#I like to think that sometimes they appear as unfathomable creatures | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anghraine · 2 months ago

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Something that attracted me to TOS pretty early on is that it's repeatedly interested in how hundreds or thousands of people (and sometimes still more) can get caught in mass tragedies caused by nothing they did, which no choice or quality of their own could have affected, often divorced from anything significant about the individual victims at all, and serving no great purpose. There's a way in which these events, and their legacies when those are explored, work to strip away both the distinctive personhood of the victims and the interconnections between them.

And TOS is repeatedly interested in how good-natured "gut" empathy on an ordinary interpersonal level—which the show does value—falters before this kind of horror at this kind of scale. It's harder to really grasp when you're not looking at malice directed at something significant about a particular individual or small group right in front of you, but instead it's just this brutally callous indifference towards people, often hundreds of people if not more, most of whom you can't see and will never see. Even when you do know and care about one of the victims, it can be difficult to process these kinds of unfathomably awful tragedies through ordinary human emotions.

McCoy, the advocate for gut feelings, including this kind of instinctive, highly personal compassion, gets repeatedly used to illustrate that tension. TOS values his kind of compassion to a certain degree, and highlights his instinctive decency and sympathy when faced with immediate suffering of most other people. By contrast, Kirk and Spock can be prone to over-intellectualizing where McCoy will rightly call bullshit, or at least to having their compassion complicated by obstinate guile (Kirk) or abrasive distance (Spock). But TOS is also interested in how the kind of instinctive empathy that defines McCoy can prove inadequate when it comes to contending with impersonal atrocities and supporting those affected by them.

That difficulty is very prominent in "The Conscience of the King," of course, in which McCoy actively closes his eyes to signs that something strange is going on with Kirk. His earliest and final appearances in the episode both involve him stubbornly sentimentalizing Kirk's ruthless use of Lenore. As the history and legacy of the genocide at Tarsus IV unfold, McCoy seems to resist grasping the true horror of what Kirk has experienced and how much that's motivating him, except as useless vengeance.

MCCOY: Illogical? Did you get a look at that Juliet? That's a pretty exciting creature. Of course your personal chemistry would prevent you from seeing that. Did it ever occur to you that he simply might like the girl? SPOCK: It occurred. I dismissed it. MCCOY: You would. SPOCK: Did you know that he suddenly transferred Lieutenant Riley to engineering? MCCOY: Lots of things go on around here that I don't know, Mr. Spock. Now, he's the captain. He can transfer whoever he pleases. You can look that up in a hundred volumes of space regulations somewhere. All right?

SPOCK: Children watching their parents die. Whole families destroyed. Over four thousand people. They died quickly, without pain, but they died. Relief arrived, but too late to prevent the executions. And Kodos? There never was a positive identification of his body. MCCOY: What has Karidian to do with it? SPOCK: His history begins almost to the day where Kodos disappeared. MCCOY: You think Jim suspects he's Kodos? SPOCK: He'd better. There were nine eyewitnesses who survived the massacre, who'd actually seen Kodos with their own eyes. Jim Kirk was one of them. With the exception of Riley and Captain Kirk, every other eyewitness is dead. And my library computer shows that wherever they were, on Earth, on a colony, or aboard ship, the Karidian Company of Players was somewhere near when they died. MCCOY: It's unbelievable.

SPOCK: Almost certainly an attempt will be made to kill you. Why do you invite death? KIRK: I'm not. I'm interested in justice. MCCOY: Are you? Are you sure it's not vengeance? KIRK: No, I'm not sure. I wish I was. I've done things I've never done before. I've placed my command in jeopardy. From here on I've got to determine whether or not Karidian is Kodos. SPOCK: He is. KIRK: You sound certain. I wish I could be. Before I accuse a man of that, I've got to be. I saw him once, twenty years ago. Men change. Memory changes. Look at him now, he's an actor. He can change his appearance. No. Logic is not enough. I've got to feel my way, make absolutely sure. MCCOY: What if you decide he is Kodos? What then? Do you play God, carry his head through the corridors in triumph?

Even in the episode's final scene, we find McCoy returning to his earlier preoccupation with romanticizing Kirk's motives with regard to Lenore (by then known to be a murderer and apologist for the genocide Kirk survived), downplaying how much Kirk's actions and struggles have been driven by surviving and witnessing a eugenicist mass slaughter.

Or there's "The Immunity Syndrome," where it's not that McCoy has no feeling or compassion for Spock as a general rule, but again, he seems unable to express or perhaps even feel that same compassion for Spock's grief as he vicariously experiences the sudden deaths of over four hundred Vulcans. The distance and scale of the loss trips up McCoy's kneejerk empathy, and he's reluctant to even try to respond with compassion about the loss of the crew of the Intrepid or what Spock is going through. Spock explicitly and sharply calls out this limitation of emotive, instinctive, hyper-individualized sympathy:

SPOCK: Doctor, even I, a half-Vulcan, could hear the death scream of four hundred Vulcan minds crying out over the distance between us. MCCOY: Not even a Vulcan could feel a starship die. SPOCK: Call it a deep understanding of the way things happen to Vulcans, but I know not a person, not even the computers on board the Intrepid, knew what was killing them or would have understood it had they known. MCCOY [doubtfully]: But four hundred Vulcans? SPOCK: I've noticed that about your people, doctor. You find it easier to understand the death of one than the death of a million. You speak about the objective hardness of the Vulcan heart, yet how little room there seems to be in yours.

As he did with Kirk in "The Conscience of the King," McCoy resists understanding or respecting Spock's true motives in the wake of mass deaths of Spock's people. Instead, McCoy is oversensitive about potential insults to humans/himself and professionally territorial in response to events that are vastly worse for Spock, and at a time when Spock has specifically asked for some consideration.

SPOCK: I am familiar with the equipment, doctor. We're wasting time. The shuttle craft is ready. MCCOY: You're determined not to let me share in this, aren't you? SPOCK: This is not a competition, doctor. Whether you understand it or not, grant me my own kind of dignity. MCCOY: Vulcan dignity? How can I grant you what I don't understand?

Something I find interesting and pretty consistent about these scenarios in TOS is that there's some variance in which major character is most directly affected—most often Kirk, sometimes Spock. But the character beats tend to be similar regardless of who it is, with Kirk's and Spock's cooler-headed, more controlled mindsets sometimes making them out-of-touch or less compassionate than McCoy when it comes to more ordinary or personal suffering, but also, leaving Kirk and Spock more able to grasp atrocities and profound violations with or without being the victim. Kirk even suggests in "The Conscience of the King" that his personal history is not what qualifies him to judge Kodos; it's enough that he's a human being and an authority.

And when Spock coolly remarks in S3, "Humans do have an amazing capacity for believing what they choose and excluding that which is painful," it may not be absolutely true in all cases, but is certainly a strong tendency. And it's definitely repeatedly mediated through McCoy, the most purely human of the three.

Speaking of that S3 episode ("And the Children Shall Lead"), McCoy's ways of engaging with suffering actually make him much better equipped to deal with and comprehend the repressed grief behind the children's forgetfulness in the episode. Spock, as is often the case with random strangers' emotions, has other priorities (including getting Kirk through an artificially amplified panicked meltdown over his deepest insecurities) that take precedence above the children's welfare. Kirk, meanwhile, is baffled by the idea of forgetting trauma, in a way that makes a lot of sense for him; all the Tarsus IV survivors are haunted by the persistence of memory, Kirk returns over and over to concern with starvation/food, Kirk was targeted for bullying because of his grimness just a few years after the genocide and even at age 33, his deepest fantasy remains honorably kicking the shit out of the guy who bullied him as a teenager, and he has never really gotten over the slaughter of hundreds on the Farragut, etc.

By contrast to McCoy, Spock shines in dealing with the more purely dehumanizing violations they're faced with. In those cases, his unflinching, steady resolve and faithfulness become invaluable. His judgment and instincts are right about everything at every turn in "The Conscience of the King," yes, but this persists all the way to "Turnabout Intruder," which is an individual attack on Kirk, but also such a profound violation of basic autonomy that McCoy, again, can't really process it.

Despite Janice's fixation on Kirk in particular, his individual personhood doesn't seem to really matter to her. Rather, he's the one who got away (specifically, got away from a pretty obviously abusive relationship) and he climbed into the life she wants and is barred from (for bullshit misogyny reasons quite apart from her personal qualifications or lack thereof). But that's not about much unique to him as an individual, it's about him escaping and also getting the basic privileges of being a man.

The episode itself is misogynistic in conception and structure, to be clear. But there absolutely are female abusers/stalkers IRL who obscure their awful behavior towards male partners or ex-partners through a heavy filter of eternally persecuted (usually white) feminine fragility while doing high-octane abusive, dehumanizing shit in ways that look a lot like the essentials of Janice's behavior.

Janice physically assaults Kirk multiple times while openly mocking the idea that a woman could ever overpower a big strong man. She relies on medical abuse in particular to keep Kirk under control and plans to have him institutionalized indefinitely (then an even more common tool of abusers than now) or killed. She tries to keep him isolated from everyone who cares about him, and when that fails, threatens anyone who tries to help him escape (it's Spock who is punished for Kirk's escape attempt, not """Janice"""). She lies to his friends and co-workers about why he left her.

Kirk actually agrees with her about the injustice of the Starfleet glass ceiling, he just thinks it doesn't justify her behavior in the year they were together (in which she displaced her general, justified frustrations with her marginalization onto him and "punished" him within their romantic relationship). It certainly doesn't justify her many deeper violations of his autonomy later in the episode, or her exhausting degree of internalized misogyny (which was the actual reason he was willing to walk away in the first place, apparently, as unhealthy as the relationship was for both of them; this is the only one of his real relationships where we're told that he unilaterally made the decision to leave). And then Janice obsessively follows everything Kirk does, memorizes every detail about his life that she can, figures out how to get him into the right place where she can violate his body and autonomy, and ... yeah, the level of fucked-up here is only very slightly metaphorical.

Spock is, again, perceptive, reliable, and reasonable in engaging with the absolutely batshit level of horror inflicted on Kirk (again). But McCoy struggles, despite recognizing that something is evidently not right with the person who seems to be Kirk. Even when presented with Spock's account of the mind meld with bodysnatched Kirk—a kind of evidence that McCoy has readily considered before—he resists accepting what the truth would entail. Scotty and Chekov end up far more willing to see the truth and, with Sulu, to act on it than McCoy is. McCoy is closer to Kirk, but he's also hesitant and uncomfortable about engaging with what's happening, and instead falls back on standard policies and regulations in the face of an obviously extraordinary and dreadful situation.

And I feel like the point of McCoy's reluctance to grasp these kinds of unfathomably horrific experiences, whether the victims include Kirk (usually) or Spock (sometimes), is not so much that it's an idiosyncratic weakness of McCoy's. He represents this natural human instinct towards decency and compassion that is warm and often spontaneous rather than considered for effect. The more rationalistic characters sometimes lack the clarity of that instinct when dealing with immediate suffering—but TOS is also conscious of the limits of this reliance on instinct and comfort when it comes to deeper, more dehumanizing tragedies than natural instinct is equipped for. So it explores the limits of instinctive sympathy and consideration, as well.

I think that narratively, TOS favors the more philosophical and deliberative perspectives over the instinctive, though it sees value in them all. As a result, the show is more often critical of McCoy than of Spock, and gives McCoy less time and space in which to forward his perspective, with about half as much screen time as Spock. But I do think that TOS's basic interest in horrific, near-meaningless tragedy and its consequences for people is reflected in how these three characters engage—or resist engaging—with suffering of different kinds.

(I was mostly thinking about this because TNG's fundamental perspective seems almost the opposite: large-scale or very profound tragedies matter mainly because they affect particular individuals that "matter" like the little girl in "Pen Pals"—it doesn't matter if her people get wiped out in itself, but she is Data's friend and adorable, and thus she specifically Matters and suddenly, it's okay to act. However, in TOS, a large-scale tragedy or violation may be primarily understood through an individual we care about among the victims, but its significance is not restricted to them. I think the show's interest lies more in the broad dehumanization attending these kinds of events and in the question of how to engage ethically with them when you or someone you care about is directly affected.)

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the-haven-keepers-collective · 8 months ago

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hiii! :D i noticed yall liked a few of my posts so i looked at ur blog, yall seem pretty swag ^^

would you like to tell me about you as a dragon? we are also dragonkin and love to learn about fellow dragons ^^

Frog/🐸(The host and the dragon in question.)

Aaa I forgot I had this in here, whoops!

Ohohoho I apologize in advance, you've given me an opportunity to infodump about my kintype. No pressure to read this whole post of course. XD Thank you for stopping by! For some context, my draconic kintype is spiritual and it's a past life in this case. Beyond that I also believe that my "soul's truest form" is draconic so to speak, but my truest form is a different flavor of draconic that I've explored much less. I spend more lifetimes as a dragon than not; this particular draconic kintype is just.. the most useful one to remember and identify as in this life.

I'm an amphithere! We're oceanic dragons, "sea serpents" with feathered wings and fins, and even more specifically we're protectors. My appearance was sort of fluid, and not just in the sense that I could turn into water (I could do that too though) but in the sense that I was what I'd call a "mix and match" shapeshifter. Less "you can switch between forms" and more "Do I want antlers today? Hmmm I could use some for legs right about now. Do I feel like this scale color?" It's like changing clothes. What little I do know about my appearance was that my wings and scales were a sort of light sky blue (sometimes), I had silver antlers, and that my scales often rippled with the light pattern you see underwater/on walls in pools as a sort of camouflage.

Other than that, I know I was a sort of predator; even as a protector of the ocean and its inhabitants, I had my place within the ecosystem. Being in that place was part of protection, as I understand it; you need predators in an ecosystem to maintain population balance and such. I also know that I wore lots of jewelry oddly enough. Specifically long chains with dangly bits draped in my antlers, ears, wings, anywhere you could put them- it was culturally important somehow. There was also, while not always, a bit of an "eldritch horror" aspect to me. I've loved cosmic horror for a long time, but less in the sense that it's what scares me and more in the sense of... awe. Not only that, but self-recognition. I felt seen, in it.

The concept of a being so unfathomably vast and infinite that we simply cannot comprehend it, or that it could cause absolute catastrophe for our entire world simply by existing and without really realizing, etc. etc. drew me in. Turns out, it's sort of... what I was. Except instead of causing utter chaos or anything like that, I just chilled in the bottom of the ocean and considered it's inhabitants to be my own family. I would almost call the creatures in the ocean a hoard of its own in a way, but not in an objectifying sense; in the sense that they were under my protection, and I valued that "job" above all else. Which, as a side note, @friendofcrowsandcats (sorry for the ping) was the person who mentioned that in their canon (if I remember correctly) we were close to merfolk as well. Not only that, but storytellers. Both of those things pretty firmly resonated with me, although at the time I wasn't sure about merfolk but it became more solid the longer I sat with it.

Last tidbit I swear; speaking of being storytellers, I feel as though I've been a storyteller/writer/whatever title you prefer for lifetimes upon lifetimes, similar to how I'm a dragon more often than not. In this life I'm a witch, and I've started to work fiction into my practice in the sense of pop culture practices. I think that as a dragon, storytelling was also a form of magic all its own, just in a bit of a fancier sense than it is now. Weaving a story and weaving reality weren't all that different to my kind, I think.

But I think even now it's a form of magic, if you're like me and you don't mind getting all philosophical about it. Stories can be life-changing, even life-saving, and there's a value in the art of it. The way people/beings engage in fiction can change their worldviews if they let it. I think it's powerful. There's a reason I have multiple tattoos planned that are quotes/designs from fiction. Those stories changed me as a person, or are stories I found a lot of comfort in.

There's a lot of ways my kintype effects me in this life but I think if I make that post it'll be a separate post that's much more thought out.

