#Anyway I hope you all remembered to make your blood sacrifice to the altar of Churlybear today.

[fiddletwix]

SSBS - Medabots Episode 7: Cyandog Bites Back Review

Plot: Spyke has suffered an endless string of robattle losses. His losing streak is so bad that Samantha kicks him out of The Screws. Desperate to get back in her good graces, Spyke vows to win more robattles by only fighting opponents he knows he and his Medabot, Cyandog, can beat – like little kids. However, it turns out even little kids with a teddy bear robot are too much for Spyke, so…

[mage-parivir]

I'm not sure what to call this.

 800 odd-words. Post-resurrection. Leon and my MC, Joan.

“The blood flood is the flood of love, / The absolute sacrifice. / It means: no more idols but me, / Me and you.”

Sylvia Plath, “The Munich Mannequins”

You come at last to the cold, dark curve of the cliff, hefting yourself up and over  familiar edge, the outline of his head and shoulders, black against the night sky materializing in front of you. 

He’d held out his hand to you, once  — “Joanie, you’ll fall,” — but that had been long ago. 

And hadn’t you fallen anyway? You think of his face amongst all those faces, beautiful and devout above you, his back straight, his shoulders square, all his armoury on view, every bit the people’s Sun King you’d helped him become. And when his name was sung in their poetry, and blessed in their prayers, you’d been the first to thrill in ecstasy. 

Your king. 

Here it all goes quickly dark. You lose all but the shape of him. Leaves on half-emptied trees. There’s the sky, the same blue it had always been. Behind the line of soldiers, the rabid crowd, calling for your death. Smoke pluming. Pyre flaming. 

You did not hate the fire. You hated the people who hadn’t believed you. And the lover that let you burn.  

You pick slowly through the grass, eyes never leaving his back. There’s no indication that he’s sensed your pursuit, but the line of his shoulders trembles and you know he hears you. 

“Well, your highness?” 

“Nothing yet. I’ve been waiting.”

“For what?” 

He makes no response. You know he’s been waiting for you.

“Joan.” 

“I didn’t mean to catch you unawares, your highness. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.” You say, dipping low into a bow. You don’t have to look at him to see the way his breath catches in his throat, the way his eyes squeeze desperately shut. 

There is a pounding quality to the starlight, something that keeps time with the pulse in your chest. 

You can feel that other day on the cliff running underneath this one  — his mouth on yours, your hands on him. You’d existed only where he’d touched you. Both of you convinced you could leave the war awhile. As though holding hands could keep the world at bay. 

How stupid you’d been, and it’d killed you. Just like Sister had promised it would. Just like he’d convinced you it wouldn’t. 

He’d made a believer out of you, like he’d made believers of them all. 

His voice, rising over the din of the battlefield, carrying over and above the moans of the men as they lay dying — “Come, my friends, be not afraid.”

And they were not afraid.

 And into death’s maw did they go, by the hundreds, by the thousands and you their unwitting shepherds, herding them into the ground. 

Bedded in their graves — Ilya dropping to her knees, pressing her brow to the dirt, praying  — “We are Nature, long have we been absent, and now we return.” 

Had she said a prayer for you? Which one? All of them. Her knees on the altar, her eyes closed, please, please, please, simple, inexplicable, desperate, till the Mothers had come to pry her away. 

“Ilya, we beg you.” 

Her hands around Leon’s, her brow pressed to their fingers  — “I beg you.” 

And it had not been enough. And it had not been enough. 

“I’m beyond forgiveness, Joan, I know —” He begins, but in an instant you’re upon him, your hands on his shoulders, the whispered bonds tightening as Thalia taught you.

To his enduring credit, he doesn’t resist, going entirely slack beneath you. You drop, cross-legged onto the grass, forcing him down with you. 

“The mistake was mine,” you hiss. “I believed you. I let you convince me things could be different. That I didn’t have to be alone. That the one thing, the only thing was to find the cause for which you were willing to die. And I was willing to die. But never for Param. For you.” 

He weeps with tears as fat and crystalline as a child’s, running down his cheeks into the dirt. 

You pull Ante’s bloodied cloak from underneath your skirts, dropping it at his feet. 

“You’re down one spy-master, your highness. And in the morning, you’ll find my dagger nestled in the visiting ambassador’s quarters. Negotiations will fall apart. Relations will all but implode. There will be no treaty.” 

Horror dawns on his face. He looks at you as though trying to remember who you are. Remember who you were.

“I will  tear your kingdom down around your feet like so much straw. Your people will burn at the altar of your cowardice, just as I did.” 

“Please. The people saw what I showed them, Joan. Burn me. Put me to the pyre. Forgive them. Forgive them.” 

“Did you forgive me?”

[square-blunt]

You're in my heart, in my heart, in my head.

The normal empires fic in which shit goes from 0 to -100 to 100 and back to -100 in like, 2000 words. Scott ruins shit bc he's a dumbass in love. Jimmy watches him die. Y'know, the normal fic you'd see on the empires tag. This is a Minecraft Roleplay.

TW- MCD (major character death), Gore, (blood. and like, big knife mention). Angst. there is so much angst- emotional mental physical, it's all that shit. Sacrifice, screaming, crying, and they kiss so that's fun but y'know.

WC: 2009

Ao3: :) Second Chapter: :)

Scott knows something is wrong. He feels that pit in his stomach- familiar emptiness that clouds his vision and his mind. His feet start to move forward. He knows- he knows something's happening.

He knows Jimmy is in trouble.

He hasn't been in Mythland much- but somehow he cuts through trees and knocks over stands almost like he knows exactly where he's going and nothing was gonna stop him from getting there. It's getting dark- that's weird it was just noon-

Scott looks up to see where the sun is. 'This can't get any worse,' he thinks. You're never supposed to fight a demon when there's a solar eclipse, everyone knows that-

Scott hears a scream. It sends his heart up into his throat- that's Jimmy. Scott sprints forward and bursts through the treeline and he's at Sausage's summoning circle- no- no no no-

The sight is terrible. Sausage- his body is practically decaying under the weight of corruption- of possession. Xornoth's possessed the man he once saw as a friend. And Joey's by his side, a book in hand, chanting in elvish. They've crafted an obsidian altar- and writhing in chains, desperately trying to free himself is Jimmy. Tears are streaking down his face, his terror radiating off of him in waves.

Xornoth raises something above their head as the moon fully covers the sun- its last light gleaming off the object- it's a ritual knife.

They're going to sacrifice you- I don't want to lose you. He can hear Jimmy’s voice as clear as day.

Scott screams out a time-shattering “Stop” before he can get a hold of himself.

Everything does stop. Time, space, reality- it feels like Scott’s heart has stopped, too. Sausage looks at him with eyes that aren’t his own; Joey looks at him as well, but his eyes hold no rage or fear, only smugness. His eyes are drawn away as he catches Jimmy’s face. It goes from happiness to confusion, to heartbreak, back to confusion, and then to pure fear.

“Stop,” Scott says it a little quieter this time. His voice rings out against the stilled breeze. There are no birds, no nature, everything around them is either dead or too terrified to make a sound. Xornoth tilts his head, slowly and concerningly calmly. “Step away from him.” Scott’s hand finds itself on the hilt of his sword. Not like there’s much that could do, but he has to do something.

Xornoth laughs. It sounds like Sausage.

“Scott-” Jimmy says, and immediately cries out in pain. Scott looks up- Joey was the one to twist his arm. Under any other circumstances, Scott would have lunged forward and sunk his sword into Joey’s skull, but since Xornoth is still holding a very painful-looking ritual knife, Scott stays put.

“Jimmy, don’t say anything-” Scott begins, his voice tight with panic. Xornoth speaks up before he can continue, Scott’s heart dropping in his chest. His voice sounds like Sausage, too.

“Brother, have you come to replace your lover from another life?” Xornoth’s voice is suffocatingly rich with sarcasm and fake pity.

Scott can’t answer. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He doesn’t- he can’t look at Jimmy.

“I know you remember, great champion of Aeor, I know you do.” Xornoth grins, their face contorting.

“I do, and I have,” Scott says, finally getting over the lump in his throat. The lump comes back tenfold as Xornoth’s grin grows impossibly wider.

“Scott- no- what-” Jimmy begins to say, but Joey quiets him with another yank on his restraints. Xornoth puts a hand out, and Joey drops the ropes.

“You know what I need, brother,” Xornoth says, their voice eerily emotionless.

“Scott- don’t do this-”

“Jimmy, please,” Scott says, closing his eyes to keep the tears at bay, he can’t give Xornoth his own humanity.

“Scott-” Scott winces as Jimmy’s voice breaks. Jimmy doesn’t know, he can’t remember-

Scott takes a deep breath, and once again, speaks before he can tell himself to stop.

“I, Ellinair, take the place of this man so that he might live free of pain or suffering for the rest of his life.” Scott needs to make sure that Jimmy gets off free, with no strings attached. So Xornoth can’t hurt him after he’s gone.

“No- Scott, what have you done- why-” Jimmy sits up, some of the ropes have disappeared but he still can’t leave the altar.

Xornoth laughs- it doesn’t sound like Sausage anymore.

“A great elf with a great future who was stolen in the night and thrown into an arena for the devil’s delight. And you fell in love. How cute!” they snarl, “Unfortunately, as you died, you were whisked away from our grasp. I had to find you again, and wasn’t I lucky that I found your husband instead? And, better yet, without your protection! It was so easy, brother, to just come in and take him. To use him. Sweet, dopey, stupid Jimmy. Why would he be the one tied to that dragon? I kill him, and nothing will happen other than a shortage of slimeballs and a few tears. The only use for him was that he was close to you. He’s nothing but a pawn to get to you. And you, in your blind devotion, played right into my hand. I was never going to kill him, it would honestly be too much effort to do so. I was never going to kill him. I was only threatening to kill him so you would change places with him, so Exor could finally triumph over his brother. You are weak, Ellinair, in your love, in your loyalty- or lack thereof. You always were weak. And now I’ve won. Exor has won because you fell for a mortal. Because of a flower. It’s sickeningly amusing, I must say. But unfortunately, it seems that your time is drawing to a close. Lesser, you may release the ‘bait’.” Xornoth ends their monologue with a direction Scott takes a moment to realize is for Joey, who follows it immediately. Jimmy, now free, lurches off the altar like it was burning him alive. He rushes over to Scott, questions bubbling up and out of him. His hands move to hold Scott’s, but Scott isn’t exactly... present. But he can still hear Jimmy. How he wishes he couldn’t.

“Scott- Scott what’s going on- I thought you- what’s going on? Why did you- Scott- why did you take- what-” Jimmy asks, clutching at Scott’s hands. Scott hangs his head, Jimmy immediately stops and lets him talk.

“Jimmy... you don’t know what you mean to me,” Scott says, tears threatening to fall, he can’t make eye contact with Jimmy.

“I think I can guess, at least,” Jimmy says, voice tight, cupping Scott’s face. Scott still can’t look at him.

“They’re right-” Scott begins to say- before Jimmy tilts Scott’s head to face him and kisses him. It takes Scott a second for his heart and his head to catch up to it- but Jimmy’s kissing him. Finally, after what feels like eons apart, he’s kissing him again. Scott kisses him back like he’s the air he’s gone without breathing for so long- Scott’s been without him for so long- and just when he’s got him back... he quite literally sold his soul for this. Time stops again- this has happened way too many times for it to be normal but Scott wishes it would stop forever. Seconds turn into minutes and it’s like the gods have finally taken pity on him and given him time to give everything he can. He’s sold his soul for Jimmy, and he’s never gonna get to see him again. The tears become too much, and they fall- but Scott would rather die now than break the kiss, so Scott’s tears stain both their cheeks. The kiss tastes the same it always did, like Jimmy, and it was heart-achingly familiar.

Scott can’t live without it.

Funny.

He won’t live much longer anyway.

He is hyper-aware of Jimmy’s grip on him, on his face, in his hair, holding him close like they would melt together if they could.

Maybe Jimmy needs him as much as Scott.

And fuck, he needed Jimmy.

He needs to feel as much of Jimmy as he can before all he feels is a knife through his chest.

But right now all he cares about are the hands on his chest where the knife will go- the hands that are gonna be gone soon- Scott hasn’t been counting the seconds how long has it been- how long has Jimmy been kissing him- how long has he been kissing back- how long do they have left? Scott wraps his arms around Jimmy, trying to become inseparable- and Jimmy just holds onto him tighter. One of them sobs into the other- and all Scott can think is I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you- and he hopes Jimmy can hear him.

They both can hear a sickening crunch, instead.

As time crashes back into Scott's reality like a freight train, a number of things happen in rapid succession.

Jimmy is torn away, crying out in pain. It's familiar. Scott's tears break their dam and his vision is blurred- but he can still see Jimmy, sweet, dopey, beautiful Jimmy.

As Jimmy gets jerked backward, his and Scott's grip tightens on each other, and Jimmy's screams of agony make Scott want to throw up.

It takes everything Scott has to stay in place and keep Jimmy with him.

"'Scott something's on my back- something's hooked into me-"

"Jimmy- don't let go- please, please don't let go- I love you, please-"

"I won't- Scott- don't- I love you, too, I love you, too-"

Something cold sinks into Scott's shoulder, sending searing hot pain across his body- and making his arm go limp.

Scott and Jimmy are ripped apart from each other.

Scott screams for Jimmy and thrashes around, trying desperately to free himself, sobs ringing in his skull and fear and pain and regret raking through his body- but he refuses to stop looking at Jimmy, and Jimmy still looks at him. He catches a glimpse of what’s hooked onto Jimmy's back- it’s a massive tendril of corruption, and now it's holding Jimmy suspended in the middle of the air- it looks like it hurts him to breathe, much less call out Scott's name, but it's all in vain.

Scott knows he's going to die.

He gave his word.

But that doesn't mean he's not going to try and get away.

He needs to get away.

He needs to scream and cry and writhe and brace himself against the altar that whatever's hooked into his shoulder is trying to drag him onto.

He needs Jimmy to know how sorry he was because he’s gone and fucked it all up now. He thought he’d be able to play it off to Jimmy as ‘you don't deserve to die in my place' but when Jimmy looked at him with pure heartbreak and fear in his eyes he knew that he was doing it to save him.

Not the world.

Jimmy was his world.

Scott loses the fight and is dragged up onto the altar, where tendrils of dark crimson threaten to bury him alive, and one-handed he tries to swat them off. He can feel his power draining, he knows Joey's probably chanting again, but all he hears is Jimmy. He looks back, and Jimmy is still struggling and sobbing and Scott has to keep fighting to stay alive as long as possible just to be able to see Jimmy for as long as possible.

But the tendrils are growing in number, and Scott can’t keep all of them at bay and slowly he’s overtaken and restrained. The metal hook still sits painfully in his shoulder as his energy drains with his blood, he’s lost the power to scream.

Jimmy hasn’t.

Scott hangs onto that.

Scott hangs onto Jimmy’s screams, his sobs, his ‘Please stop’s, his ‘why him’s, Scott hangs onto the feeling of rage- at his brother and their tool hurting Jimmy like this- but the rage stays heavy on his chest. Rage and fear and pain swirl in his mind and every other emotion drains out of him.

All he knows is terror.

All he knows is Jimmy’s sobs.

He knows that he has seconds left- Xornoth’s probably already gotten the knife back up above his head.

All Scott can offer to Jimmy, all that he has left, is a weak smile of comfort before every sense he has cuts out.

Scott can’t see Jimmy.

He can’t hear Jimmy.

He’s failed everyone he’s ever known.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 48

Summary: Kate is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and  playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 48: Kate and Tommy’s wedding. During the reception, Alfie asks a serious question. 

            “Tommy and I are getting married tomorrow. I still can’t believe it. Even saying it out loud is like a surprise.” Kate laughed softly to herself. She was in the stables, taking her time grooming Blue. It was spring and his winter coat was shedding off and Kate wanted to see his black coat gleaming in the warm sun again. She spoke softly with the gelding as she combed his made and brushed his coat.

            Although she was happy about finally getting to the altar after such a long time of waiting, nerves were starting to get the better of her. With her past and with Tommy’s, it was hard to tell what the future held. But what Kate wanted was to at least try to guarantee a good life for their children.

            Besides, she decided that maybe she was still clinging to the idea that she didn’t deserve love. Something that she knew Tommy struggled with too.

            “I’m sure everything will go alright. At least Tommy’s already gone through a wedding before.”

            “Oi, heard that.”

            Kate poked her head out of the stall and smiled. Her fiancée was walking down the stable aisle. “I’m just stating facts.” She replied with a smug look. "Out of the two of us, you're the one with wedding experience." 

            Tommy chuckled and pecked her lips. “You might want to duck out while you can, the boys are coming soon.” The day before the wedding, Arthur set up to go hunting in Warwickshire to celebrate with just the lads. “And they’ve already had a go at some champagne.”

            “Well, I’ll make myself scarce. I don’t want to ruin the fun.” She teased.

            “Oh please, they’d get a kick out of you coming along.” Tommy stroked Blue’s nose as he poked his head out of the stall to greet him. “Want me to take him?”

            “What do you think?” Kate cooed to the gelding. “Do you want to go along for the hunt?” She patted his strong neck. “I think he’d have fun. Lord knows I can’t entertain him much.” She rested a hand on her stomach. It was more than obvious that Kate was pregnant. At five months she had gone through a variety of getting dresses rehemmed or buying new clothes all together.

            “I’ll take good care of him,” Tommy promised and began to head to the tack room. But his fiancée stopped him.

            “Y’know, I was talking to Frances today,” She said. “Um, about the nursery.”

            The two had talked plenty about the pregnancy and subsequently the child or children, depending on if Polly was right. They had even discussed names. But the upstairs of Arrow House had become like a minefield.

            Grace’s room was locked and only Tommy had the key. The unfinished nursery that adjoined the room was still under debate. Kate felt as if it was her duty to make sure she wasn’t forcing him into anything. The estate had more than enough rooms to accommodate them if he wanted to close off that part of the hallway.

            Yet Tommy had pushed his feelings down. Deep down. As if he was trying to force everything to be okay.

            “The nursery is half done.” He replied. “All the furniture is new; we’d just need another cot if it’s twins like Pol says.”

            “If it’s twins then maybe we should use one of the bigger rooms?” She moved cautiously through the conversation. The last thing she wanted to do was put a damper on his day. But she still thought it was important.

            He met her eyes. “Kate, we talked about this.”

            “I know I just worry that you’re not addressing how you feel.” She touched his cheek. “The more honest you are with yourself; the easier life is.”

            “We have time on another day to discuss it further.” He kissed her cheek. “Go on back to the house and rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~

            “I think you’re right about twins, Pol,” Ada said.

            “When have I been wrong?”

            Kate chuckled softly. She turned right and left to look at herself in the mirror. Ada wasn’t joking. She remembered seeing Ada and Esme pregnant and they didn’t show nearly as much as she did. Especially in a wedding dress, it was hard to conceal. Not that she particularly meant to. She didn’t think anyone who was coming to the wedding that day would be openly critical. “Are there twins in your family?” She wondered.

            “Maybe a pair on the Strong side,” Polly recalled and walked over to place a dazzling barrette in Kate’s hair to hold back the curls from her face.

            “I didn’t know my mother’s side of the family very well,” Kate admitted. “It may be from her family.”

            Polly pivoted the conversation. “Are you sure about walking down the aisle alone? Arthur said he would walk with you.”

            “Yeah, he talked to me about it yesterday.” Kate mindlessly adjusted her dress in the mirror, smoothing a hand over her baby bump. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be alright.” There was never a point in her life where she pictured anyone giving her away. She never pictured herself walking down the aisle, to begin with. Her father was never fit enough to be that sort of figure in her life before his death. She felt much more comfortable making the short walk by herself. That's how she found her way to Tommy, all on her own.

