#Just the themes of love as sacrifice/violence

[elliewilliamsblunt]

(¯`·¸.-~*´¨¯`*·~-. 𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕟 𝕚𝕔𝕖 .-~*´¨¯`*·~-.¸·´¯)

Notes!: hi guys! So I tried to listen to the comments on my last post, wanting longer chapters and that's what I did! May have taken me a minute but it's here. But! This chapter will be in Ellie's Pov. Starting the outlook on her relationship with reader and god like an opposite approach for Ellie's backstory. (Which is a bit of a long start.) One thing clear is that Ellie resents the Christian/Catholic faith and you'll see why, which also leaves a small gap between her and the reader being close! :) she also isn't phased by being gay so teehee

Summary: she was never a fox…but another lamb awaiting the slaughter. A new sacrifice to his sins…please don't ruin her…

TW: self-image issues, identity struggle, trauma, ptsd, religious trauma, homophobia, internal homophobia, attempted SA (!NOT FROM READER OR ELLIE!)

*If you don't like dark themes, angst/horrific reads!!DO NOT INTERACT!! If you get mad at me I warned y'all.*

Chapter one, chapter two

Past tense= italics

Present= Normal

↞chapter three↠

“I was too young to notice, that some types of love could be bad.”

⛧°。⋆༺♱༻⋆。°⛧•𓆩⚝𓆪•⛧°。⋆༺♱༻⋆。°⛧

Ellie POV

If there was one thing that was clearly apparent in Ellie from a young age, was that she wasn't pleasant. The girl wasn’t sweet, nor angelic from her very birth. She was a whiny baby and an even more stubborn tot. Something that would have been cute in the eyes of other adults. But her parents weren't fond of children, and Ellie certainly wasn't a blessing. Just a very taunting mistake every time she opened her mouth.

While you had the comfort of cozy bedrooms, fulfilling thanksgivings, and a stable spot to live. The copper-headed girl's roots lay in the hazy landscape of a trailer park, barely overseen by her inebriated parents whose faces she could never remember. Walls adorned with faded paint exuded the stale aroma of nicotine and weed, while unwashed dishes amassed, breeding a newfound aversion to insects within Ellie. Nights often greeted her with gnawing hunger, exacerbated by merciless seasons when the air conditioner succumbed to its demise. These were the trials Ellie grew accustomed to when she was young. Because it was the only comfort of a family she had at the time, even if her parents treated her like a leashed mut weeping on a sweltering lawn.

Though her memory was always quite fogged, what she could trigger were either agonizingly loud arguments or suffocating silences that left her to fend for herself for days. Clumsily prouncing around the cluttered trailer in faded t-shirts that swallowed her whole. Desperate for even the slightest acknowledgment from her parents, she often found herself longing for their gaze or a meager morsel of attention causing her rowdiness. Even now looking back on those tumultuous times, she sometimes wished her parents had beaten or screamed at her. If it meant she could have some form of feedback. Yet, such hopes remained unfulfilled, as Ellie was deemed purposeless and inconsequential in her parents' eyes, a mere shadow within the blurred backdrop of their drug-induced existence.

Home, or what she could’ve called it, didn’t last much longer. For the one afternoon she could remember clearly was when it all ended. Confined to her room once more, she listened as her parents' arguments escalated into relentless strife throughout the night. Such nonsense was hardly unexpected; her 'father' had always assumed the role of aggressor, juxtaposed against her mother's perpetual state of hopeless romanticism. The woman was horribly dependent and weak, striking a source of frustration in his eyes, but he never did resort to physical violence towards Ellie. But instead left her to endure her own anguish. Locked up in her room wailing until exhaustion lulled her into unconsciousness, dissolving her fear into a tranquil gentle calm.

When she awoke, the familiar silence was punctuated by a new sound—the sound of weeping from the living room. Intrigued by the unusual disturbance, she dragged herself off the carpet and ventured down the narrow hallway. There, she encountered her intoxicated mother, tears streaming down her face, abandoned by Ellie's father. The scene, now marred by shattered glass, overturned furniture, and faint traces of powder beyond Ellie's comprehension.

"Momma?" she ventured tentatively, prompting her mother to cast her gaze upon Ellie, truly seeing her for the first time in what felt like an eternity. It was a fleeting moment, yet it etched a single memory of her mother's worn visage into Ellie's mind. Her mother appeared weary and prematurely aged, with dried blood caking her nose, a bruise marring her cheek, and one eye swollen shut, smudged with remnants of old eyeshadow. "Hey, Els..." her mother murmured in response, attempting to offer a forced smile amidst her tears. Ellie, Oblivious to the gravity of the situation, Ellie beamed at the attention, too young to harbor any ill thoughts toward her caregivers. "Why are you crying, Momma?" she chirped cheerfully, watching her mother's dreadful stare stiffen shifting gears from her feigned amusement. Hinting at the girl's bleak future ahead.

"How about we go to church today?”

༺♰༻

Ellie couldn't remember the last time she had been outside, or when she had been normally dressed. Well if you considered stained baggy jeans and a thrifted t-shirt decent. But she couldn't complain really, the breeze was nice and the sun was lovely on her freckled neck. Walking hand in hand with her mother, it felt almost like a rebirth or what a birthday felt like had she ever had one. She didn’t really understand the simplicity of it or well any normality in a way. Which made her gears turn in suspicion seeing as her mother hadn’t ever shown her this much attention let alone affection before.

"Where are we going, momma?" Ellie would inquire, but the silence stretched on, her mother's expression unyielding. While they strolled down a gravel road for what felt like hours till they reached the town's edge. Passing by grassy fields and scattered countryside homes before coming upon a grand chapel teeming with playful children and vigilant nuns. The sight filled Ellie with anticipation; she had rarely encountered other children outside of television. "Why don't you go play over there?" her mother directed breaking the silence, prompting Ellie to beam with excitement as she dashed toward the group.

Like a dream, the day unfolded swiftly and hazily. Yet, as with all dreams, the afternoon gradually descended into a bittersweet conclusion. The little girl's smile would wane as exhaustion set in, and her lungs stilled aflame from the fervent play. The sky slowly painted itself in hues of orange and pink, and the church bell tolled, signaling the end of the day's reverie. The children, obedient as most lambs, gathered under the watchful eyes of the nuns. But Ellie remained rooted in the tall grass, her gaze scanning the field for her mother, whom she couldn't see.

But she didn't shed tears or utter a scream; instead, she simply waited and muttered a faint whisper…

“Momma?”

༺♰༻

What Ellie didn't grasp back then in her abandonment, was that her stay in the orphanage wasn't going to be a short-term. Which was a hard subject for the little girl to grasp during recess times when she'd stray from the nun's view just waiting longingly by the gravel road every day. Only to return to the older women with a snotty nose and damp cheeks. Ignoring the caregivers' pleas for prayer or companionship, she remained fixated on her mother's absence. Because she wasn't interested in anyone's attention besides her mother's. She grew even more stubborn by the day trying to battle her frustration and betrayal. Screaming at the nuns to leave her be, beating the girls who mocked her mother's disappearance.

Until one day the pastor took note of the stray after he finished the morning sermon lingering behind while the others dashed outside. There Ellie stood with a pitiful frown just peeping by the door uninterested and going out much more. “What happened?…you always seemed to be quite eager to get out” he teased. He was tall and had a pale slender face with some patchy facial hair. His eye bags were an odd irritated pink while his hair was overpowered with gray. Undeterred, he chuckled at her defiance. “If you'd like to stay inside…I have somethin’ to show you.” he offered, gently tousling her coppery hair. Causing her eyes to light up with interest as he turned away walking down the long halls.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Ellie followed the man into his dimly lit office. With its closed, imposing windows and small framed Bible verses, it exuded a somber atmosphere. “Not much of a talker are ya?” He'd joke. But in reality, Ellie was quite loud, despite the past few weeks she just didn't want to amuse him or explain. “Your mother wasn't much of a talker either…or that's at least what the nuns told me.” Unperturbed, he delved into the task at hand, rifling through his cluttered desk until he unearthed a handful of weathered and stained documents. “I don't want to break your spirit much more than it has been…but there's no use for moopin’ on a woman who doesn't want a darlin’ like you around.”

Ellie's brows knitted together in confusion at his statement, her eyes darting quickly to the papers in his hand. Even trying to yank them from his grasp. Before being swiftly denied as he raised them out of her reach. “Easy there, this is important stuff ya hear.” he cautioned, before delicately unfolding the documents in front of her. "I'm afraid there's no note or anything of the sort," he explained gently. "Just your birth information and hospital records."

That final blow caused Ellie’s silence to break, while freckled cheeks flushed red with anguish. She couldn't help but sob, starting to tug at her choppy hair as salty tears streaked down her face. Her heart torn apart and her hope shattered, she uttered incomprehensible pleas through her sobs. “W-what?! N-no no no! You're wrong! My momma is coming back!!” she’d wail. Alarmed, the plasterer gently pulled her wrists away from her head, his voice tinged with urgency. “My god! Child don't punish yourself for her! That woman doesn't deserve your tears," he insisted sternly, trying to console her as she looked up at him, her agony palpable. “Come on….it ain't all bad here. You'll start school, and you'll find a new kind of family. It'll be alright.” But Ellie shook her head in return. “B-but I don't want a new family!” she choked.

“Careful now girl. You don't raise your voice like that.” The man would quickly interrupt causing Ellie's tears to pause and her face to lose some of its color.

Maybe then….should have been the first sign….

As quickly as his stern demeanor had dissipated, the pastor extended a tentative smile and reached out to gently rub Ellie's cheek. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot," he began, his voice softening. "Names David and I promise I'll help you settle in." Ellie met his gaze with a small, timid expression, her name barely a whisper as she sniffled softly. "Ellie," she murmured in reply. “Ya know, what you remind me of Ellie?”

The girl shook her head ‘no’ in return waiting for David to go on. “Ya remind me of a lil fox cub….got Auburn hair like em…young like em.” He’d murmur tenderly adjusting her untamed hair, causing her to tense slightly with the unfamiliar touch. "Fox cubs are born blind and deaf," he continued softly, "but with guidance, they learn to see and hear. Maybe if I and the other nuns can help you open your eyes and ears to God you’ll see, it ain't so bad here." Though, even at that tender age Ellie couldn't believe a word he said. So, unwillingly she nodded in response earning a smile from the off-putting man.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of ya lil girl.”

༺♰༻

"Wake up by 7 am, breakfast at 8, morning sermon at 9, classes until noon, lunch at 1, followed by Bible study and afternoon classes until 4, then free time until 9, lights out by 11." This rigid schedule would soon become Ellie's bane by the age of 10. She'd venture every hall, read every verse, memorize the insignificant prayers.

Ellie was bored with her life…

But, her disdain for the routine was mostly rooted from the incessant bullying she endured. In her eyes, Catholic kids were nothing but "prissy, egotistical dicks," Or that's at least what she'd claim. Not that she was wrong, she just remained oblivious to the other side of the coin. She couldn't ever understand the girls who obsessed over magazines they stole from the nun's offices. Or the hypersexual boys she was growing up with.

Ellie's awkward demeanor and biting sarcasm only served to isolate her further. Even attempts at humor with older kids resulted in a bloody nose and lectures from the caregivers. And while you may think adoption could give her a glimmer of hope, living in Wyoming felt more like being marooned on an island—sparse and distant, frequented more by the elderly than young couples. But even then when they'd show, they were much more eager to take home a cute tot not some washed-up girl with anger issues. Left with little choice, she had to acclimate to the orphanage's dreary routine. Even if meals were tasteless, or television was practically non-existent. The boundaries of the orphanage felt like prison walls. Like she was being constantly mocked by god that she should be grateful for this bullshit. Sometimes, she even considered the feeling that the trailer she was born in offered more comfort than the institutionalized existence she endured, now that was melodramatic.

Because it wasn't all bad, she went to bed with a full belly, she slept in silence, and at least she had David. Though he was first and foremost the pastor, not a friend per se, he was the closest thing she had to a father figure. He was the only one patient enough to tolerate her bullshit. Teaching her about the ways of god, or at least trying to. But even if he was a bit…odd sometimes or the way other girls would avoid his gaze. She found him to be surprisingly decent partially because he was the only one who was kind to her. And didn't degrade her for being unpleasant. Sometimes even watched with a smile when she'd clumsily dance around outside with her walkman. He kept up with calling her ‘his little fox.’ Humiliating enough, Ellie let slide without a thought about it because it felt…sweet…and caring. The guy also went out of his way to gift her a journal to jot down her thoughts. After getting her shit rocked by some stuck-up “Claire” chick. When she sat in the chapel steps in the rain, taking the journal into consideration.

“What’s this?” She’d ask the older man while he smiled shrugging his shoulders. “A Journal.” He remarked. “For what?”

“Anything really, for ya thoughts…even stories, or maybe you could take up art I bet one of the nuns would be happy to teach ya,” David added leaving the girl surprised over his consideration. “Really?” Ellie asked softly earning his chuckle. “Just don't go tellin’ the other kids I gave you a gift.” Ellies gaze softened with a nod before she sighed. “You…don’t really gotta worry about that.”

“I don't see why you let 'em get to you girl, nothin’ wrong with bein’…..different” The paster would mumble making her stir with annoyance. “You’re not the one getting hit for it are you?” she’d hiss. But to her surprise, David remained amused. “Believe me, kid, I know all about bein’ different.” He murmured in return reaching out to brush a bit of dried blood off her chin.

“Get cleaned up and come inside, it ain't right for a pretty girl like you to be in the cold.”

༺♰༻

By the age of 14, Ellie found herself grappling with the tumultuous onset of puberty, an experience she likened to being "kicked in the ass," as she often put it. In contrast to the other girls who were psyched to have curvy figures. But Ellie didn't think much of it, awkward and self-conscious, especially in comparison to the other girls.

Her flat chest and tomboyish appearance made her a target for more of the girl's gossip, leaving her to grapple with her insecurities late into the night. Staring at her reflection in the dormitory's unforgiving mirrors, she couldn't shake the feeling of being too scrawny, too rugged. The sight of herself in the uniform nightgowns only intensified her discomfort, fueling the relentless taunts she inflicted upon herself.

Along with her new intrusive desires when she'd stare a little too long at the other girls. Watching them dry their hair or simply wash their soft faces. Often leaving Ellie stumped with shame and shyness. Not to mention the longer stares from David that shifted her into a brief distance. Taking time to consider the girl's rumors especially when he’d reach out to toy with her choppy hair and whisper. “It’d look nicer neat…”

Only soon she’d cut it off with a glass shard while her stomach churned seeing her reflection in the mirror….

Unsettled and a bit tense, she decided not to think about it. But things, only got worse when she got her first period because she didn't have the graciousness of a mother. But instead an elderly nun far too fucking cheerful for her liking. Spouting nonsense about womanhood and fertility instead of actual information on cycles. “Don’t go lusting now! Stay away from the boys save yourself for marriage!” she’d holler in conclusion humiliating her in front of the other girls as she left the infirmary.

“I don't think you'll ever need that will you lesbo?” Claire would taunt her chuckling with her friends. Leaning on one of the dusty walls of the chapel only to be interrupted with a scoff. “Oh shut up Claire don't you have lunch to hurl?” A girl would taunt in amusement making the brunette flush with utter embarrassment. “Screw you, Riley!” She squealed storming off while her friends mindlessly followed.

Leaving Ellie shocked and her brows furrowed in confusion as she took in the sight of the new girl. With her brown skin, captivating hazel eyes, and a cascade of curls, she exuded a quiet confidence that immediately left Ellie flustered. Summoning up the courage to speak, Ellie tentatively inquired, "Are you new here? I've never seen anyone shut down Claire like that before..." She questioned slowly. “N-Not that I'm mad I mean if anything thank fucking god,” Ellie added mentally cursing herself for being so scrambled.

The corners of Riley's lips curled into a snarky smile as she responded, “Hey watch your language…I mean we are in God's home.” she’d humor before going on. "I guess I'm a bit new. I arrived a few weeks ago, but I guess you've been too wrapped up in your own world to notice. It's like that journal of yours is your lifeline," she teased, causing Ellie's heart to race with a mixture of embarrassment and intrigue. “Oh? I didn't know you were so interested in my life?” the younger girl countered back.

“You wish…” Riley hummed before shyly laughing. “But it's not like there's anything else to do..”

That was the first time…Ellie felt it….in a long time.

Pure happiness….but something else too….something she couldn't pin down….

༺♰༻

Skipping Bible study, dozing off during sermons, and sharing sacramental wafers with Riley for a snack became Ellie's new routine as she transitioned into her teenage years. It was a schedule that didn't sit well with the nuns, especially David. Who'd silently glare at the girls in a horrific way that even made Ellie stir. But the girl couldn't care less, because she had Riley. If that girl was anything she was cereal at night, of the sun through storm clouds. She was the ride-or-die that Ellie couldn't bear a moment without. If anything she stopped her from going “Batshit crazy.”

However, their friendship seemed to fuel Ellie's rebellious streak even further. She pushed boundaries by sneaking wine and cigarettes from the nuns' quarters and regularly escaping to the nearby lake with Riley. Where, Riley patiently taught Ellie to swim, sometimes playfully pretending to dunk her underwater until they were both drenched, their laughter echoing across the water.

As they lounged on the sun-drenched grass afterward, their bodies pressed close, they shared tender, innocent kisses, their fingers intertwined in sinful affairs. "Do you ever think about leaving?" Riley's voice was soft, her smile gentle as she posed the question. Ellie shrugged nonchalantly, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Course I do….I mean…I just…wouldn’t know where to go…how to start.”

"Well, anywhere would be better than this... staying here, becoming a caregiver... I'd rather die," Riley joked, her laughter contagious. Ellie playfully nudged her shoulder. "Please! You becoming a nun? After everything? That'd be a miracle," she teased, earning a playful smack in return. Their banter faded into a comfortable silence, the weight of their shared dreams and uncertainties hanging in the air, but Riley had another thing in mind. “What if we ran?” She’d suggested dazing up into the trees.

“What do you mean?”

"What if we left... tonight?" Riley's voice was filled with excitement, her eyes shining with anticipation. "The nuns are busy with the younger kids, and David's caught up with the remodeling. If you could just... sneak into his office and grab our records, we could maybe ditch this place..." Her words hung in the air, charged with possibility, but Ellie's expression shifted to one of worry.

"What? No. Hell no, I can't do that," Ellie protested, her concern evident in her voice.

"Come on, Els! He likes you the most! Even if you got caught, what's the worst he could do?" Riley pleaded accompanied by a gentle squeeze of Ellie's hands, which inexplicably sent her heart racing, drowning out the voice of reason.

"Okay, but even then, what about money?" Ellie's practicality interjected, her mind racing with the potential consequences.

"Donations, probably somewhere in his office," Riley replied quickly, her confidence unwavering. "Come on, Ellie, it's a solid plan! Please?" she pleaded, her eyes pleading for reassurance.

Ellie's lips tugged into a shy smile, her resolve softening under Riley's relentless persuasion.

"Okay”

༺♰༻

There was a sneering chill on Ellie's skin, now pickled with goosebumps. When she finally returned to the church it was around 6 pm. The nuns were busy watching the little ones, and David was out front chatting with the two brothers giving the church a fresher layer of paint. Giving her just enough time to sneak back in with Riley still guiltily soaked from the brief escape.

"I'll grab your stuff, then we'll head out, okay? Meet me behind the chapel after." Riley whispered hastily, and Ellie nodded timidly, bidding her a silent goodbye.

Before she ventured down the chilled, dimly lit halls, her heart racing with unease as she approached David's eerie office. Thankfully, the door was unlocked, allowing her to slip inside and close it behind her in a panicked rush. Immediately darted over to his cluttered filing cabinets, frantically sorting through them for any records she could find. But just as she located her and Riley's records and shoved them into her back pocket, she heard the jingle of the doorknob and David's voice echoing through the room.

"Hello? Hey? Who locked this?! Who's in there?" His tone growing increasingly agitated as Ellie's ears picked up the sound of him retrieving a key. Racing against the clock, Ellie hurried to the window near his bookshelf, pushing it open as quickly as she could and preparing to make her escape. But she was too late. In an instant, David seized her by the hips, causing her head to collide with the window sash before she was forcibly dragged back inside.

“Damnit girl! What the hell are you doing in my office!” He sneered pushing her against the bookshelf roughly causing her to hiss in pain. “I wasn't doing anything!” She hissed in return earning a fierce glare from the man. Before his hand reached to grasp her cheeks roughly. “Don’t lie to me now! I know you got something!” He yelled in return before letting his other hand pat down her body disgustingly while she jerked. Until his hand reached over her bottom tugging the folded papers from her pocket. Causing him to dryly chuck holding them to her green eyes tauntingly. “What the hell is this Ellie hm? Where did you think you were gonna run off to? Where you really just gonna go off with that little Riley girl huh?” He questioned sternly.

“It’s better than this fucking place.” Ellie huffed glaring back at him as his nose flared with a heavy breath. “I think I've had it with your mouth little girl. And that Riley girl ain't a good influence on ya either-” David started before she quickly interjected. “She didn't do anything damnit!”

“Like I'd believe that,” He’d huff in feigned amusement. “I see the way you two girls act…even look at each other… it's sickening. And under God's roof? What happened to my little fox…” He questioned longingly, letting his calloused fingertips trail down Ellie's cheek while her jaw tightened. “I’m not anything to you, fucking perv…” She whispered.

The was a still, and horrid silence between the two. Leaving Ellie to watch David's eyes darken and his brows to furrow in betrayal. Until he slowly leaned in to whisper. “I think I outa’ set you straight.” Immediately making the girl’s heart stop in pure fear. Once she felt her back hit his desk and her wrists above her head by one of his tight gasps. Everything was so quick…so repulsive as try screamed and tried to push him off while he lewdly grinned working off his belt. “S-stop! Please! Stop! N-NO NO!!! PLEASE! STOPPP!!!” She howled earning harsh smack across the face. “Now now! You keep it down girl! I don't mind a fight but you better stop squirming or I'll make it worse!” He demanded in return.

That's when it finally kicked…Ellie wasn't a fox….but another mourning lamb….no mother to be found…left bare to the sickening reality of the world…to the vial desires of a man who vowed to be a saint….

A decent of god….

She struggled and sobbed begging to get him off, kicking and pushing as he tried to tug down her shorts. Until the door opened…

A tall man dressed in a aged flannel, and baggy sunbleached jeans supposedly thrown on. Aged but imposing, with a rugged yet undeniably charismatic countenance marred by wrinkles and gray strands infuriating his square beard. But for a fleeting moment, his eyes were wide and he stood frozen gazing upon the loathsome scene. Before he quickly closed the distance, his knuckles delivering a resounding crack to Davids's nose.

It felt good…like sun on your skin….or breath after a long mile….he was her savour…

It felt so fucking euphoric to watch…listening to the pastor's pleas and treated drown out with each blow the man threw. Leaving him barely conscious…his face battered and bruised. Painted with purple….speckled with iron droplets.

Sick fucker…

After a few deliciously blissful moments…he rose from where David laid, choked up on his blood. The stranger's knuckles, now throbbing stained in his own crimson fluids..like a grim trophy of justice. His gaze shifted back to Ellie, a now ghost of a girl. With blown green eyes blurred and irritated from her sobs and her knuckles white gripping her shorts in a still lingering terror.

“You alright kiddo?…” The older man would question in a gentle murmur. Tentatively reaching out to rub her shoulder in assurance, but only making her flinch. And all she mustered was a silent nod rubbing her tender cheek….still aching from Davids's blow.

“Tommy get in here now!” the stranger yelled out ducking his head in the window Ellie wished she escaped from. Before turning back to her with a pitiful look…Ellie resented…

“It's alright…I’ll get you out of this mess…” He whispered slowly reaching to pull her into a dreadful embrace she didn't give into….

That's when Ellie decided….there was no god….

༺♰༻

A few days later…

The ride was enveloped with a silence broken only by Joel's brief introductions. Despite Joel's attempts to welcome her…However, she wasn’t fond of it really, since she heard from his bother ‘Tommy’ that he'd lost his daughter recently. Giving Joel a replacement on a silver platter, and her an ‘abandoned kitten look’. Feral, and shaken up from the harsh world they couldn't fathom to understand. Ellie despised that look….she despised pity…and David for that matter.

She had no desire to be anyone's "little girl" again, nor did she crave novelty. She cherished the familiarity of sunny mornings and the solace of the field where she had once shared conversations with Riley until daybreak. Her heart belonged to the sketches of deer she had etched behind the church, symbols of the roots she had grown, and the passage of time she had weathered. Leaving meant abandoning these comforts, bidding farewell to Riley, perhaps with nothing more than a fleeting kiss.

And as she stared down the gravel road, as Joel led her out of her hometown. A pang of nostalgia made her feel six years old again, yearning for the return of normalcy. But fate had never been kind to her…Especially when that pastor got off scot-free….

No evidence my fucking ass…and having the nerve to put Joel in jail for assault…those bastards-

“Pretty ain't it?” His gruff voice interrupted breaking her stare. “Wyoming is just farms and grass…there really isn't much to it..” She pessimistically answered causing him to chuckle. “That’s true…but you'd be surprised how many places look like this…cities are mostly for the rich..” He added with a small smile. But Ellie couldn't return one just turning her head back to the window while the older man's lips softened.

“Well…maybe you'll grow to love it in time…”

༺♰༻

Ellie never knew how cold winters could get…or how old public schools were…or even how quite it was without Riley. But she enjoyed the fact Joel was a simple man, he believed in god. But he wasn't like David, or chapel girls. He didn't resort to violence or cult morals…He was a morally right soul…she could…be a kid…she didn't have to worry about death…and sin.

She could just be herself…

Life after leaving the church was,—though "normal" felt like a stretch for Ellie, who found solace in simple comforts. Despite Joel's shit coffee, she relished having her own room and meals that actually tasted good. Her new ‘lair’ consisted of a bedroom, complete with a boxy TV and a dusty PS3, a far cry from the institutional life of the orphanage, even if it wasn't exactly luxurious. Joel wasn’t a money-making man, the man worked in construction she really wasn’t expecting much.

And although she still bore the scars of her past, she was still a bit wary when it came to trusting Joel completely. But she couldn't deny his kindness, even if he vehemently denied it himself. Taking her to museums, letting her rant about shitty high school, even renting her books about astronomy. He oddly seemed particularly pleased with Ellie's tomboyish nature, a refreshing change from his past struggles to understand his own daughter's phases, particularly her Twilight obsession. Though, he still questioned her nature when she pleaded him to teach her hockey in long winters especially since it wasn’t a…girly sport.

"Why aren't you out with other girls from your school, cheerleading or something?" he'd grumble one afternoon, his head pounding from a long day. While Ellie, in her typical fashion, would retort while debating which action movie to watch, "Why would I hang out with preppy sluts or the pigs? I'd rather watch Kill Bill." She snorted scrunching her freckled nose. Partially trying to cover up the fact she was a bit of a loser….

"You really are an odd girl... You're tellin’ me there isn't one kid you like at school?" Joel persisted, prompting Ellie to tense up. "There's... Cat, I guess," she mumbled softly, her embarrassment palpable.

Joel simply hummed in response, not dwelling on it. "Why don't you go hang out with her then, instead of talking my ear off?" he teased, a hint of amusement in his voice. But Ellie's reaction was unexpectedly fierce, her eyes flashing as if his suggestion was outrageous. "I-I can't just... I can't just hang out with Cat!" she whined rubbing her flared cheeks.

"Why not?" Joel prodded, genuinely curious. "You just don't get it... I'm not that bold, I guess?…I don’t know Joel! It’s just weird..”

"So you can walk around this place like you're tough, but you can't talk to a girl...?" Joel's suspicion lingered in his tone. "Shut it, dinosaur..." Ellie scowled.

"Whatever you say, kiddo…”

༺♰༻

It wasn't until the approaching end of senior year that Ellie finally mustered the courage to talk to Cat, a girl she had been gwaking over since junior year. With a nudge from Jessie, who insisted she’d ask Cat out to prom. Luckily Cat found Ellie's awkward front adorable eagerly accepting. Especially since queer girls weren't a common thing in town. But the girls quickly spun into late-night dates, study sessions, and parties as the days counted down to the dance. Joel wasn't thrilled about it, but Ellie felt like she was finally living out her teenage years. Like she starred in “10 Things I Hate About You,” where her nerdy ass somehow managed to pull the gorgeous “Bianca.”

Her first real girlfriend…

And when prom night came and she was met with the pretty girl on her doorstep. She couldn't ever forget the pretty blue eyeliner and her lacey black dress, paired with the leather jacket Ellie had lent her. Along with Joel's shocked yet embarrassed look on his face when Cat greeted her with a sweet peck on the lips, his presence catching them off guard in the living room. Fortunately, Joel didn't seem to mind much, only offering a quiet plea that they refrain from such displays of affection in front of him, if only for his own dignity. Pondering the “friendship” he was proctoring those weeks.

Life was well, senior summer was lively filled with Dina, Jessie, and Cat. Traveling across Wyoming, getting tattoos, basking in the short summer of the country. Until then bitter start of fall faded in…and it was back to school…

Even if she had no interest in college she’d go for Joel’s sake. Though it seemed pretty fucking difficult seeing as expensive it’d be even for just in-state…ontop of that he didn't have much funding to send a kid to college, with his daughter gone most of his money went into his own hobbies.

Joel was retired….Ellie was grown now…she needed to get it together…

But fuck it was hard…and she was a striving pessimist… Well until she saw the checked-on scholarship offers, her eyes lighting up over the email.

