that Miséricorde is pure of heart enough to awake and wield Zekrom.

Her scars are hidden by makeup whenever she exits her room.

When Miséricorde is around 16, Ghetsis feels like she has been brainwashed enough to start training her properly in battling so she can take down the League and Alder.

BW1 journey :

At 20, Miséricorde is let back out into the world to gather the badges. Her face scars are hidden by makeup.

In Accumula Town, she finds a now adult Natural, and challenges him. Natural wins, and she feels confused at this outcome. She still acts friendly towards him. Natural hears Miséricorde's Pokémon, and is confused at how weary of humans they are.

She meets Natural again in Nacrene City. She challenges him, and he wins. She doesn't seem that surprised at the outcome, and congratulates Natural, saying she can't wait to battle him again and win next time. She leaves without more explanations.

Next encounter is in Nimbasa City. When Natural runs after the grunts who were bothering the Day Care owner, Miséricorde intercepts him and starts a conversation. At this point, Natural is worried about Plasma and knows something is off with Miséricorde. He drags her in the ferris wheel and demands answers. Miséricorde is honest and tells him about her being Plasma's Martyr, and that her end goal is to separate Pokémon from mankind with the help of Zekrom, to ensure Pokémon safety and well-being. Natural is shocked to hear that, having probably never encountered abused Pokémon before. He tries to persuade her to put an end to her plans, but she politely refuses. She battles him to allow the grunts to escape, and Natural wins.

Natural meets Miséricorde in Chargestone Cave. They have a short heart to heart conversation, talking about their mutual life goals. They battle, and despite Miséricorde having the upper hand for a good part of the battle, Natural wins. Miséricorde thinks of Natural as her best opponent yet, congratulates him, and leaves.

They have another encounter in Mistralton City. Miséricorde meets Natural when he exits the Gym. She tells him she is sorry that her plans are going to separate him from his team, but that it is for the best of everyone involved. It rains, and the water damages Miséricorde's makeup, allowing some of her face scars to show.

In Dragonspiral Tower, Miséricorde awakes Zekrom and takes control of him. When Natural arrives, too late, she still gives him the opportunity to challenge her later by sending him to find Reshiram, giving him a chance to battle her fairly one last time.

When Natural arrives to the league after finding the White Stone, Miséricorde has already beaten Alder. She summons the Castle, which raises out of the ground and boxes in the League.

While the Gym leaders, trainers and Alder fight the grunts, Natural manages to infiltrate the Castle. He finds Miséricorde in the throne room and challenges her. Miséricorde seems happy to have one last fair fight against Natural.

Natural wins, and despite knowing that his victory is shattering all her plans and endangering the liberation of Pokémon, she still congratulates him through her tears.

Ghetsis is enraged. He berates Miséricorde. When he realizes Natural is the "child who talks to Pokémon", he tries to have him join Plasma to replace Miséricorde. Natural refuses and battles Ghetsis, winning.

Miséricorde flees with Zekrom and her team. Natural leaves Unova in search for her.

BW1/BW2 time gap / BW2 :

Miséricorde heads back to Kalos, where she originally came from. She settles in the Pokémon Village. She sometimes goes to Snowbelle City to retrieve items. Wulfric takes pity on her and often brings her what she needs for free.

Natural manages to find Miséricorde after years of searching. Despite the bond they created in BW1, she refuses to follow him back to Unova for a long time.

After a few months of debating, Miséricorde accepts to go back to Unova with Natural. They don't really settle for long, as quickly enough, they both realize they have to stop Ghetsis. They save Nate/Rosa from Kyurem, but Miséricorde's Zekrom is fused to Kyurem. Natural battles Black Kyurem, then Ghetsis, and wins.

Post BW2 :

With Ghetsis and Plasma defeated for good, Miséricorde is left with no life goals and no identity. She struggles with her gender for a long time, before finally coming out as a trans man.

Miséricorde doesn't want to join the Safe House, feeling uncomfortable with the grunts' devotion to him. He joins Alder and Natural's household.

Miséricorde attempts to release his Pokémon, but they stay by his side. Zekrom is more of a free spirit and can leave for days, but always comes back home.

Natural and Miséricorde finally officially get together, despite having what can be considered a romantic relationship beforehand👍

Fun facts :

"Miséricorde" is French for mercy, compassion, forgiveness.

Miséricorde retains almost exactly all of Dardanne's canon personality !

Miséricorde daydreams a lot and rarely gets out of his fantasy world as a coping mechanism to protect himself from the damages done to him in Plasma. It can be hard to grab his attention sometimes.

Miséricorde doesn't nickname his Pokémon, feeling this would be disrespectful to them.

Pokémon Team :

Archeops : Miséricorde's main Pokémon partner. He was given to him as an little Archen when Miséricorde became Plasma's Martyr to keep him company. Archeops as a special signification, being a fossilmon, his existence is possible only due to human interference, just like how Miséricorde was made into the Martyr by Ghetsis.

Zekrom : The legendary dragon of Ideals. Miséricorde has a tendency to cuddle him and pet him a lot, which makes Zekrom feel a bit embarrassed. He secretly enjoys the affection.

Gastrodon : Another Pokémon gifted by Ghetsis. He is a quiet and calm Pokémon, but really well trained and a great battle pokémon. He is very sweet and loving !

Cincinno : She was also given to Miséricorde as a mincinno by Ghetsis. It's very likely she was abused in the past. She doesn't like humans outside of a very few.

Liepard : One of Miséricorde's first pokémon with Archeops and Galvantula, she was given to him by Ghetsis at the start of his journey in BW1. Liepard is mischievous but good-hearted.

Galvantula : He had been used as little Joltik for one of Miséricorde's purity tests. Miséricorde had insisted to see the Pokémon again, and ended up bonding with him. Joltik seemed to regret having harmed Miséricorde and started trusting him. Ghetsis allowed Joltik to join Miséricorde's team.

[gbirrd]

6/9 - Jason Todd tarot card designs for Complete Candor by @vexfulfolly as part of the @batfam-big-bang

Read the fic here!

Other cards:

1-Babs 2-Cass 3-Bruce 4-Tim 5-Damian 6-Jason 7-Duke 8-Steph 9-Dick

Image IDs

Image 1:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL". A symbol of a gravestone is visible behind the numeral "XV".

A young Jason Todd in his Robin uniform tugs at a thick chain around his neck that comes down from the top of the frame. Matching shackles are around his wrists and he is buried up to his waist in dirt. His head is tilted up towards the chain. There is blood on his hands, arms, chest, and dripping down the right side of his face as well as from his nose.

Image 2:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL" upside-down. A symbol of a flame is visible behind the numeral "XV".

Jason Todd faces forward, filling most of the frame. He is in his Red Hood uniform and has narrowed pupil-less white eyes. He is holding the end of a thick chain in his right fist. Flames fill the background and bathe him in an orange light. The entire card is upside-down.

[humblefryingpan]

Considering Regina was a teenager when her abusive mother forced her to marry a middle aged man and she had to cast an infertility curse on herself just in case I'm gonna say her hatred of Snow is a little more than "you killed my bf". Like little Snow went "I want her to be my new mom" and then Regina's only chance of freedom (running away with Daniel) got crushed before she got sold to another - possibly worse - prison for years

I will defend this woman with my life. Why does everything bad that can happen happen to her?

[seedsplease]

The Runaway

A clerical error, they called it. Someone somewhere had listed him as dead, and now he had a living, breathing daughter out there who he'd never met. Until now. Warnings: Past child abuse mentions. References to canon typical violence. Some implied dark themes. Word Count: 9.1k AO3 Thank you to the amazing @minilev who I was very lucky to commission for this piece of Jacob and Calpurnia. I thoroughly recommend commissioning them if you ever get the chance!! Also I am sure that most of this situation is very unrealistic legally but hey shh don't worry about. Please enjoy! <3

The woman exited the car with a click of her heel on cobbled stone. Holding an almost useless umbrella in one hand and clutching a gleaming briefcase tight in the other, she stood and methodically surveyed the sprawling ranch - despite the weather doing its best to send sprays of rainwater into her eyes.