Anyway, all that wall of text aside; I like being a dragon lol. I think about it a lot. I joke about being a silly little guy so much and then I jumpscare people by also being an eldritch horror, it's very fun.

#otherkin #alterhuman #nonhuman #dragonkin #otherkin blog #otherkinity #therian #otherkin community #amphitere kin #FORGOT MY LIL EMOJI SIGNOFF WHOOPS #🐸#no need for another one bc no one else is gonna use the frog emoji probably #if later a headmate wants the frog emoji I'm gonna be proven long and absolutely cackle

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soopsiesdaisies · 10 months ago

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i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved - 4

Chapter summary:

Feyre learns things, learns of things, and is unsubtly kicked into thinking.

Read on AO3 + Tumblr Chapters overview

General warnings: Rhys, 6.9k

~*~

Rhys was curiously absent for the next three days, by which I meant that it actually wasn’t curious at all—as I swiftly concluded that, considering the devastated look on his face at my fear, he felt embarrassed, ashamed, and very guilty for losing his temper the way he did.

I would’ve said ‘ good riddance’, had Mor not been present those three days, because she actually, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to like him. I assumed this was caused by the family loyalty that plagued most living creatures, for I couldn’t genuinely connect knowing Rhys and liking Rhys in a way that made sense to me. He was annoying and dangerous, all kinds of whiny—imagining myself knowing him for nearly all five centuries of his life was exhausting enough. How Mor continued to be cheery and perky was a mystery to me.

The three days with Morrigan weren’t only Morrigan, of course. She still had a variety of duties to attend to, veritable mountains of paperwork to work through that she could not finish whenever I practised by myself during our lessons, and seemed like quite a busy fae female. But, for at least five hours every day, she was there to help me.

My days were calm, almost comfortable. I’d wake up early from nightmares, though the architecture of the room meant I did not feel the way I did in my room back home, like the air itself was squeezing the life out of me. Neither did I expel my stomach contents after waking up panicking and sweat-soaked; the sheer radiance of the mountains and the sky, always visible, was enough to quell my nausea.

I’d then bathe, take breakfast in my room, and sit staring at my fingers that apparently had the power to scorch things and bend cutlery. Rhys mentioning that it was obvious I had magic — and how more obvious could it be, really, when I’d made my satin slipper turn into charcoal — bothered me beyond sensible anxiety, and I wished to have more proof. The accidental nature of my bursts of power implied that I was unable to control it and used my magic entirely on instinct. Even through my perpetual haze of exhaustion and general annoyance at being in the Night Court, I could at least acknowledge it was a problem.

Mor tended to drop by my room at noon, when she’d usher me back to the hall where we’d had breakfast before Rhys vanished with his metaphorical tail between his legs, like a yelping puppydog. After lunch, during which my own hunger never failed to surprise me, we’d venture back down to the study-alcove with the big table.

We’d chat on our way down, Mor and I. It was usually about everything and nothing, things like magic and folk tales and religious festivals and the weather. Mor would compliment my hair and I would compliment hers in return, and sometimes she’d promise to braid mine in an intricate pattern culturally significant to the Night Court. We spoke of tea and sandwiches, flowers and fae, and somehow I did not mind the shallowness of it all. It felt friendly and genuine, like I didn’t need to walk on eggshells when I was around her. Insecurity in my position, something that Ianthe often did prompt, never once appeared when Mor and I chatted.

I asked where Rhysand was on my second afternoon in the Court, after casually mentioning I hadn’t seen him in at all since he left and refraining from mentioning I hadn’t felt his presence either. Mor, who appeared to enjoy being honest me, ended up putting down her pen and smiled at me, eyes slightly narrowed in apology.

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” It was better, I knew, to just be upfront with Mor.

“Both,” she’d said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I’ve been given orders, and I agree with them.”

And that’d been that.

Her body language told me she did, likely, wish to tell me where Rhys was, or perhaps why he wasn’t here as well. But she didn’t tell, and I, not wanting to take advantage of Mor’s guarded honesty — no matter how I could almost hear Ianthe’s, Tamlin’s, and Lucien’s insistence on digging deeper — left the matter alone. It was fine, really. More than fine: I did not wish to insert myself into Night Court business, given I was here as a guest and no more. Not knowing what was going on ensured that.

Instead, I threw my entire being into the lessons with vigour. It was nice to not drown in my own head for once, instead filling it with letters and numbers and thick, strong walls I could lower and raise whenever I so wished. The labyrinth of my mind had become decorated with phrases I never once saw possible to imagine, my memories and thoughts filed away in order of importance.

A library, though I’d never been to one. A library inside my brain.

I made staggering progress. Mor was patient and enthusiastic, and her seemingly unwavering confidence in my ability to learn was incredibly encouraging: halfway through the first day of Rhys’ absence, she cited simple words and phrases I was to write down and I did so almost faultlessly. Day two went so swimmingly I felt urged to continue practising after she had to leave again, even picking up a children’s storybook to read in the bath; and on day three, she simply tasked me to write a variety of easy sentences all by myself.

“You really are doing incredibly well, Feyre,” she said after I’d finished, her hand barely twitching to correct. She slid her finger over the dry ink and paper, scribbled a line through a word and wrote something down. “You’re a fast learner.”

Though I didn’t really want to, I perked up at the praise. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Mor said with a smile, pen scratching over the empty space below my text in an appreciative curl. “You’ve had four lessons, and you’re already writing on your own. Look,” she said, handing me the paper, “barely any mistakes.”

I dragged my gaze over the text, noting the few corrections: some words where I should’ve used an f instead of a v, a d instead of a t, a couple of more difficult words where the sounds didn’t correlate with the actual spelling, and a note or two on where my handwriting was unclear.

“I’m glad,” I said quietly. “My sister tried to teach me once, but we both got frustrated and then I had to go out to hunt. I thought I’d be a lost cause.”

Mor hummed. “You have a sister?”

“Two,” I replied, and I fell silent.

A gentle breeze swept inside, ruffling the wisps of hair springing free from Mor’s braid. “They’re both human, aren’t they?”

I looked back down at my practice sheet.

“I don’t want to overstep,” Mor said. “I’m just—look, Feyre, I like you. I’d like to be your friend, and therefore I’d like to know things about you. You don’t have to tell me your deepest and darkest secrets, as I won’t tell you mine, not now… but I’d like to get to know you more.”

When I raised my head, Mor was still looking in my direction. Her face was kind, eyes patient yet curious; I withered.

“Nesta and Elain,” I said, sighing. “I’m the youngest. Nesta is twenty-two; Elain twenty-one. My father was a merchant, my mother is dead, and we lost all of our money when I was nine. Nesta and Elain were twelve and eleven.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Mor murmured.

“It was,” I said wryly. “Debtors broke in not soon after and destroyed Father’s knee, barring him from being able to do any work. So I—” I pressed my lips together, flaring my nostrils.

Mor waited.

“We were going to starve,” I said. “We had no money and Nesta and Elain refused to do anything to prevent it—or maybe they did want to, and it just felt as though they didn’t, to me. But when I was eleven, I taught myself how to shoot a bow and arrow and lay traps, so I hunted. We ate the meat and I sold the pelts. Elain likes to garden, so she and Nesta would often prepare any vegetables she grew or any fruit we could pick in the forest for winter. Sometimes they’d chop wood, if I didn’t have time. Or,” I acquiesced, “Nesta would, and then wouldn’t for another three weeks because she wanted the splinters and blisters to heal.”

“ So you were eleven,” Mor said calmly, “and you began to keep your family alive? For… eight years? And they didn’t do anything to help?”

“They cooked when I didn’t have time,” I said. “They did the laundry, if we could do the laundry. They kept the fire going. Elain sold the flowers she grew throughout the warmer months and Nesta kept any curious onlookers at bay. They foraged when fruits started to ripen—”

“You fed them,” Mor said, voice slowly rising in volume.

I swallowed, mouth dry. “We equally divided—”

“ You didn’t,” Mor interrupted me. Her eyes blazed. “There was no equal division. They should’ve helped you more—you were the youngest, Feyre. It is your father’s fault you had to provide in the first place, but they should’ve stepped up just as much as you did when he failed to. More, considering they’re older—”

“ I wish they did,” I said harshly, “but they didn’t, or they couldn’t. They’re my sisters,” I continued, “and no matter how much I resent them for not helping me keep us afloat as much as they should have, instead of sitting on their arses because they didn’t want their nails to—”

I cut myself off, biting down on the inside of my cheeks until my mouth flooded with the taste of copper. My fingers felt incredibly hot, and when I looked down, I’d burnt my prints into the worn tabletop.

With a frustrated grunt I ripped my hands away, squeezing them into fists and resting them in my lap. She had no right—none, to sit there and judge decisions made in an act of desperation. I hated Nesta and Elain sometimes, when the night was oppressively dark and my thoughts wandered to the human lands, but they were my sisters.

My sisters. Only we could judge each other for what we did then.

Mor sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. Her shoulders hunched a touch.

“I told you I didn’t want to overstep and then I immediately did,” she muttered, grimacing. “I’m sorry, Feyre. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“But you did,” I replied sharply, watching Mor wince but take it. Then I sighed too, jutting my jaw outwards. “I don’t even know why I’m defending them. It’s not like I’ll see them again.”

“You defend them because they’re your family and you love them, Feyre,” Mor said quietly. “I got—I took it personally. My family hasn’t always treated me well either and it hit a nerve. I should’ve held myself together.” She frowned, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Is it because you’re fae, that you won’t see them again?”

“Yes,” I said, and I didn’t talk about the deal I’d made with Tamlin. A life for a life. It wasn’t relevant any longer, anyway. “Elain is—she has an iron engagement ring.”

“Iron?”

“Humans believe it defends them from the—from us,” I explained. Then I scoffed, a grating kind of chuckle without any humour. “It’s funny, really. How much humans hate our kind, and how any defence they have is just an old wives’ tale.”

Mor’s gaze was soft. “Do your sisters hate the fae too?”

“We all hated the fae,” I said. “And now I am one, and my sisters are not.”

“So you cannot return.” An answer to a question she asked herself. “Because they will hate… what you are.”

I stared at Mor for a moment, at her soft expression—the furrow between her brows, the downturned corners of her mouth. She still felt guilty, I noted, for assuming my family and hers were essentially the same. I didn’t know what her family did to her, I didn’t want to ask, but I was certain that only a few things were comparable.

“They won’t miss me,” I stated. “They—everything I used to provide is now being provided by magic. Tamlin made it happen.”

Mor’s eyebrows rose. I could see what she was thinking already: the hypocrisy of hating the fae but languishing in the comforts brought by the fae. Perhaps the audacity of finding your sister replaceable with money.

The pang of pure hurt was enough for me to clam up. Because maybe—maybe they didn’t replace me. Maybe they were just pretending they’d replaced me, like they’d rather be in that shack with me, the three of us sleeping in the same bed and complaining at length about our circumstances. Thinking otherwise… is what some vengeful part of me wanted, but I didn’t want to give space to.

To continue to talk would only foster it.

As such, I promptly announced that I no longer wished to discuss it, and Mor blissfully acquiesced with no more than a curt nod and an understanding smile.

We spent another hour working after that. Mor made quick work of the remainder of her paperwork, and I repetitively practised shielding and copied the alphabet and the sentences she sometimes slid my way after I had read them out loud. The sentences were random, though they often revolved around Rhys: Rhysand is the most infuriating High Lord, Rhysand has the wingspan of a fledgling, Rhysand should get over himself and stop being such a prick. It was funny, in that way one would enjoy antagonising an annoying sibling. And, I assumed, that was what Rhys was to Mor.

My thoughts drifted during brief moments of reprieve, when Mor was too busy replying to requests to keep an eye on me and keep me working. Sometimes I played with shielding, cracking the wall of adamant just a smidgen to allow foul words to drift down the bridge; sometimes I kept it firmly shut, and thought of my sisters.

I wondered if they were happy. If they were already wed, wrapped up in marital bliss, or quietly engaged and enjoying the season. I wondered if they knew what I’d become; I wondered if, despite our once shared hatred and fear of the fae, they would come to accept me as I was now—even if the chance of acceptance was about as likely as the chance I’d ever return to the mortal realm. I couldn’t imagine ever living there again, disregarding the fact I was no longer human: no matter our reacquired wealth suggesting I possibly wouldn’t even have to marry, I felt like it would freeze me to death.

The human lands were no longer my home. And my home was wherever Tamlin was, now. It had to be.

If he’d still have me.

I winced imperceptibly, sneaking a glance at Mor to see if she noticed my change in demeanour. She was still bent over, the end of her braid brushing the table top and her hand shifting back and forth as she wrote. Still oblivious, or so she seemed.

I gazed down at my practice sheet. My handwriting truly was abysmal: no more than a chicken scratch, wobbly and uncertain, though I could spot the similarities with Mor’s handwriting in the curve of our g ’ s and a ’ s, in the curl of our x’ s and the narrow point of our l ’ s.

My hand ached. Tamlin wouldn’t force me to do this, if I gave up now; neither would Lucien. I had an inkling Ianthe would even encourage it, happy to write my correspondence for me—if only to serve her future Lady.

The thought of being so helpless for the foreseeable future filled me with a nauseating, oppressive kind of feeling that I could only describe as an odd mix of dread and embarrassment. Being literate would help me hold onto at least a sliver of autonomy, in a world where everything would be decided for me except my love.

Slowly and shakily, I started to write.

The Spring Kourt Court kordee cordeya cordially infytes invyt invites you to the selle—

The Spring Court cordially invites you to attent the marrej—

You are cordially invited to the se celabrash—

I wished I had a dictionary. I wished I wasn’t holding my pen so tightly, leaving it pressed hard against my bruised knuckle and sending a pulsing and dull ache through my entire hand. I wished I knew how to read and write already, I wished I’d never made the bargain, I wished that the Night Court felt less safe and that Mor wasn’t so nice and that Rhysand wasn’t fated to belong to me like a damn dog on a lead—

I wished for many things. Like how I wished that the answer to my wishes wasn’t a resounding no.

Mor and I called it a day soon after the fact, leaving for dinner—though she had to go back to her own home and was forced to leave me to my own devices. She told me she’d try to see me again, before I left at the end of the week: when I asked if that meant she wouldn’t be available any longer, she winced apologetically and nodded.

“Rhys wishes to take over, I’m afraid,” she said, drawing me into a hug that squeezed the breath out of me. “At least you can blow him out of the water with what you’ve learned. But I’ll be there before you take your leave,” she added intensely, “so I can say goodbye.”

This goodbye was already difficult for me, which absolutely had to do with the prospect of facing Rhys again. I didn’t want her to go. Even if that was selfish.

“Can’t you tell him to fuck off?” I whispered grumpily.

Her laugh was more like a cackle. “Even if I did, he wouldn’t listen. Now go on, dinner’s waiting for you in your room—food is food for the brain, as I always say.”

She walked me to my quarters, dawdling for another minute or so before disappearing a flurry of herby perfume and another tight hug. Though I wasn’t offended by her sudden departure, I did feel rather morose at the utter solitude that was sure to follow. Mor was an undeniably comforting distraction from my own warring thoughts.

I ate easily — dinner was rice and chicken in some sort of spiced broth, smelling like heaven — and proceeded to settle down in bed with the children’s book I hadn’t yet finished. I still had to sound the words out, but it was getting easier every paragraph. Reading, it seemed, was indeed just like a puzzle: and the more I figured out how it worked, the better I became at it. The storyline helped too, something funny and simple that almost had me smiling. I wondered how many fae children claimed this book as their favourite.

Then, about an hour into my reading, someone hesitantly knocked on the door.

My exhaustion from studying all day hadn’t left me incapable of sensing who the person could be—nor had his absence made me forget the cold and heavy atmosphere that always accompanied his presence. I closed the book with a snap, slid off the bed, and made my way to the door.