“Girls hockey! Financial aid and insurance offered! See details below”

༺♰༻

Present…

“It’s fucking bullshit Joel!!” The auburnette hollared into her phone, storming out the sink early. While chilled winds brushed her cheeks as the reddened. Not exactly pleased with the news of being a rookie babysitter. When she could be spending time taking shifts at the records store, or hanging out with her lover. “It ain't that serious Ellie…” the older man grumbled annoyed with her stubborn complaints. “Are kidding?! Maria just taking in some newbie who can barely skate! If she keeps up with this bullshit we won't even reach nationals!” She cried out in frustration feeling her chest tighten. “Then it’ll be local games and t-then the team will be useless and broke and-”

“Ellie!” Joel huffed in return. “What?!”

“Now look here, you are far to old to be havin’ a goddamn tamptrom over some new girl. With that attitude I'd be surprised if you made it anywhere! But if you keep crying rather than helping this girl out what do will happen to the team?” The older man scolded causing Ellie to sture with embarrassment. “S’ still bullshit..” She retorted earning a sigh. “Just…be nice for Christ’s sake I’m sure you know what it's like to be alone…”

“Whatever….”

“And quit giving your aunt a hard time before she actually kicks from the team.”

“You know she's bluffing.” Ellie hummed, as her anger faded and her lips tugged into a cocky smirk. “Still…can you be less of a smart ass?”

“You’re killing me dude..”

“Love you too kiddo.” Joel snorrted before hanging up. Leaving Ellie to sigh in silence but there was still one thing clear….

You better not fuck up what she has…

⛧°。⋆༺♱༻⋆。°⛧•𓆩⚝𓆪•⛧°。⋆༺♱༻⋆。°⛧

Notes!: HIIII, thank you for reading! I hope the end didn't feel tooooo rushed, I might edit a bit more later but I'm happy with this! The next chapter picks up with training 🙏 (sorry I keep writing emo shit) but i do want go make this series long so! Please give me feedback if the build up is too slow!

Taglist: @vqxen @shiimer @a-little-bit-of-everybody @bready101 @cloudywithachanceofcrisis

[nomsfaultau]

wip

[dragqueenpentheus]

god i just wanna write essays analyzing my own bookbskskdkskslskmd

[peachesofteal]

Mermaids

Simon Riley masterlist

Simon Riley/mermaid!reader 8.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Dark themes. Magical beings eating human hearts. Magic. Blood, Violence. Explicit sex. Blood kink. Breeding kink. Creampie. Dubious consent. Possessive Simon Riley. "And with your mermaid hair and your teeth so sharp, you crawled from the sea to break that sailor's heart" - F+TM

It begins early this year.

Earlier than usual, when your hunting ground in the mortal world was just starting to turn green, shaking its frosted and frozen branches free to make room for bright blooms and emerald leaves. Just as the steps of Brighton Pier changed from ice slick ledges to waterlogged, weeping wooden planks, and human clothing shifted from long coverings that protected their fragile membranes from the bitter wind to soft and flowing fabrics that allowed their bodies to breathe.

This time of the year the mortal world was alive. Full of rebirth and growth, strong and vibrant.

Vibrant, like the song that began early this year, the frequency echoing deep below the water’s surface to where you waited for its pull. The siren song of a true treasure, far beyond any other, the melody of your chosen, the ebb and flow of the rhythm that is not unlike the sea. The siren song of a mortal’s heart, the cacophony able to reach you and your sisters far below the swell and crash of the ocean, far beyond where the light ceases, the melody possessing the ability to pull you to the surface once a year.

Once a year, to hunt.

One a year, to dance and drink and fall in love, if only for a night.

Once a year, to sacrifice a human heart.

Your eldest sister holds you tight to her body in an embrace as the sun rises. Elegant fingers fuss with your hair, smoothing and tugging and pulling, a vain attempt at taming something wilder than her own heart. Her face is grim, a black void that reflects no joy or excitement, just dread. It is a mirror of yourself. It is a pain that you know too well.

“What bothers you?”

You are the last two left on the beach. The others have all gone, eager to stretch their legs and seek their own songs, the trill of the blood bubbling up in their veins, their bodies pulled like magnets to the source. One heart, one song, one human male for each sister, poor mortals who have no idea what awaits them today, their ignorance bliss on the last night of their lives. Your sisters, as well as you, all live for this night. The joy of the love, the thrill of the hunt, the taste of the ichor that sustains you. The anticipation of this night fills your dreams with swirls of violent songbird chords and sweet melodies of affection. It is all you talk about for cycles, leading up to the day when you leave the water at sunrise and your tail shifts and shatters to reveal two very human looking legs.

“I am weary.” She tells you plainly, an announcement that does not come as a surprise. You have watched how she fades. Watched her linger in the darkness of the caves, watched her float lifelessly on slow currents, gaze hollow, vigor lost. “My song is faint.” She pushes further, holding your hand tightly as she releases you from her embrace. “I think I may not take a heart this year.” But we must. Must we? It was a question unanswered, but one that plagued you both. How else could you live, if not for these sacrifices?

“You would choose to die.” You surmise and she gives you a curt nod, as if it is obvious. As if her admission does not rattle you down to your very bones. Perhaps you too, one day, would make this choice. Would choose not to hunt. Choose not to love and lose. The notion pains you, fills you with sorrow as it has for many, many years. This was not an unknown feeling, even though you still experienced the joy, the bliss of your hunting, of the harvesting, you still felt the pang of loss every time, stronger and stronger as the years ticked by.

“It aches now, knowing I will fall in love this night, just for it to end as the sun rises.” The sea crashes onto the beach behind the two of you, and her lips part with a smile before she leans in to graze a kiss along your cheek. “Happy hunting, my sister.”

The song encourages you onward, leading you through a maze of streets and buildings while the sun rises and lingers in the sky. You comb the city for your male, following the electric hum of the song through alleys and neighborhoods, stopping to enjoy the day, your one day on land, as often as you can. You relish in the things that are rare for you, the taste of coffee and human food, the smell of flowers in the park, the feel of grass on the bare pads of your feet. The dress you’ve chosen flutters in the breeze, allowing the cool air to caress your skin softly, and the sun beams down on your exposed limbs, warming you under its light as you indulge in mortal world. It is nice, you decide while you bask in its rays, to feel the sun as humans do. Such spoiled creatures, being so close to something that gives so much life.

That same sun begins to sink lower behind the skyline and you’re still mindlessly gazing at small insects and diving birds when your heart trills, the force of the song slamming between your ribs, a smattering of warning bells going off within you. He’s close, your blood croons, so, so close. The incessant rattle, the insistent pull is enough to bring you to your feet and anxiously smooth the wrinkles of your clothing, eyes darting wildly around while you hunt for the source, feet flying beneath you. So close, so close. 

You come to a stop in front of a pub where a black door is propped open, music and revelry echoing from inside. Here. He’s here. The supersonic vibrato that hums in your own blood draws you into the dimly lit bar, and you hear the song in his veins grow even stronger when you step through across the threshold. He is not hard to find, this close, and your magic strings out before you, weaving and seeking past the bodies that dance closely on the floor, each as desperate for one another as you have grown for your mortal and his song.

 He stands in the back, half covered by shadow, the dark pitch of the room matching his clothes and the mask he wears over most of his face. Everything about him is bigger than the males that have called to you in the past, his height, his arms, the width of his shoulders, even the feeling of him in this place. Everywhere you venture, every spot you position yourself in, you feel his eyes on you. He is unusual, and watches, from his vantage point, his companions, other humans, the bartender.

You perch atop a barstool on the opposite side of the room to study him. His eyes carry a ferocity, a heaviness of emotion that stirs the blood running through your own veins until it is pounding in your ears. The severity of him nearly intimidates you, the level of his awareness, the pools of his amber rich brown eyes occasionally flicking over to where your fingers wrap around a glass of beer, the heat of his gaze searing away at your skin underneath the dress. The mask confuses but does not caution you, and your own heart now beats in time with his due to your proximity. Handsome. You muse to yourself, caught up in tracing the outline of his cheekbones. Beautiful, in a dark way. 

There is something about him. Something ruinous, something different. Something you cannot name.

It is of no consequence. You are the huntress. You will have your prize, your immortality, the taste of his heart on your tongue. His death becomes your life. His love, his heart, becomes yours, for eternity.

But how nice, might it be, to keep this one? It is an impossible thought, a dreamless idea, but one that still crosses your mind. The fantasy of falling in love for eternity, of having more than one night, more than the blood and violence that follows, more than the loss that would sustain you. If it were to be one, you know you’d choose this one. Your thoughts stray to your sister for a moment, imagining her alone beneath the surface, mourning the centuries of life she has lived, the centuries of love she has lost. Did she know this feeling? This hopelessness, this despair. Your lips tug downward as you consider her words. It aches. It aches, knowing I will fall in love this night, only for it to end as the sun rises. Gloom washes through you, your own yearning itching inside your soul, your desperation for your human itching at your skin. It aches. It aches, it ach-

“Hello.” Someone says from behind you, a deep, distinct voice, and you snap upwards, straightening your posture to turn into the body that crowds you. You jerk backwards on the stool when you realize how close he is, the action unsettling you from your seat, and you slip forward, nearly falling free from your wooden perch. Balance on land is difficult, and yours is perpetually off, a skill you've never mastered. A massive hand wraps around your elbow to right you, gently steadying you, and your jaw goes slack when you finally look up.

It's him. 

“Hi.” You smile, trying to recover from your less than graceful impression. Your heart thunders in your chest, and the melody inside him screams for you.

“I’m Ghost.” He motions to your mostly empty beer and raises his completely barren one in return. “Buy you another?”

The indulgent smile that scrawls across your face is practically involuntary as you give your answer.

“Sure.”

His name isn’t Ghost, but he keeps his true name close and won’t give it to you. You give him a nickname, one you usually use on land, and he doesn’t bat an eye, even when you tell him it’s a pet name and not your real one with a wink. The name Ghost doesn’t strike you as odd, after learning what he does, why he keeps it tucked away, and you marvel at him while he tells gives you bits and piece of himself, occasionally peeling his mask up to drink. He’s a solider, a Lieutenant in a special task force, some of which he happens to be out with tonight. He likes bourbon, specifically from a certain region in America, and he smells like the forest. You lean closer, completely unable to stop yourself, inhaling as deeply as you can, breathing in the mossy, earthy, green scent that hovers in the air around him. It was heady, and endless, and wrapped you in a dizzying cocoon of memories that you couldn’t place, but clearly envisioned. Forests, teeming with life and glowing chartreuse from top to bottom, oceans with aquamarine waters, shallow pools for you to bathe in under the sun, the water crisp and cold, your skin eagerly soaking it up its potent brine. Sapphire skies, the beaches stretching on and on, their seas fathomless, their bounties endless. You push closer, nosing as near as you can to his skin and take a lungful of the air. Strange. You knew humans wore things to mask or change their scents, but had never encountered one so… affecting.

“Alright, love?” He brushes the lightest contact of his fingers against yours, and you straighten, eyes ducking down in embarrassment.

“Yes, sorry. I- I was… distracted.”

Unusual indeed. 

One drink turns to many, and you carefully note how Ghost’s posture becomes more relaxed, shoulders less tense as the two of you indulge. He continues to surveil the room, observing and cataloguing, and you find it dangerously appealing, how in tune he is to his surroundings. How vigilant. Your hand lays gently on his thigh when you can no longer hold off the desire for physical touch, and he inclines his head to speak above your ear, the warmth of his cheek behind the fabric pressed casually to your head.

“D’ya want to go somewhere else?” Yes. You nod, and he motions to his group before excusing himself, his large body cutting a path through the packed room like he’s parting the sea.

You note the couplings around the bar as Ghost approaches his companions, leaning down to speak to one who is seated, legs spread wide on a faux velvet chair. He has a mohawk, and cerulean blue eyes that trace you from head to toe after Ghost begins to walk back towards where you're seated. You break the eye contact hastily, observing the others, pity pulling on your heart strings over a distraught female who sits in a corner, watching another with longing. The state of her broken heart is written all over face, her body rife with grief. The object of her affection, another stunningly beautiful female, dances with a different mortal, her artfully woven hair spiraling from her shoulders in tune to the way she moves her body. They have it so hard, you think. The song does all the work for us. You never have to woo your mortals, just provide them with the opportunity to find you. The song pushes them to seek you out, drives them to near madness unless they are in your company. They don’t always love you back, as you love them, certainly. But you never have to vie for their attention, never have to posture for their affection.

A large hand takes yours, warm and beating with the pulse of his heart, the rhythm of the song.

“Ready?” You open your mouth to say yes but nothing comes out, and the feeling of dread, the ache swamps you for a passing second. I think I may not take a heart this year. All you can do is nod.

As he leads you through the crowd, you cannot help but reach forward with your free hand and clasp onto the dancing woman. She pauses, eyes lighting wantonly when she sees you, but you push a sprinkle of magic through her, sparking desire in the base of her consciousness for the mournful dove in the chair.

You don’t look back at either of them as you leave, and silently pray to no one that they find happiness in love, that they relish it and keep one another, if only for you.

You bring him to the beach, as is your custom. It was where you felt safest, closest to the ocean, it’s where your power felt most pure should you need it, should something go wrong. You shiver at the thought, shoving down the memories that threaten your balance, and you clutch Ghost’s hand.

“Come down here often?” He inquires and you shrug, a response you know mortals are fond of.

“I like it here.” You offer, and he hums in acknowledgement. You tug him towards the overhang of the pier, where the shadows will shield you, where no one dares to venture. The only light comes from the moon, it’s silver glow glittering dimly through worn wooden pier slats, and you watch it catch his eye, his pupil expanding and contracting as you step closer and closer. “I want to kiss you.” you implore. “Will you remove your mask?” The song. You’re depending on the song to help you with this, depending on his desire, the power of the melody in his veins to urge him to comply with your request, and when he tilts his head like he’s considering you, you hold your breath.

It happens quickly. He removes the mask in a fluid motion, and then his lips are upon yours, hot and seeking, tongue exploring your mouth while yours opens for him, your body clenching with dizzying desire at the feel of his touch against your skin. 

“I knew it.” You gasp when you pull away and trace the fine point of a fingernail down his jaw. “I knew you were breathtaking under there.” He chuckles.

“Happy you think so.”

Your mouths melt together as he holds you around the waist, your bodies getting closer and closer until you can feel the hardness of his cock in his jeans, feel the scorching heat of him through his clothes. You are desperate for this mortal, your desire to feel him moving inside of you nearly as strong as the lust you feel to taste his heart. You sink to the sand together, a dance of limbs and movements that have you panting astride him when he settles, propped up on his elbows.

“Simon.” He says mid breath. “That’s my name. Want ya to have it.” Simon. 

“Simon.” You whisper it, and he nods before pulling you back to him, two large palms cradling your face like you’re a delicate creature. It makes you feel special, makes you feel cherished, like you’re something gentle to be treasured, and not a monster out for his life. You kiss him tenderly, one more time, as softly as you can manage, your heart trembling inside your chest, before your teeth bite into his lip, the ferocious intensity of the act returned by him, his mouth meeting yours full force. You bite again, and this time his flesh gives way, bright, mineral rich blood bubbling from the tiny cut and you eagerly lap at it, the ichor coating your tongue and exploding across your senses. He laughs, the echo of it rumbling deep in his chest, and you place your hand against his heart greedily, the vigor of its beating nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. The length of his cock throbs between your legs, where only the fabric of his jeans separates you, and you rut against him helplessly. Sparks ignite between you, your body shuddering when his hands hook into your hip, strong grip guiding your movements against him. Your magic swells inside of you, and your head spins.

Take him, take him. Take his heart, take his song. Have him, his love, his heart, for eternity, forever. 

You push him onto his back, dress rucked up around your hips, fabric pooling around the two of you.

“I want you.” you tell him, fingers fussing with his clothes, encouraging him to strip his shirt free and then unbutton his jeans. It’s messy, uncoordinated, and sloppy but you can’t find a care. You’re too filled with want, overflowing with desire for your mortal, your desperation mounting as he stills you, tracing a finger over your ribs and then down your pubic bone to where your slick, silken folds wait to be touched.

“Simon.” you whisper his name again, the word close to begging, and he shushes you, swirling a finger down where you’re leaking, circling the swollen bud of your clit with agonizing strokes that fill your senses with electricity.

“Shhh. I know what you need.” He soothes, and deftly pushes a finger inside of you, stroking along your walls. You shiver, face dropping into the crook his neck, and he turns his head so that the soft puff of his breath wafts over your skin as you whimper. “Does that feel good?” He asks, pressing another inside, his thumb flicking over your clit in lackadaisical patterns. You moan, body welcoming his touch, and you nip at the skin of his shoulder, eager to tear it apart, to taste his blood again. His other hand pushes at the back of your head, until your teeth are flush with his skin. “Go on.” He urges, and your eyes slip closed with bliss while you break the thin membrane, blood pooling to the surface as he lets out a small grunt. Your tongue swirls in it, painting his skin ruby, and you drag your lips downward, over where his heart pounds wildly in his chest. For you. It pounds for you. It sings for you. 

“I need you inside me.” He pulls at the straps of the dress, divesting you of the top, exposing your breasts to the cool air and silver light of the moon. His thumb rolls one of your nipples and you feel for him, already free from his under garment, the things humans wear under their outside clothes, and you swallow when you feel the size in your fingers.

You sink down onto him with a hiss, body stretching for the intrusion, cunt spasming around the width and length as it fights to make room. He pets your hip soothingly, and you sit straight up, letting out a cry when you feel the true length of his cock inside you, the absolute fullness of it nearly seated in your belly. When you look back down, your eyes trace the smear of blood from his lips and shoulder, and your tongue darts out against your own skin, seeking the flavor of ichor that waits on the corner of your mouth.

Something glitters in his eyes, something shifting as if he finally recognizes the danger he’s in. Even here, with you astride him, split open his cock, hips stuttering in slow circles, wariness flexes across his face as if he knows, finally, that he is the prey and you the predator.

“It’s okay, do not be afraid.” You reassure him, stroking a fingernail over his breastbone, to where his heart flutters beneath your touch. He blinks, eyes blissfully blank, the firm grip of his hand on your hip relaxing before he says:

“Will you not tell me your name?” A long sigh slips between your teeth. Mortals. So hung up on familiarity. But how could you refuse a dying man his last request? Your lips kiss the shell of his ear as you give it to him, the point of your fingernail pressing into his delicate flesh, desperate to seek the strong muscle beneath, the song in his blood echoing through your own bones with supersonic vibration. The sounds and colors of the mortal realm all increase, too bright, too loud, everything shaking like the earth is suddenly trembling and then-

Something snaps inside of you. Magic, raw and powerful, a force unlike anything you’ve ever felt spills into you, your body being washed over with the rush of floodwaters, your heart and blood now singing for him, yearning for him, desperate to be consumed by him. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

The claim burns beneath your skin, your magic twisting away into something completely new, something more powerful as your mind grapples with the changing reality.

In the next moment, you’re spinning, tumbling through the air until you’re on your back, splayed beneath him, hands trapped at your sides. Your legs are folded underneath the width of his torso, your body opened for him just so, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, stretching the slick walls of your cunt with each punishing thrust.

“I-“ the words are cut off sharply when he seals his mouth to yours, teeth gnashing and gnawing down from your lips to your jaw and then up to you ear.

“You,” He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, and you gasp. “are mine, little huntress.” It is a vow, snarled through clenched teeth, and your own body betrays you by tightening around him, eager and willing to be claimed. The air is hot, humid and electric with magic, the burning effects of your error travelling through your every vein, every cell of skin. The utterance of your name, the act of your own foolishness strings heavily between you, while your body tenses underneath him.

“Simon.” You breathe and he only nods, holding your cheek in a gentle palm, stroking a loving touch across your face.

“Sweet little Nereid...” He names your kind with a growl, and your heart slams in your chest, his cock thrusting into your cunt wildly, desperately. “More beautiful than the sea herself.” The laugh is crooned, like the satisfying scratch of a needle against a record, and his fingers stroke your clit while he presses himself to you, your hips pinned beneath his weight, your body immobile. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” He smiles darkly, lips curling with sinister satisfaction, and you feel the cold hand of fate reaching into your own chest cavity, rooting around in your soul until magic is searing across your skin, a bending and scraping feeling digging underneath your ribs, your own magic twisting and clawing until it burns away into something new, something changed, something imbued with him.

No. It’s not possible. 

“You… you’re-“

“Yes.” 

Simon cares little for the mortal realm. It’s pace and its noise and its scents are all cloying to him, obnoxious and foreign, the general rush of its inhabitants and their lack of care for their world offensive to him and his kind. They do not care for their realm, and do not take care of it ether, instead choosing to let it rot and fester beneath their feet, their drive and determination to outdo one another single handedly responsible for the destruction of most of their world. They call it something here, 'capitalism', like naming it will excuse it, while Simon just calls it murder, and greed.

Mortals and their extreme indifference do allow him certain things, however. Their love of violence and obsession with wealth put even the most well-off of his kind to shame at times. His kind loved things that shone, certainly. But mortals? They loved things that bled. It was this lust for power, this ravenous streak of greed that gave him the opportunity to position himself as he has.

As a hunter. A killer. A ghost.

Simon had been hunting for the thing he loved for a very, very long time.

And tonight, he was finally going to bring you home.

The first time Simon saw you; over a century ago, it was beneath Brighton Pier. You had a human male panting after you as you walked beneath the wooden overhang, your hand cupping his cheek softly, eyes full of tenderness and love. Simon, and the man, were both entranced by your beauty, the way your body moved under the night sky, how your skin seemed to glitter against the sand. Simon watched as you led him to where the moon couldn’t reach, beneath the shield of the slats, the dark of the evening hiding you from all prying, curious eyes, except for his.

He watched you take the male inside your body, watched you lavish your tongue across his neck and chest, watched your lips form sweet words of reassurance and honey while you tasted his blood. He watched the nails of your fingers gleam in the low light, watched them sharpen and then dig, scratching and clawing beneath the threads of the male’s skin, until you held an ichor rich organ in your palm, a complex system of vessels and ventricles, it’s sinew glowing red beneath your touch. He stood in awe as you devoured it, your feeding turning into a frenzy as you consumed it piece by piece, the male bleeding out and dying slowly, all while still buried inside your cunt.

After your feast, you dragged the male’s lifeless body down the sand to the water with you, where you pulled it beneath the waves, never to be seen again. Surprised, and intrigued, he stood at the water’s edge, watching the tide that was tinged red lap calmly at the shore. He knew humans had a taste for blood, but this was another desire onto itself. What were you? 

The following year, Simon couldn’t help but return to the same area in hopes of spotting you again, the creature unknown to him, a mystery begging to be unraveled. You appeared at dawn on the same day, with a horde of others, who then dispersed into the city and surrounding areas, following the sound of a song he could not hear. He became a creature obsessed, tracking your every movement, watching your every hunt and sacrifice. He stood in the dark while you made love to the mortals whose lives you would take, watched you hunt with wild abandon, watched you enjoy the small, tiny things in your eternal life that others often overlook. He began to know you, began to learn what you liked and didn't, began to learn what made you smile. 

You became the brightest spot in his own too long existence, the yearly reminder of love, of vitality, of life. He loved you, desperately, recklessly so. His dreams were filled with soft, sweet visions of you, bloody moments of passion and adoring, lingering kisses that he swore he could still feel when he woke.

It took time, too long of a time, before he discovered who, or what, you were. He spent a century trying to learn how to lure you to the surface. Simon tore apart libraries, bargained favors across dimensions, granted wishes and wove powerful spells just to trade for information on you and your sisters, the Nereids, the lasting remnant of a forgotten power, reclusive magic lurking inside the deepest depths, a realm inside a realm, never to be discovered unless you wished it so. And even then, the additional answers he sought were scarce.

Every year, he returned to the human realm to see you, tucking himself away in cloaks of magic and darkness so that he could creep as close as possible to you. Every year, he watched you hunt, watched you capture your prey effortlessly and consume their heart. He watched you shed a tear for them. Watched your drag their corpses down the beach to the sea, where you carried them into the water with you before disappearing all together.

Eventually, time began to change you. He watched you regard your lovers, your mortals with callousness, and cruelty. He watched you treat them with tenderness, and adoration, caring for them, making their ends sweet and soothing their fears. He watched you stand on the beach for hours at dawn and try to fight the urge to hunt. He burned to take you away from this world, to sever you from your ocean, bring you home to him, but your kind did not live in his realm. He was unsure how to sustain your life, and the search for answers was slow. Years went by, and the soft dreams that he had always welcomed turned to nightmares, fueled by the fear he’d lose you before he even had the chance to try to bring you home. 

A decade ago, he watched you falter. Your body trembled as you took your sacrifice, your cries so hysterical he was certain you’d draw the entire block to where you hid in the shadow of someone’s gaff. His own body was rigid with tense, untethered magic that sought to lash out, and he was rife with worry that you’d give yourself away, you’d be caught by some mortal force and unable to return to the sea when the sun rose. The fear he felt was unreasonable, uncontainable. He'd level the city to protect you, to keep you safe, and he nearly did. He almost took you, that night. Was quite close, so close that he was crossing the street in front of vehicles and preparing to pull you into his realm when you composed yourself and completed your harvest, the glowing organ in your hands proof of your will to live, to love.

He rarely left the mortal realm after that. Only to seek his final answer and solidify his plan, his masquerade as the masked Ghost allowing him to exist in the realm indefinitely, giving him the availability to be close for when the time was right, for when you would be ready.  

A year ago, you were the last to return to the water, your steps slow and clumsy, your eyes tired and weepy. You appeared satisfied, but as you looked back on the city from the shoreline, he saw the hint of desolation in your eyes, the shadow of dejection haunting your face.

It was more than enough, to spring him into action. More than enough, to find your promised mortal for next year and steal his song, bringing it into himself by a small piece of blood magic, something so simple and obvious Simon cursed himself for not realizing sooner.  

This morning, as he observed you and your sister on the beach, he knew he had been right. He could see it in your face. The pain of sadness, of loss twisting your elegance into an ache, those feelings compounded by the admission of your eldest sibling. This could be your last hunt.

It was time to bring you home. Forever. 

“That her then?” Johnny nods, indicating he’s looking the same direction as Simon, watching you walk down the curb, paper coffee cup clutched in your hands, face smiling at the sun.

“Yes.” Simon answers, shifting uncomfortably. The bloody song has been heating his flesh for weeks, boiling in his veins and driving him practically mad. Nymph magic. Its incessant hum has been battling his own power, jockeying for position as it worked to pull you to the surface. Combined with his own, he wasn’t surprised it possessed the ability to bring you up earlier than normal, encouraging you and your sisters through the depths and to the shore. If his blood was singing, then so was every other poor sod’s in this city. 

You cross the street into the park, dress swaying around your hips, and he indulgently stares at the form of your body, the set of your shoulders, the texture of your hair. He closes his eyes to breathe, reaching into himself to get a handle on the battle of will going on in his blood, the warring magic factions pushing and pulling beneath his skin, begging to be let out, trying to lash out. Soon. He reassures himself. She will be with him soon. 

He can smell you from here. You’re ripe. Overflowing, your scent is like a flickering ocean breeze, briny and cold but full of life, of promise. You’re ready, ready to be taken from this awful realm, ready to be bent underneath his body, ready to be crying on his cock as you come while he floods your womb with himself and his power, tying you to him for all eternity.

That is, if he can get you to relinquish your name.

It is a key piece of his plan, and the one that worries him the most. 

He knows you do not give it freely; knows you keep it guarded. It’s like you’re already aware that he waits in the shadows for you, watching, keeping track of every step you take, every year, from sunup to the next, until you slink beneath the water where he cannot follow.

The pressure inside his body is nearly unbearable by the time you step into the pub. Dozens of heads turn towards you, mortals’ eyes roving all over your body like you’re a treat for them, like you’re something delicious they’ll have an opportunity to taste. Foolish, greedy mortals, too busy staring dreamily at you to recognize the predator that you are, or the predator he is, oblivious to the two hunters in the room with them right now. He wonders, if you'd bathe in their blood, given an opportunity. The image makes him smile. 

Johnny clears his throat expectantly, and Simon nods, casting a glance over to where Gaz sits with a pretty female on his lap, her attentions focused solely on him, her eyes heavily lidded with lust. Johnny gives him a nod.

“Good luck.” He offers and Simon waves him off. He’s no need for luck. His blood sings your song.

“Ready?” He nearly loses control when he watches your face fill with despair for a moment after his question, his aching need to soothe and comfort you almost forcing his hands out to touch you. I'm here, little huntress. You are not alone anymore. He cannot tell you this, not yet. So instead, he applies pressure to your hand gently and waits. When you nod, he breathes just a tiny bit easier. 

He cannot stay in this place any longer. The eyes, the mortals, their inane thirst for alcohol and violence starting to scratch underneath his skin. He needed you, needed your name, needed to take you home to his realm, and all this noise and smoke and foul-smelling liquor stood in his way. The feeling of your hand in his soothes him, calms the anxious explosion that’s building in his chest, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough, until he has what he wants.

On the way out, he does not miss your little spell. He is, and has been, the most powerful creature in this room. He has felt every ounce of magic used, by you, by Johnny, by Kyle, all night long. It makes his heart swell when he feels your effort to push the dancing female into the arms of her scorned lover, makes his heart soar when he realizes perhaps, you have not given up on love, on life. Perhaps, you just need something else, something other than the hunt, to live for.