The cherry-stained wood of the house was welcoming and warm, and the lush grounds of the property would give ample room for an inquisitive and creative mind. She also knew there was a river that was only a stone’s throw away that would be a welcome reprieve from heat in the summertime. There was an airstrip behind the house, and the lovely receptionist at the police station had even told her there were supposed to be tennis courts somewhere on the grounds.

It was, in short, idyllic.

She took a few steps up towards one of the multiple entrances to the house, tilting the umbrella slightly into the oncoming wind to try and make it more effective at keeping her dry - and to avoid the flimsy thing flipping inwards. First impressions were everything, she knew; especially with such sensitive matters, and she would prefer to not turn up as a bearer of heavy news looking like a drowned rat.

Eyes glued to the pavement to watch her step, she focused on rehearsing the usual script that came with her profession. Her manner was important, of course; when delivering the news she was, her demeanor was necessary to smooth over any unpredictable reactions. And, when thinking of the one she was representing - ferreted away back in the hotel room across the river - the woman prayed that there would be nothing but ease in these events.

Before she’d even crossed halfway towards the house, she heard the sound of doors opening. A rush of warm but muted light came out from the entrance - a slight flickering in the background indicative of a lit fire, inviting from the chill of the rain. A man dressed in svelte-blue emerged from the warmth of the home, stepping onto the porch with a slow but confident stride.

He stood there for a second, surveying her quickly but thoroughly, before he gestured for her to join him on the front step. She eagerly rushed to do so, giving a quick huff of relief when she fell under the cover of the roof.

Clutching her briefcase tightly - thankfully it had escaped most of the rain - she hurried to try and calm her frazzled appearance; brushing down her jacket and skirt as though it would do anything to help salvage her put-together demeanor. Clearing her throat, she glanced up at the man once more, finally taking him in as her composure slowly returned.

To his credit, he allowed her that period of grace.  

“Good morning,” the man said with a smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes. He paused, giving a pointed glance to the near overpowering sound of the rain. A few moments passed before it lulled enough for him to speak. “Or perhaps not.” He gave a wry look before continuing. “How might I help you, my dear?”

She faltered for a moment, taking in the sight of him and repressing a frown; he was certainly not the man she was looking for. Did she have the wrong address? The lovely receptionist at the police office had seemed very certain when she’d inquired about the Seed family living in the vicinity. Upon a second look, however, she noticed there was something in the eyes - piercing blue, and slightly too sharp - that seemed vaguely familiar enough for her to chance to continue with a renewed sense of confidence.

“I’m sorry to intrude this morning. My name is Mary McAllister, I’m with social services.” The man’s eyebrows rose, but he remained silently expectant. She withheld a grimace, but continued nonetheless. “I’m looking for a J. Seed.”

The man barked out a laugh.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, my dear.”

She frowned, and was about to respond before she saw a second man step towards the entryway. He did not leave the house itself, but loomed nearby; eyes trained on her in a way that made her neck prickle like an animal at unease. Camo-decked and broad, with a red-hilted knife strapped to his thigh and arms crossed over his chest, he stared her down with the intent to cow; an expression she was all too familiar with.

Unbeknownst to him, he had utterly given himself away.

“No need,” she replied to the man in blue, while not taking her eyes off the imposing soldier in the doorway. “I believe I’ve found who I’m looking for.”

It had been a rough morning for Rook.

Some idiot had started a fire out the back shed of the goddamn haunted hotel, Miss Mabel was convinced someone had stolen her prized taxidermy fish - she’d forgotten she’d moved it yesterday and decided to call the police before doing the bare minimum of a search - some loser had dropped nails along the Whitetail Road and had punctured her tires, and - to top everything off - the garage at Falls End told her there’d be a few hours wait until someone could come to help. Absolutely brilliant.

The only silver lining was that the Grill Streak was open, and Chad was more than happy to let her plonk herself down in a chair by the window and wait. It could have been worse; she could have been out in the cold, and unfortunately, she was certainly not dressed to be exposed to the elements for hours on end.

As it was, she was content to sit by the window for the slow-trudging passing of the hours, watching little rivulets of rainwater race down the glass as her main form of entertainment, broken up with Chad intermittently coming to the front and checking in on her.

It was about an hour into her dreadful vigil that she saw the girl.

An over-sized flannel was spread out above her head, doing a poor job at keeping the rain away. Her clothes and hair were sodden despite her efforts, even as she tried to shelter underneath a large tree; they weighed her down and were surely uncomfortable to be walking in. Logically, she ought to have rushed towards the diner the second she’d spotted it, yet for some reason, she’d held herself back; trying to stay near the treeline, almost out of sight.

Rook was a deputy in a small barely-a-town in the middle of nowhere; she had enough experience with runaways to clock one at a distance.

She sighed, pushing herself up out of the seat, and called out a quick explanation to Chad out back, before briskly walking towards the glass door. Either the trill of the bell or the sound of the door shutting behind her alerted the young girl to her presence; her head shot up like a deer, furtive eyes latching onto a perceived predator in an instant. Undoubtedly, Rook’s uniform likely gave her no reassurance, and even at a distance, she could hear the clockwork gears ticking in the girl’s head.

Rook slowly raised her hands in the air and lowered her head slightly as she approached, grimacing as she tried to ignore the pinpricks of the harsh rain slamming on the side of her face.

“Hey!” She called out, loud enough to hopefully be heard through the ruckus of the weather. The girl’s head tilted in acknowledgment, but her eyes were narrowed. Rook pretended to be oblivious to the girl’s wariness as she continued. “Hey, the diner’s open! Come wait until the rain goes!”

The girl’s eyes scanned her surroundings furtively, and Rook resisted the urge to groan as she knew that look; that was the look of someone preparing to start running. Fate decided to intervene, it seemed; fate or a very unobservant driver. The truck came careening around the corner onto Whitetail Road with far too much speed to be safe in these conditions, but Rook wasn’t particularly concerned with taking the truck’s details down as the comically large spray of water came down like a burst dam onto her and the girl both.

Rook’s mouth opened in a grimace, no doubt now resembling more a drowned rat than a disgruntled deputy. Across from her, the girl finally lowered her flannel - now at last unable to deny that it was doing little to protect her from the weather. A mixture of frustration and perhaps desperation came across her face, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to scan her surroundings for another option.

Despite the pounding rain’s windswept needles against her skin, Rook held out her hand placatingly.

“Hey,” she said soothingly when the rain quietened down enough so as for her to be heard. “I’m not gonna call anyone, I promise. Just come and sit in the diner until the rain goes. That’s it.”

The girl’s eyes were still narrowed, but the chill seeping into her sodden bones was a powerful motivator. She gave one last look around her, before latching back onto Rook’s sincere expression. There was a moment of hesitation, but she eventually gave a short, slow nod.

“Okay,” she mumbled, the sound barely audible.

Moving before the girl could change her mind, the two set off back across the road - finally fortunate as they passed undercover just as the rain came back with a pounding vengeance. Rook gave a look back onto the road, drenched as it was, and wondered whether there’d be some sort of flood warning by evening.

The girl wasn’t focused on the rain, however, but on Rook’s car, pathetically pushed off to the side of the road - poorly shielded from the weather, naturally, but it was likely the punctured tires that caught the eye first.

Rook sighed and shook her head.

“It’s been a rough day,” she said as her only explanation.

In spite of herself, the girl couldn’t help but give a brief snort of a laugh. Privately, Rook celebrated that; perhaps there was hope.