            “Here.” Ada helped Kate step into her heels so she wouldn’t have to bend down.

            “Well, if you change your mind, I’m sure Arthur won’t mind the short notice.” Polly smiled and made sure every Kate’s hair was in place.

            Ada glanced up as she fixed the straps of Kate’s heels. “Is it true you invited Alfie Solomons?” She wondered.

            “I know his popularity in the family is mixed but he’s a good friend.” Kate asserted so there would be no confusion on the matter.

            “It’s your day. Whoever you want at your wedding, you can invite.” Polly nodded in agreement. Although in the back of her mind she hoped that Tommy had prepared the others to see Alfie. She didn’t want the wedding erupting in chaos over some old bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

            “I’m leaving.”

            “Brother, easy.” Tommy grabbed Arthur by the suit sleeve before he could storm across the lawns and out of sight.

            The guests were starting to take their seats and it just so happened that Alfie Solomons had a near front-row seat to watch the affair. He had a beautiful woman on his arm, Mabel. She looked less like the painfully shy thing that Kate had met at the boxing match. In fact, she was positively glowing with happiness as she exchanged kisses with her sister and the other ladies of the Forty Elephants.

            “You invite him to your fucking wedding? Your home?” Arthur seethed under his breath trying not to cause too much of a scene until he had an explanation.

            “Kate invited him,” Tommy replied quietly, not to draw attention to them. “And I won’t have you fighting with him on my fucking wedding day. I’ll keep him away from you if you promise you won’t kick-off. If you upset Kate, you're dead.”

            Arthur narrowed his eyes and reached into his coat pocket for his flask. “Could’ve warned me.” He muttered.

            “I did tell you. Not my fault you were too high on snow not to remember.” Tommy let go of Arthur’s sleeve, confident that his threat had done the trick. “He’s retired, anyways.”

            “Men like that don’t retire.” Arthur tucked his flask away.

            "Men like us don't retire." Tommy clarified. 

            The sun had come out, thankfully, for the wedding. Although Polly wanted the union to be under God’s watchful eye, Tommy and Kate had balked. Kate was unsure if she wanted to step on a nerve and get married in the same church Tommy and Grace did. There was no use in being forced to relive painful memories on what was supposed to be a happy day.

            Kate suggested perhaps getting married outside. Arrow House had plenty of room out in the lawns. And it reminded her of John and Esme’s wedding. There was something so romantic to her about the beautiful countryside in the spring.

            Tommy agreed and a suitable wedding venue was arranged. They were just fortunate that the weather had held and it hadn’t rained like the week before.

            So many times, Tommy had thought he’d lost Kate for good. On his journey to bring her home, he was restless as they crossed the Atlantic.

He hardly slept at all, spending most of his time, smoking on the deck of the ship. In the night, he waited until land came into view. But the inky black expanse of the waters and the night sky gave him nothing.

            He tried to think of what to say to her. The last words she spoke to him still cut so deep. He knew they weren’t true. She still loved him. But she was trying to keep him safe, trying to sacrifice herself.

            He pictured beating Santo Leoni into a bloody pulp. The sound of the gun as he put a bullet through the man’s head.

            Finally, the coast came into view. Exhausted but the drive to bring Kate back to safety kept him awake and alert.

            On the phone, Frank told him that Kate was fine and that she had killed Santo herself. Tommy hung up and could barely stand still as he waited. The wait at the port felt longer than the entire trip across the ocean. Every second dragged on until the car pulled up.

            Kate threw herself out of the car before it had even stopped. Tommy felt so much relief he could’ve cried. He vowed to himself that he would never let her go from that point on.

            “You look like you’ve gone into a dream state,” Kate murmured to him when Tommy took her hand.

            “I’m trying to convince myself it isn’t a dream.” He replied with a soft smile.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

            “Oh, they’ve been inseparable since he left for Margate. Lillian said Mabel hasn't come back to Camden since she first visited him. She simply had her stuff sent to her. Been there ever since and has no plans of leaving.” Alice loosely held the champagne flute in her hand. She and Kate were speaking on the edges of the dancefloor. "Of course, everyone's talking about it, but nothing to change. They seem to be in love, far as Lillian says." 

            Arrow House was abuzz with energy after Tommy and Kate married. The reception was considerably less proper compared to Tommy’s first one with Grace. With no cavalry members in sight, it was a little more relaxed. Not to mention the number of criminal masterminds in attendance. But truthfully, they were the most fun.

            Kate looked smug watching Alfie and Mabel talking across the dance floor. “Well, I won’t say I told him so.”

            Alice smiled and finished her champagne. “Alfie handed over some paperwork to me this morning.”

            “Oh?”

            “Wants me to take over the bakery.”

            Kate tried to play it cool even though she was excited for her friend and even more excited that Alfie had gone through with what he said. Maybe this was his final act of retirement and his acceptance of his new life with Mabel. “Well, you have the support of the Peaky Blinders.”

            “Just can’t wait to see Sabini’s face when he finds out.”

            “Ha,” Kate snorted. “I’d like to see that too.”

            “Mind if I interrupt?” Tommy stepped into their conversation.

            Kate beamed. What had been such a beautiful ceremony was melting into the ideal she never knew she wanted. A life forever by the side of the man she loved.

            “Of course.” Alice smiled. “I’m going to go find Lillian and Ruby.”

            Tommy took Kate’s hand and led her to the dancefloor. Holding her close, they began to sway together to the soft jazz music.

            “You haven’t gone off to meet with some crazy Russian duchess again, have you?” Kate teased.

            He chuckled. “For a Shelby wedding, this has been very uneventful.”

            “The night is still young.” She murmured in his ear with a smile.

            “I like it better this way.” He admitted. “I didn’t want anything to happen, it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

            “You’ve always treated me like I’m some sort of royalty.” She lightly ran her fingers up the nape of his neck.

            “That’s how you deserve to be treated. Every day I was apart from you, I promised I would make it up to you.”

            “Tom, you don’t need to beat yourself up because of the past. I’m here, we’re finally married. We’re going to be parents soon. Everything that happened, happened. And despite all of it, all my paths lead back to you.” She stopped dancing a moment so she could look him in the eyes. “And they always will.”

            Tommy saw the world in her eyes. A world very unlike the one he had planned for so many years. In Kate’s eyes, he saw himself walking away from everything. Moving into Arrow House permanently. Raising the children, they would have. Spending his days riding horses, hunting, and being the best father, he could.

            Those blue eyes invited him to do all of that and more. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

            He gently kissed her, hoping that he could hold steady onto his given path.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

            “Thought I’d find you out here.” Tommy sat down on the front steps next to Alfie. “Mabel was asking around for you. Kate had me come look for you.”

            Alfie seemed to snap out of his thoughts. “Oh, congratulations, mate.” He hadn’t really heard what Tommy had said to him. “Kate’s very happy. Y’know, before all this she’d come into me office. I figured it was because she was doing her fucking job but then she’d start lamenting to me about you. Like I were her gossip buddy.” He snorted and shook his head. “She wanted nothing more than to have you but didn’t think she deserved it. Of course, you and I both know it’s the opposite way around, innit?”

            Tommy shrugged.

            “I don’t deserve Mabel. Not in a million years. Not even if God himself came down and told me we were meant to be.”

            “I thought you two were hitting it off. That’s what Kate said.”

            “I ain’t never been so happy.”

            Tommy raised an eye at him. “Then what’s the problem, Alfie?”

            The man beside him took a heavy deep breath. “I’m dying, Tom. I told Kate at the boxing match. I’ve got skin cancer and it’ll kill me in a couple of years if I’m lucky. That’s why I want you to kill me.”

            After two blows, Tommy was a bit speechless. Alfie was dying and he wanted him to kill him. In what world were they living? This certainly wasn’t the man who had threatened to shoot Tommy on many occasions.

            “I’m not going to kill you, Alfie.”

            “Oh, c’mon you know you’ve wanted to fucking put a bullet through me head ever since we met. I ain’t blind. Now I’m giving you the option and you turn it down like a scared little boy?” Alfie wasn’t angry. When he was angry, everyone around him knew. No, this was fear. Fear coming from a man who claimed to be fearless.

            “What would that do to Mabel? Aye? And d’you think Kate would ever speak to me if I did?” Tommy questioned harshly. “You’ve got another part of life to appreciate, try not to skip out on it.”

            “Yeah, how much you think I’m gonna enjoy that while I’m rotting away?” Alfie demanded. “While Mabel watches?”

            Tommy shook his head. The logic wasn’t lost on him. How many nights had he been wide awake wondering how long he had to suffer? How much longer would he tolerate the pain and weight of the world? How many times had someone held a gun to his head? How many times was he completely at peace with the cold metal of a gun pressed against his skin? How many times had he waited patiently for that click and then….nothing.

            “I’m not killing you.” He said again. Because if Tommy had given in, he wouldn’t be sitting there. Married and about to be a father. “We’ll get the best doctors in London to help.”

            “Oh, right. So now you’re my saving grace?” Alfie rolled his eyes. “Fucking ridiculous. I don’t want some fucking doctor drugging me up. I ain’t gonna roam around life high like you lot.”

            “I know you don’t think you deserve Mabel. Maybe you don’t. Maybe I don’t deserve Kate. But look at us, aye? They’re still here with us. You fucking need God to come down and explain that to you?”

            Alfie grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. “I knew you’d be no fucking help.”

            “Take it up with Kate. See how she reacts and then you’ll realize how much easier I was on you.” Tommy replied and lit up a cigarette. “She’d go ballistic.”

            The two men sat out in the breezy spring night. Past the gravel drive was nothing but dark countryside with the sounds of nocturnal life.

            “I saw the ring Mabel was wearing.” Even at his own wedding reception, Tommy was perceptive. He could never turn it off even if he wanted.

            Alfie merely muttered something incoherent under his breath.

            “So, I invite you to my wedding but I’m not given the same courtesy.”

            “It were a gift.” He grumbled crankily. "Can't I buy jewelry for her without people getting their knickers in a twist?"

            Tommy tapped the ash off his cigarette to the step beside him. “So, no plans then?”

            “Her mum threw a fit when she found out. Even in retirement, I’m still the devil of Camden. No one wants their women near me. Her mum hated that we were friends when we were kids. Guess she thought she was in clear, that I wouldn't ever go near Mabel again.” He let out a humorless laugh. "Guess she were wrong and now I'm corrupting her thirty-four-year-old daughter. S'fucking ridiculous." 

            “Since when have you cared what anyone else thinks?”

            “I don't. But Mabel's getting an earful every night. Ain't fair to her." Alfie shrugged. “Just know there won’t be no blessings coming my way, that’s for sure.”

            “Except for Kate.”

            He laughed. “It’s tough to disappoint her, innit?”

            “I think she’d be disappointed if I killed you especially if she found out you asked me to do it.”

            “There’s just no pleasing some people.” Alfie shook his head.

            “Come on.” Tommy stood up. “Don’t want Kate thinking you’ve skipped off without saying goodbye to her.”

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[christinesficrecs]

Hi, I hope this isn't too much to ask, I was wondering if you knew any fics like Somewhere to Start by Lissadiane? Where stiles comes to the (alive) hale pack unwillingly, for example because of a arranged marriage, and is Derek's mate. thank you so much for what you do!!

Hey! Here are some amazing arranged marriage fics you might like. :)

Somewhere to Start by Lissadiane | 33.5K 

An arranged marriage with an angry, sometimes furry dude with trust issues. It's all very Beauty and the Beast, without the singing candlesticks.

The Light in the Woods by DiscontentedWinter | 12.2K

To honour a treaty with the people of a strange land, Derek Hale, prince of the kingdom of Triskelion, has to marry Stiles.

The Bargain by dr_girlfriend | 9.7K

Time drags on, and it becomes apparent that this is not a part of the tradition. The wolves start to shift on their feet and murmur, but no one attempts to speak to Stiles. He stands, feeling the back of his neck growing red from the sun and his face growing red from embarrassment.

What will happen if Derek Hale cannot be coerced to the altar? Will the bargain be revoked?

Of Political Arrangements & Romantic Gifts by Areiton | 25.5K | Explicit

The wedding of Governor Derek Hale to the beloved Prince Stiles Stilinski of Beacon is the first of its kind, after the war.The first Alpha werewolf to marry one of the recently deposed aristocracy.It’s for the good of their people.It’s an arrangement, one Stiles loathes.But as Stiles learns more about werewolves and his grumpy husband. As Derek watches his proud, clumsy prince--Maybe an arrangement isn’t all it can be.Maybe what’s good for the people can be exactly what both of them need.

The Fox & The Wolf by Dexterous_Sinistrous | 79.1K | Explicit

The war between the fox and wolf clans has raged for centuries, ignited in a time before anyone can remember. Now both clans—tired of the bloodshed and hate—are searching for a way to end the war.

Crowned prince Stiles Stilinski—heir to the fox clan—has agreed with his father to meet with the Hales, the ruling royal family over the wolf clan. Under the counseling of the Druids, both clans are presented with a solution to the war: unite the Stilinski and Hale clans through marriage. To quell their people's anger, both Stiles and Derek—eldest living Hale Alpha—are urged to accept the other as an equal; as their mate.

For the sake of their people, both houses make the ultimate sacrifice by choosing duty over love. But, out of what was first assumed to be compromised, quickly turns to be a better match than either could have hoped for. But not all is easy for either clan, as some members refuse to believe that the war could end so easily.

Foolish devouring things, build your castle in me by LunaCanisLupus_22 | 23.1K | Explicit

“I will marry you,” he declares. “But should any more harm come to my father or my people, I will raze the earth itself until I feel the lifeblood drain from your corpse and paint my skin with it.”

It is not an idle warning, but from the princeling it has none of the desired effect. Derek feels no fear, but in this instance at least diplomacy triumphed over the spilling of more blood. It is all the same to him anyway. But Regent Peter was most insistent they avoid a drawn-out, gruelling war.

“Then we have reached an accord.”

Things We Lost by Dexterous_Sinistrous | 20K | Explicit

“Who … who am I to wed?”

A small flash of guilt covered the king’s features before he was able to recover. “Your union will join the royal families—joining our family to the Hales.”

Dread and sorrow sunk in Stiles’ stomach as he closed his eyes.

There was only one Hale left unharmed by the great fire that nearly wiped out the entire royal family—the Dread Wolf of Triskelia, Crowned King Derek Hale.

[frauleindermorgen]

garments of the gods

class mastery drabble. warning for RD spoilers and this whole piece being in second person

Some say the woman who raised you was a priestess, and perhaps she served the goddess, but if so she did it in secret for it was only the Apostle who was said to hear Her voice. Begnion beliefs held sway even in a poor Daenian border town like hers and the people who went to see her for fortunes and cures did so surreptitiously.

More likely she communed with spirits – the kind even the most powerful of mages spoke in hushed whispers of, but she never told you what they had to say; instead, she taught you how to forage for edible plants, as well as which to avoid for fear of harm, and the odd ones that could do both harm and good.

It was that skill that saved you more than anything else, especially in the cold of winter her death.  The few in the community who knew of you spoke of the priestess’s “little apprentice”, but none of them came to check on you that winter. You saw them only after the thaw, only when they needed their charms and cures again and that was how you found out that being a priestess was a lonely thing indeed. 

    For some time the only permanent fixture of the Daein palace’s royal chambers are the clothes you hung there, given to you by Yune. Neither the room nor the garments suit you and you think for that reason they suit each other well.

Ever since you first met Yune’s moods and yours have been closely in sync, and that is truer now than ever since she’s woken up and started to see the world through your eyes, walk the changed lands of Tellius in your boots.

Yet when her heart is hurt from Stefan’s sudden question and the fear palpable in her (your) throat as Ashera’s soldiers’ stand again and again - flesh knitting back together each time they are struck down - it is not you who brings her back from the brink and gives her comfort but Ike. It is a strange mix of the warmth of thanks and the bite of envy that fills you when in the next moment the goddess bestows upon you a transformation. 

You really wish she would have talked this over with you or at least given you back your boots if she means for you to enter combat but the only assurance you hear are her words to Ike: “Once we get inside you can leave the fighting to Micaiah!”

     You get the chance to ask her about it that night when probably you should be sleeping.

 “Hey,” you whisper quietly, exchanging words with Yune using your own mouth feels odd but it is easier to hold a conversation that way without becoming lost in her or your own memories.

“Hey, Yune. What are these clothes based on anyway?”

You turn on your side and Yune is suddenly there beside you, blue and flickering like a flame with a hand over her mischievous grin. 

Even if you were to wake someone they probably wouldn’t be able to see her but you play along anyway, putting a finger to your own lips and scooting closer. Yune’s laughter feels ticklish as it enters your ear.

“I thought they would look good on you, Micaiah! They’re like the ones my – ah, I mean Ashera and my priestesses used to wear. When they would attend to us at the altar.”

“I see. They were your priestesses back when you were the dawn goddess. Is that why they wear red?”

Yune does not answer for a moment and instead floats up into the air, cart wheeling over your head and among the stars. She smiles down at you and confirms: “Red for dawn and a dress of dawn for the dawn maiden.”

She laughs but it fades quickly.

"You know. The color red is for anger too.”

“Anger? What would I have to be angry about?”

She’s looking not at you but at the tower when she answers. “I don’t know where yours is directed, Micaiah, but my anger is right here.

      Rather than a place of rage you privately find the tower to be a very sad place, filled with dead men and their wilted hopes and dreams. Kurthnaga does not shed tears at the death of his father but you feel his heart cry out all the same. You say nothing. All you can think is: for what?

You never get that answer. The Sephiran man with feigned sorrow shatters the Empress Sanaki’s heart against the floor with the same efficiency he had used in ushering you all here. Seeing him speak to her as if the years he had spent raising her meant nothing is enough to steady your hand to cast, but the look of contentment you see as he takes up his own tome and thrusts your light back at you leaves nothing but bitterness in its wake.

He’s still smiling after the battle, laying there in his own blood. Something new and strange enters you then even as you nod in time to Yune’s orders. During your time as general, exhausted and soul sick from a war campaign, it had always been with empathy that you connected with another through the gift of sacrifice.

Now that power is fueled by a hot torrent of emotion you throw at him alongside your life energy without the time to parse it all apart. For once you and Ike are of one mind and as Sephiran’s soul attempts to slip through your fingers you squeeze harder, you say no: not now, not after everything you’ve done do you get to die. I will see you live! 

     Yune’s garments once in Daein’s royal chamber now hang in the dorm at Garreg Mach. Positioned next to your desk against the window there the fabric often catches the light of the setting sun and seeing that makes your heart ache. 

     "Micaiah" – Yune says, voice soft; “Micaiah, are you angry with me? I’m sorry I just – I couldn’t see Lehran die! I know all he’s done and I still – 

”I’m not angry, you tell her. Even your own thoughts feel distant and padded after everything you’ve given to that man and you just want Yune to let you sleep. I just wish you would have told me sooner. Next time don’t leave me out like that alright?

“Yes,” you hear her say; “thank you.”

There is no next time. You wake up and Yune has gone, the tower changed. Something in you is splintering and Ike staring at you is not doing that any favors; it is only Sothe gently taking your hand that reminds you there is a place still waiting for you. You follow him out of the tower, forlorn.

(Back in your tent you sit back to back and only then do you weep. Tomorrow, you will be a hero and accept your crown but tonight your only reward lies in fragments in your chest. Sothe says nothing, barely breathes, and part of you hopes that he never turned around to look and that this much is still true: Micaiah has never cried, not in front of Sothe.)            

     The first thing you do when you return from Leicester is bathe, to the point that the water burns. The second thing you do back in your room is dress in Yune’s clothes in the black of night when not even you can see what they look like. Something in you deep as despair stirs.            

