#bringing this muse back from the dead with a starter i was desperate to get replies on way back when lol

[eulcgizeme]

OPEN TO: any male muse 25 + ! MUSE: arden olivier, twenty-seven. lawyer. PLOT: arden, a lawyer being held as collateral by a crime syndicate while his firm works a case for them at trial, finally hooks up with your gang affiliated member after a lot of tension and denial.

The sunset was long gone, and the orange diluted hues of their anger splayed across naked bodies was replaced with a pale blue. The fire was cold, and soon enough the room would be covered in the dark color of ash. Arden hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep for just a moment, and ask he pulled himself back to the moment, he found the other side of the bed cold. He thought that maybe it wasn't real at all, but he could still feel his touch on his throat. His body already ached, remembrance to putting the pieces together almost building a longing alongside it. A shuffle on the other side of the room contrasted his turn against the sheets, and Sterling damned himself for being awake now. He pressed his fingertips into his brow, closing his eyes tightly to will them away into the dark he forced upon it all. "If you're gonna go," Arden muttered out into the room. "Close the door on your way out."

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Bethany x Alistair (Bethistair)

Rating: T

Ch WC: 3115

AO3

Chapter 4

He was dreaming the most wonderful dream. He was old, he could tell by the amount of wrinkles on his hand. Her also. She had the same wrinkles in her skin as his as he held her, staring out over the lake. The sun was just setting and it was warm. Summer, it must have been. It was beautiful, almost as beautiful as her. Elissa smiled at him, her face clear as day and leaned into his shoulder. He kissed her forehead. They remained that way for what seemed an eternity and then—

He had to piss. Nothing was as jarring as that feeling after a nice dream. Alistair went about his business, the dream fading even though he’d clung to it desperately.

He crawled back into his bed. Squeezed his eyes shut. If he could just go back to sleep, he could be with her again. He pulled the blanket tighter. Burrowed himself in its dark and let himself be hollow. The day could start without him right?

He never slept.

Just sort of curled up into himself and let his mind lecture him instead.

Get out of bed Alistair.

No matter how many times his mind told him to get out of bed or tried to entice him with life’s beautiful delights, including the promise of spring, there seemed to be this external invisible force pressing him further into his mattress and he couldn’t get it off. That sudden urge to cry came over him again. Maker, would it ever end?

Clattering by his bed and Alistair groaned. Why hadn’t he written a decree stating that not a single soul could be in his castle excluding his son and the healer?

“I brought you some breakfast. The servants claim you haven’t been eating.”

Great. Somebody had called in the calvary. He clung even tighter to his blanket.

“Alistair. You can’t just lie in bed all day.”

He heard Anora sigh. A bit dramatic in his opinion.

He mentally prepared for her to yell at him or give him a stern talking to. She never came to the castle otherwise.

“Trust me. If I could have just lain in bed all day after Cailan passed, I would have. I understand how you must feel. But you’re not doing anyone any good by not eating. You want to waste away? Leave Bryce without either of his parents?”

The Maker knew his brain was useless for getting him out of bed so he’d thought it’d be comical to send Anora instead. He should count himself lucky.

Light blinded him as the blanket was ripped away. He should’ve clutched it tighter. Blankets these days were as precious as pearls.

“Get up. We’re going to the lake.”

He balked, shrinking away, scrambling for a cozy shadow. “But I don’t want to,” Alistair whined.

“But you’re going to. So sit up. Eat. Get your big boy pants on and meet me at the front gate in an hour. Or so help me I will drag you out of this bed myself and spoon feed you.”

He dared to glance at Anora. She was serious, of course. She shoved a glass of orange juice at him. He eyed it suspiciously as she rolled her eyes and forced it into his hands.

“Now drink,” she commanded.

He hesitated more out of defiance than anything. “I could have you thrown from court for how you’re speaking to me. Could even put your head on a pike.” Emphasis on the last word had to have sounded threatening.