The face that greeted me upon opening spoke of pure guilt.

“I really don’t have the energy for you.”

Rhys shifted in place, shoulders hunched. “It won’t take long, I promise—I just… wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise,” I repeated, slowly. His absence had grated on me more than I realised: now that he was here, in person, it was undeniably overwhelming to even be near him.

“Yes,” he said, and then he paused, frowning. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he said. He blew out a breath and smiled unsuccessfully, dragging his fingers through his hair. “Okay—it’s not necessary for me to come in, anyway, so that’s fine…”

“Get on with it, Rhysand,” I interrupted. I was already losing my patience; despite how confusing and exhausting he was, his presence continued to bring me a strange mixture of calm and an itch I couldn’t quite scratch. It was upsetting. “I’m tired.”

He swallowed. “Right.”

Another pause.

“If you’re just going to stand there,” I said, jaw clenching, “I’m going to close the door.”

He leaned closer, trying to look around me at the room. “Are you sure I can’t come in?”

“I’m sure.” When he didn’t reply, merely tightened his jaw and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, I raised both of my eyebrows. “Well?”

Rhys took a deep breath. “I want to apologise for many things.”

My eyebrows remained raised.

“But I mainly want to apologise for losing my temper during your first morning in my Court,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It was uncalled for and unnecessary, and I just didn’t… think. It is rather difficult to think clearly around you, especially when you’re very explicit about how you feel towards me. And that’s on me—I should be able to remain level headed regardless of the situation.”

“Apology not accepted.” His sad eyes weren’t enough to sway me. “Anything else?”

Rhys’ mouth twisted into a wry smile.

“Of course,” he muttered, and it was unclear whether he was referring to my blunt answer or my question. “I want to apologise for not being transparent with you in general as well.”

Though his stance did not change, his eyes did become rather shifty when I narrowed my own. I found it easy to spot his inherent confidence below the act of misery; Rhysand was more than aware that he called the shots here.

“I thought you refused to agree to telling me everything from now on,” I said. “Isn’t that what you said?”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t ever divulge information, or that I shouldn’t have kept so many things from you in the first place.” He stepped closer and slowly extended his arm, holding out his hand with his palm facing up. “You’ll have to come with me so I can explain it properly. Is that okay?”

I peered at his hand like it was something disgusting, though I couldn’t help but recall how wonderful it’d been when he cradled my face between his palms. Perhaps touch was important for mates. I didn’t know—I’d have to ask, even if I really didn’t want to ask him.

Eventually, after a tense few seconds of utter silence, I ignored his hand soundly and pushed past him to step into the hall.

“Lead the way,” I said, and Rhys took a breath, brushed his palm on his trousers, and nodded.

He led me up a variety of steep, horrible, dreadfully lengthy staircases in the palace, a few steps ahead of me and never checking whether I was actually following. To be fair, he could probably hear me panting like an old horse after an extended sprint, so unused I was to climbing the endless steps: when we were halfway, though I’d hoped desperately at the time we were nearing the end, I’d become light-headed and was utterly convinced my lungs were spitting out blood with every deflation.

The final staircase spiralled on and on, leading us into a circular chamber at the top of a tower. Its centre was occupied by a large, round table made of glittering black stone; and though nearly all the walls were windowed, the longest stretch of grey stone was covered by a massive map of Prythian, dotted with small marks, pins, and comically tiny flags. I couldn’t fathom why it would be marked—until Rhys stalked towards the table and waved me closer, gesturing at the second map of our world spread upon it, Hybern included.

A closer look informed me that the map was incredibly detailed, the names of places — villages, cities, rivers, lakes, mountain ranges and its small passages — neatly marked. Figurines made of stone, like chess pieces, stood firm and lonely on specific places on the map. Yes, the detail was impressive—except the Night Court, which was utterly void of any kind of information. No names, just its border and rough outlines of its mountains.

“This is a map,” he said quietly.

I looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “I figured.”

Rhys’ mouth pulled into a little smile. His eyes were positively gleaming.

“Admirable deduction skills,” he purred. “Now, put it to work again—what do you see?”

My eyebrows furrowed and jumped, but in a sudden bout of kindness, I indulged him. I stared at the map, at the place names that took me a few moments to decipher, the mountains and the rivers and every little figurine. The most obvious detail was glaring: the wall splitting our world in two, like gnarly and thickened scar tissue.

“Again, a map that I’m assuming is accurate,” I said, pointing two fingers at the details. “The Night Court is here, then Day and Dawn… Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring. Hybern’s over there, and then on the opposite side, the human territory; it’s just Prythian like it is now, separated.”

I glanced up, only to be met by Rhysand’s intensely violet gaze. His chin tilted just slightly, neck bending, and he asked:

“Do you believe it should remain that way?”

A cold, insistent feeling spread from my throat down into the rest of my body—circling my guts, settling in my extremities.

Dread.

“My—my family—”

“ Your human family,” Rhys finished quietly, “lives very close to the Wall, don’t they? They would be heavily impacted if it ever came down… with any luck, they’ll be prepared and will have fled across the ocean before that occurs.”

“You’re saying—” I swallowed, wet my lips. “You’re saying that as though it’s inevitable.”

“Because it very well might be,” he replied. His face tightened; his eyes did not leave mine for even a second. “War is coming, Feyre. The King of Hybern has awoken. Amarantha—she was nothing more than a test.”

Panic, after it’d come on and since faded, I would describe as a brief moment in which one’s body suddenly jumps into fight or flight mode, acting on instinct and a primal kind of fear that allows one to get away or stay hidden or battle one’s way out of danger, pain be damned. The innate human — and faerie; perhaps animal — conviction of and need for survival. Something that I often would have dismissed as nothing more than a simple response bred in through millennia of the fittest and smartest living to procreate.

At this moment, it did nothing more than leave me scarcely able to breathe.

“You mean—Tamlin hasn’t said—”

Rhys just looked at me, and I recalled the endless patrols in the Spring Court, the meetings I hadn’t been allowed to attend, the underlying anxiety and the explicit tension that permeated the air constantly. It had been rendering the manor house to feel as small as a closet, as if breathable air was making place for stifling emotion.

He knew. He knew, and he hadn’t told me. I didn’t know why he hadn’t told me, even though I did, but I wanted to—I would have to ask, demand an explanation, because—

“The King of Hybern wishes to reclaim the continent,” Rhys said. “The human lands, the faerie territories—he’s been planning it for over a century. Amarantha’s reign was a forty-nine-year test, an experiment, just to see how easy it would be to force a land to fall to its knees. How easy, and how long, it can stay under the control of one of his commanders.”

“Prythian is first,” I whispered, nauseated at the mere thought.

“We’re in the way,” he replied simply. “We’d intercept his fleet before it’d even manage to cross the seas. That indeed means Prythian shall need to fall first.”

My breath was rattling and laborious. I blinked through a sudden burning blurriness, rested my hands on the table for leverage, tried not to gag.

“And the—the Wall, it…”

“It has holes,” Rhys said, “but they’re small. Sending his armies through them would be inconvenient and tedious work. He’ll seek to collapse it in its entirety and use the ensuing panic to take over, suppress resistance with ease, and create an additional stronghold to face the continent.”

“How long?” I breathed. “How long do we have?”

The Wall had been a constant for five centuries. The holes allowed fae to slip through, to monstrously attack humans, but the size of Hybern’s armies had to be larger than I could properly fathom. If it fell—if it collapsed, allowing worse fae to march onto mortal territory, it would be—

“I don’t know,” Rhys admitted calmly. His hand reached out, hovered, before landing heavy and warm on my shoulder. “I brought you here because I need to know.”

I decided against asking why on Earth I’d be a solution momentarily, deciding to focus on his hand on my shoulder. Though separated by cloth, the sheer warmth of his palm felt like a brand that forced me to breathe easier.

Touch, I thought, it’s got to be important— but I waved it away.

“There’s much I don’t know,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know where in Prythian he’ll attack first. I don’t know who his allies would be—people who’d rather kneel for him than fight him again,” he added, in response to my befuddled look. “I don’t doubt there would be fae who’d help him. Can’t fathom why, as the destruction was equally horrific on both sides, but—”

Rhys cut himself off, throat bobbing as he swallowed. He was getting worked up: shadows flickered, like he was losing the tight grip on his control.

“Did you…” I began, hesitating when his expression turned briefly devastated, “did you fight in the War?”

His chest expanded and deflated with several breaths, deep and rhythmic, and he nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said, “I did. I was… quite young, by our standards—just barely reached adulthood. But I wished to help. Convinced my father to let me lead a battalion of our soldiers. He acquiesced; I was stationed in the South, where the fighting was the thickest.”

Rhys paused then, eyes distant and unfocused, and I resisted the urge to shush him—to let him clam up again, shove it back down, but I couldn’t manage to. I wished to know.

“The violence at that time… I think it’s unparalleled by anything in written history. The slaughter was—let’s just say I have no interest in seeing such a full-scale slaughter ever again.” He blinked, visibly shook himself. “Either way, I don’t think Hybern will strike that way. Not at first, at least—or in Prythian. He wouldn’t waste his forces here, give the continent time to rally theirs as we attempt to push them back. No,” he said, “when he strikes, it’ll be through stealth and trickery. He’ll collapse the wall that way. We need to be weakened, and Amarantha was the first step to achieve that.”

“How weak are we now?” I asked quietly.

“We have people who have realised that they are powerless,” Rhys started instantly, ticking off on his long fingers, “several untested High Lords, and a variety of broken Courts with High Priestesses angling for control like wolves around a carcass. It would take one cleverly placed push to topple most of the Courts—and then it’s no more than a game of picking off the weakest, slowly destroying defences before taking over entirely.”

Like a game of chess. I looked down at the map, taking in the figurines, the strategy that must have been implemented vaguely taking shape in my mind.

“You wish for me to fight,” I said. “That’s why you’re telling me this.”

Rhys remained quiet, so I looked up at him to read his expression. He was smiling, just slightly, simultaneously humourless and amused.

“I’ve told you this for two reasons,” he said. “First of all—you’re close to Tamlin. He has men, yes, but he also has close ties to Hybern—”

“ He wouldn’t.” My heart was pounding, all of a sudden. “Tamlin wouldn’t—”

“—And I want to know,” Rhys said, voice cold and firm, “whether he will fight with us, if he can use those connections to Prythian’s advantage. Considering Tamlin would love to see me rotting and I wish him the very same, you have the momentous honour of being our go-between.”

I worked my jaw, nostrils flaring. “He’d never inform me of such things.”

“ Perhaps he should.” Rhys’ mouth twisted in a sharp, fanged, feline grin; his grip on my shoulder tightened briefly. “Perhaps it’s time you insisted.”

He tapped the representation of the Wall. The human lands. My mouth went dry.

“ You and yours, Feyre darling,” he purred, infuriatingly handsome and smug and, as my traitorous rationality insisted, right. “ Would you forgive him if he kept information from you that would’ve saved your family? I sure wouldn’t—I’d rip him apart, limb from limb.”

The possibility wasn’t something I wished to think about, and Rhys’ manipulation was blatant. But it worked, somehow: I could feel the familiar rage rise up inside of me, an emotion only Rhys managed to prod to the surface.

“ What’s your other reason for involving me?” I asked harshly, nearly snapping my teeth and him when he tutted at my tone. “ Rhysand.”

He laughed then, almost delighted and very much barking; daringly slid his hand from my shoulder to my upper back. His thumb rubbed at my spine.

“You, my love, have a skill set I am in desperate need of.” He sidled closer, leaned in. When I glared at him I could nearly count the pattern in his irises, the number of eyelashes he had. “A little birdie told me you caught a Suriel.”

“It wasn’t very hard,” I snarked.

“ For you, maybe,” he said. “I tried and failed, twice. Regardless, I saw you trick and trap the Middengard Wyrm like a precious little rabbit, and I need you to help me.”

“Must I?”

“Only to retrieve what I need.” His sharp teeth were gleaming. “You’re the only hunter I trust. Even if you’re capable of betraying me,” he added swiftly, when I opened my mouth to say just that, “you simply wouldn’t. And, of course, there’s also the matter of your propensity for magic…”

I gritted my teeth. “So I burned some things… big deal—”

“ The acts of power you’re displaying are the very things that would urge a High Lord to choose his heir,” Rhys said sharply. “I’ve told you before—I heavily suspect all seven of us have given you more than we intended to, and it’s already showing. You’re downright leaking magic, and as you are my mate, you are evenly matched with me; the most powerful High Lord in recent history. The abilities you possess… with a handful of smackdowns, you’d be a High Lady before Beron would even be able to formulate a protest in that miniscule, smooth, misogynistic squirrel brain of his—”

“There are no High Ladies,” I protested, so quickly it was like a habit I didn’t have.

“Well, not currently, no,” Rhys replied. “And sure as shit not with that attitude. Just imagine, Feyre darling: you, wielding snippets of power of all seven High Lords. You’d control the shadows, raze armies, freeze legions… do you have any idea what that could look like in the upcoming war?”

My head was reeling. I reached up and futilely pushed at his chest, but Rhysand wouldn’t even budge.

“ There’s no way to know,” I said, “whether I would even have the power to put any force behind the magic I might have inherited from all of you. And just— stop asking rhetorical questions you’re already imagining the answers to!”

“ But I need you to imagine the possibilities,” Rhys insisted, stepping even closer. “Feyre—you need to learn. I can teach you to control the gifts, if not for Prythian’s sake then for your own, to be aware of yourself and your endless horizons—”

“Tamlin wouldn’t allow it,” I snapped, breath quickening, frantic. “He’d go mad with worry—”

“Tamlin isn’t your damn keeper, Feyre.”

“He’s my High Lord.” I shook my head, pushed at his chest again, but put an appalling lack of strength behind it. Rhysand loomed, growing visibly more irate. “I’m his subject, Rhys, I—”

“ You,” he said, eyes flashing and voice dark, shadows creeping up his neck, “are no-one’s subject.”

I stared up at him, directly into his eyes, and he stared back. His fangs were peeking through, resting against his bottom lip, creating little divots; his pupils were trembling, on the verge of slitting but not quite.

“ As I told you before I got you here,” Rhys whispered, “he sees you as a toy. To him, you are an object, a prize, a cuddly little stuffy he received after a job well done. And sure,” he added meanly , bottom lip jutting out into a pout, “you can spend the rest of your immortal li ves pretending to be just that—pretending to be lesser than him, something he can put away and take out whenever you may or may not strike his fancy, dressed up in massive frilly dresses for him to tear off you like Cauldron-damned wrapping paper… all of that’s fine, as long as it’s your choice…”

“Rhys,” I hissed, my gaze dropping, but his other hand lifted—fingers touching my chin, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his eyes again.

“But I know you, and I know you’d be damned to let him do that to you for longer than, say, a year or two?” He scoffed. “A short blip in our immortal lifetime, Feyre, I assure you. That male sat on his arse for fifty years twiddling his thumbs, overcome by anxiety, all woe is Tamlin; he is a monster no-one shall love. And then you arrived, entirely by accident, and he somehow ensnared you and then sat on his arse once more as you were touched, abused, shredded to fucking pieces—”

“ Your point,” I snarled. “Get to your point—”

Rhys laughed again, cold and sharp, and leaned in so close his nose touched mine. “My point? My point is that you can refuse to act like the perfect princess Tamlin wishes for you to be and learn. You can be a vital part of winning this war, as long as you master the magic we gave you. The war will be coming, Feyre—and not one fae save for yourself will give one tiny, singular shit about your family across the Wall, which means you’ll need to save them yourself.”

My eyes closed.

“ You want to save the Mortal Realm, as it is your first home,” Rhysand said. “I can understand that. But in order to save it, you need to become someone Prythian will listen to— bow to, if necessary. One day,” he said , “and it may or may not come, you will be the last line of defence between the King of Hybern and your human family. And you’d better be prepared.”

