#'could you have a person born with their head attached to their knee?'

[savetheplanarians]

While babysitting my pastor's 8-year-old daughter

Her: Are you going to get married? Me: I am not. Her: Me neither. I don't want a man telling me what to do. Me: ...Yeah? Her: Yeah. Because the man is the head of the household, but I want to be my own boss. Also, a husband would be expensive. You would have to spend money to feed him, instead of just yourself. Me: You are so right.

later, while watching a movie in which a dozen small piglets are released into a fancy party, wreaking havoc:

Her: This is why I also don't want kids. They break things. And also are expensive! You have to feed them, and then send them to college! Me: You are so, so right.

[jammed-out]

I Can't Resist

"I've had enough of you thinking you're a person. Here." Your master tossed something at you. It hit the floor skidding across it, stopping an inch from you. You looked down at it from where you were kneeling naked in front of him. "Put that on dog."

You looked down at it. It was a small brown leather dog collar, not even designed for humans. There was a small silver metal tag hanging off of it. You could see that it said "dog" on it. Nothing else. You looked up at them nervously.

"I didn't tell you to hesitate. I said put it on!" They said raising an eyebrow.

Tentatively you reached out one hand, the other kept tightly in your lap. Your fingers touched the leather, it was course and rough and wouldn't feel comfortable on the skin. You wondered how irritating it would be once tightened around your neck. You couldn't help but get a bit nervous and exited at the same time.

Master stomped over ripping the collar out of your hand. "When I tell you to do something. You do it dog!" They gripped your hair pulling your head back. "Or have you forgotten your place again?"

You stared up at their face and wondered how you hand ended up here, like this. Just a few weeks ago you were a top academic, going for your master's degree and now here you are, naked, kneeling before your Master, them ordering you like a dog. You had never even thought of having sex before Master and now you spent every night worshipping their body, doing whatever they told you. Of course they let you out during the day to go pretend that you were still a person, that you had a reason to get your degree, but after graduating you'd be nothing more than a house pet, born for breeding and pleasure.

Master knelt down grabbing the collar and wrapping it around the front of your neck. They pulled it tightly causing you to gasp and whimper, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You could feel their hands methodically fastening the belt through the metal clasp pulling it shut. You felt them start to twist it around your neck, the leather scratching at your skin. A single tear fell down your cheek as you whimpered softly. You wanted to protest and complain but couldn't, you weren't a person.

While you were in Master's house, you weren't allowed to talk. Only people talk, and you were a dog. You weren't allowed to walk on two feet. Only people can do that, and you were a dog. You crawled. You weren't allowed to wear clothes, only people did that, and you were a dog. You were there to be used for pleasure and to sit and obey. Like a good dog.

They tag dangled on your chest, the cold metal pressing just above your collarbone. You swallowed dryly and felt the collar squeeze your neck back. You suddenly felt so aroused it was nearly unbearable.

"That's much better. Now you know you're mine." They looked you over frowning. "But you know what that means. We need to show the world. So..." They reached into their back pocket and pulled out a long leash. Your eyes went wide in fear. They couldn't possibly mean what you thought they meant.

"That's right dog. We're going to go for a walk. After all, you aren't a person, so why should you care how you look going out?"

You felt your arousal spike. The thought that you would be forced to go out looking like this, completely naked, for anyone to see, with only a collar and leash attached to you, it caused you to stick your tongue out and pant. Some part of you hoped none of your friends would see you like this, but the majority of you hoped they did. It would make things so much easier if everyone knew you were a stupid dog.

"Good dog. Now go fetch your tail and we'll get going."

You got down and started to crawl across the floor on your hands and knees. The sooner you had your tail shoved in your ass, the sooner everyone could see what a good dog you were. You could feel yourself dripping on the floor. You knew Master would make you lick that up before you went, only causing you to drip more. You were such a good dog. You were so lucky Master knew what you were after that first date together and you were even luckier, they knew how to make sure you'd never be a person again.

You grabbed your tail with your mouth wrapping your mouth around the plug and began to crawl back. Master stood there waiting, something small and round in their hand. "Good pet. But before we go." Their finger pressed down on the clicker, the loud pop ringing out through the room.

You felt yourself drop, pupils dilating, jaw going slack as you froze in place. You could hear Master reminding you that you were a dog, it echoed around your empty brain. They told you that you were going to see a friend now and you better behave. That good dogs behaved.

You could feel them start to push the plug into your ass, the tail snapping in place tightly with a pop. You didn't react at all. You could hear the click of the leash on your collar and the slight pull as they tested the connection. You just knelt there on all fours, unmoving, empty, waiting for a command.

"Come dog." You heard the click go off and suddenly everything came flooding back. You panted and eagerly hopped over to Master's side. You were so lucky Master found you when they did. It was dangerous for dogs like you to be left in the wild for too long. They needed to be taught to obey. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I hope you all enjoyed that one. Thank you to everyone who voted in the poll last week. I'm going to do a weekly poll with some conceptual ideas I have for things I wouldn't normally write. I'll be putting them up the same time as these, 5pm PST every Wednesday. So be sure to vote for what you want me to write, since the polls are going to be switching to a 24 hour window. And if you enjoyed this, feel free to check out my other writings on here, on ROM, or on Twitter, links in my pinned post.

[neopuppy]

someone bringing up that blast from the past alpha princes jaemin&jeno drabble…. now i’m over here thinking about that jungwoo&jeno hybrid and veterinarian!yn fic we got a tiny taste of 🚬🤏

that was on my old side blog, I’ll post it here for funsies💚

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

“Two of them? Why are they together if they aren’t related?” You question sorting through two clipboards laid out before you. Files for golden retriever and samoyed hybrids stare back at you.

Jeno Lee: 21, born April 23rd. Healthy pure bred samoyed hybrid. Found pan-handling near the beach with Jungwoo Kim. Displays codependency with the golden retriever hybrid.

Jungwoo Kim: 23, born February 19th. Healthy pure bred retriever hybrid. Displays manipulative tactics to get what he wants. Has run away from numerous shelters multiple times.

“Well, the samoyed does whatever the older one tells him to do. It’s like they’ve imprinted on each other. They’re not mates though, and have shown no sign of mating. The samoyed has not rut yet.” Your colleague taps over their sexual history. Jungwoo apparently spending many of his days working in and out of hybrid brothels. “Says he did it so they could survive. He’s a bit promiscuous if you ask me, be careful with that one.”

“Hybrids past 18 years don’t do well. What are we supposed to do with them? Especially two?” You step forward taking a closer look inside the glass revealing the two young boys sharing a bed. Both still in a sleep disoriented state with giant messy fluffy hair covering their ears. The blonde one must be Jungwoo, you think. Following his fingers skimming through the black ball of fur rested on his stomach. The other face mostly hidden still half asleep.

“Adorable right?” With a nudge into your side your assistant nods ahead. “But you’re right- it’s been five months now. They’re both a bit too old to be marketable unfortunately. We’ve had a few customers interested in Jeno, but as noted he seems attached to the retriever.”

As if he could hear you, Jungwoo’s head snaps locking eyes with you through the window. Hand protectively stilling upon the samoyed’s neck. He’s even more breath-taking front on. Sharp mystic eyes blink slowly observing you in return. Mouth puffier than usual after hours of napping.

“Is it.. safe to go inside?” You asks reaching for your lab coat. Both were healthy after all, no history with going rabid in their files.

“Physically? Of course.” Your assistant acknowledges almost sarcastically. A smirk pulling at her lip with a pointed stare to your chest. “But for your heart? You who just got dumpe-..”

“I get it.” You sigh, with hands held up. “I’m not new to cute puppy hybrids. I think I can handle a couple of dogs.”

Without allowing to draw the conversation back to your personal love life mishaps you unlock the door leading into the hybrids quarters. Jungwoo stiffens with a straightened up back, the younger puppy against him muffling in dismay.

Slowly approaching you smile familiar with the nature of hybrids. At times allowing them to scent over your wrist if they were too anxious. The retriever’s eyes dart around, pulling the smaller against him to sit up as well. Whispering something that sounds like- ‘one of the coats is here.’

Glancing up hazily the samoyed spots you, abruptly jerking up wiping his drooled over lips. They stare up cautiously, as if in unison their eyes bounce over your coat.

“Ah, not a fan of the vet are you?” You come to a halt a few feet away from the bed. Clasping your hands with a reassuring nod, you reach for your collar to remove the garment. “I come in peace, no poking and prodding today. Promise.”

The samoyed perks up immediately, shifting position to his knees breaking into a heart shattering smile. Eyes disappearing even more under the mess of hair covering his forehead. His teeth are sharp, small, features giving away his hybrid side. Tail swoshing around in excitement behind him.

“Wow, you’re really pretty!” He squeaks out nearly jumping forward. The older hybrid placing a large hand over his shoulder to keep him in place.

“Jeno..” he warns. Eyes slitting into an icy glare in your direction. “Then what are you doing here? Looks like another psychoanalysis to me. I’ll keep it short for you- no one is going to adopt us no matter how many tricks you teach us.”

Taking a seat at the end of the small bed and giving the room a once over, you note only one bed. It’s no wonder the hybrids bond had not changed since entering the clinic.

“I’ve seen your files, I wanted to introduce myself.” You calmly let them know. The samoyeds smile lights up again. Repeating your name slowly, throwing in another comment of how a pretty name was only fitting.

“You two have been here quite some time, haven’t you?” Solemnly the two agree, faces falling mournfully, trapped with nowhere to go. Both lacking any real training and life experience, unable to fend for themselves in this world; having to accept the lowest form of hybrid work: selling their bodies to survive.

“What if we start you both on some basic education? Enough to at least get you on your feet.” You try to sound encouraging, earning wary looks from the two.

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks right?” Jungwoo offers, scratching the side of his neck as a blush rises up his cheek. “They want to boot us from the clinic or something?”

“Not necessarily..” you sigh taking them both in. Knowing the next steps would end up in turning them both into experiments. Breeding dogs to see what new hybrids the government could concoct for selfish needs. Hybrids often abused beyond acts of pleasure. Used for warfare or violent entertainment to bet on. “…but..”

“I’d rather live on the street. We’re scum to you humans anyway.” Jungwoo interrupts. Jeno huffing in annoyance at his side over how cold it gets, mumbling that he refuses to go back to that life.

“That is not true.” You protests, cooling yourself before continuing. Knowing better than to argue with a hybrid. “It wouldn’t hurt to try something different. Better than losing the little human rights you have?”

Jeno tugs at Jungwoo’s sleeve with pleading eyes. The older hybrids cheeks puff out rolling his in return.

“Fine, we’ll work on learning or whatever.” Jungwoo says, pausing in thought. You’re just about ready to celebrate in clap before he continues- “but only if you teach us.”

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

Jungwoo huffs struck with boredom, blowing his shaggy bangs away. Ears fluffing up looking around for entertainment, ending on you napping on the couch. His back straightens, slowly crawling over on his knees. You were fast asleep after a long day at the hybrid clinic. You worked so hard, exhausting yourself physically and mentally dealing with abused hybrid’s day in and day out.

His fingers trail up your calve curiously, head tilting pondering if you’d changed into anything else under your robe after you’d showered. Washing away the days scent of many hybrid’s the minute you came home. Knowing how sensitive Jungwoo could be to unfamiliar breeds.

He reaches up higher, lifting a flap of your thick dark robe, jolting in surprise when the drowsy half awake puppy shows up behind you. “What are you doing?”

Jeno questions mid-yawn, thumbs rubbing his puffy sleepy eyes, having just woke up from a nap. All he did was nap when you were at work, such a lazy pup. Jungwoo drops the fabric of your robe, scooting back like he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.

“I..nothing…I…” Jungwoo scatters, eyes shifting around buying time with an excuse.

Jeno sets down next to him, flicking his twitching ear. He sighs, dropping his chin to the older pups shoulder. “You’re such a bad liar.”

“I wasn’t lying.” Jungwoo shoves him off. Refocusing on your peaceful rested face. Annoyed Jeno ruined his chances to wake you up in such a stress relieving way. He contemplates for a second, licking his lips eyeing your exposed inner thighs. “Jeno..”

The younger yawns again, brows raising releasing a sound of ‘mmph?’ In response. Jungwoo breaks into a smile, nudging his shoulder.

“You want to see something? I think you’ll really like it.” Jungwoo’s eyes glint in excitement. Finally achieving some form if entertainment, he taps Jeno’s chin, nodding forward in the direction of your laying figure.

“What..” Jeno’s expression turns worried following Jungwoo’s movements. He reaches for the hem of your robe again, opening the flaps to reveal your bare core. Thighs slightly parted enough to clearly see your folds leading down to a tight puckered hole. Jungwoo sucks in a breath of air gazing between your legs, fingers snapping in Jeno’s face.

“Come closer.” Jungwoo orders, pulling Jeno near by his shoulder. The younger’s eyes widen, mouth falling apart, gazing at your most private area.

“We shouldn’t be…doing this..” he swallows, forcing his eyes to lower. A flush of heat rushing to his cheeks picking up the sweet scent emitting from between your thighs.

Jeno often snuck into your room once you’d left for work. Spilling your unwashed clothes from your hamper, sniffing and rolling around coating in your aroma. Whimpering into pairs of underwear leaving behind your most prominent scent. It slammed into him like a truck whenever you’d workout and let him hug around your waist. Cherishing each mixture of flavors whenever alone, daring to steal a pair of your underwear to drape over his cock; writhing and groaning, fucking the fabric trapped in his fisted palm.

“Should you be jerking off into the same pair of dirty stolen panties every night?” Jungwoo taunts, lip lifting in smirk. Jeno falters, mouth opening and shutting flabbergasted. He leans in to the younger’s black furry ear, whispering- “She let’s me touch her pussy all the time. She loves it, cries and begs for more. I know she’d love it if you gave her a kiss, right there.”

Jeno’s eyes nearly burst from his skull, gazing past Jungwoo’s pointed finger aimed between your legs. Large hand covering his shoulder gently nudging him forward. He gulps, shivering nervously, allowing himself to shift closer. Jungwoo reaches for your thigh to softly pull you open further. Both puppies gaze in awe as your folds open up, hole parting, shining enticingly.

Jungwoo settles next to the couch, hand splayed across your inner thigh. He looks up at Jeno seated between your legs, hands wringing nervously, chewing on his lip with an anxious bounce.

“She’s really going to love you if you kiss her right there.” Jungwoo comforts him, reaching closer to tap your clit. A muffled ‘mmh’ releases above as you stir and adjust your shoulders. Deep sleep from such a tiring day holding you captive. “Don’t you want her to love you Jeno?”

The puppy lights up, nodding eagerly. Always seeking praise, attention, pets and extra love. He sinks forward taking in a deep inhale of your scent, eyes shooting open as it travels up his brain. Horny puppy hormones shooting straight to his dick, awakening the feral dog he keeps at bay. His mouth drops, kissing your clit tenderly. Brows furrowed together in pain, cock fattening up between his legs. The dizzying scent pours from your entrance all the more as his lips brush around your sensitive nerves, drawing the pup into a deeper cloud of haze.

“Keep doing that puppy, she likes that.” Jungwoo encourages him. Tongue dragging up your thigh, nibbling soft bites along the way.

Jeno grunts, tongue lapping between your folds like a thirsty animal. Thirsting for more of your taste, seeping down his throat like the best thing he’s ever had. His grunts and ferocious ministrations grow louder and faster. Lips wrapping around your clit with an extra harsh suck.

Your eyes fly open in moan, back arching up chasing his mouth. Jungwoo bites down on your hip roughly, smiling as you look down and find them attacking your lower half. Bewilderment encases your slowly processing half-awake thoughts, spotting the cute ears belonging to your innocent pup between your thighs.

“Jeno?!”

[arabaka]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ gojo satoru x fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: pregnancy. you have a child with gojo. angst/fluff abomination. petname use (baby). hints that reader has a different eye color. WORD COUNT: 597 PSD CREDIT !!! *₊˚💬୧ to the man that has my heart and my wallet.

Gojo thought he knew fear. But then he held your son in his hands for the first time and realized that he, in fact, hadn’t even scratched the surface of the emotion.

Your son bears so much resemblance to him, Gojo can’t help but think that he too, was once like him. Small. Dependent. Pure. In your son, he sees the world and he sees potential. The ability to start anew, free of the burdens he was born with. But he can’t be sure of that, not until–

“Hey baby?” He calls to you from his spot on the floor.

Your head pokes out from the end of the hall, hair up in a sloppy ponytail he insisted he help you with. "Yes?" You can't just take a peek, though; catching Gojo lying next to your 4 month-old is a daily occurrence but you never get tired of seeing it.

You have your phone out by the time you get there, ready to add to the endless digital album, but you catch Gojo, your Satoru, looking a little forlorn. "What's wrong?" Your voice drops to a worried hush, knees dropping hard to the floor but rugburn is the least of your concerns right now. Your fingers clamor for your baby, rushed but delicate in picking him up from the playmat. Gojo reacts just as quickly, disarming the situation with shhs and gentle reassurances. "Everything's fine, sorry, sorry! It's just…"

You hold your baby up, his and Gojo's faces mirroring each other serendipitously, before bringing him close to your chest. You've seen Gojo look this way before, when he's deep in the trenches of thought and you already know what he's going to ask by the time he opens up to speak.

"When will his eyes change color?"

He knows it's an irrational fear. No two users of the Six Eyes can exist at the same time. On top of that, he would have sensed the signature cursed energy from your baby, even more so as he's gotten older. But those facts don't stop his heart from aching just a little bit every time he looks into your son's cerulean blues.

"Satoru…" He knows you share his burden. You have since you promised him eternity. Cutting through the terse moment of silence is your baby, ever the laughing boy, cooing and turning with outstretched arms for one person. His father.

So you lay your baby back down next to Gojo but not without joining your boys on the floor as well. "It could be a few months." Your voice gets a little quieter. "Maybe longer."

His hand finds yours and he holds you tight, craning his head over to see your son, none the wiser to the plight you share. His feet kicking and his hands clumsily reaching for the playmat’s attached mobile, he's the picture of innocence. Gojo wants nothing more than for him to stay that way.

"Hey," You coax Gojo from his spell, "We'll be fine. Even if things aren't." Your thumb runs circles on his knuckles, "Trust me?" You ask but you already know the answer.

It's days, weeks, and then months. Gojo got what he wanted; your baby boy to have your eye color and not a hint of his azure hue. Looking back, he doesn't know why he was so worried when the logic was sound then as it is now. He can breathe a little easier now that–

"Satoru?" You call from the bathroom. "C-Come here!"

Two pink lines stare back at you and then at him.

[rubydubydoo122]

In every universe Jason Peter Todd dies young. It’s a fate sealed across the multiverse. Maybe he could hope that there’s one universe where he doesn’t. aka, Jason, Dick, and Bruce go multiverse hopping, and are not having a fun time. (Ps, when I started writing this fic I hced Jason as Latino, but I don't really believe in that hc anymore, so just a heads up if you don't like that hc)

TRIGGER WARNING -> Child Death (it's Jason)

A child was gone. A child was gone. A child was gone. A child was gone. A child was gone. A child was gone. A child was gone.

Seven children were gone. And another one was about to die. And another one and another one, with every new reality they went to, because that was the pattern. 

It wasn’t just Jason dying. It was Jason dying as a kid, unable to grow old. None of his counterparts would grow old.

None of them spoke. It was like they were frozen in time. Except he knew they weren’t frozen because his knees were trembling and he had to clench his fists to keep them steady. Before he could tell what he was doing, Jason was moving. 

He could tell who was comforting who. If he was clinging to Dick to keep himself from floating away or if Dick’s vice-like hug was to make sure he wouldn’t turn into smoke right in his arms.

Finally, it was Bruce who broke the silence, “We should find somewhere to rest. Maybe sit this universe out.”

And honestly, Dick and Jason were too worn out to realize it wasn’t a very Batman thing to say. In fact, it felt a lot like the Bruce they both knew in their childhood. The man that didn’t have Batman bleeding into the person he truly was– Bruce.

Though now that they were relatively back to their senses, he took his time to look around. The magic was strong in this universe. Specifically soul magic.

The sould didn’t feel like they were on a separate plane, like how he learned with Ducra. It felt like each and every soul had the ability to pass through the veil and take on a form in the physical world. Like if everyone had the ability to summon their own version of the All Blades.

They were in some sort of museum. Except, It didn’t feature dinosaurs or WWII artifacts. No. It seemed to feature winged skeletons, but attached to humans. Except they weren’t really attached. As far as Jason could tell, the anatomy didn’t really line up for the back of the ribs to connect with the wings. Though Jason could feel the connection between the wings and the skeleton that ran soul deep.

Bruce smoothed out Jason’s hair,  “Come on, lets go.”

As soon as they got outside, they realized what was different about this universe. There were people with wings. From the shape of a falcon to a songbird, from the wing of a dove to a vulture. He could tell that each and every set of wings was a reflection of that person’s soul. It was their soul.

He thought about Bruce. Maybe his wings would be some sort of Eagle. Strong, sharp, intelligent. Though, those are more qualities of a person, not a soul. And an Eagle didn’t really seem to fit Bruce. You can’t really describe a soul with words. It’s just an energy, a vibe. 