Chad was waiting for them at the counter when they walked into the diner. She turned to the girl and gestured over at him.

“What do you feel like?” She asked, and when she saw the girl withdraw slightly, she rushed to continue. “My treat.”

The girl still looked hesitant.

“The weather isn’t going anywhere soon,” Rook insisted.

“Just…hot cocoa,” the girl mumbled, staring away and out the window. A flush was spreading on her cheeks, but she glanced down as though to hide it. “Please.”

Chad nodded and scurried away, while Rook and the girl moved over to the table where Rook’s bag still rested. They had barely been there a few seconds before Chad re-emerged and looked heaven-sent as he carried two towels in his hands.

“Oh shit, you’re an angel,” Rook gasped out, before snapping her mouth shut and grimacing at her language as she looked over at her young companion. “I mean…oh, fuck.”

Beside her, the girl couldn’t help but give her little huff of a laugh again. Brilliant; Rook was already being a bad influence.

Dejected, her shoulders were lowered as she reached out for one of the towels, while the girl slowly did the same.

“Thanks, Chad,” Rook said, scrunching at her hair to try and remove the worst of the water.

They made themselves comfortable, sitting down by the window once more as the rain pounded against the glass at their side.

Rook tilted her head, and tried not to look too obvious as she peered curiously at the girl, now that they were given a moment of respite. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her nails had been chewed to the quick - little reddish marks by the nailbeds from picking at them.

The girl hesitantly placed her flannel down on the booth beside her - careful to rest it upon the already dampened towel. Her surprisingly dry backpack (perhaps the flannel had protected something, at least) remained seated on the ground, carefully tucked behind her leg.

“So,” Rook began, placing an elbow on the table and leaning down to rest her chin upon her palm. “You must be damned determined to go on a hike today.”

The girl couldn’t help a snort, but refused to meet her eyes.

“Sort of,” she replied, something of a brick wall.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the eerie whistle of the wind finding a crevice to sing through.

Rook sighed, tossing up which angle she should use.

“You know…there are lots of wild animals around here,” she said, careful to try and avoid spooking her. “Kind of dangerous to go wandering out here on your own. At least without some way to defend yourself.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed red, and she adamantly stared out the window.

“Yeah,” she replied. “I saw a moose.”

Rook’s eyebrows rose, and she felt a flash of panic at the thought of the girl alone by the road with a moose. Perhaps the girl sensed her concern, as she rushed to continue.

“Don’t worry,” she said, shaking her head. “It was really far away.”

Rook wanted to say more, but allowed the matter to drop for now - she doubted it would be particularly useful for her to be too forward with her worry. Instead, they lapsed into a silence again, the girl no doubt waiting for the rain to subside before she could make her dash off into the wilderness with the foolhardiness only a teenager could possess. To what end, she likely hadn’t realistically thought out yet; more like she had a vague destination in mind and only a rough idea (if that) of how to get there.

Rook’s hand dropped to the table and her fingers began to drum a soft pattern against the top.

“So I’m Rook,” she said, and paused for a moment before beginning to wade into the fray. “Look, you don’t have to talk to me if you really don’t want to, but…are you okay?”

“Fine,” the girl replied instantly, flat as a note.

The sound of bricks being laid on a wall was near audible.

“Okay.” Rook nodded slowly, retreating proverbially and choosing another angle to try. “It really is dangerous out there on your own though; is there someone I could call for you?”

“Nope.”

Strike two.

Rook sighed, fingers tapping just a little faster before she made the decision to be firmer.

“Look, I’m not going to try and stop you,” she promised, dropping the animal coaxing voice and falling to a normal register, “but this weather is supposed to last for days, and you’re clearly set on running right out into it again.”  

The girl’s eyes snapped to meet her own, narrowing. Rook didn’t let it deter her.

“So the way I see it is that you go running off and spend the night in that”- she jerked her head towards the window meaningfully - “or you stay here for now and have a chat with someone who genuinely wants to help you.”

The girl paused, and for the first time, a flash of uncertainty came across her face. Perhaps now that the adrenaline of her runaway escapade was wearing off, the reality of the situation was beginning to come crashing down on her.

There was another beat of silence before the girl finally spoke.

“I’m Callie,” she said quietly.

Rook internally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hi, Callie,” she replied with a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A clerical error, they called it. Someone somewhere had listed him as dead, and now there was a living, breathing, sentient human out there who was alive because of him.

Jacob stood by the fireplace. It merrily lit the room in flickering waves of warm gold, a respite from the howling weather outside the door. Behind him, John was scouring through paperwork. He was good at that sort of thing; he’d been a godsend so far with the social services worker, always getting the right details, asking questions that Jacob wouldn’t have even thought to ask. Now he was reading through everything, leaving no stone unturned; this was far too important a matter for a lack of due diligence.  

A child was involved, after all.

Joseph was handling the worker - probably for the best. John was charming enough in doses, but a little bit too sharp-edged if you paid close attention and Jacob was far too out of his depth to be eloquent enough to handle this situation with the care it needed. Joseph, however, was naturally magnetic, could talk to you in a way that made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.

Given how integral he was to Jacob’s life, Joseph’s charisma would likely be the greatest asset in convincing the worker. A foolish part of him wanted to hiss at the thought of needing to convince someone that the child - his child - should be under his care rather than anyone else’s, but then he thought of his own parents. Biology, he knew, was the furthest indicator of parental fitness.

At the least, the project’s actions in the county were still mostly discreet; with the exception of a few murmurings of discontent, there were yet to be any justified stirrings of suspicion among the locals - at least, none that the police had taken seriously. That would come in time, Jacob knew, but by then, he would make sure the flock was ready. As such, their official record was sure to look - for the most part - squeaky clean. And if this worker had really been scouring for blood relatives, then he suspected she might be eager to settle for a good-looking option and wouldn’t dig too deeply regardless.

A child.

He remembered the woman who’d sat next to him at the single visit he'd made to a local bar back in Georgia. Going there at all had been a one-time experiment of sorts; the desperate writhing of one seeing the approaching end of his funds as an inevitable death knell. Others he knew found solace in strange vices, and a drowning man could not shirk any hand held before him. But the woman had been pleasant, chattering away at him about ancient history of all things - her profession, he remembered her saying - and taking his brick wall answers in stride.

It had been one of the most mundane human interactions he’d had in a long time. He wasn’t oblivious though; he’d seen the looks she was giving him, hints to the real motive in her approach. When the ball had dropped, he’d found himself surprisingly approving of her bluntness.

“My now ex-fiance fucked his coworker a few days ago,” she’d said, before her mouth had turned downwards. “Been with him since high school.”

Ah.

“Sorry,” he’d replied, the compulsion of social niceties that he’d yet to tamper down.

She’d scoffed.

“Yeah, me too.” Her nose had crinkled into a frown. “Anyway, I want to fuck someone else now.” She’d taken a sip of her drink and given a contemplative hum, pointing a finger at him from over the rim of the glass. “And you’re just my type.”

Soldiers attracted some sort of attention, he’d found out in the past, but disheveled and marked as he was, he hadn’t particularly anticipated that attitude carrying over. But even then, there had seemed to be something more to the woman’s approach.

“Look like him, do I?” He’d asked, raising an eyebrow.

She’d snorted.

“The opposite,” she’d replied.

Part of him was glad he’d said yes; it was enough of a distraction that he hadn’t burnt through what funds remained to him on an impulsive and desperate experiment. She’d been firm that it would be a one-time thing, and he’d had no qualms about that either. It was another type of experiment, he’d thought, and it served its purpose pleasantly enough.

Doing the math now, by the time the kid had been born, Jacob would likely have been in the shelter. Or potentially, he would have recently reunited with his brothers. If the social services worker was right, the woman had probably tried to reach out to find him.