He shifted then, and in the next breath pressed his mouth between my brows. My own breath caught, I felt his chest still, and then we simply stood there for a few moments—just his lingering kiss against my forehead, and my hands against his chest and his hands on my back and under my jaw.

I wished with some part of me — some pulsating part of me, somewhere in my chest, nestled behind my ribcage, high up in my throat and right there, where his lips touched my skin — to slip forwards and rest against his chest, dig my nose in the hollow of his throat. Absurd, mad, maddening: there couldn’t be anything sane about that damned mating bond, when its urges were so…

My heart felt torn. My rationality, idem ditto. I wanted to rip myself free and stay right where I was, or perhaps even closer. I wanted to have the entire length of the room between the both of us, yet wished desperately to mould myself to his body.

Rhys drew back. I swayed, caught myself, and his face dipped as though he went to kiss me—but it veered to the left, and only his cheek touched mine.

“ It’s your choice,” he whispered roughly, like I would be capable of picking up where we left off after a moment like that. “ Think it over—these last couple of days here, and perhaps the month you’ll spend in Spring before coming back. But Feyre,” he said, and his head dipped further, and I wanted to dig my fingers into his hair and keep him but drag him away from me all the same, “only you can decide what you’ll do with your life. Not Tamlin, not Vanserra, not that simpering little High Priestess, and not me. Just you.”

I kept my eyes closed. I kept my hands on his chest. I breathed him in, I felt the heat of his body, and for a moment I let myself imagine what it would be like to just have him like this. How he easily offered himself, exposing his neck, his jugular; like it was an simple, mindless choice and I only needed to reach out.

It felt like I was betraying something precious to me. But his words—

Perhaps, I thought, and I wished to curse myself for thinking it, to be kept like something precious is worse.

#my writing #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #feysand fanfic #feyre x rhys #feyre x rhysand #putting everything back up on tumblr again lol #imtymis

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eldritch-flower · 2 years ago

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An unfinished sci-fi/cosmic horror writing exercise (based on a prompt that i can no longer find)

There is something in my father’s fields.

It looms above the rows of corn on bellicose stilts, a quadruped of unfathomable stature with what I have taken to be legs that stretched up, up, up. A monolith of nauseating spires and squirming growths that slop and wring about each other like a pot of eels. I cannot see it’s body, reader, nor can I begin to conceive the sheer monstrous size of it. I simply know this: That it is always night-time here on the farmstead. And that there is no longer a moon.

The parasitic epiphytes that wind their slobbering tendrils up the pitch slants of the mountainous thing’s jaundiced flank, they shriek sometimes in the wind. I think rather that they are sliding down the side of the colossus, seeking to colonise my father’s land with their jaundiced, municipal thrashing. They sound to me nothing of this green Earth, their teeming yowls vociferous and gushing like liquid, and their screams are constant. I have not dared sleep since their host planted its vast self in our fertile soils, and I feel that had I the confidence to attempt it I would find myself unable to drift off in fear of those pulsating slugs. Each day, their wails grow louder, and I am almost certain that they are searching for something. The manner in which they appear to leach forever Hell-ward is pseudopodian, and each glance out the drawing-room window draws further terror into me still.

What do they want, dear reader? I cannot decide, and yet surely there is something. I can feel it, as I suppose a bird must sense the trembling of the wind afore the coming storm. Even now, should I dare draw back the curtains, I am assured to see them hunting in their own riotous way. I think perhaps the deformity of nature upon which the limbless, chattering atrocities drone is simply a vessel for their kind; an eclipsing stealer of light bent to the will of those inky, protoplasmic jellies.

It appeared four nights ago – or so I should assume. I rose to no dawn chorus some many hours ago, for there had been no dawn. I do not think there are any birds here on the farmstead anymore. But I have watched the hands of my father’s grandfather clock, and stared into the churning cogs of that analogue machine for seven-and-a-half cycles, and still the thing has remained. Reader, I must confess that I do not even live here on the farm, and that I am simply a form of parasite myself on my father – my intents are far from those of a casual symbiont, and I had drafted his help only to garner money from the man. And yet now I find myself too frightful to leave, lest the slippery blasphemes that plague the dark ariels outside chance upon my being.

Even as I write this, they slide further down those quiescent slopes like a slurry of sentient tar. What do they want, I ask once more? Again, I find myself without an answer.

On the second day – or what I perceive to have been, shivering in the darkness of my dwelling – one of my father’s hounds went missing. Earlier I found it again. What was left of the poor creature was an undigested perversion, jaw dislocated and tongue slapped to the ground, stuck there like glue. The head was what remained, reader. Scalped and hideously rugose as though it was age that had worn the animal away: But I have seen the corpses exhumed at the University, and the likes of ten decades would not be suitable to account for the state in which the dog was left. Decay arrives first at the soft parts of the flesh, and yet the faithful creature’s eyeballs still remained. They were wide and blank, and even now I can see them when I close my eyes and recall the snapshot of horror, of suffering, that were petrified in the fattened pupils.

I have my suspicions on what became young Floss, and I hope never to recount the same fate myself. Such is why I shan’t step a foot outside my father’s building. I fear that it is the farmstead and it’s red-brick walls that have preserved me for so long in the presence of the foulness that races unabridged within the corn fields.

I have formulated the hypothesis that the sluggish growths are sentient, and their yammering is but a form of communication too Archaean, or perhaps other-worldly, for myself to understand. That they came from the deep throes of space is almost unthinkable, and yet I cannot comprehend another explanation for their sudden appearance and rapid defenestration of my surroundings. Did I mention, dear reader, that the earth is charring? For it is indeed doing so. Blackened to soot, a spreading mycelium of rot and amorphous cancer. The contagion has not yet extended it’s sickly fingers past the borders of the corn rows, but I feel that soon it shall. Perhaps the malignant beings are prevented from travelling beyond what their blight has touched. I do not think so, for I cannot think otherwise how they might have retrieved the dog as their prize – my father’s hounds are trained not to wander into his fields. But I cannot put my mind at ease without considering every option, no matter how neo-parsimonious they may seem.

Often, I find myself longing to leave my lodgings. I wish to step into that field and stare into the unending pit of nothing that has stolen the moon from the sky, and I wish to scream. Reader, I simply want to see the light again. I long for summer days, and summer nights, and my resentment for the farmstead’s visitors is quickly growing to unease.

That's all I managed to get down in the 45 minutes I gave myself! I ended up writing just under 1000 words. It's not awful, it's not amazing... I kind of just wanted to hone the whole 'first person' and 'lovecraftian prose' abilities haha! Let me know what you think, constructivie criticism is appreciated etc etc! And If there's any other cool prompts you find, send them my way through an ask or DM me or something :)

#creative writing #writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writers #wip #short story #flash fiction #horror #lovecraftian horror #cosmic horror #writing prompt #writing ideas

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iseldomunderstand · 8 months ago

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Blazing through a city dancing around a pole sounds fantastic actually

It may just be my inner sexy unapologetic beautiful side speaking but it sounds like an actual load of fun.

I have recently been reminded of the existence of Sonic & Sega all stars racing, which I'm sure has awoken some deep memories in some of the souls reading this. And even though I mained Opa Opa since as a child the concept of what appeared to be a weird slipper with wings running inside a giant scale casino was unfathomably funny, I remember I had a very soft spot for Ulala if I hadn't yet unlocked all the characters. I could discuss the game itself for a good long while because it was actually a fantastic piece of entertainment but I want to talk about miss thing for a hot second.

Ulala, for the unaware, is the protagonist of the video game Space Channel 5 where she's a reporter for the eponymous TV channel. In her original game, Ulala dances to copy the moves of aliens forcing people to dance with rayguns. If that sounds weird and fun, it's because that's a bonkers premise for a game, to top it off, the game has that characteristic space disco/y2k aesthetic. What's even better is that in the racing game where Ulala is an available character, every character has an all star move that features them in a situation that's related to the game they come from. AiAi jumps into his ball, Amigo starts a samba and gets everyone to line up behind him, Amy pulls out her hammer, and in a similar fashion, Ulala lets a little alien creature take the wheel, gets up on her ship, and starts busting moves. While doing so, she fires out kisses at other drivers that are warned by a couple of aliens dancing above them that she has seen you and you are within kissing range, say goodbye, bid farewell. It is insanely funny to me to see this pink-haired barbarella with pigtails dancing on a track with actual deathtraps to avoid in a miniskirt while leaving the driving part to a little alien in a videogame.

And to this day I sometimes walk around town, feeling my oats, walking like I own the place and think, damn, Ulala had it all figured out, speeding through a race track busting moves on top of an airship that looks out of a 2000 cartoon.

There is no point to this post and no poetry here. This isn't even a request, it's a demand.

Bring it back. Bring back games with actually absurd reasons to exist, give them an absurd budget, make characters that look so out there it's weird. If I see another mascot horror game I will scream. They made Bayonetta straight I need a treat to step away from the horrors.

Please please please make more racing games with original formats, and bring back characters like Ulala.

#sonic series #space channel 5 #racing games #bring them back #I swear to god if I see another garten of ban ban game I will rip the place apart #ulala #unapologetically sexy

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sisterspooky1013 · 2 years ago

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Parallel, Chapter 1/6

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

She’s been watching him all morning, studying the way his long legs dance back and forth across the office as he articulates with his hands. He’s a beautiful creature, limber and primed like a bird ready to take flight, but somehow concurrently staid and steady as a mighty oak.

She’s watching him because she’s grown tired of listening, and watching the twist of his hips as he paces to and fro gives the appearance that she’s engaged, especially when punctuated by the occasional nod or skeptical squint. Not that she couldn’t muster interest in…whatever it is that he’s talking about if she wanted to, it’s all just feeling a bit pointless lately. A bit directionless. A bit like they’ve been circling the same city block for seven years and Mulder hasn’t seemed to notice that they’re only making left turns.

There’s also the fact that she’s no longer capable of suppressing her attraction to him. It used to be a persistent buzz, like some kind of sexual tinnitus that she learned to ignore. Lately, she has to carefully monitor herself to avoid staring at his mouth for prolonged periods of time while her mind wanders to decidedly un-partnerlike places.

He’s done just enough to make clear to her that if she opened that door, he’d happily walk through it. If this were a rom-com, they’d share their first kiss on a rain-soaked sidewalk after confessing their true feelings and the credits would roll. But he only felt brave enough to kiss her under the cover of a New Year’s tradition, and their rain soaked sidewalk was a sour-smelling emergency room. As with other aspects of their relationship, it was just a bit off the mark. Add up all those bits, and it feels like it’s simply not meant to be.

There’s something to be said for the bond that’s formed between two people who have shared unique and sometimes traumatizing experiences. Who else but Mulder understands the shock of fear she feels when exposed to sudden bright lights, or the thoughts that run through her head when he doesn’t answer the phone? Who else can relate to the unrooted sensation of lost time, or the way it changes your brain chemistry to evade death with more frequency than a feral cat?

But that bond, however strong, is rooted in self-preservation, not compatibility. If they’d somehow crossed paths in another way, in another circumstance where they had no common enemy to overthrow and didn’t rely on one another for survival, she’s fairly certain that it would have gone nowhere fast. She would have found him attractive but arrogant. He would have enjoyed pushing her buttons, but never even considered her as a possible romantic interest. Strip away all the flashing lights and gunpowder, and they are two people who don’t have much in common beyond their proclivity towards spirited debate and their expansive vocabularies. What kind of foundation is that for a romantic relationship?

“You don’t believe in it, I presume?”

She lifts her eyes to his face, scrambling to recall the last thing he said.

“You do?” she asks, volleying the question.

Mulder sighs and sits on the corner of the desk. He’s wearing his charcoal suit today, which happens to be one of her favorites.

“I think it’s possible. Given the unfathomable vastness of the universe, assuming that this is the only planet among billions with the ability to sustain life seems a bit egomaniacal, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does, yes,” she agrees hesitantly.

“And given that we’ve only been able to study the physical and chemical bounds of this universe, and furthermore acknowledging that we still have so much more to discover that we aren’t yet aware of, discounting the possibility of a parallel dimension on implausibility alone is a shortsighted conclusion.”

She blinks at him, and after a beat he springs up again, walking determinedly towards the annex.

“A parallel dimension,” she repeats, her mind turning it over like a river stone, examining it for signs of a hidden fossil. “Are you a basketball star in one of these parallel dimensions, Mulder?”

Though she can only see the back of his head as he rifles through a drawer, she can tell that he’s smiling.

“Am I not a basketball star in this one?” he asks rhetorically, and she fights off a smirk.

He returns with a clear plastic sheet and a handful of pens, dragging a cart behind him on which a weathered overhead projector sits. She watches him with amusement as he sets it up, adjusting the reflected image on the wall until he’s satisfied with the focus.

“Theoretical physicist Albert Homnell posits that we exist in one of countless parallel dimensions, each triggered by a significant change in the trajectory of human history,” he begins, drawing a small blue circle in the middle of the sheet. “Let’s say that this is our dimension. Perhaps this dimension is the one in which we won World War Two.”

Just beside the circle he draws two tiny stick figures, adding a shock of black hair to the top of one’s head and a swoop of red to the other. Scully smiles wryly and sighs. At least this is entertaining.

“However, there’s a parallel dimension,” he continues, drawing a small green circle to the right of the blue one. “In this dimension, Hilter succeeded in becoming a world power, and this changed the course of history so significantly that we broke off into two dimensions, completely separate timelines. In this dimension, my mother’s family was executed by the Third Reich, and I was never born.”

Beside the green circle he draws another stick figure Scully with an exaggerated frown on her face.

“It’s an interesting theory,” she says, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. “Albeit a disturbing one.”

“Think about it,” he charges on. “There would be a dimension where the Bubonic Plague never occurred, another where the Titanic never sank, another where the Industrial Revolution happened a hundred years later than it did.”

He’s covering the sheet in multicolored circles, connecting them with lines that branch off into a spider’s web-like network.

“It would be like the butterfly effect on steroids,” she says, and he looks up and grins at her.

“Exactly,” he says, abandoning the projector and plopping down in the seat beside her, the sides of his hands smudged with ink.

“You really believe in this theory, Mulder?” she asks with an arched eyebrow. “It’s a bit out there, even for you.”

He pushes out his bottom lip and shrugs.

“I don’t know that I believe it, per se, but it does make Mr. Sawyer’s claims a bit more intriguing.”

“The guy who thinks he’s being visited by his own ghost?” Scully asks, incredulous.

Mulder quirks a smile.

“Homnell also believes that there are thin spots between dimensions, access points through which they can interact with one another. Sedation is one of them, but so is sleep. More specifically, the REM cycle.”

“Dreams,” she says, and he nods. “So you think the ghost that’s visiting Mr. Sawyer is a dream, but the dream is actually a glimpse into another dimension?”

Her tone comes off a bit more derisive than she intentend, and she doesn’t miss the millisecond flash of a wounded cringe on his face before the facade of aloofness is back up.

“I wouldn’t say I think that so much as I’m willing to entertain the possibility,” he corrects her, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

He looks up at her from beneath his eyelashes and she feels herself flush.

“Alright,” she says reluctantly. “Entertain away.”

He pulls a goofy, surprised smile and cocks his neck back.

“Is it my birthday or something?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at the calendar on his desk.

“You act as though I don’t give an audience to your crackpot theories forty hours a week,” she snarks back, and he pretends to be offended.

“It’s almost five, what say we blow this popsicle stand and discuss my crackpot theory over dinner?” he suggests, already halfway to the coat rack.

“I have to assume that means you’re buying,” she tells him, and he holds out her coat for her to slip her arms through.

“Crackpot always foots the bill, Scully. House rules.”

“What would be the point?” she asks, spearing the pearl onion in the bottom of her martini with a swizzle stick.

Mulder makes a face and shrugs.