Her eyes nearly rolled out of her head that time. “For Andraste’s sake Alistair, don’t be so morbid.” She shook her head and muttered something about an insufferable little brother. She handed him a piece of buttered toast next.

“Where am I supposed to put that?”

“In your mouth.”

He glared. Drank his juice and traded the empty glass for the toast. He took the world's smallest bite out of it and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. After he swallowed, Anora patted him on the cheek.

“There, wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Why are you here?” Alistair asked.

She cleaned the dirt from her nails with a brush she seemingly pulled out of nowhere. “Fergus has been concerned so he sent for me. He knows you listen to my council.”

Alistair scoffed. “More like I let you boss me around.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

After all this time, Alistair still wanted to stick his tongue out at some point in every interaction with her. He shoved his toast in his mouth instead. He didn’t miss that coy smirk on her face either.

She rose and strutted towards the door. “I’ll be seeing you in a short while. Oh, and do wear something comfortable.”

She exited like she was leading an army. Alistair glanced down at his nightshirt. A miserable army of one. He managed to finish half his breakfast and throw on some clothes before the time allotted to him. Though, his main motivator at that point was getting to check on Bryce before he went on an excursion with Anora.

He spotted Bethany and he froze. She should be at breakfast like every other morning when he visited Bryce. And he had been avoiding her for nearly a month, successfully, ever since what he referred to as the incident. He had half a mind to turn around and walk right back out that door.

“Oh good morning,” she said. She was even smiling. Then she motioned him over. Did she not remember him losing his shit over roses? “He’s been having longer periods of wakefulness. Though, he still often calls me his mum.”

All thought of embarrassing incidents, anxieties and what have you dispersed when he heard that. “He calls you mum? Does he not realize…” Alistair didn’t want to say it.

She shook her head and adjusted Bryce’s pillow, smoothed out his blanket. “You may or may not have to remind him. I wouldn’t worry about it now. It’s still too soon to tell whether his memory is affected long term. Of the patients I’ve seen sharing his condition, many have suffered from short term memory loss. I have rarely seen otherwise.”

Rarely. The word wasn’t lost on him. Alistair didn’t think he could explain her death to Bryce again. Maker, wasn’t once enough? He shuddered at the thought and Bethany’s hand was over his.

“Really, you shouldn’t worry.” She squeezed his hand then let it go.

Shouldn’t worry.

Good advice but his heart couldn’t take it. Alistair leaned over and kissed his son’s forehead. “I love you,” he murmured. Then pulled back.

“I will return again after dinner. I’d like to read him some things.”

Bethany nodded. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” She smiled gently at him and the thought crossed him that she had a very pretty smile. Not that he should notice such a thing. Maker, what was he thinking? Hadn’t he just dreamed of his wife this morning? Now he was admiring another woman’s smile?

Forgive me.

He rushed away from Bethany before he thought something else he shouldn’t possibly think.

—

He really didn’t want to be at the lake. Too many bad memories. Too much guilt. Too few enjoyments. And it was cold. Not quite Ferelden winter cold but the wind had a bite and nipped at the tips of his ears. He ticked the reasons off one by one, keeping his worries at bay with complaints until Anora interrupted his thoughts, shoving a fishing rod into his hands. He’d rather try aiming for fish with a bow and arrow. Fishing with a rod was a slow, agonizing way to catch fish, one in which he was left to marinate in his morose musings.

“Already has a worm. Do you prefer to fish off shore or…”

Neither. He didn’t like fishing at all. It was by far one of the most boring and wretched past times he’d ever encountered.

“Shore it is,” she decided for him.

“I don’t like fishing,” he said. But plodded after her anyway.

“Oh, I know. But I do. I find it quite relaxing.”

“Then why not go by yourself? Bringing me along with you seems the opposite of relaxing.”

“I should confess then, I did not bring you along for my benefit.” She cast her line.

“I already mentioned I don’t like fishing. Did you have a lapse in hearing?”