     Even with double the classes this Great Tree Moon you find yourself with too much time to think. Would it be odd to send everyone in the brigade a letter so soon after your last? Most likely, and you aren’t even sure what you would say; something like staring into death’s jaws has hardened your resolve to be queen, but no that would only make them worry.

Still. You remember toppling Briareus, wreathed in light. You look up from your desk, gaze catching the priestess robes, and putting down the quill and paper and walk over to touch them. Something stirs again. You are becoming something new.

Micaiah has gained access to the light priestess class!

[mageglory]

And here we go with the last two episodes of

Dragon Age Redemption (Of a Plot).

My baby Josmael finally gets to flip off Tallis -I don't hate Tallis, but this movie has her at her worst attitude- and Cairn and gets a reaver friend. We start with episode 5. Are you ready? Let's go.

-The episode starts with our protagonists fighting in the inn, where we left them and oh Maker did I said how I love the guy with the hammer? Not only he has a gigantic rubber hammer, he's also bald, grinning and with a dark beard. He's the perfect evil enchnman clichè and I want 20 of them thank you very much. He even says "GRAAAWL!" before starting the fight. I love you, random evil hammer guy.

-The fights goes more or less the same, the only thing I'm gonna change is that the innkeeper does not randomly knocks out Josmael because I find not very realistic that a civilian would throw herself in a fight. She still gets angry at the gang for fucking up the inn and takes their money, but she spends the fight hiding to safety behind the table and immediately after the fight and them buying informations from the innkeeper. If we have to add something, I would not mind Josmael or someone else asking what Nyree did, so we can throw some informations about Reaver abitilities to the viewer instead of just assuming I know.

-Ok it's a specific DA movie, so if you are watching you probably know about reavers and lore already, but a good rule of storytelling is to never assume the player/viewer already knows, and I study games.

-Anyway the gang is now in the dark (it was daylight in the previous scene why is now dark? what did they waste time on?? That's a mystery between them and the script) or still daylight if we want to be more realistic. They are talking about how those guys were waiting for them and how did Sarebaas knew they were gonna enter that inn, since Sarebaas is obviously behind this?

-Tallis is like "Josmael told us about the shortcut I don't trust him" and knocks him against the stone. But since we are less than 20 minutes from the end, Josmael is tired of being harrassed by his "allies" and having to take it for the sake of the mission so he hits Tallis with a mind blast and tells her to get her hands off him. Cairn takes out his sword, but he feels cold against his neck and realizes Nyree is keeping her weapon on him, estabilishing sides officially.

-Josmael explains how he followed the instructions on a message for the person he loved, NOT to betray them and Craig snaps towards him yelling "deceitful little apostate!" but is once again stopped by Nyree who growls at him "Don't Try It, Anakin torturer!" since it's a stalemate, Craig does his "I know nothing good could come of you" but Josmael is defiant, not scared (well ok maybe he is scared too but he's not gonna take this from Meredith little boy). At the "You're tainted!" Josmael snaps that the dalish have heard the stories about the Knight Commander of Kirkwall and if he's tainted at the eyes of someone who was hurting elders in chains then he's proud. Cairn tries to surpass Nyree to kill him and is knocked down instead.

-Nyree does her reveal, telling that the boy is right and even if he wasn't Cairn is way worse than a lie out of love, for he caused Sarebaas escape by trying to kill him. Tallis interrogates Cairn about it and Cairn admits how he tried to kill the mage but was overpowered. (Nice to see Templars are usless as always).

-Blablabla Sarebaas killed Cairn family after his village near Kirkwall took pity of him? Ehh no. We are not doing Sten 2.0 on the simple basis that Sten had a (wrong but still logical) motivation.

-Instead when asked "why" Cairn will tell that his family did took pity on Sarebaas but he did not trusted him. Then one night he entered the barn where Sarebaas was being let sleep (since the family did not had enough room for him) and caught him doing bloodmagic and summoning demons. Cairn, as a Templar who was visiting his family, realized the qunari wasn't "simple" a qunari, but a mage and a maleficar and when he tried to arrest him as is his duty Sarebaas killed his family trying to escape.

-Some of you could say "but this still makes Sarebaas the cartoon villain evil mage?" and I say, in Mickey Mouse voice, "This is a plot point that will serve us later". For now, like the Hinterlands, bear with me. (Yes I know my jokes are great).

-Anyway in the fight and after seeing his little sister die in his arms, Cairn was stopped from killing Sarebaas by the Chantry (specifing they stopped him only because they wanted to "experiment" on him not because murdering mages is wrong), tried to kill him later and messed up.

-Instead of framing Josmael and making Cairn looks #angsthero we have Josmael in the right and Cairn in a "yeah he caused this and I dont like him but I can understand the trauma" (for now) situation.

-Then Nyree realizes Josmael legged out to reach Sundermount alone and Tallis says some curse in qunlat instead of "Andraste's Ass" because if she can curse in qunlat during Mark of the Assassin she can do it now too.

-We start with episode 6, the last episode, with Josmael getting close to the altar (thankfully my Hawke never looted the elven graves lmao. The last thing this boy needs is an horde of angry ravenants).

-Behind him Nyree shows up and says she prefers to help him than help Tallis and Cairn. Josmael points out he has no money and Nyree answers something along the lines of "I already have the money kid. But you know we mercenaries, we have no honor and it's better than a fake one".

-Tallis and Cairn reach them and Cairn wants to fight but Tallis intervenes doing her "we all want to defeat Sarebaas let's keep working more or less together and we can solve this later" so each party goes hiding behind some rocks, waiting for the enemy.

-While Tallis and Cairn talk (with NO romantic music thank you very much) Cairn admits Meredith didn't allowed the mission and says that he thinks he will not be able to go back. "The Knight-Commander is not the kind of woman who forgives lack of control"

-They are very pompous about it but it's made clear to the viewer that one side wants to murder a mage and the other wants to enslave him. Since we think Cairn wants revenge for his family and we have previously seen Sarebaas look of horror towards his collar, we are like "well I hope the bastard Templar kills Sarebaas seems the more justified of the two options and probably Sarebaas would rather die than return to the Qun"

-They still try to recruit each other, but there is no kiss or romance, only two zealots trying to recruit the other in their creed.

-We entirely skip that scene with Nyree and Josmael. You know the one. ENTIRELY I SAID.

-They instead talk about how Nyree has seen Templars harrass mages in Nevarra when they could and throw dirty look at Mortalitasi and Josmael thanks her for siding with him in the past.

-Sarebaas and the bad guys arrive with Fina (Josmael beloved in case I didn't specified already) and a battle plan is made, with the four protagonists reunited on the same rock.

-I take a moment to appreciate how Sarebaas long nails are pained black and way better than Voldemort dirty ones. Remember kids, being an evil mage hell bent on conquering the land with a demon army is no reason to look dirty.

-Sarebaas start the ritual and when Josmael tries to put Fina to safety she tells Sarebaas the enemy is here. Josmael is shocked but then he realizes that Fina is controlled by blood magic. Because that makes at least more sense than "being kidnapped by the villain of the story makes me feel special I so love being a sacrifice"

-I clap at Sarebaas calling the dead to him because necromancy is always cool, even on low budget.

-Fina still gets Stabbed because Sarebaas magic pushed Josmael against her while he was struggling to take the knife away from her without hurting her and the blood activates the ritual. Instead of being immediately defeated, Sarebaas and Josmael are locked into a magic duel until the mask doesn't power up Sarebaas, then Josmael is throwed away.

-As in canon, Sarebaas magically blocks Cairn and thanks him and Cairn yells at him he's a monster but Sarebaas reveals the truth. He never did bloodmagic to kill Cairn family. Cairn killed his family.

-The true story is that yes Sarebaas, being Sarebaas/a mage was using his powers in the barn, but he was doing enthropic magic. Cairn, already blinded by hate and rage because of the difficulties with th Qun in Kirkwall and his own racism (fueled by Petrice, altought she's not directly mentioned because he couldn't know this, but we know), assumed entropy was blood magic without taking a second to check/ask and tried to kill Sarebaas.

-In the fight, the family and others ran in to see what was going on, Cairn tried to kill Sarebaas and instead stabbed his sister who was trying to stop it and a flying spell set the barn on fire. After being arrested and taken to Kirkwall, Sarebaas -enslaved by the Qun all his life and now an attempt to a new life destroyed by racism- decided that it's better to be feared than a weapon in other people hands and so when Cairn tried to kill him again, making him escape, Sarebaas seized the occasion to chase the mask and exact revenge on everyone.

-Still a villain, but a villain caused by Cairn himself and by the Qun treatment of people. It's a very "Luke I'm your father" "That's not true! That's impossible!" moment, except Luke is the bad guy who caused everything and Vader is still the bad guy but he's spilling the beans.

-So Sarebaas thanks Cairn for "showing him the truth of the world" and the fight goes on.

-Josmael asks Tallis to pass him a knife and cuts himself on the hand, using blood magic to stop the bloodmagic. While the rest of the group keeps Sarebaas busy, Josmael calls the blood out of the mask. No blood, no mask power, no mask power, no ritual. The Fade rift that was forming closes. Cairn gets ellectrocuted by magic but Tallis manages to put the qun control collar on Sarebaas, making him powerless.

-Cairn dies *world smallest violin plays* and when Tallis asks why he didn't tried to live his life Sarebaas tells her "You heard me talking to your Templar. I try and failed. Then I had the means to do harm... So I took them." and his "Qunari made me this way" bit, making the audience realize that while this doesn't justify Sarebaas actions, Thedas denied his attempts to be something that wasn't a weapon at every turn.

-Since there is no romance nobody particularly cares for Cairn, so Tallis is still intentioned to bring Sarebass back in chains.

-Sarebaas and Tallis are stopped by Josmael, who tells him he can't forgive him, but he knows part of his struggles, since the same people who denied a new life to him are the people who try to kidnap dalish kids with magic.

-Josmael looks at Sarebaas who nods and two spells make two things happen: his collar is broken and the second spell turns him into ice, breaking him in pieces and killing him. Sarebaas dies, but he dies free.

-Instead of having Josmael randomly hug Tallis in the end after she stabbed him, stole from his clan and treathened him, she argues with Josmael because she wanted to bring the prisoner to the Qun, but then she realizes that she is alone against two and angrily leaves.

-But first, Nyree throws the money of her payment (who were the clan stolen money) to Josmael, then takes Tallis money for herself.

-Nyree tells Josmael he is a great First and will one day be a great Keeper too and Josmael gives her an elven token of friendship so that other clans she could meet will recognize her as a friend of the People. He tells her it's not guaranteed that all clans will accept her, but still.

-They bury Fina together.

-Camera shows the sunset on Soundermount.

-The End.

Also yes, it is possible to interact with Josmael the First in Dragon Age 2 at the Sabrae camp in my mind. Because Merrill needs her people tp support her.

[myfriendscallmecoelophysis]

The Fears of a Goddess Pt 3

Part 3 of my Dark! Ianite fic

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

(Note, slight tw: self-harm (Blood Magic) and body horror (Taint Abomination related) (just a smidge of both))

Enjoy and as always

Find me on Ao3:

Selenejessabelle12626 for the tame stuff

Lady-Spieroles for the less tame stuff ;)

~

Potions of healing were objectively the worst tasting potions in Jordan’s experience. Potions already did not taste great, no matter what their effects were. But something about the combination of nether wart and glistering melon was just absolutely awful. Not to mention the chalkey texture that glowstone and redstone dust added to stronger or longer lasting potions. It’s why he preferred splash potions despite their slight weakness, he didn’t have to taste them that way. He tipped the potion back anyway, doing his best to ignore the flavor. 

He felt better immediately, it was a strong potion, stronger than he was probably capable of brewing. Usually even instant health potions left you with a lingering ache from your injury. But this didn’t even leave him with that, the perks of getting it from a Goddess he supposed. His vision cleared entirely to the view of Ianite looking down at him with worry in her eyes. “I’m fine.” He promised, answering her silent question. 

“That didn’t go well.” He sighed sitting down on a nearby hill. He needed a moment to calm and collect his thoughts. 

“It could have gone worse.” She said, sitting next to him. “But we can’t rest long unfortunately. I can sense my brothers searching for me, they’ve entered the End.” Jordan stood with some reluctance but stood nonetheless, nodding his agreement. 

She teleported them away, then again and again before he even got a chance to get his bearings at each stop. It made him somewhat nauseous but he said nothing, holding her hand until she let go of his. When she finally did, it was after half a dozen teleportation jumps, enough to give him mental whiplash. 

“My apologies.” She said with a wry smile, seeing the way he had to ground himself when they stopped. “I was attempting to create a false trail in the event that my brothers tried to follow, but I forgot that such jumps were taxing on mortals.” 

“I just need a moment, I’ll be fine.” He claimed in between deep breaths. When his head had stopped spinning he opened his eyes, widening them at what he saw. 

It was an enormous temple facade made of carved obsidian built into the side of a mountain. Instead of grass and stone, the mountainside was covered in the sickly lavender gray of mycelium while cracked stone bricks spread out from the facade in an uneven pattern, as if the temple had originally been made of stone but had warped to what it was now. Ianite was halfway to it already, either unaware or uncaring of the foreboding sensation that radiated through the air. 

Jordan was suddenly reminded of the end of Ruxomar and the battle with its World Historian. That had been the hardest battle he’d ever fought and that was with the support of all of the others including Waglington and Martha and Mot, all of them wielding weapons far stronger than what was even possible in this world. All he could hope was that in this world, if it came to a fight, World Historian was as limited as he was. He drew his bow and jogged to catch up with Ianite.

She didn’t turn to look at him as she began to climb the steps leading to the temple but he fell into step beside her anyway. This was the moment she’d been waiting for her whole life, the moment that would change her fate. The feeling of foreboding only increased as they got closer to the temple entrance, the setting of the sun behind them certainly didn’t help matters. The fading light caused the obsidian to reflect and shimmer with a subtle purple hue, and now, closer, Jordan could see the material had been carved to resemble bricks. Unless, instead, the obsidian had taken over what had once been a temple of stone brick at the will of some unseen force, covering over the stone. 

The doorway was recessed several meters within and as they entered darkness fell ominously. There were no torches or lanterns to light the way at first but before he could take one out, Ianite raised a hand illuminated with magic, casting an eerie purple glow all around them. Where there would be a doorway was blocked off by what almost appeared to be carved bedrock. Ianite waved her hand but nothing happened. She paused, repeated the motion again to no avail. 

Jordan stepped back to look around further, lighting a torch of his own despite the glow of her magic. That was when he noticed the floor was carved with oddly familiar symbols.

“What is this Tucker?” 

“Oh it’s just my Blood Altar. Got some different runes, sacrifice, augmented capacity and all that fun stuff.”

“Blood Altar?” 

“Yeah, you do tech, I do Blood Magic.” 

“These are Blood Magic runes.” Jordan said, aiming his torch to see them closer. 

“Blood Magic? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Ianite commented, turning away to see what he was talking about. 

“It was a school of magic in Ruxomar, you gave blood in return for magical abilities. It wasn’t my focus, but I dabbled in it for a short time because some of the spells were beneficial. If I remember, these are runes of self-sacrifice.” There was a slight expression of surprise on her face when he explained. He’d reacted similarly when he’d first looked into it. It was borderline dark magic due to its source but the benefits had outweighed the risks then and apparently the knowledge was paying off now.  

“Self-Sacrifice? As in…?”

“Your own blood, not that of an animal or monster.” 

“Gods do not bleed though.” Her brows had furrowed in confusion. 

“But mortals do. The prophecy said you would need a mortal hero to help you reach your full potential, this was possibly a reason why.” They’d not yet figured exactly why his help had been necessary, until this point she could have done everything else on her own, he’d just helped expedite the research. But this was clearly something only he could help with. He drew a standard arrow from his quiver, rolling it between his fingers. 

Ianite was frowning but said nothing as he used the arrowhead to slice a neat cut on his palm. The blood that welled up evaporated painlessly into strange red smoke. Moments later the sound of grinding echoed throughout the temple entryway, the bedrock parting. Both of them looked to it and then back to each other. 

Now that the doors were open, the foreboding feeling had increased tenfold, enough to make Jordan feel somewhat sick to his stomach. Ianite however, seemed unaffected. They entered the temple, though the moment he stepped over the threshold he nearly stumbled from the wave of nausea that overtook him. 

“Sparklez?” 

“I’m fine.” He assured, blinking away the way his vision suddenly swam. 

She narrowed her eyes, peering at him suspiciously. “It’s the temple. Mortals were not meant to tread these halls.” She concluded, putting her hand on his shoulder and turning him back towards the entrance. “Wait for me outside.” 

“But My Lady, what if”

“That’s an order. You will wait for me outside.” There was a pressure on his mind, a powerful divine feeling. It was familiar enough that he knew she was the culprit but he wasn’t sure exactly what it was that she was doing. With a hefty sigh he nodded, relenting. 

“Good. Stand watch. Let no one enter. Can you do that?” He was sure she didn’t mean to sound condescending, she was obviously just worried. 

“Yes milady.” She squeezed his shoulder but said not another word, reassuring or otherwise. 

The sun had disappeared on the horizon when he exited the temple, the sky barely held any color now, just the faintest hint of orange. Behind him the temple seemed somehow more haunting, the scant light casting intimidating shadows. He’d be mostly useless once the sun set, there was no full moon tonight to give off any sort of illumination. So despite knowing it would make his location obvious, Jordan lit a lantern and fastened it to his belt opposite his sword sheath.  Ianite was right, it was not a question of if someone was coming, it was when and who? She’d said that Mianite and Dianite had been tracking her and that had been before she and Jordan had entered the temple, in all likelihood, it would be the Gods who would arrive. That was the more worrying option. Jordan, while a skilled fighter, was no match for one God, let alone two. He almost rather they send Tom or Karl, because at least he’d have a chance. But then, he did have a chance didn’t he? 

Jordan glanced back at his quiver, the tainted arrow sat next to a small bundle of poisoned arrows, hardly looking dangerous at all aside from the strange and venomous color. It wouldn’t kill a God but it would cripple them. But could he really bring himself to use it? Could he really be the one to debilitate a God? On the other hand though, could he kill Tom or Karl with it? He’d killed them both in this life and in Tom’s case, the others. But that had been with the knowledge that they would come back no worse for wear. He himself had died dozens of times. If he struck them with this arrow, they would not return. Period, end of story. It was true and actual murder on a level he’d never even considered before this. True Karl would not meet Tucker or Sonja or Wag anyway, but Jordan and Tom hadn’t thought it would be because he was dead for good. 

A sound in the distance caught his attention, like the sound of an enderman’s teleport and the crack of a pickaxe on stone. A half second later, he heard it again. Then came the mental pressure once more, though this time it was not Ianite, which could only mean it was one of her brothers. With gritted teeth, Jordan nocked the tainted arrow in his bow but did not yet draw.

He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, unable to do anything but wait till either God stepped into the light. He was suddenly hyper aware of every inhale and exhale, of the sound of the wind whistling past, of the groan and growl of mobs in the surrounding hills.  

“Sparklez” Jordan drew back his bowstring in an instant as Mianite’s voice echoed in his ears. He did his best to calm his breath but it was practically useless, his mind and heart were racing in anticipation for a fight. 

“Captain, stand down.” Dianite ordered and Jordan was quick to aim towards where the voice had come from. There was a power to both of their tones that he’d never heard before, an otherworldly aspect that some part of him knew marked them as higher beings despite never having been told. 

“We do not wish to bring you harm.” Mianite added and once more Jordan shifted his aim. He’d yet to see either God, both speaking to him from the darkness outside his lanterns range. 

“You’re involved with something far beyond you boyo” The use of the nickname from Dianite dragged forth memories of Dianite in Ruxomar, the merchant God who’d been wrongly murdered. He’d been a victim in that world, as Ianite would be in this one. Had Tom not told him of Ruxomar and what had happened there? And Mianite, how could he possibly become the gentle and good hearted God that Tucker would worship when he was willing to let his own Sister wither away in a prison cell?