What would Dick’s look like? Dick, a man who was born to fly. Him having Robin wings felt a little too on the nose. He had to have giant wings that drew eyes and signaled comfort. Jason couldn’t really think of a specific wing that would portray that. Unless his wings were unique, and unlike anything anyone has seen.

He wondered what his wings would look like. Would his soul, a soul strong enough to wield the All-Blades, have giant wings that were majestic? Or was he too broken? Would his wings only manifest as a few measly feathers. 

They got to a motel, and the receptionist noticed them immediately, “Oh! Mr. Wayne! I didn’t expect anyone of your status to ever stay somewhere here.”

Bruce gave her one of his signature Brucie Wayne smiles, “It was the closest place.”

She looked from Dick to Jason and gave him a soft smile back, “Rough night out?”

“You could say that.”

She handed them a key, “The room’s on the house. After all you and your sons do for the city, it’s the least we could do.”

Bruce looked a little confused, “Are you sure? I have enough money–”

“Yes, yes, please. I insist. You and your family are the Guardian Angels of Gotham. My boss would throw a fit if he realized I made you pay. Now go! Rest! It’s the least you could do.”

“Oh.” Bruce took the key, “Thank you.”

As soon as they got to the room, Dick face planted onto the colossal bed (For the wings? But sleeping with those seemed like work). Then he rolled over and started pushing all the sheets to the middle. Like he used to do when Jason was visiting the Titans. 

Dick was the type of person who didn’t sleep with any blankets, whereas Jason bundled himself like a burrito. Jason could sleep without them– his time on the streets and in the league made that a necessity– but when given the choice, he’d take the protection and safety blankets provided. 

Of course he knew he could trust Dick to catch him when he fell, or to protect his back, but it took a while for Jason to trust Dick like that . He remembers, way back in the beginning, he used to sleep on the giant couch in Titan’s tower, which slowly turned into sleeping on the ground in Dick’s room. Then to the opposite end of the bed with a pillow wall separating them. 

There was that time, it was a couple nights before Dick left for space. Jason had went to Titan’s Tower after Gloria Stanson died and the whole situation with Fellipe Garzonas. And Dick, he just held him in his arms. Leaning his cheek on top of Jason’s curls. Not saying anything, and just holding him. He didn’t ask any questions. He just gave him comfort.

It was hard for Jason to trust people like that. Trust people enough to be vulnerable around them. Though once Jason trusted someone, nothing they did could break that trust. Sure, they could disappoint him, like Bruce and Sheila, or even in some ways Talia, but he still trusted them with his whole being. Even if he knew Dick didn’t trust him. He probably didn’t see Jason as anything more than a… coworker, or a person who took the face of a kid he maybe used to care about, Jason trusted Dick more than anyone else in the world. He was his big brother. 

Jason rolled himself up in the blankets and scooted until his forehead was slightly touching Dick’s shoulder. Dick immediately melted relaxed That couldn’t be right. Maybe he was just really tired.

Soon he could hear Dick’s breathing even out and knew he was asleep.

He thought about how Jay from the Alley, and Baby Jay would never get that big brother. How the Robin Jays barely got close enough to really know Dick as a brother before they died. Even he didn’t really have the rights to call Dick his brother. Not as much as Tim or Damian, or even Duke. Quality over quantity, and by the time Jason truly opened up he died. They all died.

Jason knew there were infinite realities. He knew there were many realities where he lived, but there had to be equally as many where he died. Maybe even more.

Maybe by coming back to life, he caused one of these many Jasons to die. Maybe that’s why they were on this multiversal adventure. The transporter device is trying to find a reality where his soul fits. Maybe it doesn’t fit anywhere anymore.  

“Can’t sleep?”

He shrugged. Jason knew Bruce would notice he wasn’t really asleep. He was Bruce, he couldn’t not notice. He was somehow simultaneously the most observant and the most obtuse person he knew. 

They sat in the silence that always felt so loud between the two of them. Sometimes, Jason felt like they were the tides and the moon. He knew Bruce was always trying to reach out to him, but in the end, the gravity of Gotham will always be greater than Jason’s. 

He heard Bruce shift in his seat, “Do you… do you remember those nights we’d stayed up all night in the library reading poems?” 

Jason nodded. Of course he remembers. Most of the poems he’d been telling all the versions of himself had been from those nights. 

He also remembered the reason they were up all night. Most of the time it was because they had run into someone he used to work for. He could never sleep after being so starkly reminded of his past. And it was near impossible to build up the guts to get in a bed those nights. 

He remembers sitting in the papasan chair in the library feeling like a bird. He remembers Bruce sitting on the far end of the couch, because even then, he knew. Of course he knew. 

He remembers them going back and forth reading poems they thought the other would like. He remembers watching Bruce’s eyelid get heavier and heavier with each blink, but he still stayed up with him. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke up, the poetry books they’d been skimming through were left on the coffee table with green flags marking the poems Jason had liked and orange ones marking the ones Bruce did. Though the only ones Jason ended up memorizing were the pink ones, which both of them enjoyed.

“I never told you, but I used to do that with my mother. Not staying up late, but we used to sit in the Library after I had come home from school, and we’d– we did that too.” 

Jason didn’t really know what to say to that. ‘ Was anything we did original to us?’ or ‘ I special enough to you to the point where you let me share what you once had with your mother?’.

In the end Jason didn’t say anything, because Bruce continued, “Remember the poem ‘Still I Rise’ , by Maya Angelou?”

He nodded. It used to be his favorite. He remembered finding it the first poetry night he and Bruce spent together. Jason had read it first. And almost every poetry night they had they would come back to that one. They both had it memorized.

“It used to be my mother’s favorite too.” 

Jason could never forget the way Bruce read the poem to him. The way he seemed to not just read the poem, but express it. 

He always found it interesting that Bruce, a white man, could resonate with that poem. Though now that he thought of it, Bruce always read it like he was recalling a memory. So maybe Martha Wayne, a Jewish woman, helped him understand.

“Though, after the first time you read it out loud to me, I could only think of that poem being yours.” Bruce paused like he was debating saying something, and seemed to ultimately decide against it.

Jason didn’t know what to say. He had too much to say. Too many thoughts and feelings and actions that float around in his mind but never make it past the layers upon layers of thorns he uses to hurt people. The thornes he uses to protect himself. 

He wanted to tell Bruce to stop playing with his feelings, but he also wanted Bruce to hold him like he held the boy who was long dead. He wanted Bruce to stop using old memories like a carrot on a string just out of reach. He wanted to tell him of the nights he yearned for Bruce’s voice to lull him to sleep through the pattern of the stanzas. He wants to smack Bruce upside the head and tell him that he’s no longer the boy who died and that he’s still the same person. He wanted to scream that he was here and that he hates the person he’s become. Except he wasn’t sure if he hates Bruce or himself.

He couldn’t stand being in the same room as him. He missed him even though he was two feet away. He hated him because he loved him and that love would never be enough. He just wanted to call him Dad, and not worry about Batman taking that away.

In the end all Jason could say was, “‘s our poem.”

He heard Bruce shift, “Is…is it still our poem?”

Jason nodded, Now more than ever. There were nights, he remembered, during the league, during his early Red Hood days, even now, when the only way he can fall asleep is by reciting poems. Bruce’s voice almost lucid in his head. So when Bruce started speaking he had to remind himself that Bruce was really there. Reciting the poem for him.

“You may write me down in history; With your bitter, twisted lies; You may trod me in the very dirt; But still, like dust, I'll rise; Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells; Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns; With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.

“Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries?Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard; ’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines; Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.

“Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise; That I dance like I've got diamonds; At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame; I rise; Up from a past that’s rooted in pain; I rise; I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear; I rise; Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear; I rise; Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave; I am the dream and the hope of the slave. 

“I rise. I rise. I rise.”

Jason didn’t remember falling asleep, but he certainly remembers waking up. Because it felt like his soul was being– he couldn’t even describe it. It just felt like his soul was in trouble, but not his soul. It was like it was being ripped out of Jason’s body–

The Jason of this Universe.

He sat up, and realized he was seeing double. Nope not double, there were two Bruces and two Dicks. And an ten/eleven year old Tim, and Stephanie. 

So the stalker probably stumbled across them, and their Jay must’ve gone missing, so they came to them for help. Except their Jay couldn’t be dead because Bruce Dick and Jason were still in this universe. 

Tim, tilted his head like a bird, “Is your arm glowing a normal thing for you?”

Jason looked down. His soul marks. Except Jason didn’t feel any evil entity near him . Was… was Jay being hunted by an Untitled?

Dick, the older one, replied “No.” At the same time Bruce replied with, “Yes.” 

Jason closed his eyes. He’s never been the best at astral projecting, but hopefully trying to track his own soul would make it easier.

The museum.

He made eye contact with Steph who looked bewildered, and spooked all at the same time. So she was probably their witness, 

He stood and headed towards the door, making a motion for everyone to follow, “What’s happenin’, Blonde?” 

“They- They took Jason and it’s all my fault.”

Jason snapped his head back because usually Steph was not one to be so open while being self loathing, “Oi, cut the guilt. Knowing myself, Jay probably chose to get taken rather than you. So tell me what’s goin’ on. And I want a story, no self loathing.”

Steph stepped into pace with Jason, and took a deep breath, “I was helping this kid, she needed help, but she wasn’t trusting me enough to help her. So…so I showed her my wings.” She said it like it was a bad thing. 

He guessed it could be, showing your soul to a stranger, but people flew around with their wings on full display, as far as Jason could tell, it was fine.

“Hm, I dunno if my Bruce has told you this yet, but we’re from a different Universe. One where only birds and bats have wings. I don’t really know the Socio-political climate here. What’s… why was it wrong to show this kid your wings?”

Tim ran up to Jason’s other side, “Wings are a physical manifestation of your soul. There are certain wing types that are super rare. And because they’re so rare,  they’re made to be… a spectacle. People who have mythical creature wings, like, Dick, are you ok with me using your parents as an example?”

Dick, the younger one, gave a wistful smile.

“Mr. Grayson had these huge dragon wings, and- and Mrs. Grayson’s wings were absolutely beautiful! They were Psyche’s wings. Do you guys have the myths of Dragons and Psyche in your world– Nope, I’m getting off topic. The more… I wouldn’t say pure or good, because you can’t really describe a soul with words, but usually your wings mirror your soul, and if you have more mythological wings, the more… magic your soul has. Though, if you’re not careful about who you show your wings to, you’ll probably get trafficked if you have pretty ones. That’s what Jason told me.”

Jason nodded. Then stopped in his tracks as the realization hit like a bus, and spun around, “The receptionist called you,” he pointed at Bruce, “And you,” he pointed to Dick, “the ‘ Guardian Angels of Gotham’ . Does that mean you’re really… ”

They nodded. “I have Powers Wings and Dick has Virtues.”

They were angels . He was literally standing in front of angels . 

Jason turned around and continued walking while whispering  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. ” under his breath. He touched his forehead, his chest,  his left and right shoulders and then brought his hands together, “Amen.”

That also meant they didn’t have secret identities, but he was in the presence of angels.

Dick– not the angel one– cleared his throat. “So, you… also have angel wings, Steph?”

She nodded, lip wobbling, “But I didn’t notice there were other people in the alley, and like Tim said Jason said, when you have special wings you get taken and– and before I knew it, Jason was jumping down into the Alley, spreading his wings and telling me to run, and- and he got taken.”

Bruce, the literal angel, face looked conflicted between proud and worried, “He spread his wings? He doesn’t show them to anyone .”

Angel Dick made a pinched face, which meant Dick The Angel knew what wings Jay had. God, he was probably– he probably had songbird wings or something. If he had any other wings, he probably would have a mental breakdown.

They walked through the doors of the museum, as Tim tugged at Jason’s sleeve, “Why are your hands glowing?” 

The feeling of his soul being chiseled out chip by chip became almost overbearing. “Kinda… kinda like your wings, but I got swords instead.” He placed his hand to his heart, to keep it from bursting out of his chest, but it wasn’t working. “Timbo… do you also have Angel wings?”

He nodded, “I have Dominion wings. They’re not as cool as Jason’s though.”

Tim was a literal angel too. And… if these traffickers targeted people with special wings, he couldn’t let Tim and Steph wherever those traffickers were. He couldn’t let another Tim watch his brother die “Alright, I have a really important task for you and Steph.” Jason crouched down so he could be face to face with them. “Whenever I use my soul sword, it takes a lot of energy out of me, cus it’s ya know, a sword that comes from my soul. Do you guys have gatorade here? Specifically lime green.” they both nodded, “Do you also have Arizona Iced Tea, Space Rocks– not pop rocks, there’s a difference– Sour gummy worms, but they have to be the Candy Works Brand, and those strawberry hard candies that grandmas always have–”

“The ones with the gooey center?”

“Yes! Those! Along with the butterscotches they usually have on them too. I need you two to find all of those things. Then I need you to mix the drinks and the gummy worms together, but not the Space Rocks or the old lady candy. Then, I need you to put an old lady candy in your mouth and chant  ‘Acres of All, give All strength.’ Keep chanting until you’ve dissolved three candies each , ok? It has to be three strawberries, three butterscotches.” They nodded again, “And then, once you’re done with the old lady candies, you have to throw the pop rocks into the gummy worm drink, and say, ‘ soul replenisher’ until all the bubbles from the Space Rocks fizzle out. Make sure to take your time. If you rush it, my soul will become very weak.”

Steph and Tim nodded solemnly, “We won’t let you down, Giant Jason.” and they ran off to go find the ingredients.

Jason stood up and walked deeper into the museum, where his astral projection went, but all it led him to was the center of the museum. He could feel his own soul. He could feel the evil presence nearby. They were close enough to where he could summon the All Blades, but he kept them away. Not yet. There had to be a hidden door somewhere. 

He paused in the middle of the room. There were wings with feathers preserved in resin. 

Seraphim Wings. 

All three sets of wings were open wide, they weren’t curled in to veil the angel like they were supposed to. They were spread open. They looked wrong . Then he saw the plaque.

The wings of Thomas Wayne. The first Seraphim in centuries. Seraphim feathers hold special healing qualities that are even rumored to be able to heal fatal wounds. These feathers lose their healing ability after the Seraphim dies. 

Jason felt his blood run cold. This… this was worse than the case that held the suit he died in. This was a dead soul on display– no. This was a trapped soul. Never to be set free. Never to be at rest. 

Dick frowned, confusion slowly making way for horror, “But, Tim said that… your wings are your souls.”

Jason grabbed his Bruce by the elbow before he could fall to the ground.

“Bruce–” He wasn’t sure which Dick said it to which Bruce, but Angel Bruce cut him off.

“I had no say in it. I can never forgive Alfred for it, but this Gotham, this world , it isn’t just magic. It’s also cursed and corrupt. It was the only way he could keep me from living a life in a fighting pit or a cage.”

Angel Dick’s eyebrows scrunched up in worry, “ Br –”

“What about…” Bruce peeled his eyes away from the taxidermy of his father, “What about Mom?” 

Angel Bruce looked away.

Jason could hear his Bruce’s jaw click shut, “You’re a grown man now, capable of protecting yourself. Why won’t you–”

“Don’t you think I tried ?! They came after Dick! I’m trying my best here! And I know my parents would rather have their grandkids safe than their memories honored. I have to pick and choose my battles. It’s not just about doing the right thing, it’s a war against evil . And my parents not being put to rest is a small loss compared to what’s necessary for my kids, and maybe even grandkids, to live in a safer Gotham.” Angel Bruce was looking at Bruce firmly. Eyes narrowed in that way that left no room for argument.

This Bruce was a Protector's Angel. This Bruce fought true evil. And Jason could feel all the Untitled-Like beings crawling around nearby. There was no hoping for redemption when it came to them. This Bruce killed, but it was nessasary. These evil beings would stop at nothing to get what they want.

Jason shifted and walked over to a patch where the stone floor looked off. He lodged his foot into an odd looking cobblestone, and suddenly the ground under him disappeared.

No stairs. Just free falling. Which was good for people with wings, but Jason didn’t really have those. 

He summoned one of his All Blades and stuck it into the wall to stop his fall. 

Angel Dick came diving down, before catching sight of Jason hanging and stopped. “Don’t scare me like that!”

Jason almost slipped off his sword, because, holy mother of Christ, Angel Dick had his Angel wings out.

Jason regained his grip, and positioned himself so he was sitting on the blade like a seat. 

There was the sound of grapples and suddenly Bruce and Dick were hanging next to him. Followed by Angel Bruce floating next to Angel Dick.

Bruce frowned at him, “Didn’t you say the Blades burned up your soul?”

“Only when I stab truly evil things.” He gestured downwards.

Angel Bruce’s expression darkened, “I’m going to head down, and do some recon, you four, wait for me to come back.” And he dove down.

Dick anchored his foot into his grapple, so he was no longer hanging by his arms, and gave a questioning glance to Jason, “Magical soul swords, huh?”

Jason, instead of answering to Dick’s passive aggressive question, shifted on his makeshift seat and rested his head in his hands. He felt like his intestines were entangling within themselves forming a tapestry that read the words, ‘Something was wrong. ’ Something was really really wrong. And he could feel how close Jay was. It was like if he reached his hand through the wall he would be able to grab his hand. Except, Jason couldn’t do that.

Angel Bruce came back up, “I couldn’t see Jason, but there are cages filled with children lining the perimeter of the substructure. There seems to be bidding going on. ART Dick and Bruce, you two sneak around and open the cages while Dick and I will guide them to safety, there are three more exits to the North, East, and West. We are currently in the South exit. Jason…just, try to find my son.”

Jason nodded. He just didn’t know if it’d be in time. With each second he felt like more and more of his soul was being plucked away until he was left raw and pink.

Bruce gave him a nod before grappling the rest of the way down. Dick squeezed Jason’s ankle and followed Bruce’s lead. 

Which left him with the Angels. 

Angel Bruce looked at Jason, “Thank you, for making sure Tim and Stephanie were safe. I know you don’t actually need the gatorade-tea-candy potion.” 

Jason looked at the knee of his pants. They had rust color stains. Blood. Of different Jasons. That were on him because he was too late to save himself. “I just didn’t want them seeing anything they shouldn’t”

Angel Dick floated closer to Jason and cupped his face, “I don’t know what you’ve been through these past couple days, or months, or maybe even years, but just know that you are the most resilient person I’ve ever known. And that I care about you so much.” 

Something about that tightened the knots in his stomach. “I’m not the kid you want to say that to.” 

Angel Dick smiled, and shook his head, “It’s something I know holds true throughout each and every Universe. You’re my little brother. And nothing can change that.”

And with that, the Angels dove down.

Jason shook his head. He’s not the Dick he wants to hear those words from. He knows those words will never come out of his brother’s mouth.

Well, he wasn’t getting any more info by astral projection. Time for the good old fashion way. 

If Jason Todd in this Universe was a son of Bruce Wayne, known to be the Guardian Angel of Gotham, he was probably being kept somewhere secure. Not with any of the rest of the kids who were being trafficked. He would also be up for a secret bid. One that only people with jets filled with money and power could participate in.

He scaled down the wall and lowered himself to the ground in a relatively bold way. Bold enough to catch eyes, but with enough menace to avoid weapons. Just like old times.

He scanned the crowd. A crowd reeking of Untitled energy– it wasn’t everyone, but a solid amount. 

Though there was one who stood out the most. 

Jason kept his hands in his pockets as he strode forwards. Hands in his pockets meant he had something to hide. Striding forwards with his chin slightly down, but his eyes fixed on one person, meant he had prey.

He loomed over the man. Close enough for him to feel Jason’s presence, but not to the point where they were touching. He spoke low, “Rumor has it you have some of the best Wings Gotham has to offer. Most of what I’m seeing here, I could find in Metropolis or New York.”

The monster of a man didn’t flinch, but he did shift and turn his head to Jason. Good. “What typa wings ya got?”

Jason smirked, in a way that didn’t reach his eyes and tilted his head while he stared through the man, “What makes you think I have any?”

“Whadarya, a cop? Everyone has wings, and I swear if–”

“What if, I told you mine were ripped away slowly. Feather by feather. Skin from bone. Bone from my very being until I was left nothing but a husk of who I used to be. Go ahead. Try to kill me. Though, believe me, you’ve never fought a man who’s already dead.”

The man’s eyebrows deepened, “Stay for the real show. It starts in thirty minutes, after all the wannabes leave.”

Jason slipped back into the shadows without a word. He tracked Bruce and Dick opening cages, and the Angels fly into and out of the shadows. It was a slow process to make sure no one noticed, though they were making good progress. To the point where there were only three cages they hadn’t gotten to by the time the 30 minutes were up.

There was the sound of gunshots as the man he was talking to earlier held a gun to the air and stalked to the center of the room, withering vulture wings visible. “Scram! Or the ceiling won’t be the only thing with bulletholes in it.” Just to prove his point, vulture wings grabbed the nearest person and shot them in the head.

There was the sound of wings rustling the air as the uninvited guests left. Followed by a couple more gunshots.