“My hearing is excellent. The benefit is you getting out of bed, getting some sun and fresh air while putting your duties for the day off for a few more hours. Perhaps it would be a good time for you to take your mind off things.”

Her motives were good, he could admit but they were absolute bollocks. The sky was overcast and looked like it would burst into tears at any moment. How was he supposed to get any sun? And if the fresh air was going to smell like fish, especially dead fish, he didn’t want it.

Alistair sighed and attempted to cast his own line. He got it tangled up in the reeds along the shore. Then he cursed and threw the rod on the ground. “Blast! I think I’d do better wrangling fish out of the water with my bare hands.”

Anora sniggered. “What a sight that would be.”

“I’m going to take a walk.”

“No, no!” She grabbed his cloak sleeve. “Stay. If it helps you can talk and I’ll try my very best to listen.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I—no. I’m good. No need for a talk.”

Not that he didn’t want to talk. Talking would probably do him good. But he couldn’t think of anyone to talk to. Fergus maybe. Though Alistair didn’t feel like he could be honest without diminishing his grief. Ferguson had been through far worse and he didn’t seem to struggle to get himself together. It intimidated him.

“Fine. Have it your way.” She picked up his rod then and fixed his line, casting it for him. She placed it back in his hands. “I’m really sorry for your loss Alistair. However, being so sullen doesn’t suit you or your kingdom. I’m not saying you can’t grieve, just maybe try keeping it contained, hm?”

Alistair closed his eyes. “And how do you propose I just contain my sullenness?”

“Try fishing for starters.”

He wanted to mock her in a tiny man child voice but he refrained. Thankfully he had Morrigan as a traveling companion long enough to train him in the art of biting his tongue. As well as shoving his foot straight into his mouth but that was another story for another day.

He fished silently alongside her wishing desperately to be back with Bryce. The fresh air didn’t feel any different than the drafty castle. The sun was nice at least, when it decided to make an appearance. But the sky was looking more sullen by the minute and the wind was picking up.

“Isn’t this a terrible time to fish?” he asked.

“Any time is a good time to fish,” Anora said.

“I don’t think that’s true. I remember there were certain times fish were more likely to bite.”

“We’re not here for dinner,” Anora snapped.

“So we’re just dipping worms in water for what? Fun? Sounds like torture.” He reeled his line in and studied the sad soggy worm on the hook. “Aw see? Now the poor little worm is a goner. I’ll have to make it a little worm grave.” He removed the worm and set his pole in the crook of some driftwood.

“Stop being ridiculous.”

“I won’t stop until you let me go back to my bed.”

“You know, I was quite fond of Lady Cousland. She was much better at fishing than you.”

“She was much better than me at a lot of things.”

“She was at that.” Anora got a bite on her line. She tugged her rod and reeled it in. No trouble at all.

Alistair sat on the driftwood with his chin in his hands. “I don’t mean to be so morose. I just miss her. I miss her terribly.”

Anora unhooked the fish–a cute little perch–and tossed it back into the water. She set her own pole aside and sat next to Alistair.

“I miss her terribly too,” Anora said.

“You do?”

“Yes. Is that really so surprising? I’d miss you too, even though you’re quite the lummox.”

“Aww,” Alistair placed a hand over his heart, “such warm fuzzy feelings, right here.”

“Must you always act like this?”

“Only with you. One day you’ll come to appreciate it. I–I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye and I’m glad you and Elissa became close after–well after everything. You could have found a clever way to toss us from the throne but you didn’t.”

“Not yet anyway. I could still.”

Alistair allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Treason!”

Anora clamped her hand over his. “You are such a child!”

A sort of chuckle snort escaped from Alistair as Anora placed her hands back in her lap. He noticed she could smile too. “I’d still like to take a walk. You could come with me, if you wanted. I promise I won’t run away or do anything stupid.”

She nodded. “I’d like to keep fishing. But do be back in time for dinner. I can’t keep you out forever.”