He allows you to take your time beneath the Pier. He cannot rush you, cannot allow you the feeling of anything being amiss, being off. You are so close to the sea, so close to the edge of the water that if he spooks you, it will be too easy for you to slip away. Too easy for you to be lost beneath the surface, again, just as you have been for hundreds of years.

When your teeth tear into his flesh he nearly moans, almost loses control again, but tamps down the urge to spring forward and toss you into the sand beneath him. He needs your name, needs your name so bloody badly it has his head spinning, his entire being desperately urging him to act, to claim, to take you. Your cunt is searing hot around his cock, your body shivering in his arms as you rock your hips delicately, eyes watching him half addled, crazed with the lust for his blood, for his heart.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He thrusts slowly up into you, and pity flashes across your features as you bend forward to brush your mouth against your ear. He feels your lips part, hears the intake of your breath and then-

You’re his. The magic begins immediately, bonding you to him, searing you into his soul and vice versa, the song in his blood slipping away until all he feels is the combined force of your power and his, the melding of souls and magic that will guarantee your existence in his realm, by his side, guaranteeing your survival, your ability to thrive. He takes advantage of your confusion, of the chaos that rises in your heart and flips you on your back, spreading your thighs wide beneath him and plunging his cock as deep as he can. So close. So, so close, and then you will be truly his, for as long as you both shall live. 

“I-“

“You,” he thrusts harder, desperate to claim you. “are mine, little huntress.” He hisses it, pushing the words forward with the brunt of his power, and you gasp before whispering his name.

“Sweet little Nereid…more beautiful than the sea herself.” He kisses your throat, stroking your clit at a torturous pace while your confused gaze tracks his every movement. “Did you truly believe me to be a mortal?” The magic pushes through your blood and bones, continuing to stitch and sear you to him, and he can’t help the feelings of possession that come over him.

His. His. His. 

His magic cuts and gnaws at your own, ripping and shredding it to bits until it’s infected with him, the strength of your name, your free admission to him, turning you inside out, changing the very chemistry of your body. He watches with dark satisfactions as your face shifts, your lips parting with understanding, eyes widening with your knowledge of the truth.

“You… You’re-“ Clever little huntress.

“Yes.” He purrs, and punches his cock back up inside of you, pressing close to your cervix, your body wet and needy, just for him. You shudder and blink hazily, confusion flickering across your features while his magic roots around inside of you and binds you to him, cell by cell. He can still smell you, smell the cool salt air of the sea that comes from your skin, smell the ripeness of your body, your willingness spilling forward in the air, the scent of sweet honeysuckle and sea holly. Your thighs tighten around his hips, your body rocking swiftly in time with him while your brow furrows, like you’re not sure what you should be doing. He licks at the stain of his blood on your lips, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you let out a sharp whine, small hands flexing against his chest.

“No.” you admonish, face stricken. “No. No, you t-tricked me.”

“I did.” He agrees, reaching between the two of you to rub your clit in a swift circle, your breath hitching. Your face twists into something sour, but your cunt clenches around him, and his lips curl into a crescent moon smirk. “Are you going to come on my cock, sweet one?”

“Unnf.” You moan nonsense, turning your face away from him but he does not stop, hips snapping against yours, his body working to bring yours closer and closer to its climax.

“I think you are.” He hisses and grips your jaw to turn your eyes back to him. They’re wet with tears, but he doesn’t see fear in them, doesn’t see the despair. Only flares of rage, and the heat of desire, the electricity of the magic that is now shared between the two of you. He smiles triumphantly. “I think,” he relaxes his pace, dragging his cock out of you painstakingly slowly, gaze never leaving your lovely face. “you’re going to come for me, and then I’m going to breed you, little huntress.” You tense around him, squeezing his cock, the words pulling a delicious, physical reaction from you that shakes his focus for a moment. His palm lays flat over your lower belly, low enough that his thumb can feel the hardness of your clit, can stroke around it’s hood while you gasp and convulse in his arms. You shake your head stubbornly, chest heaving for breath, and he slams himself back into you, your spine curling forward into his chest.

“Gods.” You cry out, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto, finding his shoulders and sinking deep, deep enough that he knows you're drawing blood. It oozes from the tiny wounds, tracing down his skin and when you pull away, your fingers have been darkened with it.

He watches with small wonder as you slip them into your mouth, face going slack with bliss, cunt spasming around him while he strokes deep. His skin prickles, mouth finding yours again, and you moan into him, uninhibited, full of abandon.

“I have watched you for over a century, my sweet Nereid. Watched you hunt, watched you love, watched you lose.” He slows to look down at you, caressing your face with a gentle touch. “I have watched the light fade from your eyes, watched despair take over your existence.” Your gaze widens, mouth dropping open in surprise, and then closing abruptly, eyes softening around the corners.

“Simon.” You murmur, pressing your finger to the weeping wound from your teeth.

“My huntress. You will never be alone again.” He noses your jaw, licking and sucking against your skin, cold brine exploding against his tongue. Your scent crests, peaking with the honey flower and salt, your body yearning beneath him, cunt milking his cock. “Come for me.” He encourages when he knows it’s time, when he sees the glossy want all over your face. It doesn’t take much urging, another stroke of your clit and you’re coming, body locking up around him, muscles straining as you cry out, face full of bliss and legs tense around his hips. You clamp down around him, holding him deep inside your body like a vice but he works you through it, thrusting slowly inside your scorching cunt, your walls desperately trying to keep him inside. “There you go.” He soothes, fucking you through the aftershocks, your face still twisted up. “That’s just what I needed.” The orgasm makes your more pliable, more soft and less angry, and he sees in your eyes what he knows to be true. You want this. Perhaps this is not what you would have chosen at first, perhaps the magic was too strong in your veins in the beginning, but your body knows what your mind works to accept. You are choosing this, choosing him, over the hunt. Over the sacrifice. Over the immortal life of loss.

So, so close.

He folds your legs towards your chest, opening you deeper and you mewl, lips parted in dazed, post orgasm glow. He can’t help but kiss you again and again, his painfully slow thrusts forcing irritated breaths to puff from your nose.

“Something you want?” He teases, and you nod, pressing your face into his shoulder and groaning into his skin.

“Simon. Please.” You voice breaks, and he feels your cunt pool around him, liquid heat forcing him to grit his teeth in an effort to stave off his own orgasm.

Ask me for it, little huntress. 

“Please, what?” He mocks, thumb pressing down on your clit hard, causing you to keen. He doesn’t move, just stays steady inside of you, your cunt working pull him deeper.

“Please, please. I want-“ you gasp when he bites the skin of your neck, and he smiles wickedly. Your cunt practically strangles him now, body working to drag his orgasm from him, magic singing in both of your hearts.

His. His. His. 

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

Your scent overpowers him, the swell of the ocean behind him combined with the salt of your essence pulling him harder into your gravity.

“What do you want?”

“I want your come.” You beg and he snarls, finally losing control, fucking into your eager body with abandon, hard and punishing while you moan and cry beneath him. He takes your earlobe in his teeth before whispering a vow:

“Then you shall have it.” He plays with your clit, the intensity of his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts and you pant eagerly. “You shall have it every day until you are full of me, full with my child.”

“Yes.” You moan, and he feels you moving towards another climax, your muscles spasming and eyes slipping shut.

“I’m going to breed you, give you my baby, sweetling. Make you mine, forever.” Your back arches and you wail, your cunt clamping down on him again, and he thrusts as deep as he can, chasing his release, fueling his burning desire to empty himself inside of you. He lets go completely, untethers his magic, lets it fully fuse with yours as he spills inside of you, the pressure of his orgasm working against your aftershocks, and your own magic that wraps itself wildly around him, clawing at the seat of his power, desperate to attach itself.

Yours. Yours. Yours. 

His. His. His. 

You fall asleep on his chest, body relaxed and sated, mouth open in a small o. He needs to get you up, needs to get you ready to travel to his realm but in this moment, he’s content to sit here, against the old wooden pier, timing the rise and fall of your breathing and planning for the future, for eternity.

“Will you care for her?” A musical voice asks from a short distance, and his head snaps up to see your sister, the one you stood with on the beach this morning, inclining her head towards your peaceful, sated body that sits snugly in his arms.

“Always.” He promises, and she nods, eyes looking down the shoreline.

“I am happy for her.” She looks sad, forlorn, not unlike how you appeared hours ago.

“It is not too late, for you to hunt. There is still plenty of time before the sunrise.” He tries to encourage, and she nods.

“Perhaps.” Simon briefly wonders if Kyle or Johnny are still in town, a sinister idea forming in his mind, taking shape before his very eyes. He pushes, just the gentlest bit of magic, the piece that’s mixed with yours, towards her. A long moment passes, and then, “I think I’ll walk.” She motions up the pier and gives a goodbye nod, as he strokes a hand down your spine when you shiver in his arms.

You do not stir until she is a speck on the horizon, and when you do, you lift your head wearily, like you’ve slept for a thousand years.

“What’s going on?” you murmur, shifting your dress so it covers your thighs. He presses a light kiss to your forehead before giving an answer.

“We’re going home now, little huntress.”

[apollohears]

DEMO. ( TBD ) ✸ ROMANCES. ✸ PLAYLISTS.

last updated: coming soon !

IIn the upcoming 17+ fictional mystery and romance interactive novel inspired by Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters and ParaNorman, “Day of Dusk,” the story takes a romance-action approach, blending the thrilling mystery of the classic fantasy tales of witches and supernatural beings and witch hunting. You, as the reader, are immersed in a world where witches and dark magic lively coexist, two twines of the same throne, along with a forbidden mutual connection.

Set in a medieval fantasy world, "Day of Dusk" follows a small group of immature yet skilled traveling young merchants offering their famous service from small towns to bustling villages: witch hunting. As the story unfolds, the group is presented with difficult choices that impact the development of just how far one would go for power and love.

You and your group of companions are initially tasked with investigating a sequence of strange child disappearances within the polluted community of Ruel-Mizu. It is at your discretion how your group will unite and explore the fraught and somber history surrounding the vile and dangerous past associated with unveiling the dirty soil that was framed around the town.

You will not only confront formidable witches but also other abominable supernatural entities, encounter numerous unforeseen allies, and potential romantic partners along the way. Making weighty decisions will shape the character relationships and dynamics, ultimately determining the course of the narrative as you uncover the truth.

Through an exploration of forbidden romance, betrayal of those closest to them, the formation of unexpected alliances, and the undertaking of unfathomable sacrifices, "Day of Dusk" provides readers with an unparalleled and enthralling opportunity to delve into the world according to their own decision-making.

Just how far would you go to prove what’s right?

CONTENT WARNING: Day of Dusk is rated mature given that it contains suggestive mature themes, strong language, graphic depictions of violence, abuse, kidnapping, mental illness, death, grief, and other explicit material.

STORY FEATURES :

Play as a male, female, or non-binary; gay, straight, or bisexual; asexual and/or aromantic main character.

Discover friendships, connections, and/or their love with your brash yet seemingly devoted childhood best with a dreadful charm, a haunted prince plagued with a tragic upbringing, a secret poet who strives for a change in pace or a creation made killing machine discovering the meanings to life.

Have your name written in history tales to come, become a hero beacon of hope, or become a feared figure among the community.

Confide in the unrevealed troubles that settle the mysterious past of your royal company's path to break tradition—or steal the heir's power to the throne for your own.

Learn the dark truth about the horrors that lie concealing just how far some would go to great lengths in order to create life.

Forge the future of a community and companions lives with the supporting changes and challenges schemed upon you and all of those who you know or love.

THE RO'S CHARACTERS :

Pavlos Norlenbourne ( M ) — the forsaken royal.

"Being referred to as 'pretty boy' hardly fazes me, given the uproar my mere presence seems to cause."

Annette Meadowcroft ( F ) — the obsessive poet.

"It's within your pitiful, manly, brainless nature to see me as a naive and sheltered woman. It's quite unfortunate considering just how smarter I am than you."

Rune ( ANY ) — the callow soldier.

"If you have the audacity to think that I am some sorrowful god, then the pain of my fraud in human appearance will be all the more agonizing."

Silas/Sophia Amon ( M or F ) — the needling best friend.

"Respectfully, I cannot fathom anyone who wears a damn crown and fancy adoring dresses as anything but fucking unpleasant."

THE WITCH HUNTERS :

Phaedra ( F )  — the lure.

Legion ( M ) — the brawns.

You ( ANY ) — the leader.

Depending on your play style, you have the ability to create, shape and destroy numerous familial, romantic, platonic, professional and community relationship with a full cast of characters whose genders and personalities vary.

✸ Dedicated to all the hopeless romance and fantasy fans who are too engrossed in their books to talk and too shy to write, to my momanager Kass, who always likes to keep things real.

[thethiefandtheairbender]

as a lifelong ATLA fan who narrowly had ATLA dethroned as my top show by The Dragon Prince steadily over the past 5 years, the similarities between the two have very little to do with the surface level parallels that get regularly drawn between them.

Like ATLA, TDP has Books for seasons and chapters for episodes, but unlike ATLA, which only touched on storytelling sparingly as a theme, TDP is obsessed with interrogating storytelling and history and the presence of unreliable, biased narrators throughout many of its episodes (most notably 2x05, 2x06, 3x06, 4x04, and 4x07 among them). Half of what you learn in the 1x01 intro ends up being a lie once you reach S3, with more being steadily deciphered.

Yes, TDP has different magics with people living under those umbrella terms... for the elves. Humans are coming culturally at things from a completely different angle, and the elves' connection to their primal sources are discussed philosophically in detail, informing their practices and their culture first hand, including the way they chafe against humans, who are arcanum-less. Many animals in the world are also connected to magic, which influences both their design and which ones get hunted for humans' more 'clever' solution in dark magic, including each other.

The core issue of the Puppetmaster, down to being a coercive magic formed by someone deeply resentful of their imprisonment? Said puppetmaster is the main endgame antagonist of the entire show with all of S4 onwards being exploring the ethics of controlling people against their will in various methods, and the entire show itself being a thematic battleground of fate (imprisonment) vs free will for virtually every single character.

Where ATLA mostly concerns itself timeline wise with ending the war, very little thought is shown by any of the characters as to what they'll do after the war. This isn't a problem (as it reflects the sheer domineering scope of the conflict) but even Zuko being firelord is only ever really addressed with 2.5 episodes left till the finale. TDP, meanwhile, ends its 'war' in s3 and s4 opens up with dealing with the old wounds festering between people with centuries of history, the struggles that come when people aren't able to let go and believe they're safe or mourn in a healthy manner, and the religious/cultural clashes that may occur when trying to integrate different groups of people.

TDP also has an evil father with a devoted daughter and a brother who eventually defects, but it explores the reality of an abusive parent who loves/will sacrifice for you and your right to leave regardless, even if that means leaving the sibling you truly deeply love and who loves you in turn. Which means that when you and your sibling are on opposite sides of a deep ideological conflict, it actually really fucking hurts bc we've seen first hand just how much they love each other and also how and why everything fell apart not in spite of that love necessarily, but also because of it.

Is this to say that TDP is a 1:1 with ATLA or that it's better? No, not at all, and the latter is subjective. I prefer TDP, but I think they're about on equal ground when you look at each show currently as a whole (although TDP has two seasons left to go).

But TDP takes a lot of what ATLA was doing thematically with some of its most interesting beats and then builds or expands upon them further. It talks further and more consistently about the cycles of violence; in many ways, Jack De Sena's character, Callum, begins the series largely where Sokka had ended (and he's not the most like Sokka anyway; very much his own thing); we get Faustian bargains and centuries' long grief and fucked up people who are trying both succeeding and failing at not doing fucked up things. There are antagonists, but it is very hard to actually label anyone at this point a straight up villain. Moral greyness is where the show starts, and it just continues from there.

That's not to say the show is nothing but dark and depressing - like ATLA, there's a steady thread of hope and humour even as the show gets steadily closer and closer to its 11th hour point - but the show is usually emotionally heavier. There's more blood and potentially disturbing imagery with body horror and on screen death. There's so much foreshadowing you basically can't go more than 5 minutes into any episode without having something that's going to come back around or be referenced again like 3-5 seasons later.

Just to be clear - TDP is like ATLA, but it's like ATLA in interesting ways beyond the more shallow surface level that usually gets attributed to it, while still very much being its own show and its own thing. And that is why I tend to recommend it to people who like ATLA.

Thank you and goodnight

(Also, the fandom doesn't have any ship wars, and the show is queer as fuck)

[koimethehorizon]

Fionna and Cake theory: Simon the Artist

Nothing like a good old creative panic attack.

Fionna and Cake good. Haven’t been excited about a show like this in a long time, though it being a part of Adventure Time does help quite a bit. I was holding on to some cautious optimism for the show when it was announced as yet another big IP series covering the multiverse (still waiting to groan at THAT scene where Prismo has to explain to us about there being infinite universes), but as usual, Adventure Time’s crew continues to surprise me with its creativity, humor, and thematic resonance.

The most striking part about Fionna and Cake so far is just how deliberately the show wants us to differentiate it from the original Adventure Time.

We’re getting shots where Simon pops an artery from his arm, a theme song that explicitly talks about suicidal ideation, discussions of rent and financial problems, and curses no longer disguised with AT’s usual dialogue. Adventure Time has always had violence, thematic density, and juvenile rating pushers, but they were always reserved at small points. Meanwhile, these are factors that are just casually shown and discussed in Fionna and Cake every 3 minutes or so. This is not an all-ages miniseries, it’s for young adults. (hint: this will be relevant later)

Let’s get right into it. This is much less a speculative lore theory and more on what thematic direction the story may be going.

Before we do, let’s get this out of the way first. This theory assumes that the current Fionna and Cake world is all a part of Simon’s head and not merely a separate multiverse, which… I’m certain is fact for the following reasons.

The immediately obvious piece is that Fionna and Cake was always the Ice King’s fanfiction. Now if you’re versed in AT’s continuity you’re probably going to be asking about the red light in Fionna and Cake + Fionna and… I’ve no answer for it unfortunately. It’ll probably be relevant later in the series and possibly age this post like milk but for now, we’re not here to focus on the how, but the why.

Second is that the intro and the ending of Ep 2 literally show Fionna’s world spilling right out of Simon’s head like an animated world out of a frozen brain. If that isn’t clear enough-

Didn't realize this until writing, but these glasses are just plastic made to look like Betty's

There’s no other explanation for this other than that this world is artificial or influenced by Simon in some sense. Fionna even specifies that the statue went under renovation 12 years ago, but nobody seems to know who it is. Considering how Finn looks in the episode, it’s likely that it’s been that long since Betty’s sacrifice in the finale.

With that out of the way, here it goes.

The reason Fionna and Cake exist in the first place is because the creators found Natasha Allegri’s genderswap designs charming and wanted an in-universe reason to use them the Ice King wanted to create trashy, wish fulfillment through art. It was a phase.

Definitely changed that image for publishing.

Simon can argue if they’re good or bad but it’s undeniably his art. It’s not just a portfolio he left behind in a closet, it’s an experience that was shared with a larger audience.

And even if wasn’t liked at first, the citizens of Ooo seemed to have come around to it. And some of them love it!

Whether Simon likes it or not, he has a fan base that is so endeared to the story he made all those years ago that they demand he makes more. Why let a good story, loved by many, go to rest when you still have some life and creativity left in you?

Can't move on in more ways than one.

Except, the problem is that Simon isn’t Ice King anymore. He’s aged out of it.

His real passion is history, he's an adult who who finds passion in the mundane and antiques from the past. And frankly, there isn’t much room for wish-fulfillment and fantasy anymore. Simon has responsibilities. He has a job and a daughter in a world that is moving faster than he can process.

And where Ice King wrote about looking for love, Simon has already had it.

And lost it. His mind isn’t focused on the rosiness of finding new love, it’s grieving the one he already thought was the one.

Wasn't he supposed to be good with kids?

Despite his new life experiences, all his peers seem to want from him is to make more of what they’re familiar with.

A story made from wants and wishes that he doesn’t even have anymore.

A story that was literally made by someone else at a different time. It’s a fiction he cannot connect to anymore, art that he’s embarrassed by. Yet also jealous of. Because at one point, the body Simon used to be in understood what exactly was missing from his life and could express that easily.

Seeing it again is like experiencing a retrospection of a cringey loser you don’t want to imagine having ever been. It’s not you anymore, and you don’t want to be reminded of that.

Because despite him having a new creative passion, no one seems to care about that. All they want is Fionna and Cake. And what is more lonely than other people misunderstanding what you’re trying to express?

If I failed to make it clear somehow, my theory is that: Simon’s relationship with Fionna and Cake is a metaphor for creators growing out of their art. And this new Fionna and Cake world is still comfort art born out of Simon’s current desires and perceptions.

The snippet subtitles this “child holding a phone”. I guess I’m wrong. Essay over.

Episode 1 and 2 both have direct parallels with each other. They’re both about a protagonist who are feeling displaced from their world, living a phase of losing a significant other, leaving a thankless job, wearing a mask of stability in front of the people they care for, seeking a guru at the heart of the forest, and concluding that they no longer belong in their current world.

But more importantly, Fionna and Cake (the characters, the world, and the show) are no longer for an all-ages crowd. Fionna and Cake now feature young adults, curses, gore, alcohol, partial nudity, financial issues, morning routines, mid-life crisis, and overt suicidal ideation. These are the feelings that Simon relates to and possibly desires to express through art. Thus, his story and our new miniseries have warped that way.

Am I overthinking this? No. How dare you assume that.

Is equating the unconscious writings of his dementia-ridden self to Simon as his younger self seem a bit odd? ….Kinda. Again, it’s not the how but the why that matters in this case. I'm NOT crazy, I have proof that there is some acknowledgment of this directly in the show.

Rewatch the bar scene and apply this reading of the episode to what Simon says there:

“Your old stuff, Fionna and Cake, honest to glob my man, is an inspiration to me.”

“My old stuff, I don’t really want to talk about my old stuff…”

“Why not? You should be proud! You wrote an entire extended universe in a fugue state if you think about it.”

"Simon cringes"

If you have ever shared art with a group of people in the past, you’ve had this conversation.

Not likely, not possibly, no perhapses. You HAVE.

And Fionna and Cake being an epilogue to a massive award-winning, near-decade-spanning, cultural sensation 5 years after it ended, might result in its creators feeling very retrospective about what audiences want from them now.

And how difficult it’s going to be to tell new experiences and tones from what’s come before. Also, come on. “Extended Universe?” That doesn’t sound like Fionna and Cake. That sounds a lot like something else.

Again, seems bad with this kid.

One of the more profound shots in the main trailer for the show features the inconspicuously Finn-like kid crouching at her Fionna and Cake book in Simon’s trash. I believe this character is going to have a major role in two ways. Convincing Simon to be proud of what he’s accomplished and/or embracing that Simon wants to move away from his original work in order to create something new, or perhaps more likely, reinvent Fionna and Cake into what Simon relates to now.

We’ll just have to see what Simon thinks of his new Fionna next week.

PS. Talking as a fan now, WHAT IS UP WITH THE 1000+ TREEHOUSE IN THE INTRO?!!! ARE WE REVISITING THIS TIMELINE AGAIN?

SOMEONE TELL ME NOW!!!

[lycheedr3ams]

Death's Angel

Part 7: Sacrifice

royal!fem!reader x executioner!konig

Summary: It's 1554. You're one of the eight daughters of the Austrian royal family, and your parents do everything they can to ensure their kingdom is prosperous and peaceful. No royal court is complete without their hand-picked executioner, one who stands out against the sea of black, faceless bodies that make up the profession. It just so happens that your family's new executioner, one who has made a name for himself far and wide for his skill with the axe, has caught your eye and ruined you for good.

Warnings: MDNI! smut, mutual pining, forbidden love, death (konig is an executioner duh), mean sisters, mentions of medieval-type violence, overbearing parents, konig is brooding and a perv, some predator/prey dynamics, possessive!konig, maybe dark themes bc reader likes seeing him kill people and bc he's a perv?

Part 6 | Part 8

I know it's been a while since I've updated this series. My life has been super busy, and I even moved. Thank you all for your patience and I hope you enjoy! One more chapter to go. as a reminder, the taglist is closed

.......

series inspired by the art below!

It was evening when the horse Konig had chosen collapsed from exhaustion. You were stranded in the middle of the dark forest, hours away from any landmark you recognized. Your horse lay panting on the mossy forest floor, and you held your head in your hands.

"what are we going to do? we have no money! we're lost! they're going to come looking for us!" you mumbled furiously as you began to pace. konig came over immediately and put his large, solid hands on your shoulders.

"Engel, i told you i would take care of you, didn't i?" he asked as he lifted your chin to look up at him. he gently wiped away your warm tears with his axe-calloused thumbs. "i will figure this out. we will be okay."

"but..but how! and all the gifts you gave me, they're back at the castle, and --" you nearly shrieked. you had never had a panic attack before, had never felt such fear and confusion. your life, unlike konig's, had always been planned out, set in stone, predictable, cushy. every hour of every day was always set with lessons and meals and events. but now your dress was torn, and your broken heals lost during the escape. the cold, damp earth almost stung underneath your soft feet. konig squeezed your shoulders and shook you.

"Engel!" he said, a bit louder this time. you looked up at him with wide eyes. "we are going to be okay. i told you i would take care of you, and that is exactly what i shall do. do not worry about the things i gave you. i will give you that and tenfold again."

he pulled you into a tight hug, grounding yourself in his body rather than your racing, chaotic mind. his arms were almost rock solid, but his body was so, so warm as he embraced you. for a moment, the entire world faded away, and it was just the exiled princess and her forbidden love.

the furious panting of your exhausted horse also brought you back to reality. you gently turned your head against konig's chest and looked at the poor creature laying on the ground.

"will he be okay?"

konig gently rubbed your head. "yes, we just exhausted him. we're not going to be able to go anywhere else for the night. we should not be discovered out here."

you look up at konig. "but what if we are discovered?"

his eyes were soft as he looked down at you. "then i will protect you."

you looked at him sadly. "i hope it doesn't come to that."

"as do i, Engel," he soothed as he cradled your head. "for now, we need to rest. we cannot risk a fire, the smoke will draw the soldiers. we will have to lay close for warmth."

you smile softly at him and can't help the heat that surges to your cheeks. "i'm not complaining."

konig chuckles quietly. "and neither am i."

konig removes his overcoat and wraps it around you before gesturing for you to lay on the mossy ground.

"i..." you look at the moss, feeling a little disgusted.

"ah," he said as he shook his head. "you've never slept on the ground. i almost forgot."

you look uneasily down at the damp, green moss, and take a deep breath. "it's fine." you offer konig an uneasy smile as you hesitantly lay down on the moss. the only surface you had ever slept on was silken sheets on a down bed. never once had you imagined you would be sleeping on cold, damp moss with the one whom you were never permitted to speak to.

konig laid down behind you and wrapped his arm around you, spooning you. "when i build us a house, Engel, you will have the finest sheets and silk like you once did."

you rub his arm. "konig, i don't need any of that. all i want is you."

he gently squeezes your shoulder. "yes, yes, but i still want you to have the finest sheets."

you turn around slightly and lift his hood up to reveal his surprisingly soft lips. you look into his eyes, silently asking for permission, before you closed the gap between you and gently kissed him. you had never felt your humanity so intensely as you did in this moment: laying on the damp earth, kissing your forbidden love under a canopy of leaves and stars.

you snuggle into konig's chest and wrapp yourself tightly around him.

"sleep well, Engel," he whispers. "all will be well."

...

"send out all our troops to find the executioner! he has kidnapped my daughter!" your father screeched to the army commander the moment he saw you and konig disappear beyond the castle grounds. the army commander bowed and swiftly went to assemble his soldiers. your mother broke down on the ground, crying hysterically. your sisters stared in disbelief and disgust.

"you have your orders," the army commander said to his hastily formed troops. "you are to find the princess, and kill the executioner on sight."

the mail-clad soldiers nodded, and set off on horseback to every last corner of Austria.

...

the next morning, you and konig began to wander the wilderness on horseback. with no sense of direction other than the sun, all you knew was that you were heading far, far away from Austria. your heart nearly leapt out of your chest whenever a stray bird rustled in the leaves, or when a deer leaped through the forest. konig sat behind you on the horse with his arms around you as he held the reins. his eyes were sharp from beneath his hood as he constantly scanned the forest for threats.

by midday, you could see a break in the forest. and beyond the meadow that lie past the forest, a silhouette of a mountain could be seen.

"once we reach the mountains, they will surely never find us," konig assured you as he kicked the horse to a trot.

you nodded and held onto the horse's mane.

"HALT!" a voice sounded from behind you.

you froze completely, and all the blood drained from your face. konig stopped the horse instantly.

"turn the horse around," the voice commanded. konig obeyed.

you came face-to-face with a small band of soldiers from your kingdom's army, ones sent by your father. they drew their swords and bows on their horses.

"by decree of the king, executioner, you are to be killed for your crime of kidnapping the princess," the leading knight said in a stern voice.

your eyes widened and your breath almost died in your throat.

"no! i wasn't kidnapped! I went willingly!" you yelled, startling your horse a little. konig whispered something in your ear.

"princess, there is no need to worry. you will be okay from here on out. we will save you," another soldier said.

"no! i mean it! i went with him on my own!" you shook your head as tears began to fall down your face as you panicked. konig did not take his eyes off any of the soldiers for an instant.

