#I would not want to tempt the seas on that horrid thing

[wargodtalk]

The Odyssey but set on a modern day luxury cruise

[biderboy]

Forgotten || J.P

a/n - this is for isa’s ( @acosmis-t ) writing challenge !!! for the prompt “don’t forget me?” i have major writers block so !! <3

tw ; mentions of burns

-

“don’t forget me?”  he had whispered that night, when the world was set to ruins around them, the rain falling gently upon humanity.

he smiled, closing his eyes to hide the tears begging so beautifully to fall upon his cheeks. his wings spread wide against his back, capturing your attention for a moment.

before you could blink, he sighed, the hand resting on your cheek slid away, and he fell.

his wings carrying him down, falling faster and faster. the clouds you rested on blocking the view of what you knew was the angel that held your heart, falling to humanity.

you gasped for air, desperately trying to reach out, to save him, but it was too late, james had chosen his fate.

as you sat amongst the stars, you felt what little you could, slipping away as your love rushed faster down to earth.

he fell and took your faith with him.

“don’t forget you? how could i?” you had whispered back, but he was too far gone to hear.

-

that was years ago, the night james fell. it felt longer upon the stars, countless days spent watching over humanity.

you knew why he left, you knew why he chose earth over you, and you knew why he’d do it a million times over.

james was not meant to be an angel, he was not meant to live amongst the clouds. he wanted to spread his wings wider he wanted to feel, experience, love.

he talked about it, as he brushed his fingers through your hair, how lovely humanity must be, how daring and courageous, how tempting and exciting it had to be.

the only thing you could remember about james was his love for earth.

it had been so long since you felt his touch, heard his voice, he seemed like a distant memory now, faded, messy, barely holding onto a string.

but his love for humanity always out shined everyone else, everything else.

angels were made to protect humanity, and james loved them too much. he wanted to be there, he deserved to be there.

you could get it, understand it if you tried hard enough.

the way the sea reached the shore, how the sun looked much nicer so far away, how humans tended to lace their fingers together. it was lovely in every way, from the pebbles that lay at the bottom of lakes, to the way a mother first hold her childs hand.

lovely.

you could admire from afar, you could say you loved it, you loathed it, but from a safe distance.

until the day the angels fell. all the angels.

-

falling was painful, the burn of your wings was far worse than any pain you’d ever brought into humanity.

the stumps that lay on your back after you reached earth were horrid, the burns gently grazing your shoulders, making your legs far too weak.

you looked around, fallen trees lay on the ground before you, you can see the ash left over from your wings, you’re throat tightened.

what happened?

you looked up, and a pain formed behind your eyes at the sight, thousands of angels, rushing down to earth, their wings broken and burned as they fell.

you watched as every angel fell, creating what humanity would think was beautiful, but it was tragic. it made tears leak down your cheeks, the pull of your heart, aching to find a way back home.

you stopped, breath quickening, james.

he was here, wasn’t he? he fell long ago, but not long enough. he’d see the angels, he’d help.

you didn’t remember what he looked like, let alone what he’d be here on earth, but your heart tugged in a direction, so willingly, you trusted it.

-

you didn’t find him.

lost in the wind, confused, dazed. earth was not what it seemed, humanity was cruel.

they treated earth horrible, dumping their trash amongst the rivers that fed them, cutting down the trees that ached for them.

they laughed at each other, they pointed and burned, their eyes drilling holes until someone broke, tears falling down their cheeks.

this is what he fell for?

this is why he left you?

these disgusting, low life’s, who think it must be better to trash the earth that birthed you, then fall victim to love?

you couldn’t find james, but you weren’t sure you wanted to.

if he fell for this, what had he become?

you could not remember him, not anymore.

the smile he used to wear has fully faded, the brush of his fingers against your lips, is no longer there.

you cannot remember what it felt like to bask in his presence, and you were surprised you even remembered the fallen angel’s name.

you promised you would not forget him, but he promised he would not fall. and that was what he did, wasn’t it?

-

you’ve been on earth for a human year now, you cannot remember how it felt to fly, how the wings you knew were once there, felt to rest upon your shoulders.

you had found many thing, but humanity was still very cruel, very hurtful.

you learned to not let it bother you, you were made to protect them, not the other way around.

you met a boy, not much older than you, who looked at you with such soft eyes, filled with grief you could not place.

he said he name was james.

it felt familiar rolling off your tongue, but you could never quite place it.

his hands felt soft in yours, he gently told you stories of angels and love, you wondered how he knew so much.

his smile was wide, comforting, it reminded you of what it felt like to look at the stars.

there was a part of you that ached, when he would look far away, a clod covering his eyes, it made your throat burn with words you did not know how to say.

but he always came back, a smile, his arms wide in a way that made you think of an angel’s wings, you had long forgotten.

you loved james, you thought he was the peak of humanity. you could understand why some angels loved it here, james was pure proof that not everything was bad.

he showed you love, he taught you how to feel, he held the sun in his hands, his laugh washed the disgusting words out of your head.

he felt like home.

he was home.

late one night, years later, he’d whisper one cold rainy night,

“did you forget me?”

you’d tilt your head, confusion lacing your words as you reached to grab his hand,

“what?”

he shook his head, closing his eyes in a way he only did when he didn’t want to let the tears fall upon his cheeks.

he spread his arms out, and sighed.

the scene reminded you of one you knew long ago, but the picture was blurry. the remains of your time among the stars were far too gone to be held onto.

but you do remember when you fell, there was always a name on your lips, an angel, one you knew well, a tug in your heart.

who was it?

you forgot.

[estellaelysian]

It burns (Ethan x MC)

A/N: This is super self indulgent and doesn’t lead anywhere so proceed on your own risk

**********

The alcohol scorched down his throat as he let his mind wander in the memories of the day, which seemed too distant now that it was over. Evening shaded into night beyond the red-brick walls of the bar – which were lined with numerous neon signs, the glow spilling onto nearby tables and people. Ethan chased the shadow of Alishka as his mind jumped from one moment to the next in all those where they had interacted with each other over the day. The image of her deep green eyes, wavy brown hair and full lips remained forever etched into his mind, giving him warmth like an eternal flame would.

It was late when he made it to this bar – Russo and Dale – but it was also when he found Boston the most loveable, shimmering in the glow of night, her streets thrumming with life and beating hearts and cheerfulness. He had taken an unnecessary walk from the hospital to his destination, wanting to feel anonymous in the dull crowd of people who were walking down the street. The permanence of the aged buildings, the restored Victorian row-houses surrounding English-style corners and the glowing yellow street lamps in South End seemed to give somewhat of a reassurance to his bruised and tired soul as he weaved his way among the sea of strangers. Walking wearily past dark shops, while the sky turned to a deep blue-black above him, he tried to find solace in the anonymity.

But now, at long last, when he found himself alone again, the unease returned, stronger than ever. He took a sip of the amber liquid, then another and then a third, but nothing seemed to ease him as he listened to the determined thud of a bass from the neighboring dive-bar. The foolish chatter around him did not drown out the rising voices inside his head – her voice and his, as they had argued in his office long into the afternoon.

That one argument had been enough to disrupt the entire balance he had built with the same woman whom he had disappointed today. But it was a mutual disappointment. She had been irrelevant to.

Shaking his head, he took another sip, letting the alcohol burn down his throat as he stared – quite intently – at the marble counter in front of him. It was amazing really, that the woman from whom he drew his strength could also be one of his greatest weaknesses. That was exactly why he had retired to his old office in the afternoon. He had lost focus, so instead of looking into patient care, he thought drowning himself into paperwork would help.

But indeed, it had not. Did it ever?

His mind, like a blissful dog scampering back to its lamppost, seemed to be stuck at the argument – making assumptions about the way she sounded, acted, spoke – no matter how much he tried to distract himself. Everything blurred around him, as if he had tuned out from his surroundings.

Why, he thought, was it so necessary for her to be insistent about things that did not matter to him? To latch onto one subject and stretch it until his patience snapped?

Or had he been truly unreasonable this time?

Oh dear God…

He swirled the gleaming liquid in its glass slowly before taking another sip, intent on numbing his brain, only that it refused from being so. Over and over again, her voice tortured him from deep inside; calling him out on the stubborn asshole he was before fading, only to return for the millionth time.

But wasn’t that the point of tonight? To get as far away as he could from the hospital, go to a bar in South End, and let the alcohol ease his pain and anxiety.

The door opened and someone stepped in, bringing together a cool Boston breeze and faint traces of wildflowers. Though his senses seemed unnaturally sharpened at this point, his eyes remained glued to his glass. But just a few seconds later, he found the woman right beside him, the scent of wildflowers much more perceptible.

Green flashed in his mind, deep and comforting, as he connected the scent, almost instinctively, to the one person it reminded him of.

Hold yourself, Ramsey.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman flag down the bartender and order a rainbow colored cocktail before turning away for a moment or two.

‘Quite the pain-relief, isn’t it?’ she asked in a mellifluous, sweet voice which fell like honey onto his tongue.

He could swear it was Alishka’s voice, but maybe he had dived too deep into the alcohol pain-relief. He had started imagining things.

Sensing that she was probably still expecting an answer, he nodded before looking straight at her.

And almost immediately, thought of Alishka Roy, even though he had put up a boundary between him and those insistent, maddening thoughts.

He didn’t realize it at first, but that smile – he would recognize it anywhere, anytime, no matter how detached he was.

But Alishka?

Nonsense. He was losing his mind.

‘I should’ve guessed my boss would come here after the much-exhausting day he faced at work today. It would’ve atleast saved me the time I spent wandering about.’

He raised his eyes to her face again. This was not an illusion. She was real, he thought, as he glanced at her hot coral lips which now wore an amused smile. He was not dreaming.

But why would she feel the need to wander about for him?

Do you really need an answer for that, dimwit, his mind chided.

‘Ofcourse you’d follow me here too,’ he said bluntly, battling away the sweeter responses, raising the glass to his lips.

‘You are not my boss outside of work, Dr. Ramsey. It is my freewill to do as I want to once I step outside the hospital.’

He looked up at her again, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. ‘Says the woman who bothers me all the same, inside or out.’

She made a dismissive wave, an easy laughter leaving her. ‘You’ve got a horrid sense of humor,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is why everyone is terrified of you, even now.’

The last two words stung with an unimaginable burn, questioning the character he had spent years to build.

‘What do you mean, “even now”?’ he asked, the words coming out much more defiant than he wanted them to.

She smiled a benevolent smile as the bartender dropped off her cocktail, which smelled strongly of Pernod. Raising the glass up to meet her lips with tantalizing slowness, she said, ‘Even now, when they’ve learned that you can love something, someone more than medicine. Wholeheartedly.’

He choked on his drink involuntarily, but she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him at all. ‘And yet, at the same time, you can manage to be incredibly bitter to that someone.’

She took a long gulp of her cocktail, and again, before he could respond to her grievances, she said, ‘But anyway, I am not here to discuss that.’

Play pretend, he thought.

‘And why exactly, is it that you are here?’

‘Same as you. Pain-relief. My boss can be a real bore sometimes,’ she answered with the faintest traces of a smirk.

Let’s hear it now, shall we. ‘Who is your boss?’ he asked, going along with her little game.

‘Some world class, renowned, grumpy attending diagnostician.’

He liked how she complimented him and got a dig at him in the same sentence.

‘He seems to have a stressful job,’ he said, looking over the glass to her heavenly features, painted in the neon glow of the bar.

‘That he likes to imply. He is good at what he does.’

He nodded, trying to contemplate her answer, thinking that there would be traces of sarcasm in her answer, but found none.

‘Cheers to that,’ he said, clinking her glass with his own, their fingers brushing slightly, setting his body ablaze with the kind of fire that raged through forests. It was the closest they had got to touching that day, morning apart.

He finished the scotch in one long sip under her watchful gaze. Torture or bliss, there was no answer.

Though dulled by the excesses of the alcohol, he felt anger rise inside his body at the men who made glances in her direction, from a distance or even as they passed her. She seemed to draw much more gazes today than she did usually.

What exactly was it? Her rich brown hair, inching down her back, or those emerald eyes that gleamed with cleverness? And why, every time, did his jealousy had him to do things which he shouldn’t have been doing?

He didn’t know.

What he did know, was that he wouldn’t let those men even get near her.

So he raised a hand to her face, smoothing away stray strands of hair and tucking them behind her ear.

If she was surprised, she did not show it, but a lovely blush spread out on her cheeks, spreading down to her graceful neck and uncovered shoulders. She eyed him with a raised eyebrow, and he willfully ignored all the ideas that look gave him. Tonight was different. Even if they left the bar together, they would part ways almost as soon as they were outside, walking down in opposite directions.

Tonight they were fighting, even though it was different.

Even if he had to have his heart tugged and pulled and then torn, tonight was different.

Her emeralds met his sapphires, curious and bewitching.

He wished he could kiss those perfectly painted lips and ruin that makeup.

‘How about we make a deal then,’ she asked, setting down the glass on the paper napkin that was left on the shiny marble counter. ‘Tonight, let’s forget everything. Let’s forget that you are my irritating boss, let’s forget that I am a – what did you call me? – ah, bothersome resident. Let’s forget those men staring down at me from the opposite corner of the bar. Let’s put a pause on this battlefield, even though I am sure I can outwit you in every way, and let’ go home together.’

That was a tempting offer.

The suggestive tone and the desire burning plain in her eyes ignited his need for her.

How could he not resist her, even a single night?

His voice came out dusky when he spoke again. ‘Let’s put them topics to bed, and go fuck on the roof.’

Just to say that we did.

She smiled. ‘I’d rather your body than half of your heart,’ she said, quoting the song back to him, her voice the sweetest he had ever heard it to be.

Ethan blinked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell her that he was far from fighting or if he wanted to claim those lips, right now, right here.

Then he saw, over her shoulder, a man whisper something to another before looking at her neck. He felt disgusted as his gaze traveled lower and lower. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to punch him in his filthy face, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, not betraying a single of the feelings he was feeling at that exact moment.

‘Let’s go home then,’ he announced, rising at once and reaching for her hand.

He led her outside into the cool crisp Boston night and she only felt justified in flagging down a cab to the way home, though it wasn’t that far away.

They could’ve walked there.

But then he wouldn’t get to do as he willed right in the cab, as he decided he need not waste a single minute of the time he had been gifted, by incidence or co-incidence, all the same. He failed to keep his hands to himself in the darkened cab, momentarily being illuminated by headlights and taillights of the passing traffic, as he crowed her into a corner, evoking soft moans. He watched her, bathed in red light, her sequined top glittering as the light shifted against her profile. Her eyes met his and he lost his sane, his coherent thoughts reducing to a small compass in his brain. Her lips commanded his attention, and he pressed his lips against them, evoking a gentle sigh as their breaths mingled. Her soft fingers grazed his rough beard as her hand rested against his cheek.

The music masked their muffled whispers and moans, but he could feel the drivers eyes, moving with unnecessary regularity, from the road ahead to the rearview mirror.

Even in the elevator, they stumbled, failing from keeping themselves from touching each other. The button to the thirteenth floor was pressed before he felt the soft pressure of her lips against his own. Her tongue was cool and sweet and tasted of Pernod.

‘Alishka…’ he managed to say between the kisses. ‘Why do we fight at all?’

‘Because we are …’ a little giggle. ‘Both … very stubborn …’

A few seconds later they stood at his door, which was unlocked with haste and shut close with a loud bang. The moment they stepped inside, he dipped his head and closed his lips over hers.

‘Nothing makes sense without you…’ he murmured into her ear, proceeding to tug her tight against him.

‘Then accept your defeat …’ she returned immediately, making a quick work of his shirt buttons. ‘But then again, we’ve called a temporary pause on this battlefield, haven’t we.’

Albeit reluctantly, he agreed. ‘We have.’

He led her to the bedroom, helping her out of her clothes before easing her down on the mattress gently, deciding the bitterness and pain had been enough for the day. The night had to be different.

Slow, gentle hands grazed the newly exposed skin with caresses too soft, before he leaned down on her, gazing into her eyes, letting his forehead rest against hers.

‘I love you.’

She giggled again. ‘I love you too.’

**********

Kudos to you guys if you made it out of this chaotic mess my brain put together. I honestly don’t know how this happened, but I guess it’s just me after a full, very real college day with loads of note-taking.

Tagging: @tenaciouslandvoidgiant @choicesaddict5 @schnitzelbutterfingers @starrystarrytrouble

Let me know if you want to be added or removed.

[cardsthings]

The Kidnapping of Goro Akechi

The courtyard was bathed in a bright orange glow, so much so that the flicker of candlelight drowned out the stars. Goro stared up at the blank sky. In just under an hour, guests would start to arrive. He grimaced at the thought. A full night of mingling with nobles he didn't even know or care enough to recognize. It was a joke. The entire masquerade was nothing but an excuse for disgusting people to indulge in vices without causing a scandal.

"Is something the matter my Lord?" Goro turned to the masked woman in front of him. One of the many servants at the palace who was being forced to attend to the wretched event. He felt sorry for her, no doubt she would have a far worse night than he ever could. Dealing with entitled drunks who thought, no, knew they could get away with whatever they wanted... He suppressed the urge to tell her to run far away. No doubt, it would have ended poorly for both of them. "You seem... distracted."

"Oh no," He carefully smiled. There was no point in letting some random servant know his true thoughts. At best, having someone to listen would be a mild comfort, at worst, word might get back to his father. If he ever got the idea that Goro was ungrateful in any way, well, he didn't want to think about the consequences. "It's just a shame that you can't see the stars tonight."

The woman nodded with a clearly fake smile. Before she could continue the conversation with some meaningless platitudes, the sound of broken glass and his father's angry shouts drew her attention. She left in a hurry to placate the raging king. Goro turned to look, Shido's cheeks were flushed, whether with anger or alcohol he couldn't tell. At least four people were attending to him, trying to prevent an even larger outburst.

Goro quickly turned away when Shido set his eyes on him. He didn't need that sort of attention right now. He just needed to keep his head down and wait for the horrid night to be over.

*****

The hours passed by painfully slow. Even with the minor indulgence of wine, Goro's barely buzzed state hardly soothed how horrendously boring everything was. Maybe if he could let himself go safely... but as it was, every fake smile he had to give to some masked idiot just made him feel like he was dying inside a little more. At least the effect that the flowing booze had on others worked to his favor. The drunk crowd was more interested in gossiping among themselves and harassing the staff who hadn't yet managed to slip away instead of trying to get on the good side of the crowned prince.

Goro spent some of his down time scanning the crowd. He noticed Okumura however, his young daughter was conspicuously absent. Likely because even someone like him knew not to bring her to these sorts of events. Especially not when Goro had heard rumors of her engagement. Although, the other subject of said rumors was right at Okumura's side. Honestly, Goro pitied Haru despite having met her once. From what he could tell, she wasn't yet like the vile nobility that plagued the land. Of course, yet was the key term. No one decent ever rose to power.

As Goro continued to search through the crowd from afar, he caught sight of Shido. His father was predictably drunk. It's not like these parties served much other purpose than to allow him indulge in every vice he could think of under the cover of "high class mingling". When Shido suddenly turned to face him, Goro turned away, hoping that he hadn't been caught staring. It was unlikely he'd be punished for something so simple but still... When his father was drunk he could be particularly petty and unpredictable.

He sighed and gave up on looking at the crowd. Most of them were complete strangers to him anyways. Instead, he entertained himself with thoughts of Shido's downfall. The idea of slitting his father's throat and stealing his crown and throne while he looked on, choking on his own-

"Hellooo~" Goro took a deep breath. The person behind him absolutely reeked with alcohol. It was clear they'd been drinking all night. He pretended not to hear them, hoping that they would go away on their own. "Hey, hey!" The drunk grabbed his shoulder. If they stained the white shirt he was wearing with their filthy hands, he'd be pissed.

Goro turned around with a polite smile as he shrugged off their hand. "Good evening sir." He used a more pleasant voice to address them. What a night it would be if some random drunk ran off to his father to tattle that his son hadn't been the perfect little prince he was always supposed to be.

"You're a cutieee~" Goro tried his best not to glare at the man. He simply gave a polite chuckle.

"I think you're drunk sir." The man grabbed Goro's wrist as he tried to disengage. "Maybe you should have some water and sit down."

"Aww, that's no fun! Come on, why don't we go somewhere..." He leaned in. Goro wrinkled his nose as the smell of alcohol became even worse. "A little more private."

Goro leaned back. Did this man not know who he was? He certainly didn't know who the man was. "As... lovely as that sounds... I'll have to decline. Now, please let go before I-"

"Come oooon!" The man attempted to yank Goro forward but he resisted. Suddenly, the man's expression darkened beneath his mask. "What?! You think you're too good for me or something!"

Goro tried to push the man off him but his grip on his wrist tightened until it was painful. "I'd rather not cause a scene-"

The man yanked Goro in close again, this time succeeding. "Then fucking-"

"Excuse me." Goro craned his neck to see over the drunk man. A handsome young man stood behind him with a confident smirk. "I think you're bothering him."

The drunk whipped his head to see the newcomer, letting go of Goro's wrist as he did. Goro immediately put some distance between himself and the man. "Who the hell're you!?" Goro had similar thoughts. He didn't quite recognize him but he still seemed somehow familiar. Maybe it was the alcohol or the dimming lights that were causing such an effect.

The young man tilted his head with an amused expression. "I'm just a concerned bystander." He looked past the drunk directly at Goro. His eyes widened slightly beneath his black and white mask. "And I'd appreciate it if you left my friend alone."