Vulture Wings turned back to the remaining crowd, “Well well well, my friends, you’ve just made it to the afterparty, and should I tell you, you’re in for a real treat tonight.” the room erupted into cheers, but died down as soon as Vulture Wings put his hand up. “Now, Now. Before I show you the Good I’ve got stalked up, I’ll be giving you a disclaimer. This one, is not for sale.” a rumble of Boos chimed throughout the basement, “Hold on! Hold on! You’ll all get something out of this. Donny! Bring out the feathers! And Tony! You know your que.” Donny brought four bags to Vulture Man, “Now, we all know our dear Guardian Angels of Gotham. Of Bruce Wayne and his Protectors Wings. And of Dick Grayson and his Virtues Wings. Though, there’s another Guardian Angel. One who’s wings we’ve never seen. There are certain people who theorize that the little one is just a late bloomer, or that he’s not an Angel so to stick with branding he keeps his wings hidden.” Vulture Wings let out a laugh  and unzipped one of the duffles, pulling out a singular, pristine white feather. One that seemed to have an ethereal glow to it. “Boy were they wrong.”

There was the screeching of old hinges being unlocked above them. Something– someone was being lowered from the loft.

A Seraphim.

Angel Jason.

He was hanging by his arms, and his legs were bare. All broken and bruised. His wings were next to bare. Most of The feathers had been plucked off, leaving a spare few that were stained red with blood. Two sets of the broken bare wings were curled in to shield his body and face. The last set were hanging at a painfully unnatural angle. 

“No. No! ” He couldn’t pin down the emotion in Angel Dick’s cry. Rage? Fear? Grief? Vengance ? 

Doesn’t matter, because either way, all hell broke loose.

All the Tainted Wings started lunging for the duffle bags filled with feathers, taking down anyone who got in their way. 

Angel Bruce was busy trying to make sure the duffles didn’t end up in the wrong hands, while Angel Dick was trying to make it to Angel Jason, but kept getting pulled back anyone with Tainted wings who were also trying to get to the Seraphim.

Jason had to get to him. He-he promised Angel Bruce, He he couldn’t let an Angel die.  

Jason summoned his All-Blades, and began slashing and stabbing, with only one thing in mind.

How could they have seen something so holy and defiled it?

He could feel his soul burn up with every Tainted Wing he banished, like a fire that was slowly simmering out, but he couldn’t make himself care. If he had to lose his soul in order to save an Angel , someone who’s soul was probably worth trillions of his, he would do it. He would do it in a heartbeat.

Suddenly, Angel Jason jerked down. 

The rope he was hanging from was fraying. 

Jason’s eyes snapped to Dick, who already had his grapple out and was flinging himself towards the Angel. But he was bodyslammed off of his trajectory. Angel Dick was surrounded by Tainted Wings, desparately trying to shake them loose so he could save his brother. And both Bruces were occupied too.

And Jason… Jason wouldn’t make it to him in time.

He watched as the rope snapped. He watched as the Seraphim fell, seemingly in slow motion. He heard a shout come from Dick, though he wasn’t sure which one. 

He was sure everything had frozen when Jay made contact with the ground.

An Angel had fallen.

Something had slammed into Jason’s head hard, and for a second, he didn’t see the broken wings of an angel. He saw the tattered yellow cape of a Robin. He saw a face that was tinged blue with Hypothermia. A mouth filling with blood from a punctured rib. A neck bleeding out. A Lamb to the slaughter curling in on himself. A doll.

Jason thrusted his Blade into a stomach, as he got back onto his shaky legs. 

A fallen Angel.

Angel Dick rushed to the Seraphim. Mercilessly taking out anyone who was in his way. Jason took out anyone who got too close to the pair. 

Angel Dick cradled Angel Jason in his arms. “Jason… Jason, can you, can you stay awake for me? Please?” Jason knew he was gone, deep in his being, but Angel Dick continued, “Please, Jason. You can… just rant to me about that one story? Like you always do. The one… what was his name, Icarus? It was Icarus right? And spring? It was spring when he fell. It’s not spring right now. And you don’t have– why would anyone have wings made of wax, that’s just stupid. And whoever wrote that story was dumb, because obviously the higher up you go, the colder it gets, so the wax wouldn’t melt, it would’ve frozen and gotten hard. Jason.” Dick shook him and one of his wings stopped veiling his face, “Jason. It’s not spring. You don’t have wings of wax, your–your wings are mine, and- and my wings are yours. You’re my wings. And you can’t– Jason! You asshole, wake up!” Dick smacked his face but it didn’t do anything, “You promised. You promised we could fly together after– after you told Bruce. You promised we’d fly together, and I promised I would teach you. If you can’t fly then I can’t. I can’t. If you’re not next to me, I’m not going to fly. I can’t fly. Don’t you understand? You’re my wings. I can’t fly without my wings.”

Jason realized no one was attacking them anymore. Which was a good thing because he was pretty sure if he stabbed one more Tainted Wing, his soul would completely disappear. 

He felt his knees go limp and his head spin. 

Dick Grayson, the last Flying Grayson, a man who’s feet were probably in the air more often than they were on the ground– something that had to be true across the multiverse, because if it wasn’t that wasn’t Dick Grayson– couldn’t fly because his brother couldn’t. Because it wasn’t Dick’s wing’s that were his soul, it was his family. His family was his soul. His family was his wings. And he couldn’t fly without his wings.

A pair of hands grabbed his face and it took him a moment to piece together that they belonged to Dick. His brother. He immediately rested his forehead into the crook of his kneck, trust be damned. Or whatever complicated feelings that ranged between them, be damned.

Everthing turned white around them, and he was pretty sure he had passed out, until a voice spoke. 

A very familiar voice. 

“You have mastered the All-Blades?”

Jason could feel the very blades in question retract back into his soul as he turned his head so he could confirm who he was speaking with, with his eyes, “Oh. Hi Talia. Yes.” 

And then he passed out.

[scribbledghost]

Reckoning

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (no Y/N)

Rating: M

Word count: 4,256

Warnings: heavy violence, torture, death, ANGST, hurt/comfort (major emphasis on the HURT), Champagne being an awful person (I do that a lot in my stories, don't I?), PTSD, trauma, paranoia, guilt, Dead Dove Do Not Eat. The torture isn't super graphic, but it's definitely a focal point, at least in the first part.

Note: Managed to crank this out in a couple of days thanks to the encouragement of you guys!! This is. Dark. Especially everything before the first "-----------" break. So if you wanna just skip ahead to that bit, you can. Let me know what you think!

Jack Daniels was not a religious man. Sure, being born and raised in rural Kentucky meant he was raised about as Christian as a boy could be. But with everything that had happened in his life thus far, he wasn’t sure he believed in a benevolent God anymore. 

But he sure as fuck believed in Hell right then.

Your screams echoed across the dark room he was in, and despite the duct tape over his mouth, he answered them in kind. The ropes across his wrists and ankles dug into the skin, tearing bruises in their wake, though he felt none of it as he was forced to listen to your tearful pleas from the other side of the one-way mirror.

“Please, I don’t know anything!” you cried. “I don’t know what you want!”

Tears cascaded down his face as he ducked his gaze away, unable to handle seeing the amount of blood pouring from your various wounds. A dull thump and a piercing shriek from you indicated that another had been added.

Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed Jack’s chin, wrenching it upwards as the tape was ripped from his mouth.

“Please,” he blurted, “please just fuckin’ let her go, she doesn’t fuckin’ know anythin’, please-”

“You knew the rules, Whiskey,” came Agent Champagne’s gruff voice from above him in the dark. “You knew not to get attached. And y’did it anyway. So unfortunately, this is the price she’s gotta pay.”

Jack turned his blurred gaze back to the mirror. 

More pleading. More begging. More crying.

He wrenched his eyes away just as an aluminum bat swung at your left knee. The crack and following scream would haunt him for the rest of his life. He was sure of that.

“Please,” he sobbed, hanging his head, “I swear, I didn’t tell’er anythin’. I swear, she doesn’t know. You don’t have’ta do this. I… I’ll leave her. I’ll disappear. She… she’ll never see me again. I’ll do whatever you want, just please… please let her go.”

He heard Champ sigh.

“Look, son,” he said, pulling up a nearby chair, “it was either this or take her out back and put her in the ground.”

A dark part of Jack wished they had. It would have been far more merciful than this.

“But we decided to give her a chance. If she can make it through this without crackin’, then we can discuss givin’ her clearance. But we can’t just let things continue on like they were before, Whiskey. You know that. She’d be a liability.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything!”

Crack! 

Maybe the punch had knocked you unconscious.

A groan.

Of course you couldn’t have been that lucky.

Jack knew you wouldn’t tell them anything about the covert nature of his job, because he’d never divulged that part to you. All you knew was that he was a higher-up at Statesman Brewery’s HQ and that he took off on a lot of business trips. He never wanted to tell you about the dark underworld he lived in, because he thought the lack of knowledge would keep you safe. He could see now that that assumption was incorrect at best. 

Maybe he should have told you. Maybe then, at least, you would have seen this coming and been able to prepare.

Then again, Jack himself hadn’t seen this coming. He knew outside relationships were technically not allowed, of course, but he’d had no clue Statesman would resort to this. He’d had no idea they’d take you both from your shared bed in the middle of the night, bring you to the basement at HQ, and set you up on either side of a one-way mirror while they tortured you for information you didn’t have. All while he was tied to a chair and forced to watch his mistakes unfold in the most gruesome way he could imagine.

Apparently even being one of Statesman’s highest-level agents couldn’t afford him all knowledge of the depravity he worked for.

“...How much longer?” Jack choked.

“Not much,” Champ said, infuriatingly nonchalant as you screamed in the other room. “Few dozen stab wounds, handful of broken bones, busted knee, a concussion, some nondescript head wounds, and more cuts and bruises than even I can count should be enough.”

He felt like he was going to be sick.

A hefty punch centered on your sternum caused you to let out a pained wheeze as Champagne grunted next to him.

“Add a collapsed lung onto that, I suppose.”

With that, Jack watched as Champagne stood and pressed a button on the wall.

“Alright, agent, that’s enough, looks like she ain’t talkin’,” he said into the intercom. 

Jack watched as the person on the other side - apparently another Statesman employee, though one he’d never met - lowered the knife in his hand and let it drop. Jack let himself breathe, if only slightly. At least now, he could rush you to some sort of medic and get you help.

He was so focused on you, how your head swayed in front of you and blood dripped from your mouth and nose onto your lap, that he missed how Champagne nodded to someone behind him. Suddenly, Jack’s head was wrenched back, and a fresh strip of duct tape was placed over his mouth.

“Sorry,” Champagne said. “Gotta make sure you don’t go wakin’ the dead here in a second.”

Jack’s confusion only lasted a split moment until he watched the agent in the room with you pull a pistol from his holster, point it at your head, and click the safety off.

“One last chance,” he huffed. “Tell us what Jack Daniels is hiding, or you’re dead.”

His heart fell through the floor as you merely tilted your head to the side, gave an unfocused look at your assailant, then turned back towards the floor.

You’d given up.

And Jack couldn’t blame you.

He furiously struggled against the ropes on the chair, trying his best to scream tangible words.

You said you’d let her go, you son of a bitch! Why do all this just to fuckin’ kill her anyway?!

He froze as the voice on the other side of the mirror spoke one last time.

“Fine.”

The gun fired.

You went limp.

Jack screamed until he tasted blood.

----------

He wasn’t sure if he passed out, or if his mind simply repressed everything to such a degree that any memory between then and when he came to in the medical ward was lost. Truthfully, he didn’t care. 

Your screams echoed in his head, and it was only when he tried to raise his hands to his face that he realized he’d been chained to the medical cot beneath him. He was about to ask someone why he was restrained until Agent Champagne walked through the sterile sliding doors. Jack’s hands jolted against their chains, wanting nothing more than to find a home around the other agent’s throat. 

“I’ll kill you,” Jack said, his voice raw, “I swear to fucking god, Champ, I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I fuckin’ do.”

“I hear ya, I hear ya,” Champagne said with a dismissive wave as he pulled up a chair. “First things first: she’s alive.”

Jack felt his breath punch from his lungs.

“Sorry y’had to see that, by the way,” Champ said, “it was just gonna be easier to transport her to Medical that way. Don’t gotta worry about makin’ the damage worse if she’s dead first.”

“That’s a fuckin’ human being you’re talkin’ about,” Jack growled. “Or did you fuckin’ forget?”

“Didn’t forget,” Champagne said, “Just bein’ practical. That’s all.”

The more Champagne talked, the more Jack wanted nothing more than to kill him with his bare hands.

“Anyway, she’s awake. Gave her a memory jolt; showed her a picture of the room she was in. She’s askin’ for you. We’ll remove the cuffs once we’re sure you’re not gonna do anythin’ stupid.”

Jack paused.

“Now, you gotta choice,” Champ continued, getting up to leave the room. “You can go to her. Be there for her. She’s got the clearance now, so you can tell her the truth if you want. Might even be able to pull some strings and get the board to approve hirin’ her on as your admin assistant. Keep her close. An’ if she decides it ain’t worth it once you tell her what’s what, then we can always just nix her most recent memories of you tellin’ her. Short-term memories are easy to adjust.”

The idea of Statesman tampering with your memories left an ugly sense of queasiness in Jack’s gut, but he refused to even consider what the other options would be should you want nothing to do with him after he revealed such classified information to you.

“Or?” he asked.

“Or, you can leave. Got a transfer offer for halfway across the country sittin’ on my desk if you want it. That’d arguably be the safer option for her, since we know she won’t talk about the Agency and we know she can handle the consequences if need be. Won’t be a loose end that way. Choice is yours, son.”

With that, Champagne walked out of the ward and left Jack with his thoughts.

He knew what he wanted to do. And he knew what he should do.

Both were very, very different things.

It was much like how he felt the first time he asked you on a date. The first time he kissed you. When he asked you to move in with him. And how he felt pretty much every time he woke up in the months in between those days and now.

He watched with tired eyes as Ginger Ale walked in with a small keyring and an apologetic expression.

“I won’t chase after ‘im,” Jack said. “You can take ‘em off. I…”

He closed his eyes and felt a tear slip from his eye. 

What’s one more mistake among hundreds, right?

“I need to see my girl.”

He did his best to compose himself as Ginger unlocked his cuffs and helped him stand. The last thing you needed right then was to see him cry. Ginger led him across the ward to where you were seated in another medical cot, and even from that distance Jack could see clear evidence that you’d been crying yourself. Ginger excused herself, telling him that she’d “give you two some space”.

Your head jerked up as the sliding doors opened and he walked in, and in an instant you were on your feet and in his arms with a cry of his name. Your body heaved with a fresh wave of tears as you buried your face in his shirt, muttering incoherently about your experience.

“Asked me all these questions,” you sobbed, “didn’t tell ‘em anything - hurt, Jack, hurt so bad - I - I think they killed me but I’m here - don’t understand -”

Jack did his best to soothe you, gently shushing into your temple as he ran one hand along your back and held you close with the other. Part of his mind was already turning gears and trying to come up with a convenient lie so he wouldn’t have to admit his underground job to you.

I don’t know what they wanted either, sweetheart. They took me too, made me watch them hurt you. Not sure who found us, but we’re here now, and you’re okay. They’ll never hurt you again, I promise. So what do you say we go home?

He sighed, frustrated with himself. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie. He could. It would be as easy as breathing. But deep down, he knew there was no going back from this. You needed to know the full situation. He owed you that, at the very least.

Even if you hated him for it. Especially if you hated him for it.

Granted, he waited until your tears slowed before he gently pulled you away from his shirt and placed a hand on either side of your jaw to look at you.

“There’s… there’s a lot you need to know, sweetheart,” he said. “Now, I can either tell you here, or I can take ya home first. It’s… it’s up to you.”

You paused for a moment.

“Here,” you finally choked out. “Now.”

Jack only nodded before softly guiding you back to the cot. Once you were seated, he pulled up his own chair and took your hands in his.

A pause.

A deep breath.

“First things first,” he began, “I didn’t know this was gonna happen. You gotta believe me on that, darlin’. I had no fuckin’ idea they’d ever do anythin’ like this.”

“...Jack, who is ‘they’?”

His chest constricted. His vision blurred.

He forced himself to press on.

“The - the place I work for,” he finally said. “It… it ain’t a distillery. Well, it is, but that’s just a front for… for what it really is.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

Another deep breath.

Things continued like that for several minutes, with Jack doing his best to explain everything to you, from how Statesman operated, what his role was, how you’d been healed so quickly, and why you’d been put in this situation to begin with.

It was around this point when you jerked your hands free from his and shifted away from him onto the medical cot.

“You’re with them?” you asked in a shaky voice.

“I work for ‘em, yes,” Jack admitted, catching your now fearful gaze, “but I had no say in this. None, you hear me? I… I thought keepin’ you in the dark about my night job was gonna keep you safe. I thought if you didn’t know, then you wouldn’t get hurt. An’ it turns out it was my own goddamn people that hurt you. And on top of that, they tied me to a chair and taped my mouth shut and made me watch. I know nothin’ I say is ever gonna make this right, but I’m sorry, baby. I am so fucking sorry.”

He tried his best to keep from breaking down, but the cracks still threatened to overwhelm him. He heard the pace of your breathing increase, and he watched as you shut down. 

You slowly and disjointedly moved back against the pillow on the cot, knees pulled up and your arms wrapped around them. You held an empty gaze forward, slightly rocking yourself back and forth.

Jack shot a fearful glance towards the doors, luckily just in time to catch Ginger Ale’s eye. She must have seen your state and assessed accordingly, because soon enough she was by your side with a small syringe.

“It’s okay,” she said softly, “it’s alright. Try to breathe for me, okay? Can you hear me?”

When you didn’t respond, she injected the needle into your skin, and within a minute or two, you were sound asleep. Jack helped tuck you into bed, kissed your forehead, and sat back down to keep vigil until you awoke next.

----------

How many hours passed until then, Jack wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted to simply take you home, lay you in bed, and convince you that it had all simply been a bad dream.

But he knew he couldn’t do that. His conscience was fractured enough after that day.

You began to stir slowly, and in an instant Jack was on his feet and by your side.

“Hey sugar,” he said gently, running a hand along your cheek as you blinked against the harsh, sterile lights above. “It’s okay. Take it easy. You’re alright.”

“Jack?” you croaked, turning to him. “I…”

It was then that the memories returned to you.

“I’d hoped it was all just a nightmare.”

“I know, sweetheart. I wish it was too. Trust me.”

Your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.

“What else are you keeping from me, Jack?”

“Nothin’,” he answered quickly. “Everythin’s on the table now, I swear to you. I know you probably don’t believe me, and I can’t fault ya for that. But I promise you, you know everythin’ there is to know now.”

You moved to sit upright, limbs trembling and a ragged breath leaving your lungs. Jack eased a hand behind your back to aid you, and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that you didn’t jerk away from his hold.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” you admitted, voice paper-thin and small.

“I know, honey,” Jack murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “I wish I could help you. But that ain’t a decision for me to make.”

“I don’t even know what my options are, Jack.”

“Well, you’ve got a couple,” he began with a sigh. “First, we can go home. I’ll take some leave. Stay with you. You can even start work here, with me. An assistant, if you want. No outside missions, no dangerous work, just a desk next to mine in my office and a lotta paperwork. The people I work for… they won’t hurt you again. Not after this.”

Jack paused then. He could lie to you again. Tell you that your safety was assured, that you needn’t worry anymore. 

He could lie to you.

But he wouldn’t. Not anymore.

“But I can’t guarantee someone else won’t try to hurt you to get to me. There’s no one on our radar right now that’d do that, and I swear to you I’ll always do everythin’ I can to keep you safe, but I… I gotta be honest with you. I’m done lyin’ to you, sweetheart.”

The room fell silent, only the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filling the void.

“What’s my other option?”

He took a deep breath then. 

“Your other option, which would be… safer… is I leave. Transfer out of state, we never speak again. Statesman can adjust your memories so you won’t remember what I told you about the Agency side of it, and as far as you’ll know, I just vanished into thin air. Without any tie to me, or the organization, you should be safe.”

You let more silence stretch between the two of you, heavy and uncomfortable yet necessary. Jack still held a hand on your back, his forehead against yours as he could nearly feel the gears turning in your mind.

“Which option do you want?” you finally asked.

“Honey, it ain’t about what I want.”

“I know. I still want to know though. And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear, Jack. I want the truth. No matter how ugly it is.”

He shifted, lifting his head to place a tender kiss on your forehead.

“You want the ugly truth, huh?”

He felt you nod.

“The ugly truth is… I want the first option,” he admitted. “I know it ain’t as safe. And it kills me to know someday you might get hurt again ‘cause’a me. But I want you. I want you next to me. Wanna tell you good mornin’ and make you dinner and take you out dancin’. Wanna fall asleep and wake up next to you. I just want you with me. An’ I know that’s wrong and selfish as hell of me. But I promised you the truth from now on. And that’s the truth.”

To say you surged forward to embrace him would be a misstatement. It was not a surge, but rather a gentle roll, like the first wave of a growing tide. Nevertheless, Jack met you where you landed, placing an arm around your body and a hand at the back of your head.