"you have been brainwashed, princess, by this devil," the leading solider said. "please, your highness, dismount the horse."

you began to hyperventilate, the air suddenly feeling quite thin in your lungs. your vision on the periphery began to blur, and you could barely hear your voice as you screamed.

"i haven't been brainwashed! I went willingly! i wanted to escape!"

before you could say anything else, your horse was suddenly struck with an arrow right in its skull. the beast toppled over and sent you and konig tumbling to the ground. konig gently grabbed your head and lessened the blow of your skull against the earth.

"step away from the princess!" one knight yelled as they dismounted with weapons drawn.

you and konig still lay on the ground as the soldiers came closer with their swords and bows. you stood up in front of konig and wiped your tears. konig stared up at you in shock as the roles were suddenly switched as you protected him. A princess protecting an executioner; such a thing had never been seen before.

"i won't let you hurt him! he's done nothing wrong! i wanted to leave! can't you see?!" you yelled.

the soldiers quickly surrounded you and konig in a circle. konig hastily stood up but did not dare to touch you.

a knight held out his free hand to you. "princess, you will be safe now."

"NO!" you yelled as you backed into konig and bumped into him. the knights were getting closer to you and him. there was nowhere to run.

"Engel, do not do this," konig whispered to you. you turned and looked up at him in panic.

"do what?! i'm not going with them! I'm going with you!"

suddenly, a knight grabbed you by the arm and yanked you away from konig and out of the circle. konig now stood alone in the center of the circle, not even daring to defend himself against the armed group of knights. there was nothing he could do.

your heart pumped loudly and your blood rang in your ears as you saw a knight behind konig raise his sword.

you couldn't hear your bone-chilling scream as you pushed through the circle with inhuman strength and cast konig aside right as the sword swung.

a cold feeling tore through your chest.

all were frozen.

you looked down at your blood-soaked dress. you felt a pair of strong arms grab you and hold you tight, and the knights threw down their weapons.

your forbidden lover held you as your vision faded black.

taglist: @kneelingshadowsalome, @plumdreadful, @dumb-dumb-idiot-girl, @elichisstuff, @konig-breedme, @tr4psta, @cutiecusp, @konigsleftkidney, @local-vampire-s1ut, @ihaveaproblematicbrain, @twice360noscope, @madzeesstuff, @crazy-phan-girl13, @babygirl-panda19, @warrior-of-justice, @eluffi, @mooniesthings, @elowynnlane, @zaxlrza, @red-bed-bug, @alexdoesntlikeyou, @helmipss, @11aplacesange11, @rouge-swears, @pasta-m1lk, @ghostinvenus

[coffinmotif]

something i absolutely adore about orv's ending is how it ties in so perfectly with its overarching conflict between salvation and agency, as exemplified by kim dokja's tendency towards self sacrifice.

all throughout the novel there's this recurring theme of salvation as a double faced thing. a blessing. an imposition. noble and damning. selfless in how he takes their pain on his own shoulders, yet selfish in how he doesn't give them a choice. it doesn't matter if salvation isn't what they want, it doesn't matter if the pain of living on without him isn't worth the risk (or even the certainty) of dying together, HE makes that choice FOR them. in that sense salvation is cruel, a fundamental denial of agency.

the same goes for the companions actions after kdj becomes the new oldest dream, where the situation flips. they sacrifice everything for a chance to physically drag him out of that train carriage. but you can't force someone to love himself. you can just love them. and love them and love, love, love them, across a hundred universes, for a hudred years and one million words, lay all that love down at his feet and just hope that he sees it. that he steps off of that window sill on his own.

salvation in orv is so often an act of violence imposed on an unwilling other, to me it's just immensely significant how the epilogue strips it bare. where everyone else is powerless, and kim dokja's happy ending depends entirely on his own desire to finally see it.

[buryustogether]

mary on a cross

part 1 part 2 part 3

lycan/werewolf!heisenberg x f!reader

summary: for decades, the beast has provided for and protected your village. when he suddenly stops, however, the council decides a virgin sacrifice is in order to appease him.

warnings/tags: heavy religious talk/themes, sexual assault (checking virginity), sacrifice, mentions of blood and cannibalism, bondage, swearing, mentions of starvation and violence

author’s note: i wrote this at 3am based on a dream so be kind.

inspired by mary on a cross by ghost

‘ you go down just like holy mary ’

It was the village priest who asked if your virginity was still intact.

But the question was not unfounded.

You could not fathom as to why your ancestors had chosen this spot to settle down. It was a clearing near the bottom of a ravine, surrounded on the north and south by impassable mountains. The forest occupied the other directions, too thick and dense to travel through and cling to the hope you would make it back with all of your fingers and toes intact. Game was scarce, and luxuries such as spice and cloth even more so. It was desolate, and miserable.

You could not fathom as to why they had chosen this spot.

The legends told of the struggle they faced after first establishing your little village. They found no animals to hunt, and the fish they managed to capture from the small creek running along the perimeter were smaller than their dinner plates. Some starved. Others began to turn upon one another.

Then there came the beast.

They said no one laid eyes on him until after the first of the elk arrived at the town square, freshly slaughtered and with enough meat for everyone. It had appeared from seemingly thin air, with only a pair of deep-imprinted footsteps in the snow to suggest it had not wandered in and died on its own. They praised God for the gift. Then the next day, a pair of deer were delivered.

This went on for, they told, a week before someone spied their so-called savior. They spotted him in the nighttime, when he had come to gift them another elk, this one bigger than the last. He held the form of a man and wore clothes far warmer than theirs, shielded from the cold in ways they could not yet comprehend. But then he’d turned to the light, his eyes glinting, and they’d realized it was not a man in the slightest. His eyes were an otherworldly golden, his bared teeth jagged as blades. Long, black claws sprouted from his fingers and his grey hair curtained his face like a destroyed portrait.

The villagers began to offer payment for his deeds. They tried to leave him money, but it went untouched. A beast would have no use for their currency. They left him the word of God, and they found the Bible ripped to shreds. Then one, so the legends went, left upon his offering pedestal a pair of leather gloves.

They were gone the following morning, and he never took another thing.

And, as the elders have taught, the beast provided for the village for years, decades. He brought them food when they were close to starving - how he knew, they could not understand - and protected it from threats. He became their new god. There was no one that did not benefit from his protection, and he never failed to deliver.

Until last week.

Your eighteenth birthday had passed a number of days before, and your family had used up the rest of the sugar making your favorite tarts for your special occasion. Now, you wished you had savored them just a bit more.

The beast did not come on the first day of the week, nor the second or third. The villagers had grown lazy, used to being provided for, and there were no extra provisions hidden away for an unthinkable occasion such as this. Bellies began to grumble, and moods dropped like insects. The beast did not come the fourth, fifth, six, nor seventh day.

People panicked.

Some believed the end had come, and their loved ones were forced to stop them from ending themselves.

The council held a meeting, one each and every one of the villagers was required to attend. You found yourself sitting in one of the back most pews with your parents, head held low as the women did and hands crossed dutifully over your lap. You only looked up when the priest, backed by the council, cleared his throat from his pulpit and the worried chatter ceased.

The priest cleared his throat, seeming to be searching for the right words as dozens upon dozens of eyes bored into him. People needed this reassurance, promises that the beast, their god, had not abandoned them.

At last, he spoke. “These are trying times, as I’m sure everyone here knows and feels within their homes.” There passed around a number of murmured agreements. “The council and I have been meeting, searching for solutions to this problem.” He took a breath and closed his eyes; everyone waited. “We have come to the conclusion that, somehow, in some way, we have angered the beast. He has turned away from us in a test, and we must show him that we are still worth saving. We must offer him desirable, and valuable, in order to win back his affections.”

The village people burst into a storm of murmurs and whispers. Was it true? Had they truly angered him?

“What do you suggest we offer him, then?” demanded a man near the front. “We haven’t anything desirable, nor valuable. The beast provides us with everything we value.”

The priest held up a hand to silence him, as if this was precisely what he expected to come of his announcement. The council whispered behind him. You felt your stomach roiling as you glanced to your parents. Just what did you all have to give a deity such as the beast? If your village had something he wanted, it was beyond you why he had not taken it by now.

Perhaps he was too kind a god to steal from his followers.

The priest went on, his voice booming and powerful enough to shake the earth atop its core. “What we will give the beast is no object, nor anything we can see or touch.” There came a pause, long and haunting. “The Bible commands a virgin must be sacrificed in order to appease an angered god.”

The church may as well have imploded upon itself. Mothers gasped and clutched their children to their breasts. Young girls looked to their parents and tugged on their sleeves, demanding to know what had just been said.

You felt your heart drop to your stomach as your head snapped around to take everything in. Your pulse quickened and you fisted your skirts, then hurried to drop your head again. Perhaps if he didn’t see you, his eyes would flit right over you.

It wasn’t much of a secret you were still a virgin, what with how none of the young men in the village had successfully caught your eye. That - and you just simply weren’t ready. It was as easy as so.

Now, you were wishing you had just gone and got it over with in the hay bales in the back of the stables like every other girl your age.

“Now, everyone, calm yourselves.” The priest’s soothing tone swept again over the crowd, and they focused their attention back to his tall figure upon the raised platform. “The council has already decided upon a soul to offer the beast. Before we call out their name, we must remember this is for the greater good of the village, and our people. If we do not offer the beast a peace offering, we will freeze and starve. Is this really what we want?”

No, it was not what they wanted.

Your mouth went dry and you tried to keep your breathing even as a council member handed the priest a small piece of paper, and he read it silently first. Then -

“Y/N.”

Your world came to a halt. The clocks stopped ticking. The creek outside stopped murmuring and whispering. You lifted your head to find every pair of eyes in the church upon you, including your parents’, your friends’, your neighbors’.

This couldn’t happen. You weren’t going to be sacrificed to a beast, to a god. You just wouldn’t. You still had so much to live for.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You ran.

Your feet carried you in a flurry of motion down the aisle and through the doors, down the steps and into the icy street.

You only made it a few more yards before one of the men grabbed you and hauled you back.

Reality became a twisted, mocking version of itself from then on. You forced yourself to disappear from your consciousness as they restrained you to keep you from running, chained you to a bench in the back of the church so that the elders of the council could spread your legs and ensure you were a virgin. You felt your face heat and tears roll down your cheeks as your legs involuntarily kicked and flailed, their touches upon your most intimate parts a violation of your soul.

You could not tell when that stage ended, and another began. They dressed you in the finest skirts and silks, painted your face and made your hair. If there had been a mirror present, and the circumstances had been far, far different, you were sure you would have enjoyed gazing at your reflection. Thought you looked pretty, even.

But the circumstances were not different.

The circumstances found you deep, deep in the woods, chained to an offering pedestal, and kneeling with your arms above you.

Waiting to be found by the beast.

Your tears had dried and your panic and fear turned to rage. Your parents and friends had only stood by and allowed everything that happened to you be done, too concerned with their own selfish needs to bother protesting. They had only said their goodbyes and sent you away, intent on feasting what the beast brought them in return for your beauty, your body, your virginity… your blood.

You didn’t know quite what to expect - if the beast even did find you. If he was even alive. If he even wanted what you had to offer. Perhaps he would uphold his honorable reputation, explain his absence and anger with the villagers, set you free to take the message to the others. Or perhaps he would ravish you, thrilled with the sacrifice, then clap those fabled rows of razor teeth into your neck and lick up the waterfalls of blood that would spew from your throat.

Or perhaps you would die of the cold first, and you wouldn’t have to be alive to endure any of it.

The crack of a twig in the wood snagged your attention. You lifted your head, previously hung to stare at the snow beneath you, and searched the dense forest around you. Another snap; from your left, this time. A third, to your right. Rustling. Dead ahead.

“Well, well, well. Don’t you look like Mary on a cross.”

You heard his voice before you saw him. It was deep and drawling, tipped with some foreign tongue you could not place. He accentuated his words, as if he would shame himself for stumbling even once, as if he craved the attention his sentences alone brought him.

The lone figure of a man stepped into your view from the wood, and you were unable to keep your lips from parting and your breath from hitching. He was tall, taller than your father when he stood to his full height, and he wore clothing unlike you had ever seen before. A shirt unbuttoned against the freezing temperatures, shiny boots to stamp in the snow. A thin coat that wagged at his calves and a hat atop his grey hair. A pair of leather gloves. And shaded specs perched on his nose, not for reading or seeing, but purely for fashion.

You could not deny, in that moment, that he was the most attractive man you had ever seen.

The beast approached you slowly, like an apex predator stalking its prey, and kept his hands in his pockets as he did so. You wondered if, beneath those gloves, his fingers extended into claws, like in the legends. You wondered if his teeth were as jagged as they said, if his eyes were gold like molten copper behind those shades.

He stopped before you, a feet away, and crouched down on his haunches so that he could be at your level. It seemed he found your thundering pulse and wide eyes humorous, because he answered two of your thoughts at once; he grinned wide, showing off perfectly normal human teeth, and pushed his shades further down his nose to reveal hazel eyes, nearly bordering on silver. Everything about him screamed ordinary, but you knew he was anything but.

“What have we here?” he asked, leaning in closer. You flinched and turned your head away, straining against the chains around your wrists. He stopped at your reaction and tilted his head rather curiously. “You can ease up, there, princess. I’m not going to hurt you.” He flashed you another blinding grin. “Yet.”

A shiver climbed up your spine, and it was not from the cold.

The beast hummed as he stood and examined the chains holding you to the offering pedestal. “What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked. He gave the linked metal a testing yank. “And why the hell are you in a position like this?” He gave a self-indulgent chuckle. “If you wanted a ride with the big bad beast, you only needed to ask.”

“I didn’t do this myself,” you snapped, the first thing you’d spoken since his arrival. You felt your blood turn to ice as he glanced over at your outburst. You swallowed your fear and took a shuddering breath; you were sure your lips weds turning blue by now. “The village believes you’re angry with them. With us. That you’ve abandoned us and a… a sacrifice was required to appease you.”

Another chuckle came from the beast’s throat, this one a bit more amused than the last. “Oh, fuck. I swear, you humans get more and more loony with that religious stuff every decade. Let me guess.” He circled the pedestal and came to a stop on your other side, then slid a leather-clad hand to cup your face and make you look up at him. His fingers were not sharp; instead, they were warm. “You’ve never gotten your skirt lifted - am I right?”

He laughed when you jerked your head away and refused to look at him.

“Well, I’ll give you this,” he said, then grabbed one of the chains with a powerful grip, “you’re one hell of a volunteer.” Like it was made of nothing but twine, he ripped the chain clean from the pedestal and dropped it to the ground. Your arm screamed in relief and you almost did, too. He moved on to the other chain. “And I hate to burst your little sacrilegious bubble, but I didn’t ‘abandon’ you people. Ever heard of taking a nap? Forgive me for sleeping in a little.”

You didn’t quite know how to respond to his words as he let the other chain down, and you were able to undo the clasps around your wrists. Sleeping? He had been sleeping, hibernating, even, and your people thought the world was ending?

How stupid they all sounded.

But you stuck to one bit of his dialogue - the piece that angered you the most. “I didn’t volunteer,” you said roughly as you rubbed your raw, tender wrists. He stopped from where he was now inspecting the heavy chains, gaze sliding to your hunched form. “They… they forced me to do this. They made sure I was still a virgin, and, and dragged me out here -“

“What’s your name?”

His simple request startled you from the rant you were preparing. You suddenly felt small beneath his intense gaze, and you found yourself huddling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs. “Y/N,” you whispered.

The beast dropped the chains, whatever interest he had in them now gone, and stalked closer. You cowered slightly, tilting your head away. He crouched, waited a moment, then reached out like he had before and took the point of your chin under his thumb. Gently, but still forcefully, he dragged your head back around so that you were looking right at him. With his other hand, he pulled his shades off, and you were able to gaze directly into those silvery eyes of his. You swore you could have seen stars dancing within the irises.

“Hate to be the one to tell you this, sweetheart,” he rumbled, his tone slightly different than it had been before, “but I’m going to kill those people for putting their hands on a pretty little thing like you.” He must have felt your breath hitch, because he tilted his head and brushed a thumb over your bottom lip; you were unable to stop the feeling of powerful heat that went straight to your core between your thighs. “Innocence is a treasure not many poor souls on this damned earth have any more; and who is man to take it from another for his own self preservation?”

He pulled away, and you let out the breath you were unaware you had been holding. The beast offered you a hand, and, your own still shaking slightly, you accepted. He hauled you to your feet and said, “Name’s Heisenberg. You can call me Karl; but only when it’s just you and I, pretty girl.”

Warily, you glanced over your shoulder, back toward the village. “You… you’re not going to -“

“Oh, no,” he said, then cupped your face and brought you close to his own. You found yourself leaning into his warm, warm touch. “Those pricks don’t deserve you; not after what they’ve done. Besides, I’d like to wait them out… see how long it takes for them to turn on one another when the cupboards empty out and there’s no one to bring them food.”

Blinking rapidly, you murmured low, “Why have you been…”

“Feeding you?” The beast - Heisenberg - said. You nodded. “Call me old fashioned, but I like the idea of helping people.” He slid his shades back on, and his enchanting gaze disappeared. “But only the ones who deserve it.” He took a few steps back to where he’d come from, then glanced back. “Coming?” he asked. A sick, twisted kind of smile blossomed across his lips. “Or, would you like to pay your dear people a visit? Have a little fun - the way they had theirs with you?”

You thought about your answer.

Then matched his sadistic grin.

Heisenberg gave a low laugh and swept back toward you, bringing his lips inches from yours. You did not shy away this time. “Oh, I think I’m going to like you.”

[ataraxiaspainting]

It's Cold Outside.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: A stranger has weaseled his way into every aspect of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, non-con/dub-con (the reader is under the influence of aphrodisiacs but non-consensually), the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectfully, threats of violence, stalking, manipulation, Chrollo the Creepster, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 2.2k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

(You’re The) Devil in Disguise by Elvis Presley

Salvatore by Lana Del Ray

Who Is She? by I Monster

Kiss Of Fire by Georgia Gibbs

Money, Money, Money by ABBA

Sex with a Ghost by Teddy Hyde

4:00A.M. by Taeko Onuki

How I’d Kill by Cowboy Malfoy

Sonne by Rammstein

The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd

“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.” — Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground

*~*~*~*

i. “Technicolor worlds with white clouds are bound to be destroyed by silver snow.”

When you step into your house, it is like you are instantly transported back to a year ago. Everything in sight, from the walls to the shelves, has decorations of some kind, whether going all out with the kitchen table having an entire feast of delicious holiday treats made by your grandparents, or just a green and red painting of a Christmas tree placed in your older sister’s usually monochromatic room. Perhaps the painting is yet another way she proves that she can somewhat react well to requests to change her room a little bit. Even if the painting is on the farthest wall from the door and is partially hidden from view by the many anime figurines and books larger than your head. Your mother claims that it is a miracle she convinced her to put up any holiday decorations in her room at all and thus doesn’t bother her further. 

Each room also has a different festive scent, your younger sister’s room having a hot chocolate scent mixed with the smell of piled up dishes on her desk, most coming from when she was ‘helping’ your grandparents cook by ‘testing to make sure the food isn't poison’.

How heroic of her to sacrifice herself for the family.

Your room, you think, looks much better than your sisters’ combined, having decked it out to the maximum by taking out all of your Halloween decorations and replacing them with Christmas ones. It took you the whole weekend, sure, and caused you to break the bank, but your love for accessories outweighs your logic and reason by quite a lot. Your beloved record player is back on your table that also simultaneously houses your television and jewelry playing Elvis Presley’s Blue Christmas. A wreath larger than your torso is on your door and your room smells like all the holiday air fresheners you found in your closet. Pine, peppermint, orange, lemon, cranberry… all mix to make a beautiful festive scent unmatched by even your parents’ bedroom. Everything is how it should be, and how it always is every year.

Well, almost. A man named Chrollo, a man who gives you anything but comfort, has been invited to your family-only yearly Christmas party. When your father, who has always been too protective of you and your sisters and never lets you spend time with the opposite gender, told you that Chrollo of all people would be attending, you tried to argue otherwise. You tried telling him that none of you had known Chrollo for so long, but he had rebutted Chrollo’s lie that you had known him for over a year with you two developing a close bond. You realized it was too late then, and Chrollo had charmed your entire family, with even your older sister always having a smile on her face whenever she saw him at her workplace. 

ii. “Like actors, each snowflake has a different role to play. They sing along with every step of a boot as a deceitful way to express their pain.”

The moment the doorbell chimes, its piercing resonance assaults your eardrums and causes an unsettling shiver to course through your spine.

You find yourself in an unsettling situation as your family eagerly awaits, and to your dismay, you are the designated individual tasked with the responsibility of opening the door. You two are such good friends, aren’t you? We wouldn’t want to get in the way of your bonding time.

You want to say he is lying, to tell them everything, every threat he has told you, him meaning them or otherwise. But as soon as they know of what Chrollo really and truly is, they will meet a painful end; that being pushed onto train tracks, their drink being laced with a poison that destroys the body from the inside out, or having nails thrusted into their bloody palms as they hang on their bedroom wall as you look in horror. Elton, Anya, and Robert all being examples of such… You don’t want to think of the bodies just waiting to rot around the Riverbend, your fault or otherwise.

You also don’t want to drown in this river. A river inhospitable to any aquatic life whatsoever, and only harbors a barrier of carnivorous plants that eat those who dare come close. Butterworts, large lilac purple ones that feel like they have been dipped in the most tempting butter mixed with forbidden fruit and honey produced by none other than the queen bee herself. Are you the fly, or are they? You have no idea, and you don’t want to find out.

“Hello.” Your response is concise and devoid of warmth, with a noticeable absence of your usual cheerful demeanor evident in your expression and tone.

Chrollo's smile is so sinister that even the most depraved devil's grin would pale in comparison, with all the large gift bags behind him swinging like a tail.

“Ah, [First]. Happy holidays. No need to be so cold, you know. The snow is already doing that for you. So-”

Despite your strong desire to slam the door in his face, you choose to step aside and allow him entry, in an attempt to silence him.

“Put the gifts by the tree by the kitchen table. The white table and not the black one.”

However, rather than fulfilling your expectations, all he does is elicit a burst of laughter so unique that it resonates within you, while discreetly handing over the most colossal gift bag, compelling you to accept it as if under some intangible force.

“Just a little something. I know it’s customary to wait until later but… I simply can’t help myself. Open it whenever you get the chance, dearest.”

…He means right now, in your room, doesn’t he? Perhaps he installed a camera in your room as you slept, he has certainly threatened to do that before. Or maybe he will just spy on you through the little space between the door and the frame. He has done that before, after all. 

…

You resisted the urge to scream when you saw a picture of your mother sleeping blissfully, the camera focused on her ring finger with the caption Should I take another souvenir? written on it, but the card, as beautiful as it appeared with a lace envelope and your name written in script on the card’s cover above Chrollo’s, proved to be even more of a challenge. When you read the words on it, your heart plunges so deeply that you fear your gastric acid will erode it.

Save your tears. For even if you cry to the whole world, it will never be enough to make me disappear. Meet me outside in five minutes, and make whatever excuse you deem necessary. No exceptions.

As you begin to read further, a wave of fragrant and delicate floral scents envelops your senses, instantly igniting a warm sensation in your head, leaving no time for contemplation.

Trying to ignore your slight dizziness, you read the rest of the card.

Just a little something to make sure you do this. We wouldn’t want your family to see you in… what state you are about to be in, do we?

…Just what did he do to you?

iii. “With the burden of wintertime ending, nature spends time creating beautiful trees and flowers. To accompany them, she makes twisted vines and weeds, for she knows that without them there cannot be balance or purpose in being comfortably numb.”

You were on your back, on his bed, within what felt like one second, not remembering the car ride over to his place, your wrists pinned beneath the strength of one of Chrollo's hands while he looked down at you within another, his other undoing the tie of the bandana on his forehead and showing you, for the very first time, of the cross tattoo underneath it.

All you can do is watch your whole world slow down and be replaced by a dream.

A blissful and sweet dream, as sugary as saccharine and as dissolvable as cotton candy, that is a veil and covers your eyes from what is happening; until it is too late, until you feel some of his fingers go into the band of your skirt and start pulling and pulling, downward, and that is when terror went to combat with your unwanted lust.

“...What… are… you… doing…? Chroooooo…” Your words slur as your mind buzzes with euphoria, and you can feel every sensation in vivid detail, every touch and every breath feeling heightening and intoxicating. As much as you want to, you can’t tell him to stop, not now.

“Shh, it’s what you want, isn’t it?” At least that is what you think he said, because as Chrollo spoke, you struggled to decipher his words amidst the haze that enveloped your mind. Reality fragments, leaving you unable to muster the strength to plead for him to cease. “It will feel oh so very good, I promise. Very, very nice and very, very good.” With that, you come to realize the wetness between your rubbing thighs, amidst the cloudiness and the larger-than-life headache that rips your skull apart. “Do you trust me?” The voice sounds almost heartfelt, not as intimate as it could be, but it was still more than enough for your hands to cling to him and pull him in closer, faster, so he could relieve you of this hell. “I will assume that that is a yes.” His hands move to the two buttons on your blouse, undoing them with ease, softly, gently, like it was a baby bird. 

“Faster… faster…!” You feel like a man who hasn’t seen water on any day of their life, and if you lose the location of the oasis you are sure to never find it again. 

Like a man lost in the desert, you choke on imaginary quicksand, soon to drown if water does not save you.

“Aw, such a precious little thing, aren’t you?” You are gently flipped over in an instant and he unbuckles your bra, quickly. 

“If you love me… really love me… make me feel better… please.”

“Don’t worry, I will.” He flips you over again and his fingers lower to your panties, pulling them down from your trembling legs, just like he did with your skirt. “You trust me after all, don’t you?”

You cry out yes after utterly desperate yes, as he watches, his smile getting wider as he starts undoing his belt. He puts a finger on your lips after he has heard enough, shushing you gently.   

“Then trust me when I say that this, my dear, is for your own good.”

Beneath the surface, whether it be shallow or not, you have no desire to comprehend his intentions.

You don’t want to know. You just want this to go away.

iv. “Through discoveries, there is a hint of madness that enters our minds. Only then can we see our world’s colors change from squid ink and bone to begonias and finches.”

Chrollo undoes his belt, then his pants, and then his boxers. You focus on his face to ignore what is currently nearly touching the side of the mattress by a hair or two, hard and enlarged and slightly pink and-

He takes off his shirt button after button, much, much, much slower than how he took off the rest of his clothing. There exists a deep-seated anger within you, yet it is accompanied by a sense of gratitude, as both you and he are aware of your mutual aversion towards this situation.

Despite both of you being aware that this is not your desired outcome, he still kisses you, gently, full of warmth, and tenderly. What you truly desire is to satisfy the ache within you. But he won’t give it to you yet, will he?

Time seems to drag on as his kisses get faster, and more hungry, with his tongue essentially becoming another of your muscles, wet, and neither wanted nor unwanted. 

Eventually, you get what you want, after enough begging for him to just get it over with. At the beginning, there is a gentle caress resembling a warm and velvety rose petal. However, as time progresses, the touch becomes increasingly forceful until his fingers enter. But it does not hurt. Should you be thankful for that? At least he is being nice.

He starts thrusting, and that also does not hurt. No soreness. You won't feel any discomfort until your eyes meet, causing a sensation that almost makes you want to throw up, were it not for the illicit satisfaction this dreadful encounter brings. It's a peculiar kind of pain, one that lingers like a ghost stealthily gliding through walls, catching you off guard before you can comprehend its presence.

Nothing hurts, and that in of itself gives you the most pain anyone could imagine. 

v. “Heat lightning gives way to summer storms and verdant wind. This makes for a hauntingly beautiful melody of ripples and thunder.”

“…And this maiden, she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”

vi. “The dead, fallen leaves of autumn come in many shades from bright red to a dull brown. They flow with the wind from one place to the next as invitations from those who passed on to the living.”

[writemywaytoyourheart]

Bedeviled | FINAL- Chapter 15a: alea iacta est

Pairing: demon!jungkook x female reader

Genre: romance, drama, angst, horror

WC for PART 1: 13.6k

This is a two part chapter guys, dont miss 15b, it will be linked at the end of this chapter.

Warnings for this part: ⚠️this chapter contains intense, heavy & possibly triggering material, pls read at your own discretion⚠️ strong language, blood, torture, grief, mentions of death, brief mention of past murder, strong religious themes throughout, mentions of witchcraft, implied human sacrifice, summoning of and dealing with demons, ANGST, physical violence, guilt, heavy heavy stuff u guys b careful, if there's anything I missed pls kindly let me know.

ML Previous

“Guardian angel…what’s happened?”

The look in her eyes was gentle even though the worry was clear. 

“I will tell you soon, I promise. Trust in me that now is not the time.”

A slender hand gestured towards the giant golden gates, a reminder of what was to come. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, an understanding and comfort sweeping through you that the time would arrive to know everything. You looked up at the shining entrance and noticed beautiful gems lining the golden bars in every color imaginable. 

It was stunning. 

Your angel reached out a hand and ever so gently touched the sleek bars; sending a shudder through the entirety of the gate that simultaneously went through you, deep into your bones. 

You didn’t notice you were holding your breath until the gate opened and there was a soft yet steady hand on your shoulder.

Taking a tentative step forward, you gulped as the cloud beneath you kept you from plummeting through it.

A few more steps and you were almost inside. 

Closing your eyes, you took in a deep breath that filled your lungs. As it blew out slowly, you could feel any and every worry leaving with it as the sound of a celestial choir arose and an overwhelming feeling of love consumed you.