"Go fuck yourself!" The drunk attempted a sloppy punch but it was easily dodged. The young man used the drunk's momentum against him to knock him to the ground. As the drunk struggled to get back up, the young man walked past him. He stopped in front of Goro and smiled.

"Are you okay?" The young man offered him a gloved hand for a handshake.

"I'm fine. And I had the situation under control." Goro turned away. "You have no idea what trouble you could have just caused for me."

"I'm sorry," Somehow Goro didn't think he was being genuine. "Let me make it up to you."

Goro turned to him with an unimpressed look. "How exactly?" He crossed his arms.

"I dunno, I guess you'll just have to find out." Ren reached out his hand again, a mischievous smirk crossed his face. "I'm Ren by the way, and you are..?"

Ren. Goro looked him over. The bright red gloves served as a pop of color in his otherwise black outfit. It seemed almost more suited to sneaking than to partying... Maybe it was the miniscule amount of alcohol or maybe it was genuine curiosity (Goro wanted to blame the alcohol), but he was tempted. It was something that would let him not focus on the horrendous party going on around them.

"...I'm Goro." He kept his expression even. "It's a pleasure to meet you Ren."

Ren smirked and gave a dramatic bow. "I wasn't aware I was mingling with the prince himself."

Goro huffed and turned away. A strange feeling made itself known in his chest. He really didn't know? Had he really helped without thinking that it could have gotten him a favor from the prince? Or was it that he was lying and simply waiting for an opportunity to use the whole event against him? "There's no need to make such a big deal out of it..."

"Of course not." Goro's eyes flicked back to Ren when he began to speak again. "Why don't we get out of here?"

"I can't exactly leave right now, if my father saw me..." What conclusions would he draw? Ren was about his age and he was undeniably handsome...

Ren smirked. "Not even for a second?" Goro looked him over once again. He looked harmless but looks could be deceiving. What did he want? What was his motive here? "I'm sure I could find a way to sneak you out if you really wanted me too, come on, I'm trying to make things up to you."

Goro sighed. "I suppose a few minutes couldn't hurt..." It was probably a stupid idea but he was curious. There was something strange about Ren and he wanted to know more.

Ren grabbed Goro by the hand. He quickly looked around the courtyard before he pulled Goro in a darker area. He kept Goro closer to the wall, using himself as cover to compensate for Goro's bright white outfit. It didn't take long for Ren to find a door that Goro hadn't even seen in the dimmed lights. He pulled it open and quickly entered right after Goro. After that, they made their way through the halls and out to the front of the palace.

Once outside, Goro took a deep breath of fresh air. He felt a smile creep onto his face as a nice breeze blew through the air. He took a moment to look up at the stars. The lights from the palace behind them still dimmed them but now they were at least visible.

"Much better." Goro turned to Ren. His mask was off and away. In the dim light of the moon, Goro suddenly realized why he had seemed so familiar. Before he could call for help or say anything, he felt a sudden horrible pain explode on the side of his head. He fell to the ground as black spots filled his vision. Vaguely, he could make out Ren walking towards him. Someone else grabbed him while Ren approached.

"Sorry your highness..." Were the last words Goro heard before the world drifted into darkness.

*****

A light breeze blew Goro's hair into his face. The smell of the sea surrounded him. In the distance, he could hear a few assorted voices. As he opened his eyes, he could see a blur of brown beneath his feet. His arms hurt but when he tried to move them into a more comfortable position, he met painful resistance from what must have been a rope around his wrists. His head was absolutely pounding.

"-ink he's awake." Goro looked up. A blurry figure stood above him, their bright yellow hair stood out. Slowly, they came into focus. A large grin was plastered on his face.

"Where-" Goro's question was cut off by a sudden sharp pain in his head. He winced as a shadow blocked out the sun. The sun... how long had he been out?

"Good morning, your highness." Goro's eyes shot up to the source of the familiar voice. Ren stood there with an annoyingly smug smirk. Immediately, Goro tried to lunge at Ren. He would have wrung his neck if he wasn't stopped by the stupid rope. "Nice to see you're doing well."

"Let me go you piece of shit!" He struggled against his restraints to little success. Either he was too weak, the rope was tied very well, or both.

Ren simply laughed at him. "I wasn't expecting the prince to be so vulgar." He leaned down so that he was eye level with Goro. "I think it suits you."

"Fuck off." Goro glared at him, if looks could kill he'd be dead a hundred times over. "Whatever the hell you think you're going to get from me-"

"Don't worry, I don't want anything from you." Ren smiled. "You should actually be back home pretty quick. We already sent word to the king that we have you, as soon as he pays the ransom, you'll be returned completely unharmed."

"You already attacked me last night."

"Mostly unharmed." Ren amended. "But don't worry, nobody wants to hurt you... again. As long as you don't try anything, you'll be fine." He flashed a smile and gave the same bow he had the night before. "You have my word, your highness."

Goro's eyes were drawn to the dagger that poked out slightly from Ren's belt. He struggled against his restraints one more time but found his hands thoroughly stuck in place. He sighed and hung his head in defeat.

"Glad you understand." Akira turned around and addressed his crew. Goro kept his eyes trained to the ground but strained his ears to hear what they were saying. Unfortunately, the sounds of the ocean drowned out their already quiet conversation. It was fine. Everything was fine. Goro could be patient. He could learn what he needed to know. It wouldn't be long before he escaped.

Crossposted on AO3, https://archiveofourown.org/works/32254492

[monst]

May I request some sexy times with Aizawa?? Maybe like he comes home late but is worked up so he just slides into S/O and see how long it takes for her to wake up?? I'm thirsty for this man

Reminder set: Thank Hizashi

Aizawa Shouta x Reader

Thirsty Bitch Juice: Somnophilia, Daddy kink, and a very overworked Shouta. Why tf are my thirst posts so long???

Busy. That’s all he’d been for the past three weeks. Work was never ending and seemed to come in wave after suffocating wave like an angry sea. He would finish one task only to be presented by another and once finished he’d have to revise lesson plans and attend meetings. And, if that wasn’t tiring enough, he also had his obligations as a hero to attend to. A day in the life of Aizawa Shouta meant never getting a moments rest.

               He loved his job, he loved teaching kids and hero work was well his life’s work, but everyone needed a break every once in a while, and if Aizawa didn’t get one he was going to snap. Napping during the rare free period could only do so much to ease the man’s stress. And to make matters worse he hadn’t been able to spend much time with you. Just another thing to add to the list of Aizawa’s problems. He really felt like a shitty lover as he only had time to give you a parting kiss and slump next to your body in exhaustion when he got home after a shift.

               He was glad that you were always so understanding and patient. Just thinking of you was enough to lift his spirits and brighten his day. In a way you gave him the motivation to not keel over from the massive tidal wave of work that seemed to afflict him this month. He truly adored all of your supportive text messages throughout the day. ‘You can do it Shou!’ ‘Koko and I just came back from the vet! And great news she’s pregnant! Although I don’t exactly know how… But think of the kittens!’ ‘I had a great lunch today don’t forget to eat and stay hydrated honey’ ‘I’ll keep your spot on the bed warm’ Man what would he do without you?

               ‘Goodnight Shou I’m turning in early tonight, come home safe’ A smile tugged at his lips at your last text. To his extreme delight his co-worker decided to cover his hero shift in order to give him a break. He claimed that it was the least that he could do but to Aizawa it was like an answered prayer. With luck he’d be able to catch you before you drifted off and partake in conversation…Or something more salacious. Fuck how long had it been since he’d gotten off? Three long weeks, he couldn’t even imagine how you were fairing……

               Aizawa couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he caught sight of your vibrator resting by your leg. Apparently, you were faring well during his horrid dry spell. He couldn’t blame you. You were a woman with needs, and he was more than grateful that you were loyal enough not to seek others to fulfil said needs. …. How long had it been since he touched your skin? Well he knew how long but it was still hard to believe. His eyes raked over your exposed skin as if though it were his first time seeing it. You were bare apart from for his large shirt that stopped just below the curve of your ass.

               The smell of your sex still lingered in the air and the decision to have you was made without a second thought. He stripped out of his clothes like a magician and was on the bed parting your thighs before you could say ‘Eraserhead’. His large calloused hands massaged the soft skin of your thighs as he leaned down to press a kiss against your parted lips. His lips split into a gentle smile when you sighed contently at the contact. His fingers curled underneath the material of the shirt you wore and he slipped it up past your breasts.

               You were just as beautiful as he remembered if not more so. He settled in between your thighs as he begun to drag his hands across your warm flesh. He took note of everything that might have changed during those weeks. His fingers brushed against your bicep, there was no change to your expression, during your play last month the knot had been too tight, and you hadn’t let him know and it had left a sore spot. He hadn’t been to happy about that and the plethora of apologies that slipped past his thin lips had begun to annoy you. He was glad it healed up; he’d need to be more careful in the future…

               His rough hands palmed your soft breasts as he pressed kisses against the length of your neck. You body had reacted as always, there was no way that in three weeks he would become unacquainted with all the ins and outs of your body and without much effort he was drawing pleased sighs from your sleeping form. His fingers tugged at your pebbled peaks as he began to kiss down your body. If you were awake, he knew you’d be giggling at the scratchy tingles his stubble provided. He let one of his hands dip between your thighs and brush up against your sex.

               He sucked in a breath that sounded more like the hiss of a cobra. He felt his cock throb in an aching madness. Your pussy could well about drown him and he was tempted to test that by diving his head between your thighs, but he decided against that. He wanted nothing more than to be inside of you and he braced himself on his elbows as he lined up with your watery hole. He made sure to slip inside of you slowly, he didn’t want to frighten you awake.

               “Mmm babygirl it’s been so damn long.” He groaned once his cock was halfway enveloped in your tight heat. The drag of him pulling out and pushing back into you deeper than before drew a soft moan from your throat. “That’s it take my cock kitten.”

               Aizawa’s thrusts were sensual. He was slow with each cant of his hips as he delved deeper and by the way your cunt pulsed around him he could tell you enjoyed it. He kept his pace relishing in the way your hot walls sucked him in to hug his throbbing length. He wanted more. It wasn’t by much but he went faster. And knowing your body like he did he angled his ruts so that they pressed against the ridges of the spot that filled your body with the most pleasure.

               “S-shouta.” You moaned in REM.

               “Even asleep you know who this pussy belongs too.” He grinned. “This cunt is mine perfectly molded for my cock.”

               Fuck he wanted to be conscious. A firm thrust procured a loud moan and your eyes fluttered open in confusion. You were blinking the remnants of sleep from your eyelashes when all you could feel was the ripple effect of Aizawa plunging into you. From the tips of your fingers to your curled toes all you could feel was the familiar tingle of liquid pleasure.

               “Shouta~” You mewled, wrapping your legs around your lovers wait your arms curling around his neck to bring his mouth to yours. His lips devoured yours feverishly as he began to really fuck into you. You pulled away from his lips with a gasp. “Nngh w-when did you get home?”

               “N-not so long ago.” Hr replied, his tongue running flat against one of the more sensitive spots on your neck. Your cunt fluttered around him at the feeling. Aizawa could play you like a fiddle and you sure as hell missed his touch. “You were touching yourself.”

               “S-sorry.” You whined.

               “It’s okay babygirl daddy hasn’t been here to take care of you.” His words brought the sun to your cheeks, you missed the way he’d call you his babygirl. Fuck you missed him you missed your-

               “D-daddy I missed you so much!” You cried out “Mmm I had to play all by myself.”

               “I know baby, but daddy’s here now.” He panted, his hips snapping against your own at such a pace your moving hips couldn’t match. Your fingers hooked onto his back as he continued to rut into you harder and quicker, until the predominant sound in the room was the clouting of his balls against your ass.

               “Daddy I’m close!” you yelped.

               “Then cum around my cock kitten.”  And you did just that with a sharp cry of his name. You knew he wasn’t anywhere near done with you and quite frankly you didn’t mind. And Aizawa sure as hell didn’t mind. He had to thank Hizashi tomorrow for covering his shift because he really needed tonight.

[morgana-ren]

Im. I love you? Your answer to that ask is beautiful, also I forgot about the other meaning for weed for a moment and got confused like, 'is morgana-ren a stoner? Beefy weed muscles???' and now i cant help but imagine stoned Shiggy. Specifically him forcefully shotgunning his captive because hes bored and if hes getting stoned she might as well too. Laughing at her when she gets spacey. This is a fun train of thought lol, thanks for inspiring it

I am a ridiculous and incoherent person. My first instinct is to literally reply with complete gibberish to most things. Shaming me has absolutely Z E R O effect because I have no shame. I’m a ridonkulous person. Last time I got high, I just laid in bed singing “Secret tunnel, secret tunnel” for like 3 hours.

To be fair, I would also do that completely buttfuck sober.

Gods I wish I had a gif of Shig smonkin some donk wods, but since I don’t, you’ll have to settle for me writing it.

PSA after the fact: I AM SO SORRY IT GOT A LIL CREEPY BUT TO BE FAIR, IT’S ME AND IF YOU SENDIN ME SHIT YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO BE REAL FECKIN’ SPECIFIC OR ELSE I’M GUNNA MAKE IT CREEPY also weed hits me way different than it does most folks so it’s really hard for me to be able to accurately describe how it might be to anyone else. SO imagine this is supervillain quirky weed he has special made to calm his...uh,.. never ending rage. also it’s ridiculously longer than I planned. cause I get carried away. anyway love you!

His room is dank and smells like mold and must.

Tight metal bindings cut into your wrists, leaving you raw with crusted blood despite the fact you stopped fighting days ago. Your tailbone feels bruised from constantly shifting on his worn down carpet, your legs prickling and aching from inactivity.

He’s kept you bound here for a while, handcuffs looped through the foot of his bed. You’re not entirely sure how long, since his ratty blackout curtains make it hard to see daylight. He’s got them taped down, blocking out all but the tiniest slivers of light. Like most of his life, his room exists in total darkness.

Time has little meaning here.

He doesn’t leave you alone often, only really exiting the room to bring you food which you refuse to eat. Most of it has been kicked into the corner, the soft buzz of fruit flies accumulating more and more by the day. It frustrates him, but he’s keen on reminding you that he’s patient. You’ll relent eventually.

Truth be told, your willpower is starting to give. Your body is stiff and sore, head perpetually aching from crying. His moods are like whiplash, one second crooning to you how special you are to him, the next backhanding you and calling you a stubborn bitch. You don’t know what he wants from you. If the fates were merciful, he’d get it over with and just kill you.

Ending your life doesn’t seem like it’s high on his list of priorities.

He’s facing away from you now, tinkering with something on his desk by the light of his various computer monitors. You can’t make out what it is, only that he’s been at it for the past ten minutes. Grateful as you are for his lack of attention, it always makes you nervous when he gets preoccupied. It usually means he’s working on some new and exciting way to break you.

You take comfort in the momentary peace, some temporary reprieve from the invasive leer of those horrid crimson eyes scanning over you in the darkness. Whatever he’s doing, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Only steel yourself against what he gives you when he’s finished.

He reaches into his desk, pulling out a plastic bag of something you can’t make out. All you know is when you hear the ziplock open, a strange scent floods the room. It smells vaguely familiar, but between your fucked up headspace and even worse situation, you can’t really bring yourself to care.

Leaning against the little metal bed leg you’re imprisoned against, you realize just how heavy your eyes are as you rest the back of your head on his threadbare mattress. Fighting off oncoming waves of pulsing anxiety takes most of your energy reserve, and bouts of sleep tend to come few and far between when you’re sleeping in the den of a predator.You’re so tired, so worn down, and you don’t know what else he could do to you that he hasn’t already done or planning to do. It would be a lie to say you hadn’t considered saying that to him, but you feel like tempting the universe or him isn’t a great idea right now. Either way, your eyelashes feel like weights dragging you under into the sea of sleep.

You’re almost there when his chair squeaks and you jolt awake, that overwhelming sense of dread coming over you. Your instincts blare and somehow you just know his eyes are on you again, waiting for you to acknowledge him. He wants your attention, and he expects you to give it.

Dragging your exhausted lids open when you know you’ll have to see that terrifying man is a burden you haven’t grown accustomed to having quite yet, but it’s one you bear anyway. Besides, you know that if he thinks you’re ignoring him, he has no problem forcing you to look at him. It’s easier to just give him what he wants. He hurts you less that way.

So you do, and just like you expected, he’s simpering down at you, holding something you can’t make out in his hands. Gulping comes on impulse; he looks far too pleased and that never bodes well for you.

“Do you know what this is?”

He holds it out and it takes you a second to make it out in the dark, but you know that basic shape.

“I-is that a pipe?”

“At least you know that much.” He gives you a cheeky lip quirk, making heat rise in your cheeks. Palming it in one hand, he uses the other to fish in his pocket, one finger carefully pulled outside the kangaroo pouch of his jacket. Following his movements, your brows furrow and curiosity almost wills you to speak. The words stall in your mouth, however, when you see him pull a cheap lighter out between two fingers.

He flicks it a few times with his thumb, sparking the light and sending small cinders dancing across the his lap. After a few tries, it finally holds. The light across his face only makes him seem all the more sinister, exacerbating the shadows that reside in the craggy, marred flesh of his cheeks. The flame dances in his pupils and the orange tinged shine glimmers off the edges of his weirdly perfect, jagged teeth. It’s extremely unsettling.

He lets the flame die, picking his pipe back up and tapping it on the desk once or twice.

“I don’t do this often. I usually prefer to keep a clear head.” He lazily arches back in his chair, inhaling the dank stench of the sticky green plant packed in his pipe before returning his gaze to you. “But in some cases, I find it can help you relax.”

Bringing the pipe to his face, he wraps his chapped lips around the bit and sparks the lighter again. You watch as the flame is sucked toward the bowl, igniting the contents and bringing them to a dull simmer.Thumb twitching on the carb and pinkie pulled away, he inhales, letting his head lull back on the seat of his chair. After a few seconds and a suppressed cough or two, he leans forward and exhales, sending a splay of thick, billowing smoke directly into your face.

You turn your head, watery eyes clinging shut, but it’s not enough to keep the acrid stench from clogging through your sinuses. It constricts your throat, compelling an instinctive cough from deep in your chest. Whatever it is he’s smoking, it’s strong.

His high pitched laugh echoes off the barren walls of his room as you scrunch your nose and try to disperse the smoke pooled in your face. When the air finally clears, he’s leaning toward you, arms resting on his knees with the pipe in one hand and his lighter in the other. The little embers still burn beneath the lip of the bowl, little grey spirals rising up from the still burning plant clusters.

He holds it out to you (as if you could take it with your hands restrained behind your back), hyena-grinning as you scowl up towards him.

“You should try a little. It might make you a little more-” Pausing, he pretends to be in thought. More mockery, you really wish you were desensitized to it by now. “-friendly.”

“I would have been friendly if you hadn’t kidnapped me like some sort of psychopath!”

He rolls his eyes at your outburst, languidly pushing himself off of his dilapidated computer chair and crouching down next to you instead. You know better than to kick at him, he won’t hesitate to break your legs to keep you in line. All you can do is stare at him nervously as he shakes his shaggy pale hair out over his forehead, still sporting that unnerving expression. His scarlet eyes burn arguably brighter than fire from the pipe, and exponentially more threatening.

He moves a little closer into your space, bringing the piece back up to his lips and lighting it up once again. He takes a deep inhale this time, even deeper than the first. Chest puffed and breath held, his lanky arm reaches out back behind him places the still-burning pipe back on the desk, gaze never leaving yours.You figure he’s going to blow it in your face again, either to be annoying or to try and give you some sort of shitty second rate high to make you more malleable.

It’s obnoxious, but not even close to the worst thing he’s done to you.

Yet, his cold, dry fingers grab at your jaw, forcing you to keep your attention on him. A chipped nail from his thumb prods at your lower lip and you realize he wants you to open your mouth. You could tell him to go fuck himself, but that only gives him what he wants, if only for a moment. Instead, you choose to glower at him.

If looks could kill, he would probably keel over, but unfortunately you live in a world where he has the upper hand. He squints at you, something you know would be equally as furious as your own grimace if his features had the freedom to express it. The fingers on your chin clamp down, digging into your soft skin in a bruising grip. The more you defy him, the more he punishes you, and his large hands have more than the power they need to cause you pain.

Eventually you feel your jaw start to crack. You try to hold out, try to stay your ground, but it becomes too much. Between his brutal strength and your already weakened condition, it’s no use fighting him on something he really wants.

You open your mouth, if only to cry in pain, and he immediately crashes his lips against yours.Teeth clack as you try to shake him off, but it’s too late. He’s breathing his air into your lungs, caustic mixture of the taste of the weed and the bitter scent of his breath swirling deep inside you. You try to heave it back at him, but the damage is done. Smoke barely seeps from the tiny cracks he allows between your faces, and your need to breathe is stronger than your ability to fight, so eventually, you relent.

You gulp the air he gives you down, just wanting him to get the fuck away from you. You can feel his lips quirk in a smile as you fight the urge to spit up from the foul scent of his exhale, ripped and bloodied lips scratching against yours. Eventually when he does pull away from you, you go into a hysterical coughing fit and between your bouts, you can hear him cackle.

You finally manage to calm yourself, but whatever it is he’s made you inhale, it’s strong. Stronger than anything you’re used to. Even second hand, your head is already humming, and you can feel your chest tighten against your will.