And a single clerical error meant he was only hearing about this kid now.

“Callie.” The social services worker had revealed the girl’s name. “Calpurnia… technically.” She’d given a small laugh. “You can see why she prefers Callie.”

John had smiled indulgently, all too eager - perhaps more than the girl’s father himself - for any information about his niece.

“It’s Roman,” Jacob had spoken up, already standing vigil by the fireplace. All eyes turned to him, but he didn’t elaborate further.

Joseph and John had taken control, moving smoothly through an unprecedented situation. Jacob might have been frustrated at own his inaction, had he the mental capacity to focus on anything else but the reeling of his head.

What did this mean?

He was a weapon; he lived to carve a bloody path for his brothers and their flock to walk safely when the inevitable Collapse of society arrived. He lived to die; to butcher until he too gave a final whimper and broke like the used husk of a weapon he was. He lived to make sacrifices; to do what others could not.

How the fuck did a child fit into that?

His brothers’ eagerness could barely be contained; he knew they already saw some divine ordainment in this, a lost child of their blood being brought into their fold just before the world would collapse. How could that not be a gift from God? But he knew there was more to it; they loved him for all he did to protect them, but they also worried for him.

“You are our protector,” Joseph had told him once, grasping him by the shoulders and bringing his head close enough to his own to see his earnest expression, “but you are my brother.” He’d shaken his head gently, something like sorrow crossing his eyes. “I want to see you live.”

Jacob knew John felt the same. They meant well, but they didn’t understand. That was okay; he made the sacrifices he did so that they wouldn’t have to understand. But he knew they saw this girl as more than just family; she was an opportunity.

Joseph had taken the social services worker through the house, showing where the girl would live. It would be short work to convince the woman, Jacob thought - he’d seen the cross on her necklace, how she’d warmed up when Joseph had introduced himself as a church leader.

Before sitting down to begin poring over the paperwork, John had approached Jacob by the fireplace, leaning against the warm stone and looking towards the front door absentmindedly.

“You know,” John had begun softly, eyes slowly flicking over to Jacob, “our newest dear sister can never be alone with the girl.”

Jacob had immediately understood his brother’s warning.

“Dear Faith will have such thoughts running through her mind,” John had continued, voice light despite his ominous subject. “So desperate to please the Father… however will she take a strange new interloper joining our family?”

Jacob’s mouth had twitched.

“Not as much an interloper as she is,” he’d replied, surprisingly irked at the thought.

“Yes, and that’s precisely what she’ll fear; a blood daughter making the role of a sister irrelevant.” He then sighed, peering over to the table. “And who knows what she might do in such fear?”

John had pushed himself off the wall, reaching out to clasp his elder brother on the shoulder and leaning in to softly speak.

“Little Callie is going to need a protector,” he’d said, before he’d turned to go and begin the arduous labour of paperwork.

Manipulative little shit.

Jacob sighed, looking down into the fire as a nail dug itself insistently into his head. Knowing that he was being manipulated was surprisingly ineffective at preventing it.

“Everything looks to be in order.” John’s voice now cut through the soft silence, a final page flipping back into place.

From the entryway to the kitchen, Joseph and the social services worker peered over at them. Joseph had been taking the woman on an impromptu tour through the house and judging by the woman’s pleased expression, John’s ranch had passed with flying colours.

They congregated by the table; John smoothing down the files with a self-assured smile. The social services worker rushed to confirm the details - the time passing like a blur in Jacob’s eyes, almost seeing himself from a distance standing as a scarecrow off to the side. It was only when the woman spoke that Jacob was wrenched back into reality.

“I’ll make the call,” she said with a gentle smile, nodding at them as she wandered off towards the front porch for a moment of privacy.

Jacob blinked a few times, scolding himself internally for not paying more attention. What was the call for? To meet the girl? To have her brought here? His rational mind was telling him to steel himself; he needed to be strong. He needed to be better than him.

This was family. And he protects the family.

Joseph’s hand came down on his shoulder, making him take a sharp breath and glancing over to meet his brother’s eyes. Underneath the familiar golden glasses, Joseph’s face was solemn but gentle nonetheless.

“This is a gift,” he murmured. “She has been brought to us now, when we can protect her from the Collapse. I know this is what God wanted.” His eyes sharpened slightly, intense but no less intimate. “You know this too.”  

Jacob had never quite figured out the difference between believing his brother or wanting to believe him. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

He nodded, because even without Joseph - even without John - he would have come to the same conclusion himself. His purpose remained unchanged; he would cull the herd, so that his family might live. What did it matter that his family had an extra addition now?

The sound of hurried footsteps made them all turn to see the worker rushing back towards them, phone in hand and looking more frazzled than they’d seen her all day. His eyes narrowed, the foreboding evoking only a cold apathy in him - the best way to steel himself for taking action.

“It’s…the girl,” the worker began, voice reedy and broken as she snapped her head to and fro between all three brothers in a panic. “She’s supposed to be in the hotel. But she's...run away.”

There was a strange sort of thrill, a smugness in his chest that was ill-suited for the concerning situation, something he could never utter aloud. Something proud; something strangely reminiscent of the headstrong and foolish boy he’d once been. Of course she’d run away.

It seemed she was his daughter, after all.  

"I’m sorry for your loss,” Rook said.

The girl nodded, finger thumbing along the edge of her flannel, which still sat damp beside her. Rook could see she was tracing along the shape of two sewn letters, S.F. The thread was faded, but the flannel itself was well-worn.

“How long…” Rook trailed off, eyes carefully scanning the girl in front of her to try and figure whether saying the words out loud would be detrimental.

“Since she died?” Callie finished for her, eyebrows twitching in what might have been annoyance. “A few months.”

Bluntness was preferred, it seemed. Perhaps Rook should have figured that; it had taken her removing the kid gloves to get the girl to even start opening up at all.

"So you’ve got family here?” Rook asked, playing for a bit more nonchalance as she took a sip from her coffee. “People who’ll take you in?”

The girl shrugged, staring down at her own drink.

“I guess.” She lapsed into silence, letting the steam from the mug rise to brush against her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold, but the time inside the diner had helped soothe her somewhat, both physically and mentally. At the very least, she was no longer staring a little too hard at the front door.

“Well, that’s…good?” Rook spoke the words like a question, hesitant and lame.

Callie’s nose crinkled, brows pinching together.

“I had family back home,” she said, the words close to a whine. “Why can’t I just stay with them?” She sniffled quickly, and raised a hand to rub at her nose. Her cheeks were flushing again, and Rook suspected it was also from embarrassment. “This is so stupid.”

Rook nodded, but moreso to think rather than to placate. She knew by now that placating would only be met with derision at best and withdrawal at worst. Presumably, there was a good reason that the girl had been brought here rather than where she’d previously lived.

“What family do you have here?” She asked, voice light to try and distract the girl from her thoughts.

She shrugged.

“A dad,” Callie replied, the word spoken with surprising - or perhaps forced - apathy.

Rook raised her eyebrows.

“You haven’t met him before?” She asked, then winced and hoped she hadn’t come off as judgemental.

Callie shook her head, face turning fully sideways to stare out of the window at the ceaseless rain. Her fingers tugged at the collar of her drying flannel next to her, but Rook couldn’t see her expression.

“Mom said he was dead,” she said, her voice successfully staying even. “They were looking for any family on my dad’s side, and saw he wasn’t.” Rook assumed ‘they’ meant social services. The girl continued, voice turning back into a huff as she busied at her metaphorical and angry, open wound again. “I could’ve just stayed with my aunt; this is so stupid.”

Eager to interrupt that train of thought once more, Rook leaned forward slightly over the table, her fingers toying with the handle of her pleasantly warm coffee mug.