Then you stepped through the gates. 

-

The grip on your upper arms is harsh as you’re dragged carelessly down the last few steps. The sound of tortured screams echo around you, bouncing off the walls and shaking you to the core. 

Then the smell hits you.

A smell so vile you would never be able to put it into words if someone asked. It turns your stomach to rot within seconds, but it’s too late to hold your breath now. 

I’m okay. 

You shake uncontrollably as the demons proceed to half carry you down a long hall, the sound of their footsteps drowned out by the screams of the sinners whose fate you are soon about to share in. 

At least it isn’t him.

You gulp and close your eyes despite it already being pitch black; the action only a desperate attempt to conjure some form of comfort. 

You flinch when the loud clank of metal reaches your ears. 

It sounds like someone is unlocking a very large padlock. 

Then an ear piercing squeak follows when what you can only assume is a cell door is opened.

You’re brought into the cell and immediately thrown to the ground harshly, a pained gasp knocked out of you when you hit the stone floor. 

There’s a puddle of something wet and warm under your hands and the stench of urine instantly fills your nostrils. You don’t even have a moment to register the disgust before you’re being grabbed roughly again and yanked to the middle of the room. 

The unmistakable sound of jangling chains fills your ears and you bite your bottom lip. Your eyes slowly begin to adjust to the darkness due to the sliver of blood red light seeping in through a crack near the upper right corner behind you. 

You can just barely make out what is probably Sav in front of you, but more of that comes from the energy you feel and less the sight of him. 

A deep chuckle sounding directly ahead confirms it as your arms are yanked up so violently that you inadvertently cry out. The demons only continue to laugh as one on each side of you shackles your wrists to the rusted cuffs hanging from the ceiling. 

You realize with horror only seconds before it happens that the chains are a certain height, designed like everything else here; to wring the most torture they can out of you. 

A broken scream gets stuck in your throat when the demons let go of you and your body weight is forced down by gravity, pulling at your shoulders harshly. Only a bit of pressure is taken off by your feet holding you up just enough on tiptoe. You know that eventually your shoulders will not be able to handle it, when you are no longer strong enough to stand. They will inevitably be pulled out of place.

Breathing in and out slowly in shaky gasps, you don’t even try to fight as your ankles are shackled as well, even though you won’t be going anywhere with even just the wrists bound in iron. 

The sound of another set of chains makes you close your eyes. 

Flinching harshly, you bite your lip when you feel your wings squeezed painfully by cold metal restraints of their own.

Fear clenches your heart as you wait with bated breath. 

“Leave us.”

Heavy footfalls go to the cell door, the loud creak sounds, then the footsteps diminish into the torture being dealt elsewhere in the dungeon. 

You say nothing, feeling his stare on you while you keep your eyes closed. 

“I’m going to ask questions and you are going to answer, do you understand?”

He’s met with silence, but chooses to ignore that and begins anyway. 

“Why are you here?” 

When you don’t answer, he steps forward and growls.

“Do you want me to fucking hurt you right now, you little bitch? Answer me.”

You open your eyes and stare at the dark floor, but say nothing. 

“Answer me or when the time comes I’ll hurt him more than I need to.”

A beat of silence passes.

“I came to get something,” you grit out, tears stinging your eyes.

Sav chuckles in disbelief. 

“How strange you are, little puppet. You say nothing when your own precious body is on the line, but when it comes to a random demon you found in Hell, you will give it all up.”

You sigh shakily, knowing that he can do whatever he wants to you and still get you to talk when he threatens to hurt a certain fellow demon of his.

“Oh this is going to be fun.”

His heeled boots clunk against the floor as he begins to pace, smirking at your defeated posture. 

“What did you come to get?”

You gulp, noticing how dry your throat is. 

“Something I’ve waited a long time for.”

“The Flame of Immortality?”

You’re not sure how he found out that little made-up story, but you don’t ask. 

He sighs through his nose in annoyance at your silence. 

“Why should an angel need the Flame? You’re already immortal. Besides, don’t you holy creatures frown at the use of it?”

“I didn’t tell you I needed it,” you whisper. 

“A little birdie told me you did.”

“Maybe you should stop taking information from random little birdies-”

A harsh slap lands across your cheek and you instantly taste blood as your head hangs to the side and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly to try and control the urge to make a sound. 

You don’t want to give him that satisfaction. 

“You’re going to regret not taking my offer to let you speak and delay your punishment.”

He grabs your face, pinching your cheeks tightly and making you look at him. 

Oddly enough, you can see his blue eyes in the dim light, his hair falling into them.

“If pain is what you want, rest assured that is what I will give you.”

You glare back at him in response, earning another slap to your other cheek. 

Sav steps back and observes you. 

“You look a little too confident as an angel at the hands of demons that are only too willing to hurt her.”

You just stare at him, hands chained above your head and shoulders aching terribly. 

“Your smug silence will only cause you more agony.”

He gets no response. 

The demon turns and walks to a corner of the cell, a dark alcove where you can not see what is inside. 

“Fine by me, little angel.”

You expect him to emerge with something, so you’re taken by surprise when he only comes back out, empty handed, to lean against the wall. 

“Undidis.” His voice rings out in the dim light.

Then the iron cell door opens and the large lizard-like demon that grabbed you in the hall stalks in, a grotesque smile spread across his toothy snout.

You don’t have a moment to think before he hits you across the face so hard that your vision spins violently and a headache blossoms. A few of your teeth feel like they were loosened by the impact. You breathe out a pained groan. 

The demon hits you in the stomach, then kicks your right shin harshly out from under you, undoubtedly leaving a mark that will bruise if he didn’t fracture it outright. 

The weight of your beaten body pulls down on your shoulders and you cry out. 

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Undidis steps away and sneers, “Look at her. She’s like a little doll we get to ruin all we want.”

Sav chuckles at his words. 

“And she can stop it any time she would like. Are you ready to stop, angel?”

You gulp, cringing at the metallic taste in your mouth, then you shake your head slowly. 

He scoffs and goes back to the alcove, disappearing into the darkness. 

____. 

Tears form in your eyes at the sound of her voice in your mind. 

Angel…I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you…I’m sorry I failed.

Sav steps out and you see something long and thin hanging from his hand. 

____, you have not failed. Do not let them make you believe otherwise.

“Still feeling brave?” Sav mocks, running the whip between his fingers repeatedly, his eyes moving over your form hungrily; ready to draw screams from you with each crack of it. 

You are sure you want to do this? Only say the word and it will stop. 

You pull your gaze away from Sav and up to the ceiling of the cell. Up to where you might be able to imagine all of them if you think hard enough. 

The words that leave your mouth are sure to send him into a fit, but it doesn’t stop you from saying them.

“I’m okay, Guardian Angel.”

Sav’s face falls, then it twists in anger as he steps closer to you, “We’ll just see where that bravery gets you.”

You can see the hatred in his eyes before he walks behind you and is out of your line of sight. 

You shut your eyes only moments before the whip makes contact with your back and rips the first scream from your lungs. 

________________________

“Find your own way out of Hell.”

The look of terror and disbelief in your eyes did nothing to stop him from turning; from leaving you alone and never looking back.

-

JK keeps his eyes forward as he stalks across the empty planes between the eighth and ninth circles of Hell, his jaw taut with barely contained rage. 

He has no intention of going back to you, or even turning around to see if perhaps his eyes betrayed him in a moment of insanity. 

Of all the things he theorized about you in his head, you being one of those sorry pawns from His pathetic army was never even close to being one…

When the golden light bouncing off the vibrant green leaves flashes through his brain again, the demon shakes his head and keeps walking. 

You must have poisoned his thoughts in some way- with all your nasty little angel abilities to put images in minds. That must have been part of your plan the entire time: to confuse him, to disorient him enough so that you could do whatever the hell it was you were here to do in the first place. 

The silent anger continues to build inside, leaving no room to wonder or even care about where you might be. 

_________________

The broken scream from the last lash of the whip leaves your throat raw as you gasp in a breath. You had held them in as much as you could, but the pain after the first fifteen lashes was too much. You had no idea how many more he had done since.

Sav runs his fingers down the length of the thin instrument, dragging the blood off of it to drip onto the floor in red splatters. 

“Why him?” He asks lowly, voice deep with impatience. 

Your shaky breaths echo off the stone walls. 

Sav grabs your chin with rough fingers, forcing you to lift your head and look at him, the smirk on his face growing at the way you squeeze your eyes shut with pain, the blood from his fingers smearing onto your skin. 

“Why…” He leans close, his cold breath fanning your wet cheeks, “...him?”

You swallow thickly before whispering, unable to keep the strength in your voice no matter how hard you try, “I only asked him to lead me becau-”

A shaky breath gets caught in your throat and you cough a little. 

“-because he was the first one I ran into.”

The grip on your face tightens for a second before the demon shoves you away and takes a step back to observe his prisoner. 

“Do not make the mistake of feeling secure in telling me the truth. It will not spare you any pain.”

You open your eyes and look at him. 

“I know.”

His jaw clenches, then a smirk slowly spreads on his face again. 

“How unlucky for you that he was merely a pawn in your little game. If there was more to tell on JK, I might have decided to prolong the fun in order to wring more out of you.”

His words neither lessen nor heighten your anxiety. You know he is going to torture you without restraint, you have known since the moment you were grabbed in the tunnel while trying to get away. He does not need any more information from you; that is not why you are in this dungeon under the Chamber of Souls. You are merely here for their twisted sport. 

Finding an angel in the middle of Hell is a prize beyond the count of worth. 

Without turning, Sav drops the whip on the floor and points at the alcove. 

The demon, Undidis, that has been standing silent to the side for the entirety of the whipping instantly walks that way and disappears into the darkness. 

The sound of metal clanging around from where he went reaches your ears, but you do not move your gaze from Sav’s. 

“The monarch butterfly on your arm,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “Why is it colored?”

He snorts, “Why would I feel the need to divulge any information about myself to you? You are already at my feet, you are already mine to break.”

“Do you not know?”

His gaze hardens as he stares at you with a raw hatred after seeing the unwavering look in your gaze. 

The look in his own eyes confirms what you already know: that he will not give you a moment of relief once he begins.

There is no reason for either of them to hold back. 

You take a steadying breath and close your eyes slowly.

-

Stepping through the gates, your eyes landed immediately on your aunt. 

Yoongi’s mother, who died many years ago. 

Her skin seemed to radiate a very subtle glow as she smiled at you warmly. There were no wings on her back and she was clothed in a soft white tunic that fell to her ankles. She looked young and healthy, her eyes resembling Yoongi’s almost exactly. 

You smiled back, then your gaze shifted to see the man stepping out from behind her who wasn’t an angel either.

It was your father. 

You had never met him, but there was something inside of you that just knew. For some odd reason you also knew what had happened to him, why he left one day before you were even born and never came back. 

You thought maybe he had been sick like you or just abandoned you and mother. It never occurred to you that he was killed on the road and never found. Your heart hurt terribly at this revelation.

His lips…they looked like yours. Your hair color was the same too. He also looked somewhat like Yoongi’s mother, the shared genes were clear. 

You briefly remembered the days leading up to your death, when you hallucinated a man in the corner of the shack, staring at you. You had thought it was your father, but it wasn’t, he didn’t look like this man. This man’s eyes were kind, his touch comforting as he gave you a quick hug and whispered how happy he was to finally meet you. 

You hugged him back tightly, a breath stuck in your throat, your mind still in a state of disbelief. 

He pulled away then and stepped back, no longer obscuring your view of the beings behind him.

Many many people and angels, some laughing and talking, others smiling and waving at you excitedly. 

You didn’t recognize any of them, but they seemed to know you. 

They seemed to have known you for a long time. 

Realization hit you then, that every single person and angel there, had been waiting for you. 

The air itself was alive with relief and genuine unconditional love. 

These souls that you did not know, were overjoyed at your arrival. 

They were proud of you. 

Tears filled your eyes, only a few escaping and falling down your cheeks. 

Then you saw her. 

The little angel with yellow wings, that had taken your hand and led you to the clouds after you passed. 

She was standing in front of another angel that looked no older than fourteen. The young teen had long red hair and wings the color of soil. A bright smile graced her pink lips.

The small yellow angel that you had not recognized when first waking in that shack, had tears in her eyes as she looked at you. Those bunny teeth appeared when she smiled even while the tears fell down her supple cheeks.

“The little ones that pass in the womb become angels.”

She looked just like him.

“Aera?”

The name fell from your lips in a breathless whisper. 

Not another moment passed before you were kneeling and the child was running into your open arms, soon engulfed in your embrace. 

Her tiny arms wrapped around you and she held on tightly. 

You couldn’t help the tears that wracked your body as you kept her close, finally feeling that warmth you always dreamt of. 

“I love you,” you whispered the words you always wanted to say between sobs, “I love you so much, I missed you so much.”

Her hug only tightened and she whispered back with that tiny soft voice you could only ever imagine in those long long months, “I missed you too, mommy. I love you.”

You continued to cry on her small shoulder until your tears were utterly spent and you could finally breathe in fully without breaking into another round of weeping. 

Only then did you open your eyes and see someone behind her; your gaze traveling from their sandaled feet, up their long beige tunic, and into gentle brown eyes flecked with gold.

Only then did you first look upon the face of the one you never knew you had missed.

-

Your whole body is quivering uncontrollably, blood drips down your arms and legs, and your shoulders only continue to weaken as the strain on them increases with each new torment they bring upon you. 

“Not the face.”

Sav’s deep voice breaks through the fog of pain clouding your mind. 

Undidis grunts in annoyance but steps back anyway, the bloody knife gripped in his scaly fist tightly as he resists the urge to mutilate the only part of you that has been left more or less unscathed. 

You can faintly hear both of them laughing as they walk around you, behaving like two humans that have stumbled across a most intriguing statue in the museum. 

No words pass your lips, only the labored breathing that occasionally becomes so quiet that if they didn’t know any better they’d have thought you suffocated from the lack of oxygen getting to your lungs. 

“Such a precious little face, angel. I can’t bring myself to cut it up just yet,” Sav muses with mock pity. 

At your lack of response, you get a kick to the same right shin Undidis had struck earlier. 

All you give for that is a weak moan. 

Sav steps towards you and leans down, his voice becoming soft, “This is only the beginning. You can change your fate, all you have to do is one simple thing.”

The fog in your brain covers most of your thoughts in an attempt to pretend like you are anywhere but here. 

Slowly, you shake your head.

“Do nothing and we get to play with you for the rest of eternity. Who needs Him anyway? If you give in to us, the pain He has let be inflicted upon you will lessen.”

Your eyes flutter open at his words and you lift your head only enough to look him in the eye. 

“And when my memories are no longer my own,” you mumble quietly, “When I can no longer understand why it hurts…what will happen to me then?”

Sav straightens up, his mouth twisting in rage. 

“Will I become like you?” You whisper hoarsely, never looking away from him. 

A harsh slap from the back of his hand causes your head to jerk to the side and blood to spray from your mouth and onto the floor, to continue to stain the ancient stone with the life of its current victim.

“You dare to look down on me while I stand above you?” He seethes, “You refuse to acknowledge who is in control?”

“You are not in control.” Is all you say, eyes lifting to the ceiling briefly. 

“Is that so?”

A choked gasp gets stuck in your throat when you feel jagged metal sink deep into your abdomen. 

Sav pulls the knife back out and lifts it into your view as you gulp and try to control the shivering from sheer pain alone.

Your blood drips down the length of the crooked blade, only inches from your face.

“I think we’ve just run out of time for you. That little face of yours has only begun to anger me.” 

Your gaze drifts from the crimson knife and over to his dark blue eyes. 

“Your story saddens me, Sav. But it is not you I grieve for.”

There’s a flash of fear deep in his gaze, but it’s quickly clouded once more with hatred. 

“You may know things I do not, angel, but I can assure you of this,” he looms over you, only too ready to ruin you beyond recognition, “If you do not deny Him, if you do not lower yourself more than you already are and bow to me; I will rid you of any physical indication of your title. I will tear you limb from limb and you will feel every single second of it.”

A smile spreads on your cracked lips, bright red blood oozing from your mouth. 

“Lower yourself to me.” Despite his words, his voice shakes slightly.

The grin on your face does not fade, even as Undidis emerges from the shadows with the next instrument of torture that will leave you in agony beyond comprehension. 

You keep your eyes locked on Sav. 

“No.”

____________________________________

“Look, Savanis!”

The twenty-year old boy looked up from where he was digging and reached a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. He pushed the dirty blonde hair out of his suntanned face so he could see the little girl a few feet to his left. 

“What is it, Marjorie?”

The child frowned at his tone, but quickly brushed it off and pointed at the little flower only inches from her where a beautiful orange and black butterfly sat. 

“Isn’t it pretty?” She whispered, leaning in. Long blonde locks fell over her tiny shoulders, the curled ends brushing against the dirt, “I think it’s the most beautiful I have ever seen.”

Savanis rolled his eyes and turned back to the digging that was taking longer than he liked. It wasn’t supposed to be one of the jobs that consumed his entire day. And for this he would only get enough for half a loaf of bread at the market. 

The shovel struck the hot dirt viciously, tearing into it and wrenching it from the earth.

-

“Savi.”

He rolled his eyes at the hundredth interruption that evening alone. 

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” He raised his voice, slamming down the small piece of wood he had been carving mindlessly, the sound echoing off the wooden walls of their tiny home. 

Tears welled up in the six year old’s big bluebell eyes and he sighed sharply. 

“It isn’t my fault the king treats us like scum, Marjorie! What would you have me do? Beg at his feet to let us feast with the royal court? Don’t be so naive. If you’re so hungry then go out and find a way to get us food. Just because mother and father died and left you to burden me doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself useful for once.”

With that, he stood and grabbed the crookedly carved wood, then stormed out of the house, leaving his little sister to self-soothe in her torn blanket, holding her worn out doll friend close to her chest. 

-

It wasn’t even a month’s passing since that night that Savanis stumbled upon the old witch that lived in the woods, the one he had only previously heard tales of. 

She was odd enough to deserve the rumors said about her, but she by no means looked to him like she could actually cast magic spells and curse those that betrayed her. 

Despite all that, she made decent company when he was out and about in the woods for whatever work he was doing. 

The witch spoke of her many encounters with spirits; the good and the evil. 

Savanis found himself increasingly drawn to the dark ones she told him of. They seemed more likely to obtain what they desired and he didn’t shy away from the means in which they helped this particular old hag acquire hers. 

He began to actively look for work that focused solely on his going into the woods. Those stories began to seem more and more real, and certainly the ways in which the witch lived her life seemed a lot more enjoyable than where he was stuck. 

Savanis was determined to change the course of his future, to live his life how he wanted, not to have anyone relying so heavily on him for mere survival. 

The time he spent in those woods grew longer and not for the work he was doing halfheartedly by then. For what he was doing, he might never need to work again. 

The old witch taught him spells, ways that he could get what he wanted without working all day for it. Ways to read into others’ futures so that they might pay him in exchange for that delicate knowledge. Perhaps, he thought, he could embellish a little here and there as the witch suggested, and so he did. She was right that people would pay more the more you’re willing to divulge, even if only some of it was true. 

-

Marjorie would wait for her brother each night, worrying herself sick while lying in her blankets on the floor of their one room cabin. She would force her little eyes to stay open until she saw him coming into the door quietly and setting his things underneath the floorboards where he thought she couldn’t get them. Then the child would finally be able to sleep. 

His items never interested her. One time she was curious and looked in the hiding spot, but only found feathers and vials of strange liquid that smelled funny. When she saw the small blade covered in something red, she hurriedly put the floorboard back over it and never again peeked.

Most of her days were spent outside in her garden. 

It wasn’t much of a real garden, but she had lovingly replanted flowers and other strange plants she did not know the name of that she found in the forest. 

The bees, dragonflies, and butterflies would swarm her little collection of sweet-smelling flowers, which was one of the reasons she loved it the most. 

Marjorie would sit there for hours, simply watching the butterflies flutter to and fro as she nibbled on her bread. She’d offered them some once but they were not interested, so she kept it for herself. 

Savi didn’t snap at her so much anymore and he started to bring home more food. She didn’t ask him what he was doing all day and he didn’t offer any details. 

-

Savanis wiped the already dirty rag down the length of his smaller hunting knife as the witch, Tanta he knew her as now, continued to stir the pot above the fire. 

When he was finally able to clear most of the crimson smears from the blade, he knelt down and tossed the bloody rag into the fire, his gaze drawn to the strange green hue that illuminated the flames briefly before they faded back to a reddish orange. 

“You remembered,” Tanta seemed pleased as she sprinkled something flaky into the pot. 

He nodded then sat back to watch her work. 

“I’m better than you ever acknowledge.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why don’t you teach me more? Everything I know is practically useless to me now.”

“I thought all you wanted was a comfortable life,” she mused, not looking in his direction but clearly sporting a knowing grin, “Is that not what I’ve given you? You have food, clothes, and no need for work.”

Savanis sighed loudly, “What good is magic if it doesn’t give you more than the ordinary?”

“What good indeed,” Tanta muttered quietly. 

They sat in silence for a little longer, then he heard her speak again. 

“I have urged you to do things you have not done.”

He frowned, unsure what she meant for a moment, then it hit him. 

“Ah, you mean the rituals?”

“Indeed.”

“So if I worship him more, I’ll be able to do more?”

The only response he got to that was a silent smile. 

“I’m not sure I believe it is the thing,” Savanis continued, “Did you not say I was the one capable of magic because of who I am? Not because of some demon king?”

“On your own, you are no more special than that kid sister of yours.”

He bit his tongue at that, irritated. 

“She couldn’t handle any of it,” he spat bitterly, glaring at the flames that appeared to have turned bluish, “She’s weak and useless.”

“And that may be so,” Tanta let go of the ladle and turned to him, “But if you want to unlock your true potential, you must give all of yourself to his work.”

“And that means worshiping him every day?”

“The more genuine you become with it, the more you will not drag your feet about it.”

Savanis chewed on his bottom lip, contemplating. 

What did he have to lose?

-

Tanta was right. 

The more frequently he did the special rituals to the Leader, as she called him, the more he desired to do them. 

A lot of times he’d have to fight the stupid little voice whispering over his shoulder not to do it, saying that he could stop and it wasn’t too late to change. There were days the voice gave him pause.

Tanta told him never to listen to that voice though, that it was a spirit that claimed to be good but only wished for him to lack in anything he desired. Only wished for him to be a puppet and never live for himself.

So he continued to push it out of his head, and continued to make a point to do worse just out of spite. 

The darkness that took root in him was continuing to grow, and he welcomed it openly. 

Never before this was there much to his bland life. 

-

“You are almost to the highest rank I’ve been told.”

Savanis smirked at the witch that sat on a tree stump in front of him, knitting a dark cloth. It had only been a few months since she first began teaching him and he was already on his way to the top. 

“Envious?” He asked, arms crossed and brow raised in arrogance. 

She simply smiled at the work in her hands, “I have no reason to envy you child, I have been at the top for many years. I would say delighted is a more fit word to use. After all, you are my pupil.”

“And you are his pupil.”

“Precisely.”

“When do I get to do the final ritual?”

“When he decides you are ready.”

“How will I know?”

Her knowing smile returned. 

“You will know.”

-

Marjorie woke up with a start to see her big brother gathering his things. It was still dark, so she didn’t understand where he might be going. She watched silently from her makeshift bed as he put on his dark cloak and left without a sound.

-

Savanis lit the fire and stepped back, then tossed the bundle of herbs into it and watched the flames snap and crackle. 

He had a dream earlier in the night, a sign he took that it was finally time for him to reach his full potential. The man in the dream told him to come to the spot he was in and do the summoning. 

It only took a few moments before the air turned cold and he sensed a presence behind him. He turned and saw a tall handsome man dressed in dark clothes fit for a royal. On his back were large black wings that were at rest. 

He smirked at Savanis, who suddenly had a strange feeling that something might not be right. 

“At last we meet.”

Savanis swallowed, then spoke up, “You are him, then? The Leader.”

“Lucifer.”

“Lucifer,” Savanis tried out the name, a nasty taste following it in his mouth, but it did nothing to deter him. 

“Have you finally come to give your soul to me?” Lucifer asked, eyes locked on the boy in front of him. 

“Have you finally decided I’m worth it?”

A dark chuckle floated from the demon. 

“You have never been worth it, boy. You are as useless to me as the twig you stand on.”

Savanis’ mouth twisted in anger. 

“Then why are you here?”

“You asked me here.”

Savanis scoffed and looked away, feeling utterly humiliated and more than a little angered.

The demon took a step closer, “Do you wish to feel important to me, boy?”

The blonde glared at him, then tilted his chin up, “All I care about is getting what I want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“I want to be able to do and have whatever I desire without consequences.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then giving your soul to me is the right answer for you.”

“And yet you turned me down!”

Lucifer chuckled, “I said you are worthless. You are no match for the ones that do my bidding. They are far darker than you.”

“What would you have me do?” Savanis’ voice grew in strength. 

He was not afraid of the darkness. 

“If you want to give me your soul and join me, you must prove yourself. You must give me something else first.”

“I will give you anything.”

“A life.”

Savanis frowned, confused, “An animal sacrifice? I’ve already given you plenty-”

“Oh no,” the Devil stepped closer again, “One far more precious. A human’s.”

“Easy enough,” Savanis said without hesitation, the blackness in his heart causing him no inner turmoil at the request, “But who?”

A horrible grin spread on the prince of Hell’s face. 

“Is there no one in your life you wish to be rid of? No one that has tethered you down until you are merely nothing but the tool to their survival?”

Savanis stared at him for a moment. 

That nagging little voice began to beg him to listen, to wait and listen for a moment. Not to make any rash decisions. 

But he pushed it away like he had gotten so good at doing. 

“Yes, there is.”

______________________________________

“You remember her, don’t you?”

Your voice is broken and raw as you utter the words, head hanging while the weight of your body hangs on your shoulders unforgivingly. The feeling of the joints that are bearing all the weight beginning to dislocate makes you grit your teeth. 

Sav stands in front of you, his chest heaving in angry breaths. 

He doesn’t respond, only glares harder at your ruined form covered in crimson. 

You swallow thickly, tasting the metallic blood that coats the inside of your mouth. 

“You remember Marjorie…don’t you?”

Sav grabs your face harshly, forcing you to look at him. 

“Don’t say that fucking name ever again.”

You stare back evenly as you whisper. 

“Why do you pretend like you don’t remember? Who are you trying to convince: the other demons, or yourself?”

His jaw clenches, rage seeping into him at the fact that you know more than he’s comfortable with, the fact that you can read him like a book. 

An awkward silence stretches on and you can sense that Undidis is just now hearing of this. 

“If you think dropping a name that is in my past will rattle me, you’re wrong,” Sav seethes, fingers pinching your cheeks. 

“It isn’t just in your past though, is it? That is your punishment. It haunts you wherever you go, the pain you caused her now racks your own miserable being, and you will never be free of it-”

“Shut the hell up.”

“She’s up there, you know.”

The dark ocean in his irises seems to darken and get colder as you stoke the burning blue flames. He roughly lets go of your face.

“You will never hurt her again, Sav. She needs never to think of you or what you did. Marjorie sings joyfully with the angels and flies with her most beloved creatures.”

He watches your eyes drift to the dead monarch inked on his bicep. 

Your voice drops to a whisper as he steps back, hands shaking.

“Marjorie told me of the doll you sewed for her when she was three. She told me of the bread you brought home for her. You were always enough for her.”

You see him swallow thickly, but sense only an empty misery and anger there. 

“Even as you sacrificed the life of your only little sister for your selfish desires, she never hated you. She forgave you, Savanis.”

“I said shut up!” He slaps you across the face, snapping your neck to the side violently. Then he grabs your hair and yanks it so that you’re looking at him, his eyes wild with rage, “Your kind has stolen more souls from us than one could count, and yet you have the audacity to mock me while at my mercy? I am not going to stop ruining you, not until you break, and not even then. Beg all you want but I will not stop. Not even when you give in and lower yourself to me!”

“Go ahead!” You scream at the top of your lungs in his face, startling him enough to step back, “No matter how close you think you are to prevailing against His gates, you’ve already lost!!” 

The rage is clear in his eyes as he stares you down. 

Even as Undidis cracks the whip down on your back and you feel it rip deep into your flesh, pouring more blood down your already scarred skin, you do not look away from the demon standing in front of you. 

Despite the difference in your positions, he is the one that looks at you with trepidation swimming in his gaze. 

-

JK walks through the colorless trees of the second ring in the seventh circle, his gaze locked on the ground. The strange images won’t stop, they only ever get worse when he’s looking at anything but the pale dirt beneath him. 

Not once has he glanced at the sinners he passed as he stomped his way back through the circles. 

Not once has he given a second thought to the words being repeated in his head in a loop, the stupid little pathetic human souls begging him for a chance to ruin themselves. 

Not once has he been able to shake the image of you out of his mind. 

The terror in your eyes when he left you is burned into his brain. 

He wouldn’t think anything of it if the image was paired up with satisfaction and a desire to drag more misery out of you just to see you fall further into despair. But it isn’t. It’s accompanied with nothing but confusion and uncertainty.

“I’d rather live together forever. Wouldn’t you?”

The demon flinches at the soft voice that permeates his mind above all the others, a horrid feeling coming over him like when he sees those images he suddenly can’t escape..

“Live forever? Together?”

The sound of a snapping twig makes him lift his head briefly. 