“Would I be stupid if I said that’s what I want too?” you asked softly.

“No, sugar,” he responded, turning to press a kiss to your temple, “you wouldn’t be stupid. But I do wantcha to take another day or so to really think about it before givin’ me an answer.This ain’t a choice I want you makin’ on the spot.”

He felt you nod against his shoulder. 

“Can… can we go home?”

Jack kissed your temple again.

“Of course we can, sugar.”

With that, he stood from the medical cot and helped you to your feet. An arm around your waist and his free hand holding yours, he walked you out of the medical ward, but not before giving Ginger Ale a quick “tell boss he’ll have his answer tomorrow” as he moved. He thought about adding on an angry “and tell him he’d better leave us the fuck alone”, but changed his mind at the last second. He figured Champagne would know better than to come snooping.

At least, Jack reasoned that he’d better know better. His earlier threat of homicide still stood, and he’d have no problem carrying it out should the agent intrude. Consequences be damned.

Jack was given a company car to take home, considering the two of you had, for all intents and purposes, been kidnapped the night before. 

Had it been the night before? Between his blackout and your loss of consciousness, he wasn’t completely sure anymore. He supposed it didn’t matter.

At any rate, the drive home was quiet. You held his hand the entire way, and though he desperately wanted to know what was going on behind your gorgeous eyes, he kept his mouth shut. You needed time to mull over the course of the rest of your life, and he wasn’t going to impede your thoughts.

Your grip on his hand tightened when he pulled into the driveway. Jack turned to you, noticing your eyes darting across the front of the house anxiously, clearly expecting someone to come running out of the front door at any moment.

“Do you wanna stay here while I go clear the house? Or do you wanna come with me?” he asked softly. He knew he would find no one inside, and knew that there would be no signs of a break-in, but he also knew he was willing to do anything to help you feel more secure. The blame for your condition, as far as he was concerned, was with him.

“...I’ll go with you.”

He only nodded before turning the engine off and coming around to open your door for you.

Jack carefully guided you inside, keeping you close as he went from room to room. He meticulously checked every nook and cranny, made sure all the windows and doors were locked and deadbolted. Every once in a while, he’d hear your small voice call to him.

“Beneath the bed.”

“In the cabinet.”

“Don’t forget that closet.”

Every time, he’d immediately check the area you mentioned. He knew full well the kind of paranoia you were housing, and even if he hadn’t been wracked with guilt, he would have still checked. Just to ease your mind.

You deserved that much, at the very least.

Once the house had been cleared to your liking and the locks were all carefully checked and double-checked and triple-checked, Jack made it his mission to try and get you to eat something. He only managed to succeed in getting you to take a couple of bites, and even then it was only after he had a couple of bites off of your plate to prove there was nothing unusual in the food. He supposed some food was better than none.

Later that night, he offered you a sleep aid. Just a small tablet, completely harmless. But you refused. 

“I don’t want to be groggy if something happens.”

He didn’t push the issue, instead climbing into bed with you and pulling you close.

“Jack?” you called to him in the dark.

“Yeah, sugar?”

“...Promise you won’t let anything happen to me while I sleep?”

His heart broke all over again.

“I promise, baby,” he said. “I’m right here. Nothin’s gonna happen to you.”

You tossed and turned against him for some time, settling with his chest against your back, until sleep finally claimed you. Or perhaps it was pure exhaustion. Secretly, Jack hoped it was the latter. Maybe that way, you’d avoid the nightmares for a little while longer.

Then, as you slept against him, he let himself break.

Not as much as he truly needed to - this was not a hurricane or a monsoon like it should have been, but rather a tiny flash flood severely downstream of a downpour. But still, he allowed himself to feel.

The crushing guilt was the worst. You were broken, your psyche irrevocably scarred and changed by what had happened to you. And it had all happened because of him. If he’d just had more self-control, more willpower, he would have disappeared from your life after that first kiss.

But he hadn’t. And now you were only at the beginning of what would no doubt be one of, if not the most difficult recovery of your life. All without the promise that the event would never, ever happen again.

And yet, despite all that, you still wanted him. You’d let him bring you home, let him hold you through the night. 

He didn’t deserve it, but he’d accepted it anyway.

Tomorrow you’d give him your answer; tell him if you wanted him to stay or leave. As much as it would gut him, he would understand if you chose the latter. It still didn’t stop him from praying you wouldn’t, though.

He supposed he always had been a selfish bastard.

As you turned in his grasp and buried your face in his throat, Jack couldn’t stop the choked sob that left him.

[fetteredhope]

—— ( emilio sakraya. demi man, he/they. ) recently seen skateboarding at the boardwalk: enter ZAKARIA QADIR. twenty-seven years old & a sagittarius, usually observed in oversized t-shirts, baggy ripped jeans - far more jewelry than is safe for a skater; zak is a devotion local known within their circle as SPRIGHTLY + TENACIOUS, a perpetual hum of have you ever seen the rain by credence clearwater revival on salted mouth. something of the AUDACIOUS + OBTUSE follows, regardless … something to do with losing yourself to nothing but the wind thanks to the board beneath your feet - it feels eerily like home now, perhaps ? strange, what a GHOST can get up to. they’ve been heard waxing lyrical about a dream they had recently, a strange tale of a family that’s finally accepted you after years of hopping home to home. this one doesn’t stand long - there’s heat and smoke and breathing is impossible, but they always wake up before it can end the way they think it does. pay no mind to fanciful star - gazing, though: rather, mind the tangible. focus on knees that have been skinned so many times they’re perma-scarred now, choosing to laugh instead of cry whenever he’s upset - crying never did any good for him anyway, becoming attached to friends easily; they’re his found family after all. / committed to legend by bri, twenty6, they/she, est.

below are mentions of abuse, death, fire, & violence!

stats.

name: zakaria qadir.

nickname: zak.

age: twenty seven.

gender identity: demi man.

pronouns: he/they.

sexuality: bisexual.

birthday: december 22, 1995.

star sign: sagittarius.

myer-briggs: esfp.

occupation: n/a.

place of birth: devotion, south of tene.

last played on spotify: slide feat. frank ocean & migos by calvin harris.

general disposition: breezy and bullheaded.

background.

when zak was born, he spent all of 5 minutes with his mother before she was up and running off from the hospital, leaving him behind with nothing but his name

life after that was more or less the same theme - people took him in for weeks, months at a time if he was lucky, before he was eventually either kicked to the curb or a ‘better family’ was ready for him

none of the foster homes ever wanted to take him in; witches and nymphs thought him too lackluster, humans never understood his obsession with the creatures of devotion - he just never seemed to be able to fit in

of course he had friends growing up, foster siblings he kept close to his heart and still does to this day, but he’d always been obsessed with the idea of found family, of someone picking him because they actually wanted him, not because there was government money involved

there were bouts of abuse, neglect, days where zak would run away and spend freezing nights on the streets, but it didn’t change his personality; deep down to his core, zak had always been loving and selfless, albeit a bit too reckless and temperamental for his own good

around the time he was 17 and just about to age out of the foster system, a family took him in, and zak immediately knew something was different with this home - it didn’t take them a week before they were asking him to allow them to adopt him into their lives forever

it’d been a good 10 years after that; zak found his family, and he had a good set of friends, maybe he could use some work with the head on his shoulders, he still found himself in constant trouble but he was loved and taken care of, so it didn’t matter

visiting home for his birthday and the christmas holidays last year was a tradition - but when zak went to bed that night, it would be the last time he ever fell asleep, waking up weeks later confused and disoriented, and a ghost after the only family he’d known had died tragically alongside him in a house fire

ever since, zak’s known something was off, wrong about him - it was easy to just assume his family was like all the others in the end, never reaching out to him anymore, leaving him behind

it was even easier to stick with this theory when he found himself incapable of going near where their home used to stand; every time zak gets close, there’s a reason to turn around, an excuse to abandon his search and just leave them behind, make everything easier

zak’s never expressed to any of his friends he still has that he’s a ghost, mostly due to being unaware himself - he still knows there’s something off, but there’s also something keeping him from getting the answers he wants and needs, and after years of fighting, zak’s just found it far easier to pretend everything’s fine. even if he can’t go home, his chest feels hollow, and sleep escapes him no matter how exhausted he feels.

details.

literally just. a loving goofball, super protective, has gotten into several dangerous fights for his friends before he just loves too fiercely when he accepts people into his life

an adrenaline junkie through and through

still loves skateboarding, can be found stuck in a loop for hours sometimes of him just coasting down the boardwalk and laughing without realizing he’s been caught in the same moment - once for almost a whole day straight

becomes very attached very easily!!!!! its honestly destroyed some friendships and has definitely ruined relationships; becomes clingy, untrusting, scared of people leaving him etc.

it’s also made hookups a mess tho he does in fact. Participate in those Quite Frequently

there are of course details in his past life that he’s forgotten, and struggles to discuss if they’re ever brought up, accepting his death is just. Not Going To Be An Easy Task.

connections.

zak is definitely still close w a lot of foster siblings he’s had in the past so any of them!!

maybe. someone that was a part of the foster family that passed and wasn’t there the day of the house fire…….

just friends in general :D from childhood, high school, more recent etc.

ppl he’s fought in honour of friends/partners he’s had in the past

enemies fr other reasons mayhaps???

exes….. he’d have lots on both good and bad terms</3

current and past hookups!!

thats all i have so far but tbh hes an open book lets get wild.

[supersaiyanjedi14]

RWBY COMBAT ANALYSIS: MERCURY BLACK

“I'm sorry you didn't have a mommy that loved you, but I had a father who hated me! He never went easy on me! Every day of training was a beating. And when I unlocked my Semblance, he stole it with his! ‘This is a crutch!’ ‘This makes you weak!’ He told me I could have it back when I was strong. So I got strong, but I never got it back! I've had to work harder than anyone to get where I am. You may not like it here without Cinder, but I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be!”

PHYSICAL

Aged in his early 20s, Mercury Black is a human male hailing from the kingdom of Vale, the son of the noted assassin Marcus Black.  The young Mercury lived a life of violence and abuse, his early combat training colored by physical beatings and verbal beratement.  In the Black household, natural strength and personal achievement were all that mattered, with Marcus going so far as to strip his son of his Semblance to force him to develop the hard way.  Despite his utter failure as a parent, Marcus did succeed in crafting Mercury into a highly capable and ruthless combatant, making it only appropriate that he fought and killed his father roughly a year before the Fall of Beacon.  Immediately afterwards, Mercury was approached by Cinder Fall, who recruited him as one of her primary agents in service to Salem.  Though born as a typical human specimen, Mercury’s legs were amputated right above the knees at some point prior to the attack on Amber, necessitating a pair of cybernetic replacements.  The legs were strong enough to endure a sustained blast of fire from Amber’s staff and likely possessed superhuman striking strength, which his fighting style fully leveraged.  Given that he was able to attack Amber at range despite clearly not having his weapon attached, it is entirely possible that the legs were outfitted with wind Dust cannons, reinforcing his combat evasions.

Above the knees, Mercury was a baseline humanoid, standing at 6’2” and distinguished by his gray hair and eyes, pale skin, and slim athletic build.  An exceptional athlete, his primary physical attribute was his remarkable agility, leveraged through his dynamic fighting style and intense yet nimble acrobatic jumps and lunges.  He has dodged lighting strikes from Amber, evaded gunfire from Coco Adel, tagged Ruby Rose while she was using her Petal Burst (head-on I might add), and has casually kept pace with the likes of Pyrrha Nikos and Yang Xiao Long.  Though seemingly excessive and flashy, Mercury was nimble enough to perform intricate contortions and spins while balanced on his hands alongside his parkour amid his combat sequences, fighting as a bizarre mix of freerunner and breakdancer.  Though he favored kick-based martial arts, rarely employing punches, Mercury possessed sufficient dexterity and reflexes to leverage his hands for close-quarters defense, redirecting Yang’s punches during the Vytal Festival and holding off Emerald Sustrai in a fist fight.  The only time Mercury’s mobility failed him was when Tyrian Callows pounced on him in Salem’s castle, and even this example was because he was caught off-guard.  Mercury’s physical strength varied depending on which of his appendages he is hitting with.  With his legs, he has staggered even heavily armored opponents with the force of his kicks and was able to shatter the arena floor with a single strike during his battle with Yang.  With his arms, however, he had nothing to write home about, and in fact has been overpowered on several occasions, albeit only from dedicated heavyweights like Yatsuhashi Dachi and Yang.

Hardened by years of physical abuse, Mercury was all too familiar with pain and injury and knew better than most how to take a hit.  Despite his laid-back sarcastic attitude, he possessed the martial discipline to roll with the punches and would break before he ever bent.  Against Amber, he soaked up several elemental attacks that forced him to his knees, yet still maintained his composure and was still vital enough to escape from Qrow Branwen after the fight.  Though he was manhandled by Yatsuhashi during the Vytal Festival, Mercury recovered quickly and continued to fight with no visible drain on his performance, digging deep and managing to overcome Team CFVY’s juggernaut.  In his subsequent battle with Yang Xiao Long, Mercury had to be pounded into submission, taking the full brunt of Yang’s Burn-enhanced onslaught before going down.  Even after his Aura was broken, Mercury was able to regain his feet and trick Yang into seemingly attacking a defenseless opponent, enduring the pain of her point-blank Ember Celica into his right leg and only needing cosmetic repairs before getting back on his feet the following evening.  At Haven Academy, Mercury worked through a rematch with Yang and endured a headbutt from Ruby, and by the end of the lengthy battle was spry enough to retreat with only minor signs of fatigue.  At the end of the day, I think we can agree that there is a reason why Salem paired Mercury up with the only one of her lieutenants able to reliably overcome him quickly when she dispatched him and Tyrian to Vacuo.

As he operated primarily as an assassin and infiltrator, Mercury’s MO was to be inconspicuous rather than imposing, blending in and striking unexpectedly.  Accordingly, he favored simple clothing that minimized encumbrance and allowed for casual appearance. When he was dispatched to Vacuo with Tyrian Callows, he wore an orange trimmed blue shirt underneath a double-breasted gray leather jacket, accessorizing with gray vambraces with fingerless gloves, black cargo pants, and an orange keychain. Though they were typically concealed beneath his clothing, the durability of Mercury’s legs allowed them to function as built-in armor, providing a margin for error for his fancy feet.

RANKING: Tier 1.5, Partially Augmented Human

Mercury’s youthful athleticism is easily equal to or greater than the most capable human Huntsmen, and even though he only specializes in a single arena, he is still well-rounded enough to function in any role required of him, balancing forceful aggression with dynamic flexibility.  His capabilities are further augmented by his cybernetics, his legs providing extremely durable bludgeons in combat and functioning as natural armor.  Where Yang Xiao Long’s prosthetic was limited to only her right arm, Mercury’s paired set offers him greater protection and more leverageable options in combat. Though not enough to classify him as truly superhuman, he still has a literal leg up on your standard human.

MARTIAL

Mercury Black was armed with Talaria, a set of black metallic greaves outfitted with built-in firearms.  Approximately 15 inches long, each greave was equipped with a circular drum of ammunition, while the metal plating extended to about halfway between his ankles and knees. The weapons appeared to be based around similar technology to the Ember Celica wielded by his rival Yang Xiao Long, with the obvious difference being that the triggering and reload mechanism was built to accommodate kicks rather than punches.  By the time Salem’s forces arrived in Atlas, Mercury had added a set of sharpened metal wings to the heels, though whether these held combative purposes or were purely cosmetic is unconfirmed.

With every day of training being a beating in practice, Marcus Black taught his son how to be a fighter at a very early age, emphasizing physical conditioning and hand to hand combat.  Despite amounting to an alcoholic thug of a human being, Marcus’s reputation as a combatant was well-known, and Mercury clearly benefitted from his father’s training, demonstrated when he narrowly defeated him in the burning ruin of their house.  It was there that Cinder Fall found him, recruiting him as her primary enforcer and assassin in the leadup to the Fall of Beacon.  Mercury served Cinder faithfully during that year, where he cut his teeth against the Fall Maiden Amber, acquitted himself well in a sparring match with Pyrrha Nikos, and fought evenly with Yang Xiao Long during the Vytal Festival.  Despite his young age, Mercury was a hardened killer and utterly ruthless, his skill gaining the appreciation of his peers and even Salem herself.  Like his rival Yang, Mercury was an unarmed martial artist first and foremost, his weapons being a literal extension of his body.  His physical moveset was powerful yet fluid, alternating between an array of kicks and leg sweeps to trip up, stagger, and bludgeon the opponent. Highly mobile, Mercury often employed flying acrobatics to add power to his strikes, best seen when he slammed into Fulcrum at full force during his battle with Yatsuhashi Dachi and later an overhead scissor-kick when squaring off with Yang, in addition to nimble evasions to avoid injury.  Despite this brutal offensive stance, Mercury also utilized his flexibility for disorientation and defense. He favored breakdancing-like spins and gyrations to distract the opponent while he slipped in counters, executing his kicks with great precision when necessary.  When he adopted more grounded stances, Mercury used these same maneuvers in the form of sweeping roundhouse kicks, staggering the opponent and setting up for a powerful follow-up.  His control and finesse was further expressed in his marksmanship, turning his upright hammer kicks into projectile volleys that he has used for both focused takedowns and to create his Dust whirlwinds.  This sophisticated yet vicious style was reinforced with hand-based defensive parries, intercepting upper body attacks with deft deflections and light punches, setting up for counters while their attention was taken up.

“Raised” by a murderous assassin, Mercury Black had little regard for honorable conduct or the well-being of others, a callousness that was reflected in his tactics.  He favored ambush and surprise, catching the opponent with their pants down and hitting them where it hurt most. His use of psychological warfare was emphasized by his tendency to interrupt the opponent and kick them while they were down, messing with their concentration and preventing them from bringing their full might to bear.  In pitched combat, he used his erratic fighting style to blindside the enemy and keep them guessing while giving himself an opportunity to bypass their defenses.  When the situation allowed for hit, he employed verbal taunts to distract and provoke, keeping you off balance by being a sketchy asshole.  Subvert and overwhelm.  Though he was silent during the attack on Amber, Mercury still kept the Fall Maiden on her toes by rushing in to blitz her when she least expected it, forcing Amber to lean heavily on her Maiden powers to compensate.  When sparring with Pyrrha Nikos, Mercury’s stronger core technique allowed him to bully through her standard sword-and-board technique and disarm her, though Pyrrha turned the tables by leveraging her Semblance to deflect and repel him, prompting a forfeit after he took her measure.  During the Vytal Festival, he and Emerald Sustrai went up against Coco Adel and Yatsuhashi Dachi in the Doubles Round, and they proceeded to turn the battle into a guerrilla ambush.  They opened by slipping into the grasses and goading Coco into focusing on that while they slipped away.  They followed this up with Mercury blindsiding their opponents from the sky, expertly pinballing between the two in close quarters while leaving Coco vulnerable to Emerald’s BFR yank.  Though Yatsu managed to gain ground and nearly overpower him, Mercury recovered his momentum and squared off evenly with the giant before kicking him into an environmental hazard, leaving him open to a finishing kick.  Arguably Mercury’s greatest display of skill as a martial artist was his duel with Yang Xiao Long in the Singles, fighting evenly with RWBY’s heavyweight and overbearing her several times, only losing when she used her Semblance to brutalize him.  While it is true that Mercury threw the fight as part of Cinder’s plans, this does not change the fact that the two were clearly on equal footing and pressuring such a talented up-and-coming fighter is no mean feat.

Mercury was devious and tricky, but he was often afflicted by his own cocky attitude.  He tended to go too far with his taunts and get careless, which has given many of his opponents chances to rally from setbacks and fight back before he wised up. Though Yang’s Semblance may have granted her the win regardless, Mercury let his guard down immediately after kicking her to the ground, making their final bout a series of hits he didn’t need to take.  During their rematch at Haven Academy several months later, Mercury pressed his advantage, exploiting Yang’s shock of Weiss Schnee’s impalement, but his and Emerald’s attempt to encircle her was interrupted by Ruby Rose, who rushed in to defend her sister.  In the ensuing melee, Mercury managed to disarm Ruby, but chose the moment to mock her for her supposed helplessness, leaving him exposed to a retaliatory headbutt, a failing made even more egregious given Ruby’s middling unarmed combat skills.  While Mercury continued to acquit himself well, fighting through the eventually arrival of Blake Belladonna and escaping with the others, this incident demonstrated how careless Mercury could become when his success went to his head, especially against opponents ostensibly below his own level.  Furthermore, he himself was vulnerable to psychological taunting, especially when the comments were directed towards his deep-seeded issues regarding his father.  His brief exchange with Emerald saw him angrily berating her for her blind loyalty to Cinder, yet a few choice words from Tyrian Callows were enough to set him off and leave him flat on his back.  Mercury preferred to keep things close to the chest, preventing his opponents from digging their psychological hooks into him even as he tried to hook them himself.  In his fights with Yang, Mercury drew a fine line between messing with Yang’s head and actively provoking her, the anger he stoked in her putting him on the hot seat against a level of force he wasn’t prepared for.  Mercury was at his best when in his comfort zone, his fighting style and tactics allowing him to off-balance the opponent while dismantling their defenses.  If the opponent refuses to be provoked or can work through his interference, he can get in trouble very quickly, the leg Yang blasted at the Vytal Festival being an uncomfortable reminder of his oversights.