Alistair nodded and stood. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Anora was taken aback. “An honest thank you? With no snide remark? I–well you’re welcome then I suppose. Now shoo, enjoy the fresh air.”

Alistair went without further ado. Surprisingly, it did him some good. But when he entered the castle later that day to attend to his duties, his heart seemed heavy again.

–

Bethany wasn’t exactly sure if she should be in the room when Alistair came back. He had been dodging her since the garden. But she was tired and the fire was cozy. She also enjoyed seeing this side of the King and had missed him–no missed him interacting with Bryce. He was a kind and tentative father. Much like how her own had been. She pretended to read a book she had no interest in to provide an illusion of privacy.

“…and the young boy bravely reached out to touch the dragon’s snout. His friends gasped, waiting and watching for him to be scorched by fire. But the dragon closed its eyes and huffed, melting under the touch of the boy.” Alistair let out a big yawn. “I think that’s all I can manage tonight. We’ll have to pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

Bethany stole a glance in their direction. Alistair was returning the book to the nightstand. Bryce was fast asleep.

He stretched and she admired his form. Strong arms, wide shoulders, and a slightly rounded belly that she briefly dreamed of laying on. Then her eyes flicked lower and saw he also had quite a lovely bottom, not that she was focusing too much on it. Just appreciative. She told herself to look away and stop thinking such things. He turned and definitely caught her staring. She tore her eyes away and buried her nose in the book. Cheeks flushed.

She pretended not to hear his footsteps coming towards her. The book was really really interesting then. She nearly bore a hole through the book with her immense interest.

He sat across from her.

“I haven’t properly thanked you for all you have been doing to help my son. So, I uh—“ He ran a tired hand through his shoulder length hair, wisps of reddish brown bangs with hints of gray, flopping to each side of his face. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Though I must say, it’s a pretty easy thing to do.”

“I don’t think most people would share your opinion.”

She laughed a little. “It’s a good thing I’m not most people then, isn’t it?”

He gave a half hearted chuckle coupled with a nod.

Then they both stared into the fire. Bethany wanted to say something more. Have an actual conversation but she wasn’t even sure where to start. Her brain kept wanting to think about the way her fingers would feel running through his hair. Through his beard and–

“Can I ask you something?”

Praise the maker. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you ever dream of him?”

She tilted her head, searching her mind for the him he was referring to. She blinked as everything came up blank.

“Your brother, I mean. Of Garret.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up and then that sad sort of feeling pooled in her stomach. She sighed. “Of course I do. They are always happy. And he is always safe. When I wake up, I remember that it’s all a lie and it hurts.”

“Does it ever stop hurting?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Hm.” He tugged at his beard.

“Have you been dreaming of your wife?”

“Yes,” he said. His hands came to rest in his lap and he fiddled with the hem of his nightshirt.

“Would you tell me about her?”

Alistair glanced up then. Eyes wide like she was asking him to jump off a cliff.

“I–I don’t really know where to start.”

“How about your dream? Do you remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’d love to hear about it if you’re willing to tell me.”

And he did. He told her all about how they had grown old together. How it made him feel. How it had affected his entire day. How it tore him up inside.

“I just–when the person you share everything with, including your deepest secrets and darkest hurts–when they die, who do you turn to? Normally, they’d be your person. But she isn’t here and it’s so incredibly unfair. Which is ridiculous to think, I know. Life isn’t fair and all that.”

Bethany reached out without thinking, covering his large hand with her smaller one and squeezed. “It’s really not. It’s understandable you feel that way. I’m so sorry Alistair. You’re right. It is incredibly unfair. It’s unfair that the world took what you loved most and still moved on, leaving you to pick up pieces of yourself in the throes of responsibility. It must be difficult.”

“It–it is.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, retracting his hand. Then he bolted upright out of his chair. “I’ve taken up too much of your evening, Bethany. Have a good night,” he spit the words out in a hurry as he fled.