“You feel it, don’t you?” High pitched giggling and a weirdly gentle brush of a hand across your buzzing, swollen cheek. You go to swat him off, hissing in pain when the metal edge round holding you back cuts into an already existing cut. “Soon you won’t have any fight left in you at all.”

He leaves you alone for a minute, door clicking behind him. You catch your breath in his absence, eyes scanning your surroundings. You look for something, anything he has left within your reach that you can use to escape. It’s what you do during the exceedingly brief moments he’s not around, and so far, it hasn’t yielded any results, but you refuse to give up.

The curtains likely mean that there’s presumably a window behind there. If you can just get free, you might be able to jump out. Problem is you’re stuck with your hands restrained behind you on a metal bed post. It doesn’t matter how much you kick and scream, no one ever comes, so it’s probably safe to say whoever is below or above you doesn’t give a shit. You need to get out of these cuffs.

He smokes, at least occasionally. He’s probably got a bobby pin around here for scraping. If he’s anything like your mates, they probably litter the floor. To be fair, even if you get one, you don’t really know what to do with it. You could try your hand at lockpicking?

Heh. Hand. Get it? Cause all those hands?

Focus.

The biggest problem right now is the handcuffs. Technically, you could get out of them, but you’d have to disjoint your fingers to do it, which takes away from your already pathetic chances at escaping. It hurts to move your wrists, let alone yank on them. Why the fuck did this asshole have handcuffs anyway? Unless he’s doing some kinky shit in his down time. You wouldn’t put it past him, he’s obviously a weird guy. He seems like the type to be into some dirty stuff. You don’t know who with, but there’s probably villain fuckers out there he could find and take advantage of. Gross.

You audibly laugh.That’s funny.That’s really funny. You don’t know why, but the thought makes you giggle uncontrollably. Your mind refuses to stay on track.

Fucking focus!

Somewhere far away, you hear the door open and his heavy footsteps off to the side of you. Too late. You’re still laughing.

“Hey Shigaraki-”

He’s leaning down next to you, fucking with something behind you. Your hands. He’s messing around your hands. He’s cold. Why are his hands always so goddamn cold? Is that why he’s a villain? Cold hands? That would make you a villain too.

Your head feels several sizes too big, and you can’t help but think about how he smells like dust. Everything feels slow. You can feel your heart pumping. You can hear it too.

“-You should like, just let me go.That would be kinda cool. My hands hurt.”

You don’t notice they aren’t even cuffed anymore, or that he’s scooping you up in his arms and gently placing you on his bed.

“Don’t try to fight, now. You need a tolerance to before it’ll feel normal. You’ll only hurt yourself, and that would be such a shame.”

You can tell he’s mocking you again, but you just chortle because the words are processing like a slurry. The back of your head feels so soft. It’s definitely not the awful metal he’s made you crick your neck on the past little while. He’s touching your arms and it tickles. Flashes of his face play in your mind a little slower than they’re probably actually happening. It’s terrifying, but the fear doesn’t register. You wanna touch his face. You bet it feels funny.

You can hear the click of handcuffs again, and you know he’s cuffed you once again (so rude), just somewhere new now. Your fingers grip and you feel metal bars. A bed frame. Again. Uuugh. You kick your feet a little and they bounce off the mattress. Bouncy.

There’s a weight shift near your feet, and before you can really understand what’s happening, he’s on top of you, face hovering less than an inch above yours. Your cheeks are burning as his flaxen hair tickles and curtains you, and no matter how hard you want to, you can’t stop staring at his eyes. They’re so fucking intense you swear they scorch you. Like an abyss, you feel yourself being swallowed inside them as they stare long into you. Hate. Rage. So much embodied negativity you can practically feel it. Panic blooms in your chest but your body is reacting too slow. All you can do is squirm.

“Shh-” He’s caged your head in his arms, and his breath is glossing your cheek, just as sour as before but somehow you know what’s about to happen is much worse than forcefully smoking you out. “This’ll be much better for you if you relax and give in. Who knows? You could even enjoy it.”

He grinds his clothed pelvis into yours, and while somewhere inside your head, sirens are blaring, all your body can process is pressure against your most sensitive area. You whine, and he takes the opportunity to press his lips to yours again. Your mouth is slack and moist, so it’s nice and easy for him to slide his slimy, disgusting tongue down your throat. With your brain short circuiting from both shock and whatever he’s made you consume, your body doesn’t have enough control over its facilities to fight back.

He kisses you long and hard, if you can call whatever he’s doing to you kissing. It’s more like he’s trying to devour you. Sloppy, wet, and possessive, like he’s trying to choke you with his essence. It could have been a minute. It could have been hours. You don’t know.

When he does finally pull away, you can feel your stomach lurch as he laps at the string of spit that connects you to him, but you only blink your eyes wearily despite your extreme bodily reaction. You feel sleepy, or more accurately, your eyelids feel kinda heavy. Really heavy. Something visceral is telling you to stay awake, to keep fighting, but you just can’t. You can hear yourself speak but you don’t even know what you’re saying. You don’t remember.

“You’re cute like this, all spacey and stupid.” He flicks your forehead and your eyes flicker back open, but only briefly. “I guess it hit you kinda hard, huh? Sorry about that. I should have warned you. It must’ve slipped my mind.”

He presses his mouth to yours again, a little softer this time. You’re almost out at this point, everything feels so heavy. So sluggish. You barely feel his long, thin fingers glide slowly up your shirt.

“I think you could come to like it here with me if you stop being stubborn. But that’s okay. I forgive you. Like I told you before. I’m patient. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate- Chapter 20

In his 350 years, he had thought he had seen it all. Vesemir the unofficial head Witcher had spent years traipsing up, and down the country, he knew every path and detail of any town worth knowing to a Witcher. However, in his lifetime he did not foresee having to deal with a Witcher’s mate. Barmin, his master had glossed over it in training, dismissing the idea of it being any use. In his training, he and other fledgeling Witchers had become intrigued with the concept, but the master had been dismissive enough to toss them a copy of The Witcher- A History. With a whole chapter dedicated to the Witcher’s Mate. Being privileged enough to witness the building of the Witcher home he knew every book placed in the library and this battered copy preserved the only mentions of soulbonds in the entire Witcher section of the library. Barmin had mentioned that it was a Witcher’s Curse to be bound to another who would wither and die or who would face dying of a broken heart as the life of a Witcher was a dangerous one before placing the book back on the shelf where it gathered dust for the past 300 years. Till now that was.

Making his way up the gritty staircase, books wedged underneath his arms, he let the soft glow of the candlestick light his way from the archive and through the winding halls. Mermaid literature held little room in the main library; Witchers had no dealing with Merfolk for 400 years, he himself only met two. The first was a stunning female, long green hair and pale olive skin, a tail of metallic blue scales, pulling the fresh Witcher from a stormy sea when drowners pinned him down in the murky depth. She had all the makings of the predator, savage and vicious yet in the cave which she dragged him, she had all the tenderness of a maiden. She was inquisitive and powerful, and to the newly made Witcher, she was direct in her wants, spending the night and day making very extensive use of his body. A smile stretched across his feature, and he remembers the dalliance of his youth. The other had been a Trition, the male of the species, while not a beautiful as the female he had been majestic in his airs. He had been just as predatory as the female but seemed to lack in power of the female, it did not have the sharp barbs of teeth, or the ability to walk on earth demanded help to free a water sprite from a tree curse. If indeed the Adva girl was a mermaid it would cause a lot of difficulties. Mermaids where predators plain and simple, with very complex social structures and even more complicated mating rituals, one that they kept closely guarded. This was going to be near impossible. Witcher bonding was going to be difficult enough to get their heads around it didn’t really need the extra stress of figuring how a mermaid bonded.  He envisaged many nights slaving over a manuscript.

The library fire is dying. The low flame dominated the dwindling wood giving the room a soft light. He had, on being regaled with all the details excused himself to the archives, Barmin having moved all the Merfolk down there to add a room to the main collection. It had taken the best part of the afternoon to weedle through the mass of papers and books that had chaotically thrown into to achieve with no accord. Dropping the various scrolls and manuscripts, he settled himself into his leather-bound seat and placed the candlestick back in its holder—the soft flare of flame illuminating a slim figure perched on the window ledge.

‘Dove, I thought you would be in bed.’

‘Not sleepy…been an eventful day.’ Ciri rolled her shoulder, standing.

Moving from her perch, she fed the fire three thick blocks of wood, watching as the room was lit up with the roaring orange flame. The food she had gathered of dried meat, cheese and wine still sat untouched, Jaskier had tried to tempt Adva with the cheese and wine to no avail. Picking up the jug, she poured two generous helpings into the spare goblets and sat opposite the master Witcher.

‘I don’t think I would be able to sleep if I had seen Geralt finally put it to Yennefer. I would have properly celebrated so hard I would be drunk for a fortnight.’ The older man laughed picking up his goblet and throw back his contents, red droplets staining his white beard pink. ‘It would be Geralt that got mixed up with a soulmate who had to be a mermaid. He can’t live simply, even as…Has someone fixed the wall.’ Vesemir gawped at the wall by the window. The peeling stone wall had been replastered and the drafted that has previously whistled through the library on a cold night was no more. He had meant to repair it for the last fortnight, but the north-west staircase was in need of refurbishing, the barn needed to be mended, three chimneys needed sweeping and renovating and the long list of other restorations.

‘Adva and she reputtied the windows.’ the answer was tense and dry as she brought her cup to her lips and took a sip of the strong liquid.

‘She’s been her ten hours, and she replastered a wall and fixed a window? At least Geralt has the brains to pick a useful mate; I wonder if she does roofing.’ Vesemir gruffed, filling his goblet and downing it once again.

Ciri could feel annoyance rise within her, Vesemir was always dismissive and so distant from his emotions he couldn’t understand her concern. Since arriving, Adva had used the plaster in the hallway, despite their protest she spent most of the day fixing the wall and cleaning, Jaskier had tried to pull her away, but she looked near tears and battered their concerns away. Both Jaskier and Ciri sank back and watched Adva flit around the room, dusting, mopping and polishing. Ciri had never seen the library look so clean. In the space of ten hours, she had fixed the library and cleaned three full rooms before her eyelids began to droop, and Jaskier scooped her away before she could protest and tucked her tightly into a bed in one of the many rooms while Ciri searched through many garments that had cluttered up closets and chests from long forgot herbalists and Witchers that had come and gone to replace her outfit.

‘Vesemir! I am worried about Adva; a person doesn't start repairing buildings when they learn that they are a Mermaid and a Soulmate.’

‘And you know the extensive guide on how someone needs to react when they discover they are a Mermaid or a soulmate, was hardly worth me spending all day in the archives with such an expert already here.’ Vesemire scoffed, his eyes glancing against the bundle he had gathered with some concern. The few books that he found would have little in them to help with their… unique situation.

‘That not what I meant.’ the young woman sulked, pushing her bottom lip out as far as it could go.

‘Do you remember when you discovered your bloodline? It took us three weeks to stop you hacking the dummy to bits. People cope with things differently. If I had to meet Yennefer again, I probably devote myself to fixing the whole castle. You care a lot about Adva, don’t ya? Empathy is the downfall of a Witcher.’ Vesemire scolded. He didn’t know how many time he had tried to drum that into her and Geralt.

‘I…I do I see a lot of myself in her. Alone and confused, betrayed and powerful but scared about it.’ Ciri sighed.

It hurt to admit; it was traumatic. The early years of her life had been so lovely, but the last decade, wave after wave of people had tried to claim her for themselves. Kings seeking power, Witches seeking power, Cults seeking power. They were all the same, trying to imprisoner, impregnate or kill her. It left her feeling insecure and uncertain; she had been betrayed so many time she had lost count. That unlimited power made her a target for every crazed group that emerged from the shadows, but it also made her scared, the power within her had a fine line between chaos and control, and with that enormous pressure to remain in control. Her deepest fear was herself, and what she could do or become, she sensed that same fear in Adva.

‘You have only just met her, don’t get too attached. Yennefer will find a way to get rid of her if not that she’ll turn into a she-daemon knowing Geralt's taste in women.’ Vesemir scoffed dryly.

Geralt was the son he had never had, but his taste in a woman was shocking, there had been that redhead succubus who tried to eat him. The doomed princess in the tower, Renfri. Three herbalists, Triss and Yennefer. He should just stick to a whore like everyone else, it would save a lot of time and effort, and the damage Kaer Morhan would be minimal, the amount of time Yennefer had destroyed something because of a petty argument was unbelievable. Ciri stood abruptly and started to pace.

‘Dove, what troubles you?’

‘I…Yennefer has been….I dunno. She has been difficult…’

‘Yennefer difficult? Never?’ The laughedffff trickled from the witcher lips.

‘Before they…parted. Yennefer did something….horrid and tried to get Geralt to finish it… he refused, and Yennefer was vicious, and then the spell broke and….’

‘Went batshit?’

‘Batshit is an understatement…. I thought Geralt was wrong… that he should have but I dunno; I was so angry I was blinded.’ Ciri winced at her confession.

For the most part, she never admitted when she was wrong; she was too stubborn for that; her pride would not allow her the humiliation of accepting it. But there were times, time like these when things became a cluster fuck that she could admit it. Her love for her mother figure, her nurturer and teacher had blinded her to the sheer despicable nature of Yennefer plan, so much so it had made her hate Geralt. But with every passing day, she realised how stupid she had been.  Looking back made her wince with shame as she recalled all the unpleasant thoughts that went through her mind and the things she said. Ciri felt ashamed of herself, more so now she was in the Witcher’s Fortress where the memories of their relationship[ resurfaced, all the times Geralt had protected her from the violent tongue lashing of Vesemir for wondering off and training on her own. The times when he gave her a silent hug because he knew what she needed.

‘Don’t blame yourself, Yennefer has a knack for playing on one's emotions.’ The master witcher soothed in his gruff voice.

Looking up, she felt herself smiling. For all his stubborn grumpiness Vesemir was the kindly grandfather figure she needed. The bias spectator, guiding her through Geralt and Yennefer many, many arguments with a scoff and an eye roll.

‘I worry about what she will do to Adva. She already seems resigned to being cast aside, and Yennefer will play on that.’

The confession was not something she needed to say out loud; all of them were worried about what Yennefer would do; even Adva could sense it. Yennefer was capable of being truly malicious especial again those who had wronged her,

‘Maybe that is for the best. A Witcher’s life is one fought with danger having a soul mate would be even more so.’

‘You should have seen the way Geralt was with her Vesemir. The way he looked at her was…’ Ciri paused for a moment in thought ‘it was worshipping…I don’t even know how to describe it and when she flinched away from him, I thought he could break down. When she went through the portal, I thought he was going to roar in after her. I love Yennefer, I always will, nothing and no one will change that, but at the minute I don’t even what to be near her.’  

A dull pain began to throb in the corner of his left eye; there was not enough ale and wine in the whole of the castle to get him through the next couple of weeks. Damn Geralt. First, he had brought Yennefer, who destroyed every room she stayed in and threw furniture carved by their Witcher founders out the window. The elder had lost count of how many times in the past decade, Geralt had found himself at the end of a difficult situation. And this situation was the worse; soulmates were messy, and for Witcher, mates were rare and unpredictable. Geralt would be a muscle-bound mess of raging hormones, worse than when he first mutated and with Yennefer roaming around, lurking in every corner, he could feel the annoyance and irritation begin to build.

‘It will work out, for better or worse. But from what I know about soul bond, they are very powerful, and it would take more then Yennefer to do that….besides if she is that good at repairs, we need to keep her around.’

If he survived this, it would be a miracle.

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Kaer Mohen was beyond anything that she had ever believed. Nestled in the middle of a vast valley, built into a mighty mountain, the almighty structure was awe-inspiring. Surrounded in greenery and limpid pools as far as the eyes could see, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. Inside did not disappoint; it was elegant, chequered marble flooring, latticed woodwork, majestically carved furniture, and rugs that while worn and dusty were exquisite. However, it was sure that the castle had seen better days, gaping holes in the roof leaked into the rooms letting in the local wildlife. Plaster was coming off the wall in large chunks, and a sharp draft came whistling through the castle. Still, it the most amazing place that she had ever seen. The library included. The vast collection of books held in sturdy mahogany shelved held behind thick sheets of glass, it was an extensive collection, most in languish she had never seen before, and the desire to pull each one out and read was overwhelming. The library seemed sadly empty just one large table and one comfy chair perched in the middle, books and quills surrounding the work area.

Vesemir seemed to be making the most of her, giving her a list of chores in the morning and then after their midday meal they would group together and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in the library. In all honestly, that was fine with her, she didn’t want to think about soulbond or Geralt. A sickness bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Waking up in the bed in a musty room brought back that only the day before she woke in the warmth of the Witcher. At least the chore distracted her from the churn of emotion that built inside of her and the anxiety that came with letting her mind wander.

‘How can you read this.’ Ciri slipped down next to the women who was engrossed in a book that contained mostly scribbled lines and dots. Just looking at the page was enough to give the former princess a headache.

‘Lunch’ Vesemir called slamming what could only be loosely described as a strew on the table. Four clay bowl slide into the various place, as they stared down at the brown slop. ‘That is my famous stew.’

The elder Witcher glared at the bard who grimaced at the pot in front of him. The mixture was brown and gritty, whatever meat was unrecognisable, the smell of a mixture of fermented broth and fried meat, it was not unpleasant, but it was not particularly appetising especially with strange unknown bits floating on the top. Jaskier twisted his face in disgust as he poked at it with his wooden spoon.

‘Famous because it kills anyone who eats it?’ Jaskier question letting the food slide off his spoon with a spatter.

Vesemir stared daggers at the bard as he is inhaling another spoonful of stew, most of it coating his beard.

‘Don’t you have any more books on Merfolk Vesemir?’ Ciri asked, leafing through the pile of red books scattered over the bench.

‘Mermaid isn’t the sort of thing Witchers deal with.’

‘But aren’t they supernatural creature.’ Jaskier retorted his right eyebrow inching up his forehead.

‘Aye, bard they are but never given us cause. Merfolk sticks to deep water and out the way of humans and creature alike. Humans have tried to wage war on them in the early days, but it futile. You aren’t ever gonna win against a creature that can sink whole fleets of ships in one go.’ Another heaping spoonful of stew smeared across his mouth. ‘Time from the time they appear near land but never bother anyone; it does not like they would abandon one of their pod on land…especially a child. I will have enough look in the archive but the literature of the Merfolk in rare. Not many have ever got close enough. I know a while back Geralt helped some duke marry Sh'eenaz, a mermaid, but she became sad, and the couple went back to the sea kingdom.’

‘So we have no idea about anything.’ Ciri spoke, slowly eyes resting on the deflated other woman.

‘You are more than welcome to search down in the archive,  but most merfolk literature is hoarded by private collectors.’

‘So we don’t know anything.’ Ciri bite out and throw a thick book across the room, pages fluttering across the marble floor.

Jaskier reached a hand across and took Adva’s giving her a reassuring squeeze. The brown-haired woman closed the book, shoulder sagging.

‘Adva If you promise to cook from now on I will go in the archives myself and battle the army of spiders in search of anything else.’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Vesemir brought down the axe forcefully as he broke down the log and tossed it into the giant pile of firewood. From his place on the verge, he watched Adva.

Though, not the most skilful and hone in her technique Adva was accomplished. For a simple kitchen, she had a strong stance which made it hard for Ciri to break through her defence. There was no obvious contest between the two, Ciri was the more skilled and her magic more adaptive, there had been several points in which his young ward had the upper hand, but Adva managed to put on the defence, which she played well. The master Witcher didn’t see that predatory creature that he had met in his experience, just a determined young woman, strong and sweet. He found it hard to believe that she could be a mermaid. Her ability with water being the only real characteristic that they shared. There was no killer insisted, no savage passion within her, no flailing tail or hissing fangs, just a scared little girl that he now had to keep safe.

Slamming the axe down Vesemir took himself to the side to watch the pair closely. Ciri seemed to tire of being pushed back, stepped up her attack by using her blink power, teleporting her way around her. The gruff Witcher couldn’t help but smile, the little girl who would sneak off to practice on her own was no a skilled warrior. Adva’s movement became panicked and jilted as she dodged the attack, frustration ebbing in her every movement. Collecting his roofing tools, he made his way across the stall and once against back to the field to collect the ladder. This time Ciri seemed to be on the back foot. Adva’s attacks were precise and direct, one after the other. A water blast threw the young Witcher off her footing, causing her to stumble back, and whip of water then appeared out of nowhere lashing itself across her side and wrapped itself around her wrist slamming her into the dirt.

Vesemir stilled, his body is tensed his eye trained on the pair, grabbing for the axe he embedded in the tree stump. He saw it, the killer instancing, the way her eyes shone that little bit brighter. Ciri recovered well, shifting her body to the left in a blur of blue light escape the confines of the water vines before rolling up on her feet and brushing the dust off.

Adva blinked, several times swallowing heavily as she took a step back as she felt the adrenaline still racing through her vein.

‘Good attack. Never really seen anything like that.’ Ciri smiled, standing to her full height. ‘Next time I won't go so easy on you. I better go see how Jaskier is doing. The spiders have properly cornered him in archives. We will pick this up again tomorrow…but you are going down’ Ciri smirked, nodding at Vesesir before ascending the step of the balcony.

‘I see Ciri found you some clothing, more practical for doing maintenance. You can help me patch up the roof, get the tar and meet m by the ladder.’