RANKING: Tier 3, Standard Mastery

Mercury’s training, technique, and feats speak to a highly skilled martial artist who is, at worst, still comparable to the great masters of his day.  His core fighting style balances out dynamic energy with deft flexibility, while his tactical outlook tempers his vicious aggression with ruthless pragmatism. Mercury Black’s priority is always to come out ahead, without a thought to being elegant or nice.  He will take you down however he has to and if he doesn’t have to fight fair, he won’t.  However, his success is predicated on his control, and if he is confronted by an opponent who he can’t overpower or undercut, he can get into trouble very quickly, while his arrogant posturing makes him prone to tactical blunders.  Though given his parity with the likes of Yang and Pyrrha, getting Merc into that kind of trouble will still be an uphill battle.

SPECIAL

The day his son unlocked his Semblance, Marcus Black used his own to steal it, telling the young Mercury that it was a crutch that interfered in the way of obtaining true strength.  Regardless of whether Marcus was expressing his personal philosophy or simply being a manipulative bastard, these words would be taken to their natural extreme when Mercury killed his father before he had a chance to restore his powers.  As a result, Mercury Black spent his entire career without a Semblance, a factor that made him extremely unique among his peers.  Though his lack of special abilities left him somewhat handicapped, Mercury was not helpless and had learned, or rather been forced to learn, to work within him limits.  Like his former associate Roman Torchwick, Mercury primarily compensated for his lack of a Semblance by dedicating himself wholly to his mastery of physical combat, to the point where he was able to contend with more powerful adepts by dominating them and preventing them from bringing their full power to bear.  Against Amber, he simply evaded her lightning strikes, powered through her flame burst, and endured the flurry of frozen leaves she threw.  Against more conventional Huntsmen, he dialed up his precision and control, aiming for critical strikes that would screw with their attempts to use their Semblances.  When confronted by Ruby Rose during the Vytal Festival, he intercepted her Petal Burst and kicked her back, delaying her long enough to allow Pyrrha and Penny Polendina’s duel to escalate.  Ruby only got around Mercury by dodging around and generating an exceptionally powerful burst of speed, but by then it was too late.

Though Mercury lacked a Semblance, he was not completely lacking in the supernatural plane.  Like many of his contemporaries, Mercury readily incorporated Dust into his primary loadout, using elemental gunpowder to weaponize nature itself.  In his case, steam Dust, crafted by mixing fire and water, was his weapon of choice, outfitted into Talaria to create instantaneous smokescreens with just a pump of his foot.  When choosing to resort to a more direct approach, his preferred tactic was to fire a volley of Dust projectiles into the air, often used in conjunction with grounded gymnastics, to create a whirlwind of area-effect power.  Furthermore, I believe that wind Dust was also a component in Mercury’s arsenal, enabling his fine control over his storms by directing the air currents.  This extended to being able to direct his shots to specific targets, a possibility glimpsed when two shots against Yatsu and Coco took on almost heat-seeking properties.  Also seen in the Doubles Round of the Vytal Festival, Mercury closed the distance by unleashing a contained tornado before condensing it into a dense fog, using the cover to ambush his targets and providing Emerald an opening to ensnare Coco.  Additionally, this Dust-augmented attack could be used for offensive purposes as well, concentrating the blasts into a steamy blitzkrieg.  During his fight with Yang, Mercury encompassed the brawler with his storm, distracting her and leaving her open to a surprise kick before immediately directing the bursts to target her once she hit the ground, briefly pummeling her into submission.  Otherwise, Mercury has been seen using his Dust for tactical support and improving his acrobatics, using the bursts to propel himself around the battlefield.  The best example of this was in his battle with Yang, where he used a burst of air to save himself from falling out of the ring, turning a flying takeoff into an acrobatic recovery.

Despite his limited special abilities, Mercury was intelligent enough to utilize what he had effectively, working around his lack of personal powers by overbearing the enemy in physical combat and blindsiding them with elemental force to enable his treacherous ambushes.  However, much like his general tactical outlook, Mercury was at his best when he had the element of surprise, and his tendency to let success go to his head had sometimes prevented him from utilizing his tools effectively.  Despite their distraction, Coco and Yatsu were still able to maintain their composure and intercept his follow up strike, and it was only Emerald’s sneak attack that properly separated them.  Furthermore, even though Dust is incredibly powerful, it does not always bring the exact power needed to overcome the enemy.  When Mercury threw that storm at Yang, she was briefly disabled but unimpeded, using the hits to power up her Semblance and pound Mercury into the mat.

RANKING: Tier 5, Limited Combat

Mercury Black’s special abilities are wholly tied to his use of Dust, his lack of a Semblance meaning that he has nothing to bring to the table in turn.  Like Roman Torchwick, Mercury owes his success to mundane countermeasures and external forces he can manipulate, though his regular Dust armament means that he has a step above the crime lord.  As visually spectacular as Mercury’s Dust storms are, they clearly aren’t powerful enough to decisively end the conflict, instead owing more to tactical support and just another way to shoot a gun.  Dust Ammunition is easily the most limited combative application of Dust, with Mercury’s success determined by his creative uses rather than his destructive might.

OVERALL RANKING: TIER 4, EXPERT HUNTSMAN

Mercury Black’s final placement is determined by his exceptional performance levels as well as his practical shortcomings.  Mercury has all the trappings of a great master-level fighter, his combat feats and elevation within Salem’s inner circle speaking for themselves, but he is severely limited by what his father stole from him.  Physically, his cyborg legs put him a cut above most adversaries, but his athleticism can still be challenged by normal humans with similar training.  His martial skills are versatile and deadly, more than enough to contend with the best of the best, but his arrogance and pessimism have on occasion undercut his otherwise capable tactical skills and gotten him in over his head.  And with his Semblance stolen, all he is bringing to the table is Dust ammunition, an exhaustible resource with limited capabilities.  To be fair Mercury’s use of his Dust is very creative and flexible, making it a very valid tool in his arsenal, but its ability to decisively end the conflict is restricted.  Due to his Semblance being stripped away, Mercury’s success in combat is tied to his supremacy as a physical combatant and the mundane countermeasures he has adopted.  While he deserves a great deal of credit for what he has been able to accomplish despite his disability, he does have significant limits.

Despite his similarities to his rival Yang, I actually find Mercury’s more direct analogue to be his late contemporary, Roman Torchwick.  His cyborg legs provide him with a similar anatomical edge to Roman’s physical hardiness, both are high-performance and treacherous martial artists who can operate well in both general and single combat, and both get around their lack of ethereal powers by undercutting and countering the powers of others.  Even their tactical outlooks are superficially similar, teaching them that the best way to score a win is to fight dirty.  However, where Roman’s loftiness led to him growing complacent and simply being good enough, Mercury’s drive to prove himself and rise above what his father thrust upon him allowed him to stack the building blocks of greatness, coming into his own as one of Salem’s direct subordinates and even casually walking away from Cinder Fall’s direct orders.  Mercury Black has more than escaped from the shadow of Marcus Black as a warrior.  All that remains is to see if he can do the same for his soul.

*originally posted on RoosterTeeth Community page on 05-31-21*

*all images taken from RWBY Wiki *

RWBY Combat Analysis

[tony-the-tigers-juicy-armpit]

A Middle Age

The very first feeling, if one could remember their own birth, would be the sliding of wet flesh over their brand new skin to the tune of their mother's screaming. An upsetting thought, prevented by the squishiness of the mortal newborn's brain. Cataclysm is a newborn like anyone once was, but he is born a man. His total non-existence followed immediately by fully formed musculature and mastery of language, coming to being like ice forming in cold water. In free air, he falls hands and knees to the concrete floor. His first feeling is the fear that his kneecaps will break, and his first words are: "Where am I?"

Cataclysm's senses are brought to life. There's an odd beeping pervading the air, a ferrous scent like blood and a taste to match, and a dim but irritating light barely illuminating what his thoughts tessellated for him to be a laboratory.

A hand touched his back, and gently caressed his cold, wet skin. Cataclysm was vexed, but not panicked.

"You are made of something beautiful and new." said the voice attached to the hand. "You are my happiest triumph."

The hand touched a cord attached to Cataclysm's back and tugged it off of him. It fell to the ground with a metallic clank. His lungs cleared, and he heaved as something spilled from his mouth onto the floor. The hands pat his head and helped Cataclysm stand, his new legs not ever having done so.

Upright, he found that he was much taller than the person who helped him, a distinguished, intelligent-looking man, somewhere in his 40s. No hair. A horizontal scar on his forehead. Electric blue eyes.

"Can you understand my words?" he asked.

"Yes." replied Cataclysm.

"Good. My name is Doctor Ryle. I'm not an accredited doctor, I should say. My first name is Doctor."

"Hm."

"How do you feel?" asked Doctor.

"Thirsty and cold, and...primed to know things."

"Impressive faculty. Immediate sense of want and need...what is your name?"

"Cataclysm." he said plainly, only vaguely aware of what that word means aside from being his name.

"Troubling! We'll get to that later."

---

Doctor gave Cataclysm a bathrobe and a pair of sandals, like he'd just come from a spa. He was led through winding stone hallways, the floor pocked with sharp pebbles. They came to a room, which Cataclysm recognized as a "Break Room". There was a woman of navy blue skin sat down, eyes closed, wires from the wall plugged into her.

"Tempest?" Doctor called. He leaned toward Cataclysm- "a previous project of mine. A friend, more importantly."

Tempest opened her eyes and gave Doctor an irritated look, but it softened when she beheld Cataclysm. She popped the wires out from herself and stood up to stretch. Tempest had curly shoulder-length hair of black and silver, silver that matched her foggy eyes. She wore cargo pants and leather boots, but was bare-chested. Cataclysm looked away nervously. Tempest chuckled.

"From when did you load his sense of Forms?" she asked.

"Long ago." replied Doctor.

"Relax, new man. We live in an enlightened age."

"Very well." said Cataclysm, clearing his throat. He continued, "Are you blind?", regarding her eyes.

"Not really. I can see shadow, but very little color. You're pink." Tempest noted. Cataclysm looked at his hands. Certainly redder than Doctor, whose skin was a light gray. Tempest looked at Doctor again.

"So the project is still on?"

"Yes. Which is why I regretfully interrupted your Fyyd Time - I was wondering if you would take our new friend outside."

Cataclysm's eyes lit up at the idea of going outside. He desired fresh air.

"So soon?" Tempest asked.

"Might as well rip the band-aid off." Doctor reasoned.

"Is there something wrong with outside?" Cataclysm asked. Tempest and Doctor laughed together.

---

Cataclysm and Tempest wore heavy protective suits that looked from the outside like they were made of tinfoil, the hood enclosing a powerful gas mask.

"The air is toxic?" asked Cataclysm.

"Yes and no." said Tempest.

She slammed a red button, the door to the compound closed, and the door outside opened.

Lush green grass, wildflowers, butterflies and chirping birds, leaves swaying in the breeze. The pair stepped outside.

"It's beautiful out." Cataclysm said. "Where are we, geographically?"

"A tiny island a quarter-mile off the coast of Crete."

"Why are we wearing these protective suits?"

"My eyes are closed right now. If I open them, the world will change." Tempest explained.

"Go on." Cataclysm encouraged. Tempest nodded, and opened her eyes. Within the cone of her sight, the world was dark and bioluminescent, more like a jungle than a Mediterranean isle. Outside her sight, the world remained as Cataclysm saw it.

"Expectations are layered. I opened my eyes second, so my sight was laid on top of yours. That's why you can see my world." Tempest said.

"What does the world look like when nobody can see it?" Cataclysm asked.

"Dead. Completely. Gray dust and stagnant air. We can see it through security cameras."

"This still doesn't explain the suits."

From nowhere, the landscape changed again, the world turning to glowing sludge and enormous buzzing wasps.

"Ahh!" yelped Cataclysm, startled. "Whose vision is this?"

"Someone on the beach is looking at the island."

Again, a change. Everything became a sunny desertscape, a tall cactus' silhouette overbearing Cataclysm's view.

"Close your eyes for five seconds and reopen them. That will assert your view over the others."

1...2...3...4...5

Cataclysm sighed in relief as his peaceful world returned. He turned to Tempest.

"What happens if two people open their eyes at the same time?"

"The dead world asserts itself."

Cataclysm grunted in confusion and frustration.

"Is this the way the world is supposed to be?" Cataclysm asked.

"No. Long story short, in trying to regenerate the land, this was created by accident."

"What happened to the land in the first place?"

"Too much was taken from it."

Cataclysm took a deep breath, trying to wrap his head around it.

"Why did we come out here?"

"To meet the reason we live on this island. You're going to talk to the Root."

[screechthemighty]

I meant to have this up yesterday, but my brain was turned to mashed potatoes by the Celebrations, so...happy boxing day, I guess. xD AO3 link as usual in a reblog!

will you greet the daylight looming? part 2/6 - spring

(ragnarok spoilers throughout)

.

The snow cleared slowly. It made the winter seem longer than usual, but spring’s arrival was undeniable. Most mornings, Kratos woke up to sunrises no longer obscured by clouds and temperatures no longer so freezing that his fingertips went numb. He could walk without forcing his way through knee-deep snow. Rivers and lakes began to thaw.

And, one day, the flowers began to bloom again.

“Well, isn’t that lovely!” Mimir said. “When was the last time we saw flowers in Midgard?”

Not since Faye died. It seemed like much longer. Three years in the life of a god was usually nothing, but it had been a very strained three years. Kratos carefully touched the newly unfurled petals. He knew these flowers. Faye would dry them and brew them in a tea whenever he had headaches. Kratos never complained, of course, but she always seemed to know anyway.

You’re so tense, love. Were you carved from stone back in Greece?

His hand fell away from the flowers. Kratos surveyed the area, making note of the landmarks. He would return when they had matured.

It would be cruel to uproot them so soon.

.

Skepi and Svanna adjusted quickly to their brother’s growth, accepting him back as if he’d never been gone. Fortunately, Fenrir had also learned to adjust; otherwise, their attempts at roughhousing would have far greater consequences.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kratos said. Speki continued to look at him like that, a soft pleading whine coming from her. “You chose to battle a stronger enemy. Win or lose on your own merit.”

Speki huffed and trotted back. Savanna still struggled, growling and tugging on the end of a large branch. Fenrir held the other end. It looked like a twig in his mouth. He didn’t move at all, save for the slight wagging of his tail.

“He could go a little easy on them,” Agrboda noted with a smile, “but I think he likes being the strongest one again.”

“Hmm.” Kratos supposed he could understand. Fenrir’s illness had taken much from him. He had not been as attached to the wolf at the time, but it had still been troubling to watch his decline. The strength of this new form must have been welcome after so long spent ill. As he watched, Fenrir lifted his head slightly, leaving Svanna dangling off the ground. “Thank you for bringing him.”

“It’s no problem. He misses it here. He even misses you sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Kratos raised an eyebrow. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nothing, technically. They don’t really talk, it’s more like…”

“Impressions. Atreus told me.” His chest still ached sometimes when he spoke of his son. Worry born of love. That would never go away, he knew, no matter how much he believed his Atreus could handle the journey. “What is his impression, then?”

“You’re cranky. But when he got sick you’d give him extra table scraps.”

“...hmm.”

Angrboda grinned. “So he wasn’t exaggerating that part?”

“He needed to keep his energy up.”

“Uh-huh.” She put her hands on her hips and examined him carefully. “You’re really not that scary, you know.”

Kratos huffed quietly. “You’re only the second person to say that.”

“Really? In how long?”

“However long you think and make it longer.” The branch broke; Svanna tumbled to the ground with her half, then promptly ran off with it, yipping excitedly around the mouthful of wood. “Are you well?”

He was hesitant to ask. They had not known each other long, and he did not want to seem as if he were fretting. She was clearly a competent young woman. But he had been to the Ironwood. He had seen how she lived. Angrboda’s isolation was familiar in a way he didn’t like. Despite himself…Kratos worried.

“I’m doing okay. It feels…different in Jotunheim.” She leaned over to pet Svanna as the wolf trotted over. “It was never that cold in the Ironwood, but…I can tell, somehow.” She met Kratos’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

That was a fair question. “It has been quiet. I am…adjusting. But…”

He stopped, a strange feeling settling in his chest. Angrboda nodded. “Yeah, I miss him, too. I mean…” She ducked her head. “I know, I didn’t know him as long…I don’t want to sound like…”

“I understand.” You could forge strong connections in a short amount of time. Kratos knew that better than most. “Do you know where he may have gone?”

Angrboda shook her head. “He’s got a lot of options. I know some went east. Some west. Anywhere they could go to get away from this.” She hesitated. “It is…safe here now, right?”

Safe was probably the wrong word. There would always be dangers–draugr, wild animals, the evil or the opportunistic. Jotunheim lay mostly in ruin; rebuilding would take some time. And he didn’t know how many of the Aesir still held a grudge against the giants.

But their two greatest threats were gone. And if any others did arise, he felt honor-bound to protect them. For their sakes, for Faye’s. For his son’s.

“It is,” he said. “It will be.”

Angrboda relaxed. For a moment, she looked much more her age: a young woman who did not have the full weight of prophecy on her shoulders.

The world did not feel so heavy on his shoulders, either.

.

He saw more of Thrúd than he’d anticipated.

The deaths of most other major Aesir left her mother Sif as leader. Týr, the true Týr, could have perhaps taken up the mantle, but expressed no interest in doing so. Kratos could not say he blamed the man for that.

He'd expected Thrúd to spend more time at her mother's side, but she still seemed determined to join the ranks of the reformed Valkyries. Whenever there was trouble with draugr or Hel-walkers, he found her there.

And the draugr and Hel-walkers had still been causing a lot of trouble.

"They just don't stop coming," Thrúd said irately. She kicked over one of the bodies, watching as it dissolved into frost. "Every time we find a hole down there, they just move on to another one."

Kratos grunted. “They are determined. You can always find an escape if you look hard enough.”

“You sound like you’ve got experience with that.”

“Yes.”

Thrúd stared expectantly. Kratos was used to that look by now. Many people tried to pry the story of his past out of him. He did not always feel inclined to answer. He liked Thrúd well enough, but she was not exactly in his confidence. So he stayed silent, instead scanning the surroundings for more Hel-Walkers. Thrúd gave up with a quiet sigh. “I’m gonna let the others know. They’re trying to see if there’s like…a pattern to it. Anything that helps. Hey, this isn’t weird, is it?”

“Hmm?”

Thrúd held up Mjölnir. “This. Since…you know…”

He had a feeling she only meant because my father tried to kill you with it, twice. Perhaps she’d thought to ask because of Atreus and Faye, because of what they were. Because of what that hammer had done.

For a moment, the Blades strapped to his back felt warmer, as if the flames were starting to spark. He ignored the feeling. “No,” he said. “It is not.”

Some weapons had complicated histories. Some vile things still had use…perhaps even use for good.

But as Thrúd gave him a relieved smile and flew off, he thought of Vanaheim. The crater left in the wake of a battle.

How strong Faye’s hatred must have been to fuel that kind of rage.

.

“You are being entirely too calm about this.”

“That’s what I keep saying!” Mimir said. “Three times before he’s done this! Not even a bloody flinch!”

“I can leave you at home if you are so concerned,” Kratos interrupted.

“I’m not concerned for myself.”

Kratos glanced Freya’s way. She didn’t seem concerned so much as surprised. Kratos wasn’t sure what to say. Helheim was a comparatively easier afterlife to escape, at least in his experience. Stating so would probably not make his companions less alarmed by his calm. So, he ignored the statement and opened the travel gate.

The action was mundane, but it felt heavy, mournful. The feeling was familiar to him now; he felt the same when he used the spear, or looked at the brand on Leviathan. All reminders of two friends lost.

Do not dwell on it. Focus.

“The Valkyries are sure of the locations?” he asked as they traveled along the world tree.

“Very.” Freya carefully scanned their surroundings. There weren’t many threats on this part of the tree, but Nidhogg’s offspring had become more active as the Fimbulwinter thawed. Ratatoskr insisted they were “only playing,” but their play tended to involve biting. They were not as gentle as the wolves when they played. “Same plan as always. You keep them distracted, I’ll close the rifts. This should slow them down for a while.”

Kratos grunted. They were very efficient by now. It was…comforting, he realized. Of course, he had not been truly alone since he’d met Faye, but the circle of people Kratos knew he could trust had been very, very small since he’d moved north. He was a long way off from his days as a soldier, a member of a syssitia, someone who was surrounded by competent men whom he could trust without hesitation.

And he’d missed it. He hadn’t realized how much until the fragile spring grew stronger. Once, he might have convinced himself the feeling was relief that tasks would actually get done and that he was no longer surrounded by squabbling, empty-headed fools. (He might have regretted how things had gone in Greece, but he stood by that assessment of Olympus.)

But there was no reason to lie to himself. He missed the companionship. Freya and Mimir were good comrades. They were part of the reason he was so calm about returning to Helheim.

He would not be attempting to leave alone, and that was a great comfort.