“Do you…not want to meet him, then?” Rook asked, voice as neutral as possible.

The girl shrugged, but stubbornly said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t know the answer herself.

Rook didn’t quite know what to say; she did not want to try and influence the girl’s thoughts - that wouldn’t be fair when she didn’t know her circumstances intimately. She also understood, however, that the alternative was for this girl to go running off into the wilderness or else be forced to stay with her hitherto unknown father and - if she had any grasp on Callie’s personality - potentially sour the relationship entirely.

"Do you know anything about him?” She asked instead; she might be new to the county, but it wasn’t impossible for her to answer.

“They said he was a soldier or something,” Callie replied, shrugging again. “Last name’s Seed.” She rolled her eyes while staring down at her flannel, and muttered to herself: “Stupid name.”

Rook bit back a smile - even she knew better than to encourage that attitude in a teenager - and raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe don’t tell him that.”

The girl huffed a laugh.

Rook thought for a moment, trying to recall anything about a Seed; it was certainly an unusual name and not one she was likely to forget. It took a few seconds, but it eventually came to her; she’d vaguely heard the name mentioned in relation to the relatively new church out by the river somewhere. She wasn’t too familiar with it herself, but the talkative receptionist at the police station, Nancy, spoke highly of them. They’d apparently been quite proactive in the community - setting up a few initiatives and taking over the youth camp near the Henbane River when it had been threatened with bankruptcy.

“Don’t know if it’s the same one, but I’ve heard a little about some Seed family around here,” Rook told her, frowning thoughtfully. The girl was poorly hiding her flash of curiosity as Rook continued. “I think they head up a local church; they run a few things in the area.”

Callie nodded slowly, not looking at her but clearly taking in the information with at least a little bit of interest. Rook wondered whether the girl - or her late mother - was religious; if they were, it could help smooth over some of the introduction, give her and her father something to bond over. Or perhaps she was just being desperately optimistic.

A too-eager churchgoer for the girl’s father left Rook feeling a sense of worry in her stomach. She’d spent only a small amount of time with her, but given the state this girl was in after her mother’s death - the way she seemed to have been dealing with it in a prickly, anger-prone nature - Rook worried whether an exuberant or overly pushy figure in her life might lead the girl to reject him entirely. And that, she knew, would no doubt lead to another runaway attempt - one that might prove more successful than the current one, if the weather was willing.

She began to tap a small rhythm on her coffee mug again thoughtfully.

“Are you…not even a little curious?” Rook asked gently, tilting her head. The girl’s eyes flickered over to her, brow creasing as Rook continued. “What he’s like?” She hesitated a second and her voice lowered as she pressed on with caution. “Do you…really not want to even meet him?”

The girl didn’t answer, but a flash of hesitation came over her. Rook frowned, but didn’t want to press her further as the girl’s eyes fell down to the flannel at her side. Her face twisted into something like anguish, as her brow creased and her eyes welled up in frustration; hand rising only to clench into a fist and fall back on her leg too forcefully to be accidental.

It hit Rook in an instant. The hesitation, the acting out, the runaway; the girl felt guilty. She probably was curious about the stranger who was now her father, she probably did want to see him. But in doing so - in even wanting to do so - did she feel like it was a betrayal? Like she was conceding something; saying that her mother was somehow replaceable.

In playing such a pantomime; the self-sacrificial martyr could see her mother at the end of her days and proudly proclaim that she had never betrayed her. Yet, Rook knew that the sort of person who could inspire such love was unlikely to be pleased with their daughter deliberately isolating herself from a misplaced sense of loyalty.

It was a foolish thought. Yet grief was rarely anything else.

“You’re allowed to be curious, you know,” Rook said, quiet but firm - if this girl had created her own moral restrictions, then all Rook could do was provide opposing permissions.

The girl didn’t reply, still not looking up. For a moment, Rook wondered whether she’d even been heard. She pressed on nonetheless.

“You’re allowed to meet him,” Rook continued.

This time, the girl looked up at her, and in her eyes was the expression of every runaway; someone desperate and lost. Someone who wants to go home, even if they don’t yet know what their home might be.

Rook breathed in deeply, before reaching down to her bag. She rummaged around for a few moments - cursing her own lack of organisation - and pulled out a slightly crinkled notepad and pen. Flicking it open, she scribbled down her work number.

“Here,” she said, tearing the page off and passing it over. “Whatever you decide to do, you can take this and give me a call if you need help.”

She hoped that if things didn’t go well, that maybe having a number to call would prevent the girl from wandering off into the wilderness and never being heard from again. But perhaps, if she knew that there was someone who was on her side, she might feel brave enough to move forward.

A flash of headlights interrupted the moment, and Rook glanced out the window to see one of the local mechanics from Falls End pulling into the carpark. Her eyes boggled - it had only been an hour and a half since she’d made the call; this sort of efficiency was highly disturbing in Hope County.

The mechanic stepped out and glanced over to where Rook’s sad little car sat off to the side of the road, deflated tires looking like a wretched, popped balloon. She swore she saw the man laugh.

“That’s me,” she said, picking up her cooled drink and downing the rest in a large gulp. “I’ve gotta go sort this out.”

She was stepping away and about to head to the door when the girl’s voice stopped her.

“I’ll do it,” Callie said, voice soft and reedy. Her brow furrowed and she cleared her throat before speaking again, firmer this time. “I’ll go meet him.” She shrank again, eyes falling back to the table. “Could you… come with me?”

Rook stood still for a moment, processing. It was certainly not lost on her how difficult it must have been for the girl to ask. Rook’s eyes crinkled as she smiled warmly.

“Sure thing, kid.”

One hour and a phone call to a very distressed social services worker later, they pulled into the Seed ranch.

Rook hadn’t been here before, but she remembered hearing Nancy rave about what a lovely place it was and how it could “really put Hope County on the real estate map!” The last comment had resulted in groans from the other deputies; the last thing they wanted was an influx of rich city folk looking for a novel country house to sit empty until it was used at a whim.

While this sprawling ranch looked large, it did not look empty.

Three brothers stood in the driveway as she pulled in. The rain was gentle now; not pinpricks but a pattering, deigning to relent in mercy for the meeting taking place. Two umbrellas stood tall, offering the brothers some comfort as they watched her car amble into the driveway.

Rook and Callie sat for a moment, the girl’s own window facing away from the men, something she was taking full advantage of as she stared out at the trees without really seeing anything.

“Hey,” Rook said softly. “How are you feeling?”

The girl was silent for a moment, before turning her head to look at her - the rustling of the movement sounding as loud as a gunshot inside the car. Her flannel had dried enough for her to wear again, and she pulled it at the sleeves to draw it tight as a blanket around her.

“It’s huge,” Callie replied, pointedly looking through the front windshield. “That’s a fucking airstrip.”

“Language.” Rook sighed - she really hoped that wasn’t her brief influence - then raised an eyebrow. “Hey, if you want to run away again, at least you can do it in style now.”

The girl snorted, before letting her eyes fall down to her backpack between her legs. Her hands were curled tightly around one of its arms.

Rook gave a quick glance towards the men in the driveway, waiting patiently for them. A woman was stumbling out of the house to join them, awkwardly shaking out her own umbrella - Rook assumed that was the social services worker she’d spoken to on the phone.

She turned back to the girl.

“Shall we?”

“Wait,” Callie said sharply, staring somewhat furiously down at her lap.

A few moments passed in silence, before the girl took a large, almost gulp of air.

“Okay,” she said, impulsively wrenching her side door open and stepping out forcefully - as though afraid she’d change her own mind.

They stepped out into the driveway - Rook having pilfered an umbrella out of the car’s backseat - and walked towards the congregation. From a distance, she’d already figured out which of the men in front of her was the girl’s father - camo-decked, tall and face withdrawn in an expression she’d seen far too many times that day to count.