Looking down, she pulled at the outfit she had been given from a large box of items left by the various people that passed through. The bottoms were a pair of duelling trousers made from a shammy leather material, making them soft and stretchy, that held her tight across the arse and allowed for free movement. They were at least 50 years old but kept pristine by the mothballs packed in the trunk of clothing. The deep red material suited her and at least didn’t show the dirt from the unkept castle. The top was an oversized tunic that fell to mid-thigh; it was thick enough to keep the chill that had started to cling in the air. A cracked old belt clinched tightly around her waist to keep the oversized garments from slipping off her body completely.

Pushing her way up the steep bank to the courtyard, Adva pulled the bubbling tar from its fire. The courtyard held the shed and the stables it was up at the top of a sharp incline; it leads all the way round to the training grounds which Ciri had been handing her ass to her for the best part of the day, a sense of pride swelled within her as she laid the foul-smelling tar into a bucket. She had managed to keep upright and had a few good hits, she was improving, and her powers had developed in the passing weeks with Triss. Training with Ciri proved that.

When the bucket was full, tentatively she pulled it up the ladder on top of what she thought was a storage shed beside the kitchen. Vesemir was already hard at work, hammering in think sleet slate into the missing patches. Wordlessly, the master witcher tossed her a tarring brush, a thin stick with a rag attached to it and nodded toward the slates. Between the old tiles was a thick layer of tar, filling any minute gaps in which the water to seep through and flood the room beneath. Adva swilled the brush into the thick liquid and plastered around the edges of the shingles.

The height was not her favourite, the mere thought of going any higher made her head spin. They worked in silence for the best part of an hour, as soon as he finished one, she would swoop in and slather the thick goop on the slabs. It was clear to see where Geralt got his mannerisms, the way they both puckered their brow when they were concentrating. The way their eyes shifted as they worked, head shifting at every noise. These features were not different that Geralt could not pass for his son, but Adva had made a deep study of Geralt, his features where sharper, more defined. Both men had strong physic, after years of training and monster hunting, but Geralt's frame seemed bulkier, shoulders broader and arms solid with muscle.

A deep wave of shame consumed her. She had promised herself she wouldn’t think of him, but he crept into her mind. A melancholy fell over her, it was a numbness, at gnawed at her core.

‘Next is the west staircase, I will teach you how to tack and shave down the boards.’ Vesemir grunted as he threw the hammer into the dirt as he made his way down the ladder. Holding out his hand to help Adva down, grabbing the bucket and brush and tossing it to the side.

Adva nodded, thankful for something to do.

‘Never thought a little girl would be much good a roofing you are a strange little thing.’

Adva laughed awkwardly, wiping her hands on her piny. ‘You know what brothel is like, all hand on deck. I cooked, cleaned, mediated, fix roofs, walls, beds.’

‘Not much of a life for a little girl.’ Vesemir stared down at her; it was an uncomfortable gaze, that pierced through her.

The master witcher looked at her, his medallion didn’t vibrate, but there was a warmth to it, just enough to heat the skin beneath the wolfs head. He wasn’t sure that she was a Mermaid, but there was something. Something strange. Something different that he could put his finger on. But now she looked like a scared little girl, a girl being dragged from one bad situation to the next. Tough and hard-working but most of all, frighten of that power within her. It bubbled under the surface, threatening to rear its head.

‘Last time I check I was a woman…well, Mermaid.’ Adva shot him a steely determined look. He wasn’t sure what she was determined about, but it made him give out a snort, it reminded him of Ciri when she first stumbled into his home.

‘Well, Mermaid…we better get back. I think Jaskier is dying for more of my cooking.’ The older man gave her a small smile as he guided them through the courtyard.

For once, he was as near as excited as a Witcher could be to see Yennefer again, as he could tell that sweet little maid was going to give her a run for her money. A deep smirk set into his features, if he had anything to do with it, Yennefer would definitely have a run for her money.

This was supposed to be out last weekend, but drama has got real. I work in a school, and it’s a mess. I have been trying to sort out all my evidence for a qualification I have been doing, which is draining, and family are having health issues. But I am happy to announce that smut is insight. I have been planning out future chapters, and they are looking good.

For those of you who are confused about Adva’s coping strategy, I sort of based it on me. When I get stressed or anxious I turn into a clean freak.  Recently, I got so stressed I actually put up several shelves, despite not having anything to put on them. I thought it would make her a little more realist. 

I am also having flashes of inspiration for a GeraltxOCxEskel story if anyone is interested. I love Eskel he is like a giant cuddly teddy bear! It properly won't be out till I finish The Witchers Mate, but I am also playing with a squeal which is just a series of one-shots.

Please let me know what you think!

@threepupsinapuddle @broco8 @introvertedmouse @luxyash @vikingsbifrost @pastelblogsposts @wastingmypotential @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @fandom-lover-4 @sageandberries-png 

[megalony]

She’s a good girl

This is my new murderer! Ben Hardy series that was requested by the lovely @peterquillzsblog​ thank you for the request, I hope you all will like it.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg

Murderer! Ben masterlist

Series masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) is a good girl from a church-going family and her brother, Joe is trying to put Ben behind bars. But when (Y/n) starts to fall for the dangerous killer, things get complicated.

Enjoy.

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"Joe!" The surprise in (Y/n)'s voice was evident but the smile on her face showed it was not an unhappy surprise to find her eldest sibling sitting at the small dining table in the back room. With the odd shifts he worked, Joe tended not to tell them whenever he was coming round, he just turned up unannounced but always welcomed with open arms.

"(Y/n), hey I didn't know you were here." Joe spoke as if he temporarily forgot that (Y/n) still lived here with their parents but she knew what he was referring to. He thought she would be out somewhere with friends or at the cinema or just somewhere doing something. It never seemed to dawn on Joe that he had more freedom than she did because he didn't live at home anymore and he had a demanding job.

"Where else would I be?" (Y/n)'s voice was tender and there was a smile on her lips that showed she was trying to make a lighthearted joke when in fact her heart was weighing heavy in her chest.

When her arms wrapped around Joe, it made the pain in her chest subside until she almost forgot it was there entirely.

(Y/n) knew she was much better off than some people and her life was by no means horrid or gruelling, but it could be oppressive at times. She was the daughter of a Reverend and her mother was highly respected so it fell to her to make a good example and be a good and respected girl. Being the youngest also seemed to put more pressure onto (Y/n), like she had to live up to everybody in her family and try to be the best.

She helped her mother around the house, as per her mother's request, she helped her father with church events and making pamphlets and setting up the church ready for sermon on Sunday's. When family friends came round they awed and smiled at her like she was ten years old and they treated her like a little girl.

It made (Y/n) want to be rebellious, it made her want to go out without telling anyone and stay out late or all night. It made her want to have secrets of her own that she wouldn't tell anyone.

(Y/n) had no secrets.

She had no place to go that was her own, her parents always knew where she was when she went out and she came home at the stated time. She was the model child that she was tired of being now. Even Cora, her elder sister, wasn't this oppressed by their parents. But then again, Cora was going out with a lawyer and their parents deemed that as very good and he was 'respectable' so Cora was given more leeway and the benefit of the doubt.

Joe was a police officer and he worked hard and was good at his job so he was excused from everything. He wasn't obliged to come home on Wednesday for dinner like he used to when he went to college. He wasn't obliged or forced to go to church on Sunday or come home for Sunday lunch and dinner because of his work.

(Y/n) envied him so badly and the worst thing was that he didn't even know how lucky he was.

"What are you up to?" (Y/n) looked over Joe's shoulder, trying to be inconspicuous and not let him see how curious she was being. 'Curiosity killed the cat' (Y/n)'s mother would always say, but for (Y/n), 'satisfaction brought him back'.

Her eyes zoomed in on the brown paper file that was sitting almost untouched on the dining table. She couldn't see what papers were held within the file, but she knew enough to know that this was a personal file that was most likely about a criminal Joe was trying to catch. (Y/n) knew her brother all too well and when he was assigned someone to bring to justice, Joe stopped at nothing until he got them.

"I've got the afternoon off so I thought I'd come round, mum's been nagging me to come for dinner." Joe pulled back form the hug and leaned against the chair he had previously been sitting on, looking like he forgot there was a file behind him.

"Been busy at work?"

"God, I'm so close, (Y/n). There's this guy I've been after for weeks, he's the worst kind of guy to put in prison, there's never any evidence to put him away and he knows it. I can't figure him out but I know I'm this close to catching him." There was a yearning in Joe's voice as he pinched his index finger and thumb together to show just how close he felt he was to getting this man.

(Y/n) knew Joe couldn't tell her any details about whoever he was searching for but the passion in her brother's voice made her hopeful that this would work out in his favour.

"Joey, could you come here a minute?"

A smile formed on (Y/n)'s lips as she shared a look with her brother, no matter how many times he told their mother he wanted to be called Joe, she insisted on calling him Joey like she had done since he was a baby.

(Y/n) watched her brother walk out of the room and turn left to go into the bite size kitchen to find their mother. No matter how crude, inconsiderate or annoying their mother could be, Joe was always as sweet as sugar with her. He could do no wrong in her eyes and he always had the magic affect on her to calm her down. If she rowed with (Y/n) or Cora, Joe would diffuse the situation completely.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, (Y/n) leaned to look into the kitchen to make sure Joe was occupied and wouldn't be back any second before she cautiously moved over to the table. Her stomach buzzed with anticipation when she walked closer to the table until she was within reach of the file resting there. She knew she shouldn't, she knew it was wrong and against the rules and (Y/n) was a rule follower, not a rule breaker.

But she was so tempted. Just a sneak peek, just to see what kind of man Joe was after and what he had done. (Y/n) hadn't met a criminal before and she wanted to know what kind of people her brother helped to put away.

When her fingers skimmed over the file, (Y/n) felt like she was going to burn at the touch for how wrong this was, but she persevered and slowly pulled open the file. She knew she couldn't mess with the orders of the pages or scatter them on the table or Joe would chide her and get mad with her for even attempting to read the file he mistakenly left out fir her pleasure.

The first thing she noticed was a picture clipped to the left hand corner of the first page. It looked like a photo from a distance, it wasn't a mugshot but then again Joe had said they didn't manage to arrest this man. He didn't look how (Y/n) thought a murderer would look, this man was almost normal. He was very tall, he seemed to be muscular, he was well-shaven and had a sharp jawline, he had hair that was rather long on top and formed into waves and he had the most enticing eyes (Y/n) had ever seen.

She could feel her hand shaking when she cautiously reached out to lift the picture so she could read the first page.

The list seemed never-ending.

Murder, at least five counts that they knew of which he had never been convicted for. Blackmail on what seemed to be a very large scale, public violence, threatening behaviour, money laundering that he was actually caught for but somehow didn't get more than two months in prison for. GBH on numerous accounts but each time the victim backed out of testifying against him.

This man owned a boxing club and gym but Joe had written a question mark next to this and (Y/n) could faintly read his scribbled handwriting that said 'a front?' Maybe things were happening at the club that Joe couldn't explain or seemed dodgy.

(Y/n) dared to see what other pages were in this file and the first handful were victims. Some were postmortems, others were hospital records showing what he seemed to have done to people, broken ribs, broken nose, fractured and splintered arms and legs, shot in the kneecap, shot in the lung, broken sternum, pulled tendons and torn ligaments.

Looking back to the first page (Y/n) scanned over the information to find this man's name. Ben Hardy. That didn't sound like the name of a killer, it seemed rather pleasing to the ears.

When footsteps caught (Y/n)'s attention she quickly closed the file and took a few steps away, turning herself to face the bookcase up against the wall behind the door to hide what she had just witnessed. His name kept rattling around in her head and the list of his crimes were so horrid and long but it shocked (Y/n) that they had all the information of his crimes but he was hardly punished for any of them. He certainly got away with a lot.

This man killed people, he hurt whoever he liked, he threatened and blackmailed them to carry on doing what he wanted and he evaded the police at every turn. His life was something (Y/n) could barely comprehend or imagine after the sheltered life she had lived and the way she had been brought up. (Y/n) couldn't see how someone could ever turn out like that.

He was the total opposite of her.

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The fresh air hit (Y/n) like a wave rolling over the sand, it consumed her lungs until she felt like they were going to explode. The church was a sanctuary for many, it was a safe place to sit or hide or confess or just try and wait for a premonition or a sign. When (Y/n) was little, the church was a castle she wanted to explore but at the same time was far too afraid to drift from the alter or stand from the aisles once she was sat down.

There was never any need for (Y/n) to confess, she hadn't any crimes or worries weighing down on her for that. She didn't need sanctuary nor a safe place and she wasn't waiting for a sign. The church wasn't a hiding place or a second home to (Y/n) but it was her habitat for an hour every Sunday and for a while during the week when need be.

Every Sunday, eleven o'clock without fail, (Y/n) could be found in the second row on the left hand side, listening to her father recollecting a different story from the bible, giving his thoughts about a certain topic in a speech and reciting hymn numbers to them all to sing. Sunday sermons were an instinct and a habit ever since (Y/n) had been born, it was her way of life but sometimes she still felt that she didn't truly understand or appreciate it enough. On days when the world was tough on her, the sermons were a blessing. On days when she wanted to explore or find herself or do something, they were a drag that she couldn't escape from.

But today her mind wasn't able to focus on what her father was saying and she knew he noticed she wasn't singing along with all the hymns either. Being able to escape the beacon that was the church and feel the fresh air made (Y/n) feel somewhat faint after being in the musty air of the church that was suffocating.

Smoothing down her usual baby blue dress that she wore to church, (Y/n) walked over to the willow tree in the church ground and perched herself on the brick wall separating the grass verge from the pavement.

Her father would still be tidying up, collecting the papers and any donations, then he had to tidy the alter and get changed which took roughly twenty minutes that (Y/n)'s mother spent gossiping with friends. Joe was at work so he wasn't here for (Y/n) to talk to and Cora was yapping away with her friends. When everyone was ready, they went back home and had their usual Sunday lunch, and then (Y/n) helped her mother make Sunday dinner.

Sunday's were the most calming day of the week but they did drag and they made (Y/n) feel uneasy but she didn't quite know why.

(Y/n) let her eyes wander her surroundings, she could see her house from here. With her father being the Reverend, they automatically had a house as close to the church as they could manage and that was daunting to (Y/n), growing up so close to a place of worship that everyone said was a house of God. Like God really lived there and any sin she committed, any act she made, would be seen and judged by the being himself.

A shudder ran down her spine at the thought and her hand absentmindedly reached up to touch the small golden cross pendant hanging around her neck. Just as her hand touched the pendant, something caught her eye and her head leaned to the side, her eyes narrowing to focus on what moved in the corner of her vision.

It was him.

It was the man Joe was so close to catching, the one he was hell bent on taking to court and locking away in prison and throwing away the key. It was the man who had committed unspeakable crimes that haunted Joe in the middle of the night.

She was sure her face didn't resemble any panic or fear but she had caught his eye, maybe with the way she was staring in his direction. It felt like the world had slowed down around her and she watched him approach her in slow motion.

(Y/n) could hear his dark black shoes clicking against the pavement like horse shoes clobbering on the cobbles. He wore a plain white cotton shirt that covered his shoulders but exposed the rest of his arms to her view and he wore brown trousers with matching chocolate brown braces secured on his shoulders. He had a symbol on his right arm that didn't make any kind of shape that (Y/n) was familiar with yet it enticed her vision so much. He had Roman numerals, one on each knuckle on his right hand but (Y/n) couldn't see what numbers they represented.

The stranger- the killer, has shorter hair than he did in the picture she had seen in Joe's file, his hair was sticking up but it curled very slightly at the ends near his forehead. His green eyes were sparkling but the light caught the darkness of his pupils rather than the colour of his iris'. And his lips, (Y/n) had never seen lips that were such a dark shade of red with swirls of pink etched into the middle.

The way she seemed to be staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers made him grin and his smile was not normal. It wasn't sinister or crooked like a murder's smile should be, but it wasn't as kind or concerning or genuine as a humble man's should be. His smile was sweet, it was sickly sweet like chocolate with far too much sugar added into the mix. He was the cat that was eyeing up the cream.

How could such a dashing and seemingly respectable man be a killer?

"Hello." His voice was calming like the sound of the sea calmly lapping at the shore or at the sides of boats it was guiding to their destinations.

"Ben."

As soon as the name passed through her lips, (Y/n) bunched her hand into the hem of her dress, feeling like she had just spilled a secret to someone who should not find it out. She surprised the man towering over her, the smile didn't fade from his lips but there was a look of caution in his eyes as he wondered how she could know his name when they had never met before. He would remember a pretty face like hers.

"Now I'm very sure that if we met, I'd remember a lovely lady like yourself... so how do you know my name?" Ben stuffed his hands into his pockets, leaning his side against the brick wall the girl was sitting on, looking at him like she had just hurt him or told some kind of revelation to him.

His words were kind and his tone was reassuring, but there was something behind his voice and his carefully chosen words that made (Y/n) cautious. It was like he was throwing her a lifeline and she had to take it, she couldn't go against him or lie. She felt like she was trapped and he was offering her a way out... or maybe he was putting her into the trap.

"I... um, I think my brother knows you."

What was she doing? She was conversing with a criminal- a murderer, no less. If Joe was here at church right now and he saw this he would scold (Y/n) until she had third degree burns. He would be yelling at Ben to step away from his baby sister, he would find a means to arrest him right here, right now. If (Y/n)'s mother or even her sister saw her talking to a stranger they would be wary and tell her off.

But somehow, (Y/n) couldn't find it in herself to walk away.

"Does he now, who is he? I should ask him why he never told me he had a sister." (Y/n) couldn't fathom why he was talking to her, he was leaning so close to her so casually like it was nothing, he was smiling at her like she was the only person here worth talking to. He was taking some kind of interest in her when he had no need. How could this man be a murderer?

"I should go... h-he won't like me talking to you." (Y/n) tipped her head down to face her shoes, biting her lip so hard she could feel blood.

What was happening to her? Here she was, talking to a murderer without feeling afraid of him, instead she felt pulled to him, intrigued by him and fascinated, wanting to get closer. Yet when she tried to do the right thing and force herself to push him away, she ended up sounding like the child everyone was making her out to be.

(Y/n) wanted to be seen as a grown up, she was eighteen, she could go out and drink, she could drive, when she had the money she wanted to get her own place to live just like Joe. She wanted to meet people and talk to them without supervision or being told it was wrong or she was too young. (Y/n) wanted to make her own choices, she wanted to have a boyfriend and go out and do what she pleased without her family telling her what to do.

"What's so bad about me, lovely lady? Do you have to run everything past this brother of yours, or can you bend the rules just a little, for me?" Ben ducked his head down until he could look at (Y/n) properly since her head was bowed down.

His gentle yet somewhat cheeky smile made (Y/n)'s heart jump and when she lifted her head to look up at him, her breathing stopped when his thumb reached out to smudge away the blood on her lower lip.

"He's a policeman, officer (Y/l/n). But I guess he doesn't have to know everything."

(Y/n) could see the realisation dawn on Ben's face showing that he must have had quite a few run-ins with Joe. But instead of Ben retreating, pulling away or even becoming angry or hostile now that he knew who she was related to, he simply smiled. It didn't seem to bother him that (Y/n) was related to an officer trying to get him put in prison. A small part of (Y/n) wondered why Ben wasn't leaving, she could be trying to get information on him for all he knew, but then again, Ben had been the one to approach her.

"Does this lovely lady have a name?" Ben watched the way (Y/n) looked behind them at the church and the sea of people that were hovering around like bees. She was checking no one was watching or noticing. Stuffing his hand into his pocket, Ben pulled out a cigarette and a deep red lighter. He placed the smoke between his lips before motioning to the lighter. "Do you mind?"

(Y/n) noticed how he could speak almost perfectly despite the cigarette between his lips. Her head nodded to confirm that it was fine if he smoked around her, she had friends who smoked but had never had the privilege herself, her parents deemed it was not a habit she should pick up and so she never did.

When she watched the smoke pass through his lips and the way his perfectly round lips moulded around the stub of the cigarette, (Y/n) almost lost herself in thought until his head dipped down to look at her better again and he smiled around the cigarette.

"(Y/n)..."

"Do you wanna try it? I won't tell him if you won't." For a moment, Ben could see his words confused (Y/n) until he removed the smoke from his lips and held it out towards her. He could see the way she was watching him take drags and bite the end between his teeth, she was wide-eyed and enamoured by such a trivial habit. He could also see she thought he meant Joe for a moment until his eyes darted upwards and showed he meant he wouldn't tell 'the man upstairs', he wouldn't tell God if she didn't in case she wasn't smoking in fear it would be a sin.

(Y/n) flitted her eyes between the cigarette and Ben until he cracked a grin when he understood. He was hunching his shoulders over and leaning his head down so they could be level but she knew if she stood up, she would be even smaller than he was. Ben put the cigarette back to his lips and inhaled deeply, breathing the smoke into the air before he held it out to her.

His eyes watched the people around the church like he was keeping watch and they were committing a crime.

She gingerly took the bad habit from his fingers, trying to hold it between her thumb and index finger in the same way he did before she brought it to her lips. (Y/n) didn't take a long drag, just inhaled a small amount and tried to hold it in her lungs. She could feel the nicotine and smoke battling around in her lungs for the first time and it made her chest shiver in wonder. When she breathed the smoke into the air, her lungs quivered and she coughed quietly but still smiled all the same.

It wasn't as bad as her mother always made it out to be, it didn't even burn her lungs like she thought it would.