“You too, I guess,” she muttered, then doused the fire with a cone of frost.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 30)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Like eleven things happen in the course of one chapter. I’m sorry lol

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @pieces-by-me​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​  @peachyboneless​ @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls​ @ietss​   @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​​ @chibisgotovalhalla​

Ivar crawls over you, cages you against the cold ground, his lips a breath away from yours, “Half a kingdom for a promise...”

When you wake up the next morning, luckily free of any dreams you can remember, you are rather surprised by how not even Ivar getting out of bed, getting dressed, or the thralls that are walking around the room were able to wake you up.

And, of course, Ivar notices.

“Are you well?”

“Of course I am,” You reply easily, going through the motions of your day and slipping into the warm blue dress. When you pick the earrings and trinkets to wear today and walk back to your husband, you are greeted with a murmur of your name. After a deep breath, you amend, “Dreams, nothing more. I promise.”

“Don’t hide things from me.” Ivar reminds you, and you accept his words, feeling strangely reprimanded.

You start putting on the blue earrings you like to believe are the ones Ubbe gifted you shortly after your wedding, you muse, “‘Half a kingdom for a promise, half a soul for a ring’. That’s what they say about my Goddess, and her…”

“Marriage?”

“Abduction,” You correct, turning your back to him and trying and failing to suppress a shiver as he moves your hair out of the way with ease, fingers skimming over the bare skin of your back. “She had only to vow to be Lord Hades’ wife to earn half a kingdom, yet she had to give up half of her soul to bear his ring.

You toy with your own wedding ring absently, a nervous gesture you have found yourself doing more than once ever since Ivar first put it on your finger.

“You think that’s a bad deal?” Ivar insists, voice low by your ear, “She was made Queen.”

“Not fully, she…she is not fully anything. Not fully his, because he gives her up each spring, not fully her mother’s, who still mourns her every winter. Not dead, not alive. Nothing.”

“Or everything,” Ivar whispers, and he tugs a little harder on the laces of your dress, a playful reminder you ought to straighten your back. “I’d think you more than anyone would understand the privilege of being fully bound to nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be a privilege. I don’t know who I’d be, if…” If Fate weren’t tearing me in two.

“You could have been happy.” Ivar offers, voice low. You have a feeling he not only speaks of you and the circumstances of your life and what they made out of you.

You close your eyes, and let silence reign, because there’s no answer you can give that doesn’t lie.

Before you take your leave, you gather your strength, what your mother called your Athenian nobility, and call out Ivar’s name.

“You said I have your trust,” You start, certain steps taking you to the dresser where the golden snake a very skilled craftsman made into a bracelet lays. Without hesitation, you grab it, and put it on, on the same wrist Ivar did when he gifted it to you. “I want to talk with some men that arrived a few days ago. They come from Greece.”

He stops by the door, turning to you with a frown, “Your home?”

“Macedonia, further North from my-...from Eleusis. I want to know what…what the Gods have made of my land, of Greece. They surely have information.”

Ivar considers you for a few moments, before sighing, and limping towards a chair, where he sits.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrows his eyes, “I trust you, but I am far from an idiot.”

“If I were intending to fool you, I wouldn’t be telling you this.”

His head tilts to the side as he regards you. After a few moments, Ivar frowns and turns to you, “Am I the one being tested now?”

You offer him the same words he did once, “Can you blame me for my curiosity?”

Ivar considers your words, before accepting them with a movement of his head.

“Fine. But I want to be there.”

____

“The world you left behind isn’t the one it is now, Eleusinian.” The man tells you, offering a shrug. Your eyebrows lift, and you wonder if you ought to be offended, if there’s truly an edge of accusation behind the man’s words.

“Then tell her about it, hm?” Ivar presses, eyes set on the man that spoke, making something quite close to fear cross his features.

“I-I don’t know much.” The man stammers, but you step closer.

“It’s alright, I-…just tell me what you know.”