“What’s the point of any of this?” he asks, gesturing to the room around them.

It’s not a nice place, but it’s not not a nice place. The decidedly after-work crowd are all in various stages of undress, some having shed their jackets, others their ties. Mulder’s suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, and he’s wagging the toothpick perched between his teeth back and forth with his tongue, much to her distraction. Scully has removed her suit jacket as well, which leaves her in a sleeveless white blouse.

“Okay, so assuming that you or I was somehow able to access one of these thin spots and communicate with an alternate dimension,” she says in her very best I-am-only-having-this-conversation-to-humor-you voice, “what would the motivation be to establish that communication? This isn’t time travel, correct? We couldn’t change the outcome of some pivotal event and prevent disaster from occurring. If one entire dimension is predicated on the fact that Hitler won the war, there’s nothing we can do to change that. So what’s the point?”

Mulder sits back in his chair and considers her for a moment, and she takes a nervous sip from her drink. She both loves and hates it when he looks at her like that, like he’s really trying to see her.

“I’m not sure it’s voluntary,” he offers. “Or Homnell isn’t, anyway. The person being perceived may have no idea that they’re starring in someone else’s dream. So in that sense, it doesn’t have a point any more than dreams themselves have a point.”

“I thought you said dreams are the answer to a question we haven’t figured out how to ask,” she gently chides him, and he smiles warmly.

“You do listen when I talk,” he says, his voice thick and rough.

It hangs there for a moment, their playful banter and his long glance with mossy bedroom eyes. She wonders if he’ll ever kiss her again. She wonders if he knows she wants him to. When she can’t take it anymore, when it feels like she might burst into flame if he looks at her one second longer, she averts her eyes to the table.

“The prevailing theory is that dreams help you consolidate and analyze memories,” she says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“So what does it mean if I have a recurring dream that A.D. Skinner spanks me with a wooden spoon?” he asks, and she snaps her head up to find him grinning.

“I think you’re confusing dreams with fantasies, Mulder,” she quips, and he shakes his head at her affectionately.

“C’mon, let’s get you home. It’s a school night.”

She once had a horribly vivid nightmare that she was seeing her father off to sea, standing on the shore waving as his ship slowly moved away from the dock. He was perched on the bow, his arm held high over his head and the white of his smiling teeth visible even from a great distance. Something happened that caused the ship to lurch, and she watched helplessly as he tumbled over the railing and was sucked into the rudders. In her dream, the fact that the rudders are located at the stern didn’t matter. It felt so devastatingly real that she woke up screaming, and had to call her parents in the middle of the night to be sure Ahab was okay before she could go back to sleep.

She thinks about this as she lies in bed staring at the ceiling. Under Mulder’s alternate dimension theory, she could have been bearing witness to actual events that happened to another version of herself in another dimension. Would that then mean that a different Dana Scully once dreamt that her sister was shot dead in her doorway? Or that she was abducted from her apartment? Her life would be fodder for some seriously disturbing nightmares.

Recently, she dreamt that she was on Mulder’s couch and he was on top of her. They both appeared to be fully clothed, but in the dream she was certain they were having intercourse. What would that mean for an alternate Dana Scully? Perhaps in her universe, they don’t remove their clothes before sex.

She laughs to herself at the absolute ridiculousness of it all. Are there other universes where people regularly experience all their teeth falling out at once, or stand up to give a presentation only to realize they forgot to put pants on? Nonetheless, she enjoyed her evening with Mulder. Enjoyed it a bit too much, perhaps, because she now has an ache in her chest where she typically stuffs down her feelings for him, and a matching one between her legs.

She reaches for her bedside drawer in search of a little something to help her fall asleep. She can only hope that her dreams are sweet ones.

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles

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queenlucythevaliant · 4 years ago

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First off, a caveat: what follows isn’t meant to be a theological analysis, or even a devotional reflection really. It’s more just me trying to articulate how I conceptualize things.

So angels. Great wings arching across stained glass. Porcelain figures hanging from Christmas trees. Many-eyed, unfathomable creatures crying “fear not!” in Aramaic. Figures that you don’t quite clock as anything other than human until they’re gone.

I loved angels, growing up. I got typecast as Gabriel/an angel in no fewer than three different Christmas pageants and so I felt a certain attachment to them. I had a whole motif going; relatives gave me angel-themed jewelry for Christmas and my mom gave me angel Christmas ornaments in my stocking while my little sister got stuck with an assortment of Nativity, Santa Claus, and Frosty. It was a whole thing.

Naturally, when the internet became obsessed with “Biblically accurate” angels, people started sending me the posts. Friends have texted me screenshots of posts about angels, characterized as eldritch abominations rather than servants of the Most High God. A friend of a friend sent me a YouTube video about “Biblically accurate” angels, and I still don’t know how she got ahold of my number. On and on.

So here’s my hot take: Biblical angels point people to God’s glory. Yet in art and in discourse, that doesn't really seem to be the point anymore. It makes me really sad.

Biblically speaking, angels are an extension of God’s glory and divine will. Yes, Scripture depicts angels both as both human-like and as various psychedelic creatures with forms we find difficult to understand. Some of them have wings. Some of them have six wings. Some have none. Some of them shoot fire. Some of them glow. The point is the glory.

We ought to read Scripture literally, but not literalistically; we should take the Bible at its word, but also understand that metaphor is a huge part of the Bible’s language. It’s not a textbook. It’s theology and poetry and history and, above all else, it’s about a Covenant relationship.

Sometimes, when angels are described, particularly when they’re described really psychedelically, it’s in the service of a broader point about the angels’ purpose and, ultimately, about God. The angels in Isaiah 6 have three pairs of wings, including pair of wings covering their feet. Why? It’s a symbolic disavowal of choosing their own paths; they go where they’re sent (thank you, Alex Motyer Isaiah commentary). Several times, angels are said to be covered in eyes. The eldritch-angels crowd really loves this, but Scripturally it points to the angels’ divine insight, and ultimately to God’s omniscience. If you dive deep enough into the theological implications of various angels’ appearances, you find that there are such meanings to all of it.

Are some angels actually covered in eyes? Did they merely appear that way to the prophets who saw them? Or is this merely a case of poetic license? I don’t know. I honestly don’t think it matters.

Angels exist to reveal the glory and the will of God. When it comes to depictions of angels, I have one condition: they have to inspire awe. I don’t mean eldritch terror, and I don’t mean inoffensive prettiness. I mean Biblical awe. The feeling of being bowled over, of smallness, in the face of beauty and greatness, tinged with terror. The feeling that you get when you stare into a sky full of bright stars or hear an orchestra play. Sometimes you get that feeling with the more psychedelic depictions—those that are focusef on conveying the strange, inscrutable power and beauty of the Biblical passages they pull from, not turning angels into cosmic horror supervillians. Sometimes, you get it with stained glass, or with Christmas decorations. Great, tawny wings arching upwards in cathedral windows! Delicate glass and porcelain that glitter when they catch the light! Renaissance paintings. Angels with swords! Ghaa! I adore angels with swords, because they so evoke the power and glory of God, the Lord of Hosts! I once saw an angel ice sculpture at a buffet and it made my heart ache in such a lovely way. Paintings of hosts of angels, filling the whole sky! Radiant angels! Some of these depictions are Biblical in the literalistic sense; others are not. I maintain that they’re all Biblical in the true, literal sense and these are the angels that I so love. I love angels not for themselves, but as an extension of God’s amazing glory.

TL;DR, “Biblically accurate angels” are depictions of angels that point people to the overwhelming, staggering glory of God. That’s what angels are for, after all, regardless of what they look like.

#i'm starting an angels tag focusing on depictions of angels in the spirit of this post #i'm calling it:#glory to God in the highest #pontifications and creations

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sohin-ace · 4 years ago

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Dio - Stolen Dance

For immersion, listen to the Dark Waltz Music - Vampire masquerade collection on youtube. Oh boy

Especially 'Tonight Ve' Dance' that shit hits the spot for this fanfic. Trust me.

"Would you honor me with a dance, Y/N?"

'Hell no', was what you craved to answer to this charming yet cruel man. Dancing with him meant selling your very soul. You were about to dance with the Devil.

But you had no choice.

You tried to run away from him, from his toxicity, from his poison, but he always managed to get you back and trap you in his web. And now he offered his warm, destructive hand for a dance, just a single dance with him.

And you had no choice.

You could not refuse. You had no right to. It was oh-so reluctantly that you had put your trembling, cold hand over his possessive one. He pulled you towards him as the music played in the luxurious ballroom.

He laid his large hand around your corseted waist, pulling you to him and bringing your bodies a little too close for your own comfort. Way too close for a gentleman to conventionally be from a lady.

But he didn't seem to care one bit as your heart pounded heavily in your chest. He could probably feel it from this proximity. And he most definitely drowned himself in it.

You hesitantly, and regrettably put one hand over his broad shoulder in what you could only call a ghostly touch. You barely wanted to touch him and potentially show him a form of validation from his wrongdoings.

He engulfed your other hand in his own, relishing in the adorable yet terrifying size difference. If he wanted, he could just close his entire hand on yours and claim it as his. Just how he could easily close the distance between you and claim you just the same.

People were around. The ladies and gentlemen of the World. High class society, partying mondanely through the night. Couples dancing, businessmen meeting, Madames chatting.

Oh but in these decorated mansions, the families yearned to see newfound lovers, for what a sight it was.

Some were watching you in earnest and maybe even admiration, glad to see how the charming, handsome Dio Brando of the Joestar Estate was gracefully swaying in rhythm with the gentle, beautiful Y/N L/N, daughter of the Lord L/N.

Your face felt warm, burning almost and it was not a comfortable feeling. Maybe it was the close proximity between him and you, maybe it was all the unnecessary attention you were receiving, putting pressure and forcing shyness upon you.

Maybe it was the rising anxiety that built viciously within you and made yout heart pump violently in your chest, or maybe it was the pure hatred you felt towards the blonde man holding you captive within this very dance.

It didn't matter what it was, it felt horrible, suffocating. You could barely breathe, the room was spinning.

You were always taught to look at your partner in the eyes when dancing, but now your partner wasn't just anyone. It was Dio Brando. There was no way you could look up at his soul-piercing amber, no, crimson red eyes. Like gems of blood.

If you looked at them, if you even glanced at them...

"You are quite tense, dear." He released your hand briefly to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, letting cool air hitting your now more exposed cheek and temple. "Relax and follow my lead."

You wanted to scoff at his words. How could you relax when your only wish at the moment was to run away from him? Your family was nowhere to be seen, Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. No one was there and no one would help you.

"You stole this dance, Dio," You growled quietly, not wanting to gather even more attention to yourself. "But it will be the last thing that you'll steal from me. Heed my words."

You finally met his eyes to grace him with a glare and he only looked down on you with mockery and a hint of fondness. As if your anger was endearing to him. He hummed in amusement.

"Hmmm...? Do I take it that everything else will be graciously given to me...?"

Before you could even gasp at his scandalous assumptions, you missed a step and fell forward, right against his solid chest. He of course didn't waste a second in wrapping his strong arms around your small form.

You could hear the other guests whispering and chuckling, probably drinking in the sight and preaching how cute you both were. The beautiful Y/N L/N clumsily falling into the arms of the very handsome Dio Brando.

Like a princess and her prince, right from a romance story. It was really fresh to witness and people just couldn't wait to see you both engaged, you looked so perfect together. After all, in this mondane society, it was all about looks.

If only they knew the truth.

You tried to push yourself off of him as you laid your palms flat on his chest, but he held you there firmly. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest and the blonde leaned down to whisper in your ear.

"Let us go somewhere more private darling. I am tired of those curious eyes."

You felt like you were about to faint and really wanted to get out of that busy room, but surely not with Dio. As you didn't have much of a say in this, you let him guide you away, to one of the many chambers in the mansion.

He opened the door wide for you and you entered the empty, cold room bathing in darkness, not sparing him a single glance and went straight ahead to the large windows that lead to a beautifully decorated balcony.

You stayed inside though, as Dio closed the door behind him and went on his way to light a gas lamp that was laid on a night stand.

You gently pushed the silky curtains aside to glance at the moon outside. You stared at her magnificent silver light, completely forgetting where you were and that Dio was still in this very room.

You sighed, comforted by the moonlight. The moon was full on this cold night, it was the end of the year and it felt like the nocturnal satellite decided to show off all of her magic tonight.

Sometimes, you envied those legendary creatures who lived solely by the moonlight. Fantastical beings who could see the moon through all her phases and for as long as they lived. Werewolves, Vampires...

"...Beautiful, isn't it?"

You gasped, startled by his sudden deep voice so close to your ear. You swiftly turned around and glared at him, offended that his appearance tore you off your pleasant rêverie.

"Oh, please do continue. The moon reflects so deliciously on your skin, it is beyond mezmerizing."

"Yo-... you're losing yourself again, Dio!" You tried to sound strong and composed, but you couldn't help the slight whimper from escaping your throat.

"Maybe..." He lifted his large arm next to your head to fully open the curtain behind you, the sudden position flustering you as you felt trapped yet again.

You looked down as you contemplated fleeing. How many attempts was it now? You stopped counting after the 20th, but you wanted to flee again.

Not bearing the sight of his broad chest in front of you, you turned slightly back to the window and side-glanced at the beautiful garden.

There was a large maze in there. The thought of maybe trying to lose Dio there was very appealing. It turned your once melancholic and lonely expression into a softer, more relaxed one.

The moonlit maze alone filling your heart with an ounce of hope, the ghost of a smile reached your lips and eyes.

"What a sweet expression you are sporting, my love." The blond devil put his large hand on your cheek and turned your head to face him as he purred. "Although I delect myself more from your despaired expression."

Disgusting. This man was disgusting. You put a hand over his large wrist as a sign to tell him to let go of you, which he patently ignored.

He leaned forward, hovering dangerously over your face as he lifted your chin up, a soft smirk stretching his lips.

"Now tell me... what could my dove possibly be thinking about to make her look so beautifully blithe?"

You looked downwards to the red brooch on his tie, the ornament suddenly more distracting than his dominating burning gaze on you.

"I was thinking of getting away from you. It gets me going." You spoke the unfiltered truth with bitter sugar dripping from your voice.

The man before you froze upon hearing those words. Were you challenging him? Him?! The Dio Brando?

You drove him so crazy. Oh you drove him to such unfathomable frustration. His blood was boiling and pumping ferociously in his veins.

His entire body cringed, his fists balling tightly. He ground his teeth as his eyes widened in pure rage. Or was it rage? No it was deeper, more twisted than that.

It was lust.

He needed to gather all his self-control to prevent himself from breaking something or rather someone right this instant.

Yes... He could break you. Oh and it would be so easy and so satisfying, too. Nothing could quench his thirst more than destroying every inch of you at that moment.

You were such a nasty pest, you were so terribly problematic, no wonder he was so infatuated with you. So obssessed with you.

You were bad, maybe as bad as him. You pushed on all his buttons like no one ever did and yet, you played the cute little perfect girl in front of everyone else.

You made him so insane, so mad. He wanted you all to himself. He yearned for you to get your revenge on him, to be infuriated with him. He craved you right here, right now. He loved that you hated him.

Swiftly, he pressed his weight against you and pushed your body flush against the window as you gasped in surprise, barely able to even react at the forceful contact.

He was quick to catch your wrist and pin it next to your head as you tried desperately to push him away, your other hand uselessly resting on his much stronger arm.

You tried to squirm away, but his body meddled with yours in an emprisonning cage. You couldn't hide your panicked pants anymore.

"You damn woman..." He breathed in a shaky hiss right next to your heating ear, his tone way darker now and his eyes half-lidded. "Do you even realize what you are doing to me?" He spat with venom but also with dripping excitement. "You are in deep trouble, darling."

He nuzzled his face in your exposed neck, drenching himself in your sweet scent and you shuddered, his hot breath on your skin making the hair at the back of your neck stand.