“I don’t think I am. I think I am exactly where I am supposed to be.” Jordan fired back, finally finding his voice. He sounded so much smaller than them, so weak compared to them, so very, mortal. “You’re both just scared of a future where Ianite is the strongest of you three!” 

It was Dianite who stepped into the light first, hands raised placatingly. Jordan turned to him anyway, amethyst arrowhead glinting dangerously in the flickering lantern light. “You don’t understand what’s happening here Captain. This is not what our Mother intended. This place was not meant for any of us to find.” Mianite stepped out of the darkness a half step behind his brother, his hands, while not raised, were still in a position meant to convey a lack of weapons. 

“I don’t care. The prophecy doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I keep her safe and out of both of your hands.” 

“Sparklez,” Mianite spoke once more. “The strength that Ianite may or may not find within that temple will not be the thing that seals nor prevents her fate. There is a force far greater than any of us that has tricked Ianite in the same way it would trick Dianite or myself. You were right, the spell was written by our Father, who you know as World Historian, but unlike you or I or any of the others, he is one being across all dimensions. There is no alternate version of him that does not wish ruin upon all planes of existence.” 

“It’s true Captain.” Dianite agreed before Jordan could say anything. “The research you and Ianite did confirms such a thing, you just didn’t want to see it.  The Shadows and Darkness that have been plaguing us all is our Father.  His book, the spell Ianite is after, will give her strength beyond comprehension but will corrupt so absolutely that she will no longer be the Goddess any of us know.” 

Jordan did not have the words to reply. He didn’t want to believe them. He wanted to believe that this was a ruse to get past his guard and get to Ianite. He wanted to believe that they were the ones who were delusional. But he had been the one to hear Kikoku Botan, the Father of Ianite, Dianite and Mianite, the one who called himself the Shadows and World Historian, in Ruxomar. He’d seen what had happened to the Ianite of that world and what she’d been forced to do. He knew, deep down within him, that World Historian was the true villain in this all and had always been. He knew that the Gods before him were right and that Ianite was making a terrible mistake. 

So, as much as it pained him to do so, as large a blow to his honor and sense of loyalty it was, Jordan lowered his bow. 

Before either God could take another step, the temple exploded outward in a burst of sinister noxious energy. Jordan was thrown forward to the ground, chunks of stone and obsidian rained down around him, dust filling the air. He coughed as he struggled back to his feet, trying to expel the particles from his lungs. Finally the dust settled enough that he could see what had happened. 

At first he did not understand what he was seeing. The temple had been built into a mountain but there was no longer a mountain. Instead a vast inky darkness stretched into the sky, blotting out the stars entirely, though something about the shape was oddly familiar. His lantern was not strong enough to illuminate what the darkness was, but the closer he looked at the shape against the stars, Jordan realized that it was moving. The stretches of darkness wriggled and writhed like massive tentacles of some ancient beast, and that was the moment when it clicked in his head.

“Ianite?” Her name was little more than a whispered plea on his lips as he fell to his knees with his eyes wide in fear. Because in the temples place, was the immense and terrifying form of the Taint Abomination. 

~

Ianite could see the discomfort on her Champion’s face the moment they entered the temple. She’d wondered if there might be some sort of safeguard against mortals, such a thing was certainly not outside the realm of possibility. But still he pressed on, keeping in step with her as they went further, voicing no complaint no matter how ill at ease he may feel. Loyalty to her goal over his own safety, he really was admirable in his devotion. She would allow him to remain on this path with her until his condition became an impediment, then she’d send him to stand guard and perhaps delay her brothers. 

The usage of another world’s magic, one that was arguably dark magic, was somewhat surprising. Not as surprising as the fact that her Captain had experience with it, enough to be able to recognize the runes on sight and know exactly how to utilize them. He hardly hesitated once he realized what needed to be done. She didn’t question him, watching silently as he activated the runes. The door grinding open was proof enough that he’d not been mistaken. Unfortunately, that was the last time he would be a greater help than hindrance. The ill pallor of his skin had only deepened, his eyes unfocused as he tried to fight off whatever infliction had fallen over him. It was when he stumbled on the threshold that she made the decision. 

She was not surprised when he argued to stay beside her. There was a chance that something further might require his assistance or his knowledge, but how likely could that be considering how badly he was reacting? So she risked a mental suggestion, exerting a slight pressure to push him to agree. It wasn’t something she did often, particularly with him, but right now, she needed him to actually listen. He agreed, reluctantly, but agreed, turning back towards the entryway of the temple and leaving her alone in the darkness. 

It was much quieter without him here. She’d gotten used to all the soft, mortal sounds he made after all the time they’d spent together in the last weeks. She was used to hearing a second set of footsteps, the soft clanking of his armor, the whisper of arrow fletchings brushing against one another in a quiver. She suddenly felt very alone. But it was that loneliness that drove her to take a step forward, then another and another. If she turned back now she would face a millenia alone. 

The temple interior was filled with towering columns of obsidian, tall enough that she could not see the ceiling they held up. She cast out her magic to attempt to illuminate the space further but there was something about this darkness that seemed to swallow the light whole. She should have asked Sparklez for a torch or lantern so that she could conserve her magic, but seeing the way these shadows behaved she wasn’t sure it would have had any effect. 

“My Daughterrrrr” a voice hissed from the gloom “you have returnnnned.” 

The light of her magic deepened in hue, a more offensive intent coming forth instinctively. “Yesssss, you have grown strongerrrrrr” 

“End this game Father.” She ordered, she would not back down from this attempt at intimidation, not after she had come this far. The answer she received was a grating noise, like a crude and twisted imitation of a laugh. 

“You are stronger indeeeed. Verrryyy wellll.” The darkness parted, revealing an altar and beyond it, a room. He did not leave her as she ventured ever deeper, whispering praises in that strange cadence and tone. She didn’t know if the reason behind this change was time or the fact that this was not a vision. He’d spoken normally in that long ago vision and appeared normally enough, at least he’d had a form instead of now where he was a shapeless darkness. 

She did not reply to his honeyed words, keeping her focus on the room past the altar. The altar itself was a sickly color, like decaying plant matter, with stains that reminded her too closely of the rich color that had come from her Champions hand. The thought of lives lost on this altar made her stomach roil, especially that of her own Champion. 

“You were right to send him awayyyyyy.” The Shadow spoke in one ear. “I might have been inclineedddd to askkkkk for a sacraficeeeeee.” He said in the other.

“You have done him enough harm!” She snapped, turning towards the voice in an instant. She’d not told the Captain in fear of him turning against her, but she knew that this creature, her father, the ‘World Historian’ was the same entity that her Champion had faced in that other world. It was no alternate or variation, it was the same being that had killed her in that world along with Dianite. Sparklez would never have agreed to follow her here, let alone leave her if he knew she was facing that once more. 

The temple echoed with the aberrant laughter. “Soooo protectiveee. Are you frightened for himmm, my daughterrrr? Frighteneddd forrr what your brothersssss will do to himmmm? Youuuu shoulddd be more afraid of what youuuuuu will do to himmmmm.” 

“Enough!” She snarled only to realize the voice had fallen silent. 

She’d reached the room beyond the altar, eyes falling upon the crumbling desk. His voice had left her, as had all other sounds once again. The book she’d seen so long ago sat innocently on the center of the desk, dust free despite the thick layer that caked the rest of the ancient looking wood. The stump remains of a candle sat beneath the wax melter on one corner of the desk, while on the other corner was a pot of ink, long dried and quill lacking all its feather. The entire sign was a picture of decrepit age, except for the book itself. 

Slowly, Ianite stepped forward, her heart beating heavily in her chest. Her focus was on nothing but the book. Not the eerie temple behind her nor the touch of her brothers in the periphery of her mind. Only this. All these years of waiting and biding her time. All these weeks upon months of research. The lies and manipulations she’d spun. All of it was coming to fruition now. Everything she had worked for had finally been rewarded. 

A surge of power filled her when she picked it up, the strength of the very void itself pouring through her veins. Yes. This was the final moment. She’d won. She would not let the prophecy come to be. She would not see the inside of that gilded crystal prison. She would be free. 

The seal melted away at her touch, sizzling and bubbling into liquid. Each droplet that fell seared acidically through the floor and into the earth below but the book remained unharmed. When she opened the book, it was directly to the page with the spell written upon it. She recognized the script from the vision, the curling, almost decorative way the letters spilled across the page. 

Steeling herself, Ianite began to read it out loud, reciting the ancient spell in the tongue of the Gods. With each word she felt her strength grow, further and further, stronger and stronger. She would be unstoppable. She would be invincible. No being, God or Mortal would be capable of imprisoning her now. As the last word spilled from her lips, Ianite felt the truest most pure sense of elation. Then the pain began. 

She screamed. Tears ran down her cheeks and she fell to her knees, body crumpling under the agony sparking through her. She could do nothing but scream. Knew nothing but pain. All the strength had warped into grotesque torment. The last thing she saw before her awareness left her was her very flesh bubbling away in toxic violet smoke.

[allie-writes]

on ghosts

Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen, M/M Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Dedue Molinaro Additional relevant tags: Character Study, Pre-Slash, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, (Minor) Animal Death, Post-Timeskip, Blue Lions Route Word count: 4753 Language: English Read on: AO3 | Fanfiction.net

 Perhaps he might be the most bloodthirsty spirit Faerghus has ever brought forth, really. He roams the chapel to the sound of rattling metal and the smell of death and rot surrounding him. His face is gaunt, pale, and contorted in a pitiful sort of rage. His whispers and mutters well into the night, as though he never sleeps. As if his fellow ghosts won’t let him rest.

 And it’s weird. He might as well be a face-snatcher, too, because Sylvain could swear that he looks a lot like a boy he used to know.

Sylvain thinks about ghosts.

Content warnings: Mental health issues, a rat getting killed, mentions of blood, dead bodies, death imagery. Please read at your own discretion and stay safe!

i.

 With the Pegasus Moon comes a cold icy enough to blanket even Garreg Mach with a thin layer of snow.

 It’s nothing compared to northern Faerghus, where winter draws on endlessly and spring is unkind. Here, the snow falls in tiny flakes that cover the grass like powdered sugar. It glitters in the dying lamplight, silently settling on the ground as the night draws on.

 It’s painfully quiet.

 Any soldier would know to not to trust the quiet after five years of war. Murderers can hide well under the cover of the night. Ambushes may lie in the wait where you can’t see them yet. Better sleep with a knife under your pillow and listen to the silence as though it were your favourite song. Goddess forbid you may find an offbeat.

 War begets sleepless nights and fitful sleep. Tonight seems to be a night of little sleep, if any at all. The courtyard in front of the officers’ academy gathers more and more dusted snow as Sylvain stands and watches it fall. His sleepwear and the thin blanket thrown over his shoulders do a poor job of keeping him properly warm, but he is used to the cold. And he’s survived even worse things, besides.

 Maybe, were he younger, he would have found someone to keep him company for the night by now—to warm his bed, to thoroughly exhaust him, and to chase the sleeplessness away. But he isn’t twenty anymore, and he doubts he’d find any genuine comfort in it with things as they are. He can’t recall if there ever was a time where it was about comfort at all.

 It’s not comfortable, standing in the cold with his sleep pants tucked into his unlaced boots and his bare feet surrounded by coarse lining. Nothing is comfortable. War isn’t comfortable.

 Sylvain is tired.

 He steps out onto the grass. The snow is so thin it doesn’t even crunch under his feet. The sky is a perfect, pitch black—the kind of colour that folktales from back home would use as the backdrop for fantastical stories about spirits that come for you in the night.

 An eternity ago, when things had been easier, Mercedes would occasionally recount some of those tales. She would scare the fainter of heart, like Annette or Ashe, and entertain everyone else with a good story for the night. She hasn’t told any tales ever since everyone reconvened a few months ago, though. It isn’t the time or place to speak of ghosts. They all have their own ghosts now, and the most terrifying of all of them haunts their thoughts and the monastery day in and day out.

 Perhaps he might be the most bloodthirsty spirit Faerghus has ever brought forth, really. He roams the chapel to the sound of rattling metal and the smell of death and rot surrounding him. His face is gaunt, pale, and contorted in a pitiful sort of rage. His whispers and mutters well into the night, as though he never sleeps. As if his fellow ghosts won’t let him rest.

 And it’s weird. He might as well be a face-snatcher, too, because Sylvain could swear that he looks a lot like a boy he used to know.

 But it’s still painfully quiet. And Sylvain is still tired. And no iron clatters, and no mutters are to be heard, and it almost doesn’t smell like the blood of enemy soldiers, either.

 The snow catches in his hair, and his breath fogs up in the air. Everyone has their own ghosts now, and Sylvain has been cultivating an entire army of them since long before the war. They were born somewhere between a village girl’s thighs and the give of his brother’s flesh when he drove his lance between his ribs. It’s almost funny how cathartic the horror of it all sometimes feels.

 Maybe Sylvain is long since gone, too. Maybe he died at the bottom of a well, or froze in the wilderness, or bled to death on the inside. Something within him definitely did die. He’s no less of a ghost than what lurks in the shadows of the cathedral.

 But his haunting grounds are much colder, and quiet as death. Sylvain wipes the molten snow from his lashes and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He probably won’t catch any sleep, but he still steps back from the grass, and into the corridor leading to the great hall, and eventually, back into his room. By then, he’s almost dry.

  ii.

 There is a sense of abject horror to watching his prince crush a rat in his hands. The poor thing’s bones snap and crack, and there’s no mercy to the grip around its limp little body until its guts come spilling out. Its blood drips onto the floor in slow droplets, looking like liquid tar in the moonlight.

 “Nuisance,” booms the vengeful ghost wearing an old friend’s face.

 Sylvain sits in one of the pews towards the back of the cathedral, silently watching. The sun had set only about two hours ago. The altar at the very front is covered in snow, glowing a strange blue colour where the moon shines through the broken roof.

 The ghost slowly skulks towards it. His movements are sluggish and tired like a dying animal’s, and he ever so carefully places the rat’s carcass atop the altar as though it were a sacrifice to the Goddess. He mumbles something, so quietly that Sylvain has no hope of making out a single word.

 It almost looks like he is praying.

 But that can’t be it. Rather than the Goddess, he must be trying to appease his ghosts—his father, his mother, an entire army and Glenn Fraldarius. Dedue. Everyone is familiar with what haunts him by now.

 Sylvain carefully studies the hunched over form at the altar. The moonlight makes the patches of ratty white fur draped around his shoulders shine like the snow surrounding him. Not a hair moves. He is entirely still, and hopefully unlikely to turn around.

 So Sylvain stands up, as slowly and quietly as possible. He hasn’t yet taken off his armour from the day’s routine scouting mission, and the plates of it scrape softly in the cathedral’s silence. It’s barely noise, but it’s apparently loud enough for a wounded, paranoid beast to hear.

 “Who’s there?” he snarls, turning, and his bared teeth and icy, singular eye glint silver. He scours the darkness before him like a predator. Then, he steps forward. His boots clink against the floor with every heavy footfall.

 Sylvain stands rooted to the spot. There is no point in running—if he did, surely, the prince would be onto him in an instant. So he slowly forces his legs to move, one after the other. He steps out into the corridor between the pews, hands raised, palms open.

 “It’s just me,” says Sylvain, not daring to make eye-contact.

 The clinking of armoured boots against the floor’s tiling continues, grows ever closer. Sylvain breathes evenly, staring at his feet, until the steps come to a halt. The overpowering smells of filth, sweat, blood, death and decay surround him and he almost wants to gag.

 “Why are you here?”

 Sylvain feels a smile strain his lips, out of habit.

 “I don’t know, honestly. I just wandered in here. Guess I’m a bit restless.”

 He raises his eyes as if to prove his honesty. Usually, he makes sure not to look directly into the face before him. He doesn’t like having to acknowledge—beyond a doubt, beyond plausible deniability—that this is Dimitri. But at the same time, this wounded animal, this little boy from his childhood, deserves to be looked at, and be it only to set his frail mind at ease.

 “Restless,” echoes Dimitri. “What do you know about restlessness.”

 Sylvain swallows and holds Dimitri’s eye. “Nothing at all, Your Highness,” he says, exaggeratedly blithe. He begins to lower his still raised hands. “I was just about to leave, anyways.”

 In a blink, Dimitri seizes his right wrist. He holds it up with a grip that could crush Sylvain’s gauntlet and bones alike were it just an iota tighter. His rank breath fans across Sylvain’s face. “Do you take me for a fool?” he snarls.

 “Never, Your Highness.”

 Dimitri glowers at him. “Then do you really think I would let you reach for whatever weapon you’re carrying?” He indicates towards Sylvain’s lower body with a tilt of his head. “Should I just sit patiently and wait for you to stab me in the back?”

 “I’m not carrying any weapons,” replies Sylvain. The hand around his wrist tightens threateningly. “I swear I am not. I fight for you every day. I have no reason to hurt you.”

 “Let us pretend you weren’t a filthy liar,” Dimitri jeers. “So what if you have no reason to hurt me? Do you think people need a reason to kill?”

 Sylvain can’t help but remember the rat, squeezed to death in the same iron grip that is currently holding his hand up. His eyes flicker towards the altar. “Maybe not.”

 That seems to satisfy Dimitri. He grins, and the shadows passing over his face bring out the monster quite well. “So you admit as much,” he says. “But let me tell you something. I won’t let you kill me, yet. Not before I get to hold that woman’s head in my own two hands. The dead are helpless. They cannot act upon their thirst for revenge. So I must not join them before then.”

 “Of course, Your Highness,” Sylvain replies. The smell around him is slowly making him nauseous. He still takes a deep breath. “But I need you to understand that I’m not here to kill you. Or harm you in any way for that matter. I don’t have as much as a butter knife on me.”

 “And isn’t that a shame.” The fingers around Sylvain’s wrist tighten just a bit more. Even through the padding below his armour, it hurts.

 “Please let me go, Your Highness.”

 Dimitri stares, but looks right through him. “You couldn’t kill me if you wanted to,” he says. “But know that I could crush you like vermin. That I will crush you like vermin, if you ever scutter back in here and hide in the darkness like this.”

 “And do you really think you would you enjoy killing me like that?” Sylvain asks. He would bet that there’s no way he would—in a moment of clarity, he would realise what he’s done. He would have to live with the knowledge that he had murdered someone close to him, for no good reason. That he’d become what he despises most. That Sylvain’s ghost would come for Dimitri’s head, and Dimitri’s head alone.

 The hand around his wrist goes slack. Then it drops away.

 Dimitri averts his eye, looks towards the grand portal at the back of the cathedral. His shoulders and jaw tense up. “Leave,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Don’t come back.”

 Sylvain nods, and cradles his right hand close to his chest. Wordlessly, he walks past his prince, and doesn’t turn to look back even once. He pulls the portal open only far enough to just slip through, and only once he has an inch of solid wood between himself and Dimitri does he dare release a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 The night is cold, and the snow on the bridge is frozen over where it’s been pushed aside in heaps. Sylvain shivers and breathes shakily. Funny. Almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

 He looks down at his wrist—properly examines it in the moonlight. There are four finger-shaped indents in his gauntlet, spanning three individual plates. The dents in the metal almost feel like Dimitri’s grip is still there.

 It’s smeared with blood and rat-guts.

  iii.

 The world seems to run on quid pro quo these days. Perhaps it is a byproduct of war. If you keep on taking and taking from one party, you can eventually begin to give back to another in equal parts.

 Ferdinand von Aegir and his trusty steed cheerfully bleed out on a stiflingly warm spring afternoon. In turn, Dedue comes back from the dead.