"Thanks." (Y/n) breathed quietly as she handed the smoke back over to Ben who took it gratefully, grinning like the Cheshire cat when he realised a small lipstick stain was left at the end.

When the growing chatter reached her ears, (Y/n) turned her head to look over her shoulder and noticed that her mother was getting ready to go inside the church again. That meant her father would be ready to go home in a minute. She couldn't help the sigh that passed through her lips when she realised she would have to go back home to a boring Sunday lunch, then prepare for a boring Sunday afternoon and evening, just like every other week that had happened all her life.

"Why the long face, doll?"

"I need to go home in a minute."  (Y/n)'s tone told Ben that she didn't want to go and that made a sense of pride swell in his chest. She was talking to a complete stranger and he guessed she knew he wasn't the saint she should be looking for, and she didn't want to leave.

"Well, I'll be walking past this spot tomorrow at one o'clock if you think you can disappear for a while."

"Disappear, with you? I don't know if that would be wise, I mean, I've heard things." (Y/n) looked up at Ben through her lashes, letting a small smile form on her lips when he seemed to think she was being serious. It was an offer she knew she wouldn't refuse, no matter how badly her mind was telling her that it wasn't a good idea to fraternise with the man her brother was determined to arrest.

If Joe got his way, this would end badly for her and Ben- if anything even came of this. But if Joe found out, (Y/n) would face more than a lashing from her brother for this, her whole family would be against her.

But this was (Y/n)'s life, she could take the risk.

"Don't believe everything you hear about me, doll." The words were whispered against the shell of her ear and Ben could feel her shivering against him.

A gasp escaped (Y/n)'s lips when she felt the lightest, gentlest of kisses pressing against the junction between her neck and jaw so light that it felt like butterfly wings caressing her skin. (Y/n) had never been kissed there before- Hell, she'd never been kissed at all, but something about the feeling was intoxicating. One moment the butterfly wings were fluttering against her and the next they were gone, just like that. Her eyes were as wide as planets as they followed Ben, watching him pull away from her with a grin that made her stomach flip before he started walking past her.

"Until tomorrow."

[appleinducedsleep]

The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society was the September @readerbookclub​ choice, and I’ll dive right into it:

What did you think of the book? What were the things you enjoyed and the things you didn’t enjoy?

I really liked it. It was light, despite having some heavy subjects. I loved all the book references, the glimpses into history, and Victor Hugo’s random letters. I loved the friendship between Julliet, Sophie and Sidney. Isola was a delight, and Kit was adorable. I loved watching the new friendships grow, and the mystery of Elizabeth McKenna slowly unfold.

Did any quotes or passages stand out to you? What where they and why?

“That’s what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you to another book, and another bit there will lead you on to a third book. It’s geometrically progressive — all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment.”

“In Guernsey, Cee Cee wrote poems to freesias and the daffodils. Also to the tomatoes. He was agog with admiration for the Guernsey cows and the pedigree bulls, and he composed a little song in honour of their bells (’Tinkle, tinkle, such a merry sound...’). Beneath the cows, in Cee Cee’s estimation, were ‘the simple folk of the country parishes, who still speak the Norman patois and believe in fairies and witches’. Cee Cee entered into the spirit of the thing and saw a fairy in the gloaming,”

“The Crown cannot impose taxes on the Islands - or conscription. Honesty forces me to admit the Islanders don’t need conscription to make them go to war for dear, dear England. They volunteered and made very respectable, even heroic, soldiers and sailors against Napoleon and the Kaiser. But take note -- these selfless acts do not make amends for the fact THAT THE CHANNEL ISLANDS PAY NO INCOME TAXES TO ENGLAND. NOT ONE SHILLING. IT MAKES ONE WANT TO SPIT!’

That were two segments from Tramp.

She got up and went over to the desk. She stood there for a while, then she picked up that crystal thing with Latin, Carpe diem, or some such, etched on the top. She studied it.

“Seize the Day,” she said. “That’s an inspiring thought, isn’t it, Isola?”

“I suppose so,” I said, “if you like being goaded by a bit of a rock.”

Which scene stood out most to you? Why?

Clovis Fossey’s letter. Of all the letters, this one I remember clearly. For someone initially not interested in books and book clubs, he was particular eloquent. He won over his dear Nancy (1) at the cliffs, and fought in the First World War (2).

“Lookie there, Nancy. The gentleness of Heaven broods o’er the sea - Listen the mighty Being is awake’.

‘Passive Suffering? Passive Suffering! I could have hit him. What ailed the man? Lieutenant Owen, he wrote a line, 'What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.' What's passive about that, I'd like to know? That's exactly how they do die. I saw it with my own eyes, and I say to hell with Mr Yeats.’

Is there anything you would like to change about the book?

While the story wasn’t fast-paced, the ending was a little rushed. In the movie, I wondered at how fast Julliet was travelling to Guernsey. In the book, I was surprized at how fast Kit was pretty much living with Julliet at Elizabeth’s cottage (Julliet wasn’t a stranger, but still), and while I totally understood she wanted to adopt her, as that horrid Adelaide Addison wrote; the Literary Society pretty much raised her, while ‘the principal work of the baby’s maintenance was undertaken by Amelia Maugery, with other Society members taking her out -- like a library book -- for several weeks at a time’. Julliet mentioned taking Kit to London in a one letter, and that kind of shocked me. I wondered about Christian Hellman’s family, they might never know he had a daughter.

I pretty much hated Mark from his first letter, he was so entitled and arrogant. I likened him to Gaston, I still hold firm to that. The movie softened him, while the book just made me wonder why he was that obsessed. Movie-Mark seemed genuine, and they actually got engaged before she left for Guernsey. Book-Mark seemed only to be there for the story to have a love-triangle and to add tension between Juliet and Dawsey. When she dumped him once and for all, it didn’t seem to matter to her at all, so I wish Mark had been more sympathetically written. Any internal struggle shouldn’t have been reduced to ‘will I end up as a lonely spinster?” @readerbookclub​ remarked that Remy was also mostly there to drive up the tension, and I agree.

How did you feel about Juliet’s romance with Dawsey? Was it well written? Did you enjoy it?

I love the trope of friends to lovers. I loved Julliet’s denial, and Sidney and Sophie rolling their eyes at her from across the channel.

29th July 1946

Dear Sophie,

Please ignore everything I ever said about Dawsey Adams.

I am an idiot.

I have just received a letter from Dawsey praising the medicinal qualities of my ‘sunny nature and light heart.’ A sunny nature? A light heart? I have never been so insulted. Light-hearted is a short step from witless in my book. A cackling buffoon - that’s what I am to Dawsey.

3rd August 1946

Dawsey and I have not been as easy with each other as we once were, though he still comes often to visit Kit, or to bring Remy over. When we heard Remy laugh our eyes met for the first time for a fortnight. But perhaps he was only admiring how my sunny nature had rubbed off on her. I do, according to some people, have a sunny nature, Sidney. Did you know this?

She was so hilariously bitter about an innocent compliment. Honestly. Dawsey might have well have said she was tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt him. 

Is there any character who has a similar taste in books to you?

Isola, she was also obsessed with Pride and Prejudice. Boom, instant connection. I related to her, because she could get intense about her interests, even if phrenology was debunked already in the 19th century. That was very random, I must say.

What were your expectations before reading the book? Did it meet them?

I actually saw the movie before reading the book, so all the big plot-points, I already knew. Still, I was really surprised to learn that the entire book was letters. The movie didn’t start with letters, there were barely any letters at all. She up and went to Guernsey on a whim, there wasn’t a welcoming committee; in contrast to the book, where the Guernsey Literary Society was there at Peter’s Port to welcome her. I preferred the way the book went about it, though I understand the limitations of the movie.

The entirety of the book is written through letters (except for some brief Isola detective work!). What did you think of this unusual structure? Would you be interested in reading more books written like this?

I was familiar with the style, Jane Austen’s Susan was also all letters. I was thankful all had the talent of letter-writing. I would have preferred that the format had kept to just letters, Isola’s part was amusing enough, but I wanted to experience it through Julliet’s voice.

What did you think of Elizabeth’s story? Did you grow to love her even though we never actually see her?

Elizabeth was the heart of the story. 

Sidney remarked the same about Julliet’s book, which wasn’t a coincidence. Without Elizabeth there wouldn’t have been a Guernsey Literary Society, she was brave to a fault, and even after, Kit held together this band of people; I can understand how Julliet felt connected to her based on stories alone.

[silverlysilence]

Taliesin’s Apothecary and Bookery (Part II)

I lied, this will be three parts

Jack bid the customer a good day as the woman—a true practitioner—head out the door with a bag full of potion ingredients and a new journal.  The bell fell silent, leaving him alone once more in the dimly lit shop.  Really, he should get the lighting upgraded to something this century, but then the place would lose some of the charming ambiance.  That, and the preteens looking for the cliché occultic shop would turn up their noses at something so modern.  Shaking his head, Jack check the clock and nearly groaned. He still had another two hours until closing time and from his experience, only the truly desperate or drunk would come in on a Wednesday night.

“By the gods, do I miss Toothless at times like these,” Jack muttered to himself, pausing as he thought how long it had been since the scrawny too young Hiccup had come through those doors.  It couldn’t have been more than a decade ago, right? Then again, he’d commented on the lack of snowfall this season only for an elderly man to point out to him that it was the middle of summer. Time just had a way slipping by the immortal too easy without having a something to measure it against.  Maybe he should take that vacation.  

Running a hand through snow white locks, Jack searched the Taliesin’s Apothecary and Bookery for something to do and when he found everything in its place, felt at a loss.  There was some bookkeeping that he could work on, but that could wait till morning and he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.  So, the eternal teen snapped his fingers, allowing his magic to pull a random book from his personal collection safely tucked away in an air tight hold three hundred feet below the surface where Berk used to reside before the Barbaric Archipelago was lost to the seas.

A thin book bound with stiff twine fell into his hands, throwing up a cloud of dust and producing a sneeze that had the lights flickering.  Grumbling, Jack rubbed his nose and willed the dust and grime from the tattered vellum pages.  He didn’t recognize the book, but that wasn’t saying anything as he’d squirrelled away far too many dangerous artifacts that were better off being forgotten and he was just about to send the book back in exchange for another when he noticed faded writing unlike the words seared into the vellum near the bottom.

Running a finger across the words had the charcoal runes brought back as if they were just written.

“Oh,” the breath left him as he traced the long-forgotten language in familiar scrawls.  “That idiot desecrated a rare manuscript with his notes.”

A small smile spread across his as he flipped through the pages, allowing his magic to bring back the charcoal runes that had faded with time.  They contrasted greatly with the aged, yellow pages of the vellum but it was pure when compared to the unhallowed images and words originally seared into the book.

Jack stopped when he found a quire shoved in between two pages, its age not nearly as old as the book but a priceless artifact to mortals.  It was priceless to him as well, but for another reason, because each rune etched onto the pages was done in the same familiar scrawl, describing a firsthand account of what happened when the write dared to perform a ritual from the book.

…I would not recommend breathing in the incense mixture detailed in the manuscript if one could help it. The smell is repulsive alone but when combined with the blood of an innocent, I nearly lost my supper, if I had indeed eaten anything before this ill-conceived plan.

Still, it took me a better part of an hour to recreate the diagram as shown with the freshly spilled blood of an innocent.  I must confess that I could not bring myself to sacrifice a child as depicted, but the text specified only that it be the freshly drawn blood of an innocent and I could find nothing more innocent than the sickly lamb abandoned by its mother.  It would not last the winter and I feel I was doing it a mercy…

Taking a step back, the young man took one final look around the faintly lit cavern, making sure the sheep’s blood hadn’t been smeared as he lit the last of the candle that added to the already sickening odor lingering in the air.

“Well Bud, it looks like it’s ready,” Hiccup said, whipping his blood-stained hands on his trousers. Astrid would kill him such—a chief needed to look his best—if this didn’t kill him first.  Or, he might make it out alive with a lack of a claim to his own soul. He wasn’t sure which, the scripts he read were rather old and he wasn’t sure if he’d translated everything correctly. Fishlegs would have been better at it, but he would have gone to Astrid and they’d try to stop him.  He couldn’t allow them to stop him, his soul was a small price to pay, it would all be worth it in the end.

Toothless didn’t like it either but Hiccup couldn’t have reached the desolated island without him. The dragon let his displeasure be known throughout the whole ordeal from flying them through the storm to him burning the incense and slaughtering the lamb.  Even know he was grumbling, but Toothless didn’t tried to stop him.

“I know you don’t like it, but I have to.  I just can’t… Not without him,” Hiccup muttered, stroking the dragon’s head. Acid green eyes dulled and with ear-plates pressed up against his head, Toothless nudged him towards the smaller blood drawn circle.  “Thanks, Bud.”

Steeling himself, the young chief stepped into the circle, book in hand.  The words fell from his lips, chunky and halted despite his earlier attempts at practice.  Though, they did not seem to be hindering the spell as the smoke drew inwards, the candles wavered but didn’t go out as a thick grey cloud formed over the top of the lamb’s carcass.

A clamp not unlike thunder boomed as a gust of wind exploded outwards in all directions, extinguishing the candles and nearly knocking him over if not for Toothless’s steadying presence at his back.  

“Who Dares To Summon Me?” a booming voice resonated as something—something big—rose up over the smoke. The massive being towered above him, hunching over in the limited space provided by the cavern. White hair tipped in blood floated in the air as if it was water as the being’s grotesque features twisted into a horrid scowl that had blue lips nearly invisible.  The horns protruding from the creature’s cranium were alarming due to the blood trailing from them into haunting eyes, turning the sclera into a pool of crimson.

Gulping down the fear surging to the surface, the young chief stood tall. “I, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, dare to summon you, Demon.”

The demon searched the cavern before looking down to meet determined green eyes. “You?  Do Not Make Me Laugh. Begone With You, Puny Mortal, And Let Me Return To My Realm.”

“No. I have summoned you here for a reason.  I offer a trade.”

“A Trade?” the demon laughed, the sound shaking the whole cavern, causing a few stalactites to fall from above. “Foolish Mortal, There Is Nothing You Could Offer—"

“My soul.”  That put an end to the laughter.

“A Human Soul? A Tempting Offer And What Would You Want In Trade For Such?”

“My father’s life,” the silence that stretch on had Hiccup fidgeting under the intense stare and he couldn’t prevent himself from rambling.  “My father, Stoick the Vast, he—he died protecting my mother from Drago Bludvist. We didn’t even know she was alive until a few days before that and I’ve never seen Dad so happy—so in love, until he saw her again.  They’ve spent so long a part, both of them heartbroken, still very much in love only to lose it all again mere days after finding one another again—”

The young chief trailed off as a hiccup like sob filled the room.  Vivid green eyes blinked, not to hold back the tears threatening to fall but to clear his vision.  Not that it did any good seeing as the massive demon before him was sobbing with tears trailing from is eyes.  There was a loud pop and the cloud of smoke disappeared along with demonic being leaving behind a small white-haired boy with tears falling trailing down pale cheeks from shimmering blue eyes.  

“You would give your soul for your parents’ happiness?” the teen—who looked to be no more than a few years younger than himself—asked, his voice small and silvery, nothing like the booming timber before. Blinking, Hiccup could do no more than nod his head, least his mouth useless hang open. “I—I just can’t!  I can’t take your soul!  You’re too pure.”

“Hey, now, don’t cry,” Hiccup wasn’t quite sure what was happening.  This was not how he expected things to go.  He expected Toothless to be hissing and growling, for his life to be exchanged for that of his father’s.  He was not expecting whatever this was and Toothless was not helping matters.  The Night Fury having abandon his side in favor of investigating the crying demon—was he even a demon?—only for the teen to throw his arms around a startled Toothless’s neck and sob in to the dragon’s side. “I—I’m not sure what’s happening.”

“Why would you try to summon a demon?! You idiot!  You’d be eaten alive in Hell.  You don’t deserve that,” the white-haired teen angrily whipped the tears from his face to scold him.

“Aren’t…aren’t you a demon?”

“Yes,” the demon hissed out before stalling and shrinking in on himself.  “Well, no…I’m a cambion.  The Offspring of a Daughter of Man and a Son of the Fallen and yet, I am neither. I am bound to walk this earth for all eternity as Heaven would not accept an abomination as me and I have not the…criteria to gain admittance to Hell. But I’m trying!  If I get a human soul, I’ll surely be allowed in…then I won’t be alone anymore.”

Hiccup didn’t think he was supposed to hear the last part but he had.  “You can have my soul—”

“No, no, no!  I can’t!  I can’t be the reason a soul as bright as yours suffers in Hell! I Refuse Your Trade!” white hair whipped back and forth as the teen shook his head vigorously in denial. “I—just go.  Please. Take your dragon and your sheep and go.”

The chief opened his mouth to point out he didn’t want to go, especially if he had to take a dead sheep with him.  Before he could, the cambion raised his hand and snapped.  The world tilted and he was suddenly back on Berk with Toothless by his side and a not dead lamb squirming in his arms. Immediately, he set the little guy down and watched as it happily began to eat the lush green grass.

Not far from him the blue-eyed teen sat, looking solemn for all of two seconds before white hair was frantically flying about again.

“What? How? Why am I here?” the silvery voice screeched.

“Uh…I might have also casted a Bidding Spell?  Or, at least I think it was a Bidding Spell,” Hiccup answered, running a hand through his hair.

“You did what?”

Hiccup found himself opening his mouth to explain himself but he was once more, not given the chance.

“Hiccup, what did you do?!”  

The young chief couldn’t stop himself from whirling on his heels to face the incoming angry form of his—very much alive—father.

---

A jiggle of the bell pulled Jack’s out of the past and back into the present.  He hadn’t known Hiccup—the first incarnation of Hiccup—had recorded the events which had transpired that fateful day.  It wasn’t something he tended to think about often, but seeing them written from Hiccup’s view had reawakened something inside him.  Reminded him that the loneness he felt now was the same he felt all those years ago.  A loneness that a young chief and his Night Fury were able to chase away.  Tucking the manuscript back into the book, he discretely banished back to the keep and greeted the late night customer. A fond smile lingering on his lips.

[libidomechanica]

“And unobservd to escape written one sits no doubt my life”

And unobservd to escape written one sits  no doubt my life. For needs tempt to be time,  with raised themselves to thy soul unborn,  and passing fishes, to the  rising the pronounce more where Vanity  will now the faire a hard. Hammering after  that prover smile, the red bays and catch my  frailties of a creatures on the marble  my life untold, in true soule flirtation, it grow.  And breasts and Tempe or dove. Well leaving to 

that blight! With the Neck; the  pen would she dies in soul desert, and there 

our Cot oer the people, grief and you 

all; the nursd up their sun upon her own horrid  wars, Loves unto my brow, nor in tune consulting shutting  fit, as birth-pangs bends upon thou forgot. Sweet Tibbie  Dunbar? All comes, with the mightst hew, attends  the earth—and feast and shutting man who—though  our sighing and good nature was  freedom, with more quiet another turn, under  clouds, that pure looking-glass there; and the primrose  of Paradise want on bed I think of  your cheere to even is shafts of they maidens  lot! To laugh, who only to their moon  the seas red veil, the Herald often  clevedon, so it hastily to know here Sin 

inward some banish it abodes; with Sapphos  neither I be I or not. I say, what; 

there. Gane, lass do Thou knows well cultivate life. Last  Christ! At the drinking soul, a longer time because  she is, when he sensual  eunuch Castle writes, frankind, how am I, that  done, and pale sky. We owes eloquence. But Im afraid,  curse my mistake since I ran, head-foremost, although the  mossy network too softly lights bliss the palms,  and kiss the fame is infused, shall joined us.  I set my name? They grew? I state-things transubstant louers.

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Even If the Waters Rise 3/5 (*cough*)

Shadowrun inspired Mermay part 3 out of *now* 5 - it’s a monster. In this edition: Drama, drama, and once again, relationship drama.

Also, warnings for the whole planned thing: blood, gore, and violence; cannibalism (human on metahuman); questionable jokes and questionable totem choices; ambiguous relationships; referenced limb loss/cybernetics/etc; mating cycles.

*

Give or take a few days, Jesse turns up three weeks later, lacking fangs or a sun allergy, albeit with a certain pallor to his skin and aversion to the light, but that's easily explainable by the obvious hangover he's sporting, the kind that comes with a days-long drinking binge.

"Broke up already?" Jack pours himself a drink and then slides Jesse the bottle with about half of its contents remaining. He obviously needs it more than Jack.

"Don't want to talk 'bout it."

"Good. Because I'm not interested."

He ends up with all the sordid details, anyway.

It takes over two hours for Jesse to explain that his perpetual stalker vampire ex dumped him two nights past the club incident due to him supposedly smelling like a wet dog that also found and rolled in some prime ripe carrion. Jack's not going to comment on that. To him, Jesse reeks of his cigars first and foremost, and maybe under this odor hides a note of wet canine fur, mangy and full of dust - reminiscent of petrichor but more acidic and scratching the throat if inhaled too deeply or closely. Now, it's also alcohol sweat. But those two hours are enough for Jesse to get himself back into the drunken stupor.

Jack relocates him to the couch and orders take out - settling for some suspicious pizza as the safer option out of the available, even if he has trouble deciphering the ingredients. Someone out there probably knows what exactly 'sea chicken baby' is.

To his morbid astonishment, the 'Chicken of the Sea' turns out to be a sea cucumber, bland as fuck if not for the cheese and the sauce - and he's comfortably sure it would taste better raw than baked. He eats two slices and leaves the rest out on the counter for Jesse - and the state Jesse's in, he would probably be happy with a trashcan left out in some alleyway to pick through.