Your heart hammered alarmingly inside your chest as his malicious hold triggered your Fight or Flight response. This was bad. Real bad. You struggled against his grip, writhing and pushing him.

But struggling against him was futile, useless. So useless, useless, useless...

"I hate you, Dio Brando. There's not a single piece of you that is remotely redeemable!" You growled in his ears through exhausted pants. "Hear me when I say this, I despise every inch of your disgraceful being, Dio-ugh...! I hate you with all my might...!!"

"Yes!" He grunted hungrily as he put his free hand around your hips, leaving no space between your body and his, feeling all of yourself against him. "That's it, that's what I want to hear! One more time... Scream it."

"You disgusting bastard... You have no shame..." You squeezed your eyes shut, you refused to cry. Never for him. He didn't deserve it.

"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N... Please." He was crazed, Dio lost himself, yet again. "Sweet Y/N, let me make you mine... Be mine... I know you want this..."

Just like that, the man above you craddled your body like his most prized possession, teasing the pulsing point of your neck with his lips, tongue and teeth. He clutched your hips and wrist in a bruising grip and you knew there was nothing you could do.

"I'm going to ravish you, destroy you..."

And so he did.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #jjba #writing #jojo no kimyou na bouken #dio #dio brando #dio x reader #dio brando x reader #jojo part 1 #part 1 #phantom blood #x reader #reader insert #dubcon/noncon

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seance · 5 years ago

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jatp as bodies of water

a character analysis based on this gifset.

first of all, a disclaimer: this was just me and @snakebitescar having fun , we perfectly know this is still a kid show and it’s not that deep™ but i, personally, find this type of speculations really interesting. kinda all or nothing, you know? i don’t usually dwell on more superficial hcs because i’m drawn to this kind of symbolism the most. that said we just thought we share, no pressure to rb or anything. i apologize for the small text but this got long i don’t want to spam anyone’s dash too much.

luke as the ocean

I purposefully chose to use not just any view of the ocean, but a glimpse of a stormy one. What makes it so fitting in my eyes is that the ocean, by its nature, is limitless and unknowable but it’s not deceiving in any way. It’s powerful and overpowering but it appears as it is: vast and full of hidden depths.

Luke’s greatest strength is his energy, his uncompromising passion, his determination, his willingness to risk it all for what he believes in and for the people he loves. He needs to always be in motion, he needs to know he’s moving forward, towards something greater, something that will make every sacrifice and every loss worth it. Behind every gesture, every word, every action there’s something more, something deeper (like a wound that never really closed, an unfathomable regret, a simmering anger sparked by the betrayal of a friend).

He doesn’t really hide who he is or what he thinks but he will always, like the ocean, keep surprising those around him with new aspects of his exuberance, his creativity, his sociability. Just like the ocean, bound by no borders, Luke is free to be everything at once.

reggie as the lake

The lake can be peaceful and embracing or brooding and stagnant. It’s the only body of water that doesn’t flow somewhere, it appears motionless on the surface but in reality it hides dangerous underwater currents, unpredictable whirlpools and often deadly murky terrains.

Lakes represent the need for security, they are places of painful transformations, both cradle and trap. Basing some of our assumption on Luke’s words about Reggie’s less than ideal home-life, the parallel between the lake’s dual nature and how he expresses (or rather suppresses) his emotions came naturally. One of the main differences between Reggie and everyone else is that he’s never confrontational. He always works towards de-escalating the situation, he’s probably used to conceal any negative emotion to not add fuel to the fire, he tends to always follow and never lead.

This doesn’t mean he feels less than everybody else, every now and then those very emotions he tries so hard to control shine through and we see how actually scared he is, how he craves stability and security. He dreads any changes that have to do with the unknown or the possibility of his support system failing (“Do we all still get to hang out together?”) Just like the lake he’s both still and turbulent, constantly edging between relying on what is safe or taking the odd risk.

alex as the river

Alex was maybe the most complex to analyze out of the four of them. I’m a firm believer that anyone is entitled to their own headcanons and their own interpretation of a character but I must admit, I can’t really get behind some fandom takes that systematically reduce Reggie to his goofy side or Alex to his anxiety because as I see it, they both hold so much potential.

Rivers are an indomitable force. They flow for miles, from mountain to sea, sometimes dwindling but never drying up completely. They dig their way forward and they endure. Rivers are symbols of sensitivity and empathy but they can also be forceful and overflowing, almost too much to bear all at once.

Alex is highly emotional, for better or worse that’s what makes him such an interesting character. He’s not just his anxiety but he’s always straightforward about his emotions and his thoughts. Unlike Reggie we often see him question Luke’s opinion, he doesn’t shy away from commenting on the current situation, if he’s feeling anxious or happy or sad or angry he’s open about it, he wants the others to know.

Alex had to hide a big part of his identity for we don’t know how long and that surely played its part in worsening his fears but what we do know is that he had the courage to come out and live his truth, despite the negative outcome. When he decides to do something he pours all of himself into it, he’s proactive, he’s honest (sometimes too honest), he’s afraid of change but still faces it head first.

Just like a river plunges through deep ravines and spreads out over wide planes, he can act as a leading force if needed, making others see things from a different perspective (him talking to Julie about the Patterson, for example). He’s captivating and intense, Willie fell for him deep and fast and vice versa. Alex immediately offered the truest form of himself (his interest and his awkwardness and his anxiety) with no compromise. That’s part of the reason Willie’s betrayal stung so much I believe (“I thought we were having fun together” meaning Alex never thought of acting any differently from who he really is, what he was putting on the table was his raw and flawed self and Willie’s hesitation felt like a rejection).

Just like the river, Alex is committed and open about where he comes from and where he’s going.

julie as the waterfall

While every other body of water is somehow linked to the imaginary of life and death (the ocean gave us life but it can take it back just as easily, the river mythologically represents the boundaries between the two worlds, lakes are the dwelling places of monsters or other insidious creatures) waterfalls are usually seen as magical elements. They’re young, fresh, unafraid and most importantly, alive. They represent the calling for adventure, the restlessness that comes from wanting to always try new things, to explore your own potential.

Julie, above all, is her own character. All her relationships are deeply meaningful but they just add to an already strong identity. She’s energetic and she’s resourceful and she’s strong in the truest sense of the term because she isn’t afraid to hurt or to admit her limits (“I tried for mom, for you, even for me. I’m tired”). Julie is the main engine of the entire narrative because she represents, quite literally, the life force of the band. She doesn’t just go along with their wishes, she finds a balance with the boys and she isn’t afraid to call it quits when her trust is betrayed, she’s their equal in all things and she inspires respect.

Just like the waterfall rushes down perilously from any height, Julie launches herself in the new possibilities the band has to offer, she claws her way out of her grief and she gets involved without sparing herself. She’s eager, she’s passionate and she’s creative and she always has a new input to offer.

#ari.txt #text #julie and the phantoms #i really need a tag for this kind of rambling #oh well #always feeling Too Much for fictional characters in this chili's tonight

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makeshiftsun · 4 years ago

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The Baba Yaga from The Irresistible Fairy Tale

By Jack Zipes

Page 61 onwards.

She is not just a dangerous withc but also a maternal benefactress, probably related to a pagan goddess... ...Baba Yaga transcends definition because she is an amalgamation of deities mixed with a dose fo sorcery, shamanism, and fairy lore. Though it is difficult to trace the historical evolution of the mysterious figure with exactitude, it is apparent that Baba Yaga was created by many voices and hands, starting in the pre-Christian era in eastern Europe up through the eighteenth century, when she finally became “fleshed out,” so to speak, in abundant Russian and Slavice tales collected in the nineteenth century. These Russian and Slavic folk tales were the ones that formed and indelible, unfathomable image of what a Baba Yaga is. I say “a Baba Yaga” because in many tales there are three Baba Yagas, often sisters, and in some tales a Baba Yaga is killed only to rise again. And no Baba Yaga is exactly like another.

A Baba Yaga is inscrutable and so powerull that she does not owe allegiance to the devil, God, or even her storytellers. In fact, she opposes all Judeo-Christian and Muslim deities and beliefs. She is her own woman, a parthogenetic mother, and she decides on a case-by-case basis whether she will help or kill the people who come to her hut, which rotates on chicken legs. She shows the characteristics and tendencies of Western witches, who were demonized by the Christian church and often tend to be beautiful and seductive, cruel and vicious. In time, however, the beauty of witches was downplayed in most European countries so that the with was likened to an ugly hag. Baba Yaga sprawls herself out in her hut and has ghastly features - drooping breasts, a hideous long nose, and sharp iron teeth. In particular. she thrives on Russian blood and is cannibalistic. Her major prey consists of children and young women, but she will occasionally threaten to devour a man. She kidnaps in the form of a whirwind or other guises. She murders at will. Though we never learn how she did it, she has conceived daughters, who generally do her bidding. She lives in the forest, which is her domain. Animals venerate her, and she protects the forest as a Mother Earth figure. The only time she leaves the woods, she travels in a mortar, wielding a pestle as a club or rudder along with a broom to sweep away the tracks behind her. At times she can also be generous with her advice, yet her counsel and help do not come cheaply, for a Baba Yaga is always testing the people who come to her hut by chance or choice. A Baba Yaga may sometimes be killed, but there are others who take her place. She holds the secret to the water of life and may even be Mother Earth herself.

Source materials : Aleksandr Nikolaevich Afanasyev’s Russian Folk Tales (1855-66) and Ivan Aleksandrovich Khudiakov’s Great Russian Tales (1860-62)

These original sources were difficult for the authors to publish due to oppression by the government/church. Even when permission was obtained, texts were often heavily edited. These sorts of myths were looked upon with suspicion by the governmental authorities, church, and upper classes. Nevertheless, it had been impossible before - and still was in the nineteenth century, to prevent the oral dissemination of wonder tales, which were deeply rooted in pagan traditions.

Various Baba Yagas functioned and figured in different tale types of the mid-nineteenth century and lent a distinct Russian aura to the stories. No matter what a tale type or how common it may be in the Indo-European tradition,a Baba Yaga will frequently emerge in the story as the decisive figure, turning the plot in favor of or against the protagonist. Moreover, I know of no other awe-inspiring witch/wise woman character in European folklore so amply described and given such unusual paraphernalia as Baba yage. Most important, she clearly announces how enmeshed she is with Russia whenever she sense Russian blood is near. No one has ever fully explained why she is always so eager to spill and devour Russian blood, rather than the blood of some other nation. One would think that as a protector of Russian soil, she might always be helpful when Russians appear at her hut. yet she is most severe with Russian and strangely seems to be protecting Russian soil from the Russians, perhaps testing to see whether they deserve to exist on Russian soil. She also demands the most from Russians and shows no mercy if they fail to listen to her. A Baba Yaga is the ultimate tester and judge, the desacralized Omnipotent goddess, who defends deep-rooted Russian pagan values and wisdom, and demands that young women and men demonstrate that they deserve her help.

But what Baba Yaga also defends in the nineteenth century tales are qualities that the protagonists need in order to adapt and survive, such as perseverance, kindness, obedience, integrity, and courage. If we bear in mind that these tales reflect the actual living conditions of the Russian people in the mid-nineteenth century to a large degree, and that they were listened to and read at face value, they are profound “documents” about the struggles of ordinary Russians and their faith in extraordinary creatures to help them in times of need. They are also dreams of compensation for their helplessness - stories of resistance and hope. The tales are filled with sibling rivalry, bitter conflicts between stepchildren and stepmothers, incest, class struggle, disputes about true heirs, ritual initiations. the pursuit of immortality, and so forth. Although the tales may take place in another time and realm. they are always brought down to earth by the storyteller at the end, for what may happen metaphorically to the characters in the tales is close to the conditions experienced by the listeners.

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boxboysandotherwhump · 5 years ago

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This first Chapter of ‘The forest and its teeth’ was proofread by the amazingly sweet @haro-whumps. Thank you a lot for this and all the things I learned from your comments. They were also a delight to read while editing <3

Tag list: @broken-horn @finder-of-rings @haro-whumps @voidwhump2 (if you don’t want to be tagged in this pls let me know)

First a hunger plagued our world, equal to none. We searched and searched, desperate for a solution, and as we finally found one a forest of flowers swallowed our world whole.

Wastelands and cities blossomed into a garden, Eden. The planet became a manmade god of roots and spores. Unfathomable. Merciless.

And we were cast out of our own creation, like we were cast out of the garden. The forest was no place for humans.

The world may have forgotten hunger, but we would always know about the creatures that lurked in those omniferous woods. Creatures with mouths bigger than our own. We knew that we were the ones who put them there.

The warm summer breeze carried a whiff of lavender from the safe zone’s border into the village and made Charlotte’s translucent blouse cling to her sweaty skin, tickling her pale thighs as she strolled through dusty streets.

People laughed as they hurried past her and Kaja, carrying fresh bread, flower garlands, and pieces of fruit to the marketplace. The Bromberg twins chased after a roly-poly, screaming as the poor creature scuttled up a rooftop, escaping its fade as a chitin-shelled pony knock-off. Charlotte felt giddy just thinking about tonight’s feast. She’d seen Mara run around the orphanage with a strawberry bigger than her head today, declaring it the undefeatable champion among the offerings.

Kaja chattered beside her, overflowing with life as they slowly made their way out the village center. Charlotte had always found her effervescence oddly infectious, and wished she had more in common with the blonde, toothy-smiled woman than just blue eyes and their love for dancing. But where Kaja was all round, warm cheeks with a heart soft as her belly, Charlotte had always been rough edged, restless, untamable, much like her unruly copper curls.

“I wonder how big the watermelons will be this year. Hey Charlotte, say, do you think six people will fit in one this time?!”

“Six toddlers maybe,” Charlotte jested. “You should know the mutation cycle needs more than a year to double plants in size.”

Her eyes flitted over the forest, its endless expanse encircling the village’s border. Some colossal trees in the far distance cast the land under them in darkness, colored patches on maps eternally midnight-black.

“But what is our knowledge worth anyway?”

“Party pooper.” Kaja grinned, long skirt puffing as she twirled around. “We’ve got a festival to organize. There’s no time for long faces.”

Charlotte huffed. “That’s how I always lo-“

“Miss Kaja, Charlotte. Hello!” Boomed Micha’s voice from up ahead, earning him a smile.

He leaned in the bakery’s doorway, flushed cheeks hidden under his cap’s brim. A few black curls stuck up from underneath it and he was covered in specks of flour, white smudges all over his apron and forearms.

Kajas face lit up as they strolled over to the small red house, tucked between the streets curve and a grassy hill, solitary and half swallowed by ivy. Only the display window’s nook was meticulously cut free and filled with cream pies and cookies.

“Hey Micha,” Kaja beamed, “Say, what have you planned for tomorrow?”

A bright smile split his lips and his eyebrows raised conspiratorially as he leaned closer, voice dropped into a whisper. “That’s a secret.”

Charlotte huffed a laugh. “Give us a tip?”

“Nah.” Micha flicked his cap’s brim up. “‘m not gonna spill. Y ’all’ll see tomorrow.”

“Okay mister mysterious. Tomorrow then,” Kaja said, skirt swishing around her ankles as she twirled away, Charlotte right behind her.

Micha flushed red as his brick house, gawking after the two as they strode up the hill road.

“Yeah. See ya.”

Nudging Kaja’s shoulder, Charlotte couldn’t contain a snicker. “Mister mysterious, hm?!”

The tease tinted Kajas cheeks pink. “So what?! Wait till we’re at the farm and you see snail boy again.”

Charlotte bristled, upper lip curling as she hurried ahead to the roadside where little stone steps parted the bushes, cutting their narrow path through thick underwood up to the snail farm.

“He is just- We are just trading books sometimes!”