The realization of looking up from the ground hits him too late. 

The sight of pale branches and dead leaves sets it off all over again. 

Shades of gray blur and morph until a horribly bright green replaces them all, the sound of birds twittering fills his ears, and the warmth of sun caresses his freezing skin. 

Laughter surrounds him as he fumbles to a stop in the forest full of so much life and light it’s painful. 

The demon glances around uncertainly before reaching shaky hands up to his ears to cover them, squeezing harshly to drown out the voices that seem so familiar and yet so foreign. 

For a moment, he thinks maybe he’s mistaken and that he was just summoned by a desperate soul seeking solace in the most perfectly horrid place. 

Just as he’s calming himself and taking his hands away from his ears, he stops abruptly after almost running into a large tree. 

He flinches back to avoid colliding into it. 

As the demon backs up slowly, he runs into something else. He turns to see an old swing hanging from one of the branches of the tree; it’s rocking back and forth slightly due to the force of him running into it. 

His hands begin to shake more than they have been since you put those wretched thoughts in his mind. 

JK takes a few unsteady steps backwards, tripping over his own feet to get away from the simple structure that’s causing so many confusing and conflicting feelings to crowd into his mind. 

Just as he’s about to turn and hurry in the opposite direction, there’s a sound cutting through the rustling leaves and singing bluebirds. 

He freezes, his blood curdling at the agonized scream that fills the forest and sucks the air from his lungs.

All at once, the green silky leaves and blue sky are ripped away and he’s back in the seventh circle. 

JK slowly turns to face the direction he came from. 

The direction where he left you to so easily be caught and tortured until you no longer had that little flame of hope he had always hated to see in you despite his desperate attempts to squash it. 

_________________________

You stare at the stone floor under you that’s illuminated with a pale red light creeping in from the crack in the corner of the cell. 

Every few seconds another ruby droplet falls from your skin and lands on the ground.

Your shoulders have long since been pulled out of place. The tops of your feet rest against the cold floor, unable to bear any weight to ease the pain in your shoulders. 

All you can do is continue to count the drips that never fail to fall in the same place, joining the ever growing puddle. 

You know they are going to come back in soon and continue where they left off. 

Please give me strength. 

You blink slowly, almost losing count of the next drop of your blood splashing into the little pool. 

The sound of the cell door flying open makes you flinch a little, but you glance in the direction of it anyway. 

You don’t see Sav or Undidis coming in to finish the job as you expected.

Your breath gets caught in your throat at the sight of JK being brought into the cell, his arms held roughly by two mangled demons that don’t even try to contain the cackles bubbling from their vile throats.  

Terror takes root in your heart when you think he’s been caught and is to be punished in front of you. Only seconds pass before you realize what it is you’re actually seeing. 

It isn’t JK. 

It’s Jungkook. 

You watch in mounting horror as they drag him to the center of the cell. 

As far as you can tell, you are no longer chained there. Instead, you are against the wall and watching as they clamp the chains onto his wrists. 

“Jungkook?” 

The name passes your lips in a breathless whisper, full of horror and confusion. 

None of them act as though they’ve heard you, or have seen you at all for that matter. How could they? You are witnessing a moment that has already come to pass. 

All you can do is stand there and stare. Your legs will not move as you tell them to, it’s like you’re frozen. 

Jungkook’s head hangs low, not looking the demons in the eye as they shriek and hurl vile profanities at him. 

A horrible scream rips itself from your throat when without warning they begin to beat and tear at him viciously. Even as you wail in desperation for them to stop, none of them react to your presence. 

You can’t even cover your eyes to avoid seeing it. 

It feels like it lasts forever until they’re finally stepping away and you can see his beaten and bruised form hanging there numbly, clothes torn and bloody cuts littering his skin. 

There isn’t a single sign of pain on his face, it’s as if he is incapable of feeling. 

The demon with bulging eyes and no nose laughs maniacally and turns to the other wretch in the room, “The fucker isn’t over the death of his little lover yet.”

Your heart rips in two.

The second demon that has mutilated moldy wings that are no more than stubs and half of its smile stitched with thick black thread, scoffs in twisted amusement, “Give him a few days and he won’t even remember her name.”

The two snort loudly to themselves before leaving the room, the cell door slamming shut behind them. 

“Jungkook,” you whimper, still stuck by the wall and at least ten feet from him.

The faraway look in his eyes as he stares at the stone floor makes your heart bleed painfully.

His dirty cheeks covered in blood and grime soon have streaks running down them as silent tears fall. 

He doesn’t move, not even when they eventually come in again and proceed to beat him without restraint. 

The sobs falling from your lips never cease as you can’t tear your eyes away from it. 

The bulging-eyed demon leans down close to where Jungkook’s head dips low, blood dripping from the prisoner’s mouth and nose. 

“What was her name again?” The voice is sneering, mocking. 

You hear his muttered reply even from where you sit by the wall. 

“____.”

-------------------

You don’t know how many times they came back, every visit bringing worse torment than the last. 

Each time, they would ask the same question. 

“What is her name?”

And each time, no matter how weak his voice became, he gave the same reply.

“____.”

------------------

The mangled demon with stubby wings lashed the whip angrily after Jungkook whispered your name for the hundredth time. 

You couldn’t bear to see the pained grimace on your best friend’s face as the thin leather strap tore into his naked skin, nor could you stand to hear the gut-wrenching cries that came from him when he was all alone in the dark cell for hours; nothing to occupy his mind but the thought of you. 

You’d screamed and pounded on the floor and thrown many fits, but he never saw you. All you could do was sit there and cry with him. 

The worst were the times when you could hear him muttering to himself in the silence, talking and laughing breathlessly about flowers and clouds and boats and sweet honey rice cakes. He would whisper about bird songs and rings and sunlight dancing on fingertips.

The stories he told to the quiet to make sure he wouldn’t ever forget you. 

-

“That’s it,” The bug-eyed demon snarled and turned to his companion to whisper something neither you nor Jungkook could hear. 

Whatever it was, it prompted the other to unchain Jungkook less than gracefully, ignoring his pained cries at the change in position. 

Then they both dragged him carelessly out of the cell. 

The next few moments flashed in front of you; the horrible images showing what it was they were doing. 

You saw Jungkook refuse to steal souls when ordered to, time and time again. You saw them drag him back to the cell and torture him until he couldn’t even scream anymore from losing his voice. 

It continued like that for nearly a hundred years. 

The time passed in a flash for you, but for Jungkook every moment felt like a millennia as they found new ways to wrench sounds of affliction from him each time he refused to do their bidding. 

__________

“We’re breaking him.”

The demon in charge of the prisoners’ under the Chamber of Souls scoffed at the lesser creature in front of him. 

“He doesn’t look broken to me.”

Jungkook kept his gaze on the floor, counting the tiny cracks running along through the ancient stone. 

He didn’t even flinch when a rough hand gripped his chin harshly and pulled to make him look up at them. 

“This girl you are so desperate to remember, tell me, what is her name?”

Jungkook blinked a few times but said nothing, his gaze cloudy and uncertain. 

Dark chuckles echoed around the cell. 

“See? I told you we-”

“Apple…”

Stunned silence fell over the dungeon at the name whispered brokenly, the screams of the other sinners fading into nothingness as the demons stood there and stared at their miserable prize.

“Get me the crank,” the general growled, “You know the one I speak of.”

Scurried footsteps faded into the hall as Jungkook lowered his gaze back to the ground.

------

The breath trickled from Jungkook’s lungs as he hung in the cell, his shoulders bruised from where they dislocated again each time he was brought back and rechained. 

He blinked slowly, watching the blood drip from him and onto the floor with a tiny splatter. 

The cell door creaked loudly but he didn’t move. 

Heavy footsteps echoed around the cell as the newcomer approached. 

Jungkook said nothing as he was unchained and dragged out of the dungeon. 

He said nothing as they brought him to a dark forest where a boy was summoning demons to make a deal with. 

He couldn’t even stand on his own, so he crumpled to the ground when they let him go. 

Jungkook stared at the young teen eagerly bundling the herbs he would soon toss into the fire. 

When asked once more if he would agree to deal with humans, with this boy, he nodded his head slowly in defeat. 

-

As they chained Jungkook back up in his cell, he stared ahead numbly, his body, mind, and will beyond the point of broken. 

The next time the demons came in and tortured him while laughing at his agony, he didn’t hold back the screams that were ripped from him. 

As Jungkook tried desperately to grasp any form of a thought in his mind, the demon general that just dealt out his torment leaned down and looked him in the eye. 

“So you’ve finally agreed to work for him, hm? This will stop then, after you answer one last question.”

Jungkook stared at him blankly, sweat and blood dripping down his face. 

“What is her name?”

The demon watched the broken young man blink a few times then look at him in exhausted confusion before whispering weakly due to the suffering endured. 

“Who?”

__________

As the ice cold cell once again surrounds you, a grief-stricken sob breaks from your lungs and you begin to weep loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls.

The excruciating pain in your body is no longer what hurts the most. Knowing everything that he went through for so long before breaking under the agony, is more painful than any physical torture they can bring upon you. 

You had asked for strength, and in seeing his torment, you got it. 

There was nothing that they could do to break you now, not if it meant you giving in would result in his eternal damnation and suffering. 

Your heart hurts so deeply you’re not sure it will ever be whole again. The only relief would be if it were to stop beating altogether.

- 

As tears of devastation drip down your sore cheeks, there’s suddenly a warmth that envelops you. 

Opening your eyes slowly, you realize you are no longer chained up, but lying on the hard floor of the cell. After a moment of staring at the cell door in confusion, you realize there’s something soft under your head. 

Turning ever so slowly, you blink up at the person sitting on the filthy ground of the dungeon whose lap you’re lying on, the entirety of them emits a warm glow. 

Your eyes are squinted from the harsh light as you back up a little and raise a hand to wipe at the tears on your face. 

When the light fades away, your gaze meets deep brown eyes flecked with gold and full of a love like no other. 

A small gasp escapes you and you instantly back away so you can bow low to the ground, forehead touching the frigid concrete.

A gentle touch on your shoulder encourages you to lift your head again. 

“I-” your voice cracks and you clear your throat before whispering again, eyes full of unshed tears, “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

A beautiful smile graces your visitor’s lips as He looks at you tenderly.

“No, child.”

The sound of His deep voice that resonates a soothing regalness fills your ears and the tears instantly creep over the edge and pour down your cheeks. 

You move to bow again, laying your head on the ground at His feet while you weep. 

“Come to me, ____.”

Not wasting a second, you lift your head and shuffle towards Him. There isn’t a single hesitation before you fall into His open arms, letting yourself be cradled closely. 

You bury your nose into the beige tunic He wears, breathing in the smell of wild flowers and crystal rain before another round of sobbing ensues. 

Strong hands caress the top of your head and shoulders. 

“Tell me everything,” He whispers gently, voice full of warmth and comfort. 

Even as you bawl messily, you let everything out. Everything that has happened since you crossed into Hell, every moment of fear for the one you came to save; fear that he would not choose to listen. How he left you alone after you tried to remind him of who he once was. You tell Him of all the horrible things the demons did to you and how wretched it was to see what your best friend had gone through. 

You are never interrupted, fully encouraged to say anything and everything that has weighed you down and how you feel as though all of this has been for nothing. 

When you have finally exhausted yourself and cried until no more tears will come, you feel something else. 

An agony so deep and so visceral that you feel what you have endured up till this pales in comparison. 

You lift your gaze to see tears pouring down His cheeks. 

In your mind you see all of the souls throughout Hell and on Earth that are yet to come to this vile place, the horrid grief that strikes your heart is unbearable.

You see Jungkook being beaten unforgivingly, then you see him prowling the Earth for souls to ruin, to share in his misery. The boy that was once full of so much life and kindness and love was gone, replaced with something so wicked and so full of hate that you barely recognize him. 

As you watch the souls choose to fall across the world, the sound of His ethereal voice breaks through the fog and heartbreak.

“No suffering united with Mine will ever be wasted.”

When your vision clears and you once again see the deep sadness in His eyes, you lurch forward and wrap your arms around Him; if only to try and ease the pain of loss He endures every moment. 

A gentle hand touches your torn wings and a comfort sweeps over you. No words are needed as you feel a new strength surge through you briefly before the exhaustion once again takes hold. 

You breathe shakily as you try to regain yourself, knowing that if you asked, you would be taken from here. But you will not give up.

Nagging little worries are still running through your mind though; What if JK refuses to listen and wants nothing to do with you anymore?

Despite how angry he was when he left you, there was a flicker of hope that remained deep inside, that he would come back. You’re ashamed to admit that now you’re afraid he’ll actually leave you here to rot and continue with his wretched duties.

“Do not be afraid.”

Nodding, you close your eyes and breathe in deeply. 

When you open them again, the room is empty, the sound of you blowing out your breath the only thing you hear. 

Your hands are once again chained above you, pulling your shoulders out of place slowly.

A loud clang rings out as the metal bars of the cell are flung open then the pitter pattering of bare feet is heard, nasty chuckles not far behind.  

Your limited vision is taken from you completely when slimy hands wrap a rough cloth around your eyes. 

Do not be afraid.

____________________________

JK gulps, his dry throat making it hard to swallow. 

He’s standing in the seventh circle and looking down the path he walked to get here; the path that leads back to you. 

The one that deceived him. 

You preached about being honest and yet you lied to him about the reality of who you are. Of what you are. 

Granted, if he knew at the beginning, he wouldn’t have given you so much as a second to talk before unleashing his pent up rage against your kind. 

And yet. 

Something is pulling at him, urging him to go back.

Maybe it’s the curiosity of wanting to know why you came here, why you did what you did.

Or maybe it’s something else. 

“Fuck.”

If he goes back…he will pay for it for the rest of eternity. 

…

JK closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

After a few moments, he opens them again and starts walking back down the path. 

_______

When he gets to the barren wasteland and sees the smaller mountain by itself in the middle of it, his stomach turns. 

It might not have been you. 

It could’ve been any sinner at the hands of his fellow demons. He’s heard many sounds of torment in his time. 

But never has one struck him as that one did. 

The demon shakes his head and starts walking again, eyes focused on the lone mountain in the distance. 

You probably won’t even be there, you must have gone to get the Flame yourself and just wanted to scare him off. That has to be it. You wanted him to leave, so that you could continue on your own and not have to live up to your end of the deal. 

The explanation makes perfect sense and he’s almost angry for a minute that he fell for it. But the pit in his stomach leads him to believe otherwise. 

-

As he walks up to the mountain, the snake vines becoming clearer with each step, something else makes him freeze. 

The echo of someone crying; horrible gut-wrenching anguish falling from their lips. 

His jaw clenches at the sound when it becomes obvious who it is.

It makes no sense to him why he’s suddenly filled with an uncontrollable rage at the thought of someone hurting you. 

JK grabs the snake wrapped around the handle of the back door you two went in and tears it off, tossing it to the ground and throwing the door open before stalking down the dark hall. 

He doesn’t stop until he gets to the Chamber of Souls, where he halts briefly when he sees the shattered glass on the floor, a stone lying haphazardly in the midst of it. The darkened souls where the glass used to be continue to float there, undisturbed. 

JK looks around but sees no one. The only other indication that something happened here is the ghostly feeling of past terror still clinging to the air. 

He turns his head and sees the alcove. Without hesitation, the demon walks over to it and yanks it open, proceeding to walk down the stairs and into the thick blackness. 

The high-pitched screams coming from each cell are enough to disorient anyone, but JK continues to walk down the hall, unfazed. 

He only stops when someone going the opposite direction runs into him and stumbles back in surprise. JK raises a brow, having not moved a centimeter at the collision. 

The short beady-eyed demon in front of him- whose name escaped JK for a moment but he quickly remembers it as Ekel- snarls to cover up his startlement, “Aren’t you meant to be getting punished for not meeting the quota?”

“Where is she?”

Ekel cackles, but it’s drowned out by the tortured howls around them. 

“Are you serious? You’re the one that sent her here and now you’re here to rescue her? I wonder what the punishment is for a demon letting an angel go,” he muses in wicked delight at the thought. 

The black-haired demon leans down to get level with him, snatching his wrist so fast Ekel doesn’t have a moment to think and squeezing it until there’s the sound of bones cracking and the miserable twerp is squealing. 

JK drags him closer, not letting up on the grip he has as he whispers in his ear, “I wonder what I’ll do to you when I catch you again with plenty of time on my hands. You do know the ranks here, don’t you?”

He gets no response but silence, so he keeps going. 

“I will wrench every single cry out of you that I can and I will not stop until you are unrecognizable to even yourself. Tell me where she is.”

Ekel gulps, then cries out again when JK pinches his wrist harder, “She’s at the end of the hall! But I- I didn’t do anything to her, it was Sav and Undidis, who don’t do well with their prizes being messed with. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he spits.

JK narrows his eyes at the lower demon, “Spread this to anyone and I will rip you to shreds. Do you understand?”

Ekel nods, then growls in pain when his wrist is freed. 

Before he can move to get away, JK stops him with a warning grip on the arm, “And if you do happen to blab, be sure to tell Sav that if he ever shows up in front of me, he will wish he never came to exist.”

When he’s released, Ekel doesn’t hesitate to run away down the corridor, getting as far from his superior as he can.

JK straightens and stalks down to the end of the hall. 

To the left, the cell is empty. 

When he turns to the right, it feels like a rock is lodged into his throat at the sight that meets him. 

He brushes a hand over the giant padlock and it clatters to the ground in several pieces, then he pushes the barred door open, the loud squeak echoing off the walls. 

You don’t flinch at the sound. 

As he steps into the cell, the putrid smell of every second of torture dealt throughout time here hits his nose and he grimaces. The metallic scent of blood is thick in the air. 

The closer he gets to your form hanging in the middle of the cell, he realizes that you are not conscious. 

His eyes drag over you slowly, taking in the horror you’ve been put through since he left you. Since he delivered you right into their eager hands.

The simple white dress you wore when first coming here is in shreds; your body is practically naked and covered in deep gashes from all sorts of cruel instruments. There’s a ratty brown piece of cloth tied over your eyes as a makeshift blindfold to keep you from seeing what was coming next, to heighten the sense of pain when your vision was impaired. 

Your wrists are chained above you; keeping you high enough so that your feet touch the floor but are unable to hold any weight, especially since the untold violence wrought on you has left you incapable of doing anything but hanging in defeat as your shoulders are pulled out of place from the pressure. 

The dainty wings on your back that were once white are now covered in bright red blood and torn through in several places. The bottom half of your left wing is missing entirely.

JK reaches a hand out to carefully brush the hair from your dirty face. 

“Apple,” he whispers, unsure what else to call you. 

You don’t respond. 

The demon swallows thickly, then he moves a hand behind your head to untie the blindfold. It falls to the floor and he’s met with the bruises and cuts littered along your cheeks and dark circles coated in flakey blood under your eyes. He puts an arm around your waist, holding you against him, then reaches up to touch the rusted cuffs holding you captive. They turn to dust instantly, the weight of your limp body is immediately supported by his hold as you let out a quiet moan at the pain in your shoulders from changing positions. 

He lowers you to the ground slowly, lying you on your right side as gently as he can. 

The minute he has you safely on the floor, JK brings his hand down to your ankles and rids you of the shackles there before reaching behind you and doing the same to the iron binds around your mutilated wings. 

He grimaces at the sight of blood still oozing from the left wing that was cut in half. Then he forces himself not to linger on all the injuries across your once soft skin as he looks back at your face. 

You’ve made no indication that you know it’s him or that anyone is with you at all. 

JK leans over and moves the hair from your face, voice getting caught in his throat before he clears it and tries again. 

“Apple.”

Your face scrunches a little in pain, then you slowly blink your eyes open to see a blurry face in front of you. 

He hushes you quietly when you flinch and close your eyes, “It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

You don’t open your eyes but he sees a small tear slide down your cheek.

“Demons don’t make promises,” the soft whisper of your voice breaks, “Only deals.”

His eyes drift over your bloody face, the silence following your words is deafening.

After a moment, he takes a shaky breath in and blows it out. 

“They won’t be gone long, I need to get you out of here.”

At your lack of response he gently touches your cheek, only to find that you’ve lost consciousness again. 

JK sighs softly, then he places a hand on each of your shoulders where the skin is discolored. At his touch, the distorted joints move back into place, but the bruising doesn’t go away. He leans back to pull the silk top shirt off of himself, leaving only the short sleeved one on. He ever so gently drapes the smooth black fabric over your front, protecting the sake of your modesty best as he can.

Then he puts his arms underneath you and stands, effortlessly picking you up and cradling you in his hold before turning and walking out of the prison cell. 

He walks all the way down the hall and up the stairs without stopping. 

Your wings hang loosely as he goes, still bleeding. They leave a trail of splattered scarlet drops behind the two of you. 

When he steps out of the mountain and into the red light, he sees your eyes scrunch unconsciously due to the lack of anything other than darkness for a while. You move your head to the side a little to hide in his chest and block the painful brightness.

He adjusts you in his arms before starting on the long trek ahead. 

___________________

You walked along the ancient stone pavement that curved around a particularly puffy cloud. When you rounded the cloud, you could see marble pavilions covered in green ivy and ivory flowers just ahead. 

“Well if it isn’t the newest treasure! Hi ____!”

“Oh, hello Leon!” You smiled and waved at the angel that flew up to you excitedly. You had met him shortly after arriving and he was as friendly as could be. 

“Where are you off to?” 

“Imelda has called me to speak with them.”

Leon smiled comfortingly, “This is about Jungkook, isn’t it?”

“I’m guessing so,” you whispered, a little on edge to find out what exactly happened after your death. It hadn’t even been a day since you arrived, which meant it had still only been three days after your death on Earth.

The angel patted your shoulder, changing the subject a bit to calm you. 

“You’d get there faster if you flew!”

You laughed nervously and glanced back at the slender wings resting behind you that matched his own apart from his being larger. 

As a child, you always dreamt of flying with the clouds and the birds. It suddenly seemed a bit daunting, especially seeing all the other angels flying to and fro with an elegance and grace unmatched. The one time you tried earlier you had crashed right into one of the honeysuckle bushes and had to get help from a passing angel to get out.

Thankfully they were the only one to see you. It also helped a bit that angels are not like people and have no reason to mock.

Leon could tell by the look on your face what you were thinking. 

“____.”

You looked back at him. 

“Imelda would not have asked you to make the choice if you were not meant to. You belong here, you know that right?”

A genuine smile broke out on your face and you nodded. 

As worried as you were about messing up, there was never a place you felt more at home. There was no doubt in your mind or heart that this place was where you would always belong. You couldn’t wait to share it with your best friend.

“Good!” The pretty angel giggled and patted you on the head sweetly, “I’ll see you around! You’ve got this.”

You waved as he flew away; looking completely natural among the clouds lined with a slight hint of silver and gold. 

Of course, Leon had been an angel since the beginning, he could never look out of place. 

-

You walked up the steps to the third pavilion to see your guardian angel Imelda, who had told you her name shortly after you came through the gates. She was speaking with Him. 

Imelda was sitting on one of the many pillows strewn across the shimmering floor, adorned in her usual delicately armored gown, the sword safe at her side. 

He sat on one of the rose gold benches lined with small white flowers, your guardian angel at His feet. Golden and purple robes flowed around Him, white hair and a white beard making His striking violet eyes flecked with silver stand out even more than usual.

Bringing yourself to a low genuflect, you bowed your head respectfully. 

When you straightened, you were met with smiling eyes that held an ancient wisdom and a wonderful warmth filled you to the brim. 

“____.”

You inclined your head again.

“We have much to discuss, I am afraid it is not positive in nature.” His voice was deep, the oceans couldn't even dream to compare.  

You nodded, already having assumed as much. 

He gestured a hand out for you to take a seat amongst the pillows so that you would be comfortable rather than standing for long. 

Quickly you moved to a plush pink pillow, a little too quickly you realized, when it slid a bit with you on it and a small yelp left your lips in surprise. 

Fond chuckles floated from the two you came to meet and you felt your cheeks burn. It was nice to make someone laugh when they were not harboring any malicious intent towards you.

The air turned serious soon after, the news that was to be shared hanging in the air. 

“It’s about Jungkook…?” You whispered. 

“Yes.”

You closed your eyes and gulped, “He’s taken my death even worse than I thought…hasn’t he?”

The silence that stretched on made a pit form in your stomach before you glanced up to look at them. Of course, you couldn’t be happier after death, you would never ever want to go back to that place, as beautiful as Earth was on its own, it couldn’t compare. You knew though, that poor Jungkook would not be feeling the same right then.

He was opening His mouth to speak when there was a horrible sound of sobbing that ripped through the air. 

A sound of such anguish was not normal here, it made the hairs stand up on your arms as you looked around to locate the source. 

It was coming from an angel, a guardian by the look of his baby blue wings and tunic. All of the guardians and the unborn children were a different color. The other angels, including you, were white; apart from a select few. 

But why was this guardian angel crying?

“Abba!”

The angel boy flew into the pavilion and landed with a harsh crash to the marble floor at His feet. 

“Nehemiah.”

You watched in confusion and a deep sadness as the angel who He called by name began to sob harder and clutch at His robes while sobbing into His knee. It looked like a child weeping on their parent’s lap after waking from a night terror. 

Nehemiah looked no older than fifteen; his chin-length wavy blonde hair contributing to making him look quite youthful despite all the ages of the universe he had witnessed thus far.

“Abba! I- I lost him!” Nehemiah choked on another sob, his pretty face covered in shiny tears and pale cheeks unnaturally blotchy as he hugged His knee. 

You looked at Imelda, who was holding back tears of her own as she watched Him comfort the weeping angel. 

“You did well, Nehemiah. You did well.”

You could hear His deep soothing voice through the fog of horror beginning to cloud your mind. 

When Imelda looked at you, you could see it in her eyes.

You stood, chest rising and falling in short panicky breaths. 

Nehemiah turned at the movement and saw you, a quick flash of recognition in his eyes, then he quickly broke down into more gut-wrenching sobs. You had never, never in all your life on Earth, heard the sound of such heartbreak. 

Your eyes drifted to Him and you saw a tear falling down His soft cheek. 

“No,” you mumbled, shaking your head slowly, “No.”

It was a desperate plea for them to tell you that it was not what you feared. 

You died. You were always meant to be the one that died too young. Jungkook was alive. He was down there and needed you to go soothe him, that’s all. That’s why they brought you here, to tell you he was in need of comfort and that you could give it to him.

But when you looked at the blue angel once again, you knew it wasn’t true. 

If everything was okay, he would not be here without him…

You walked over and fell to your knees, wrapping your arms around Jungkook’s guardian angel and holding him tight. He was shaking like a leaf as he hugged you back just as tight, “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed mournfully. 

You stroked his hair softly with shaking hands, silent tears falling down your face. 

-

“What do you mean, he made a deal?” 

Your voice was quiet, eyes red and tender from crying. 

Imelda was the only one still with you in the pavilion.

“In exchange for your health, Jungkook summoned a demon…he was visited by Lucifer himself.”

You knew of who she spoke. 

After coming here, everything became clear. The history of the angels and demons, of the universe itself; it all became known to you. 

“When?” Your voice broke in disbelief. You knew nothing of this summoning or this deal making that he had done. 

Then it suddenly hit you. 

“The Flame of Immortality…he wanted it,” you whispered in horror, “When he left after we were married. That’s where he went, isn’t it?”

Imelda nodded solemnly, “That is what he left for, it is not what he got.”

“But- but how? Why was it allowed to happen, why-”

“Nehemiah did the best he could,” Imelda’s voice was thick with grief, “His first choice was to love Jungkook, as mine was to love you. He spent Jungkook’s entire existence protecting him and comforting him, even during the deal. He urged Jungkook not to do it, but he was not heeded. There was only so much he could do when Jungkook had a choice.”

Tears fell down your cheeks. 

“Why didn’t he come to me?” You choked on your next breath, a hand moving to your chest in an effort to keep the air going in and out, “Why didn’t he come to me and tell me everything?”

“If he had…there was certainly something we would’ve been able to do. If he wanted help, we would have freely given even more of it than we already were. Jungkook was too far into despair and wanted what seemed to be the easy answer, he didn’t want to listen to Nehemiah’s warnings. He gave his life for you, but not in the way it should’ve ever been. Nehemiah stood by him, though, even in his last moments.” 

“Where is he?” Your voice shook.

“Jungkook died three days after you. He has been taken to Hell to uphold his end of the bargain.”

You closed your eyes slowly, hands trembling. 

“How do we get him back?” You choked out.

When she said nothing, you looked at her.

“Imelda, please. I know nothing is impossible for Him. Tell me how we can save Jungkook.”

“We can do nothing right now-”

“But-”

“Jungkook made a choice, he made a deal. But he was tricked into it without much knowledge and in the desire to do good for someone he loved. Lucifer cannot win when love and self-sacrifice is involved. He wants nothing to do with it.”

Your guardian angel took your hands and pulled you up from the pillow you were still sitting on. 

“For that reason alone, the deal can be revoked. But it comes at the highest price and only at a certain time.”

“When? When can I save him? I will go now,” you began to cry harder, “I will go and I will take him from there, please tell me how Imelda.”

Her green eyes glistened with tears. 

“The deal can only be broken for a condemned soul every five hundred years.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest and you choked back a sob.

“He made a deal with the Devil, ____. A deal that would have sealed his eternal damnation had it been for his own selfishness. We are lucky he made it out of unconditional love for you, we are lucky that we can save him.”

You nodded, wiping at your eyes frantically to clear them of the never-ending deluge. 