He shrugs, “There was an invasion by the Byzantine Empire on Laconia. It was all done on the orders of the Patriarch of Constantinople. To convert the…pagans of Laconia.”

The same crusade was sent to Attica, and they razed it all. They killed, and defiled, and burned. They won.

You grit your teeth, but force yourself to keep your voice steady as you press,

“And?”

“Sparta was well aware of the army they sent, they…prepared, and they fought. Anax Lysander was victorious. They burnt the Christians alive, left their bodies high up in the walls, for everyone to see.”

You smile slightly, brokenly. Leave it to Lysander to remind the Christians of their sins, burning their defeated warriors like they once burnt you. Who would have thought the mighty Anax of Laconia was capable of sentimentality?

“Those Athenians will not let you fight,” The Anax stands, arms crossed over his broad chest. “They will never follow a woman into battle.”

“I will not fight, Lysander,” You argue, “I do not need to.”

“Ah, I’ve heard that tone before,” Lysander’s mother chuckles, weathered skin wrinkling with her smile. Even her smile, you notice, is coated in iron and blood, backed by the mettle that makes Spartan women famous as they are. “You have your mother’s ambitions, child.”

“And my father’s drive. I do not come here empty handed, expecting Sparta to accept me without giving something in exchange.”

“And what is it you offer, sweet one?”

“An army,” You turn to your cousin, “Narses, the Strategus of Attica, he has put his men at my disposal.”

“For us to…what? Retake Greece from the Empire and their God?”

You smile. You know it is madness, you know it is a lost cause, but you still smile. And Lysander returns the smile, hungry and mad.

The man nods, slightly comforted, or reassured, it seems, by your smile.

“If I may,” One of the men says, stepping forward. He bows his head in greeting when he comes to stand before you, before speaking, “The Empire retreats from Spartan land. Your cousin has bought our lands and your Gods a few decades, with this display. The caliph recognizes Laconian independence from the Empire, if only because they have a common enemy. So do the Kievan Rus, and the Rashidun.”

You simplify his words with a phrase, and yet you know as you utter the words that you are standing there, begging for them to confirm it as true, to reassure you there’s no lie, no twist, in this.

“Laconia is free of the Empire. O-Of their God.”

The Macedonian man smiles, and nods his head, “It is free.”

You over your mouth as a sob threatens to leave your lips. Free.

The man bows his head again in a sign of respect.

“We honor your fight, even if we do not share your drive. May your Gods keep you, and our home.”

You nod your head, but you can’t say anything. Free.

“You can leave.” Ivar says somewhere behind you, but it sounds like you’re underwater.

The men leave, and you cannot move. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t think you can control your own body right now. Free.

Ivar stands before you, eyes searching yours. You cannot stop shaking.

You think you say his name, your voice small and broken.

His hand finds the back of your head, you think he is trying to soothe you with the soft caress of his rough hand on your hair.

A murmur of your name, and you can only look at him with wide eyes, begging him to have an answer to the chaos that brews inside you.

Ivar brings you to him, quickly and roughly, and you think dazedly that you wouldn’t have been able to thaw if he hadn’t made you move. Your face is pressed against his chest and you feel you can finally breathe since you’ve heard the word free.

Your hands scramble for purchase against him, and your breaths are quick and out of your control, and you…you…

The jarring movement of Ivar’s left arm as he thrusts his crutch deep into the ground, as if to find a way to keep you both upright, makes something break within you.

The panicked breaths become sobs, and you shut your eyes tight. You cry, you cry for the grief you carried for so long, you cry for the nostalgia that chokes you, you cry for the relief of being finally free of the flames.

Ivar doesn’t say anything, or if he does, you don’t hear it.

His free hand is warm and certain at the back of your head, keeping you safe and whole as you hold on desperately to him, trying to find any semblance of certainty in the world that has turned upside down.

Or maybe it is upright, for once, for the first time since they dragged your mother out of that temple and set her alight in front of you.

Free. Laconia is free of the Empire, of the Christians and their God.