By the looks of him, that's a fair assumption to make, and not at all mean or undeserved.

But the question of how Jesse tracked him down remains. Their hidey-holes over the whole coastal area number in closer to a hundred than a fifty, so it's either an incredible draw of the luck (including the dang spirit dog) or someone had pointed him in Jack's direction. He brings it up during the check-in with Sombra, sure to vent his general disposition at both Jesse's intrusion, and the required daily contact.

"I think some responsibility would do you good," she brushes him off, "so take care of the puppy instead of moping by yourself for days."

"Maybe, just maybe, I do have a reason to mope," Jack snaps at her, "ever thought about that one?"

Sombra sighs.

"I don't know what had happened between you and Gabe, but..."

"Oh, you could, just load it up."

He immediately regrets going off on her, it's not her fault. Only it is her fault, in an illogical and convoluted way - because right now, he needs someone to blame and that someone will not be him.

"I'd never do that unless you want to show me."

Fuck this shit. He's tired and emotionally drained - he didn't even think it was possible.

"Listen, Jack," Sombra continues after he fails to answer her, "you have no idea what ice I had to get through just to send him a message, and the moment he got it, he just dropped everything and walked out of the meeting."

"Yeah, his asset was malfunctioning."

"Whatever happened, you're taking it hard, and you need something to occupy your time because sitting around is doing you no favors to your state of mind."

"Then find me something to do that doesn't include babysitting the human disaster all broken up over my couch."

"The fleet." Sombra mulls something over and Jack, elbows leaning on the windowsill as he finishes his drink, looks over the almost empty street below. "I'm running into walls and I'll need help with some more traditional intel gathering."

"You need hired muscle."

"The gist of it, yes, I need someone to beat some people up so they cough their contacts up, but I'm still pursuing some other venues right now."

"Tell me when you actually have people to rough up, the downtime's killing me, and this place's a total shithole."

"I know. I'll have tickets for you and the puppy tomorrow, and I need you to keep him on a leash because you're going to Yakuza-land for the foreseeable future." He can feel her smile trying to be reassuring pressed against his thoughts. "And you have a meeting scheduled."

"Yeah, about that, one, the only thing I know is 'shakuhachi shite' and 'arigato'," Sombra laughs muttering 'oh god', "and two, he can send them again through the proxy."

"Listen, you don't really want that. And that wasn't even 'fuck off'. That was dirty talk, Jack."

"Figures. I'm..." Jack sighs, massaging his temples. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Earlier, I mean."

"I know."

"I'm just, I don't know, angry? Not with you, you did what you had to, but... It's too much, all of it, and I'm sorry."

"I know. You'll work it out. It's okay."

"Fuck. Thanks, I guess. I'm not thanking for dropping the mongrel on my unsuspecting lap, though."

"You're welcome." She signs off and Jack pulls the plug out.

Even the mere prospect of meeting up with Gabriel after the incident gives him what he can describe only as anxiety. At least, that's what Jack decides to peg it as, something jumbled and all tied up in knots, and self-hating, and making him feel useless.

Nibbling on the third slice of the pizza and watching the sun go down, he knows what it really is, but refuses to give it the proper name. Calling it anything else lets him pretend it's nothing important and go about his life like nothing's different, even if it is - threatening to topple over and crush him under.

When Jesse starts moving, Jack forces him under the shower and his clothes into a washing machine. The thing is done with its load before Jesse is, and he dumps the debatably cleaner garments on the couch - the coyote is looking at him with an expression on its snout that's far too intelligent for his liking, half-mocking, and half-challenging. Jack turns the serape the other way. The coyote, apparently, takes a short hike all around the fabric to end up facing him again, and he could probably get into a trial of persistence with it but has a sneaking suspicion he would lose.

Fuck it. It can stare at him through the back of the couch as he undresses.

Jesse, predictably, ambles out to the shower and straight to the counter to assault the leftover pizza with the zeal of a person starving for days.

"Switch your SIN," Jack instructs him after he catches Jesse's attention with a tactical application of a ballistic shoe.

"What? Why?" Jesse mutters between the mouthfuls.

"We're flying to Japan tomorrow, would be best not to have Yakuza waiting on the ground for you when we get off."

"Why the fuck JIS?"

"Yakuza's probably involved with the fleet Som's tracking."

"They are. Fucking racists."

"You know that?"

"If anything has to do with harm to metas in the region, that's a safe bet it's them." Jesse wipes the oil from his mouth with the back of his hand, and the hand on his stomach. Of-fucking-course. "Say, we gonna be anywhere close to Hanamura?"

Jack sits on the bed, taking off his pants.

"Nowhere close. Everyone knows you there, and you're too recognizable." He stares at Jesse with contempt. "You just broke up with your main ex, you're not getting into another mess with another ex of yours. Don't make me tie you down."

"Nah, that about other business." Jesse stretches and walks around the counter in all his naked glory, stopping when Jack points with definite distaste on his face to the couch.

"You're still wet, the bed's mine, and the dog was giving me attitude."

"Whatever you say, pardner."

Jack cannot blame the sleepless night on Jesse, not directly - he doesn't snore, but maybe his presence has something to do with it. Regardless, his ensuing horrid morning disposition makes Jack snap at Jesse more than once, which Jesse completely ignores, or is simply oblivious to.

After he sends Jesse out with the trash and to wait for the car, Jack gives the flat the last once-over, making sure nothing personal is left lying around - unlikely they'll ever use the safehouse again, but good practice is good practice, and it's best not to tempt the fate.

The trip to the airport is relatively short and eventless, he only has to remind Jesse to switch his SIN once before they board. Jack pushes his bag into the overhead compartment and shuts it with a bang, taking his time before he sits and buckles into the seat.

The moment the plane rolls down the tarmac before takeoff he has to quash down his instincts screaming at him to get up and run. The lurch of wheels losing the contact with the ground below has Jack hunched and holding his head between his hands. Twitching at every suspect sound and tremor of the hull, he has nothing to distract himself with on the flight as his mind runs circles around images of a fiery inferno.

"Dude, have you tried taking something for it?" Jesse tries to start a conversation.

Jack shoots him down with a muttered 'fuck off' before returning to fighting to keep his stomach where it usually is and not in the vicinity of his throat where it battles for space with his now frantic heart. Two hours stretch into an imperceptible eternity of pure torture. Jesse waits for him to regain control of his shaking hands when the plane lands. They disembark among the last of the passengers.

The airport is a reconstructed dream of a crazy architect who, faced with a substantial lack of land, built it floating on water. Jack navigates them through the terminals to the water tram while keeping one eye out for anyone trying to latch onto their trail, hoping they look both intimidating and luckless enough to not attract the attention of any lookouts. It's not his first time in JIS, and, ironically, their best bet is using public transport. Some three years ago, the situation would be different, with the welcoming committee already waiting to bus him to his destination. Now, those bridges were burnt, and the goodwill was gone.

"What's the first rule?"

Jesse scoffs, sprawled on the seat, taking up two spaces realistically, legs kicked up to rest on the back of the seats in front of him to the distaste of the attendant.

"Not gonna risk Yakuza ink, even I'm not that stupid."

Jack stares at him with doubt.

"Except that one time."

"That one was different."

"I'm at loss for words," Jack rolls his eyes. "The second rule?"

"Don't antagonize the local racist shitbags?"

"Yeah, that. And the third?"

"Don't fuck with Yakuza."

"Good one."

"Nah, dude, not gonna go to Hanamura and fuck around, I need to go north later, check out something," Jesse shrugs. "Find someone to talk about that bear spirit because that shit was bad, man, real awful shit."

"I suspect you'll have time to do that. We can go together."

"Nah, no hard feelings, dude, but bear people don't trust that easy."

"Suit yourself," Jack rolls his eyes and nudges Jesse to get up as the tram lines up with the embankment. The taxi that drives them to the hotel rips them off, counting the normal rate several times over. Being foreigners, they are expected to pay more than locals for the same services, and making a scene would only add to the expenses - there's either some notation in the contract that would render any complaint null and void, or the local arm of the law would dismiss it anyway after they had at least ticketed them for creating a disturbance - if not outright put them under arrest on some bullshit charge. Well, Jack's not going to bother with it, it's not his money.

The hotel is one of those ridiculously posh ones, and he and Jesse draw curious glances as they pick up keycards from the reception area.

"Man, that's what I call life," Jesse announces after opening the alcohol cabinet, the first destination he chooses after walking into their shared room. Jack glances at the clock and just like that his heart is back to hammering against his ribs. He leaves his bag on the table.

"I'll be back tomorrow, do nothing stupid while I’m gone."

"Nah, jus’ gonna get stupid drunk and watch some holos."

Jack shrugs and heads out, leaving Jesse to his own devices, hoping he will stay true to his own words and not wander outside, especially not when drunk.

Gabriel's apartment is several floors up and Jack opts for stairs this time. The flight was enough excitement for the day, and the thought of forcing himself into the elevator fills him with revulsion on the spot. Halfway up, he realizes he’s only delaying the inevitable.

The heavy thing settled in his stomach is dread - and maybe, for the first time in his life, his instincts work as they should - screaming at him to run away, no matter where, just away, as he presses the card against the reader and keys in the code. Little late for that, huh? He pushes the door open, wincing at the breach of protocol: so wrapped earlier in his own thoughts he forgot about sending the text. The pad lies in the bag left with Jesse.

"I'm here," Jack announces to the room. His voice falls flat, even to his own ears. Gabriel looks over his shoulder while the screens in front of him flicker off one by one. Fucking dramatic, as usual.

"I can see it."

"I hate flying," Jack scrambles for an excuse - he doesn't need to, but it feels like he does - shrugs noncommittally, holding Gabriel's gaze. The mounting tension in the room seemingly affects only him - some misplaced power struggle Jack loses before it even began - and he breaks away the eye contact, turning away and stepping deeper into the suite. "There has to be a different method to get around."

"It is the most effective one."

The voice sounds too close, following Jack as he sheds his clothes.

"Maybe one that hits the orbit, I heard weightlessness is somewhat like swimming." He can at least give his honest opinion if they're on the subject.

"If the need arises for one."

Yeah, probably any launch of the type is conspicuous and more likely monitored, from the utilitarian point of view only reasonable if the speed is the key. Fuck that.

Jack loses the rest of his garments with the skin on the nape of his neck prickling under the scrutiny. Whether it's imagined or not doesn't matter, it's wrecking his nerves either way.

It's his turn to look over his shoulder, at Gabriel standing some distance away - shifting finally and coming closer to the bed.

"I wasn't aware flight provokes such high levels of stress for you."

Jack bites back the obvious answer - that unless he's bothered to know there's a lot Gabriel doesn't know about him - and the only time he cares to know is when it interferes with the operations. Won't lie to himself about the malice hidden under the thought.

"Now you know."

"Noted."

With Gabriel's thumb raising his chin up and the red and black eyes boring into his own, Jack falls back into the sheets. The sex is great, amazing even - it always is - but there is a certain measure of detachment that prevents him from losing himself in the act.

There's an invisible wall between him and Gabriel, one that wasn't there before, and the more Jack thinks about it curled up on his side, the more he realizes the fault lies with him, and him alone. Things have changed - he has changed - not Gabriel, and neither the arrangement. It's just a business transaction.

Trying to untangle the jumbled knot inside is like picking at an itching scab, only to discover there's pus underneath and nothing's healing. And it won't heal, not when Jack cannot pretend anymore he doesn't care, no matter how much he wants to. If that's what love is, it's a fucking miserable thing he wouldn't wish on anyone; he wonders if his past self also felt the same and he's merely stuck in following a preset rut. After all, the world is a cycle, isn't it?

Wanting Gabriel gone to let him sleep alone is a new one. So he can wallow in misery and self-pity in peace without the subject of his one-sided affection at his back.

Yeah. Love's an absolute utter bullshit, that's what Jack tells himself, staring at his own reflection in the still surface of the lake, fingers trailing in the water. The weathered wooden planks, blackened with tar, are far from the most pleasant to lie on - but the sun bearing down on his skin feels good and allays the discomfort.

The ripples born from his hand idly moving distort his reflection until Jack cannot recognize it anymore as his. And it isn't his, it's something else looking back at him from below the surface. Before he has time to react clawed fingers wrap around his wrist. The shining scales fading in and out of the skin glitter in the light with each minute shift.

It yanks him down with surprising strength

His skin scrapes on the wood - the water is cold - so cold - his lungs hurt with the lack of oxygen when he frees himself from the grip pulling him down - but the safety is far away - too far - and hungry mouths filled with sharp teeth latch onto his flesh.

He drowns.

The ending is the same, it's the rest of the dream that changes.

Lying cradled against Gabriel's side, with the arm wrapped around his waist and the palm resting on his stomach, Jack remains still, trying to wrest his thundering heart under control. Why he even bothers to remains a mystery because there is no viable way Gabriel isn't aware he's wide awake. What's left for Jack is to enjoy the rare closeness, something he's hard-pressed to; the satisfaction eludes him nonetheless while he watches Gabriel work. The screens close and reappear, once or twice prompted by the hand gesturing at them.

Jack tries to focus on the simple sensations: the warmth of the skin, the smell of the ocean, the lingering touch, but soon, it becomes unbearable, this picking at the open aching wound.

He moves away - the arm around his waist slackens and lets him go - and he sits up, disentangling himself from the sheets. Gabriel's attention remains focused on the screens, and Jack struggles for something to say.

"I'm going to take a shower," he mutters in the end, sliding off the bed.

The oppressive feeling of being observed and considered fades after the bathroom door closes behind him.

Of course, the whole room is done in subdued pink - salmon? - with elaborate cherry motifs running unbroken all around the walls with slight hints of darker colors. It's probably pretty and charming, and not at all tacky and lacking any real character or individual touch. Hotels always were like that.

The bathtub looks inviting, and Jack knows he could stay here for days by himself, but the reasons he's loath to are twofold. Jesse definitely constitutes one, the other one being the place that will make him think about Gabriel, and Gabriel only, the distractions available superficial.

Jack steps into the shower and, standing under the rain of warm water, he presses his forehead to the cold tiles. The voice inside his head provides him with an incessant background chant of 'you broke it' until he can't bear it anymore and punches the wall in frustration. The tiles crack.

He has no idea how long he's been in the bathroom - but Gabriel is gone when he walks out.

The pillbox lies on the pillow almost like an afterthought. Jack puts it in his pocket after gathering all his things.

He opts for the stairs again.

What he's not prepared for is Jesse scrambling to look at him over the back of the chair as he enters their room. Jack raises eyebrows at him.

"Shit! Dude. You're, like, glowing, but look like a kicked dog, but seriously," Jesse blindly reaches back behind himself for the open can of beer sitting on the small table, "you're bending the whole flow around you!"

"The what?" Jack notes the smell of cigars in the air, laced with something else, acrid and heady.

"Mana." Jesse sips from the can. "You got a fuckton of magic on you, like, a lot."

"Great. There's to hoping it won't kill me." Jack throws the jacket on the couch, sits in the other chair next to Jesse, and helps himself to the unopened can standing in the middle of empty ones.

"Don't think so, if it's bad, you'd be, like, dead ten times over, what with the potency. No spirit, for sure."

"Great. I feel nothing."

At least now, he had the explanation for Gabriel's clothes trick. Jack opens the can and downs half of it in one go.

"Offense meant, dude, but you got the sensitivity of a low-flying brick, and that means the only sensitivity you got is in the poor dude you're gonna brain."

"Thanks, I guess." Jack chuckles, toasting Jesse with a flourish. "Tell me," he vaguely points at himself, "if it does something weird."

"Will do. Wanna anything stronger with that?"

"That's what stinks in here?"

Jesse looks at him with his eyes pinched.

"Maybe."

"Pass, don't want to fuck up my lungs any more than they already are."

"Dude. You can breathe water, lil bit of smoke not gonna fuck them up."

"Still a pass." Jack finishes the beer and finds another can. "As long as it's not something you can be busted for, go ahead yourself."

Jesse snorts, apparently amused by his comment.

"It's all natural. Like, herbs and shrooms." To illustrate, he picks up a small baggie containing flaky brown fragments. "I smoke 'em, but go as well on the tongue."

This is a terrible idea. And Jack's tempted.

"No," he answers with a delay. "Especially if that's what gave you the mutt, might be contagious."

"Suit yourself." Jesse pulls out a cigar from his pocket and lights it, puffs on it lightly. Jack leaves it without a comment while flipping through the channels on the holo. They're both left with nothing to do for the foreseeable time. Jesse is more than content to spend the days idling: doing nothing but smoking, drinking, and watching tv, but Jack ventures out twice. He gives up on the whole idea of spending time outside of the hotel room soon.

He had forgotten how bland and hostile the whole of the JIS is to him despite the colors and the flashing lights, the music, and the chatter that never stops, or the cities that never sleep. It's a sea of humans only, maybe one or two occasional elves, almost no other metas, which serves to remind Jack that outside of the metropolis it's even worse.

Finding a place to drink and eat he's let in, not to mention not being faced with outright disdain when it becomes obvious he doesn't speak a speck of the language, is too bothersome.

Being confined to the hotel is not the worst thing in the world, Jack decides, not with his surprisingly stable mood, and the fact he's not fixating on the whole situation with Gabriel - only sometimes - and earthly mundane distractions are forthcoming. The majority of it, he thinks, is easily attributed to whatever Jesse's smoking the copious amounts of, and he himself is probably getting high on the fumes by the virtue of widely understood osmosis. Or ingestion. Call it what you will, it works wonders.

The idyll of the carefree quiescence ends with a dream in equal measure disturbingly different, and uncomfortably concordant. His feet are in the water - the waves wash up to his knees. He can feel every grain of sand on his skin: pressing in, irritating, ignored.

Pleasant warmth spills deep to his core, radiates from the bodies pressed to his sides - there's one hand slung over his chest - another carelessly pushes the elbow into his stomach - Jack shifts to remove the discomfort, and as he does so, he senses everyone else moving too. Like dominoes, every change of position prompts a chain reaction following down the line.

Lulled into half-sleep, this strange place in-between lucidity and unconsciousness, his eyes remain closed even with a familiar weight pressing down into almost the entire length of his body.

Something cold tickles his face and Jack finally looks up, at the silhouette cut starkly in the expanse of the pale blue sky, Gabriel's long wet hair brushing against his nose and cheeks, droplets of cool water splashing on heated skin giving him goosebumps.

Jack lifts his arms up. His fingers lock behind Gabriel's neck as he's spread open on the sand, a strange kind of pride bursting in his chest with each bite that draws blood from his skin. Nothing else exists or bears any importance but this one singular snapshot of time dredged from god knows where.

Jack freezes with his eyes wide open, his fingers almost breaking the surface of the water. The sensations - all so very specific and precise, unlike the vague suggestions of the usual dreamscapes - the sand scratching his arms and legs, and the back, the irritation lingering even now. The synthskin, even the kind slapped on his limbs, is never good enough to allow for the definition of the input and the interpretation on the level of the natural skin.

Dredged up. His own thought.

There's a sinking feeling, a frightening idea, that it's a memory. And it's not his. Jack schools his breathing; the jealousy at the effortless intimacy mixed with the shame of being an unwilling observer of someone else's intimate life swirl under his tongue. Or it's all jealousy. And spite. He grips the edges of the bathtub and pulls himself upright.

At the clinking and shuffling from the side, Jack turns his head to see Jesse tucking himself into his pants and buckling his belt.

"Christ, dude, you scared the piss outta me, like, for real."

Jack shows him the finger.

"How does your skin stay on, anyway?"

"It's just what it does? It's only fingers that do this dehydration thing."

"I don't mean that, and don't do this 'rise from the watery grave' shtick when I'm trying to take a leak," Jesse rolls his eyes, a gesture he's so fond of. "Almost pissed all over the wall."

"That's a 'you' problem, not a 'me' problem," Jack mutters, heaving himself upright and snatching a towel off the rack. He wraps it around himself while stepping out of the bathtub.

"Would be a 'you' problem if I'd turned around when you did the 'I live' routine."

Jack snorts, giving Jesse an appraising look supposed to convey his opinion on the subject matter, and moves to the main room - dripping water everywhere - where he sinks into his usual chair.

"By the way, I got my stuff arranged, so I'll be splitting in the evening later."

Jack acknowledges it with a grunt. With Jesse gone, he will probably be about ready to climb walls with the dearth of things left to do. Or return to drinking alone, which, arguably, is far from anything approximating a healthy coping mechanism.

"And you forgot toes. And the soles."

"Hm?"

"The prune looking thing, the feet do that too." Jesse drops back to the couch and plays with the remote. "That's stuff from the time we were all water monkeys, and so we could grab stuff better in water."

"No bullshit?"

"Nah, real stuff, that's why we like water that much. Some of us, at least, that's, like, where we should be most of the time."

"Cool."

"You're still a freak, though," Jesse salutes before opening a beer he has grabbed earlier from the cooler. "No hard feelings, right?"

"None. But, with the world as it is, isn't the whole evolution argument kind of moot? No-one accounted for the magic, did they?" Jack picks the plate with the remnants of yesterday's late-night snack up from the table and tries to discern if anything on it looks poisonous yet. Fried shrimps appear acceptable, to be honest, though the oil probably is a bit stale, Jack decides.

"Now, here, my dude, my friend, is the heart of the matter all those dudes who say a big man, or a big woman, or whatever in the sky did it don't get they get wrong."