It was to her surprise then, when the man beside him stepped out from underneath the umbrella and walked towards them. His expression was welcoming, magnetic and he was oddly unfazed by the rain seeping into his bone-white shirt.

Behind him, the other two men slowly followed.

“Hello, my child,” the first man said, smiling gently. He knelt down in front of the girl, a strange move that put him well below her height rather than level with her - something that ought to have been awkward, but the man had an indescribable charisma that managed to pull it off.  

Rook’s eyebrows rose.

“You’re her father?” She asked, trying to keep the surprise from her voice even as her eyes unwillingly glanced over to the redhead coming up behind him.

The man looked at her now, peering up through yellow glasses.

“I am not,” he said, giving a sheepish laugh and a shake of his head. “It’s simply a habit.” He turned his eyes back to the girl in front of him. “My name is Joseph. I am your uncle.”

“You’re the… church leader?” Rook asked, trailing off as she wasn’t certain what denomination she was dealing with.

The man smiled indulgently.

“I am the Father, yes,” he replied.

Catholic, she assumed.

Joseph stood once more and glanced at the tall man behind him.

“And this is my brother, Jacob,” he said softly, smiling down at his niece.

But the girl was not looking at her uncle; her eyes had already latched onto the redhead who had come to stand at his younger brother’s side.

He was staring right back at her.

The two were in a strange sort of deadlock, perhaps not even consciously, yet it seemed to Rook that neither were actually seeing the other. They stared as though seeing someone in a television screen, someone real, someone they could watch without needing to be present - without needing to be perceived themselves. They could see the other, but safely from a distance.

Unlike his brother, Jacob did not kneel to be below the girl’s level. Somehow, Rook knew that Callie preferred it that way.

Joseph gestured to Jacob, even though he surely knew that the two already were well aware of who it was they were looking at.

“Your father,” he said, the words quiet but they could have truly been a whisper for all they still sounded like shattering glass.

The girl seemed to snap out of her strange trance, and whipped her head to the side, face scrunching up into a frown. Her hand reached out to clasp Rook’s, squeezing tightly as a vice with unexpected strength that nearly made Rook wince.

It was a surprising gesture, but perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Rook met the girl’s eyes and gave a reassuring smile. Whether it worked or not was unclear, but at the very least, Callie turned her head back around again.

She did not look at her father, however; her eyes latched onto the frazzled social services worker standing behind the men. Sometime in the past few minutes, the woman’s umbrella had flipped inwards - making her scowl as she was trying to right it. The last of the three men - a man dressed in blue - had been gracious enough to give the woman some coverage with his own umbrella as she worked.

A flash of guilt came across the girl’s face.

“Sorry, Mary,” she mumbled, mouth twisting.

Rook wondered if Callie was aware of how every man in that driveway seemed to hang onto her every word.

Glancing over at the young girl, Mary’s face smoothed out into an exasperated smile.

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” she huffed out. Her umbrella back in place, she stepped away from the other man with a grateful nod, and seemed content to stand a distance away and allow the meeting between the girl and her family to take place with a semblance of privacy.

The man in blue, now free, seemed all too eager to approach the others. Of all the men, he seemed the most cautious, however; he appeared to be aware of how tenuous the situation truly was - that their very presence was not going to inherently make a happy family - and thus he wanted to give her some space even as he came to meet them.

Though he could not hide his eagerness, he at least made an attempt to not stare directly at her and risk her discomfort, even as his eyes shined with poorly-concealed curiosity.

Instead, he turned towards Rook.

“You have my thanks for delivering my niece to us safely.” His smile was too sharp, but Rook simply attributed that to the stress of the situation. “You are a deputy, yes?”

She nodded.

“Deputy Rook,” she introduced herself politely, yet continued to keep an eye on the girl beside her, who was intermittently staring at her father (and looking away again) as Joseph tried to coax her into some sort of conversation. Her father, similarly, did not speak a word.

“Then you have my thanks, Deputy Rook,” John repeated, stressing her name.

Rook smiled back half-heartedly, but she sensed the polite dismissal for what it was.

She knew it was time to go.

She squeezed the girl’s hand to get her attention, and the girl turned to face her - breaking off from one of her many staring contests.

Rook passed the handle of the umbrella over to Callie, who frowned and opened her mouth to protest.

“I’ve got others at home,” Rook said before the girl could speak. “You keep this one.”

Callie’s eyes widened as she realised that Rook was about to leave. She managed to somehow squeeze Rook’s hand even tighter, as though it would keep her there, but she said nothing. Pride, perhaps; a desire to not look like a child at the school gate begging a parent to stay.

But Rook was merely an interloper here, after all.

She smiled reassuringly, and with a small nod over to the men, she and the girl took a few steps off to the side for some semblance of momentary privacy. Behind them, Rook could feel the stares of the brothers like pinpricks against her skin, but she paid them no heed.

“Hey, these guys are real excited to meet you,” Rook murmured, the girl’s eyes owlish but intently focused on her. “They want you here. They want to look after you.”

The girl’s face scrunched into a frown again, but Rook saw the genuine temptation in the expression - the hope - and she knew that everything was going to be okay.

And perhaps she might have left it at that. She might have walked away without a second thought, and left the girl to reunite with her family in a picturesque happy ending.

She might have been content, were it not for a sudden, very illogical pang of unease in her stomach.

There was no reason for it - the three men in the driveway seemed innocuous, and she had heard only good things about them from the station’s receptionist. But as she felt their eyes trained on her as she spoke to the newest member of their family, there was a strange, almost primal prickling at the nape of her neck that made her reach down to her jacket pocket.

Discreetly, she caught the girl’s eye, and glanced meaningfully down at the phone that was just visible to only her.

“Remember,” she reminded the girl, who picked up on her meaning instantly. “Anything you need.”

Callie’s eyes narrowed, the expression oddly mature on her young face, and nodded intently.

Rook straightened back up, smiling again and thoroughly unaware that in only a few months, she would receive a message only hours before the county fell into chaos. That the runaway in front of her would make good on her habit once more and Rook would find out that the girl’s father and uncles would tear the county apart to try and find the girl in their own, incredibly misguided attempt to protect her.

And that she and Callie both would find themselves in Jacob Seed’s bunker come the end of the world.  

Rook shook off her unexplained anxiety, smiling down at the girl reassuringly as she stepped back to face the crowd beside her. She bid a quick farewell, and soon watched the back of a flash of red hair in her rearview mirror as she pulled out of the Seed Ranch’s driveway.

She should be proud, Rook knew. She’d helped reunite a family. She’d helped deliver a runaway to her new - and surprisingly large - home. Things were undoubtedly looking up for the girl she’d only barely been able to convince to not run off into the wilderness.

She’d done a good deed today.

Merrily, she drove towards Falls End, and allowed the resurging storm outside to drown out the soft alarm bells ringing in her head.

She looked like him, Joseph had said.

She looked like him, but not like the old man…and that was surely a mercy.

Her eyes were trained on the table - finding some hidden meaning in the ripples of the wood. A flannel shirt - faintly sodden - clung to her skin, a gentle sort of protection against the weather. It might have given her comfort, Jacob thought, seeing the way her fingers curled around the edges of her sleeves like a blanket she could draw over herself to keep her fears at bay.

To keep him at bay. A father she didn’t know, had never asked for, and didn’t want. The way she’d clung to that deputy’s hand like she was half-tempted to ask them to spirit her away. A lesser man might have let her; might have let themselves take the easy way out, to leap on the first opportunity to let the unforeseen daughter willingly scurry back out of their life and believe it a mercy.

But Jacob would be strong. Jacob would not be a lesser man.