The old two story house stood proud on its little plateau, encircled by roots so massive they nearly reached its shingle roof. Its bricks were laid one at a time, many summers ago, and little extensions had grown over the years, some extra rooms that stuck out from one side, the kitchen with its thatched roof. The grass surrounding it was short, completely gone in some muddy patches were it had fallen victim to the snail’s insatiable hunger. They roamed the forest floor, finding every new sapling, eating every fresh blossom, and kept the ever growing woods at bay.

Every few days Sahar would herd them onto the orphanage’s grounds, reading while the snails feasted. He would sit in a patch of shadow, nose buried in a book - just like he was sitting now, rested against the root beside the tiny staircase that lead up to the plateau. His short hair stuck up every which way and his dark boots were covered in grass stains. The big silvery-white scar on his right arm was barely visible in the shade.

Charlotte watched with a smile as Sahar pushed a snail’s head down gently, away from the fruit pieces beside him, snickering as it retracted one eye, offended.

“Really Asmodea?! Didn’t I just feed you an hour ago?”

Kaja knocked on the low wooden gate to their front yard and made Sahar flinch. He had always been jumpy, Charlotte wondered.

“Hello. Say, are Moira and Ansgar there?”

The book slipped from his hand as he jumped up and his voice barely carried over the short distance. “Ah, uhm, hi. Yeah I- I’ll go get them. Come in. The- the snails don’t bite.” His nervous smile faltered. “Well, without having teeth and all -uhm-“

He bit his lip, stopping himself, before he hopped over the root and vanished behind big wooden sliding doors into the house.

Charlotte had never been inside the house before, had only ever seen the grey bearded farmer and his wife down in the teahouse chatting with others or when they had to run some errands, back before Sahar had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Since then, he’d been the one to handle their errands, readily shooed this way and that.

Ansgar had simply dragged the boy into the teahouse one day declaring him his new hireling and not bothered to explain where he had come from or how a mere child had survived the outsides?! Eight years later the question still remained, lingered over the dimly lit marketplace like teapot steam, but the people had given their inquisitions up. Their storm of curiosity had burst against the couple’s stone set silence.

Charlotte had barely followed the discussion about the snail riding they planned to organize at the orphanage tomorrow, she was too preoccupied by Sahar entering the living room while he balanced five cups and a teapot on a tray, setting it carefully onto the table. Its wooden surface was worn smooth over countless shared meals and long evenings filled with games and chatter.

A faint eucalyptus smell tickled her nose as Sahar timidly slid a cup over to her and she couldn’t help but wonder how on earth they had gotten their hands on eucalyptus? The last delivery of it had been years ago.

Charlotte watched Sahar drag a stool over from beside the high, over-cramped bookshelf, so small he had to kneel on it to be on eye level with the rest of them, and took a first tentative sip.

Chamomile?! Had her nose played a trick on her?

“We really should get going.” Kaja smiled apologetically. “There’s just so much left to organize. But we’ll come back for another round of tea soon. Right Charlotte?”

She shot Kaja an irritated look and caught Moiras knowing grin. The woman’s slim observant eyes crinkled with her crooked smile. Moira’s greying, artfully pinned locks swished softly as she turned to Sahar. “I’ll bet our little barista will gladly serve you again? Right, Sahar?”

He fidgeted with his tea cup, not looking at anyone as a faint blush rose to his cheeks before mumbling softly, “Yeah.”

Ansgar coughed slightly as he stacked their cups in two neat little piles on the tray. “There’s really lots t’ do. But let’s take ya down the road a bit.”

#the forest and its teeth #post apocalyptic whump #whump series #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #post apocalypse #mutants #mutant whump #post apocalypse story #sahar loves his snails

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emptynarration · 5 years ago

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Author already had 5 soulmarks -all platonic, thank god- so he really didn't need any more. But there it was, the sixth mark, appearing right on his neck. And clearly a romantic one as well. He doesn't want any soulmates. He wants to be alone. He doesn't want romance, he hates it. But apparently, fate wanted to smother him in love and affection, if he wants it or not.

more nsfw but you can skip it

featuring resident enis mark

They were dating. Author had finally acknowledged it, and had officially told Edward that they're dating, and he told him he liked him -and Edward liked him as well, quite obviously, though it was still nice to have their situation acknowledged. Edward was also added to the “Author's soulmates” groupchat, being introduced to the other five without meeting them yet. Wilford was all over Edward, wanting to meet him as soon as possible, but Author was not having any of that. So, they were reduced to texting, and making sure Wilford didn't just randomly show up at the cabin to try and meet Edward. They did meet up now and then -sometimes Edward visited Author, sometimes they met somewhere to eat, or take a walk, or something or other. It was nice, like this. Sometimes Edward stayed the night, sometimes they only had sex without anything else, but every time they were happy together. No matter what they did, they enjoyed their time together.

It was the most human contact Author had had in years. Truly, he didn't think he ever had had this much human contact before. And to think he had another romantic soulmate out there somewhere... It was near unfathomable to him. At least Edward was always careful when he came to the forest. He's been told it wasn't the safest, though as long as he stayed on the paths Author had shown him, he'd be safe. Technically, Author knew Edward should be safe. The creatures in the forest corresponded with his emotions after all, and he loved liked Edward. So they should too. But, one could never be too safe. Author didn't want Edward to accidentally get hurt, so he hoped that he would just. Keep to the paths, and stay safe. And when Author just knew there was someone in the forest, and his creatures were getting to them, Author felt a spike of panic. He knew his creatures wouldn't attack Edward. Rationally, he knew that. But his gut told him to go and stop his creatures, and that could only mean it was his soulmate, which could only be Edward. Because Author only cared about Edward, obviously.

Author hurriedly pulled on his shoes, and was off into the forest. He knew where to go, because his creatures were all connected to him, and if he wanted to get to them, he could. And so he went, he hurried, he ran, because he just felt like he needed to, and if he felt like this, then he would. He could hear his guardian growling, and he just knew there was a stranger facing it. And still, he was worried, and that worried him even more. He saw the man who was facing off against the guardian, the scruff appearance he had, how he clutched at his bleeding arm, and still glared at the creature before him. “What do you think you're doing?”, Author growled, walking up to the man. He seemed surprised, looking over at Author, before his gaze was back towards the shadowy wolf-like creature. “This monster attacked me.”, the man did reply at least, making Author look over at the guardian. Yeah, he could guess why that would be, seeing how this man was a stranger in his forest. “It's not a monster, it's a guardian. Now come on, I'll patch you up.”, Author said, grabbing the other's uninjured arm, tugging on it. The man turned to look at Author, glaring at him at first- before his gaze softened lightly.

“Fine..”, he relented, and Author -for some bizarre reason- smiled lightly. Author began leading the other away, while the man's gaze stuck to the guardian, until they were out of its sight. “I'm Issac.”, Author introduced himself, because it was how he usually introduced himself -no matter if he preferred to be called Author. Issac was more anonym than Author, in the end. “A pleasure. Leon.”, Leon replied in a mutter, though Author wasn't really bothered by Leon's tone or expression. “You usually pick a fight with monster like creatures?”, Author asked, because well, he wanted to know if Leon was always this reckless. “Considering usually I fight for survival against them, yes.”, Leon replied, making Author chuckle lightly. Not the answer he expected, but a pleasant one nonetheless. Well, “pleasant”. Obviously fighting for survival wasn't pleasant.

As they walked, Leon told Author about Monster Gulch, briefly mentioned the friends he had had, and how he had found his way here. Author listened mostly silent, nodding along, though also sometimes asked something or other. He mostly didn't say anything though. Until Leon asked about the “guardians”, so Author roughly explained that they were beings supposed to keep the forest and its inhabitants (him, though he didn't say that) safe. He did mention they didn't hurt him because he lived in the forest (and so was an inhabitant, though that wasn't the full real reason obviously). When they arrived at the cabin, Leon got to settle in the living room by the fire, while Author went to grab the first aid kit he kept around -which was much better stocked than before, thanks to Edward.

“Uhm...”, Leon looked at Author when the man came back, holding his shirt up -originally to get to his wound and let Author take care of it, but... well, there was also his soulmark, and Author had a wonderful view of it below the injury. It was an inkwell -which wasn't too exciting in itself, if it weren't for the fact that it was coloured in. Blue ink and gold lettering. Judging from Leon's expression, Author was guessing it had just coloured in. “Well.”, Author breathed out heavily, walking over and setting the kit down. He shifted to pull his own shirt up slightly, twisting to take a look at the combat knife on him. Yep, coloured in, in greys and a dark green handle. “No wonder I was so worried.”, Author muttered, kneeling down on the ground to start taking care of Leon's wound. Mentioned man looked a little uncertainly at Author, probably taken aback by his nonchalant.

“You're not... surprised? Or anything?”, Leon asked, just slightly wincing as Author cleaned the blood away, and readied these needles stitches bandaids -whatever they were called. Thing is, they replaced actual stitching, which was good. “Well...”, Author shrugged lightly. “I have more soulmarks. You're my second romantic one.”, Author avoided the question with saying that instead. That, quite obviously, also made Leon blink a couple times. “Ah. Well. I have a platonic one.”, he countered, uncertain what exactly to say. It was quite alright though, since they were both a little awkward with words. “I'm. Alright with that. You having multiple marks. Have.. you met them already?”. “Yep. We're dating. He's fine with sharing too. And he's a doctor.”, Author answered, finishing up and getting back up. He sat down next to Leon then, close but not uncomfortably so. “Alright.”.

They sat in silence for a while, just staring into the flames. Until Leon fell asleep, falling against Author, startling the man slightly. Taking a deep breath, Author sighed, rubbing his face. So this was how he met his second soulmate? He wondered if Leon would go back to Monster Gulch again. Probably, he supposed, though it might be harder to stay away with having found his soulmate. Or maybe it wouldn't be as hard, since Leon's travelling around was a part of him. Author wouldn't mind if Leon wanted to stay away and only come back every once in a while. He liked being alone after all, and even with dating Edward, Author still enjoyed his solitude. And if he wanted company, he could get it. It was nice. He wouldn't stop Leon from leaving, and he wouldn't stop him from staying either. He'd stop him from staying in the cabin, but still.

He gently shifted Leon to lay down on the couch, so he could stand up. He went ahead to go grab a blanket, so he could tuck Leon in, before making his way to the study. He'd wait for the other to wake up, before making them something to eat. He was pretty sure Leon would enjoy something warm and good to eat.

He did want to wait for Leon to wake up, but eventually, Author got hungry himself. So, he went ahead to go to the kitchen, and start making something to eat. Humming to himself as he cooked, eventually turning on the radio quietly in the background. He was already talking to himself quietly as he worked, thinking about his current story he was writing. He was getting immersed in what he was doing, focused on what he was cooking, as well as thinking about his story, as well as vaguely listening to the radio. Well, he wasn't really listening to the radio, it was just background noise filling his mind like static, and allowing him to focus. Which meant he didn't notice at all when Leon woke up. Because right now, he was debating about a plot point to himself, which meant a lot of random thoughts being spoken out loud that were only half connected, and Author's full attention being on those thoughts rather than his surroundings. His movements cooking were automatic.

“Issac?”, Leon's voice startled Author, making him flinch and drop the spoon as he lost his concentration. “Sorry about that.”. “It's fine.”, Author waved him off, picking his spoon back up to continue what he was doing. What was he doing? He actually had no idea, so he had to take a step back and actually look. “I'm cooking for us. Figured you'd like something warm to eat.”, Author hummed, motioning to whatever he had been making. It certainly smelled good, that he could say for certain, and he could figure out what he was cooking as well. “It smells good. Thanks.”, Leon smiled at Author, and the man cursed himself for being his romantic soulmate, because it made him feel things, and Author did not like that. He had enough to do with his feelings for Edward, and he's been dating him for a good while by now. He felt it was unfair, how quickly he felt for Leon, and how slowly it had been for Edward. He supposed the circumstances were different too though. Leon would eventually leave to Monster Gulch again, and that sooner rather than later, so their feelings would developed faster to make up for it.

“Sit down. I'm finished soon.”, Author mumbled, Leon humming as he did as told. A couple minutes later, Author had finished the food and grabbed some plates and cutlery, setting everything down on the table, before the food was also set down. Author sat down at the table as well then, and together they started to eat. They were quiet as they ate, though when Leon commented how good it tasted, Author blushed slightly -flustered- and waved him off. That didn't stop Leon from nearly scarfing down his food like a starving man though. In comparison, Author barely ate anything, though it was more than enough for him. He never ate all that much, after all. When they were done, Leon helped Author clean up, taking care of the dishes while Author put the food away. It was a comfortable silence between them -the radio still quietly playing in the background, unnoticed by either individual.

It felt like they were dancing around each other, in a way. Neither knew the other well, barely at all, but being soulmates made them feel close already, like they had been together for at least weeks already. There was a tension between them, something the two of them were unfamiliar with, but it was making the two of them restless. Talking felt wrong. What was there to even talk about? Author found his pendant between his lips, chewing on it because of his nerves, and it brought him back into focus and able to think at least a little bit. “You can use the bed tonight.”, Author said, and maybe it was a little random, but he also wasn't really thinking about anything anymore either. “The bed? Isn't it yours?”, Leon asked, leaning against the counter with his arms lightly crossed. Sleeping in a bed did seem wonderful, especially since he hadn't done so in quite a while. “I don't really use it much.”, Author replied and shrugged lightly. He usually crashed at his desk, or fell asleep in his armchair at the very least -not as far to walk, generally. So, Leon could just as well have the bed, since he certainly needed it more than Author did.

At least, Author thought so. Leon came from a place with barely any safety ever, and now he was somewhere where he couldn't be safer -with Author, obviously. In his cabin, in his forest, which he protected. So he couldn't be safer, obviously. And now that he was safe, he could enjoy everything that came with safety. Like a warm bed, and warm food, and clean clothes. Such things. Obviously. And an arm-full of Author, apparently, because when Author got his focus back to the situation at hand, he had his arms wrapped around Leon's neck and was kissing him. Or had Leon started kissing him? Because Author was trapped against the counter he had been leaning against, with Leon's arms trapping him from moving away, and Leon was definitely in control of the kiss. Author didn't mind that though, because he was having a hard time really focusing. He was doing things, but he wasn't really aware of them. He was pretty sure he should just. Stop? He was breathing heavily when Leon pulled away, though the man stood close still, their breaths intermingling. He seemed a little surprised about this development as well, though maybe Author was just imagining things -mostly because he was mostly staring at Leon's lips, and they were moving and- wait. He was talking to him, wasn't he?

Deciding that didn't matter, Author pressed his lips to Leon's again, holding himself close to him, just wanting to be close to him. Maybe because he couldn't focus, and kissing was good, and physical contact was good, and he was touch-starved -though less now that he was actively dating Edward- and Leon was also touch-starved, so this made sense. Obviously. Leon's arms were wrapped around him now, and there was a knee between Author's legs, and Author was breathing heavily as he was kissed so deeply. Pleasure was good, especially a good thing to focus on, because that would distract him a lot, and that would mean he would be in the moment. Which made him realize there were hands on his skin now, beneath his shirt, fingers tracing along the bottom of his binder, and Author just wanted to be even closer to Leon now, just because. So he pressed himself closer to Leon, his hands going into Leon's messy mop of hair, and he noted how nice it felt to touch it, which brought his focus to touching Leon's hair, running his hands through it, feeling he texture, the softness -and also the dirt and dust in it still. Leon needed a shower.

He gasped when he was suddenly picked up, wrapping his legs around Leon to not fall, clinging to him as he was carried. Deciding that this was alright, Author shifted a hand from clinging to Leon to instead touch his hair again, and he pressed kisses to Leon's neck where it was visible. Soon Author was laid down on the bed, and Leon was hovering over him. He was pretty sure Leon was asking him something, was talking about something, and Author was merely guessing what it was about. “You can undress me, touch me, see me, please-”, Author was near rambling, because he was either going to talk or not talk, and there was no in-between. He managed to stop himself from rambling completely though, and he did notice Leon chuckling and smiling at him, and moments later his binder was off and he could breathe easier and he had Leon's mouth on him and- Author gasped and moaned in surprise, back arching off the bed already, because yeah that felt good, and Leon's mouth was really warm and wet and felt so good.