 And he must have brought back some part of Dimitri from the underworld along with him, because in a moment of clarity, with shaking hands clasped around his most trusted vassal’s forearms, the tremor in the prince’s voice sounds almost human. One ghost has returned—a living, breathing thing, instead of a bloodthirsty facsimile that lurks in the darkness of Dimitri’s mind.

 By the time they regroup at Garreg Mach, the spell is broken.

 Nothing truly changes, except that the spectre haunting the monastery grounds now has a shadow following it around. At least the nights are milder now, so Dedue’s stalwart vigils are not bitten by frost nor covered in snow.

 Sylvain sits with him, one night, in the third row of pews from the front. A few candles around them remain lit. Sylvain’s gauntlet has long since been fixed and Dimitri pays neither of them any mind, either way.

 “It’s good to know that you’re watching over him,” Sylvain says, lowly. “None of us really managed to.”

 Dedue gives him a curious sideways glance, but doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He just straightens in his seat and sighs. “I would never mind looking out for His Highness,” he says, “especially when I am, arguably, to blame for his current state.”

 “Are you, though?”

 “The dead have always had a firm grip on his conscience. And I left him to think that I had died. That yet another life had been laid down for him. It was the cruellest thing I could have done.”

 Sylvain purses his lips, stalls by glancing around the empty cathedral. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. Dedue nods grimly. It’s funny. He’s younger than Sylvain, and so severe. “But I still think you did the right thing. Goddess knows what all of us would be doing by now, were His Highness gone for good.”

 Dimitri mutters something to himself, almost loud enough to be intelligible from where they’re sitting, and starts to pick at a heap of debris. Dedue watches him like a hawk, and maybe one day, his efforts will be rewarded. Sylvain wonders how that would even work.

 Silence stretches on between them, only filled with vague muttering and the scraping of stones and plate mail. “Well,” says Sylvain eventually, “and then, there’s still that sliver of a hope that he’ll actually come around. Take the throne, become the king we need. Keep Faerghus from falling apart.”

 Dedue’s lips press into a firm line. He slowly tears his gaze away from Dimitri and meets Sylvain’s eye. “Is that really what you think?”

 “I want to, at least. Don’t you?”

 He pauses. “Of course. There is not a doubt in my mind,” Dedue settles on. “Though I do not think there is a magical cure for what ails His Highness.”

 It almost makes Sylvain laugh. “No,” he says instead, “there really isn’t.” And it’s understandable, and relatable—all of them are messes in their own right. War does that to a person. Sylvain has no trouble admitting that he might be the biggest mess of them all, has been for a long time. But unlike him, Dimitri used to be kind. He had no time to properly get used to all the vitriol being pumped into his system, had no time to build up a resistance to the poison, and was promptly killed from the inside out for it.

 Dedue shifts in his seat, looks back towards their prince. He has stopped his aimless digging by now, instead staring off into space.

 “At the very least, he is alive,” says Dedue, very quietly. It sounds as though he were only now beginning to reconcile his guilt with his own conscience. Sylvain almost laughs. Dedue, too, is kind.

 “Alive might be overstating it,” he says.

  iv.

 And then Rodrigue Fraldarius dies so Dimitri can actually come alive again.

 It’s almost unsurprising, that the toll for their prince’s soul has to be paid in blood. The sun slowly sets on them, dyeing the sky a similar shade of red, and by nightfall, Duke Fraldarius has gone well and truly cold.

 It rains throughout the night, as though the heavens themselves were weeping for their loss. They leave their march back to Garreg Mach for the morning, and lay out Rodrigue in the most dignified manner possible, given their circumstances. Mercedes softly offers a prayer, Felix runs, Dimitri runs farther, and the Professor gives chase.

 The rest of them remain at camp, and sometime during the night, as the rain eases off to a drizzle, Sylvain and Dedue set out to dispose of the body of a murderous girl left unaccounted for. Gilbert surmised she might have been a Bergliez—the younger sister to a general who had preceded her in death.

 It ultimately doesn’t matter. The rain rolls off her cold, pale skin the same as any other corpse. She is limp and heavy between them as they heft her towards a ravine. And hard as carrying her might be, she falls easily.

 This close to Gronder, the Bergliez girl finds her resting place on familiar soil at least. It still strikes Sylvain as somewhat cruel. Somewhat terrifying.

 “Taking her back to the monastery,” Dedue begins, quiet and even, rumbling like subtle thunder, “would not have made anyone happier. I do not imagine the Empire would have claimed her.”

 Sylvain’s mouth is bone dry amidst the rain. “We didn’t have to leave her dead in a ditch to be eaten by wolves, though,” he says, lightly, like it’s a joke.

 Dedue’s voice is firm when he replies, “After making an attempt on His Highness’ life, this is a greater mercy than she is deserving of.” The raindrops plink on his armour. “I have no pity for her.”

 There’s something terrifying about Dedue, too.

 Sylvain purses his lips. “Do you think...” he begins, and trails off. It’s hard to see much in the darkness, but Dedue seems to be listening intently, back straight. Do you think vengefulness finally came to bite Dimitri in the ass? he desperately wants to ask. Do you think the Empire would be tossing him down there instead, had things gone just a bit differently? Where would that leave us?

 But these are not questions to ask Dedue, of all people. Maybe he will bring them up with Felix, when it stops being the insensitive thing to do.

 The rain falls on, and Sylvain doesn’t finish his question. Instead, he stares down the dark ravine as if he was waiting for something. He half expects the Bergliez girl to come crawling back up. Perhaps all the spite stored in her small body is enough to miraculously revive her. Make her into one of Dimitri’s heartless, murderous ghosts. If she grabbed at Sylvain’s ankles, could she pull him back down with her? Would he even think to fight her?

 “We should head back to camp, Sylvain,” says Dedue, eventually. The rain is getting heavier again, and he’s right. He’s right, and yet.

 And yet.

  v.

 There’s something genuinely human about Dimitri again, after that.

Sylvain feels like his insides have been freshly scraped out, but their prince finally dares to stand before his people again—one-eyed, filthy, and with tears streaming down his face. And he’s hopeful. Goddess, he’s hopeful, because the people looking up to him remind him how hope looks.

 And to them, hope looks an awful lot like Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.

 It is hope that has him struggle to rekindle his humanity, bit by bit. He spends days tracking down the people close to him around the monastery, always keeping his head bowed and voice low as he apologises and, eventually, tentatively speaks to them as one would with old friends. It’s as amusing as it is sad to watch.

 Eventually, he seeks out Sylvain in one of the many courtyards. Someone has chopped off some of his hair since Sylvain last saw him, and he doesn’t reek anymore, either. It seems like a miracle, after all these months.

 “Sylvain, may I have a moment of your time?” he asks, shoulders curled inward, in a clear attempt to make himself look small.

 Sylvain almost laughs. “Of course, Your Highness.”

 Dimitri smiles—a small, wobbly little thing. “Thank you,” he says. His tone is close to the regal cadence from their childhood. It feels almost nostalgic.

 “Well, how can I help you?”

 The prince sighs. He is pale—not in the way a ghost is. Not in the way a corpse is. Goddess knows Sylvain has seen his fill of jaundiced, bruised bodies lately. By comparison, Dimitri only looks exhausted, and isn’t that a good look on him for a change?

 “Sylvain, I must apologise to you,” he says. “As must I to everyone else, of course. You understand my meaning.”

 “I do, but... I’m the last one who needs your apologies, Your Highness,” Sylvain replies. It comes out a little dry, almost enough to make him want to cough. Dimitri frowns, looks agonised at hearing Sylvain dismiss him so.

 He straightens up, squares his shoulders. Emphatically, he says, “I disagree.” Whether his bearing is animalistic or kingly in nature, Sylvain can’t tell. “Words cannot make up for everything I’ve done, or for what I’ve put all of you through. Believe me, I am more than aware of this. But even if this is mere lip service, I want to think of it as a starting point.”

 And then, curiously, Dimitri reaches for Sylvain’s bare wrist. He slowly curls his fingers around it with a measured, deliberate gentleness. “Whether you need it or not, I still think you deserve an apology. If only as much as everyone else.”

 “I got the gauntlet fixed,” Sylvain replies.

 “So you did.”

 Sylvain sighs. He wants to run a hand through his hair, but finds one of them inconveniently held down. “Listen, Your Highness, let’s just focus on winning the war, first thing. Everything else can come later.”

 “But—“

 “Did you apologise to Felix, yet?”

 Dimitri starts, then looks away, studying the caps of his boots and the grass. He dips his head in a nod. “I’ve lost count how often, quite frankly. And I still feel like it will never be enough.”

 “Maybe it won’t,” Sylvain agrees. Dimitri’s gaze snaps back to him, the hand around his wrist clenching. His eye is wide, with something wretched and hungry boiling beneath the surface. A gluttony for punishment. “But you know how he is—actions mean more to him than words do.  So show him that you mean it.”

 Dimitri suddenly drops—slaps away—his wrist as if it had burned him. “And then what, Sylvain?” he asks. “Is that what you’re asking of me as well? How would I even go about that? How does one show repentance?”

 “That’s not—listen,” Sylvain says, holding back a groan. “No one is asking you to spend the rest of your days between self-flagellation and martyrdom. Just... win this war. Show everyone who sided with you that they didn’t fight for nothing. That’s all you have to do, really.”

 “And the throne?”

 There’s not a doubt in Sylvain’s mind that Dimitri will ascend it. Out of a sense of duty, or because people push him into it, he doesn’t know, but—he will. “You’ll cross that bridge when you get to it,” is what he says, though.

 Dimitri seems to relish in the ambiguity. His eye slips shut. “Very well, then,” he replies. Hums. Sylvain thinks that’s the end of that, but his price proves him wrong. “Rodrigue would have liked to see me coronated, certainly.”

 “I’m sure he would have. And maybe Felix would agree, though he’d never admit it.”

 Dimitri laughs, soft and rumbling. The ghost of Duke Fraldarius seems to hang about him much more lightly than the rest.

 When Dimitri’s blinks his eye open and he looks at Sylvain, it’s with a level of fondness that almost catches him off guard. “I think we went quite of track, Sylvain,” he says. “I came here to apologise to you, and yet...”

 “It doesn’t matter, Your Highness. Really.” And because Dimitri looks almost sceptical, he adds, “I mean it. You might not realise it, but I think I’m more willing to forgive you after this than I would have been after nothing but an apology.”

 “Very well, then,” concedes Dimitri. He straightens up, rolls back his shoulders. He stands about as tall as Sylvain these days, but wears the height much more imposingly. Kingly. “I suppose I will have to lead our troops to victory, then. Just to be assured your forgiveness.”

 That sounds suspiciously like a joke, albeit a bad one. Sylvain still laughs at it. “I wouldn’t forgive you if you didn’t, that much is true.”

 Dimitri smiles. “Thank you, in any case,” he says. Then, looking around, pretending—endearingly badly—to be busy, all of a sudden, he adds, “I unfortunately have a lot to catch up on, so if you’ll excuse me.”

 Sylvain waves a hand, dismissive. “Off you go,” he says.

 And the prince bows to him, just by a few angles, before he turns on his heel.

  vi.

 Pegasus Moon in Fhirdiad is freezing, but it feels like spring compared to Gautier.

 Rime covers even sunny days until nightfall, and nights are almost endless in Fódlan’s North, even though the city’s lights make a valiant effort to stain the pitch blackness of the sky a bruised orange. A few lamps and torches around the castle remain lit until morning, still. By their humble light, guardsmen and knights brave the cold without as much as a complaint.

 Sylvain is not nearly as brave—a mere political visitor, who only stays at the capital to play nice with court and king when negotiations with Sreng slow, who only visits when his father wants him out of his hair.

 He walks about the courtyards in the dark, where snow is piled as high as his calves. But he’s wearing his sturdy travel boots, laced up almost all the way to his knees, and the crunching of the snow below his feet feels like home.

 That’s how the ever busy king of the united Fódlan finds him—standing knee-deep in the snow, bundled up in furs over his relatively humble travel gear. Sylvain doesn’t expect him, but then, in a way, he does. Dimitri is awfully used to haunting ancient halls.

 “I see you couldn’t be bothered to announce your arrival personally.”

 Sylvain grins. He turns to face his king. “I had a lot of excess energy after being on the road for so long, Your Majesty.”

 If they hadn’t know each other for the better part of their lives, perhaps Dimitri would reply with something other than a shake of his head and a vague huff of laughter. But as it is, he only steps into the snow—briefly, disdainfully looking at his feet as though he were surprised it is wet—and then proceeds to step into the holes of Sylvain’s tracks.

 A twin set of torches tries to illuminate the entire courtyard, but their soft yellow glow is not nearly enough to drive off the darkness of the night. Dimitri comes to stand before Sylvain, looking disgruntled in soaked shoes and dishevelled regalia.

 Perhaps the faint light hides some of his tiredness, but he looks good. Healthy. Alive. Sylvain smiles at him, tilting his head. “Are you without Dedue tonight?”

 Dimitri nods. “I promised him I would look for you, then turn in for the night,” he says. “I wish he would stop his constant fretting, one of these days.”

 “To be fair, I’m sure lots of people are out for your life,” Sylvain replies.

 Dimitri laughs, like it’s a joke, and well. Enough of that.

 Sylvain roughly yanks his king into a crushing hug, because he can do that, what with them having known each other for the better part of their lives. Dimitri goes stiff against him, as he always does, before returning the embrace even more ferociously.

 “I’d like to announce that I have arrived healthy and whole, Your Majesty,” he says into the fur trim of Dimitri’s collar, and Dimitri laughs again.

[buns-with-a-book]

Flowers of White 2 - White Tansy

Reposting because I wasn’t satisfied with a part of White Tansy. Still inspired by Sync’s post here.

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: OC, Nero, Dante, Vergil Tags: @nimnox @furyeclipse @synchronmurmurs @queenmuzz @harlot-of-oblivion

Summary: The tansy is the harbinger of ill will to the receiver, an indication of hostile thoughts on behalf of the giver.

Rothes was a quiet town, a slumbering settlement on the Spes River. One could even call it quaint, picturesque or pastoral. In the morning light, the sunlight made the dark brown rooftops sparkle, no thanks in past to the rain that passed over the night before. There was rarely a day that there was sun in the sky, mostly covered by clouds. Just across from the courthouse, through the windows, Cassandra could see the cyclamen and tansy flowers behind the frosted window of the town flower shop. Just as she had predicted, the flowers were in bloom.

An armored guard passed by her window, causing her to sigh. She had been regaled to one of the spare rooms of the courthouse, the room turned into a makeshift bridal suite. She looked down upon herself, dressed in a pale pink ball gown. A thin tulle layer was draped over the skirt of the gown, where pale pink roses were caught in an artistic pattern. Across her midsection was an embroidered design, keeping with the pattern of roses. At her upper arms were a band of roses clustered together, acting as sleeves to the dress. Atop her head was the dress’ complimentary veil, a pink tulle veil that draped down her back. Pinned to her hair were pink roses, to keep the veil in place. Cassandra turned around, facing the mirror. Her eyes flicked up and down the dress before finally settling on the silvery necklace around her neck, a gift from Vergil. She reached up to nervously play with the silver moon charm.

She looked like a bride. A very unhappy bride.

“You don’t have to marry some jackass to protect me.” She looked over, Nero leaning against the wall. The young man was in a borrowed suit but he didn't look too pleased to be in it. She knew he was just as upset as she was over the situation, unarmed and not having much to stop the hired guards of Eternis Brillia aside from the powers latent in his devil blood. “I might not have Red Queen or Blue Rose but I still have Devil Trigger. I can take them.” She faintly saw the ethereal blue wings, flexing above Nero.

“I’d rather you not. To the people of my hometown, a demon is still a demon, no matter how diluted the blood. They would slaughter you, with blades forged specifically to expose and exploit the weaknesses of demons.” Cassandra sighed, walking over to him. Her hands moved to adjust the bright blue tie around his neck. “If Dante and Vergil enter the city, I fear that the sage smoke in the air would choke them.”

“Smells just as bad as Nico’s smokes.” He huffed. “I got subjected to that shit until jackass called you.”

“Would you believe it if I lived with that for eighteen years?” Cassandra asked with a chuckle, trying to inject humor into their terrible situation. “Now I’m going back and it’s gonna stiiink…” Nero glanced back behind her and she followed his gaze, locking on to the bouquet, which was a few white cyclamen flowers wrapped in tulle with the pattern of tansy flowers embroidered onto it. She sighed and returned her gaze to Nero’s tie.

“I should be adjusting your tie as mother of the groom.” She sighed. “For the day you get married yourself.” Nero rubbed his nose awkwardly. Cassandra smiled fondly at that.

“Jeez Mom...me and Kyrie aren’t ready for that yet.”

“Could’ve fooled me, considering how often the brothers crash at your place.”  The thought of the crew, her family, eased her mind just for a few minutes. She never got tired of hearing Nero address her with ‘Mom’. She remembered the first time Nero did so, completely on accident on his part. As they worked together, that familial bond formed. Her mind drifted to Dante, the devil hunter that she regarded as a brother. And then, there was Vergil, cool composed Vergil. Between spars in Devil May Cry, the missions they took, and him reading her Blake in the light of the setting sun, she...she loved him. That was all she could say, really. She loved Vergil, the eldest son of Sparda, enough to sacrifice her own happiness to protect his...no, their son from death by the hands of the city she once called home.

“If I hadn’t been kidnapped, I would’ve kicked his ass six ways to Sunday.” Nero sighed.

“And back at Kyrie’s by 5? So would I.” She sighed. “But I know what Eternis Brillia’s guard can do to you. I don’t want to lose you...I thought I lost you when your arm got ripped off.” She looked at the bouquet. “I mean, I could try stuffing the bouquet into his mouth. Cyclamen are poisonous, apparently.” There was a hard knock on the door that made her jump.

“Lady Sagefire! Lord Kinnaird requests your presence immediately!” A harsh voice spoke. Cassandra let out an unhappy sigh.  

“Is it time?”

“Yes ma’m!” Cassandra walked to the bouquet, picking it up. Nero glared at the door, crossing his arms. She could tell he just wanted to unleash hell upon them, even Devil Trigger, but was restraining himself. Cassandra knew that Devil Trigger was risky, especially with the guard around them and their swords that were forged to easily pierce demon hide. She took Nero’s arm, causing him to blush.

“W-Wait, isn’t your dad supposed to lead you down the aisle?”

“He’s not here. Draco told me he abandoned me after I ran away. I’m not surprised, really.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “But I don’t care. I’m almost forty, I don’t need his approval. He sucks anyway.”

“And here we are…” He mumbled.

“I’m not going to let the people of Eternis Brillia see your corpse and cheer. I would rather die myself than let that happen.” She frowned.

“Sounds like a real shithole.”

“If I was feeling poetic, I’d call it a rotted cage. But shithole works just as well.” With that, the door opened. Cassandra gripped his arm as her face met the guard. They were dressed like a medieval knight, with their helmet shaped like a lion’s head. He curtly bowed to her before another, wearing the exact same thing as the first guard, walked around her to stand behind her. The first began to lead the way, with Cassandra unhappily following. As her and Nero were escorted through the courthouse to the room where the marriage was to take place, past paintings and busts and brick walls, Cassandra could sense the tense air around them. She knew the reason she was in a dress at all was for the ‘parade through Eternis Brillia’ and his pride.

Nero suddenly stopped, looking back. Cassandra let out a surprised noise, causing the guards to stop.

“Nero! What was that for?”

“...though I heard something.” He mumbled. Cassandra frowned.

“Such as…?”

“It’s just the wind.” The guard behind them snapped. “Keep moving.”

“Ok ok! Sheesh…” Nero grumbled. With that, the guard behind them urged them forward. Nero let out a frustrated growl as they were escorted to the courtroom. The guard in front of them opened the door, revealing Draco and two of his guards next to him. Draco smiled, his brown hair slicked back (which only reminded her of Vergil. Vergil did it better though) and black eyes glimmering with the thought that he had won. He was dressed in a black button-up jacket, silver buttons glimmering in the light. At his side was a (hopefully) decorative sword.