A gentle cough - almost missed - came from the doorway to the kitchen. His eyes flickered over to see John standing by with two plates, still steaming from the stove-top. Casting a quick look back to the girl - satisfied she would not go running off into the storm in his momentary absence - he walked over to take the meals from his brother.

“Not joining us?” He asked softly.

John shook his head, despite giving a glance over to the girl with poorly-concealed curiosity.

“Not yet,” he replied. “I convinced Joseph that she will need some time alone with you first.”

With her father, Jacob thought, filling in the blanks with a startled jolt.

John gave a rueful half-smile. “Joseph wanted to argue, of course.”

Jacob could certainly believe it. He hadn’t entirely been convinced of the resemblance between the girl and himself when he’d first caught sight of her - that would be the mercy; to look more like the bright woman he remembered than he who bore the face of a madman. But then he’d seen Joseph’s expression; the way his eyes had softened the second he’d seen her, lips parting in a soundless, almost reverent gasp, and Jacob had immediately been convinced.

Joseph saw the brat of a boy that Jacob had been. Joseph did not see the face of a mad preacher.

Jacob must have been silent for too long, absently staring over at the little girl who was now his daughter, as John gave a soft contemplative hum.

“She has nothing to compare you to,” he said, almost callously apathetic for what he revealed. His brothers had been busy with the social services worker, it seemed. “You have no… replacement father that she is secretly wishing to return to. This family shall be her first…proper harbor.”

A lifetime ago, the calculated nature of his brother’s words might have alarmed him, but now only a deep-seated part of him was callously glad that he would be her only father. A late father, but the only.

There was an even darker part of him that knew there was spite in his gladness; a final chance of vindictiveness to the mad preacher - that in this, he might meet the old man at the end of his days and relish his success at his father’s disgusting failure.

He nodded to John, giving a soft noise of acknowledgment before he took the plates in hand and returned to the table where his…daughter still sat in silence. The sound of his setting the meal down in front of her felt like cannon fire, down to a harsh reverberation ringing in his chest.

The girl briefly looked up, eyes snapping to him quickly before determinedly falling down to stare at the cooling vegetables and meat. Her brow creased, and something like uncertainty crossed her face.

She cleared her throat and paused a moment before she spoke.

“I…don’t know if I can eat all this,” were the first words his daughter ever said to him.

He was silent, hands leaning on the back of the wooden chair for support as he stared down at the girl who looked like him. A spell had been broken, it seemed; a fugue state shattering now that she had spoken to him for the first time. Now, the present truly hit him. Now, it was real.

He blinked abruptly, raising his head to stare away at the distant window - rain hitting the glass like tiny rubber bullets. With one of his men, Jacob might have been critical; the privilege of denying oneself food was one he viewed with no shortage of disdain. But this was his child, a sudden creature to whom he now had a god-given role as protector and living sword.  

“That’s okay,” he murmured in reply.

They lapsed once more into a silence, but this time it felt more comfortable; something they both initiated but were content to sit in. He took his place beside her, setting to eat his own share. The warmth of the fireplace seeped into their very bones, and he imagined the girl was glad for it - having been out in the rain for most of the day.

He wondered if she would try to run again. He wondered what he would do. It was the project’s way to know - and enforce - what their flock needed better than they did themselves. And yet, the thought of trying to assert his own will over his child left him feeling somewhat disconcerted. Would that not be like him?

He dismissed the thought quickly; he would never raise a hand against her, and anything he did would be for her own benefit. The Collapse was coming, and this girl sitting now beside him, digging through her food with a fork and clutching at the hem of a well-worn flannel, would be kept safe from it.

Jacob would ensure it.

I hope you enjoyed! Calpurnia is technically my New Dawn captain, but in my 'canon' au, she obviously never meets Jacob. I wanted to be a little realistic in the dynamic between them here, in that yes, Jacob obviously wants to look after her and takes his role seriously here, but also he is still doing everything that he does in the cult and that will still affect his mindset. I don't intend her to be facing any physical violence in her future from them, but they will of course be trying to 'keep her safe from the Collapse.' Cult leader exceptionalism is playing a big part here of course, but I view that as pretty true to the game - the brothers all have a lot of cult leader exceptionalism going on, so I'm naturally extending that to Callie here too. She gets to go through the gates because she's a Seed, she doesn't have to do anything like atonement (one because she's a child and it's not shown whether that's expected of children in the cult), especially if Jacob doesn't want her to - if Joseph even suggested it, he'd be blocking it, in my opinion. Anyway, thank you for reading, please let me know if you enjoyed! <3

[incorrect-percabeth-quotes]

Annabeth: You need me. You can't even tie your shoes without me!

Percy, sarcastically: Oh, yeah totally. For the first 12 years of my life I just went around tripping over my feet and falling into everything.

Annabeth: So that's why you always have bruises in your baby/kid pictures!

Percy:

Grover:

Sally:

Percy: Are you for real?

[clairelutra]

is there really anything that enables abuse more than defining abusers as "other"? as nonhuman? as people who do horrible things for shits and giggles because they were bored?

because if abusers are really horrible people who do evil things for shits and giggles, then how could you possibly frame this person you love, who you know loves you back, as a horrible evil nonhuman "abuser"? so what if they make you cry day in and day out, if they disable your support network, if they make you dependent on them alone, if they take out their emotions on you, if they kept you in a horrible position and kneecap you when you try to get out, if they lash out for minor infractions, if they promise to do better by you and then just don't—they had their reasons, and you know personally and intimately how justified those reasons are. it's understandable. any human would react that way in those circumstances. that, by definition, disqualifies them from being an "abuser", right? you weren't abused by "an abuser", and thus, you weren't "abused". what right do you have to call your situation bad? other people, who were "abused" by "an abuser" have it much, much worse than you. they're the real victims of "abuse". you, on the other hand, have a slightly dysfunctional relationship with someone who is hurting/unstable/traumatized/thoughtless/et cetera. that's all.

(no. that's abuse.)

[itsabouttimex2]

Ok, ok, HEAR ME OUT-

How about lmk Monkeifam and Bullfam with a Y/N who isn't afraid to throw hands —

Like i mean in a response to trauma or manipulation, becouse i fell it isn't explore enough in this situation -

Sure, your loved that you belived was a friend trapped /kidnapped/gaslight you is heartbreaking and of course you are gonna be sad and more incline to behave butttt-

There is always the other way of absolute rage that comes in once you realized you have been trapped/kidnapped /gaslight ecc- like i don't care anymore, i wanna throw hands, those people are death to me.(even thought this isn't the smarter choice considering the strenght of some of the people here) like them breaking Y/N down so they can comfort them to manipulate them, but then unsurprisingly the get the biggest smack/punch of their life . Just- wow the audacity.

Throwing Hands

Bullfam & Monkiefam

“…is this some sort of pathetic attempt at ‘rebellion’, Y/N? I am not impressed.”

Your hands straight bounce. Like punching a bag of wet cement, the Demon Bull King’s skin just shifts around under your fists, never breaking or bruising. You only shatter yourself against it, leaving you worn and looking foolish.

He might not even punish you, given that it’s likely that you break a wrist on impact.

“Now, look what you’ve done to yourself, foolish child. Did you truly think your mortal flesh could stand a demon king’s might? Well, now you know better.”

You lost your temper and struck him. Immediately, you learn better than to do that ever again, and he considers it lesson enough.

Surprisingly merciful, all things considered. (Partially because he finds it somewhat funny.)

I once said in my yandere alphabet that: “Red Son doesn’t want to waste his time doing something like caning or whipping you”. And though I think that viewpoint is usually true…

This changes that. It’s maybe the only situation where he would actively engage in any form of normalized torture “corporal punishment”.

Being physically attacked switches Red from ‘mildly reasonable, if a bit hair-trigger’ to ‘vicious and cruel’. Through brute force alone does he wrestle you into submission, binding your arms behind your back with a pair of metal cuffs.