~~Nsfw stuff because yea~~

Leon continued to undress Author, which was nice, because that meant there was more skin for him to kiss, and Author's hands were still in Leon's hair. Or maybe again? Author wasn't paying attention, at least not enough to know when he started and stopped touching Leon's hair. A startled, but definitely pleasured, gasp left Author when Leon was between his legs, and his tongue was lapping at his cunt, and god that felt so good. Author was a moaning mess as Leon ate him out, feeling his warm soft and wet tongue inside his folds, so enthusiastically eating him out. Author bunched the sheets beneath him tightly into his hands, as he gasped and moaned and let pleasure wash over him. It was incredibly teasing, and edging, and Author whined loudly when Leon pulled away. But there were hands on his cheeks, and Leon was looking at him, and Author focused on what Leon was saying. Asking about condoms and lube and stuff -thankfully Author managed an answer. That did mean he was left alone on the bed though, while Leon fetched whatever he needed and wanted, but he was back sooner than Author could really focus on Leon being gone.

And then Leon was back, he was kissing Author deeply, and Author was pushing Leon's shirt off, and pulled the other off over his head, and Author's hands were all over Leon's chest to feel him. Leon happily let him, kissing Author and trailing kisses to his neck, and Author gasped when he felt the other suck a mark on his skin. Leon took that as the sign it was, which meant Leon began biting and sucking harder -harder than Edward allowed himself to get- which made Author moan loudly in pleasure. Leon littered Author in dark red bitemarks, adding blue-purple bruises on his body. Author grew more sensitive with each bite and each sucking, making him whine and whimper needily, and when Leon kissed him proper again, Author was breathless. He hadn't noticed he had managed to undress Leon completely, nor when Leon pulled away for a moment.

He did notice when Leon's cock was pressing against him though, smooth with the condom and cold with lube. That completely didn't matter to Author though, because it felt really amazing, and Author was half-aware of most everything happening by now. He could feel Leon push into him, his arms were wrapped tightly around Leon's neck, and he was making pleasured sounds as he could focus on the wonderful feeling of getting filled. Leon's cock was thicker than Edward's, Author could tell that much, and that was pretty much all that Author could actually tell right now. And when Leon began to thrust into him, Author was gasping with each movement. And there were the words again, falling from Author's lips like a waterfall, begging for more, for Leon to go faster, to fuck him harder. And Leon, having noticed how Author loved to be handled roughly, began to really slam into him, making Author sob loudly in pleasure.

Leon was grunting from the exertion, but he was very happily fucking Author as hard as he could. If only for the gorgeous picture of having the man sprawled out beneath him, eyes squeezed shut as he moaned and gasped and sobbed, hands clenching the sheets beneath him so tightly his knuckles turned white. Author looked beautiful covered in hickeys and bitemarks and bruises, his neck and shoulders, his chest, even a part of his sides. “You're fucking gorgeous.”, Leon had to mutter, because Author was extremely pretty (especially like this), and even if his soulmate wasn't hearing him, he just. Had to say it. Plus, he accentuated his words with hard thrusts, knowing Author was just overwhelmed with pleasure. When Leon sucked over previous bitemarks, and bit into previous hickeys, Author was screaming in pleasure. It felt too good, he wasn't paying attention to anything but the wonderful pleasure he was getting, and when he came Author's breath got stuck in his throat, his back arched off the bed, and he clenched hard around Leon's cock inside of him, making Leon growl as he fucked Author through his orgasm. Author was sobbing when he was overstimulated, tears were in his eyes, and he laid near limp beneath Leon as he pounded into him.

Leon groaned as he came as well, finally merely shallowly thrusting into Author, riding out his orgasm, before he leaned down to breathlessly kiss Author, swallowing up all of his sounds. When they parted, Author was desperately gulping down air, and even Leon was breathing heavily. Author whined softly, brain deciding to not function anymore now that he was thoroughly fucked out. Leon pulled out slowly, making Author whimper.

~~Sex OVER~~

Leon collapsed next to Author, who was definitely ready to pass out now. Covered in marks, he felt really good, and he was already starting to ache a little -not that that mattered, at all, currently. Instead, Author curled up, and Leon pulled him close, letting him rest his head on Leon's chest. Author greatly enjoyed that, because Leon's chest was firm and warm and wonderful, and he could listen to his heart beating right beneath him. And when Leon pulled the blankets over them, Author hummed happily, and was quick to fall asleep.

#admin writing #the author #survivalist mark #soulmate au

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prettywordsyouleft · 6 years ago

Text

Someone

Summary: Jackson was sick of being the only one in Sheol without a partner. With your help, he found one.

Pairing: Jackson Wang x reader

Genre: demon au / fluff

Warnings: inside jokes that pertain to this world

A/N: Welcome to Demonology everyone! Last year I wrote King of Demons during Frightful October, and since then it’s morphed into a multi-universe that a lot of you enjoy. So many of you have asked me why Jackson always ends up forever alone – well not anymore! Enjoy!

This story can be read alone, but I recommend reading the rest in the series first (or at least King of Demons 1 & 2). You can find the links below.

Word count: 2237

King of Demons series: Havoc // King of Demons // Unfathomable // Sacrifice // King of Demons: The Return // In The Night // Identity // Prophecy // Someone // The Devil Contained // The Monsters Witch

[Frightful October Masterlist]

Letting out a heavy sigh as he dragged the pleading man off to his sentence, Jackson’s shoulders drooped when he was done. He wasn’t fulfilled and he hadn’t been for a while now. Looking across the large arena deemed as Purgatory, the demon’s keen gaze landed on a pair looking awfully cosy with one another for the likes of Sheol. He was at their side in an instant, growling at them both to return to their work. He startled the entities enough that they scampered off, leaving him alone, again.

“You know, if you showed them a little empathy, things might be more productive in here,” you mentioned and with a roll of his eyes, Jackson turned to face you. Grinning up at him, you waved your arm around. “It’s a little chaotic in here of late.”

“That’s what happens when we get a large shipment in to sort through,” he grunted, stalking away from you and this conversation. As the commander of Purgatory, the last thing Jackson needed was to hear how poorly he was running the place.

Especially from the likes of you.

It wasn’t that you were awful, no, you were Jackson’s best subordinate down here. It was just that you were, well, beautifully damaged. You had arrived in Sheol a decade ago, refusing to move on to any other area than his. You had passed the testing stage, not needing to be assigned to a lifetime in punishment. Not every entity that arrived in Hell was wicked, just unfortunate. You were one of them. At the wrong place at the wrong time and committed a crime that covered you in sin.

Everyone down here had a story, yours was just one of the many he knew of.

But your refusal had irked Jackson, and so he accepted your offer to help him run Purgatory. Sometimes, he wondered why he let you stay. Others, he was grateful that whenever he needed to do something out of his jurisdiction, he knew this place would still be running to the level that he expected of it.

He refused to admit openly that he felt you sometimes managed things more efficiently than he did.

“You clearly have a problem,” you mentioned with a smirk, nudging him playfully out of his thoughts. Jackson gave you a pointed look as he returned to his office. You chuckled. “Don’t tell me it’s still about what happened last-”

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll make you run the wheel down there for an entire week.”

“It might be good exercise for me,” you quipped, unafraid of his mood. “Why don’t you just admit it? You’re miserable.”

Jackson could agree with you there.

It had been building over some time, the reality of his predicament coming to a head last week. He had been invited to eat at the grand table with the Devil himself, Jaebum often treating those he kept close well. It wasn’t Jackson’s first time dining with him, but it was what he realised whilst he was seated there. As he looked around, next to each of his friends sat their significant other. It had started when Jaebum had brought Princess down here, the vivacious human working her way into his heart and all those around her. She was the catalyst for change here in his homeland, demons, monsters and other entities all alike appreciating her place at the devil’s side. From there though, Princess had opened the door for others, and now all those seated at the table had someone they loved.

Except him.

Sighing heavily again, Jackson shook his head. “I’m tired.”

“Of Sheol or of being alone?”

“Being al – don’t you have work to do, Y/N?!” Jackson asked exasperatedly and your expression softened, nodding brightly.

“All I’m saying is you keep waiting for your fairytale princess to come down from the heavens or cross over from Earthside. You’re a mighty fine demon, boss. Why don’t you look for her instead?”

Jackson couldn’t shake your suggestion. It repeated over in his head for the rest of the day, following him into his dreams and empowering him to make the next step. He woke with renewed enthusiasm, sitting up with a start and clenched his fists together. He had a lot going for him, even Jinyoung had admitted that once. Jackson would find the most perfect partner for him, just like the others had.

He just had to get permission first.

“Earthbound?” the prince of Sheol repeated, glancing up from the ledgers he was working through. Jinyoung’s eyebrows began to weave together, and he removed the glasses off the bridge of his nose to pinch at it. “What business would a demon like you have up there?”

“Love.”

Jinyoung stared at the commander before him, waiting to see where the punch line was. When Jackson gave no signs of his joking self, he blinked rapidly, leaning over his large desk. “Did you say love?”

“Am I not entitled to it? Do I need to go to the heavens instead like you did? An angel would suit me ju-”

“Don’t get carried away,” Jinyoung cut in, shaking his head adamantly. Jackson grinned; he knew that Jinyoung liked being the only one to have tempted an angel to fall from piety for him. Getting up, Jinyoung rounded his desk, coming to sit on the front of it instead. “You can’t just expect angels to flock to you.”

“Didn’t they for you?”

Darting his focus to the adjoining room briefly, Jinyoung then hissed at his friend. “Don’t be foolish, it’s not something you just mess around with.”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, all the same, to seek out love so earnestly,” Jinyoung’s angel mentioned, appearing from around the corner and slipping an arm around her lover’s waist. “Grant Jackson passage, Jinyoung.”

“Do you think I do everything you suggest?” the prince muttered, nodding soon in response to her request, kissing the side of her head and then giving Jackson a strained smile once she departed the room again. “Do know what you’re getting into when it comes to love, Jackson. Even the Devil himself has mellowed out because of it.”

“I’m more than ready to be whipped by someone like you are,” he remarked, only to feel icy daggers immediately from his friend. He backed off once the gatekeeper’s slip was firmly held in his hand, chuckling as he reached for the door. “You know, if you can radiate that much coldness so quickly, my friend, maybe you should have used that for your brother’s unhealthy ice-cream obsession.”

“Get out before I condemn you to solitude for fifty years instead, Jackson!”

“So, you’re just going to go search up on Earth for a lover?”

Jackson nodded at BamBam’s statement, handing over his ticket of freedom proudly. The gatekeeper grumbled momentarily though his razor-sharp smile soon appeared. “Man, you’re so cool!”

“I know! If I see someone who would suit you-”

“Would you?!” BamBam enthused and Jackson chuckled, slapping his buddy on his arm. “Wow, our friendship goes so deep. You know, I haven’t admitted it much, but guarding this gateway can get really lonely. Youngjae is busy with training Smoosh, and everyone else is off dating humans, entities, angels. It’s all a bit unfair.”

“Sorry to announce it but I too will be joining that group soon!” Jackson announced, speaking out his newfound belief into existence. He smiled at the newcomer to their conversation, his smile growing further when Yugyeom nodded. “Really? You’ve seen me in love?”

“What you must go through to get the realisation you crave might feel hopeless though,” Yugyeom announced, the prophet yawning before walking on by towards his home’s gateway. “Enjoy the process as much as you can.”

Jackson wished he had known what Yugyeom had seen. Earth had been exciting for all of about five minutes. He had wandered around, looking for signs of a human he could lure in the way his King had. He waited for an untimely accident to happen to someone he crossed paths with as Mark had. Jackson was more than ready to accept punishment if it meant he had love to return to.

Nothing stood out to him. Humans were too predictable, rather boring creatures in his opinion. They followed the same routine day in and out and showed no promise of handling him or his position in Sheol. Purgatory was the gateway to punishment, and it was his job to see that everyone ended up in the right factions of Hell. It was important that he found someone who could empathise with him, empowered him when he was overworked and enjoyed the downtime when he had it. Jackson was willing to give his lover all they desired in return.

No human seemed to desire anything with him though.

After a month-long stint above, Jackson was relieved to return to the fiery depths of Hell. Still, he was dejected and you shook your head at his forlorn mood. “Are you really my commander?”

“Don’t, Y/N. I’m not in the mood to be tortured by you.”

You smirked. “Honestly, I thought you were smarter than this. I never said you needed a living human. This place is crawling with all kinds of interesting folk. A demon like you needs someone who is a match unlike no other. Don’t be like the others living their fairytale life with lovers not from here. Look within the shadows, you might just find someone looking back at you.”

“You know, why didn’t I think of that? Sheol is full of opportunities!” Jackson exclaimed, standing up and marching out to work with more vigour. And when he was ready to, he began his search. He tried the fields first, but he only found Youngjae’s monster pets running rampant there. The Cliffside had seemed promising, though the only thing he left with was a migraine after being knocked over the head by a giant. The shadowlands below quite frankly frightened him, and he ran through them as fast as he could.

It was pointless, and Jackson cursed out Yugyeom for lending him hope that there was actually someone out there that would become his someone.

“Don’t,” he warned when he arrived back from his latest journey, your sentence falling short within your mouth. Instead, you moved behind him once he was seated at his desk, hands lifting to his shoulders and massaging away his aches effortlessly. Rolling his head back, Jackson enjoyed your kneading for some time with closed eyes, craving for this to be something he received in the future from a partner.

And then he opened his eyes, staring up at you as you continued to manipulate his muscles. He sighed. “You meant you, all this time, didn’t you?”

“Was it so hard to find me?” you mused, your lips curling up. “Even you have to admit, I compliment you all too well. Here you were looking for a human, well I once was just that.”

“It makes sense as to why I never thought of you until now, Y/N.” You gave him an incredulous look and Jackson grappled at points to argue. “Well, you came here, adamant you wouldn’t leave.”

“Curse me for thinking you were handsome.”

“You picked up this tedious position because I’m handsome?”

“Devilishly,” you remarked, pressing into his shoulder muscles in the right spot. He groaned and you enjoyed having him melt like this with your expert handiwork.

Jackson pulled you away, and promptly sat you down in his lap, so he could look at you. There was no denying you were beautiful to him as well. But you were damaged goods; at least, that’s what he had ruled you as.

“Must I be perfect for your standards?” you implored, and he gaped at you, peering closer to figure if you had some kind of way to read minds too. You giggled. “I’ve known you for so long. Who else works as closely with you than I?”

“That may be true but… but why didn’t you stop me when I stupidly went off to Earth proclaiming I would come back with a bride?”

“Because you were stupid and I was done with you.”

“And then you just let me wander out of here. I went into the shadowland and you know that’s not my favourite place,” Jackson continued, and you smiled, nodding along. “Were you still done with me then?”

“After all your travels, and your adversity, you found me at the end of it all, right?”

“Well, I guess so.”

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you hovered your mouth around his. “Was it worth the journey?”

You kissed him then and Jackson was stunned, you were always bolder than he was. Though it didn’t take him long to catch up, hungrily kissing you back as he explored more of this feeling he was now having about you. His eyes were opening to a world with you in a different way and he kind of liked it.

Loved it, actually.

Just as he went to pull back and reply romantically to you, one of your subjects crashed into the office and you jerked away, cursing loudly at being interrupted before dragging the soul out of there sternly. Jackson blinked slowly before he began to laugh, soon clutching at his sides.

If you were waiting for him at the end of every journey, he would take them all.

_________________

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