“Ah, my little wayward star.” Cassandra visibly tensed up at that. “You look ravishing.” He stepped forward, only for Nero to step between the two. He scowled at Nero. “That’s my wife you’re standing in front of.”

“And?”

“Step aside, whoreson.”

“Make me.” Nero hissed.

“Both of you, stop this!” Cassandra snapped, causing the two to look at her in surprise. Nero let out a frustrated sigh, stepping aside. It was obvious that the situation was stressful for the younger devil hunter but, Cassandra hoped, he would be on his way back to Vergil and Dante soon enough. “Let’s just...get this over with.”

“Agreed.” Draco yawned, walking over to the poor clerk who had the paperwork. Cassandra walked over to the clerk, passing Nero. She could sense Nero’s death glare at Draco, the desire to brawl Draco for his words held back only Cassandra’s command.  

“So...um, if there’s no more interruptions.” The clerk began. “Let us begin with the marriage of Cassandra Freyja Sagefire and Draco Áedán Kinnaird-”

“Hey hey hey!” A familiar voice spoke, followed by the sound of two helmets slammed together. “We have objections to this whole thing!” Cassandra whipped to the door, seeing Dante and Vergil walking up to the clerk. Behind them, the two guards that had escorted them to this room were crumpled onto the floor, most likely unconscious. The two brothers were also in suits, Dante with a red tie and Vergil with a deep blue tie. On Dante’s back was Nero’s Red Queen. Dante rounded Nero’s side, passing Red Queen to his nephew. Nero caught Red Queen skillfully, a grin on his face at being reunited with his sword. Draco shot up, scowling.

“Ugh, more interruptions! Who are you?”

“I’m her brother-” Dante grinned.

“And you have my son as a hostage.” Vergil finished, his voice a low growl. “You truly are pathetic, twisting her arm with my own flesh and blood.”

“I-It doesn’t matter. Cassandra is still my wife-”

“Ok, about that. Hey Cass, did you two say I do at the altar?” Dante asked Cassandra. Cassandra blinked, surprised at being addressed.

“Uh, no, my father told the high priest to skip that part-”

“Then it doesn’t count. So you weren’t married back then and you won’t be married now.” Dante turned his gaze to Draco, alit with a dangerously playful fire. “So, if you’ll excuse us-” He stepped forward, only for Draco to pull out a shortsword from the scabbard at his waist. There was a flash of silver before the shortsword lay shattered on the floor. Cassandra stared at Vergil, Yamato unsheathed to defend Dante. Even Dante seemed surprised, although Cassandra was unsure if it was from Vergil defending him or from Draco being foolish enough to try and hurt Dante with a decorative shortsword

“I’ve had enough of your nonsense, scum.” Vergil growled. “Let Cassandra go, now.” Draco narrowed his eyes at Vergil.

“Guards!” Draco snapped. The two guards behind him surged forward. Dante rolled his eyes.

“Jeez, you gotta make our job harder.” He looked to Nero. “Wanna bash some heads in?” Nero smirked, twisting the handle of Red Queen to cause the weapon to flare to life.

“You bet. This asshole is gonna get what’s coming to him.” He looked to Vergil. “Dad, get her outta here.” Vergil and Cassandra took a glance at each other before Nero slashed at the guards, sending them flying. Cassandra shoved the bouquet into Draco’s mouth to stun him. She ran forward, grabbing a fistful of dress to lift up so she wouldn’t trip on it. Vergil took her hand, their fingers entwined, and quickly led the way out of the room and through brick halls of the courthouse. She glanced back, watching as Dante and Nero dashed behind them. She saw blood lining the edge of Red Queen, perhaps Nero wounded Draco for calling him a whoreson. Looking forward, Cassandra saw the door that was wide open. She briefly saw Nico peering in before jumping as the group raced out of the back door of the courthouse into the van. The moment Nero dashed out of the door, Nico slammed the door shut. She pulled out a small explosive and threw it at the door, covering the door in a foul-smelling web.

“That outta keep em occupi-”

“NICO!” Nero snapped. “GET OVER HERE!” Nico ran to the van, jumping through the door and slamming into the driver’s seat.

“Hang on y’all! It’s gonna get rough!” Nico yelled just moments before she hit the gas, the van lurching forward. Cassandra yelped at the lurch. The van swerved across cobblestone streets away from the courthouse. Cassandra could only imagine the smoke that Draco was eating as the van sped out of Rothes.

[tysonrunningfox]

How to Sacrifice Your Lamb: Part 2

Because I left that cliffhanger hanging long enough

Ao3

When Astrid committed to taking over the war her parents abandoned, she didn’t think it’d be easy. She didn’t think she’d survive, even, in the end, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was taking out the last Night Fury before Grimmel could find it and the nest of dragons along with it. With one more nest of dragons, who knows how much further Drago could extend his empire, how many more people he could rule with an iron fist.

Before she stole one of Grimmel’s newest skiffs, she had the quest all planned out in her head. Go north, find Berk, because it was the only northern settlement she had even secondhand knowledge of, track the Night Fury, kill it and then probably be captured and killed for taking Grimmel’s glory away from him. Again, that was fine with her, she planned on it almost. It’s easier to act in the face of fear if death is an inevitability, anyway.

But never in her planning or stealing or the last weeks of sailing and fighting and chasing one slick oily shadow against the stars did she ever think that she’d end up with a hostage.

Or no, it’s more like a sacrifice, because apparently Berkians are absolute barbarians. No wonder her parents left. No wonder why they’re fine living under Drago’s rule, at least Drago only throws tied up criminals into the sea, not into their enemies’ arms.

That girl…if Astrid had been a real enemy, it makes her sick to think of what might have happened. Would have happened. If she’d been Grimmel…

Getting here first is a better and more complicated idea than ever.

She’d known who the chief’s son was even before he was flinging himself in front of her axe as she tried to cut the girl free. She’d seen him running from the fight, hiding in the woods with the other children even though he’s obviously too old for that behavior. Maybe Berkians got soft when they decided one of them could be exchanged for a cause.

But still, there was something genuine in his face. Chiefly in a way that never stands up to Drago’s force, dangerously noble in front of what he obviously thought was his death.

That thought soured her stomach a bit, she hasn’t killed any of them on purpose. She knows there have been casualties, and she’s felt her axe cut deep when a few got too close to disabling her ship as she tried to aim for the Night Fury, but she’s not cold blooded. She knows she’s not because she felt ice in her veins for a second when she saw the girl, her age or younger, tied and offered up at the end of a destroyed pier. There was a second where she wondered how many she could take before she went down, but that wouldn’t have helped anyone, in the end.

By the time she’s at her nightly hiding place in the bog on the island over, she’s starting to get nervous. The chief’s son hasn’t moved, his hastily tied form slumped against the ships railing, head lulled to the side. Knocking him out was the only thing she could think to do as it dawned on her how unintimidating Berk would find her now that they know she’s sacrifice shaped. If she has the chief’s son, they won’t figure out a way to blow her boat out of the water, not that it appears they have that kind of technology.

But she didn’t realize how skinny he was when she hit him. His gesture was bigger than his scrawny shoulders and potentially the thickness of his skull, and she hit him harder than she probably had to. He was floppy as she tied him up, dead weight disconcertingly light in her panic, but that was hours ago. Shouldn’t he have moved by now?

Did she just kill a hostage? A hostage she didn’t even want? A hostage she’s only calling a hostage because the phrase ‘human sacrifice’ makes her sick to her stomach and she hasn’t had enough to eat in the last few days to risk throwing anything up.

She knew she’d be in over her head, but after weeks failing to even touch that Night Fury, this is bordering on too much to handle.

Maybe she should just throw the body overboard and head back home. She doesn’t like the idea of Berk catching her with the chief’s son dead, or worse, without him entirely. Sure, Grimmel will torture her for information, but at least she knows his methods and they aren’t tying her up and leaving her like an offering on an altar.

The branch of a tall pine tree scrapes against the mast of her ship and it almost sounds like a groan.

She doesn’t know he’s dead yet, she should check before making any decisions.

She squats in front of him on the gently bobbing deck, keeping time with the slow rising tide. The way his head is lolling to the side makes the tendons in his skinny neck stand out and the sharp line of his jaw casts a shadow that sways in time with the boat. She doesn’t see a pulse, and while she’s not afraid of anything anymore, if he’s cold and rigid, she doesn’t necessarily want to touch him.

Astrid swallows hard, remembering the way Uncle Finn’s hand locked tight around hers hours after he took his last breath, and reaches out to grab the boy’s chin and turn his head upright.

His neck moves easily, but his skin is cold under her fingers. He could have just barely passed, she supposes, a couple of hours unconscious on rough seas finishing what the flat of her axe started. There’s a slightly raised knot on his head where she hit him, and the flush of purple at his hairline is encouraging. If his skin is bruising, his heart must have at least pumped for a while, right?

His expression is relaxed, peaceful even, long eyelashes casting shadows on his freckled cheeks. She holds her fingers under his long, straight nose and tries to see if he’s breathing. He might be, but that could be sea air too, messing with her clammy fingers’ senses. She can’t see his narrow chest rising and falling, but she tied him with his knees nearly up against it so that he couldn’t fight if he came to when her back was turned.

He doesn’t look like a fighter though. He didn’t come at her with a weapon but an offer to take someone else’s place. Maybe she just gave him what he asked for, but she hopes not. That would be inconvenient at best.

She presses two fingers against his pulse point and his cool skin gives slightly under her touch as she waits. The first beat is faint, and she adjusts her grip on his cheek. The second is stronger, revealing a slow but steady thrum, and she sighs with relief.

“Valkyrie,” the dry-throated whisper almost blends with the rustle of pine branches and it takes Astrid a second to look up at his face. His eyes are open and trained on her face, green even in the moonlight and trying to make sense of too much at once.

She’s too aware of her hand on his face and drops it, wincing internally as his chin falls forward into his chest. He tries to rub the top of his head and his bound wrists catch where they’re tied to his feet, and the reality of having a tied-up boy—a tied-up human sacrifice—on her boat, secured with her knots, rests on her shoulders like another great weight. Like all the others, she’s momentarily unsure she can hold it.

She watches him for a second, his fidgeting slowing as he leans his head back against the railing and blinks slowly, staring right through her even as he obviously fades back into unconsciousness. It’s not cold enough to worry about him freezing overnight, no matter how skinny he is, and she uses that reassurance to tuck herself into her bedroll and force herself to sleep.

00000

“Hey.”

Astrid jolts awake at the strange voice, spinning to her feet and grabbing her axe from under her pillow, ready to swing by the time she’s on her feet.

Her hostage is awake. As much as she’s aware of the absolute truth that situations don’t solve themselves, maybe part of her was kind of hoping he’d die by morning. Or escape, except then he’d go back to Berk and tell them where she hides between raids and…fuck. Her stomach growls and she holsters her axe, turning to the small fishing kit next to him and taking out a hook and line.

“Sorry,” the boy apologizes, voice nasal and rough, and she has no idea how to respond, so she doesn’t. “I didn’t mean to umm, scare you.”

She casts the line over the side of the boat where she saw some minnows lurking the other day. If she could get a few minnows, maybe she could get something bigger further out and wouldn’t have to worry about fishing so frequently.

“Not that I think I’m particularly scary, or that you look scared,” he continues, unprompted, stopping only to cough into his shoulder. She doesn’t know how to offer water to a hostage, she doesn’t know how to do any of this.

Apparently, she doesn’t even know how to hunt dragons, which is the one thing she was relying on working in this entire scheme.

“I don’t know why you’d be scared, especially since you, you know, conked me out so efficiently.” He groans, “I really thought that was a one-way ticket to Valhalla.”

She opens her mouth to ask if that’s what she’s supposed to do with a human sacrifice or to tell him that if she’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead, but nothing comes out but half a croak. She doesn’t remember the last time she talked to anyone. It must have been the northern markets a month ago when she was trying to trade for supplies, but everyone could feel the shadow of impending doom on her ship and avoided her entirely. Since then it’s been stealth, and she ties the fishing line off to get her water skin and take a deep drink.

He watches her, eyes flicking between the water that drips down her chin and her face as she drains the skin. He swallows hard and guilt wells alongside her frustration that he’s somehow now her problem.

“Where are you going?” He calls after her as she jumps off of the stern, tumbling easily on the moss and rolling back to her feet to jog silent down the shallow hill to the nearby spring.

Splashing her face helps her wake up a little more and she doesn’t so much miss the grogginess as she resents taking in the entire situation. Another mouth to feed when she’s barely feeding herself. Someone to keep quiet until…how many ways can this go?

If she keeps Berk’s heir until she kills the Night Fury, she supposes she can drop him back home, as unharmed as possible, and head back south like she’d planned. The problem with that is being followed. If he figures out enough about her, Berk could track her down and lead Drago and Grimmel right to that nest of dragons without even knowing.

She could keep Berk’s heir until she kills the Night Fury and then kill him before heading back.

And again, she could kill him now.

She takes one last deep drink from the spring, scrubbing the back of her neck with clear water and collecting the full skin to take back to the boat. If she does end up killing him, it won’t be by dehydration. If she has to make that decision, she’ll make it.

He doesn’t know how stupid he is to be relieved to see her, but she hands over the water without telling him that, scowling when he spills about half of it on himself trying to drink with bound hands. His left foot hovers in its ropes above the deck when he hands the empty skin back to her and she takes it, hanging it on a hook by her bedroll and returning to her still empty fishing hook.

“You know, if you found a worm or something you might have better luck.” He offers, scooting like he’s trying to bring feeling back into his legs. Or maybe like he’s trying to turn and look at her more.

She doesn’t like those big green eyes on her.

More than that she doesn’t like how he doesn’t seem scared. Uncomfortable, maybe, but not scared. He wasn’t scared on Berk either, just desperate, but even that’s gone now. It takes her a minute to decipher his expression, open without being vulnerable, taking in information without giving away secrets.

He’s curious.

Great, she’s definitely going to have to kill him.

“Ok, maybe I started off wrong.” He clears his throat, “I’m Hiccup Haddock, I already told you I was the heir to Berk’s throne, which is probably more important than my actual name, but given the ropes I figure you aren’t going to call me prince, so I should give you another option. Hiccup. My name.” He struggles with the ropes like every weak tug might have a different result. “What’s yours?”

She glares at him, pulling the fishing line back and sliding a chunk of dried fish onto the hook. She’s been saving it for emergencies, but there’s not really enough left to get her through an emergency at this point, so she might as well try the bait idea.

A few minnows in the clear water sniff around it and she jiggles the line, hoping to make the bait look more alive. The fish all swim away and she frowns, turning to stare blankly into the bog.

He’s still staring at her.

“If you don’t want to do names, umm, who are you?” He shrugs a skinny shoulder, bouncing his right boot on the deck with the motion, “a little vaguer, you could give me a title or an alias or���”

He squeaks when she brings her hatchet down, slicing through the rope holding his tied hands and feet together. The release of tension sends him falling back, head bouncing on the deck as he lays flat with a groan.

She’d wanted to leave the rope longer in case she needed to patch sail rigging again, but he can’t look at her while he’s wincing, rolling stiff shoulders and hips.

A minnow has finally taken the bait and she reels it in, dropping it in a seal skin satchel near the fishing kit and putting another piece of jerky on the hook. If nothing else, she could gut and dry the minnows over a low fire later to replenish her jerky supply.

“Where are we?” He’s laying on his side when he gets her attention, propped up on an awkward elbow and stretching his long, skinny neck. “Why do you keep attacking Berk? And if you have a problem with Berk, why didn’t you just kill me back on that dock?”

That’s a question Astrid is asking herself.

“I’m just saying, you don’t seem to be very happy that I’m here. If I’d ever thought about being a human sacrifice, I would have expected a bunch more, I don’t know, nefarious speeches.” His eyes are boring bright holes into the side of her face, “not silently watching you struggle to fish. Also, if I were you, I’d tie another hook into the line, double your chances if you’re going to keep line fishing like that—”

“Shut up!” Her voice comes out louder than she expects, chest deep and rumbling, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

And he’s still staring. Watching her expressions and figuring her out like a Dragon’s pattern, except instead of looking for a blindspot, it’s like he’s trying to determine how to put himself front and center.

“Ok,” he bites his lip for a second and winces, “but also, have you thought through how I’m going to use the bathroom, because it’s not urgent now but—”

She cuts him off by slamming the door to the tiny, musty cabin below deck. The hay mattress is dusty and rotten, but it still muffles the sound as she buries her face in it and screams, giving it a few punches for good measure.

Like she didn’t have enough going wrong.

[hail-kattegat]

Born to be a Queen/ Dreyri Dróttning. (Part I)

Vikings’ story line: 5x01

Let me know if you want to be tagged! xx.

Ivar x Alfred Fanction

Gif credit: @vikingsinuppsala

Warning: Slight violence.

“York. Look at her. So ripe for plucking!” Ivar said, lying on the grass. “And they don't even know that we're here.” Hvitserk added before the two brothers agreed to attack tomorrow. “Wait. I remember something our father said. It was always better to attack an English town when they are celebrating one of their Saint's Days. On those days, most of the people will either be in church or they will be drunk.” Ubbe said, and despite Ivar scepticism the plan was approved. On their way back to the camp, the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok were thinking about different ideas to find out the next Saint’s Days when the solution appeared from itself. “I don’t think it was what your father had in mind when he said you should visit York, Princess.” The servant girl said while following Frigyth’s steps in the river. “But do you see my father somewhere, Gytha?” Frigyth asked before she abruptly turned her head in the direction of the trees, her smile disappearing when the sound of two throats slashed made itself heard in the woods. “Princess, come back!” Gytha begged in a whisper when she saw her mistress jumped on the rocks near her to reach the shore, before resigning herself to do the same. “It may be… Oh Lord!” The servant girl cried out when they found the bodies of the two guards who accompanied them. The next second hands were covering Frigyth and Gytha’s mouths and the two women were dragged down a few feet away. Ubbe were silently looking at the Saxons who were sitting in front of him. His stare made Gytha tremble with fear but what made her sobs turned into proper crying were the way Ivar crawled his body toward her and Frigyth. “If you speak the truth, we will not hurt you.” Ivar said like he was trying to reassure Gytha who wasn’t even able to look at him, contrary to Frigyth who slightly turned her head toward each brothers after he spoke. “Just tell us when you will celebrate the next day of your Christian saint.” The youngest son asked in Old Saxon. “Do not tell him, Princess. You know they will kill us anyway.” Gytha muttered inaudibly to her mistress, but after looking at her servant’s tears Frigyth looked at Ivar again. “In three days’ time it will be Ascension Day.” The Princess said, nodding when Ivar repeated the number of days to be sure of himself before he imitated a three with his fingers to Ubbe. “There. That was easy.” He said with a smile on his face before whipping a tear from Gytha’s cheek. His touch made her jumped in fear, forcing Hvitserk to maintain the servant girl sit on the grass with the blade of his axe against her throat. It was only then that Frigyth began to feel threatened by the three men around her.