“Then when the time comes, I will go to Hell and I will save him,” your voice shook, “What is the price? Whatever it is, I will pay it. I’m not afraid.”

A single tear fell from Imelda’s eye as she looked down at you, a hidden pain in her gaze. 

“The same price that Jungkook paid,” she whispered, “A life for a life.”

_________________________________________

read 15b HERE

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[peachesofteal]

Which Witch

Painting by Joseph Tomanek Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story. Part 1 - Part 2 here John "Soap" MacTavish/witch!reader 13k words - AO3 You do not need to read Mermaids to enjoy this fic, but it exists in the same world and for the full experience, I do recommend it. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Mature and dark themes. Fae!AU. Brief blink of smut. Blood Magic. Fae Magic. Violence. Killing. Human Sacrifice. Angst. Tenderness. Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny presses the heel of his boot into the cheek of the being on the ground, his eyes glazed with a vacancy he has seen more times than he cares to count, or remember, the bleakness of his irises meaning only one thing: the end of their life.

“Was it worth it to ye?” he spits, and the male shudders beneath his sole, twisting pathetically, a half attempt at getting away. Blood sputters and pools, lamely leaking from his body, drenching the air in an earth rich scent.

It does not matter, there is not where for him to go, nowhere for him to flee. He will be lost to the 141, just as almost every other being is this castle has.

The echo of his brother’s power, Gaz’s light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnny’s spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.

“Where’s Ghost?” Kyle’s voice booms across the distance, and Johnny jerks his head northward, to where Simon is ransacking the library like a madman.

He is a madman, Johnny thinks, shaking his head, didn’t even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books. 

He cannot fault him, his brother is a being possessed, tortured by his own heart, a heart that beats for a creature that does not even know he exists. He is miserable, and brutish, and half the time almost unbearable to be around, and Johnny really, really hopes it all comes to an end soon.

The being beneath Johnny’s heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.

“Mercenaries.” He snarls, and Johnny can feel him trying to pull a sliver of power, a desperate and feeble attempt that fails before he chokes again. “That’s all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.” Gaz rolls his eyes in a dramatic motion, rotating his neck before a dagger born from the shimmer of suns materializes in his hand, and the male on the floor whines in fear.

“Yes, yes.” Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the being’s neck, right below where his pulse hammers. It sears his skin, burning away at the flesh slowly, filling the air between them with putrid smoke, the smell of incinerating sinew stinging in Johnny’s nostrils. “But how are we so different from you, then?”

“I don’t kill for money.” 

“Just for sport.” Johnny follows up drily, and the male has no argument. His fighting rings are known throughout the realm. In the closest town over, one can make a fair amount of profit, or lose their freedom, if you knew where to look.

“As if you’re so appalled by it, MacTavish.” The being hisses, and Johnny stills. His power thrums in his blood, reacting to tense state of his body, churning in his mind, ready to strike. Chaos readies itself, pulsing deep, ready to blow this entire castle to the Netherworlds. “I know where ya’re from. I’ve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with it’s-“ Johnny’s magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the being’s own celestial connections and shredding them to pieces. The magic and rage combined electrifies Johnny, filling him with a heady power that pulses in every pore, every neuron existing in his body, and it’s a well fought effort to shove it down, to not give into the intoxicating feeling of the craze, the lust for battle and blood. He pulls and pulls the threads from the being’s crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until he’s nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.

“Shite.” Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. There’s not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnny’s magic, dark red rivers seeping across the polished stone floor. Gaz chuckles darkly.

A ripple of power echoes towards them, and at the end of it, Price looms, arms crossed, mouth turned down in a huff of irritation.

“Job’s done then?” He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gaz’s dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before it’s swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.

“Simon’s finishing up the last bit.”

The three of them venture towards the library, a massive room with ceilings that stretch towards the moons, and shelves built from top to bottom. There are books of every kind here, books from every realm, even. Grimoires, from the witches in the mortal realm, and lost texts from its human inhabitants. Heavy volumes of history from the Netherworlds, sacred texts from a faraway realm that only Simon has been to. Books bound in human skin, books bound with being skin, books that only appear to those they choose. Books that possess their own spells, even if they’re not inherently magic. Books that contain the ability to give any being a gift, so long as they are willing to receive it. Johnny breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of leather and paper, papyrus, and cloth, holding onto it for as long as possible before his lungs deflate with a whoosh. The taste settles on his tongue, and he tamps down the urge to start pulling volumes towards himself, eager to flick through them and devour what lies between their pages. He craves it, the knowledge, the magic that sits sleeping in this room. The bedlam that swirls in his bloodstream melds with his desire for new puzzles, new knowledge, and it creates a double-edged sword that only his brothers seem to understand. Maybe it’s because of his mum, and the deep, ravenous love of books that she had and instilled in him, the balance of his love for chaos and his love for puzzles lending well to learning, or maybe it’s because he’s lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on. 

This is where they find Simon. He’s got a female sorceress of some kind, the one they were looking for in the first place, kneeling, in the middle of the room, arms pressed down to her sides, her eyes wild with fear. Johnny can smell it from here, the rank stench of her terror, the scent of her dread as the being in front of her walks in a tight circle, his eyes fixed on her quivering form.

“I cannot perform it.” She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like he’s tired, or exasperated. “That magic, it’s not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-“ she sobs, and her desperation tugs at Johnny, just a bit, even though his sympathy is slim for this creature who cries pitifully in front of her soon to be executor.

“Simon.” Price intones from where he stands, a distance away, and her eyes flash to him, relief scrawling across her features as she mistakes John for one who may be kind to her, for a being who may help her.

She doesn’t know, that they know. That they’re fully aware, of the terrible things she’s done for the once ruler of this land, that they know the extent of her cruelty, her thirst for blood and pain.

Price crouches in front of where she sits on her knees, and cups her face between his palms, rubbing a placating thumb across her cheekbone.

“Tell us, love.” He encourages. “Tell us about the song. And perhaps, we’ll let you go.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t know that, and it’s painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.

“It’s blood magic.” She croaks. “The only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.” Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. “There are few who still practice it.���

“Where?” Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.

“In the mortal realm.” Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simon’s power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. “There is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. She’s a witch, that-” She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long they’d been practicing. She gave and gave, until there was nothing left to say, and then she stared up at Price, with wistful hope on her face.

Hope, that dies, as she feels the slipknot of Simon’s power, twisting with torsion around her neck.

“No, no. You said… you said you’d let me go!” She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He can’t help but correct her.

“Is that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That you’d let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?”

“I wa-was only doing what I was told.” She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. “Please!” Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but it’s pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. “Please… plea- please.” She moans, fragments of her life slipping through their fingers as it drains away, her body growing limp and her existence becoming futile by the moment. “I- ‘m sorry.” She tries, but it’s far too late now.

It's far too late.

The tavern is packed. Every one and thing inside gives them a wide berth, their eyes jumping from Simon, who walks in front, dark gaze glaring from behind the skull mask and hood he dons in public, to Price, who casually strolls behind him, hand in one pocket, the other swinging by his side, free and available, should quick intervention be needed. Gaz stands at the bar, flirting with a striking female who is leaning towards him, her lips parting to reveal shiny, sharp golden teeth.

That’s odd. What’s a Harpy doing all the way out ‘ere? If Gaz is taken aback, he hides it well, instead slipping her a note that more than covers the cost of a round, and then points at the table where they’ve settled.

“Bit out o’ place.” Price comments, and Simon grunts.

“It’s curious.” He agrees, and they all track Gaz on his way back, watching him until he plants himself on the bench, casual grimace lining his lips.

Simon shifts restlessly, and they all can feel the hot singe of his power, the frustration lurking in the air. Waiting as he hedges.

“If it’s true-“

“At what cost?” Price cuts him off. They hold a silent conversation with their eyes, arguments and counters flowing back and forth between them. Price is the natural voice of reason; he’ll convince him it’s a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnny’s mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness? 

Johnny was no fool, he’s seen the change in Simon, year after year. His fear and confusion, anger and dread starting to seep from his skin, coloring everything around them, affecting them all in different ways. His Nereid was at the end of her rope, and so was Simon.

“All I want, is a chance, Johnny. A chance to know her, without standing in the shadow, for her to know me. To hold her, to tell her she’s not alone.” He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. “I love her. I cannot give her up, I won’t allow her to die.” 

He had returned to their realm frantic, distress wracking his body, seizing his power and twisting it until it nearly suffocated all of them where they stood. It took hours for Johnny to calm him, to get him to explain what had happened, for him to realize why Simon had been so distraught. His Nereid had nearly failed her task, botched her own hunt, and Simon almost stole her away in a moment of blind panic, without even stopping to consider that she might die as soon as steps foot in Faerie. 

“What you’re asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, it’s-“ 

“I’m not asking. I’d never ask this of you.” He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnny’s head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power. 

“Do ye truly believe we’d leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?” 

“It is not merely a year, Johnny. It could be two, or three, or one hundred. I cannot take her until I know how to sustain her, and we’re still not closer to the answer.” 

“I’m with ye Simon. Just as you’ve been with me through difficult times. I won’t turn my back now.” 

“And neither will I.” Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side. 

“Sign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.” Gaz gives them an impish grin, flourishing a set of light daggers and then lowering himself in a mock bow, an ode to his bloodline and ridiculous family. Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he watches how Simon’s shoulders ease, how he releases the breath he’s been holding, before giving them all a nod. 

“I will go.” Johnny declares, and Simon’s eyes crinkle with relief. The sooner we get this all done, the sooner we can return home for good. Johnny was tired. They had been in the mortal realm for nearly a decade, coming back to Faerie now and then when something needed attending or when Simon had a lead. And now, with Simon desperately searching for the final piece of the puzzle, the end of all this finally felt close enough to taste. The only thing left outstanding was, how to get his blood to sing the Nereid’s song.

“I fancy a field trip myself.” Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. “Could use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.”

“Or Las Almas.” Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.

“I liked Las Almas.”

“You just like Ale and Rudy.” Gaz ribs him, and Johnny laughs full throated. He did a soft spot for the two Vaqueros. They were smart, cunning humans who excelled in battle and cared for their community. Rare traits to find amongst the greedy, swamp like mortals that mostly roam their world. He respected them.

“Aye.” He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.

“Very well. We will go together then.” Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.

“Together.”

“It’s not optional anymore.” Your aunt’s voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. “Your coven is your family.” She prattles on, unaware you’ve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.

“She’s nuts.” You mouth to Jet, who weaves between your legs before hopping up in front of you, rubbing her face against your fingers, seeking a scratch behind her ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.

“You need to spend time with your coven. You can’t spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.” Why not? You don’t say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesn’t understand. You have a deep affection, a pure love for your connection to your power, for your magic, but that love did not extend to your coven, who were mostly still stuck in the darkest ages of time, who’s desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you don’t respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. “You must perform your duties. You’ll be expected on Samhain.”

And then the line goes dead.

You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. You’re not sure. She is your familiar, but you don’t speak her language. You don’t know how she actually feels.

But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do.  

“I know, I know.” You give her another rub of your fingertips under her chin before pulling the stack of books towards you and carrying them through the back to the front of the shop.

Your day passes quietly. Mortals come and go, browsing the books in the front room, some choosing to stay and settle in the armchairs or the nooks with plush cushions, curled up with their selections for hours. There are places to tuck away here, corners between shelves where you could allow yourself to get lost in another world if you wanted, with no one to disturb or bother you, except maybe Jet. The black cat patrols the front room with high scrutiny, jumping to and from different heights while she ensures nothing is amiss in her domain.

You keep yourself busy with your daily tasks, organizing, counting, compiling, all while trying not think too much about the demand of your presence at Samhain.

You don’t want to go.

But you also don’t think you’ll be able to get out of it. You had already managed to dodge Lughnasa, and a fully body shudder rips through you when you recall the efforts of matchmaking that were done on your behalf before the festival had even started.

Not like anyone wanted to be matched with you to begin with. Not when there were effortless beauties by the dozen, witches and warlocks waiting with bated breath to be paired together.

Crazy, evil old hags. Crazier than the full moon herself. 

By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and you’ve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you don’t want the general public to see, ancient books bound with skin, grimoires with spells to summon demons, to kill lovers, to resurrect children. Books with magic of blood and bone, written by ancient witches from your own coven. Stories that come and go as they please. Stories of gods and monsters. Books that could open doors. Books that could trap you beyond those doors, forever. Banned books, by some’s standards.

Books you’re really not supposed to have but can’t help but collect. Your desire to absorb it all, learn it all unyielding, no matter how much information you consume, and it's become more than your livelihood now. The bookstore has become a place where others can come if they need something that their coven cannot provide, a place a witch can find a spell that’s long been forgotten, a place where answers can be found, if you knew where to look.

A safe place, for yourself, and for others.

A dangerous place, to some, and a dangerous place to you, at times. A place that made you known in magical communities, a place where you could be found.

And to your coven, nothing was worse.

Secret practitioners of blood magic, they were extremely closed off to outsiders. They stone walled others, refused friendships in magical society, kept to themselves as much as possible. It was their tradition, the only way they could survive and continue their practice, their devotion to blood, water and bone keeping them alive longer than others, keeping them young and fair when their counterparts aged and withered, kept them practicing for the entirety of their long lives.

And who would want to give that up? 

You hadn’t been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadn’t asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your aunt’s hands at a young age, where you learned all too quickly that your magic was different from other young witches, that you had been blessed with your coven’s ultimate gift.

Blood spinning.

Jet meows, leaping from the floor to the table to sit in front of you on her haunches, jet black fur shining under the dancing light of the candles. There are no lamps in this room, the bulbs too bright or too offensive for the books, some who’s pages don’t even show themselves unless they’re lit by magic.

You keep the flames in here lit by your power, day in and day out. Wax drips onto the mantle that sits over the fireplace, forming sand like castles on the wooden beam as the candles burn, staying in perfect stasis while the flames never go out. 

You cast your magic out, just slightly, enough to straighten a shelf that was haphazardly arranged earlier, and then you wave a finger over a flame, just enough that it lightly heats your skin.

Fucking Samhain. 

You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after today’s conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.

Don’t these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? That’s when the Others get through. 

You shiver.

You’re just about to ask Jet what she wants for dinner before you lock up when you hear a clattering smack, the sound of the broom that always stands so astute by the front door falling to floor, and your blood freezes in your veins.

Jet hisses.

Company’s coming. 

“Hello?” A male voice calls, accent unusual to your ears, ricocheting past the shelves to where you sit in the back, hunched over a dusty tome. “Is anyone here?”

“I am!” You yell, standing up too fast, knocking into the heavy wooden table with your hip and letting out a hiss of air through your lips. Ow. Shit. That’s going to bruise. “I’m here, sorry.” You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.

Oh.

Fuck. 

There is a beautiful man standing in the front of the bookstore. A stunningly gorgeous, perfectly formed human being with crystalline blue eyes and a smile that practically beams. His hair is cut into a mohawk, a unique style that you don’t see too often, and his eyes glimmer with something mischievous, something wild. His bone structure reminiscent of the gods you grew up learning about, his face open, and handsome, watching you from where he stands, bolts of setting sunlight streaming in from the glass door behind him, framing him in the orange and pink goodness of dusk.

Just looking at him sets your body alight.

“H-hello.” Gods.. Get it together. It's just a guy. You've see plenty of mortal men before. His lips quirk, and you try not to look too closely at them, their sweet shape, perfectly pressed together while he cocks his head.

“Hello.” Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a book.” He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.

“Well, this is a good place to do that.” Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you can’t. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesn’t seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.

“It’s well… it’s a rare book.”

“Oh?”

“And I’ve been told, you’re a purveyor of such rare and curious books.” Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.

“I… have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what you’re looking for?”

“It’s a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.” You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?

“I don’t have anything that old here.” The lie slips through your teeth with ease.

“Oh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room an’ everything.” Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.

Magic. There’s magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like it’s waiting for something, waiting to strike.

Is it his?

Like he can sense it, he tenses for a split second before relaxing, and offering you his hand.

“I’m Johnny.” You stare at his waiting gesture, poised on the edge of a decision, uncertainty hanging in the balance.

Something is different here.

 Something is strange. 

But the way he looks at you, like he’s really looking at you, seeing you, noticing you, soothes the wariness in your mind, the strong beating of your heart drowning out your more cautious nature.

Still, you’re not one to give your birth given name to anyone outside the coven, whether they be friend or foe.

You've seen someone learn that lesson first hand. 

“My friends call me Fern.” It’s not a lie, your friends, what little you still had, do call you Fern. Have called you Fern ever since you were all children, when you were more interested in laying on your back in the woods and staring at the clouds through the trees, then you were learning basic spells at anyone’s house. Strange, they used to call you. Odd. Weird. Their parents, bless them, had instructed their children not to be cruel to you, but the nickname had persisted, and then stuck, until it was what you were calling yourself all through Uni and afterwards.

“Fern.” He echoes, a ripple of something you cannot name crossing his face before it smooths, and he releases your hand while giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s lovely to meet you.” The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. You’re staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like you’re in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before he’s clearing his throat and you’re blinking yourself free.

Odd. Your brain warns.

Enchanting. Your heart sings.

“Sorry, I uh. Don’t have your book.”

“It’s alright. Mind if I had a look around?”

“Sure!” you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.

Calm down. He’s not here for you. He’s here for a book. 

You try not to track his every move as he browses, instead staring at the blank computer screen at the front check out desk, clicking the mouse intermittently and shuffling some papers back and forth mindlessly while you sneak a look every now and then.

He’s fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You can’t help but stare when he reaches for a higher shelf, and his shirt rides up to expose a flash of his midriff, honey cream skin on full display that makes your mouth water, just a bit.

Jet meows loudly, and then makes an exaggerated point of licking her paw, pointing it in the direction of the clock that hangs over the door.

Welp. 

“I’m actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-“

“Sorry to keep ye.” He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.

“Oh, you’re not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.” You don’t know why exactly, but it feels like you’re stalling him. Like you don’t want him to leave. Jet jumps from the floor to the shelf behind you, and she growls as the man, Johnny, who takes a step away from the book he’s studying towards you. “Jet!” you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.

“Smart, locking up, cannae be too sure about what’s lurking out there.” He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.

“Uh, I do have some rarities, if that… if that’s something you’d like to come back and see.” What? What did you just say? Did you really just- 

Johnny visibly brightens, like you’ve made his day. Like you’ve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until it’s beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.

He tells you he’ll come back then, that he’d like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.

What the fuck was that? 

Two days later, the bells that hang from the front door jangle and chime to announce his arrival, and the butterflies swirl in your stomach as you walk up front.

“Good evening.” He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. “It’s Foxglove? Or… Sage?” Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. “You’re named after a plant, right?”

“It’s Fern.” You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.

“My apologies, Fern.” He does not hide the way his eyes trace you up and down, from your black boots to where your two times two big, button-down shirt is parted to reveal your clavicle. “Are ye well?” He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.

“Y-yes. Thanks. Yourself?”

“Aye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets you’re keeping.” He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?

“I uh. Yeah, well. Let’s… it’s this way.” You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like you’ve amused him.

You pull your magic under the current of the atmosphere in the hallway to wrap around the lock and spring it free, allowing the door to open before the two of you and step inside. The room itself is a marvel, deep burgundy walls with more floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a giant table in the middle, it’s top carved from an ash tree far older than you. The candles dance in your presence, and you feed the wicks just a small sampling of magic, allowing them to gradually brighten so Johnny can see better. Mortal’s eyes were not known for being so sharp. 

“And these are all…?”

“Varying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.” You laugh, but he doesn’t, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. “I’ve got some… old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.”

Definitely a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“When people thought witches were real?” He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.

“Yeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.” You try to play it off but can’t escape his gaze, can’t escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.

“And you’re usually in the habit of lying to customers?” You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. “I can feel you.” He explains, like it’s normal, or natural. Like you’re both speaking the same language. “Can feel ye from across the street, actually. Didn’t know little plants could hold so much magic.” He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.

“I-“ you start, but abruptly stop when words fail you, and your chest tightens with panic. You internally scream at yourself, the strange feelings from when he first stepped foot in the shop coming back to haunt you, to teach you a lesson.

“Hey, hey.” He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. “It’s alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.” The way he says your nickname feels like a bite, like a mark against your skin, the word singed with some sort of magic, something flavorless that you cannot taste, yet you know it’s there all the same. You realize he’s staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.

“What are you?” you challenge, and his lips twist.

“I’m no threat to ye.”

“Sounds like what someone who is a threat would say.”

“I promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.” A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. It’s an old term, one used to describe those born into magical families without marginal power. Wielding witches or warlocks usually have enough magic in them to cast minimal impact spells, some charms and enchantments, things of little consequence. “I ah, work in the military. I don’t practice.” He admits, and that takes you by surprise.

“The military?”

“Aye.” An impish grin splits across his face. “I like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. We’re on leave right now, but. That’s usually what I’m doing.” That’s different. Magical beings usually stay far away from things like government, or military. Easier to remain undetected that way, and it was fairly known that mortals were left to their own affairs, without magical interference. You find yourself asking the question before you can smack your lips shut.

“But, your family must-“ not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? You’re not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.

“My mum’s gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.” Oh.

“I’m sorry.” Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, happened a long time ago.”

“I shouldn’t have-“

“Fern.” He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. “It’s alright, I promise.” You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before he’s speaking again. “What is this?” He’s pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.

“That’s a grimoire.”

“It looks… old. Like it’s seen better days.”

“It is, and it has.” You don’t elaborate, because you don’t know if you should, or even if you want to.

“Where’s it from?” He pushes.

“Here. It’s uh… from my coven. From a very long time ago.”

“You lot been around a long time?”

“You could say that.” You could say that’s an understatement. There were only a handful of old covens left in the world, ancient powers that slept beneath the skin of their witches, only growing stronger and stronger through their lengthy history and connection to the earth. Dangerous.

He continues on with his inquiries, and you give him as much information as you can, pulling books from their resting places and cracking them wide for his eyes, pointing out little things of interest here and there while he stands in awe, time ticking away until the clock in the hall is chiming for ten pm, and he’s apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.

“You’re not keeping me.” You assure him. “I live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.” You laugh.

“Well, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are… special. I’m grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.” He makes your head spin, with how earnest he is, how easy and honest he confesses such things to you. It makes your knees feel weak, makes your throat feel dry.

“Of course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, I’m here.” You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize he’s going to leave now, the knowledge that he’ll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.

“I ah… was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?” You don’t even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him? 

“Yeah!” you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry so… dinner would be great.”

“Know any good spots around?”

“Uh, yeah there’s a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?”

“Sure.” He agrees, and then steps outside to wait for you while you lock everything up.

Jet complains the entire time, loudly, and you try to shush her multiple times.

“Oh, stop!” you scold over her meows. “It’s just dinner. He’s nice.” She watches you with keen eyes, green spheres that probably know far more than you, before slinking off to the stairs in the back, taking herself up to the flat. “Goodnight then!” You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.

Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.

“I lost my parents too.” You tell him one night, a week later. He’s met you after closing, in a park where you like to walk sometimes, and the two of you slowly stroll along the walking path as you trade questions and answers about one another’s lives. It’s somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green space’s center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. “I uh, didn’t want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.

“Thanks, I was young. There’s not much I remember about it.” Mostly true. You really didn’t know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your mother’s life. The spell that ended your father’s. All buried deep in your heart, untouched. Unvisited. You both lapse into silence, and you fight the awkwardness by posing a question, hoping to change the subject without being too obvious.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“I’ve got one sister, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And then, my brothers, who aren’t mine by blood but by we’ve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. We’re… very bonded.”

“That’s sweet.” His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you. 

“Sweet isn’t what I’d call them, but it’s something.”

“They’re like your family then?”

“Aye. Closest some of us ‘ll ever get.” There’s a pang of something in your heart at that, the idea that Johnny has both blood and love, people who have chosen him, who love him. You’ve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. “Look, there. It's you.” He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. “Little plant.” He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.

“Piss off.” You elbow him playfully, trying to push away, and he grabs you, pulling you into his side with a firm grip, half holding you to him in an embrace as he chuckles and rubs your shoulder affectionately.

“Sorry, little shrub.”

“What are ye doing for Samhain?” He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.

“There’s a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.” You tease.

“Nude?” he smirks, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume you’re shelving.

“No, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.” You don’t mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. “We drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. There’s also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.” He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. “Would you… would you like to come?” Why not? It’s not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. He’s quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like he’s reading it. He’s silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isn’t what you thought it might be. Maybe he’s-

“I would be happy to.”

“Be watchful of the féth fíada.” The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. “Something else is in these woods tonight.” You give your beverage to Johnny and then take the second mug from her, before leading him away, down the hill and closer to the fires.

“What’s the féth fíada?”

“It’s the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises but…” You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. “We, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.” You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.

“The Others?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. That’s what we call them. The Fae.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Thought the Fae were a myth.” You laugh and turn to face him.

“I assure you, they’re very real.”

“Oh? Have ye encountered one then?” You shudder, like you’re cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.

“Once. When I was a child.” He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like he’s looking for something. Like he’s seeing.

“Were ye hurt, Fern?” Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your mother’s screams ring in between your ears.

“No.” Someone lights a new pyre a second after your denial, orange embers leaping into the night sky with grace, and it draws your attention enough to distract the both of you. “Come on.” You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. “Dance with me?” You ask him breathlessly, emboldened by the sniff of fire whiskey that sits in your cup and he smiles before draping an around your waist and pulling you close to his body.

“I’d like nothing more.”

Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didn’t know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches.  

“You’re beautiful, little witch.” He whispers against your ear, words soft and saccharine, floating on the warm air around you as you sway together in time to the music. His hand cups your jaw gently, tilting your chin upwards until you’re both looking at one another, his blue eyes alight with the reflection of the bonfire behind you, lovely and bright, burning down into your soul like a love spell. “I’d like to kiss ye, Fern.” He murmurs, voice strained and tinged with an accent you cannot place, and you blink while your heart rockets off at superspeed, sending blood buzzing with excited magic through your veins.

“Okay.” You murmur, and he smiles at you like you’re the most stunning creature he’s ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.

It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be. You’ve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. There’s an explosion inside of you when his mouth meets yours, the gentle coaxing of the way he holds you melting you into a boneless heap while you breathe him in, his scent practically transporting you to another world, a mossy, emerald-green wood with lush plant life and giant ferns that blanket the forest floor. The feel of him, of whatever this is, mixed with your magic and the magic in the air is a powerful elixir, one that seems to make the world tilt where you stand, gravity disappearing and your body pressing into his as a result. The closer you get, the more you can feel something in him, something strong, something powerful, lurking in the shadow of this moment, waiting. Watching. He tastes like oak and dew dropped grass, earthy and rich and magical, everything wrapping up into one as you practically go limp in his arms when he parts your lips with his tongue and sweeps inside.

When he pulls away he’s still holding you steady, while you stare at him wordlessly, smile tugging at your lips. The world feels quiet, like everything has all but died down, like mostly everyone has left except for you, and him. A second stretches on for a minute, for an hour, and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, your magic arcing wildly through the night sky, snapping and hissing with the overflow of your emotions. You never want this to end. You want this to last forever... you want him in more ways than you've ever known. You want-

"Fern! Fern!" Someone's calling you, over the noise of the night, and you reluctantly step back, realizing it’s your aunt’s voice carrying over the music and revelry.

“I… I have to…” You nod in her direction, where she stands beyond the pyre, at the seam of the forest, sealed mason jar of something in her hands.  

“Of course.” He answers immediately, and takes your hand in his, folding his fingers between yours and petting his thumb over your knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, carding his lips over your skin with a gentle kiss, before giving your hand a squeeze and relaxing his grip. “I’ll see ye soon?”

“Y-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?” Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but don’t release him, and it’s not until he’s asking you if you’re alright that you realize you’re clutching to him too tightly. Like he’s a lifeline. Like he could save you from this. His free hand moves into your line of sight, and then he strokes a finger across your cheek, eyes worried, face creased with concern. “Fern? What is it?” 

“Nothing. I… I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday.” He opens his mouth to speak but you’re already pulling away, releasing him and bringing the cowl of your hood up over your hair, slipping into the crowd without another word.

You stumble around the dancing and celebrating until you break through and reach the tree line, your aunt and another standing in their ceremonial black robes. You swallow a gasp when you see the jar, it’s clear liquid a tell-tale sign of what’s to come.

Divination.

Your aunt’s lips purse when she sees you.

“Are you ready?” No. No, no. Please don’t make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, you’re not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you don’t want this. You don’t want to do this. This is not what you were meant for, you know it in your heart. You do not want to hurt; you were not meant for harm. “Fern.” Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.

“Yes.”

You lay still for days, after. Unable to sleep, your eyes never close, your mind never settles, the adrenaline crystalizing in your bones as you drag yourself back and forth from your bathroom to bed, over and over.

You wash hands hundreds of times, but you still see the blood stains on your palms, under your nails, splattered up to your elbows.

Your power burns throughout you, magic heating the air with fervor and thrall, chanting voices culminating around you as you seek the vessels in his body and pull, drawing each drop through him and into yourself, ruby ichor spouting from his mouth like a furious volcano, blood dripping from his lips like the hallowed tears of the old gods. It’s everywhere, on your hands, your arms, your face, your neck, the earth. You imbue it with power, pushing your connections with the roots beneath the soil upwards, into the blood while the breeze sizzles and shatters, mist gathering around your ankles like shackles meant to drag you below. 