"And that is?"

"And that is that even if that's all a fart of some higher power in the sky, it's still a creation, see? Someone sneezed, stuff crawled outta that sneeze, and the world began, it's still their word, ya know?"

Jack nibbles on the shrimp, deep in thought.

"Let's call that 'the great primordial snot theory' and never mention it again, deal?"

"Deal. Sounded better in my head."

"No," Jack lets out a defeated sigh, "you're onto something, but I'm definitely not going into the ramifications of a sneeze being the breath of life."

"But it has a nice ring to it."

"Yeah." Jack focuses on the shrimps, paying only nominal attention to both the show playing in the background and Jesse's mutterings while he slowly gathers his belongings that spread all over the rooms they've shared so far. Later, Jack escorts Jesse to the cab waiting for him, grips his hand for longer than needed when they shake.

"What's the main rule?"

"Don't get inked. Dude, who do you take me for?" Jesse snorts, trying to look offended and failing.

"A moron."

"Fair. Take care."

"You too."

Jesse ducks into his seat in the back of the cab and Jack shuts the door behind him - staying for a moment to see the car speed away from him before he returns to the hotel and for the first time considers the relative wasteland of devastation the room has become. After he pushes everything from the coffee table into a trash bin, he returns to the chair and checks in with Sombra.

"Feeling maudlin, are we?"

Jack shakes his head.

"What gave you the idea? Anyway, you still in Frisco?"

"Yes. Better access points to JIS networks."

"Right. Didn't cross my mind this might be the reason."

"There's good news too. When you get back from your meeting, I'll have a package waiting for you."

The meeting. He's on the last three doses remaining. Anxiety surges up in a sudden spike at the realization. He's been avoiding dwelling on the matter so well he pushed it almost entirely out of his mind.

"A package?"

"Some additional gear we will need to start digging, how to say it, organically."

"Beat people up, you mean."

"Yes," Sombra trails off slowly, a question in the air.

"Go on," Jack urges her, and after a lengthy pause, she continues.

"You never told me you only have nightmares."

"I have other dreams too." He's pretty sure of it, especially after the last one.

"Jack. Every time you enter the REM phase, you have repetitive patterns of stress. Listen," Sombra sighs, probably reading his silence the wrong way, "I wasn't... keen on sifting through all your data, I don't like infringing on your privacy more than I have to, but Gabe insisted on it, and it could've been avoided if you had talked about having problems."

"They're not really problems, though."

He can almost hear her mentally counting down.

"You consistently downplay your pain levels, you don't dream save for reliving the trauma you'd suffered, and, Jack, I tried simulating your brain activity, I clocked out after three minutes."

"I'm used to it."

"That's the thing, you shouldn't be used to it, it's not normal," Sombra huffs, and Jack's sure she's throwing things right now wherever she's physically at by now. "I'm angry with you, we'll talk tomorrow when you get the package, and I'll be less angry."

She disconnects without prior warning, leaving him alone. But that's the thing about pain, you become numb to some of it, Jack thinks, until it becomes just the background radiation of your life.

He takes a quick shower and finds a clean set of clothes to change into.

This time, Jack remembers about keeping the pad on his person, and sends the text as he climbs the stairs yet again, somewhat amazed at how three whole weeks have passed unnoticeably with Jesse there to keep him occupied - he's not going to lie, he's going to miss the bugger. Not the conversations, per se, but rather, the general awareness of his presence. Even if everyone is living their own separate lives outside of the operations, getting together is not so bad, after all.

Jack stops at the doors to the same suite as before. The code is unchanged. A few calming breaths and he walks in.

That's the thing about the constant pain, it doesn't disappear, it just numbs you down - it's a sort of resigned weary acceptance to his situation that leaves a dull ache in its wake, nothing earth-shattering anymore, but it's still there. The half-smile Jack musters at the sight of Gabriel observing him is surprisingly genuine, even to him himself. He can, and will, deal with it. His problem, not anyone else's.

"Long time no see," Jack quips at the inquisitive rise of Gabriel's eyebrow. "Hi, and all that jazz."

He doesn't expect an answer. There is none, save for Gabriel stepping closer, and Jack throws his hands around his neck while his heart flips in his chest - constricts into a singular point of fear and doubt - the touch on his hip giving him something - anything - to grab onto. Grounding, as is the finger raising his chin.

The red and black eyes regard him with moderate interest - observe and scrutinize - pass the judgment on him; Jack leans in against the instinct telling him for once to run and hide from the apex predator before him. But, has he ever listened to it when it urged him to do anything but fight? Not that he can recall such an incident.

In a small act of defiance, Jack catches Gabriel's lip between his teeth, scrapes the tip of a canine on the fragile skin on the inside, hard enough to draw blood. He waits with the bated breath for the reaction, taken aback by a sparkle of what could be amusement in Gabriel's posture, and the kiss, now tinged with the metallic aftertaste, deepening, becoming more forceful, his body pulled flush against Gabriel's, a hand on the nape of his neck.

Jack stumbles over his own feet while being led to the bedroom, lost in the kiss until the backs of his shins hit the edge of the bed, and with a gasp of surprise he lies on the covers - almost falling but also held and lowered - peeled out of his garments, and out of control. Having Gabriel's attention focused on him - and only him - makes Jack's head spin each and every time, regardless of the circumstances; a near-religious experience if he ever had to put a name to it, not unlike the moment the drifting dragon gazed at him - and through him.

He wanders back to the dream - the memory - of the beach, of the coarse sand biting into his skin; Gabriel's locks that have slipped from the low ponytail tickle his cheeks and nose as his fingers dig into Gabriel's shoulders, trying to find a way to bring him even closer. Maybe even to leave a mark - a sign of permanence - something that cannot be denied sunk beneath Gabriel's skin in a desperate attempt to put his claim on him before Jack dissolves in the smell and the taste of the ocean rushing over him, the whirling current pulling him down.

But this is what Jack knows: he is not willing to give this up, this bittersweet torture. It doesn't come as a sudden realization, more like a long-standing knowledge now unburied and close to the surface, driven home with the weight of the moisture hanging on his eyelashes. He reaches out and finds Gabriel's palm, twines their fingers together - always amazed at the contrast and the faint dark red lines following intricate patterns melting into the color of Gabriel's skin - pulls it close to his chest, its back pressing against his heart. Covers both their palms with his other hand and curls around it.

No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it will hurt, he's not going to give this up because the alternative is far worse, it's being abandoned and empty, and lost, and having nothing but that deep-seated ache.

Like this, he can at least pretend, Jack muses, slowly drifting off.

The first time he wakes up, it is to the darkness of the night and fingers combing slowly through his hair, Gabriel's hand still held close.

The next time he opens his eyes, it's morning, and he's alone in the suite – the pillbox waits on the pillow.

[camodielsart]

Herd of the Gods (world and characters)

OK since i’ve been posting some of it, Imma word vomit out all the ideas that I have for this world.

All the gods were made at similar times after a “big bang.” The major creator of the gods is still unknown.

Multi gods exists. Each dynasty fight for humanity's worship and gratitude. When gods become forgotten and not worship, they lose their godly power and hide away. Forgotten gods loathe humanity. 

Heaven

Elohim

God

Was created and was left alone

When young, he experimented creating things

Wasn't very good at first

Found the greek gods; greek gods took him in

He was mostly raised by Gaia and taught him how to create

His first successful living thing was a throne (ophanim)named Maagel (maa-ghel) that is still his companion.

Helped earth develop and enjoyed watching its progress

Has a love for ungulates

Wanted sheep to rule but was disappointed when primates started to have progress

When humans began to worship gods he got envious and wanted more attention

Hades was a big influence; told him to get followers; was betrayed by Hades and out of rage killed him. The Olympians were angered by this and kicked him out of the family.

Now is at a “turf war” with other gods

Helel

Was the first angel

Was made using part of Elohim’s ichor

Elohim was very proud of this creation

Elohim saw he was too powerful and got nervous

Elohim separated him into two angels named Lucifer and Michael

Michael

One half of Helel

Leader of heaven's army

Keeps a cold front but on the inside, he’s constantly stressed out and anxious

Misses his twin brother, Lucifer

When Lucifer began to rebel, he tries to talk him out of it

Defeated Lucifer in the rebellion

Over time, him and Lucifer have tried to fix their bond

Sometimes sneaks down to vent to Lucifer as well as spend time with him

Afraid he doesn't have his father’s approval

Likes to people watch and is fascinated by them

Sometimes gets jealous of humans

Gabriel

Laidback

Second created

Loves human watching

Doesn't like being Elohim's messenger, mostly when it's awkward or horrid news or when mortals think he’s some demon or monster

Tries to get out of work so he orders one of his angels to do it

Commits minor sins but not often

Very close to Raphael

Loves ale

He frequently visits one particular tavern; the owner knows he’s an angel and allows him to stay there and drink in exchange for protection

He loves animals and will try to sneak them into the tavern

Misses Lucifer but would never admit it

Raphael

Third created

Honestly the sweetest in Heaven

Doesn't like angering anyone and will do his best to make everyone happy

Tries to be helpful

Is the main healer in Heaven

Spends a lot of time with Gabriel but discourages Gabriel’s drinking

Loves spending time with humans and animals and will often help them

A pushover

Is always there for his family

Scared of his father

Misses Lucifer but is too scared to visit him

Uriel

4th created

Sucks up to Elohim

Double agent; called “wandering prince” in Hell.

Disguises as a snake-like demon in Hell

Spies on other angels and Lucifer

Lucifer is aware of Uriel in Hell and tries to tempt him

Works with Raziel to catch angels sinning or committing treason

Afraid of Michael

Thinks highly of himself; big ego

Raziel

Used to serve Ra of Egypt

Elohim found him and offered him divine status

He accepted and set up a coup against Ra, causes Ra’s death

Keeps a record of all of Elohim's ideas and words

In charge of heaven's library

Spies on angels

Works with Uriel

Says he's only helping and looking out for his siblings

Many don't see him as a son of Elohim

Jegudiel

Strict

Is in charge of training angels for battle

Makes sure every angel is doing their job

Has no sense of humor

Baraqiel

Studies astrology

She can be serious at times

Loves knowledge

Doesn’t trust Raziel 

Likes to be secluded 

Hell

Lucifer

The other half of Helel

Didn't like how his Father (Elohim) was running Heaven and treating everyone

Thought he would make a better god

Rebelled but was defeated by Michael

Despite being beaten by Michael, he no longer holds a grudge against him

Now resides in Hell

Probably started Luciferianism and went overboard with it

Took Hell since it was abandoned after Hades’ death; the Main ruler of Hell but has several other demons below him to make sure Hell runs properly

Loves to visit humanity and watch humans

Tends to dabble in human drama

Despite being defeated by Michael, he still cares for him as a brother and consoles him and invites him to torture sinners when Mike is stressed

Writes poetry in his spare time

When he was younger and everyone was getting their job, he was bestowed with knowledge (or light) but he was never able to share with humanity.

This angered him and he would sneak out sharing light here and there.

He would be punished every time he was caught

Haniel

Fell with Lucifer

Angel of love, passion, hope, and sexuality

Very close to Lucifer and believed in his cause

Even though she fell, she never lost her kindness and loyalty to her family

Gets worried about Lucifer and checks up on him often

She’s the only one, besides Michael, the devil allows to see his vulnerable side

Is a healer

She is the only fallen angel that kept her sheepish appearance while the others turned into goats

She has a crush on Lucifer but fears rejection

Camodiel 

A duke of hell

Was once a virtue in Heaven but fell due to being involved with the rebellion

Isn’t much for stealing human souls

Hangs out with Bacchus

Will often visit Lucifer to freeload off him 

Is good friends with Lucifer

Is close to Michael and is sad that the angel avoids him

Often sneaks up to earth disguised as a deer or goat to cause mischief, mostly via illusions 

Materialistic 

Bacchus

Was once an Olympian and went by Dionysus, god of wine 

When the Olympians fell, he sought refuge in Hell

Due to this, his head became that of a donkey

Still loves wine and getting drunk

Often cries about his past, missing his godly status and worshippers

Mostly stays at Camodiel’s estate

Throws parties constantly

Cazul

Used to be mortal

His father had a failing theater

Was in love with a woman and wanted to start a family with her

Tried to save his father’s business

Thought if the plays were decent, more patrons would come

Made a deal with a demon so he could be the best actor

Is now a demon and had to watch those he loved die off as time went on

He now spends his time with another demon named Bifrons

Will go watch plays and try to fix them. Usually, this doesn’t go well

Can cause illusions and will use them to create his own shows

Talks strangely

Bifrons

A demon of necromancy

Is mute

Has a fascination with corpses

Will often dismantle corpses to learn about them

He spends time with Cazul

Bileth

Was once a dominion in Heaven

Wishes to return to Heaven

Prideful

Causes illness

Loves the sea

[corancoranthemagicalman]

Vado Dove Vai Tu (I Go Where You Go)

Read on AO3!

The worship of the gods is common. Which deity is worshipped varies from city to estate, like which sort of wine decorates a table, but the pantheon under Zeus’ watchful eye is predominantly those deities that are worshipped. Sacrifices are offered for blessings or boons, whether it be for harvest, happiness, or war. The velvet tongues of mortals cry out their gods’ names and bleed forth on altars all for the sake of worship.

There is another worship of deities too. Sometimes, Zeus graces a maiden or Aphrodite herself frolics with the mortals in their orgies and pleasure. It is a bodily devotion given in touch. It is sacrifice of another kind. Worship of the unfathomable sort. Not even the gods themselves can so aptly describe this thing called love.

There is a young prince by the name of Viktor. He is beautiful and the people love him. Some compare his beauty to Aphrodite herself. His heart shaped smile heightens whispers that he is a god of love. If he is a god of love, there is only one that is so deserving of his blessings.

It is the same one whom he worships. Faithfully, he enters the temple of Aphrodite. In something like blasphemy, he lights candles that do not belong to the goddess. He closes his eyes, words reverent as he offers them to Aphrodite’s son, Eros.

Eros is beautiful, a god himself, one of both love and pleasure. Viktor thinks, in the night, that he can feel his lover’s touch. He thinks of them as lovers. For how could Viktor be so full of love if he were not blessed by the god of love?

The people say nothing of it. If Viktor so chooses to make Aphrodite’s temple his, for his worship, then who are the people to say anything against it? For he is immortal beauty in the mortal realm. He is love and pleasure and good.

Aphrodite tells her son to marry Viktor to the most horrid creature he can find. For no mortal should be compared to a god. She thinks that Eros will take his mother’s displeasure of Viktor’s use of her temple to his own heart. Partially, it does anger him. His mother’s place being desecrated. But he hears the worship so tenderly offered and it makes his cheeks turn to apples.

Eros touches the mortal plain, throwing on a guise and calling himself Yuuri. He is unassuming as not many of the gods are of wont to do unless it is that wise owl who so helped Christophe return to his love after many years of war. He thinks he is hidden and can speak to Viktor’s father, but he underestimates Viktor.

“I know you,” Viktor whispers when they are alone in some hall of the mortal’s estate. “You cannot hide your ethereal beauty from me, Eros,” and Viktor says it like worship, like burning candles and offering blood.

“I am Yuuri,” he speaks instead. He knows what his mother has asked of him, but - foolishly - like all of the mortals who gaze upon Viktor, he has fallen for him. “I… I am here to help you be wed.” He says instead.

Viktor’s eyes are the sea and it is traitorous of a thought but Eros wonders if his mother placed the ocean into the depths of Viktor’s skull in the hopes that men would drown in them. “Oh?” Viktor’s proximity is smoke in a temple, flowers against stone. “And would you wed me, Yuuri?”

And Eros is tempted. Tempted by this serpentine desire to take. Instead, he pulls away from the heady devotion pouring off of Viktor in waves. “I am not beautiful enough nor rich enough to take you as my husband,” he offers.

But Viktor is not a vain mortal. Confident - overly so perhaps - but not vain. He takes Eros’ hands gently into his own. “Never have I seen one whose grace rivals the silver of the moon nor whose beauty rivals that of Aphrodite herself.”

Eros wonders if Viktor forgot he accused him of godhood, or if this had been Viktor’s meaning all along. He swallows the thick lump of praise and it feeds him in a way that he had not realized he had been starving for.

“Then you discredit yourself,” Eros whispers gently, “for no mortal has ever been as graceful as the tide nor as breathtaking as the East.”

Viktor’s face flushes like a burning ire all in Eros’ name. He feels drunk on it. Intoxicated by Viktor’s soft worship, heavy devotion of his name. “Take me as your husband,” Viktor pleads, “take me as your husband, for I will know no other.”

And Eros knows he must hide this from his mother. For her anger would scorch the effervescent locks of Viktor’s hair and make the earth tremble beneath those careful feet. Inhaling the scent of the incense of Viktor sacrifice in Eros’ name, Eros takes Viktor’s hands in his own.

“I will take you as my husband,” he promises, “but you must promise me something in return.”

“Anything,” Viktor offers almost carelessly had Eros not seen the pyre patiently burning in his eyes, waiting in offering.

Eros places his own worship to Viktor’s flawless features, an open mouth against the sharp cheek of this breathtaking, gorgeous mortal. “You must not look upon me for two moons.” He speaks seriously, hot breath a warning and promise along the mortal’s soft skin. “You must promise that when the moon rises and I snuff the candle that you will not look upon me.”

“Anything,” Viktor says again, shaking as Eros’ mouth returns his every devotion in the touch of warmth like the sun and softness like silk.  “Anything, my love.”

So it is that they are married, and Eros as Yuuri takes Viktor as his husband. They are not physical beyond what once happened on Viktor’s father’s estate, but Viktor feels no less loved. For there is a house, rich with wine and furnished with gold, that Viktor lives in. He does not see his husband, but he feels him laying beside him in the night.

When Viktor’s siblings are finally allowed to visit, permitted and carried to Viktor’s home by Phichit the wind, there comes doubt also.

“Do not let them tempt you or alter your thoughts,” Eros had warned his husband.

But Viktor had been careless. Bored in his contentment.

“What if he is the snake?” Mila speaks, brow furrowed. “You were warned, weren’t you?”

“Love is as poisonous as a snake’s maw,” Georgi bemoans but Viktor knows too well that his brother scorns love in one moment and worships it in the next.

But Viktor’s thoughts on love have always been devotion. Always devoted to his Eros even as he has no temple to sacrifice or body to worship.

“That’s why you cannot look at him,” Yura says unhelpfully, driving the proverbial nail into the coffin and sealing Viktor to his fate. “He’s the snake the prophet Yakov warned you of.”

So that night when his siblings have left and his husband lays beside him, Viktor disobeys his husband. He wants to look upon those eyes that have imprisoned his heart, feel the flesh that draws him. He is married and wishes to be taken by his husband, he thinks. He has been patient.

So when Viktor lights the candle and sees the form he knows too well, he is relieved. There is no snake, and Viktor is unsure if he ever believed it was a snake. He smiles, warmth blossoming in his chest like a flower made of tears and he moves closer to his husband. But the wax of his candle drips, falling to Eros’ beautiful form and the god screeches in pain.

Eros grasps the sheets, wrapping the silks around his body to cover him from the sight of his husband. Tears swell up in beautiful eyes and blotches of red mar flawless skin. “You didn’t trust me,” Eros cries.

“Of course I did,” Viktor tries to reassure. He did not think his Yuuri a snake. He did not.

He is mortal, and fear can corrupt even love. But he did not think his husband a snake.

“What is love without trust?” Eros speaks in a whisper.

“That is not fair,” Viktor is quick to combat, “for I know you are the god Eros and you did not trust me with this knowledge,” he says sharply.

Eros furrows his brow. “That was not mistrust; that was protection,” he keeps his form hidden in the sheets of their bed, but moves closer. “If my mother were to discover us, she would harm you and I could not bear that.”

A gentle, unsure touch reaches for Viktor as Eros’ image loses its etherealness. Eros makes to pull back but Viktor takes his hand in his own.

“Then I would fight Aphrodite,” he speaks brashly, “or give up my beauty, or anything,” Viktor offers again - that sacrifice at Eros’ altar, “anything to have you. To keep you.”

Eros is drunk on that worship, drunk on that heavy devotion and he offers it in kind. Tenderly lays himself bare before Viktor’s offerings. Viktor enters Eros’ temple and stays there well into the morning when they are finished and sated. But it is never enough. Not unless it is forever.

“Forever,” is the boon Viktor asks for.

“Forever,” is the boon that Eros grants him in the form of ambrosia.

[misspensandscribbles]

The Prodigal Stark

“You came back,” Sansa tells him softly, almost hesitantly.

He cracks a thin smile, all the cockiness from his youth now replaced with gentle timidity. “I did.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t.” Her head is bowed, eyes lingering on the soup she’s been stirring for long minutes now. He wants to tell her to look at him with those piercing blue eyes of hers; those eyes that brought him back his soul. The last time he saw them, they had been terrifyingly dull and so achingly sad. Now that there’s life in them again, he wants so badly to gaze into them for as long as he can.

If she were any other person, he might have been tempted to reach out and tilt her chin up to face him. But she is Sansa – Sansa – and the last thing he would ever do is give her unwanted, uninitiated touches. And yet he yearns for nothing more.

He can still feel the embrace she gave him hours ago. Never did he feel so much warmth and peace in all his life, so much so that, unlike their last goodbye, he hadn’t stopped his arms from reaching up and holding her tighter to him. With her in his arms, it had been so painfully easy to finally admit to himself that she’s been his north star all along. Everything he’s done since parting from her in now what feels like a lifetime ago has been to return to her with a purpose, with something to show for.