“Something on your mind?” Freya asked.

“Nothing burdensome,” Kratos said. He felt a sudden urge to thank her, though it was tempered by the knowledge that doing so might start a conversation he wasn’t ready for. Their doorway had appeared, anyway. Now was not the time. Later, he thought. “Are you ready?”

Freya drew her bow and nodded. The gesture was quickly followed by a smirk. “Age before beauty?” she said.

…fair.

“How old are you, anyway?” Mimir asked as they stepped into the frozen wastes of Helheim.

“How old do you think?”

“Er…”

Kratos huffed a quiet laugh. “Well?”

“I think I’ll keep that one to myself, brother.”

That was also fair.

.

It was one of his rare quiet days. Kratos focused on repairing the garden. It had long gone fallow over the Fimbulwinter. It would be good to see it productive again. The whining of the wolves alerted him to someone approaching. He thought it would be Angrboda, but instead…

“Need a hand with that?”

It took Kratos a moment to remember the blond’s name. Skjöldr. Midgardian boy, formerly a resident of Asgard. Atreus’s friend, about the same age. Kratos knew of him, but he didn’t come by as much as Agrboda, or even Thrúd. “I have it,” Kratos said. “Atreus…Loki is not back yet.”

“No, I didn’t think so. I…” Skjöldr moved towards the gate, then hesitated as the wolves stared him down. “...uh.”

“They are friendly.” Though he knew they likely didn’t look friendly. “Speki. Svanna. Here.”

The wolves stood and walked to Kratos’s side, fixing their attention on him. Skjöldr came in through the gate, keeping a respectful distance but seeming more relaxed now. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally. “I…I need to learn to fight.”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more–the fact that the boy hadn’t learned even the basics by his age, or the fact that he was coming to Kratos. “Why?”

“It’s…” Skjöldr gestured around him. “Midgard is great, and we’ve been doing okay, don’t get me wrong. But in Asgard…we were safe there, you know? Even on the other side of the wall, Odin kept a lot of dangers away from us. That’s really all I’ve known. Now I’m here, and there’s a lot of things that can hurt us. I want to be able to keep everyone safe.”

Kratos understood. It was another way Odin kept them reliant on Asgard. Why leave, when the world outside was so dangerous and they had no way to defend themselves? Why teach their children to defend themselves when that might encourage them to explore, to potentially learn some uncomfortable truths?

“It will not be easy,” Kratos warned.

“Oh, I know! I know. I’m ready. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Hmm.” Kratos might be more doubtful if the boy’s eagerness were not so…honest. “Is there anyone else?”

“A few of the others. They’re just, uh…”

Skjöldr hesitated. “They’re afraid of me,” Kratos guessed.

“A little bit, yeah.”

Kratos huffed, amused. He was not trying to be threatening, not anymore, but if this kept people away from him…he would not complain. “Come.”

Skjöldr’s face lit up in recognition that his request was being honored. He quickly looked confused. “Where are we…?”

“We start now. You will need practice weapons. We need wood.” He set aside his garden tools and nodded outside of the garden. “You will carry it.”

Nothing like hauling lumber to build up your strength. And if Skjöldr made it through without complaint, Kratos had a feeling he’d be fine.

.

“Just the spear heads?”

“They can make the rest. It is good to learn.” It was still so strange seeing someone else at the forge. Lúnda was competent, agreeable, but still unfamiliar. In some ways, she was the sharpest reminder of what they’d lost. Kratos tried not to dwell on it, knowing that it was unfair to her, but the thought lingered. “Have you seen Sindri?”

It felt wrong to ask. The dwarf was mourning. He had made it clear that he wanted his space. Kratos had been trying to respect that, but he worried. He was familiar with the pain Sindri was feeling. He remembered how the loss of Deimos had plagued him twice over, each time painful in its own way.

He remembered what it had nearly driven him to do.

“I was hoping you had,” Lúnda admitted. “He stopped coming to Nidavellir a while ago, and every time I’ve been by the house, he hasn’t been there. Or he’s been hiding.”

Kratos nodded. “I…haven’t been in some time,” he admitted. He was busy trying to rebuild his home in the Wildwoods, helping seal the holes to Helheim, and training Skjöldr and the others. It did not help that Sindri’s presence lingered in the corners of the building, watching him from the upper level that Kratos could not access, revealing itself in the lingering smell of damp wood and soap. It didn’t feel right to be there anymore. It felt intrusive.

And, if Kratos was being honest with himself, he could not stand to see the judgment and rage in Sindri’s eyes again. It was selfish of him, he knew, but he could not bear it.

“I just wish I knew what to do,” Lúnda sighed. She started sorting through some scraps of metal, moving as if she needed to keep her hands busy but didn’t really care what she was doing. “I know, there’s nothing I can do, but…I wish there was.”

Kratos understood. She could mend any damaged piece of armor or weapon that Kratos gave her, but she could not soothe a friend’s grief. And that grief was nothing Kratos could fight and kill. If Sindri wished for someone to help him bear it, he had to ask.

He did not like to consider what would happen if Sindri never asked. What dark paths he might fall down. He may not have had the same capabilities for violence that Kratos had, but that did not mean Kratos wanted that for him. He should know peace.

Life was rarely so kind.

“He knows we are here,” Kratos said. “If he wishes for our help…”

He couldn’t finish the thought. Lúnda glanced at him with understanding. “Yeah,” she said. Then, with a shake of her head, “I can get those spear heads. Just as long as you promise me they won’t use them for anything stupid.”

“They will be well supervised. And most of them are still intimidated by me.”

“You’re not gonna do anything to make that better, are you?”

“Respect for one’s teacher is healthy.”

“That’s a ‘no.’”

Kratos held back a smile. “Correct.”

Lúnda didn’t bother holding her smile back. “Don’t rely on that too much. Sooner or later they’re gonna realize you’re a big softie.”

“That is a lie and I hope you will not repeat it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, honey.” She winked at him. Once, he would have considered that gesture far too familiar.

Now, he couldn’t say he minded.

[tutuandscoot]

Now that we know that Tessa couldn’t do a spread eagle, how far do you think she could have gone in ballet, if she had chosen to stick with that rather than ice dancing? Is that type of turn out required in ballet? Are there ways you can develop that in ballet if you aren’t born with it?

Great question!

Yes she absolutely could have gone far in ballet. Lots of ballet dancers (including myself) have limited turnout and they just work hard to improve it. you of course need to have some turnout to start with (which btw everyone has some sort of turnout, unless there’s like a birth- related defect with the hip joints) but the other thing is figure skating mechanics and ballet mechanics are very different and the way you use the muscles in that area of the body can contribute to limiting or extending range in various respects.

(Full disclosure- this is just from my experience as a dancer- I’m not a physio or an expert on anatomy in this respect, so it’s a pov of (now retired) athlete to (no where near as talented or successful and also retired (me)) athlete- not claiming to know all the facts and of course every person’s body is different).

For skating you use and prioritise your large power muscles such as the glutes, quads and hamstrings. These muscles produce a lot of energy to get you across a 60m rink, into and out of lifts, and controlling edge changes and sustained, repetitive bending on one leg along with knee alignment and action. These muscles however contribute little to the mechanics of turnout, they help, but are not the main facilitators.

The muscles you use for ballet are much smaller, deeper muscles such as the quadratus femoris and Piriformus muscles. These control the rotation of the thigh ball-in-socket- joint in the hip (make a fist and rotate it in and out- then imaging there’s a muscle attached to your thumb that helps control it). These are the muscles that facilitate turn out and hold it it place, then the big power muscles get you in and out of the air and sustain you through a performance in a turned out position.

Now in full honesty, I probably can’t really explain the intricacies of what contributes to a lack or abundance of natural turnout. (If you are interested you can read more in depth here) Part of it has to do with your thigh ball-in-socket (the head of the femur) sitting more forward or back in the hip joint. That is just one but there are a lot of things that contribute to it- flexibility, range of motion- how far your joints can move etc..

Strength is another big factor, the key muscles are very different- not that I’can skate at all, but it’s obvious since they (skaters) spend like 96% of their time in parallel positions- pushing back/forward, straight or on an edge lean, this requires the power muscles almost exclusively, the smaller muscles wouldn’t be much help if the power muscles weren’t strong and had incredible endurance with contributing core control.

When I think of myself and my relative lack of turnout, I think when I plié (bend my knees) in turn out my knees don’t go very far back, like if I was to turn side on and look in the mirror they would be going out diagonally to the side rather than ‘flat’ to the side.

I don’t know T’s exact range or physicality on an anatomical level, but this would very likely be the same for her, when say, comparing her to Scott- he’s knees would go more flat to the side (I need a picture of them doing pliés in first side by side 😠).

This moment here is a good way to compare them:

T’s knees are pointing more diagonally to the side- shown with the less than 180* angle, but Scott’s are more facing than side, closer to 180*. It’s not that her legs aren’t turning out, they just don’t turn out as far, or as you can see in motion, as easily as Scott’s. So there’s having a less than ideal/perfect amount of turnout, then there’s being able to use it. T might not have a tonne, but she uses what she has.

There is also this example that I’m going to point out before someone says ‘but she can do this’:

So while this is still a turned out position, it is much easier to open your hips when you are both a) leaning forward and b) the lower down you bend.

So if I were to just make a quick assumption. T has average turnout, Scott has a good amount/ significant turnout. So while they are both doing the same skating, training, strength and conditioning to train their power muscles for skating specifically, when it comes to turn out moments- they come easier to Scott because he just has more of it, even though his big muscles like glutes and quads would be trained like Tessa and be much stronger than his smaller turnout muscles. But if T were ballet training, and she trained those smaller muscles, her turnout still wouldn’t be amazing, but she would be able to work it properly and therefore all those positions would be facilitated better and contribute to more overall turnout.

(And as I’ve said since I’m not a skater there may be a number of other factors that contribute to her not being able to SE, but turnout/hip mobility makes the most sense to me just watching and understanding a bit about turnout mechanics).

So if Tessa does, as I assume, not have the most amazing turnout, had she gone down the path of ballet it would be something she would have to work on and strengthen along with stretch to get the most out of her lines. She has an athletic figure/muscular structure so I would imagine things like jumps would come easy to her. When she was asked to join the NBS (national ballet school) this would’ve been something they assessed as part of their selection criteria. All major schools accepting kids for serious/fulltime training, will have kids as young as 8/9 perform a number of ‘tests’ such as splits, turnout, back flexibility, body proportions, all these things along with watching them in ballet class before selecting potential students. I know it seems a bit much for kids so young as bodies can change through puberty, but they still do it. So if her turnout (again, just assuming her turnout range here) wasn’t amazing it obviously didn’t stop them from wanting her.

So had T chosen ballet, absolutely she could’ve done it and made it far because she is beautiful and angelic, a beautiful performer and has a scary level of innate musicality, can clearly work with a partner and teammates/peers in general, can take instruction and is a perfectionist, turnout certainly wouldn’t have stopped her. She wouldn’t be dancing in Russia or anything but she certainly could’ve done it.. anywhere else. I’m kinda glad she chose ice dance though ☺️ (and I think she is to.. and Scott was as well 🥰.

[yetanotherlesbianonthiswebsite]

@ghostwise had free commission slots and since they drew Imerati and Merrill so wonderfully last time I couldn’t pass up the opportunity...

I think I talked about this last time but I fully intended for Imerati and Merrill to simply be friends in my AU but they did meet in my fic and I immediately sensed that those two connect in a way I didn’t calculate before. Two autistic trans fem elven mages that always felt ever so slightly seperated from their peers, two women who dream in vivid details and turn those details into reality, no matter against what resistance? Admittedly, Imerati weaves words where Merrill weaves the Fade, but they can see what the other sees. In my limited life experience, there is something special about a love that grows when you see another’s dream through their eyes and realize that you dream the same thing. They both see worlds that still need a lot of help to be born. The same worlds.

So I do have a very specific moment in my AU and eventually my fic when I ever resurrect it from the dead when those two kiss for the first time. It’s after a mission to the Fade that somehow (don’t ask me) strips Imerati of the Taint and makes her fully subjectable to blood magic. So Imerati asks Merrill if she can perform some blood magic surgery on her, but Merrill counters that Imerati could use the Mirror of Transformation. So they do spend an evening in the Black Emporium, and Imerati goes into the Mirror, naked, and has full control over what changes about her. For the first time in her life, her bodiedness is not a cage, but an opportunity. For the first time in her life, she fully feels like the person in the mirror is her herself.

So she emerges from the mirror, crying tears of joy, and breaks down, falls down on her knees, not knowing how she could ever thank Merrill, and lets her words of admiration and thankfullness flow, and she begins wondering how much that magnificent, lovely woman besides her must be annoyed by her. And, to her total surprise, Merrill pulls her up into a kiss, the first of uncountably many they share.

So there are so many things I love about the above drawing:

- I gave Rinny a very precise description of the emotional situation but zero pointers on like, poses, or what Merrill wears, or anything specific to go on, and they took that emotion I described and 100% turned it into lines on the screen. They cast magic with a digital pen

- I like to imagine Imerati looking exactly a bit like myself. I am not slim or narrow. Neither is she in this drawing! She has a belly and she has hips and her skin looks as soft as mine. Once again, learning to love myself by loving my self-insert OC

- The idea of the Dalish having something akin to a tank-top delights me to no end

- The way Merrill wraps her hand around Imerati’s head was Rinny’s idea - I once again had the pleasure to witness their work process and how the sketch has changed. There is just so much unashamed need and want and love in that hand and that arm.

- The way their hands just found together automatically. I think of Imerati and Merrill both as very much averse to touch from strangers but deeply attached to touch from those they cherish. I think they always hold hands whenever they even have the slightest opportunity. It’s just so nice to feel that someone is there, you know?

- Imerati externalizes a lot of her self into the makeup she typically wears. She thinks of the exact shade of purple she has chosen for herself and the way she applies it as especially deliberate and thinks of her self as deliberate. To not wear it feels even more naked and vulnerable to her than her nudity - she (normally) has much less control over her body than she has over her makeup. To show her face so bare to someone is an act of intense trust and a signifier of a deep connection. I like that she is in such a situation in her first kiss with Merrill.

- There is just such a perfect balance of soft tenderness and unashamed desire in their body languages. There is something so good about that. They don’t have to hide or conceal or surpress or explain anything in this moment. It’s something I can hardly put into words that is so beautiful about t4t desire, right? I need everyone who reads this to be aware that those two definitely want to have sex with each other, and believe me when I say they have a lot of sex after they get together. They are absolutely horny for each other. But they also feel infinitely safe in each other’s presence, and that I think really drives their relationship.

- Just in general, do you see Imerati cry because she feels free? Because she feels right? Because she feels worthy? Because she feels loved? Because she feels safe?

Anyhow, it was a delight commissioning from Rinny again. They have a way to capture intimacy that is absolutely unrivaled. You should consider commissioning from them as well

[arcielee]

Ahem... The discussion, though active, is very peaceful. You have quite different points of view, but you both listen to each other with interest and, even with some pleasure and pleasant surprise. You talk about rather banal things, you talk about well-known things, but you like it. You can talk bout anything. He tells you some new, interesting ideas. You recall old thoughts and facts. You, in principle, like to talk to your husband's younger brother. And it's completely mutual.

ModernAemond: "I can't say, that I agree with you, but I understand, why you think so. And, to be honest, I would have done exactly the same in your place."

Y/n: "no, you would have come up with something smarter, - soft laughter."

ModernAemond: "oh, please, you overestimate my mental abilities. - He smiled gently, kindly, - but thank you. I'm flattered. - You both nodded kindly to each other. There was no awkward silence, everyone gathered their thoughts."

Y/n: "it's just, that... You don't have to be tied to one place all your life. Country, city, home... If there is an opportunity to go somewhere, to move, then this is good, if desired, you need to move. Another question, is whether there are opportunities for this. - ModernAemond smiled a little sadly. - And you should, also remember, that there are no perfect places. There are no perfect countries, there are no perfect people. There is nothing fabulously perfect in our world. There are good and bad sides everywhere."

ModernAemond: "yes, I totally agree with you here. And there are difficult circumstances in life, because of which, if you act according to your conscience, you can't give up everything and go to live somewhere by the sea, for example. But, for my part, I will say, that... Um... - He frowned a little, - well, I think, that where you were born, where you grew up, that's where you should die. The place where you were born, you have to work for the good of this place. - You nodded your head, agreeing, that his words made sense. - And, on the other hand, once again, you are absolutely right, there are no ideal conditions, there are no ideal places. But, I think, some kind of attachment to your homeland, still has a place to be. The only place, out of all the countries, I've been to, that I really liked is *the name of the country, city*. It's a wonderful place, I really like it. But... I'm not sure, I could live there permanently. Grow old there, die there... - He shrugged his shoulders. - To spend a vacation there - yes, but to live... Like. Live. Don't know... I'm used to my Home."

Y/n: "well, it seems to me, that it's not about the "homeland" itself, but we are, most likely, getting used to the place. We value what we have in this place, we value those people, who surround us here, memories. I think, it's not about the piece of land itself, but about the feelings, that we endow this land with."

ModernAemond: "hmm... Maybe, you're right. I've never thought about it that way. But you can love this particular piece of land, even if you have bad memories."

Y/n: "yes, absolutely. But there is no paradise on our Earth."

ModernAegon: "Yes. We have to arrange this paradise for ourselves by ourselfs."

ModernAegon: "well, I'm not sure about the "pieces of land", - he puts his hand on your knee. - But my personal Paradise on our Earth very much exists... - You and modernAemond looked at him with interest. Smiling slyly, your husband smoothly moved his hand to the inside of your thigh, gradually and slowly bringing it closer to, what is between your thighs."

ModernAemond: with a disappointed face, he moved the eyepatch to the sighted eye, leaning back in his armchair.

Y/n: "... - Download completed. - Aegon!"

ModernAemond: "I hoped for a second, that he would tell me the exact location..."

ModernAegon: "ehehehhehehe."

I just love this. 💜

[e-wills-afterhours]

Affairs Of The Heart, Chapter 3

chapters 1 | 2

-------

Another month came and went. Astrid turned eighteen, and she still had not told the other riders of her arranged marriage to Stefnir. Doing so would not change the truth, but her intended was pressuring her to be forthcoming for the wrong reasons, so she continued to drag her heels about it.

"It's part of growing up, Astrid. Sometimes, you have to let go of old friends in the interest of making new ones and moving on with your life," Stefnir said; and Astrid found his tone condescending. 

"So says the guy who's had the same friends since he was born," she scoffed. 

"Why are you so determined to to hang on to them? Do you really think you'll be as involved with them and that dragon academy nonsense once we're married? Once we have children?" 

Stefnir seemed to expect, with the announcement of their engagement and the nuptials to follow, that Astrid would retreat further into his ideals of a decent wife. He spoke a lot about home-cooked meals, many children, and the nights they would share; not that any of these things were inherently unappealing. Astrid wanted them, but she felt she was fulfilling a duty, an obligation, rather than achieving these things of her own will. Stefnir would be a good husband. Hel, a great husband─for a younger, more impressionable bride. Instead, he got Astrid: someone that liked him as a person but was indifferent to him as a future spouse and lover. She did not want to play the version of the happy wedded couple he had in his mind, so she delayed things as much as she had the power to do so. She told him that she was not ready. She told their parents that she needed a bit more time; but she did not know much time would be enough.  

She was not sure one could ever feel ready for that to be thrust upon them: choosing between the comfort and carelessness of yesteryear and the uncertain changes awaiting in the fog of maturity; but the alternative was to continue stringing everyone along through the thorny patch of misery laid out before them. She could not call off the marriage. No one could make her say the vows, but she would not bring disgrace upon her family, either. She had a duty; a responsibility. She would be seen as unreasonable to throw a fit about an engagement that was otherwise perfectly sensible.

Arranged marriages were not a novel idea and the norm of the generations before; and she had no other attachments anyone knew about to warrant such resistance; but it was nothing she had ever expected for herself, back when she had only been concerned with dragons and an infatuation with the chief's lanky son. 

"You've been so anxious lately. I'm beginning to think you don't want to marry me," Stefnir teased, though his eyes were sharp.

Astrid glanced down at him, nose wrinkled, making him chuckle. She did not want him to doubt her. They were going to be married, and she did not want suspicions hanging over them as they joined their lives together; being wed was already heavy enough. 

"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, running her fingers through his thick, long hair. He had many small braids, some of which she had wound there. "Of course I want to marry you. We'll be...very good together." 

His helmet lay on the grass beside them as he rested with his head on her knee. His two closest friends were busy learning their families' trade: ship-building and carpentry, respectively. That left the Stefnir and Astrid to spend time alone, without distraction. Astrid often felt such moments were a bit uncomfortable and forced, but such times of bonding necessary to convince herself she was deeply fond of the man she was to spend her life with. 

As watched her fingers glide through his fawn-colored locks, mapping out each braid, she could not help but think of Hiccup's hair: that deep auburn that could look darker in shade, or brilliantly red when the light hit it just so. She preferred that color, for it reminded her of the festival season and the warmth it brought. 