 You close your eyes thousands of times, but you still see the face of the man, still see his fear, still hear his pleas, his screams, his cries for mercy as you bleed him dry, scrying for the future with the litres of his blood.

The visions come quickly, splintering through your head with a sharpness that hurts, and you cry out amidst the pain, your mind being ripped into pieces as you scream. There are hands on you, arms cloaked in dark robes, holding you up, holding you steady while your magic vibrates through the ground and into your bones, filling your sight with the future. Clips of death, birth, tragedy echo behind your closed lids, the mineral scent of blood filling your nostrils until you think it will be burned there permanently. 

Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face. 

Your cries join the reprise of the man who sits dying at your feet, the force of his life draining through your magic, bending and weaving with the power from the earth and your own blood until he’s nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it. 

The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days. 

The elders extract the ones that pertain to them from your mind through their own spell, the process nearly as painful as the Divining itself. They hold you down to the ground to get what they want, pinning your shoulders with a bruising grip, cutting your skin to smear their fingers in your blood, holding your head still as you thrash. Their hands hurt. You will wear their marks for weeks. 

Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises. 

No one calls. No one comes. 

You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that you’ll never know. Places you’ll only ever read about in books Places that you’ll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams. 

Your brain fractures into tiny little pieces. Your own understanding becomes non sensical.

You become lost between planes. Lost in your own mind. Lost to the Divination. 

Jet never leaves your side. The shop stays shuttered, as it does every year after Samhain, no one coming or going, your lone employee enjoying her annual week after Halloween vacation.

Eventually your eyes close. You sleep fitfully. You dream of the visions, the screams, the sacrifice.

Finally, you regain enough strength to weave a weak spell that helps quiet your mind, and then you truly rest, for the first time in days. You rest, and you sleep until Thursday afternoon, when there’s a rapping against your door.

Johnny.

“Hey little sprout, what’s-“ the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. “Fern.” He whispers.

“Hi.” You know how you appear. Strung out, most likely. Battered. Exhausted. Bruised. You try to fix the top of the knit shawl that you have draped over your shoulders, but it’s far too late. He’s already seen.

“What… what’s happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” You try to play it off but it’s pointless now.

“Who did this?” The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looks… different, something primordial reflecting in his gaze, something ominous etched in the lines of his face. The question holds a promise of violence, of punishment, and being so close to him in this moment makes your head spin. It makes you feel like the very fabric of this world is tearing apart, ripping to pieces around you as he stands there, an otherworldly feeling swirling in the air between your two bodies. It suffocates you, pushes you into the dark depths of waters that feel all too familiar, like the leftover scars on your mind from the Divination are being ripped wide open and plunging you back between celestial planes. 

“Johnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "it’s fine, I- I’m okay. It’s just… the aftermath. Of Samhain.” Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something that’s out of your control, tears caught in your throat. He stares at you, bewildered, a hand raised midair before it falls to his side in a fist, and he turns away. “Johnny?” He doesn’t respond, and you watch the smooth skin of his jaw flex and harden. He stares into the distance, across the street, into the sky.

Looking anywhere but you.

It’s because he can’t stand to see you. 

You look awful. 

You look monstrous. 

You are monstrous. 

“No one should ever touch ye like this.” He bites out, his knuckles tensing against the door frame. His eyes are angry, and wild, burning a hole into your clavicle, where your skin sits exposed, healing from a gash. You shift, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and then he snaps his gaze up to yours, face immediately softening, lips parting, expression rife with unease. With worry. “Are ye… are ye okay?”

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“If it’s too much, to have dinner-“

“No! N-no, no. I want… to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?” He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.

“I could go get a takeaway?” Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Alright.” He steps just a little closer, close enough for you to get a deep inhale of him, that woodsy, mossy, magical scent, and swoops down to land a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling your hand into his and bringing it to his lips, eyes slipping closed with a shuddering breath when he presses a kiss to your palm. “I’ll be right back. You'll be alright?”

“Yeah, 'm fine.”

He feeds you until you cannot eat anymore. He plies you with noodles of too many kinds, different cartons that overflow spread out on the coffee table, in front of where you sit curled up on the couch. You’re still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, you’re sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. It’s warm, and comforting, and you swear you can feel little zings of magic moving inside you, lulling you into a peaceful rest, cocooning you in hazy feelings of softness and safety.

Hours later, in the dark, lips press to your forehead. Your body curls against something warm, face flush against the steady thump of a heartbeat. Someone whispers in your ear.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

“Tell me about your magic.” He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when you’re finally back to your normal self, spending most of your time getting caught up on everything you let slip during your post Samhain recovery period.

Having Johnny around has seemed to help, somehow. He’s been here, every day since, like he’s unwilling to let you out of his sight, showing up in the mornings before you open the shop with a coffee and sweet, a baked treat that two of you usually split as you go about tidying things around the front room. He hovers, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin often, grasping your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm reverently throughout the day. You’re not sure how, or why, but it seems your magic and mind have taken to having him around, and you feel better, more well than you normally would during the Divination healing process, your head clear and wounds mostly mended.

“What about it?”

“There were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didn’t feel anyone quite like ye.” A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound… less insane.

“There aren’t any witches like me anymore, really.” You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. You’re both sitting on your flat’s back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. “I’m a blood spinner.” He gives you a confused look.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like… a special kind of witch, in my coven. We aren’t exactly… the most orthodox of our kind.”

“What do ye mean?” Ah, fuck. You chew on the inside of your cheek, hesitant to break your oath, to betray the promises you made to protect the secrets that rule your existence.

But it’s Johnny. 

And you trust him. 

“My coven… we’re blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and… such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. It’s generally taboo, now. There aren’t any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.”

“And what is a blood spinner?” At the same time as he poses his question, he taps his thigh meaningfully, and you rise from the chair that you were sitting in to lower yourself into his lap, edge of your dress sliding down your thigh when he tucks his arm under your knees. His palm skates up and down the back of your leg, and goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

“Every few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone who’s… connected.”

“Connected?”

“We rely heavily on our connection to the earth, and most of my coven cannot pull on those connections without casting some sort of spell. I can do it… naturally.” You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “I feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like they’re a part of me. During our walk the other week? I could feel the trees, breathing. Could feel the grass growing. Could hear the rapid heartbeats of the ducks in the pond. All without using a single spell. Using my magic is not something I have to cast for, like most others. I can just… do it.”

“I’m still not following.” Of course he’s not. Because you sound insane. 

“Right, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. It’s how they organize and harness their power, pushing the chaotic force of it into something that can contain it, regulate it, give it a purpose.”

“But not you.”

“No. If a witch in my coven wanted to, let’s say, cast a love spell, they’d need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but they’d still need one. They’d write it themselves or get it from someone else if they weren’t confident in their spell making. But I… could just do it. Could just manipulate the blood, enchant it with my own power. Straight from the source. No words. No chanting.”

“Just your power.”

“Yes.” You hesitate. Might as well, while you’re at it. “And, I can use blood to see the future.” He stiffens.

“Divination?” You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, “I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.” Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean? 

“They can’t. We’re not mortal.” His eyes narrow. 

“What?”

“My coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. “Not me, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m still my natural age.” You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.

“Well, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?” He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.

“Ye never have to ask.” He answers, and then seals his lips to yours, stealing your breath while his hand sinks into your hip, your body heating under his ministrations, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. He shifts you in one movement, so you’re straddling him, and you can feel the outline of his cock in his jeans beneath you, can feel the heaviness that sits there. You sink down, just slightly, enough that your clothed cunt barely rubs over him, the contact sending little electric shocks through your body, and you whimper into his mouth. “Fern.” He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece he’s willing to give. He groans, and your hands drift to his waist, a thumb tucking beneath his skin and the button of his jeans, desperate to touch, to feel, to have him… when his fingers encircle your wrist and pull you away. “We canna’ dove. It’s late.” He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.

Why doesn’t he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?   

He brings your palm to his lips, kissing you tenderly, and some of the bitterness leeches from your soul, your heart gentling it's disappointment, your dejection ebbing away on silken spun clouds. 

“Right. Of course.”

He sighs, like he’s bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.

“I’m sorry, sweet Fern. It’s not you, ah just… it’s late.” 

“That’s alright, I understand.” You hoist yourself off his lap, and he scratches his head, more so in a way that seems to be a nervous tic than a necessary action, and you shrug. He stands, body held in stasis halfway to you, arm extended like he wants to touch you, grab you, but he’s holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.

“Of course.” He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.

“Goodnight.” You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.

“You’ve mentioned… you ‘ave books about mermaids?” His fork digs through the container of noodles, lifting a perfect mouthful to his lips after the question, and you nod with your own mouth full of pad see ew.

“Sort of. They’re not really… mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.” You’re sitting opposite him upstairs, in the kitchen of your flat, with a window open, cool breeze flowing through your curtains. Your mind wanders to the ancient Greek text that sits on one of the shelves, it’s writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. “They’re different.”

“The Nereids.” He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. “The ones who lure mortals to their deaths?”

“You know of the Nereids?” He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues. 

“My mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.” You sigh into your wine glass. His fingers snake across the table and then up your forearm, tracing featherlight touches on the inside of your wrist.

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“No?”

“No.” You scoff. “Their magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. They’re naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.”

“So, it could be anyone.” He muses, and you shrug.

“Yeah. I’m sure it’s pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals… they’ve no idea. It’s not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.” Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost don’t catch it. “You didn’t know?” It wouldn’t surprise you. Not much is known about the Nereids. You only hold this knowledge because your coven is well informed, due to the length of their lives, and because you possess one of the few texts left that references them in such detail. Both you and your coven hold the truth of what lurks in the sea close to your hearts. Another secret to keep, another truth never to be borne.

But the wine has made your tongue loose and well, you can’t help but give him everything he wants, anything he’s asked. His eyes flash, and he cradles your hand in his, stroking across your palm with his thumb.

Your words flow so easily, so uninhabited.

It feels so free, so right.

“No. Had no idea.” He watches you carefully, dancing candlelight spinning shadows along the walls and across his face. He looks handsome as usual, but something in the way he regards you now feels different. Dangerous. Thrilling. Your thighs press together almost subconsciously, low whirring of need humming inside your body, and your fingers tighten on the stem of you glass as you continue.

“Yeah, they need them… to live. It’s very… complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.” You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. “It’s pretty sad. They fall in love with their victims for a night, and then harvest the organ and eat it before the sun comes up. It’s what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.” You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. “It all comes from the heart, you know?” You tap your own for reference, finger padding at the skin over your breastbone, over top where your heart beats just a little faster than normal.

“Aye, I guess it does.” He murmurs, fingertips light against your skin. His attention is focused on you, unwaveringly so, and you fidget under the scrutiny. He looks so… ethereal, in the dim candlelight, so otherworldly that you have to blink a few times to make sure you’re not seeing things.

You’re not.

He’s just really so, so beautiful.

It’s late when Johnny poses another question, clearing his throat over the low volume of a movie playing in the background. He lays behind you on the couch, the curve of your ass pressed into his hips, his arm slung over your belly, palm pressed to space above your navel. His breath fawns over your cheek, and he presses soft kisses to your temple in quick succession before you feel the vibration in his chest.

“I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“What if… it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereid’s song. Could you save them somehow?” It’s an interesting question, and you pause for a moment. His fingers stroke the back of your hand, before wrapping around your wrist and bringing your palm towards his mouth, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your skin before pulling you tighter into his embrace. 

“I don’t know. I suppose you could, extract the song. You’d have to call it forth because it’s naturally occurring. You couldn’t just… cast a spell. You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then you’d be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I don’t think I could make that choice.” His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.

“I don’t think I could either.”

“That’s not what I meant!” You shriek with laughter, chest expanding as you rock backwards, leaning away from him and his devilish smile. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you close to him, fingers playing across your clavicle while you giggle.

“Aye but it’s what ye said.” He’s been taunting you relentlessly about last night, when you fell asleep on the couch and then proceeded to talk for a few hours, all while you were blissfully tucked away in a dream somewhere. 

“Nooo Johnny.” You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though it’s the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when you’re around him. It swamps you in glee, exuberance oozing from every one of your pores. Your power feels sweeter, feels lighter, feels more peaceful now than it ever has before.

You know it’s because of him.

You dread that it’s because of him.

Four days later, you’re cataloguing some new arrivals when the front door of the shop bangs open, smacking against the wall, nearly shaking the building, the sound alone bringing you to your feet in a panic.

Your aunt stands in the doorframe, body thrumming with spells just barely contained, anger flooding the space between the two of you.

“What have you done?” She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.

“I don’t... what’s going on?”  

“What’s going on?” She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. “You’ve always been such a foolish child.”

“I don’t understand…”

That male you brought to Samhain wasn’t a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.”

“Johnny? No, he’s… he’s not. He’s-“ He’s not. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Have you not heard? What’s happened?” she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right. 

“Heard what?”

“A Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.” You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.

“No, that’s not possible.” Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that even… 

The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naïve, how you’re lucky you’re the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive.  

But you cannot focus on any of it.

All you can hear, all you can picture, is the horrid replays of those conversations with Johnny.

All you can think about, is how easily your lips spilled those secrets. How free it all felt. How right.

“You know of the Nereids?”

“I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.”

“I suppose you could, extract the song…”

“They don’t use blood spells.” 

“You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself…”

“It all comes from the heart, you know?”

“Oh, gods.” You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.

“You’re dead to us. You’ll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, you’re to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.” She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. “The jury’s still out, on whether you’ll be tried and burned.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know… I didn’t do it intentionally.” You don’t even know why you’re trying to explain yourself, why you’re bothering. She won’t listen. No one will care. You broke your oath. You betrayed the thing you were supposed to protect. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as the walls narrow in on where you stand.

All for some stupid attention. All because some guy, someone you thought was just a harmless mortal with a tinge of power, smiled at you and kissed you sweetly. Because he told you were beautiful, and held your hand, and went on walks with you in the park. Because he kissed you like you meant something, like you mattered.

Your aunt stops at the door, casting a parting remark over her shoulder as she leaves.

“Your poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what you’ve done.”

It doesn’t take long, to find him. You thread your power through the city, scrying your magic through every drop on blood on every street, every corner, ever floor of every building until you locate him, sitting at a two top table outside of a pub, a handsome male across from him. They’re speaking in hushed tones as you turn the corner, and you stop for a moment to take them in.

How could you not have seen this? 

Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing. 

This male is not a man at all, but Fae. 

You stomp down the rest of the block, urging mortals away, using your magic to push them, to send them scurrying in other directions, just as the one sitting opposite Johnny spots you, mouth dropping into an o of surprise before he’s speaking, lips moving rapidly.

Johnny swivels in his chair, but it’s too late. You’re already upon them.

Your rage, your shame overshadows your hurt, the fear that threatens to drown you, as you stand in front of him spitting mad, your magic swirling around you in violent hues of red and purple while he stares, dumbfounded.

“You tricked me, you Fae bastard.” He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.

“Fern-“ He tries, but you steamroll him. He’s Fae. Don’t listen to a word he says.

“You used me!” You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.

“No, listen-“ The other one, like him, is standing off to his left, watching you warily while you yell, tears wet on your cheeks. He steps closer, coming to stand nearly behind Johnny’s shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.

“No! You listen! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as he’s hurt you, betray him as he’s betrayed you. Your feelings and thoughts and magic all swirl together, weaving and bending into a chaotic mass of pain and sorrow and anger, surging forward, and then your finger extends, pointing right at him. 

In the blink of an eye the air shifts and he drops his glamour, exposing the true strength of his power, the tips of his ears, the mighty weight of the magic he carries in his veins. 

Your words die on your tongue. 

His hand darts forward, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you close, close enough that he can incline his head above your ear, voice razor sharp, lethal and cold when he whispers in an accent you've never heard before:

“Did ye just point at me, little witch?” You’re stunned for a moment, terror galloping through your heart before your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you wrench your arm away, stepping back as quickly as you can.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. Johnny hasn’t reverted back to how you know him, with the soft angles and rounded ears, his glamoured state, you now realize, and staring him down is a feat in its own. It hurts, to look at him, and you know it’s intentional, you know it’s the way they operate. They aim to sow fear. To scare. Their blinding beauty is just another means to an end, just another tool for them to use.

Something shifts, and Johnny’s eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.

He looks… upset.

No. No he doesn’t. He’s not remorseful. He doesn’t care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you. 

You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but it’s too late, you’re too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.

“Fern, wait!”

[geekeryisafoot]

Returning to The Silt Verses while Dungeon Meshi is hot on the brain has made me realize they are The Same But Reversed. They are mirrors. They are inversions of the same theme.

Dungeon Meshi is about consuming. It's about the love infused in the act, the sustenance and health imparted by this core facet of life. You consume and will be consumed in turn. How comforting to be apart of the cycle like that

The Silt Verses is about being consumed. The horror of surviving off of other's suffering, the sacrifices demanded just to stay alive. You consume and will be consumed in turn. How terrifying to know what violent end awaits you and always will

You consume and will be consumed in turn. What an honor. What a tragedy. What an act of love. What an act of violence.

[yois2aki]

੭୧ chishiya with an introverted reader... . ۫

chishiya shuntaro x fem!reader (requested)

— warnings: fluff, maybe ooc chishiya, beach arc, fem pronouns, niragi doing niragi things, typical aib violence, swallowing razor blades lol...

— summary: chishiya is very enticed by the fact you seem to trust him so much, he can't help but tease you.

— word count: 1.6k

you were known around the beach, specifically for being on the quiet side, avoiding any compromising relationships, platonic or not, with people around you, knowing that would only be a flaw between others, especially in a place like the borderlands. people like this always managed to stand out more than intended between others.

it only half worked, though. when you first arrived in this sick world, it didn't take long for you to get invited to the beach, which you reluctantly accepted since there weren't that many options for you.

everyone there seemed untrustworthy and deceitful, especially the group of militants. so you decided to keep to your side, having a few acquaintances here and there but nothing too profound.

that was until a blonde guy named chishiya decided to do the job himself and approach you. you were never aware of the reason, but at this point, you didn't care. your only goal in a place like this was to never let your guard down next to others, but unfortunately, this man managed to make you. he could be using you all this time just to have someone to sacrifice when the needed time comes, and you would fall right onto it given how much trust you had put in him.

being friends with chishiya later on drove you to become friends with kuina as well, but still, you weren't as close to her as you were with the guy.

it turns out you were simply introverted, and having someone to confide in ended up helping you in a place like this, contrary to your beliefs. you'd continuously get teased by niragi for being so shy and reserved with yourself, but that didn't happen with chishiya. you could tell he was quite curious about your behavior as well; however, he didn't press it on you. 

this reflected on the time you two spent together. you ended up sticking next to him more than you realized. people around the beach would be surprised if they went on a walk and saw one of you both alone. kuina was also after him sometimes, but it didn't compare to you guys's proximity. this only made him seem more suspicious, given that he only kept two people close, and even so, he would appear slightly reluctant to anything you guys did together.

before you could realize it, you were practically blabbering your mouth out whenever you were both alone, contrasting the personalities you made up around other members. and surprisingly, chishiya didn't complain, instead just staying silent for most of the time you talked. you weren't sure if he was even listening most of the time, apart from some occasional comments he decided to add when wanting to share his opinion about whatever matter caught your eye that day.

as of now, chishiya was sitting on the chair by his desk as you lied down on his bed, looking at the ceiling. his hands were moving around on a device, and you had no idea what half of its purpose was. sometimes, you would try and peek to see whatever he was doing with it, but upon recognizing the usual pliers and wires he must love so much, given he "spends more time with them than with you" (as you dramatically proclaimed a few days ago), you just gave up.

he looked very focused right now, and you knew better than to disturb him at times like these, but your boredom somehow managed to get the lead as your mind looked around for a chat theme.

"did you know that the human stomach can dissolve razor blades?" you ask out of the blue, your gaze still fixated on the ceiling.

he did not answer. instead, he stopped his movements around the device in his hands and gave you a side look. you could feel his gaze, so you immediately tried to explain.

"i'm not planning on anything!" you said it with a hurried voice, coming out with a tone of humor. "it's just a scientific fact."

he sighed, his attention turning back to the box to which he added two metals. it was now much harder to guess what the hell he was trying to make out of it.

"no, i did not know that." chishiya replied, his eyes never leaving the gadget he held as he kept fixing it. his voice was heard again shortly after. "but it's quite obvious, actually. the ph level in a human stomach varies between 1 and 3, which means it is very acidic. you could get away with swallowing a lot of things."

you could tell by the way he spoke that he tried to use easier words to make you understand, and honestly, that only made your heart beat faster and your cheeks redden. 

"that doesn't mean you can do it." he stopped his movements for a second, talking with a stern voice, but quickly went back. he really looked more preoccupied with the piece of equipment.

you gasped as if you were offended by his remark, a chuckle leaving your lips right after as you rolled around on his bed. "i would never swallow anything suspicious. i'm not that insane."

"you considered pressing a button that had "don't press" written on top of it." he answered without thinking twice.

you laughed it off again, remembering how he had to physically pull you away from the tempting button you found together on a game you played. it consisted of finding the exit to a labyrinth as a killer chased the players. you knew where the exit was from the very beginning since, before entering the game, chishiya had the brilliant idea of going to a point high enough to study the whole arena. when you both finally finished the game, someone ended up pressing it, and the whole place blew up. at least you found out what it did.

"come on, i was curious!" you complained, still giggling, when the memories of chishiya being so done with you came back. "i would never swallow a razor blade, you know that."

"not even if it had "don't swallow" written on top of it?" he ironically asked, doing his best to make his voice come out nonchalant, but you could basically hear the smirk he held.

"chishiya!" you whined out louder, starting to laugh again.

after your fun died out, you got up from the bed and stopped beside him, a hand holding onto the back of his chair. "what miraculous electrical device are you making this time?"

at this point, chishiya didn't even question your choice of words, instead keeping his gaze on the item. "it's a taser," he replied sharply. "so i can bring some sense into the heads of idiots like you."

"i hate you." you admitted, rolling your eyes and turning around with a sigh, lying flat dead on his bed again. both of you knew you were not telling the truth, and he was about to tease you for it.

until he was brutally broken out of his line of thinking by an equally brutal niragi slamming the door open. you flinched at the sound, while chishiya just closed his eyes and sighed, frustrated.

"oi. executive meeting by eight o'clock. make sure not to skip it again, or the hatter might not like it." he exclaimed, referring to chishiya, not bothering about keeping his voice down or even lowering his gun to appear a bit more sociable. "oh. look who we have here..." now referring to you.

as niragi's eyes fell upon you, your eyebrows immediately furrowed as you looked away, sitting up on chishiya's bed, avoiding as much contact with him as you could. 

"why are you always after this guy? there are so many better men in a place like this, and you choose him?" niragi asked with that sharp voice of his, which you profoundly despised, as he approached and pointed his gun at you. you didn't bother looking at it.

your cheeks were pretty warm from this whole interaction. you weren't scared of him physically hurting you, since chishiya wouldn't allow it and niragi knew it, but confrontations were always awkward with him.

you didn't even realize that chishiya finally let go of the device in hand, turning around in the chair and watching the scene with not too much interest. "she isn't that fond of me. actually, she just claimed to hate me."

your mouth fell agape as you looked his way with a gaze that could kill. you noticed he had a smirk, and all you wanted to do in that moment was wipe it out of his face, but you knew best with niragi there. 

"oh, so she talks? now that's a surprise." niragi lowered his gun to his sides, chuckling at the end of his sentence. you could only lower your head in embarrassment and avoid any more conflicts.

"well, i'll be taking my leave. thanks for the attention, you both!" niragi yelled ironically, slamming the door shut behind him.

and as soon as he made his way out of the room, you turned your attention to chishiya, who had already mentally prepared himself to deal with your talking.

"i might not be the one dissolving a blade in my stomach, but i know who will." you said, trying your best to sound mad, which probably didn't work out because he didn't move a bit from his usual position.

"well, niragi might need to take care then." he said, turning around in his chair, back to his own world.

"i wasn't talking about him!" you rolled your eyes, fuming and concluding that it was useless to argue with him. 

in truth, your tantrum didn't last much longer than 5 minutes, since soon you were already chattering about whatever came into your mind next. even if it seemed like not, chishiya was always listening, often adding a comment or two, but at this point, it was routine for both. it was entertaining to him to see how different you could be depending on the people present in the room and how you became much more comfortable with him around. he took pride in that.

— a/n: waaah this was so fun to write!!! i love making chishiya an insufferable one so i hope this was okay and fitted your likings... i think i ran away a little bit from the topic but i wanted to make chishiya as in character as possible because imo that's what makes him so interesting. ohh i love a jackass of a man......

[bonefall]

So, your Clear Sky post is absolutely horrifying, but it was very needed, so thank you. What are your general thoughts on tackling his abuse for the AU? Like you've said, pretending he's a good guy is not the way to go, but are you planning on toning down *some* of the situations, just to give some of the cats a break? Clear Sky is a very realistic depiction of abusers, but that seems to come across even without victim number 25, yknow? I'm very curious about how you'd like to go about this.

My most recent big change was bringing Slash back into the fold, because I realized that it was actually a disservice to not address where DOTC's themes dip into Colonialism. It's a hard topic, and I'm still trying to work out the details, but I realized it was important.

With how BB!DOTC is such a MASSIVE overhaul, to properly address abuse and the ways it impacts you, ableism and its violence, and xenophobia broadly, a huge reworking of Slash belonged here too. He's one of the greatest examples of how badly WC demonizes non-Clanborn cats. I shouldn't dance around it.

That's what I need to do with Skystar.

MANY of his victims have happier endings than canon, though. Bumble is one of the most famous, bumped up into a major character and directly responsible for the formation of ThunderClan. Bright Storm is taking most of Gray Wing's roles. Birch and Alder are getting examined, with either a father who wants his kids back or Milkweed as the mate of Misty.

A lot of people will die because of him, even more will be hurt, but I see BB!DOTC as a story about victims and survivors.

Others might grab POVs here and there, but as a response to canon which I feel is Clear Sky's story told in many parts, I center this rewrite around Thunder Storm. The path of kindness he marches down, with love and with anger, and the people he helps.

So BB!Star Flower...

Previously I was playing her as ENTIRELY just manipulating Clear Sky. She was loyal to One Eye and trying to get at Skystar to bleed him dry for 8 lives to sacrifice; but connected to Thunderstar over recognizing him as a victim who deserves her idea of justice. So, she offers Thunderstar the final kill, so her father will be grateful to him and he'll get power AND the death of his abuser.

(When Thunderstar looks upon Skystar, pathetic and neutralized down to one life, he thinks about the collateral damage that will descend upon the forest if he accepts the deal. He decides that he has found the line between Justice and Justification. Of course he wants the power to make his enemies cower, protect his people, and eliminate Clear Sky so he never threatens them again; that's not the problem.

He can still do these things. He wouldn't NEED the power of a war god to do so.

But if One Eye returns, he will be endlessly hungry, ruthlessly dedicated to revenge, and set out to devour the whole forest. Everything would get worse, and even more people he loves would die. It's where his desire to destroy a monster would lead to him BECOMING one.)

Even on its face, it was previously missing an element. There's a step between "Starf decides to bring One Eye back" and "Starf offers Thunderstar the final kill" that was bare. This is the piece that was missing-- That she, herself, is trying to reach out to the only person who's ever really understood her.

But more importantly... I do feel this topic belongs here, in BB!DOTC. Abuse is a MAJOR theme. SKYSTAR is a monster already. He's harmed two wives in BB (Bright Storm and Falling Cry) and played toxic games with all three kits (Thunder Storm, Pale Sky, Tiger Sky).

And I'd avoid Star Flower being abused... why? Because it's uncomfortable to confront the pattern that Clear Sky displays? That in-canon, he tries to cut all his victims into the same ideal shape, from Storm to Thunder to Star Flower? ...it should be uncomfortable. Everything that I described in Clear Sky Is A Monster is rooted in the same desire for control, power, and punishment most abusive people share, he just happens to be a severe example.

Yes. That includes how he treats his child and romantic partners. The parallels that are drawn between Starf and Thunder are there because he wants power in the form of obedience. Starf replaces the son as a narrative award for his "growth" of not killing random people anymore for a while.

A cookie cutter is an effective tool because IT ONLY MAKES ONE SHAPE.

You know what's more uncomfortable? Reading canon!DOTC and seeing someone who hurt you reflected almost perfectly in the character the writers think did nothing wrong. Because of "good intentions" that were not there.

I will say though, just to be clear; I don't see a purpose in being more than PG-13 about serious topics for this project. I promise none of my intentions have changed. Nothing will be more graphic or gorey than canon WC-- just more intentional.

I'm keeping the sacrifice because it's dope. No one is taking this from me. Girl Moment: Killed her awful husband 8 times to count as 8 sacrifices and offered the last life to her buddy as a show of good will. How else do you make friends outside of high school

But I know now that Star Flower NEEDS to keep the canon fact she has very little agency, UNTIL that moment she snaps.

She's sacrificing one abuser to try and bring back a bigger, badder one, because in spite of everything, her father One Eye always made her feel safe. Even though he promised her off to Skystar, and expected her to be willing to die for him. She's followed every command, every order, past the death of his mortal vessel.

The first, and only, selfish choice she's ever made was in reaching out to Thunderstar to offer him the power of her father.

Thunderstar's Justice is a story about a Thunder Storm at the pinnacle of his arc, how the survivors of his Clan are settling into the new normal after the carnage of The First Battle, how Skystar's arrogance brings a violent god to the Forest... and the connection Thunderstar makes with the daughter of a monster.