Ubbe, Hvitserk and Ivar took the two women to their camp and what Frigyth noticed before being taken to a tent with Gytha was the wooden tower in the middle of the settlement. Ivar was watching the Saxons with curiosity while the servant girl was praying her God, still in tears. “Why don’t you pray with her?” He suddenly asked to Frigyth who was looking back at him. “I don’t see the point. My God can’t do anything for me now. I am a woman, unarmed, in a camp full of Norsemen. I know that no one can help me, not even Him. My fate doesn’t belong to God nor to me anymore.” Frigyth responded to the youngest son of Ragnar. Ivar slightly smirked, thinking about what she just told him. “I think you are more than just a woman.” He said before looking at her carefully. Despite Frigyth obvious beauty it was like Ivar only noticed now the way her long wavy hair was falling down harmoniously to her hips, the rosy shade of her lips and her eyes who were even bluer than his. Outside drums started to play when two men came in, ready to take Frigyth and Gytha to their sacrifice. “No. Not her.” Ivar commanded to the Viking who approached Frigyth. “Princess!” The servant girl cried for help before they forced her to leave the tent with them. “Princess.” Ivar repeated while Frigyth tried to catch Gytha’s hand. “What will they do to her?” She asked, making the youngest son smirked for the second time. “I will tell you something about my people and you will tell me something about… York.” Ivar said to Frigyth who slowly appeared to be a solution to his desire of conquest. “I hope your Princess didn’t lie to us, Ivar.” Ubbe hissed as the army approached the city. The oldest brother glanced at Frigyth before heading a part of their men to the ramparts. When the doors of York opened Frigyth gave her people to the Norseman and she watched them being slaughtered from Ivar’s chariot until he stopped it in front of the church.

Ivar crawled to the entrance following by Frigyth, her body freezing at every splashes of blood she felt on her face. She spanned the corpses to the altar to reach a young nun who just fell in Ubbe’s arms with a wrists open. The Princess watched him put her gently on the church’s floor as she begged him to kill her in Old Saxon. “You did this.” Ubbe said in a bitter tone to Frigyth, removing his sword from the young nun's chest after her last breath. The cries of a baby were echoing in her head as she rotated slowly on herself to contemplate the extent of damage she caused. Gilt and shame overwhelmed her. Tears were silently rolling down her face as she saw her people lying on the cold and dirty floor, lifeless or agonising. Everything suddenly became blur and silent in her head, all Frigyth could hear was her heart pounding in her chest until her bright light blue eyes find the youngest son of Ragnar. “Ivar!” She screamed before running towards him and the priest he had just killed in the most horrible way possible. At the sound of her voice Ivar winced, looking at the dead man in front of him. “Horse!” He yelled to one of his man when Frigyth knelt next to him, preventing her to see what he just did from up-close. “Dreyri Dróttning.” One of the Vikings who held the priest said to Frigyth before he left to raid the rest of the city, leaving her and Ivar alone. At the Norseman’s words she frowned and turned her head in disbelief towards Ivar. “What does that mean?” Frigyth asked while Ivar was looking at the pattern of blood her fingers left on her face and neck as she tried to wipe it off, the way her eyes were even more piercing than usual with all that red, and the colour of her sleeves and the bottom of her dress turned after the massacre. “Blood Queen.” Ivar finally said to Frigyth, a deviously laugh escaping his lips as she looked at him in awe.

Tags: @bellagreenleaflotr @ivartheblessed @vikingdrabbles @mblaqgi @he-has-a-name @the-witch-from-the-forest @alicedopey @lol-haha-joke @iofiivar @readsalot73 @titty-teetee @demonhunter1616 @captstefanbrandt @naaladareia @fearxthexbloodmoon @sallylebecks

[square-blunt]

You're in my heart, in my heart, in my head.

chapter two fucking finally. take it. fucking take it.

TW- MCD (major character death), suicide, like the fic ends in suicide and it's not good. Angst. there is so much angst-

WC: 2034 Ao3: :) First chapter: :)

Jimmy didn’t tear his eyes away from Scott once.

After they got ripped apart, all the neurons in his body were screaming at him to stop struggling and to go limp- he could feel the muscle in his back ripping apart but he had to. He didn’t feel the physical pain. But his heart was hammering so hard and he was screaming much louder than he thought was possible- screaming to Scott, praying and hoping that he could hear him over Joey- and maybe he did.

Because Scott never stopped looking at him.

And then, Scott smiled at him.

It was sweet, and weak, and it was tired. It should have been full of life, but instead- Scott used all his energy to give Jimmy that smile. It was sickeningly comforting- Scott, who was about to be sacrificed, about to have a knife through his heart- was comforting him, and Jimmy couldn’t sob any louder. He knows his screams and sobs and pleas won’t do anything to stop the inevitable. But with a sound that Jimmy will never be able to get out of his head, the inevitable comes to fruition. As the knife falls, Jimmy does too. The hooks that held onto his back retract and Jimmy crashes to the ground, rocks cutting into his hands. Part of him is grateful that he fell when he did. Whatever higher power was looking out for him must not have wanted him to see the knife going into Scott’s chest.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t imagine it.

As soon as he hits the ground he looks back up, just in time for Joey and Xornoth to disappear into smoke, and for the obsidian altar to crumble into dust- and Scott's body to roll off. Jimmy catches sight of Scott's limp hand and he turns away, holding his side, trying not to throw up.

He focuses on that.

Trying to keep the contents of his stomach down, swallowing thickly, he focuses on the burn of his head, his throat, and his heart.

His heart hurts.

It hurts more than any weapon could ever come close to inflicting.

After looking at Scott for so long, promising himself that he'd never look away, it's funny that now he physically can't bear to look up.

It's because Scott was alive then.

And now he, and possibly everyone else, is dead.

But he can't stop himself from crawling, very painfully, over to Scott. Only then does he notice how much blood there is. His, Scott's, it doesn’t matter- or it did.

Because Scott's blood should have stayed in his body.

Why didn't Jimmy speak up?

Xornoth had told Jimmy everything.

Their plan, why they were doing it- how they knew it was going to work.

They told Jimmy about a past life- a past three lives to be exact. And Jimmy remembered. It was like Xornoth had a key that finally gave Jimmy what he knew he was missing. And of course, he had fallen in love with Scott.

Of course, it was Scott.

Of course, it was Scott who came to his rescue. Everything else was a blur, of pain and hurt, but the kiss. Jimmy knew he had to. He had to let Scott know that he knew- that he remembered.

It was worth every second.

And even now he can feel the phantom of Scott's lips on his own, Scott's hair between his fingers, he can feel it more than the dull throbbing of his heart and his back. Physical pain couldn't reach him, his mind was already too busy imploding on itself to register anything else.

He feels the phantom of Scott's warm hand in his own.

He reaches out and takes his cold, real hand again.

Jimmy brushes away the dust and the blood, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles, and he stops at the ring finger. There's a simple silver band.

Jimmy spawned into Empires with a matching gold ring.

Only now does he know why.

He gently slips the ring off Scott's finger. He knows he shouldn't, but if it's all he can have of Scott- he's gonna take whatever he can get.

He moves up, noticing the detail on the sleeve of Scott's shirt. He wasn't wearing anything fancy, but he was still the most beautiful living thing Jimmy had ever seen. Scott had been wearing a sky blue t-shirt and brown pants- one could die in a more regal manner, but Scott still looked more amazing than any star in the night, any bird in the air… any flower in the field.

"It felt right," Jimmy says, voice unrecognizable even to himself. It only makes him cry more. Scott was his everything- Scott completed him. And Jimmy doesn't know who he is without Scott. He knew he was one half of a whole but didn’t know whose half, and now he has to live as a half without his other.

His communicator buzzes.

He doesn't care.

It's probably a death message.

He hopes Xornoth won't torture his family the way they did his lover.

He knows they probably did.

It buzzes again.

He grips Scott's hand tighter, maybe if he squeezes hard enough, it'll squeeze back.

Please, please, squeeze back.

Jimmy takes a deep breath.

At least Scott's eyes are closed.

His communicator buzzes again.

He still doesn't care.

He thought he'd be more distraught.

Looking down at Scott, his perfect, sleeping face, he thought he’d be screaming at the skies, clawing at his heart- trying to scratch the pain away, but he’s not. He should be mad, he should be trying to find Joey, at least, and hurt him as much as he had been hurt, but he’s not. He should have tried to swap back, but he knew his life wasn’t the end goal. He should be crying, letting the tears wash away all of the dust and dirt and blood but he’s not. He’s not doing any of it.

His communicator buzzes.

He’s holding Scott’s hand.

He’s holding Scott’s face.

He’s kissing his forehead.

He’s smoothing out his hair.

His communicator buzzes.

He notices Scott’s necklace, and that’s when he cries.

It’s a gold poppy flower- crudely made, rushed, unpolished, it was something Jimmy made. Jimmy himself was crudely made, rushed, and unpolished, so it makes sense that anything he made would be too.

His communicator buzzes.

He had given it to Scott a few hours before they arrived on the battlefield and Scott spent the next minutes staring at it while Jimmy got some things together.

Jimmy spent those minutes staring at him.

And then he died and lost everything.

Scott’s his everything.

And he’s lost it again.

His communicator buzzes.

He cradles Scott's head in his lap, staring down into his face.

He closes his eyes.

The ground under him changes. Rocks stop digging into his knees, and instead, there's soft wool. The smell of dirt and blood is replaced with clean linen and firewood.

What's worse, he can't feel Scott in his hands anymore.

Jimmy's eyes snap open.

His communicator buzzes one last time.

He's kneeling on cyan and yellow carpet, this must be somewhere in Rivendell. But it feels suffocating. It feels wrong.

Jimmy looks up and sees why.

Outside the windows the sky is red- this really is the end of the world. But the elephant in the room is that Xornoth is standing right in front of him. One of the last living things on this planet. Jimmy doesn't give them the victory of meeting their gaze.

"Codfather, Solidarity, sweet swamp boy- you hold many titles, don't you, Jimmy?" Xornoth says, manic glee in their voice. It makes Jimmy want to throw up.

"Just kill me. Please." Jimmy whispers, pain raw in his voice.

"No. I won't kill you, and you can blame your beloved Scott. The whole "can’t hurt you" condition in his heroic sacrifice doesn't feel heroic now, does it?" Xornoth looms over him, a shit-eating sneer of terrifying joy on their face. “Besides, why would I kill you? You were the key to the lock, the final piece to the puzzle, the gear that made this entire plan work- I should be thanking you. None of this could have happened if you weren’t there. He would still be alive if it weren’t for you- they all are dead because of you. Thank you, Jimmy. You seem to be often thanked for causing things that you stand against in the end. But that’s the way of life, is it not? People taking advantage of you for one reason or another, and then rubbing it in your face when they use you to get what they want. But don’t worry, no one will ever be able to use you again. Isn’t that what you wanted? You were pushed around by everyone, and now both you and I are free.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Jimmy says, maybe if he pisses them off enough they’ll just kill him anyway.

“No, you’re not. I am powerful, you are pitiful. I am armageddon, you are a disappointment. If death is theater, then I am Shakespeare, and you are a prop, a pawn. You were meant as something to be used. I was trying to offer a hand because as much as you hate yourself for it, you were the only reason why this plan worked. But if you insist on continuing to pretend that you have even a sliver of honor left then I will leave you to rot. But I promised not to lay a hand on you. In hindsight, not being able to kill you might have actually been a bad thing. See my plan was, Jimmy, I was going to kill you after all this, but your death would be instant and painless, but it seems that Scott has fucked something else over for everyone else. I was going to show you mercy, I wouldn’t torture you with a long and painful death or make you watch as- well, I guess I already did that, huh.” And they laughed . They laughed and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the crumbling world. They laughed at Jimmy, at his pain, it echoed off the walls of the dying church, sucking the last good out of the air to fuel the hysteric voice of insane victory.

Jimmy’s hope was flooding out with it.

Xornoth snaps their fingers, still laughing, and the world around Jimmy changes again, soft carpet to hardwood floors, still air to blistering wind- he's in his alliance tower.

He takes the heads down without looking at them, he can't bear to look.

He goes straight down the tower without looking.

It's a good thing he didn't.

He would have seen the bodies of everyone- ally and enemy- swinging from the rafters.

At the bottom of the ladder, he finds a rope of his own.

He doesn't even question it.

He silently finds a nearby tree and gets to work.

The Empire is deathly quiet- even the wind has died out.

He feels eyes. They're watching him. It feels familiar- watching a final soul end it all after everyone he knows is long gone.

He finishes the knot, throws the other end up and over the tree to tie it off.

He decides to build his own gallows as well.

Three blocks should be tall enough.

He puts the noose over his head like a medal- a winner's medal. That's what he was.

He won.

He takes the step.

And he's back in Scott's arms.

Finally.

[tsunderin]

My heart tells me 13 or 18 for Aubrey and Itr, if you're up for either.

((Sorry this took so long! I ended up needing to re-write the whole thing, so the prompt kind of became irrelevant, haha))

Youth was a time for making as many mistakes as possible so one wouldn’t repeat them in their older age. So if the four teens were to get into trouble, well, that was to be expected even given their position. (Perhaps especially because of their position: nobility could be so restricting.) Trouble Itr could accept. Sacrilege on the other hand…

The cool air within the temple clung to every hair follicle, every lingering drop of sweat that remained on her body. It made the space feel otherworldly–moreso than normal. Just outside of the gaping stone mouth of an entryway stood the city of Bomé, whose walls still vibrated with the buzz of commerce and conversation. Even that wasn’t as it usually was, however. The oasis of a city had been subjected to a sweltering summer this year drawing the city’s buzz to more of a hum. And now in this cold? If Itr didn’t know better, she would have thought she had stepped through a portal to a completely different place. She couldn’t ignore the small part of her that wished that she had.

Just as she couldn’t ignore her wounded pride, her embarrassment sparking within that it had been the heat’s fault in the first place. If it hadn’t been so oppressively hot, if she didn’t have to play host to a couple of boys whose family reacted as though taking off their heavy velvet overcoats was a transgression against them personally, surely they wouldn’t have committed this transgression.

The spark caught no flame, however. There was no fuel for it to feed upon; there only remained the lingering heat of Itr’s own shame.

Is there something you want to tell me. The woman, leathered with age and sun, had asked. And Itr had the nerve to tell her ‘no’. The words could have come easily. The four of them–not that Zumurrd would admit it–snuck into the ritual pool long after the sun had set. They had enjoyed the cool, non-alligator infested waters, taken refuge in the privacy granted by the sanctuary, and in their revelry had accidentally knocked the offering urn from its altar, cracking it. It was a simple explanation, so easy, and yet Itr decided that things would be much better if she’d just… not tell S’ehs’eh Razeen?

Her knees tingled with oncoming numbness, pressed into the stone tiled floor as she knelt, the carving in front of her lit only by the dull flickering group of candles she’d brought. She couldn’t ask for forgiveness here–forgiveness ran through the blood of those you had wronged, and Bẹjẹ had spread their blood among all of them. But she could take responsibility.

From within the bronze bowl sat beneath the carving, she retrieved a dagger, sharpened to the point where even a reflection felt as though it may slice through skin. It felt right, the weight in her hands. She raised it, eyes shut in thought, and then…

“Wait!”

The familiar voice echoed off the rounded walls, granting it more presence than was perhaps intended. Mixed in with it was Itr’s unintentional yelp of surprise, creating something akin to a cacophony.

She swiveled around, not knowing exactly what to feel when her guess was proven to be right. “Aubrey?!” Smile and scolding fought for dominance on her face, leaving her with an awkward half-grimace. “What are you doing here,” she whispered, fully aware that the acoustics of the room ruined any chance of the whispers actually being anything close to ‘quiet’ or ‘subtle’. “You should be in bed.”

He seemed to deflate a little under the puncturing of her question, but took a moment to straighten himself back up. “I’m not going back without you.”  The line was entirely too over-dramatic for the situation from where Itr stood, but there was something about it… Suddenly, she was thankful for the low lighting and how it was unable to show off the color rising to her cheeks. Was this her punishment for doing this so late at night? When her emotions weren’t so easily controlled? “And it’s not like I can…” he paused, reframing his words. “What are you doing with that knife, anyway?”

She remained silent while he walked closer, his footsteps light, but still purposeful. “It’s not a knife, it’s a dagger.” As he took a seat next to her, Itr looked him over, letting out a puff of air. “This is entirely unfair. You don’t look cold at all.”

Aubrey let out a chuckle, nerves still hanging on, then tugged at the hem of his outerwear, offering it to her.

“Ah,” she declined, “it is probably better if… I don’t.”

More intrigued by her comment then worried Itr watched as he began to take in his surroundings. While his eyes swept across the intricately carved stonework and the paraphernalia, Itr couldn’t help but wonder where his thoughts were taking him. They’d never really spoken about the spiritual beliefs of her people outside of short, off-handed comments of oh, that’s just a religious thing. Was he interested? Was he scared? She’d heard some tales of what others thought of their practices, and hoped that Aubrey didn’t think they were quite so barbaric. After a moment, he seemed to comment to himself. “It’s cleaner than I’d thought…”

Itr squinted, looking down into the bowl that had had his attention last. “Why would it be dirty?”

He seemed to realize he’d actually said that out loud to another person. “Oh, uh, you know.” He fumbled, bashfulness spreading through his entire body as he realized that she didn’t ‘know’. “The… blood, and all that.”

“The… blood…” she repeated, keeping her eyes on him. Then, it hit her. “Aubrey. You realize we don’t do blood offerings, right?”

The progression of emotion that journeyed across his face made his intrusion worth it. From shock, to embarrassment, to a stiff look that threatened to tell her about the customs of her own people, Aubrey eventually settled on confusion as his eyes remained focused on the dagger in her hand. “That’s… it’s what the “Bloodless One” wants, though. Isn’t it?”

Itr couldn’t help it, a laugh exploded out of her. “You read too many stories!” At that, he seemed to take offense, but she couldn’t help that it was true. “It would be a pretty stupid name, then. Why wouldn’t they be called the Bloody One, or the Bloodseeker if that’s all they wanted?” Consternation set deeper into his expression causing her to tone down her jabs. It was obvious to her, of course, but Banteve was… ignorant? They were very set in their ways, in any case. And if Aubrey were to become her husband in the future, it wouldn’t do either of them any good if she laughed him out of a desire to understand.  

“I am not sure what exactly you have been told, but blood isn’t really a part–” She could feel him keeping his eyes from looking back at the space where the cracked urn was, the image of blood and the scent of the rotting meat within still fresh in both their minds. That would have to wait; she needed to keep it simple for the time being. “There’s only two times when blood is important in our lives,” she counted them out on her fingers, “When we are born and when we die.”

“It is a cycle: Bẹjẹ reclaims the blood that is lost when we die and gives it to us when we are born. That is why some of us can remember our past lives.” Not that she, herself, was entirely convinced that was something that could legitimately happen, or something to be happy about, but she couldn’t discount the swarths of her people who believed in it. “To spill blood frivolously at other times is an insult.” She backpedaled, “Well, it’s not like Bẹjẹ is going to be angry if you get a cut or something like that, but you know what I mean.”

Itr swallowed back the compulsion to keep rambling, letting a quiet fall between them as Aubrey nodded along. Was it a process, she wondered. Was him nodding a subtle act of accepting that what the scholars and such of his land had been wrong? Or was he just processing the information that she’d admittedly forced on him?

“So,” he began again in a tone she couldn’t immediately place, “what’s the knife, er, dagger for, then?”

A fair question that she’d been avoiding, and somehow she figured he knew she’d been avoiding, too. “Um, I suppose you were not entirely wrong about the sacrifice part. Good job.” She wanted more time to think about how to explain it without sacrificing any more of her pride, but the alarm that filled him pressed her to continue with no plan. “It’s not– I’m not going to be hurt,” she tried to calm him, but the words only seemed to concern him further.

Without a conscious thought, her free hand found a way to his leg, resting there as if it always belonged there holding back his anxieties. “Okay, so.” But why couldn’t she sound cool and in control when she wanted to the most? “Yes, as you probably guessed breaking that thing was… bad. I do not want your family, “ to be cursed? That was a bad way to put that, right? That would just make him more nervous. “To be looked upon poorly by the, uh, seers. And I, too, need to take responsibility for what I have done.”

“You weren’t the one who knocked it over,” Aubrey argued, knowing that Jocelyn had taken that clandestined stumble.