"That's always how you talk about us," Stefnir criticized. He sat up and her fingers were saddened by the loss of idle work. She had been enjoying herself, imagining she was stroking Hiccup's hair. "It's always in terms of what a good pair we make─a formidable team." 

Astrid pursed her lips. Speaking about them in the most logical terms was easy. Lying that she felt any real affection was the difficult part. 

"What do you want me to say, Stef?" she asked. "Do you want a sweet pet name? Or do you want me hanging on your arm all of the time? I think we both know that's not me, and you like that." 

Stefnir frowned and touched her face. Astrid tensed, never feeling the urge to shove him away, but never feeling comfortable enough witch such tenderness. 

"Tell me that you do love me," he demanded. "Tell me you aren't secretly dreading this." 

Dread was a strong word, but so was love.  

"So, you plan on coercing me into affection?" she asked with a smirk. 

Stefnir sighed and gave the back of his neck a weary rub. He picked up his helmet and placed it on his head a bit forcefully. He winced. 

"No, Astrid. I'm not trying to bully you. I hoped you'd say it of your free will, because you meant it." 

She felt a stab of guilt. It was not her intention to hurt Stefnir, though she supposed it had to be her intention to mislead him. On some very fundamental level, she cared about him in a platonic manner. She did not like to lie, but their entire relationship was built on a substantial yarn that she had spun─continued to spin. 

"I-I do...I care about you. You know that," she remarked, and she was content it was a little honest, at least.

He placed his fingertips beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him, forcing locked gazes that made her insides squirm. But they were to be married, and so she settled her stomach through force f will, like she always did. She told herself to enjoy it, to find something endearing in it. Stefnir studied her all the while, raking his eyes over her features with the intensity of a dragon stalking its next meal. The truth was his prey, hidden somewhere in the depths of her blue eyes. Her fingers curled in his tunic, tracing the lacings of his collar with a deliberate softness, trying to act the part. 

Her moan was insincere against his lips when he kissed her. His hand was on the small of her back, pulling her closer. She did not resist him, and perhaps it did feel kind of nice─but she was not sure. He pulled back, satisfied; but she knew it was only until the next time they had the same argument. 

"I love you," he said, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone as he cupped the side of her face. 

She wanted to scream. 

"I know that," was her feeble reply. 

She caught a glimpse a Night Fury gliding high overhead, and her heart gave the tiniest flutter of excitement. Then, she noticed the the disappoint on Stefnir's face over her weak response; and her conscience reminded her she was a horrible human being. There was no point in it, dragging Stefnir along as she entertained the faintest glimmer of hope that things might get better between her and Hiccup. Something had to give, and her arranged marriage was not going anywhere. 

"I'll tell the others tomorrow─no, this time, I mean it," she resolved. "You'll have no more reason to doubt me." 

He grinned, but she could not return it. 

"I don't suppose I'm allowed to ask you how things are coming along in the dating arena?" Gobber asked. 

He placed another finished saddle on the rack behind Hiccup. 

"No. You're not," Hiccup answered, tooling leather in a beautiful knotwork pattern on the saddle in front of him. 

When the orders piled up, it was often a joint project to fill them. He was the only person on the island who was as skilled and quick at leatherworking as his mentor. Gobber was responsible for the base construction, according to the patron's specifications; and Hiccup provided the intricate finishing touches, be it decorations or additions of a more practical nature, such as mounts for weapons─essential to any design. 

He was glad for the distraction, finding the smell of leather and soot from the forge comforting─until the older man had to open his mouth. 

"Well, then here I am, not asking you about dating," Gobber remarked with a sly grin. 

"That's great, because here I am not telling you about it." 

Gobber limped around until he was standing beside Hiccup, making himself difficult to ignore. 

"You know, you might want to take it easy on me. Show me mercy. Your dad won't stop asking me because he knows you won't talk to him about anything," he said, leaning against Hiccup's workbench, weight on his remaining hand, currently bandaged from a fresh tattoo. 

"And he thinks I talk to you?" 

"Aye, that's what he believes." 

Hiccup groaned. He slumped his shoulders and laid down his leather tooling instruments with an emphatic thud. 

"Maybe about certain things, but my love life isn't one of them," he replied. 

"Ahh, he's just concerned. You know how he gets: worried when you close yourself off. Worried that you're too distracted thinking about Astr─ehhh, other things─that you fail to tackle the problem right in front of you." 

Hiccup narrowed his eyes. He heard the offending syllable that Gobber tried to gloss over. 

"Oh. You mean problems like the ones he lays out right in front of me?" he asked, frowning. 

He was getting tired of his father's constant nagging, blurted out at him before he could retreat from the house in the morning. The past few months had been filled with reminders that he needed more structured training in the ways of being chief. Hiccup kept brushing it off, however, not eager to spend his days shadowing his father. The added responsibility was just one more stress he did not need. Not to mention, he would lose his mind playing captive audience to all of his father's suggestions about dating. 

He did not need the advice; he did not want the advice. What he did desire, he could not have; and he had come to terms with that. A new, pretty face would not change anything. 

"You know that's not the way of it. You do need to learn how to be Chief Hiccup, and part of that is finding yourself a wife. I think Stoick would feel much better if you were at least looking for someone to fill that role." 

"I don't see the urgency. I don't intend on becoming the chief anytime soon," Hiccup grumbled, returning to his work, hoping his renewed focus would discourage further conversation. 

It was wishful thinking around a man like Gobber, with a penchant for talking that befitted his name. 

"But you're eighteen, now," the older man stated. 

"So are the others─or they're close enough to it─but I don't hear anyone criticizing their lack of wedded bliss." 

"The war is over─" 

"Right. So, marriage isn't something to rush into anymore for the purpose of consolidating resources and ensuring bloodlines persist." 

"It's about appearances, Hiccup. You need to look like you're motivated." 

"Well, you certainly have been talking to my dad," Hiccup droned. 

"Oh, it's not so bad. You're being dramatic," Gobber replied. "You could probably choose any girl you'd like. Even if she wasn't happy about it, I cannot see the family refusing─" 

"Mmn, yeah. Nothing like a little bit of bitterness to build the foundation of a lasting relationship," Hiccup muttered under his breath, but Gobber continued on. 

"You're the future chief, the village hero─" 

"Please, stop." 

"You have a Night Fury! You've got all the wealth and power that a young lady's family would love to─" 

"Stop!" Hiccup interrupted, a little louder and with more force than he had intended. "To me, this isn't business deal to be struck." 

Gobber sighed and gazed at him sympathetically, pushing back from the workbench. He smoothed his mustache with one hand, thoughtful. 

"What about Ruffnut?" he asked; and there was no teasing grin on his face, no mirthful twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

Hiccup's mallet missed the leather stamp. He stared back at Gobber wide-eyed, before his lip curled at the thought. Not that he did not care about the female Thorston. As a friend. Only as a friend; and even then, their relationship was an odd one. 

"Alright, alright," Gobber responded, throwing his hands up. "I just thought maybe you could make that work. At least you and Ruffnut are on good terms. That's half the battle isn't it?" 

"Not exactly," Hiccup answered. "Besides, the only way that relationship works at all is I have a...and she─well, you get the point." He gestured vaguely below his waist. 

Gobber chuckled and ruffled his hair. Hiccup set down his mallet to smooth it back out, though it always retained some degree of untidiness no matter what he did to it. 

"Eh, I suppose you should take your time. It's a lot to consider. Funny you should have to start all over now, considering we all thought..." 

Gobber trailed off, and when Hiccup glanced up, he noticed his mentor was staring out of the smithy window, mouth in a tight, thin line. Something told Hiccup he should not look. He knew what he would see, but his interest was piqued. He turned and was struck with a powerful surge of jealousy and anger. He tried to wrestle it down, telling himself there was no reason to care when Astrid hung on Stefnir's beefy, tattooed arm as they strolled by. He told himself he never had strong enough feelings for her, so it did not hurt when she smiled up at her boyfriend with simpering eyes. It was not a crime, Hiccup had to remind himself, that Astrid had not fallen in love with him instead. He was being petty, he knew, when he had a passing fantasy of Stefnir struck down by lightning. 

He may have had a lapse of emotional fortitude, but he had not reacted. Gobber was still eyeing him as if he was a dragon’s egg, ready to explode open. Hiccup returned to work with a placid facade, though his hands shook as he held the leather stamp upright. 

"I'm not sure why everyone was so convinced that Astrid and I would ever─damn it!" 

Hiccup swung the mallet too hard and the stamp chewed a conspicuous divet in the leather. He dropped his tools and braced his irritable hands against the workbench, taking a deep, steadying breath. He closed his eyes and exhaled, willing his tense shoulders to relax. 

Gobber patted him on the back and there was something infuriatingly knowing about the look the older man gave him. 

"We'll just give the Eklunds a discount," Gobber said with even air, as if such blunders occurred every day. 

Hiccup buried his face in his right hand, shaking his head. 

"You can also cover for me tomorrow afternoon. I have to make a house call for a Zippleback with a pretty nasty overbite. Then we can call it even." 

Hiccup raised his other hand in halfhearted acknowledgment. 

Such a nice summer day sank Hiccup's mood even lower as he paid his debt to Gobber in the stifling smithy. He spent as much time as he could lounging by the window between completing orders, catching a pleasant breeze every now and then. Gobber should not have taken the duration of the afternoon for his dragon dentistry trade, but Hiccup suspected his mentor's absence was intentional. The older Viking had, no doubt, shirked his duties as blacksmith in the interest of giving Hiccup time and space to clear his head.

Effective strategy, sure enough. Hiccup poured his energy into projects, but he envied the Hooligans enjoying the gorgeous weather on their dragons, soaring through the sky. As cathartic as working could be, nothing soothed mental disquiet quite like flying. Toothless would be wound up when he made it home, fidgeting persistently until Hiccup's nerves grated too thin to deny the Night Fury any longer. He already fitted Toothless for flight, to save some time when his work was done. Without a doubt, the dragon's patience was rapidly depleting.

Hiccup was exhausted. The effort that went into determinedly not caring about much of anything was taxing to all aspects of his well-being. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, expecting Gobber to return any minute and free him from his punishment, but fate was never that kind to him. 

"Hiccup!" 

He glanced up to see Astrid running towards him battle-axe in hand. If he had any further energy to spare, he would have wept with vexation. Instead, he braced himself.

He eyed the weapon in her hand and prayed to the Allfather she had brought him a task he could sufficiently occupy himself with as she prattled on about Stefnir, as she likely would. That way he could block her out, chiming in with "mhmm," and "yeah," wherever appropriate to give the impression that he was listening. 

"I need it sharpened," Astrid said, holding out her axe. She almost sounded apologetic. 

"Again?" Hiccup mused, raising his eyebrows. "You must bring it in here at least every other week. Usually on the days that I'm here..." 

"I know," she sighed, "but the guys insist on a ridiculous amount of practice to keep their skills fresh. I just want the blade as sharp as possible, so I can keep up. A duller blade increases the effort and energy expenditure. You've always preached to me the merits of routine weapon maintenance." 

"There's routine and then there's obsessive. I think you fall into the second category," he remarked. "You can over-sharpen it." 

Astrid smiled ruefully and replied, "My axe is lighter. It's not as durable and it wears down faster." 

She had to be joking. He was well acquainted with her battle-axe, being her personal weaponsmith much to his dismay. There was nothing flimsy about her weapon. He knew that for certain, having modified it before at her request. Hers held up better than most, especially if he worked on it. 

"So, get a stronger axe?" he suggested. 

She laughed, but it sounded forced, just like the majority of their communication. Her axe used to be her mother's, and Astrid was unusually sentimental about it. She swatted at him with her free hand and teased, "Got any Gronkle iron just lying around? I may take you up on that." 

"Yeah. Not happening." 

"Well, then what are you going to do about this?" she asked, nodding down at the axe in her hand. 

Reluctantly, he took it from her and examined the amount of wear and tear on the blade. There was next to none, and he was not at all surprised. She was wasting his time again for no other reason than she seemed to enjoy it. He was convinced of it, but did not have the slightest idea why she found their strained interactions entertaining. 

His eyes and hands roamed over the axe in its entirety, just to be thorough. A part of him also hoped, if he stalled for a while, Gobber would return and he could pass the job along. 

An awkward silence settled between them, not that it was anything unusual. She rocked up onto her toes as she glanced around the shop she had visited dozens of times, pretending to be fascinated. She seemed more tense around him than usual, but he was interested in her troubles.

He decided he could not reasonably hold off any longer and resigned himself to fulfilling her request. 

"Don't worry. I will have this back to you in no time," he said breaking the silence, taking the axe over to the grindstone. 

Astrid followed him. She always stood too close as he worked; not enough to endanger herself, but close enough to make his hair stand on end. He used to feel nervous, but he became so familiar with the discomfort of her presence that he hardly noticed the way his body reacted anymore. 

He ignored her and turned the crank handle until the stone gathered the proper momentum. Very carefully, he sharpened the first blade against it. 

He was keenly aware of the small steps she took toward him. He had nearly sliced his fingers off the first time she had sneaked up behind him and buried her fingers in his hair while he worked the grindstone. That was two years ago; but he since learned to anticipate the gentle tug on his russet locks, so he did not flinch when she started twisting the first of two identical braids. 

"You normally leave them in," Astrid commented just above a whisper. She was being slower than usual, and Hiccup was frustrated with the lack of purpose to her movements. "I guess it's my lucky day." 

He shrugged and flipped the axe over without reply, for he was far too annoyed to say anything civil. He turned the crank again before sharpening the other side, and Astrid begun working on the second braid at the same time. It was odd that her fingers glided despondently through his hair, but odder still was the way she held the end of the braid between her fingers just a little too long. Her hands had been known to linger more than they should, but she remained frozen while he finished her axe. The prolonged contact was atypical for even, her brand of torment. He could not see her face; he did not dare glance back with a lethal weapon pressed against a spinning grindstone. But he could feel the trembling of her fingers against his scalp. 

There was a small part of him that felt a twinge of concern laced with an unhealthy curiosity that would be best for him to ignore. He did not want to ask, because he could not let Astrid get to him. But she was hurting then; and it roused something in him; something honorable that compelled him to want to be the shoulder she needed, even if it would never be reciprocated. He bit it back, teetering on a knife's edge. 

He was finished with the battle-axe, realizing he had been holding it idly in his lap while the grindstone continued to spin slower. 

"It's finished," Hiccup announced. He straightened up and Astrid released him; but she still had the fretful look in her eyes that made him uneasy. 

Something was building; something significant that he could not name, hovering thickly in the air between them. He could feel it coming. Only one thing Hiccup could think of─one sensible thing─was catastrophic enough to warrant such heaviness. 

He knew what she wanted to say before the words left her mouth. 

"Stefnir and I are entering a marriage contract next month," she said, not nearly as delighted as he expected her to be. "I...Well, I just thought you should know..." 

Hiccup's heart ceased to beat for what felt like an eternity. His grip tightened on her battle-axe and he felt a lump rising in his throat as he fought the urge to scream, swear, throw something; all seemed equally appealing. Her announcement was rather abrupt, and she gazed at him unwavering.

But what could he say? That he protested? On what grounds? 

If there was one thing that could shatter all pretense of his indifference, it was marriage. Specifically, Astrid's marriage. To anyone else. While she simply had a boyfriend, Hiccup could deal with it, stoking the small flame of hope he denied was there. Even though Astrid had never shown any evidence that she planned to leave Stefnir, there was something less threatening about the word "boyfriend" when compared to "husband". Marriage seemed more permanent, and more insurmountable for their tepid relationship. Whatever Hiccup wanted to say or shout just then he knew would ultimately amount to nothing more than irritating old scars, rubbing them raw until they bled. 

He thrust the axe back into her arms. With the greatest effort he managed an insincere smile and a simple, "Congratulations." 

Astrid's expression hardened. Perhaps Hiccup was not as convincing as he had hoped? 

"Yeah? You're actually…happy for me?" she asked, measuring each word. 

"Of course!" Hiccup replied. "Why wouldn't I be happy for you? That's...that's exciting." 

Astrid's brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly thought better of it. She closed it again, examining her axe instead. 

"How much do I owe you?" She asked so quietly, Hiccup had to lean in to hear her. 

"Nothing. My gift to you for the, uh, whole marriage…thing." 

"Thanks, Hiccup," she said in a reserved tone. Now she was the one who would not look at him. 

Hiccup did not understand it. She appeared disheartened at the thought of marrying her paragon of Vikingness. She looked decidedly not like Astrid. Had he said something to upset her? What could he have—? 

No. 

He was not going to let himself go down that path. He did not pretend to understand Astrid Hofferson's motivations, nor her feelings. He was not going to let himself get sucked back in, to care. Her feelings, good or bad, were not his concern anymore. They no longer confided in each other. Those days of mutual vulnerability were long gone. Astrid was Svenson's problem. Hiccup just wanted her gone as soon as he could persuade her to leave. 

"Have a good day, Astrid," he said, still wearing a dishonest grin. "And I mean it, really. Congratulations." 

Without another word he turned his back to her and pretended to busy himself with another project until she was well out of sight. She left quickly, much to his relief. When, and only when, he was sure she was gone, did he let out the breath he was holding. He dropped to his knees, feeling like all the air had been stolen from his lungs; stolen from the whole world. 

He had tried. Odin Allfather, how he had tried─for two long years. He had been winning, too; winning the unrelenting battle with his weak heart. Maybe, in another month or so, he could have started looking at other girls the way he used to look at Astrid? 

On second thought, that was laughable. 

The pain from their estrangement had never vanished, but like the dull aches where his flesh met his prosthetic leg, he had learned to live with it. Deal with it. Manage it. Then, out of nowhere, Astrid delivered a mortal blow like a lightening bolt from Thor, himself. 

Hiccup's mind was reeling with a myriad of questions. 

What right did she have to toy with him over and over again, whenever she needed amusement? Would her marriage make things better between them, finally sever the ties that kept them bound in misery? Or would she always kick him while he was down because she enjoyed his emotional struggles? 

Suddenly, it was much too hot, and much too difficult to breathe. Hiccup gathered himself up from the ground and tore off his smithy's apron like it was on fire. He knew he was under orders from Gobber to watch the shop in his absence, but he did not care. Berk would not fall to ruin because the forge closed for one evening. Hiccup, however, he might die if he did not escape. He shut down the shop in record time. 

He needed to be away from Berk. Away from everyone. Away from her. 

He ran into the village center, placing his fingers in his mouth and whistled for Toothless. Unlike people, his dragon did not disappoint him. In an instant the Night Fury was by his side. 

Hiccup climbed into the saddle and locked his prosthetic foot into the tail fin mechanism. 

"I need you to get me out of here, Toothless," he told the dragon, patting his thick, scaly neck. "As fast and as far as you can, bud." 

Toothless did not know the circumstances, but he was clever enough to sense the urgency. He let out a small growl of acknowledgement as he stretched out his wings. 

Astrid paced alone in her room, wringing her hands as she worked up the nerve to fulfill her promise to Stefnir. She had to tell Hiccup and the other teens about her engagement, but how to find the right words when things were no longer as easygoing as they had once been? Several times, she almost talked herself out of it; but there was only so long she could procrastinate. There were no more satisfying excuses left. 

She debated telling Fishlegs first, gauging his reaction and moving on from there. The Twins would be next, followed by Snotlout, whose reaction would be imbecilic, no doubt. Last, of course, would be Hiccup. Maybe by the time she spoke to him, she would be numb to any shock and indignation he might display? 

Then, she realized she was being juvenile. 

She shook her head and gave herself a gut check. 

Cowardice would not help matters. She knew it would be best to tell Hiccup before anyone else, lest he hear it from another source; get the most painful encounter over with, instead of walking around in nervous anticipation of it. 

She cracked her neck and shook her limbs and fingers loose, working out her jitters. She was stronger than the silly girl in fear of an old, inconsequential flame. Hiccup was no more terrifying than any other obstacle she had ever faced. In fact, with his aloof demeanor, what reason did she have to be nervous at all? He would likely take the news in stride.

Yet, she silenced the voice inside telling her she would rather fight a Skrill than tell Hiccup she was to be married. 

After two years, Astrid could not recall at what point he had turned indifferent towards her. Perhaps it was a practice she should adopt? Hiccup did not seem to care anymore, so why should she? It was wasted effort─but, just when she was on the verge of letting him go, concentrating on Stefnir instead, he would catch her eye around Berk, or across the Great Hall during meals when she least expected it. He would always look away with a suddenness that tormented her. 

Could he have feelings for her, still? Her heart fluttered at the thought, but then sharp reality cut back in. What difference would his feelings make? Neither one of them could undo the mess they were tangled in. Astrid could refuse to say the vows, or divorce Stefnir shortly after they were wed...and bring undue disgrace on her family by the baseless dissolution of a marriage that was legitimate and had not yet had the chance to thrive. 

She could not do it; it simply was not in her. Her family name and pride were everything. 

Seizing her axe, she bolted out of her house. She made a beeline for the smithy and hoped he was there, knowing she had to tell Hiccup while she still had the courage to do so. 

To her relief and distress, she found him filling in for Gobber and looking miserable about it. She called out to him, and he glanced up to see her coming. The expression on his face was unreadable. Was he happy to see her? Was he annoyed? She could not tell anymore. He was such a stranger to her. 