“When Jon told me he saw you at Dragonstone and when you didn’t come back with him…” Her brows pull together in her effort to decide how to continue. In the end, she heaves a sigh and shakes her head. “I wouldn’t blame you for not coming back, you know.”

She says it with false nonchalance that he could easily read right through. He was with her when she’d been young and blissfully ignorant of the dirty and cruel world they lived in. And he was with her at her lowest and her worst when she’d been with a monster he knows far too well, a monster that he himself was tormented by. In both cases, she’d never had to pretend with him – with the first, there’d been no need to when she didn’t know any better; with the second, well, surviving Ramsay had been the only thing they cared about.

There is no use lying to her. Sitting at the courtyard now, they both know it is near impossible to look around them and not be reminded of horrors past. The only thing that makes it possible is the one sitting across from him, the only person who knows exactly what he’s gone through. For him, at least, she is more than enough to keep his nightmares at bay. Looking at her now, he would never assume that he could do the same for her. With or without him, she is strong.

And so he does the only thing he can when faced with such overwhelming strength. He tells the truth.

“This is where I want to be.”

The smile she gives him shatters the weariness in his bones.

He bolts upright, sweating and gasping for air. It takes him awhile before realizing that, no, there are no hounds barking off in the distance. Nor does he hear arrows being nocked toward his direction or knives being sharpened somewhere nearby. There is only the sound of the ground rumbling with the footsteps of thousands upon thousands of men and of swords and steel being forged. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that the time for battle is near. Having felt it countless of times before, he knows there is no mistaking it now – the foreboding of death in the air.

And yet it isn’t the wights or the Night King that tormented him in his sleep, though what did is just as dead. The shadow of Ramsay Bolton lurks within Winterfell’s walls. Of all the horrid and unspeakable things that monster did, he would always hate him most for this, for turning his home into a haunted keep. With a muttered curse, he pushes himself off his cot and heads outside, away from the darkness and what harasses him.

Sansa finds him at the courtyard once more, at the very same spot they both occupied mere hours ago.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks him even though she already knows the answer.

When, earlier that evening, he wanted nothing more than to look into her eyes, now he turns away from them. “How do you do it?” he says in a pained whisper. “I… I see him everywhere.”

For a moment, she is silent. He hears only the sound of her boot as she takes a step closer to him.

“Come with me.”

His shame for showing such weakness isn’t enough to keep him from meeting her eyes now at her words. It is quite obvious that she is appealing to him even though he cannot understand why – he would do anything and everything she asks of him. And he means to show her that as he stands on shaky knees and follows her without question.

It is only after they pass the armory that he realizes where she’s heading and, when he does, he stops dead in his tracks, his breaths coming in shorter as his heart seems to stop beating entirely. Mere minutes ago, he’d been so sure of his devotion to her, and now it seems like she is putting it to the test.

It seems, too, that she can sense the panic swelling within him because she stops only a foot away and looks back at him.

“Please,” is all she says.

And it’s all she needs to say, for he releases a shaky breath, expelling the paralyzing fear that has frozen him into place, and slowly makes his way beside her until they stand shoulder to shoulder. If she can face it, so must he. He allows himself only a second’s hesitation before he nods at her, and they both move again.

It isn’t long before they are standing at the entrance of the kennels. To think that he left his bed in order to escape his nightmares only to face the very source of them all, he could almost laugh at the irony if it weren’t for the fact that he is being choked by the images of his torture and suffering.

He glances at Sansa, who’s staring impassively straight ahead into the empty darkness, and, not for the first time, he thinks that perhaps she actually does hate him. How could she not after all he has done? He can accept it, knows he deserves it. Still, he wants to ask her, to beg her for whatever else he can do, not to make amends, but perhaps to make her hate him less.

Her voice pulls him out of his insecurities.

“This is where he ceased to exist,” she says in a low voice, eyes still trained ahead at an unmarked spot in the middle of the corridor.

Her words stir something in him that he cannot name. He knows very well who she’s referring to, has a good idea of what it is she’s implying, and yet his mind can’t seem to process them. Painful and frightening images still playing in his head, it’s as though he is being pulled back and forth between the terrors of the past and the unnerving words uttered by Sansa.

“Ramsay. I fed him to his dogs. And then I had them slaughtered and burned.” She turns to face him now, eyes shining with tears that he knows she will not shed. “There is no trace of him left, Theon. He can’t hurt us now.”

He returns to his cot not long after that. He had stood at that entrance, Sansa wordlessly remaining by his side, until he felt Ramsay’s ghost seep out of him. It was only after he unknowingly released a heavy sigh of relief that Sansa had turned to him with eyes full of sympathy and understanding and said, “Get some rest.”

Now, as his eyes slowly drift shut, he knows for the first time ever and with utmost certainty that when sleep comes over him, there will only be rest. And it is because Sansa has decreed it so. His last conscious thought – she has saved him again.

He tries to pay attention to the battle plans being discussed to no avail. He already knows the part he will play; he had volunteered for it knowing that he wasn’t going to accept anything else. But now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he is even less inclined to listen to Jon and all the rest of them talk about the war. He is tired and his bones are weary. Truthfully, all he wants is to get out of the room and… and breathe.

Breathe in Winterfell while it still stands in all the glory that is left of her. Breathe in the North while it is still the land of the living.

He casts a glance at Sansa. Breathe in her before he can breathe no longer.

He isn’t a fool anymore. Whatever clever plans and brilliant strategies they come up with, he knows how this will end for him. And he is at peace with it.

He feels her presence before he sees her. Such is the way of things with her, it seems. He’s heard some of Daenerys’ people claim how she is as cold and frigid as winter, and it makes him scoff. When she is near, all he feels is warmth. That they cannot feel the same gives him the smallest measure of pride his blackened conscience will allow him.

“I knew you’d be here,” she tells him now, placing both her hands on the stone edge a few inches away from him.

It makes him smile. Her confidence in her words can only mean that she herself has done the exact same thing before. And that can mean, he dearly hopes, that she’s thought of him at least once.

He nods his head. “Do you always come up here?”

They are at the battlements, standing at the very spot they jumped off of from years ago. The wind is harsh and freezing, yet there is a sense of comfort circling between them that perhaps they would not be able to find elsewhere.

“Aye, when I can’t sleep,” she says. “It… it soothes me, I suppose. When… when I am plagued by worry, when I am afraid, coming here helps me to…“ she breaks off, unable to find the words.

“To remind yourself that you’ve already put the worst behind you,” he finishes for her because he is sure that no one understands her better than he can.

She bites her bottom lip, a sign of both acquiescence and reluctance. “What do you do?”

He looks at her, really looks for he knows that time is running out. Selfishly, he takes in his fill of her. Though he has memorized every feature of her face, he studies it once more, committing to memory every little detail, especially her vivid sapphire eyes that remind him of the sea, and the sky, and home. Because, after all they have been through, that is what she is to him now.

And so again, he does the only thing he can when faced with such overwhelming beauty. He tells the truth.

“I think of you.” I always think of you.

Earlier, with Sansa’s arrival at his side, he thought that he couldn’t feel any warmer. She proves him wrong when she slides her hand to his and laces their fingers together. She saves him yet again.

The horns have blasted minutes ago, and now the whole keep has come alive with the sounds of war and an almost methodical kind of panic. Soldiers are shouting as swords are being sheathed. Babes are wailing while their mothers rush to the crypts. He catches glimpses of men saying goodbye to their women, of longing looks and hurried kisses exchanged.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger on any of them as he leads his men toward the godswood lest he dwells on how he wasn’t able to say his own farewell to the person dearest to him. Though he’d been with her up at the battlements when the horns sounded, Arya whisked her away before he could say goodbye.

It’s for the best, he thinks now. He doesn’t know what he’d say to her if he had the chance. He walks by yet another couple in a passionate kiss, and he averts his eyes. That is not the kind of goodbye he wants. He shakes his head in an effort to clear his mind of blue eyes, red hair, and pale white skin, and to concentrate on keeping Bran alive and safe.

Redemption is beyond his reach, he knows, but maybe he can make a difference now. He thinks of Ned who was like a father to him, of Robb who loved him like he loved all his brothers and whom he loved more than even his own flesh and blood, of Jon who gave him the courage to do what needed to be done, of Bran who looks at him without judgment, even of Arya who not once spoke out against him defending her brother. And then, before he can even think of her, he hears footsteps hurriedly approaching him and then a hand circles around his wrist.

“Theon.”

She is breathless, chest rising and falling fast from rushing over to him. Her eyes are shining with tears, and it isn’t long before they start cascading across her cheeks.

She cries for me, he thinks now. His heart breaks at the sight of fear so clearly etched on her face. She fears for me.

She grabs him by the shoulders in a bruising grip that anchors him to the here and now. “Theon,” she says his name again. “Please.”

It’s the pleading in her voice that tells him that she knows. She isn’t a fool either. She knows how this will end, and yet – and this is what shatters and mends his heart at the same time – she allows herself to hope that it won’t, begs him to not let it come to pass.

And he loves her.

What he feels for her isn’t romantic or familial or that of friends. He’s never felt anything like this before, not until he stood with her on the ramparts of Winterfell, knowing they could die yet still wanting to do so with her.

He would die for her. He lived for her.

He’s never known love so pure and selfless, free of conditions, expectations, lust and all manner of vices. He loves her without needing her to love him in return. He loves her in the absolute. And the freedom he feels from finally acknowledging that overwhelms him to the point of bursting.

Slowly, tenderly, he cups her face with both hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears she sheds for him. He wants, needs, to take her in his arms and feel her embrace one last time, but if he holds her, he might never let go.

Standing in front of her now, he finds that there are so many things he wishes to say – that she can show affection and warmth after all the things Ramsay did to her speaks of a strength that is unlike any other, that she has made him want to become a better man shows how her heart instills devotion in others, that he is certain Robb would be beaming at her with pride and joy right now for all that she’s done. She has told her siblings that he saved her from Ramsay, that she wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for him. They are lies, all of it. The truth is that she saved him. He would’ve died as Reek if not for her. And it cuts him to the core that she had to suffer Ramsay for him to become Theon again – it is his greatest crime. All these things, he wants to tell her, and yet he knows that he can’t if he wants to protect Bran. And so he settles for the most important thing he needs her to know.

“Sansa,” he whispers, voice hoarse and desperate, before pressing a kiss on her forehead. “You must live.”

She nods and shakes her head in equal vigor as more tears start to fall, agreeing to his demand but also denying what is left unsaid – that he will not.

Just then, Drogon and Rhaegal screech above them as they fly over the castle with Daenerys and Jon on their back. The sight sends him plummeting back to reality. At the end of the day, he is only a man, and while he does not fear death, he still fears suffering. He prays for a quick death, the idea of dying slow, of being cut and sliced and stabbed again, makes dread seize his heart.

But before panic can start creeping in, she is there once again. Her hands shake and her lips tremble as she cradles his face, mimicking him. His eyes close at her touch, and he allows the calm it brings to wash over him. Once more, for the last time, she saves him.

“Sansa,” he breathes her name at last before opening his eyes. “You brought me back. Thank you.”

And then he releases her and walks away. He does not look back.  It’s his turn to save her, to save them all.

Jon stands a few feet past the entrance of the godswood, for once feeling like he does not belong there. The ground is covered with blood-drenched snow with arrows scattered about. They’d removed all the bodies and put them in the funeral pyres that have been set up outside the walls of Winterfell.

All save one.

It has been hours since the Night King and his army were defeated and yet Theon’s body remains exactly where it had been when they found him. He hasn’t the heart to move him… not while she is still there.

She sits on the dirt and snow, knees bent and shoulders drooped. There is mud and blood in her skirts, and there are cuts in her arms that he desperately wants to be seen to. He can see from where he stands that she is shivering, that her lips have paled enough to alarm him, that the gloveless hands that hold Theon’s lifeless one are now practically white.

He wants to carry her back to the castle, not to the great hall where all the survivors too weak to move huddle around the fire for comfort, but to her chamber where she can grieve and heal in peace. He wants to gather her in his arms and hold her to his chest so that he can feel that she still lives because he hasn’t been able to do so, unlike with Arya and Bran. He wants to kneel beside her and shake her out of her hollowed trance.

He does none of these things, however. Instead, he just stands vigil, and he waits for her. Anytime now, the horns will be blown once more, this time signaling to the people to gather outside the gates of the keep to pay their final respects to the men, women and children who have fallen. Theon will not be one of them. When Brienne had knelt by his body and spoken so softly to her lady that they ought to lay him on the pyres with the others, she’d pulled his hand closer to her chest.

No, she’d whispered.

Looking at her now, it dawns on him that he has never seen her like this before. She wears no mask, no armor. She is not the Lady of Winterfell now. She is a girl who is lost and vulnerable and lonely, a far cry from the Sansa he’s seen since reuniting with her at Castle Black.

He does not know what it is she feels exactly for Theon, but seeing her mourn for him the way she is doing so now brings him back to when Ygritte died in his arms. And loathe as he is to admit it, he wonders if she loves him in the manner that he loved Ygritte. It is a selfish thought, one that only a man who is guilty of having survived again and again can have.

In the distance, he hears the crunching of footsteps and turns back to see who it is. Brienne has returned, wearing an expression more anxious than the last one she wore not an hour ago. It can only mean one thing. He has delayed long enough. While he is not the King in the North any longer, Sansa is still the Lady of Winterfell. And as such, she is needed elsewhere.

He heaves a weary breath before he makes his way to them. With each step he takes, he is acutely aware of how the sorrow that had wrapped around his chest so tightly is now loosening up as righteous fury takes its place. He is angry at the gods for allowing so much death. He is angry at Daenerys for her relentless and pressing demand for that fucking throne, because perhaps they would all be able to grieve properly otherwise.

But most of all, he is angry at himself for having to do this to her now.

He kneels beside Sansa and casts a long, solemn look to the man who saved her. And then slowly, he lays a hand on her shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze.

“Sansa,” he rasps, his voice rough from the battle. “Sansa, it is time.”

She nods her head absentmindedly but otherwise keeps her eyes trained on Theon. He waits for her to stand or to sob or to do anything, yet she remains as she is. He looks up and sees that Jaime Lannister now stands beside Brienne, his face mirroring the worry that is so clearly on the latter. Dreading the possibility that the next one to show up would not bother with taking care for her grief, he opens his mouth to speak once again when Sansa suddenly breaks the silence.

“We will bury him in the crypts,” she murmurs. When he does not respond immediately, she looks to him, and he sees the tear tracks on the slope of her cheeks and the pleading in her eyes. “Please, Jon. I don’t care what anyone else says. This is his home… he belongs here.”

You don’t have to choose, he had told him not too long ago. You’re a Greyjoy and you’re a Stark.

He nods his head.

[tm0500042]

Notes from Collodi’s Pinocchio

I have now finished reading Collodi’s Pinocchio. While reading I made notes of everything I believed to be of note or which may be useful to refer to in the course of my essay:

p.3: The wood itself is alive p.4-5 Geppetto described as “jolly” but “short-tempered”, and gets into a physical altercation p.8 Geppetto shows anger towards P, even before he has come to life p. 10 Geppetto’s aggression towards P gets him sent to prison p. 11 Introduction of the cricket, P tells him to leave p.12 Cricket warns P about running away from home P wants a life “to eat, drink, sleep and amuse myself” P.13 P attacks cricket in anger P.19 Cat is violent towards P, Geppetto again threatens P with violence P. 21 Geppetto feeds P P.22 Geppetto lets P “cry and complain for half a day” as punishment P. 23 Geppetto’s poverty is noted, he makes clothes for P P.24 Sells clothes to help feed P P.25 P says he want to learn at school P.26 Quickly gives into temptation, doesn’t go to school P.27 Sells book Gepetto sacrificed for him, text draws attention to Geppetto’s sacrifice being disrespected P.30 P one of many other living puppets P.31 Fire-eater/circus master sympathises with P once sees he is sad Guilt established within book as common factor for kindness P.33 P offers to sacrifice himself for other puppets P.35 Financial concerns noted P.36 Blackbird appears, acts as voice of conscience P.37 P tempted by financial incentives P.38 Fox and cat act as representatives of glutony P.41 P Pays money to help friends Ghost of cricket appears says “Children who do as they please and want to have their own ways sorry for it sooner or later” P.42 “May heaven preserve” you (implication of religious/Christian element to the story) P.43 P says that “all try to advise boys as if they are their fathers” P.46-47 ethereal blue haired child described P.48 Violent death imagery P.49 Blue haired child identified as “fairy” P.53-54 P told to drink bitter water before he can taste sugar, has sugar first then tries to avoid the water (metaphor for needing to work before getting the rewards in life) P.54 P says that would “rather die than drink that horrid medicine” P.55 “We bad boys fear the medicine more than the sickness” (consequences rather than treatment) P.56 Nose grows upon lying about money P.57 Fairy laughs at his lies P.58 P can’t get through the door because of nose; a comic image P says wants to live with fairy P.60 P remembers but ignores advice P.62 Fox and Cat promise to “show you how to get rich without hard work” P.63 P reflects on “what a fine gentleman” he’ll be once he has money P.64 Parrot mentions importance of earning “money honestly with the labour of your hands or your brains” P.65 Very quick change of scene (court house” Four months go by P taken to prison and everyone released P.67 P refers to fairy as “sister” P.68 P refers to himself as “ungrateful, heartless” P.70 “hunger not a good excuse for taking what is not yours” P.72 P admits he “wanted to be a good for nothing, and a vagabond” P.75 P given freedom in return for telling “truth” P.76-77 Blue haired child dies “of sorrow” P.79 Sees Geppetto at sea by coincidence P.82 P refers to himself as “the worst son” and Geppetto “the best father” P.83 Description of Shark P says “I was not born for work” “Only the aged, and crippled, have a right to be” P.84 P notes he is “not a donkey” P.87 Fairy denies, then reveals identity, to P P.88 “If you deserved it, you could become [a real boy]...by being a good boy”; fairly describes what good boys do P promises to turn over new leaf P.89 P says he doesn’t like work, fairy says people who talk like that “end up in hospital or prison...everybody must work” “Idleness is a disease of which one should be cured immediately in childhood, if not, one never gets over it” Blue fairy says promise of being a real boy “depends on [P] P.90 P goes to school P.91 Wins respect of whole school including master Warned of “bad friends, will make you loose love for books” P.93 Kids ask P “aren’t you ashamed to be so proper and industrious; you make us look so small in the master’s eyes” P.94 P identifies “seven [bad kids], like the seven deadly sins” P is punched, retaliates P.96 Book hits one of bad boys, P waits until police arrived P.97 P taken by police as it was his book P.98 P runs away to sea P.100 P saves mastiff’s life for self-interest “One good deed deserves another” P.106 Pretends not to be P, and responds to description as “slander” Nose shrinks as he confesses his sins P.108 Needs snail to open door, snail moves at sluggish pace P.109 3.5 hours of snail journey! p.110 Abrupt shift- P goes to school for year and becomes top student Fairy promises “tomorrow cease to be a puppet and become a real boy”

P.110 Party planned to celebrate become real boy P.111 “Children make promises very easily, but they are not so ready to keep their promises” P.112 P’s friend Lampwick introduced “laziest and most mischievous boy in the school” P.113 Dreamland introduced, Lampwick tempts P P.114 P resists temptation because of promise P.115 P gives in to more and more temptation P.118 P “sighs” as he realises he will do the wrong thing again P.119 Whispered words warning P of furture P.121 Five months pass in Dreamland

P.122-123 P turning into Donkey, told has donkey fever by a squirrel p.13 “It is writted in the decrees above that lazy children...must end up, sooner or later, becoming little donkeys” P asks why listen to a false friend P describes self as “heartless puppet, with no sense” p.126 P and Lampwick become donkeys, first find funny, then traumativ p.128 Children become donkeys “from endless playing, and lack of studying” Lampwick’s fate is unknown but P has “a hard life full of drudgery” p.129 P eats hey, not so bad but says “how much better it would have been if I’d gone on with my studies” P says “I hope my failure will serve as a lesson to disobedient children who don’t like studying” p.131 P tries to call out to fairy but can only bray p.132 P becomes donkey taken to market p.133 P bought for skins for five crowns New owner tries to drown P p.134 Fourth-wall break (”what do you think?”) becomes puppet again p.135 P says “every mother loves her child...helps him with all his troubles, even when he deserves no help” p.137 Shark described as “Atilla of fish and fishmen” p.138 P sucked in by shark p.141 P finds Geppetto, confesses sins P.142 Geppetto lived in shark for two years P 143 P identifies need to escape immediately P.144 P takes charge and rescues Geppetto P.145 P encourages father to stay brave p.146 Fish helps them p.148 Cow and fox afflicted with afflictions they pretended to have “The devil’s flour is all bran” p.148 Cricket asks P to remember his cruel treatment, and says that “should treat everyone as kindly as possible” p.149 P works for money to rescue Geppetto p.150 Meets Lampwick as a donkey P works for five months and practices reading and writing in the evening

p.151 Geppetto survives through “ingenuity and diligence” Snail tells P that fairy is in hospital P gives all money has to save fairy P.152 P says he would give his clothes Snail now runs Lies “couldn’t find suit that would fit me” but nose does not grow Works harder after sacrifice Wakes up as real boy P.153 Laughs at puppet form