He tosses you onto the nearest bed and couch before burning the lower half of your clothing off. He then takes up a thin metal rod to utilize in “disciplining” you, sharply lashing it down against your now unprotected skin. He’ll leave puffy, bleeding welts from the top of your rear to the bottom of your thighs, ensuring that you won’t even be able to think about walking for at least a week.

Problem is that not only does it not solve the problem of you being scared and angry, it also just… makes him feel bad afterwards. It breaks him, seeing you weep brokenly over his bed. Blood sluggishly trickles from the skin he’s lashed open, and you scream your lungs out into the sheets as you try to adjust to the pain.

And then he “has to” (wants to, in truth) settle in for some awkward form of aftercare, offering lotion and bandages. When you don’t accept, he forces you to drink a cup of honeyed tea loaded with sedatives because you won’t stop shrieking.

Antiseptic while you’re asleep, a few stitches here and there, then the lotion and bandages he tried earlier. And then a few cautious back rubs, trying to calm your fitful slumber.

“Gods, Y/N… what have I done to you? I… I was just… I was… no, I… I’m sorry.”

An outright dodge. Princess Iron Fan has no time for your nonsense. For trying, she’ll lock you into whatever room has been set aside for you, barring the door with powerful magic.

One shallowly-filled bowl of food every two days, adding just a little bit more to it each day. One ceramic cup of room temperature water every four hours. A change of clothes every three days. Instead of brute force, Iron Fan teaches you through deprivation.

After a month of this, she might see fit you allow you back out of your room, letting you mingle with the family you have been forced to adopt.

After writing her a letter of apology, of course. Two pages. Pray you have the mind to keep your pencil steady.

So very many tears to deal with, probably on both ends. MK knows that he’s doing isn’t all that great, sure… but it’s because he loves you!

Can’t you love him back, please? Ok, he’s been manipulating you! Maybe he’s been driving some friends away! Maybe he’s sent a few clones to tail you around the city! But, please, please- you can’t stop loving him! He just can’t risk having you hurt!

“Please, Y/N! You don’t understand! I’m just trying to keep you safe! You can hit me again, hit me as many times as you want! Just- please, Y/N… I need you. Please…”

His last resort is stuffing you in Shuilian Cave, given that you can’t escape with his or Sun Wukong’s help. Maybe a few ropes to keep you in place. He’ll cry with each knot tied, begging you not to hate him.

Sun Wukong tanks your punch and gives your head a little pat, frowning at the display. “Sorry, bud. Trust me, I know I’m not exactly the good guy here. Go ahead and let it out. I… kinda deserve it, huh?”

The Great Sage knows you have every reason to be upset. Really, you do. All there’s only so much waylaying of emotions to be done, unfortunately. You were going to crack eventually.

He stands firmly in place, one hand rubbing your back while you break your fists against his body, watching you scream and cry. The man is just… unsurprised? He’s starting to realize that he messes up a lot of things.. So just letting you whale on him seems fair, gently trying to shush your angry tears while your skin grinds to bloody pulp against his shredded abdomen.

“How about I make us some tea,” he offers afterwards, surveying your destroyed hands. “And I’ll patch you up. Then… I think you’ve earned yourself an early bedtime for the rest of the week, bud.”

“Oh, kiddo. Do you know what “screwing up” is? After this, they’re gonna put your picture in the dictionary as an example.”

Macaque does not tolerate having hands laid on him. Not by friends, not by enemies. And certainly not by his little student, who is supposed to be wide-eyed and placid, in awe of his every move and strike.

You are supposed to be sweet and respectful. You are supposed to be kind and loving.

And he’s sure that with a little bit of “training”, he’ll get you back to that disposition.

He’ll snap his fingers with an angry snarl, shadows springing all around you like cold wires. You are gagged with a cold ebon muzzle, both your hands locked inside a cuff of swirling black and purple. You want to act like an animal? Macaque will chain you to the wall by your new muzzle and treat you like an animal.

Maybe a few days spent so on a chain so short you can’t lay down will teach you better than to raise a hand against “the only person who even loves you, Y/N!” ever again.

[vxmpyree]

yapping abt ghost who yearns. tw // brief mention of drug abuse

[ 二人分のスペースはありません。- rory in early 20s ]

despite often seeming detached or cold, ghost is not an uncaring man. 

he did not crawl out of a dying home just to throw himself back into the stench of rot for fun. no, he saved his little brother from prodding needles and taut rubber bands. those he cares about and their hardships are tucked in the recesses of his mind. in fact, he wishes he could do more.

he keeps your birthday scrawled across his calendar, and marks it as an important date in his phone just in case he forgets. and he tries to make room for this one day, but price is always telling him about how they need to do this and that. 

if ghost cannot make it home for your birthday, he is devastated, but quietly. when he finally has a gap in his calendar, he catches you off guard by laying himself on you on the couch. he crushes you with the weight of his thick muscle, begging to be reassured that you do not loathe him for his seldom presence without saying it.

oh, how he misses you while he’s deployed. he keeps cheesy photos of you in his wallet, filling up the clear plastic meant for his driver’s license so that he always sees you. but he snaps the leather shut when someone happens to peek over his shoulder. you are his personal slice of heaven. besides, ghost prefers to keep his civilian life thickly separated from his work. you do not know a lick of what he does, other than that he wears a stuffy balaclava for it. 

when he comes home, it is only to drop off his belongings and change into something suitable. his fridge is empty and his television only plays local channels; he isn’t home often, and not just because of work either. 

no, he practically lives with you now, always smothering you with his presence the moment he gets a second of free time. more than half his clothes are at your place, and your mattress has a slight dip now on his side. and all his favorite foods are there too, although he prefers to make yours most of the time. perhaps he’s scared that if he doesn’t go all in, you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. or maybe he really does just like you that much. after all, when he starts to care, he clings. either way, he would never let you know, never give you enough clues.

[who-tf-eats-their-children]

Open Starter - Sins Of Thy Father

Some days, Kronos wondered if it would have just been easier to consume his children. It would have certainly meant less crying, less bumps and bruises, less lectures, less frustration, less parenting. It's not like it would be a surprise, given the fact that he had been 'oh so willing' to cut their father into a thousand pieces and cast them deep into Khaos, and how 'natural' he seemed to look covered in ichor (Primordial Hemera's words, not his), but in those thoughts, he also wonders how he'll be able to look his beloved wife in the eye. If he'd be able to keep up that act, playing the innocent or leaning so far into it he'd lose everything just to give into that darkness his father carved deep into him. "You are a lot like me," he'd say those very few times he'd allow them Above and one of those fewer times he'd let his children into his presence, and even now Kronos can't push down the utter disgust that came from that thought. But... he also can't seem to stand the waiting. The paranoia, jumping at every shadow and twisting and turning each night waiting for his father to get one over on him again. He's the King of the Cosmos now, but it seems like even a King has their own King puppeteering them. What a joke (and oh how easy it would be).

You are roaming--or possibly seeking--when you spot him sitting on a supposedly random mountain in the middle of nowhere (the first and last place Kronos dared speak against his father). There is nothing to his expression or aura, but you feel yourself being tugged his direction anyway. He's sitting on the grass, facing the sunset, looking perhaps... mortal. Manly. Human.

What do you do?

@daonedaonlysk @aura-of-the-winds @least-favorite-hades-kid @littlest-sunbeam-of-hermes @sophia-hunter-of-artemis @xolues-child-of-aelous @unhinged-waterlilly @overlyprotectiveheadcounselor @another-argo @ravensonofdionysus. Once again, the taglist is simply made up of people that seem interested/I've interacted with before, so please feel free to tell me if you want to be added or removed from the taglist :))