She attempted to make small talk, giving him some feeble excuse that her axe was dull and needed sharpening, again. It was a lie, of course, and she knew upon examining the blade that he would know it too. But he did not press the issue. Hiccup never invited more conversation between them than he felt was necessary. 

As he inspected her axe, realizing she was being foolish, her eyes scanned the rest of the shop. She fidgeted anxiously, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She could not look at his face while she built up the resolve to tell him of her engagement. There was something about him that was so disarming; something that made the prospect of telling him more upsetting than when she had just been pacing in her bedroom. 

"Don't worry. I will have this back to you in no time," he said, breaking the awkward silence between them. 

She followed as he approached the grindstone, turning the handle with the confidence of a skilled craftsman well-versed in weapon upkeep. His skill around the forge and all its parts never ceased to fascinate her. She watched with interest as he sharpened her axe, tiny sparks scattering from the wearing of metal against stone. He was not facing her, and that was best. She was not sure she would have been able to reach out and touch him otherwise. He did not jump or stiffen as she wove strands of his auburn hair into tiny plaits. 

"You normally leave them in," Astrid commented softly. Her fingers were slow as she enjoyed the last opportunity she would have to put her hands on him with any sort of affection. "I guess it's my lucky day." 

Hiccup did not respond. He just continued to work despite the absurdity of her. 

Astrid's heart was heavy as she played with his hair. In essence, she would be telling Hiccup goodbye, slicing through whatever still existed between them with the sharp knife of matrimony. It was for the best, but she already felt an overwhelming sense of loss, for their friendship and for what might have become of them if her arranged marriage was not so binding. 

She paused after the second braid, toying with it. Her heart would ache as soon as she released him, for that would be the beginning of the end of them. She began to shake, made anxious again by the enormity of removing Hiccup from her life...well, as much as she could, and as much as there was left to lose. Tense, though their relationship was, there was an ardent need to be close to him. That was why she braided his hair and sought him out. It was a craving of the soul that nothing, and no one else could satisfy. 

"It's finished," Hiccup announced. 

He straightened up so suddenly his hair slipped between her fingers, and Astrid felt like a dry sob would not have been inappropriate. 

He turned and they stared at each other. Astrid felt her heart race from the way those green eyes considered her with an echo of apprehension. She had to blurt out something, or she would stay rooted to the spot in an eternal limbo, unable to completely hold them together, and not nearly strong enough to forever break them apart. 

"Stefnir and I are entering a marriage contract next month," she said, and she could not muster the joy in her voice. "I...Well, I just thought you should know..." 

She did not know what she had expected his reaction to be, and half of her anxiety was related to that uncertainty. Indignation and outrage was just as scathing as complete indifference, coming from Hiccup. She was prepared for either. She was not prepared, for him to completely embrace the idea. 

He shoved her axe back in her arms with excitement. He was grinning, and his eyes were alight with an enthusiasm she had not seen for two years. "Congratulations," he said, and it hurt. 

Astrid swallowed hard, and narrowed her eyes. 

"Yeah? You're actually…happy for me?" she asked, not wanting to believe that after all of his standoffish behavior, he would come alive at the thought of her marrying another man. 

"Of course!" Hiccup replied. "Why wouldn't I be happy for you? That's...that's exciting." 

Astrid was profoundly bewildered, brow knitted as she consider his drastic mood swing. She tried to detect something else hidden there, deep beneath the surface, but all she saw was a genuine happiness for her. She had dreaded throwing up one last barrier between them, but Hiccup seemed pleased. In all honesty, it was worse than anger or indifference; it was the final confirmation he did not care, and probably never did; not to the extent she had once thought. 

His question had likely been rhetorical, but she opened her mouth to say a number of things: how he loved her somewhere deep down in that frozen heart of his, that it should be him not Stefnir, and that the whole damn situation was unfair─but she bit held her tongue and said nothing. In that moment, she realized something, quite plainly: they were not Astrid and Hiccup, the two youths who tamed dragons together, defended Berk by day, and stole kisses in quiet moment alone, as they had two years ago. He was the chief's son, and she was another village girl. That was all they were to each other anymore. 

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, feeling a sharp ache in her chest that seemed to burrowing into her whole being. 

"Nothing. My gift to you for the, uh, whole marriage…thing." 

"Thanks, Hiccup," she said softly, and she was not able to look at that kind, delighted face. 

"Have a good day, Astrid; and I mean it, really. Congratulations." 

He turned away to some project in as clear a dismissal of her as he ever gave, unaware that Astrid's mind was a deafening tempest of sadness and fury. Her chest heaved and her fingers tightened around the handle of her battle-axe, hoping the weapon would leech away some of her despair. Hiccup was not at fault. She knew that. Her resentment was irrational. She knew that. Hiccup had only been supportive, which was something she had wanted from him for months, just not under the current circumstances. She was selfish to want his affection on her terms, and she knew that; but it filled her with a clawing bitterness that she could only receive it over a marriage she did not want. 

She turned on her heel and ran, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Hiccup's unintended cruelty. She rushed to the stables, to Stormfly, ignoring every wave or call that chased her from a friend or acquaintance along the way. 

Her Deadly Nadder perked up as she hurried down the stairs, nearly knocking Fishelgs off his feet. He flattened himself against the wall as much as he could with a startled gasp, and she did not utter so much as an apology. She stormed into her dragon's stall, and though the Nadder was used to seeing her upset, Astrid had never flown her while so inconsolable. 

Astrid paced for a moment, threading her fingers though her blonde hair, unconcerned with whether she pulled it loose from her neat braid. Then, making up her mind, she roughly pulled her saddle from the wall. 

The dragon eyed her warily. 

"It's okay, girl," Astrid said, her voice cracking from tears she would not shed. "We're going on a little trip. Just for a few hours. I just need to get away from Berk for a while. That doesn't sound so bad, does it?" 

Stormfly considered Astrid for a moment before she determined her human needed an escape, in that uncanny way dragons just seemed to know things. 

[literalliterature]

tell me about "Vesalius," "Once," or both. give me that original fiction. none of that fanfiction stuff I want Pure, Unadulterated Jack Originals. pouring like oil-iridescence from your face holes. uncut and crude.

I'm going to talk about Once because Vesalius is completely up in the air right now with regard to what I want to do with it and needs a complete plot overhaul. Also, I love Once and really ought to get back to it after not really touching it for awhile.

So first off, "Once" is pronounced like the Spanish word for "eleven," not like the English word "once." The story is about fantasy cowboys because as we all know I have a very specific brand, and "elevens" is the name of a particular riding contest that cowboys would have, which carries on in some forms of rodeo today!

Anyway, for my snippet I will post the first opening paragraphs and then provide a bit more detail.

Before she got rabid, we had a collie that breathed heavy when she slept, same way Nets is doing now. Some nights I'd sneak her in from the north field and press my hand down hard on her haunches like I would do to a wall, and she'd give way all at once. She buckled over my knees and pressed herself flat. Long fur puddling all over the blanket, stuck full of burs or sometimes fat ticks that were all seed-hard and round, fur so thick I could stick my whole hand in without feeling her ribs. I think of her, and I think of pelts with just the heads and legs attached. But her breathing was deep and loud and sometimes the only way I knew I hadn't come loose from the world and floated up into the sky. Every breath deep and strong enough to fuel a growl, every breath a puff of sage smoke. I liked that dog. Begged Mother to make a little sibling out of her for me, but only a damn fool would make a child out of a pet and furthermore I've only got the one hand left, is what she told me. And then the dog got rabid anyway, but it probably wouldn't have worked out even if she hadn't. I reckon I wouldn't want that now. Wouldn't be kind to anyone, really, trying to love something like a person when you'd been used to loving it like an animal.

Funny that someone named Nets should remind me of a big old dog, I guess, but it's always been funny, what she reminds me of. Her breath is textured, like the collie's was. It roughens as it runs upstream out of her. I've got nothing to do all night except imagine the path it takes to leave her, starting right from the place where you can feel the throat stick to itself in a dry swallow, coming up and scraping all along the roof of her mouth until it gets past the teeth. She lies on her side and curves her large body into the shape of a crescent moon or empty bowl when she sleeps. I'm small enough to tuck inside her cavity. My belly's to the stub-grass, and I rest my chin and gun barrel on her bicep, since her arm's flopped out. She makes a den of herself, and I don't think too hard about it. It's warm enough, anyway.

So this story focuses primarily on the complicated, potentially rekindling relationship between Nets and the narrator, Millstone, after a long separation, but everything is Not What It Seems about Nets and maybe never was etc. etc. ad infinitum. In the world they live in, human children are Born, capital B, as opposed to being lowercase born, the way that animals are. Being Born like a civilized person means engaging in a magic ritual involving, among other things, the death of an animal that ends up being transfigured into the new child. Mill was Born from a coyote, Nets was Born from a passenger pigeon, and both of them work as "midwives" in addition to regular cowboys--i.e., they help conduct the Birthing ritual for people using the cattle that they herd when requested.

Anyway originally this was going to be a short story but it may turn into a novella, because I'm having too much fun with the world's superstitions and taboos about what it means to be Born from one animal versus another, whether it is possible to revert back to the animal that you were before, etc.

This was incoherent because it's 5:30 AM but lemme know if you want clarification. Thanks Luna <3

[ne-videl]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡

♡

yandere archon Zhongli x mean fem reader

Morax turned your new life into hell and you despise him for that.

MDNI, sub then dom then sub Zhongli, yandere, unhealthy relationship, forced marriage, kidnapping, just very very unhappy and abused reader, sexual violence, slight violence from reader, nsfw?? or just heavily suggestive, poor english!!! please tell me if I forgot anything ><

word count: ~2k

a/n: hiii everyone! welcome to my first post!! as a fellow yandere x reader enjoyer I decided to share some of my own stuff here. (it took a while bc translating any of my work is hell)

I hate violent and domineering yanderes so at the end geo grandpa gets what he deserved for being toxic ^^

I think Zhongli was a menace in his youth and you can't change my mind.

basically we just turn mean and cruel yandere morax into pathetic yandere morax

bon appètit.

you push your fingers deeper, harder, making his knees tremble and his back arch.

Zhongli exhales noisily, pressing his heated face against the cold wall.

you squeezed his throat with your long, musical fingers: the lack of oxygen made his heart beat even faster.

"why...?" he whispered with a hoarse moan, turning an intoxicated, misty gaze on you.

"for you being alive."

____*:･ﾟ✧

your new life was good, even better than the previous one – you thought. kind and affectionate parents, friends, little shop in a little village. little people doing their little things.

when you realized you were in the game, your new body was about three years old. "Liyue" fell from your mother's lips, and that was enough for you to understand.

"what a strange Liyue they have here... still in it's cradle, perhaps." – little you thought, concentrated on sorting out bright and shiny stones, sitting on the porch of your modest house.

over the years, little girls turn into beautiful women: with pink cheeks, delicate skin and lips with the color of fresh peach tree fruits.

when you, bright and beautiful you, working in the shop of your dear parents, met a man with amber eyes, you were sixteen.

even at the first glance you recognized your deity. beaming, you greeted him from behind the counter. the only answer for you was silence and his heavy gaze.

chrysanthemums silently looked at you with their curious heads, standing in a vase on an old table top.

when Morax came for the second time, you realized that he was here for you. all that remained was to silently say goodbye to mom and dad, cheerful girls at the neighborhood and to kind elders of your tiny village: you will never see them all again. while he was leading you through the corridors of his cold palace, clutching your little hand until it hurt, you were saying goodbye to your old life. It was impossible to even think about who you were before: it was as if she didn't exist anymore at all.

you wanted to cry.

from that day on, you began to hate chrysanthemums.

____*:･ﾟ✧

day 345765. your 948th anniversary is approaching.

life is akin to hell.

warrior god knew nothing about love. you've already lost count of the nights you've had to perform "marital duty", waking up with back pain and counting bloody red hickeys on your delicate skin.

your husband's stamina could only be matched by his insatiability.

you examine your neck, covered with bitemarks, with the gaze of a pathologist looking at a corpse before vivisection.

what a vile, gut-wretching sight.

over the years, the personality of geo archon's spouse has suppressed the personality of the one you used to be. and the attachment of a girl who spends the night playing videogame towards her favorite character no longer existed at all.

only hatred remained. blind, caustic, it alone forced you to get up in the morning, waiting for never coming end of this nightmare.

someday you will make him regret that he was even born into the world.

he wasn't the character you loved: not Zhongli, not the funeral parlor consultant. only person you knew now was Rex Lapis, lord of geo.

he alone was capable of destroying your pride: tearing off all the sparkling jewels from you, depriving you of the shine of false power with which you methodically surrounded yourself with decades.

it was making you angry, irritated to the point of trembling in your hands: it made the inferiority complex tear your chest with it's disgusting little claws and wail plaintively. he is the master, and you are the property.

you aren't trembling under your husband's steady gaze. you didn't like being alone with him, but on every night you spent together, your posture was stiff, like an unbending bamboo shoot. haughtily raised chin and burning eyes. burning not with passion, no. with disgust.

"I..."

I belong to you. the words you've said at least hundreds of times by now.

"I hate you. I despise you with every little piece of my soul."

Morax greedily bites into your lips, and you feel your skin cracking under his sharp fangs, while hot hands painfully squeeze your shoulder under the silk hanfu.

painful. disgusting.

he takes you, as he did on many nights before: cruelly and vulgarly.

and you scream, you grin at his impassive face: you promise your husband that someday you will kill him, will wring his neck. that you will hate him for the rest of your endless life. you desperately tear the skin of his broad back with your blunt nails, growling and whining like a hunted, beaten dog.

Rex Lapis licked the blood off a fresh bite on your skin.

pulling the maid by the hair, who dared to chatter right in your ear early in the morning about how romantic it all was, was quite in the spirit of the "noble spouse", known for her more than bad, bilious temper.

"nights and nights long, oh, what a passion! what a burning, beautiful love!"

you are so lucky, madam.

girl is sobbing, with her head pressed against the wall. you hiss, venomously and viciously, tightening your grip on strands of her hair with tenacious, elegant fingers.

"stupid bitch. romantic, huh? you think I enjoy it? what, want to take my place?" – frightened maid runs out of her mistress's luxurious bedroom in tears.

you were jealous of that innocent girl. a girl who was able to cry when after being raped. who could see something beautiful in trivial things. who probably had a loving husband and family. that pathetic maid was better than you, an icy cold shell of a human driven only by hatred and a thirst for revenge.

you pursed your lips in disgust.

you developed a habit of despising everything that was better than you.

____*:･ﾟ✧

you always loved music, and over time you became very fond of playing it on your own. it helped to keep your mind in order.

whether it's a guqin with silk strings or an elegant erhu, or, a more exotic one, a lacquered piano brought especially for you from Fontaine – over time you have mastered every available musical instrument perfectly.

it was a good way to keep yourself busy, to not think of useless things. you've had more than enough time in a couple thousand years to master all this.

thin fingers drum on the keys: furiously, with malice, while the piano obediently gives out note after note.

Morax loved listening to you play, especially erhu. his delicate dragon hearing gravitated towards graceful, gentle melodies. even in this matter, your opinions did not agree: you, his spouse, loved to play music so that the maids, shuddering, thought why their mistress was furious once again.

you had beautiful hands, as befits a great musician; and with those beautiful hands you were concentrated on running your fingers through your husband's long hair.

the tips of the strands shimmer with amber in your delicate hands.

you never took the initiative or showed affection, and Morax, although genuinely surprised by such a sudden request, gladly complied. it was nice to feel the gentle touch of your thin fingers, occasionally touching the scalp and sending shivers down his back. low, guttural rumble came from his chest as he closed his eyes in euphoric bliss.

you put the jade comb aside.

"indeed, what a beautiful hair." – you drawled indifferently, noticing the hot blush on his neck, which burned even more after you pulled harder.

indeed, beautiful. how nice it would be to hit his head on an expensive countertop, wrapping it around your fist. how he would react? you would really like to see tears and fear in his bright eyes.

"beauuutiful..." – you hissed with a caustic sneer at the very ear of the lord of geo, pulling especially hard.

your husband's uncharacteristically high-pitched moan was your answer.

____*:･ﾟ✧

with each millennium spent together, your spouse has become softer. calmer, more respectful towards you. and even if you still noticed the possessive twinkle in his amber eyes, it was incomparable to the fire of poisonous passion that burned in them once.

at least now you were allowed to manage your own time. how generous of him, to end your imprisonment within the walls of the palace – you thought with caustic sarcasm, picking up another glaze lily for a bouquet.

now you even had friends – if that's what you could call the adepti and other loyal companions of Morax. all of them, of course, sympathized with your situation, but never made any attempts to help. they didn't interfere – no one ever did.

the sunset was blazing bright orange – or scarlet, or pink – didn't matter. you frowned, looking into nowhere.

Guizhong plopped a large bouquet of glaze lilies into your hands, snatching you out of your gloomy thoughts, but immediately running away in embarrassment.

"and why?" – you felt the urge to roll your eyes, but pulled yourself out of the annoying habit. goddess of dust, although considered you friends and did not hide the fact that she liked you, the wife of Morax, alone with you trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind.

piercing, cold eyes slid to embarrassed goddess, and you tried to give her a smile: the best you were still capable of, if were capable at all. so that it doesn't look like a facial muscle spasm.

"thank you. they're pretty." – goddess of dust smiled back: bright and sunny. in your gaze, for a second, shifted a non malicious envy, with which elders who have lived a long, harsh lives look at children. you yourself forgot how to smile like that a long time ago.

yes, perhaps you were really a little jealous of Guizhong. of the fact that she did not meet Morax as a young and cruel deity. the lady of the Guili Assembly knew him as wise and merciful, her faithful ally and reliable support. you didn't blame her for that, but you still couldn't help a slight tremor in your hands at the sight of your husband having a pleasant conversation with his friends.

well, after another millennia, Rex Lapis has come to love having pleasant conversations with you too.

"lovely flowers." – Morax patted you on your shoulder, smiling tenderly, but you, however, did not consider it necessary to respond in kind.

"Guizhong gave it to me." – you mumbled dryly.

"I see. do you like her?" – geo archon leaned closer to you, affection shining in his amber eyes.

"I don't know." – you closed your cold eyes, without taking your tired gaze from the bouquet.

Morax kissed the top of your head, and you twisted your face in disgust.

____*:･ﾟ✧

war of the archons died down with great noise, bringing destruction and devastation. having lost many, Morax took his place among the Seven.

and even Guizhong, sweet and kind Guizhong, fell victim to this massacre. although, of course, for the wife of the geo archon her death and the deaths of many others were not as much a blow as for himself.

slender fingers pluck the strings of the erhu, playing an elegant, long-drawn melody.

"[name]. I know you hate me, but still-" Rex Lapis looked at his wife with deep, sick affection and sadness in his amber eyes, like a beaten puppy, – "but still, please..."

you lift your eyelids, giving him a cold, indifferent look, and put down the instrument.

"you do not worth pity." – you say dryly, pursing your lips, – "at least not mine."

Morax rests his head on your shoulder, desperately inhaling your scent, as if afraid that you will disappear.

"please. just this once. help me just once, I beg you." – you feel the hot moisture staining the silk of your hanfu.

your beautiful hand rests on the top of his head, and you hear a noisy intake of breath, and his fingers tightly grip your forearm in a desperate embrace.

your little god is so pathetic. how disgusting.

see, how simple everything turns out to be? beg, even better if you cry, and maybe I'll feel a little sorry for you.

but you both knew that you would never allow him the luxury of your pity.

your tenacious fingers grabbed his hair in a firm grip, and you lift his head so that your husband looks into your eyes. into your cold, mocking eyes.

the only thing you desired to see in your former tormentor's gaze was fear, but even in that matter he disappointed you. Morax was looking at you with the same sick love that you had never been able to get used to over the last millennium.

you were waiting for fear, hatred, anything, but not this.

you huffed, relaxing your grip. your husband's arms wrapped around your waist, and he rested his head on your shoulder once again.

"you can be cruel. you can shout at me or hate me. you can do whatever you want with me, just please, please... don't go away."

there was no answer for him.

____*:･ﾟ✧

warm midday sun illuminated the domain in the Aocang mountain. fluffy clouds floated overhead while you sipped fragrant herbal tea, entertaining yourself with conversations with the Guardian of the Clouds.

"Zhongli, huh? how sweet. well, why don't you invite him to have tea with us?" – you giggled venomously, enjoying the intense gaze of the adepti. – "I will be more than glad to see him once again."

guilt will always follow geo archon, you will make sure of this.

you will be glad to see his sadness again, to hear the regret in his voice, and maybe, maybe even laugh a little when you'll see the same pathetic obsession in his eyes.

because it doesn't matter if it's Morax or Zhongli, he will always come back to you.

geo archon will always desire, and you will always despise.

always. forever.

thanks to everyone who (for strange reason 🤨🤨) finished reading this!!! honestly I was so scared to post it and my english is probably awful uuuh

maybe I'll post something else but it'll sure take a while bc as a said before, translating any of my stuff takes a shit ton of time

bye!!