“But I was the one who brought you all here. I should have been more careful.” Itr smiled gently at him, “And it serves no one to force the blame onto someone else when I am here to accept it openly.” She sighed, removing her hand from him and picking up the blade once more. “I will miss it…”

“Wait!” He called out again the moment she slipped the blade behind her head. She paused, stilling the what now that rested behind her lips. “You’re… you’re just cutting off your hair, then?”

She didn’t understand why he sounded so perplexed. Him, the one that was expecting her to carve her own flesh as if that was a normal thing people did. “Yes?”

“Let me do it, then.” He offered, resolute. “Please.”

Slowly, she removed the blade from beneath her waves of dark brown hair. Her eyes focused on him, pressing the no longer chilled metal into his palm. “Why?”

He held her gaze; a reminder that soon they would no longer be children and the leniency of youth would be beyond their reach. “I bear responsibility, too, for what happened. So I can’t stand for you to shoulder this burden alone.”

Curse him.

Curse him for sounding like the king he should be. The king he would be one day if Itr had anything to say about it, even if she wasn’t the queen he chose.

Caging the butterflies fluttering around in her chest, she smirked. “Is this your way of saying you like my hair long?” He faltered, sputtering at her cheekiness which even after all this time he never seemed prepared for. She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. It will grow back soon.”

Letting her fingers linger as she drew them from his face Itr turned around, facing the carving once more. There was probably some rule that defined this as another sacreligious action, but as a more purposeful silence fell around them once more she couldn’t find this anything less than a holy experience. His fingers were gentle, making sure not to pull at the unexplored curls as he gathered them in his hand. One by one, strands of hair separated from her head. Each severing serving not to prove the weight of what had been done, but freeing her from the weight of her own judgment. Like her hair, she could grow. She could learn. She could be better. She could restart the process as many times as it took. And as she clasped Aubrey’s hands in her own, leading them over to the copper bowl to deposit the hair into, she knew she wanted to have no one but him see how it was done. Only he could cut her hair, and then they could watch together as it burned as they both started the next step on their journey.

With the dagger back in its proper place and the candles extinguished, the embers of her hair were all that remained to light their way back into the city. “If it is all the same to you, I would appreciate it if we did not break anymore religious items while you were here.” Itr wrinkled her nose, the scent of burning hair much more unpleasant than what she was expecting.

Aubrey laughed, his hand resting against her now exposed neck, shielding it from the elements as best he could. “I think we can handle that.”

[dat-town]

love black, lips red

Characters: Hades!Yoongi & Persephone!You

Setting: greek mythology au

Genre: angsty

Warnings: implied sexual content (+ one line about animal sacrifices)

Summary: “I wanted darkness… I wanted him.” sequel to bed warm, hearts cold

Words: 2k

I couldn’t resist because I live for the angst. Also I’m blown away by the love bwhc got. I hope the sequel doesn’t disappoint. Happy birthday to our lovely genius, Min Yoongi! ♥

To this very day, you still remember the pain when you were ripped out of Yoongi’s loving arms. You remember your father’s rage, you remember it all too well. You still ache, heart bleeding black love as you stare out of the marble window. The Sun, shining blindingly bright and delightful, hurts your half-lidded eyes so you look away because there are no blinds or curtains that can shield you now, no salvation from this torture, a prison you know too well. You miss the vast darkness of calamity dearly, the calmness and the silence. You miss the way the stone floor felt cold under your bare feet, the silk of the sheets and you miss, oh you long for the heart made of anger and solitude that only beats for you.

"Shush, my child, it's for your own good," Demeter tells you in a light voice, fake smile blemishing his motherly features. She comes every morning to see you in a suite of a diamond palace you can't escape. Brushing your hair, she tells you stories of misguided innocent souls. Then she braids your soft locks and tucks flowers behind your ear. She doesn't care that it hurts, that your heart is breaking into smaller and smaller pieces with every inhale you take outside of the kingdom of death.

It is supposed to hurt. They claim it happens like this, that it’s a sign that you are healing, transforming back into the obedient daughter you were meant to be in the first place. They keep telling you the distance is the cure to get rid of your false thoughts. They believe that the God of Underneath brainwashed and manipulated you but they are wrong, so wrong. They knew nothing about you. Yet they call you Kore fondly like you were a child and you loathe its implications, the pet name of a maiden. So every night, before sleep claims you and sprinkles bittersweet dreams over your eyelids, you close your eyes and remember.

You remember the softness of his touches on your delicate skin that treated you like glass and porcelain. The hands that gripped you firmly like you were his, the sharp white teeth that marked you, the kisses that left bloodstains behind and you never loved anything more than being under his control and knowing that you had the same disarming effect on him. The glint in his eyes was pride as you sat on your throne beside him. It was made of dried roses, tendrils curling around the metal and it smelled like nothing on Earth. Just like Yoongi who was made of blood and bones and something dark that you loved deeply, madly. No matter how many sunsets passed he was engraved in your skin and that immortal, still-beating heart you had.

No matter how much your parents tried, how much they threatened or begged, they couldn’t erase the other god’s touch off you. Never, you swore because it was the mercy in eternity: you had all the time in the world and for Yoongi you would have waited centuries.

“Please forgive her. She didn’t know what she was doing…” Demeter murmurs, shedding the blood of innocent animals on an altar built for the God of Thunder. You scoff.

She of the Grain, the loving, worrying mother you once knew is now your prison’s guard, always keeping an eye on you and praying for your impure soul. Like you were somebody who should be saved from doom.

However, you wanted nothing more than those black cells, the burn of iron on your touch and the screams echoing in your ears. The power you found and had there, in that damned place itself, might have intoxicated you but you wanted it back. You wanted the life you chose over the one that was assigned to you.

“I don’t need your prayers,” you snapped at your mother grabbing at your dark clothes you refused to change to the colour of rebirth. Yoongi had gotten these gilded robes only for you and called you Queen, called you love when the night black dress matching your souls fit perfectly on your curves. His touch burnt through the layers but you enjoyed its warmth, bathed in the flames itching closer as his cool lips touched your throat.

“Zeus won’t forgive this disobedience if you don’t beg for it,” your mother warns you harshly, teeth gritting and you launch yourself onto the small altar of the room shoving its decorations away.

“I don’t care,” you cried frustrated, fingers crashing a rose in your fist until nothing but damaged petals paint your skin red. Lighting strikes outside, flashing angry white over your skin, shaking the walls, signalling that Zeus was indeed listening. “What’s the worst he could do? Kill me? Death sounds a lot better than this prison. Or will he exile me? Then why did he bring me back in the first place? Don’t you see, ma? I don’t belong here.”

Ever since you were a little child, growing up among gods and goddesses of harvest and prosperity, you knew you were different. You were the error in the perfect system, the mistake of an unwavering structure, the flap of the butterfly’s wing that could cause a hurricane on the other hemisphere of Earth. Oh, Chaos, the father of everything, would have been so proud of you. You craved finality of things instead of this boring infinity. You fancied destroying more than creating and that, that made you feel sick. Because what was wrong with you?

“Nothing,” Yoongi would have whispered into the seam of your lips. Loving and kind, sweet like death is for the tortured souls. “There's nothing wrong with you.”

And beside him, you really didn’t have to pretend nothing at all. You could be yourself, you could be angry, you could be at your worst and Yoongi loved then too. He loved your flaws, your mundane needs and naive wishes.

But Goddess of Harvest is relentless. Despite your resistance, she still thinks you aren’t a lost cause but you are, at least for her and the purposes she wants, you are beyond help. It isn’t until the cherry trees bloom that she has to realize that every action had a consequence. Just because she is a goddess and Zeus is the head of gods, they are not allowed to do anything without atonement. Nobody can go against the sacred rules of the world. One cannot just claim something that belongs to the Underworld because the darkness will reclaim it back. And Yoongi wanted you back.

It starts with blackouts, disgust of food and then you can’t make the flowers bloom anymore. Greenery dies under your footsteps and Demeter, she is horrified. She keeps you hidden in your room fearing the havoc your downfall might bring but this act angers the people even more. The farmers think their corns lose their value because you aren’t there to relive them. They have no idea of your new powers of destruction, the way you suck life out of any living thing you touch. It should terrify you yet you only laugh because the humans whom your mother tried so hard to please now despise her and do not make more ritual offerings for her altar. She blames you and pleads to Zeus to do something, anything but they are both helpless. Ancient laws like this can't be played out.

It takes a while for them to understand that you aren’t from around here anymore, that they can’t keep you here, can't make you bring spring for them. Your heart and soul, they draw you back to the Underworld, to your king.

"The leaves are falling and the nature is dying," Demeter watches the colourful leaves swirling around in the wind and the grief in her voice is familiar. It's regret and surrender, the recognition that she lost.

"Don't worry, mother. I will come back when it's time. But I will come on my two feet and I will be welcomed like a queen and not a kidnapped daughter," you tell her standing up and this time, the doorknob doesn't resist. The door's wings part in front of you and you follow the darkest ray of sunshine to the edge of mortal world.

You greet the Styx like you greet a lover, lips touching the surface of the deadly water and murmuring confessions. However, before you could cross the river, hands from your dreams grab on your waist pulling you back. You fit perfectly onto the wide chest you lean against and gasp at the sensation of chapped lips pressed to the underside of your jaw. It takes your breath away, suffocating you in the best way possible.

“Little bird… you came back,” a raw sigh escapes Yoongi, its exhale fanning over your neck dressing you in goosebumps as you relish in the feeling of his arms caressing your middle keeping you close like he never wanted to let you go. Not ever again.

“I will always come back to you,” the promise slips your mouth like the light always finds its way in the darkest tunnels and the waves crash onto the rocky shore. It almost hurts how true these words are, how unalterable they are. It may have been the seeds of pomegranate, the taste of Underworld that overpowered the will of higher deities and brought you back. It might have been for the unwritten rules nobody could break yet you would have crawl your way back here anyway.

“Have you been searching for me?” you turn around in Yoongi's embrace to face him and the yearning so clear in his onyx eyes catches you off guard.

“I looked everywhere. I turned the world upside down. I wanted to break down the walls of Olympus to get to you but they didn’t let me. They kept you locked away from me,” he admits and your heart shares his misery.

“I'm here now,” you whisper like a secret and standing on your tiptoes you kiss the God of Dead on the mouth. It feels like the first gulp of water after thirst or the first inhale of fresh oxygen after drowning, it tastes sweet like spring and bitter like the blood that rushes in your veins. It’s everything you’ve missed and more so you let yourself get lost in him.

You may spend half the year up on the surface, watching as the first snowdrops peep out of the frozen ground and heat scorches through the fields on hot summer days. But you are back in the realm of darkness during wine harvest and when the temperature drops below zero. You take spring with you and give it to Yoongi as you make love. You breathe life in him and plant love into the scratches on his back that your nails leave. You bring new hopes and kiss him like it's a first, eager and hungry. With swollen and split lips you swear you can taste his devotion on your tongue.

“I missed you,” he groans into the juncture of your throat every single time and draws colourful flowers all over your body with his mouth, tongue lapping over the bruises and marks you wear proudly as accessories adorning the canvas of your figure. And you will remember it, his whispered words, how it felt murmured into your skin, the pleasure and pain, all of it when eventually you will have to leave again. So that you will never forget.

And after six lunar months spent missing him, when you come back and he traces a finger on your naked waist as you lie naked on his bed, your bed, in his arms, you finally, finally feel at home.

[liamakorn]

Absolution (Part 3)

A/N: Hey guys! Finally, I finished this chapter...took me a long time, mostly because I didn’t feel like it was good. Like, at all. But, I’m sort of happy with it now, even though it’s still very bad lol. So John is kinda OOC? He’s def more...aggressive? But I wanted a soft boi John, so that’s what you’re gonna get ;p Also, I’m aware he uses a tattoo gun usually, but??? The carved sin aesthetic called to me. He and Joseph carved their sins, and cross them out once they overcome them, so if he was trying to romance her then?? He might do this?? Don’t judge me.  I know I said this was supposed to lead to must, but I’m not sure now? I like where I ended it. Maybe if I find the inspiration, I’ll write another chapter, but as of rn, this is the last one. Let me know what you think! 

Part 1 -Part 2 -Part 3

Tagging: @obscure-fae @aliciawentzshadows

Pairing: John Seed x OC (Maggie) 

Warnings: MAJOR CUTTING/SELF HARM TRIGGER WARNING! There is blood! He carves her sin into her flesh! If mentions of cutting or blood trigger you, PLEASE DONT READ!!! Don't sacrifice your mental health for my thirsty ass. Other than that, gentle boi John, dub-con if ya squint. I’m going to hell. 

Words: 1,596

His thumb stroked her jaw, pressing lightly into her throat. Felt her pounding heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Regarding her thoughtfully, John leaned closer, pressing his nose to her hair and breathing. Maggie let her eyes close, enjoying the warmth his body gave off. He dragged his lips to her ear, making sure she felt every movement.

He implored her to confess. To reveal her deepest, darkest secrets, no matter how petty. No matter how small. To rip open her ribcage so he could see the tangled mess of sin that lay beneath.

And she did.

She breathed out everything she could think of, pouring her heart between stuttering breaths, focusing only on the man in front of her. It was as if a weight was being lifted from her shoulders; Maggie found herself rambling more and more, sharing more of herself than she’d ever imagined she could. His gaze remained fixated on her, as if nothing else existed. It stirred a warmth in her gut that burned down to her toes. The attention positively ached, and yet, she never wanted him to look away. So she divulged her soul, hoping to keep those blue depths on her for just a bit longer. She confessed her greed. Her sloth. Her pride.

When she reached lust, Maggie hesitated. John tilted his head, licking his lips. As if he could taste her sins. He chuckled in response to her silence, gently stroking her cheek. Leaning closer, John nudged his nose against hers, warm breath fanning over her face.

She didn’t need to vocally confess her sin; it was written all over the way she moved, the goosebumps spreading across her flesh, the whimper she let out as his grip tightened just slightly against her throat. But he made her anyway. Eagerly awaited the words he knew would fall from her lips. Maggie whispered how she’d felt about him from the moment they’d met; how she’d dreamed of him every night since. Every unholy thought she’d ever had was voiced for him to judge.  His resulting groan made her toes curl, watching as his eyes darkened.

“I know your sin…”

His voice must’ve dropped an octave, a mere growl compared to his usual cocky tone. It took everything Maggie had not to moan aloud; although, at this point, she might as well have. There was nothing she could hide from him. Not now.

His lips brushed against hers as he spoke,

“At first, I thought it must be wrath, or envy...but now, I see. Your sin...is lust.”

A shudder ran down her spine. Of course it was. She knew he was right. He could see right through her. And oddly, she didn’t mind. She wanted him to see her; to weed out her sins and lead her to the salvation his brother had promised. It terrified her. But he knew that too, grazing his nose across her cheek, delicately running his thumb along her jaw.

Laying his palm flat against her sternum, he paused for a moment, relishing in the pounding of her heart.

“But that’s alright.”

Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his hand down her front, between her breasts, stalling just above her navel. Pushing away from the tree, careful not to move too far from her body, John’s other hand gripped her wrists. With a steadiness she envied him for, John raised her arms above her head, pressing just a tad harder than was necessary; she could feel the bark digging into her skin, sure to leave marks.

“Pain is the gateway to forgiveness. Only after you’ve been punished for your sins, can you be cleansed of them.”

Leaning in closer, John almost snarled into Maggie’s ears,

“You will leave your hands where I have placed them. Do not move until your atonement is complete. Am I understood?”

The authority in his tone gave her chills. She knew exactly what he wanted to hear, and unlike last time, she didn’t hesitate to give it to him.

“Yes.”

The growl he released was more of a moan, and Maggie could tell he was enjoying this more than he let on. One look down would’ve told her for sure, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she held his gaze, blue eclipsed by his blown out pupils.

“Are you ready, Maggie?”

Gasping her confirmation, she watched in fascination as a wicked grin found his lips, falling to his knees in front of her. It took her breath away; she had to dig her nails into her palms just to keep her arms steady.

Maggie was so caught up in the sight of John Seed, on his knees before her like she was the altar he worshiped at, she nearly missed him reaching back, retrieving a small knife.

She flinched at the snap the blade made as he flipped it open, breathing escalating in a mixture of fear and pure excitement. This was it. She would be free. She would be pure. He would lead her to Eden, where she would finally be free from her sins.

God, when had she become this person?

Slowly, as not to startle her, he lifted her shirt, letting his fingers graze her skin the entire time. She’d never considered herself sensitive, but Jesus she could tell her jeans were absolutely soaked. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it. Letting the fabric bunch around her waist, John skimmed his palms along her hips, catching her gaze as he popped the button of her jeans with a flourish.

Maggie’s knees trembled. With a calculated leisure, John slipped his long fingers into the band of her jeans, tugging at them to reveal the patch of skin just above her panty line. It was pure torture. And god, the look on his face as his eyes devoured her skin, his own excitement evident in both his expression, and through his pants.

A soft sigh slipped past her lips, eyes fluttering closed as his touch warmed every inch of her exposed flesh. Maggie could feel his breath against her navel with every exhale, and it was driving her insane.  

It was the cool touch of metal that snapped her, briefly, from her daze, a spike of fear stabbing her heart. What was she doing? This was absolutely psychotic; and yet, she couldn’t move her arms, her breath caught in her throat as the blade just grazed across her skin. As if sensing her unease, John pressed a chaste kiss against her hip, sending her hurtling back towards that fuzzy state of mind.

“Shhh, pet, you’re alright. This is going to hurt, okay? But I know you can handle it, I know you can find redemption...I believe in you, just trust me…”

L

The first incision wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. A hard sting, sure, but something she could deal with. However, the moment he began to drag the knife down, slicing her skin like it was butter, she could help but cry out, biting down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. John never stopped speaking, muttering praises as he went.

“You’re doing so well, little lamb, barely even moving, I'm so proud of you, pet…”

He gave a brief pause between letters, allowing a short reprieve for her to remember how to breathe. He must’ve been looking at her, but Maggie’s eyes were screwed shut, digging her nails into her palms. She refused to move her arms down, determined to finish her atonement. To make John proud.

U

The next letter was just as bad as the first, if not worse. She could feel blood dripping down her legs, staining her jeans red, even as John attempted to control the blood flow. Still, she didn’t move, gritting her teeth to the pain.

S

This was by far the worst one, the blade twisting into her flesh to form the correct shape. She couldn’t help the screams escaping her throat, tears flowing freely down her cheeks.  He was trying so hard to be gentle, always praising her, a firm hand holding her hips to the bark.

“We’re almost done, you’re being so good for me, pet...I knew you would be perfect, I'm going to take such good care of you…”

T

The euphoria she felt as the last letter was carved surprised her. She was still whimpering, trembling from shock and dizzy from blood loss; but it felt good. She was freed.  John was immediately by her side, pressing a cloth to her fresh wounds, gently lowering her arms to rest around his neck.

Maggie could barely hear him as he continued murmuring in her ear, something about salvation? She could've sworn he mentioned walking through Eden's Gate together, about exploring the new paradise side by side. The thought made her heart flutter, even as her eyes slipped shut.

Encouraging her to hold the makeshift bandage, he bent, sweeping one arm under her knees while tightly gripping her waist. Maggie had no will to fight, nuzzling gently into his neck. He was so warm… she could've laid there forever.  Something in her addled mind warned her she might not have a choice in that matter.  It was too faint to be sure. Dismissing the thought, Maggie breathed in John’s scent,  mumbling what she hoped resembled a ‘thank you ‘.

She might’ve imagined his smile. Some part of her slipping subconscious might’ve convinced her that he’d pressed a meaningful kiss against her temple. But there was no way she could mistake his words, the sound echoing in her head as sleep overtook her.

“Let’s get you home, pet…”