You started a war you knew was doomed from the start, a war for the freedom you deserved, for the freedom your Gods had promised you. You hoped, you dreamt, you prayed, you died for that freedom; but deep down you always knew that it wasn’t a war you could win.

You believed for a while, when the pain of the burns was not so fresh on your body but still fresh on your mind, that maybe you weren’t meant to survive this war, that maybe you wouldn’t live to see the day the Gods were rightfully honored again. That maybe you’d die defeated and afraid in some realm that belonged to no one but the Christian God.

Each soul you lost on the way…their ghosts have haunted you with the memory of your failure, taunting you that for your arrogance and your pride you started a doomed war that only brought death and chaos to your home.

And there aren’t words to speak of the weight you feel lifted of your shoulders, and you can only grasp with shaking hands at whatever you can reach of Ivar, hoping he can somehow keep you from disappearing.

For so long, to so many people, you were nothing but the symbol of their hopeless fight, nothing but the rallying call of an already-lost war. And now, the fight proves not hopeless at all, the war isn’t lost yet.

And you feel like you’ll unravel at the seams, you feel like all the hopes and expectations and titles they put over your head, around your wrists and ankles, will disappear and prove you are nothing without them.

You know Laconia isn’t Attica, you know the war against the Christians will not end for many years, if ever; but…it is a victory.

You realize as your breaths slow, that when you once would have resented not being a part of a victory in this war, now all you can feel is relief.

Because as you loosen your hold on the Viking that seems to be trying more than anything to keep you standing and realize he might as well be the reason Fate hasn’t torn you in two yet; as past the mist of panic and chaos and emotion you find the peace that comes with knowing they don’t need you to fight or to win; you cannot help but take a breath and send the Gods you’ve given everything for a single plea.

To let another be the symbol of the fight, let another be the rallying call of the free Greeks. Let another fight and die, you have done so already.

To let you live. Let you choose, let you be free, too.

“Thank you.” You whisper when all that reigns between you and Ivar is silence.

Ivar’s hand moves down from the back of your head, settles somewhere at your back. His chin rests at the top of your head, and you feel him sigh.

“Don’t. I’m not here for gratitude.” He tells you gruffly, stubbornly, giving you back the same words you told him mere days ago.

____

You watch the men train, so differently from the orderly soldiers you would ogle as a teen back in your homeland. They go after one another brutally, grunts and shoves and yells and if blood is drawn then so be it.

You try it deny the part of you that is intrigued by it all, but apparently it cannot be hidden even from the Prince that stands at your side overlooking the training as well, judging from the chuckle he lets out.

“Different from you peace-loving Greeks, isn’t it?” He boasts, looking at the warriors with something akin to pride.

You offer a smile and a nod, “Quite.”

After a few moments of silence, he turns his head towards you, eyeing you for a few moments. You turn to him as well, the question written in your eyes going unanswered. The man instead walks ahead, reaching for a shield and an axe.

“Women in your homeland aren’t allowed to fight, are they?” He questions, turning to you.

Excitement that you try to bring down courses through you as you answer with a shake of your head. He tosses you the shield. It is heavier than you thought.

“We ought to care for the home.” You offer as explanation, but he laughs.

“Can’t you do both?” The Prince taunts, testing the weight of the axe in his hand. Nodding to the shield you hold, he instructs, “Defend yourself.”

“What?” You ask, panicked, but he has already lounged. The axe swings with a lot of strength but is stopped by the shield you raise just in time. “Gods!”

Even your leg suffers the strain of holding your stance when his weapon lodges in the wood. You hear Hvitserk chuckle.

“Now, push back,” He orders, and you are about to follow his command, putting all your strength in your torso to push him back, but his foot finds your leg and brings you to the ground. You let out a groan of pain as your back collides with the hard earth, and he chuckles, again, “That was for telling them about Thora, sister.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He offers you a hand to help you up, but you refuse it. This turns his smile a little proud, you dare say, as he readies his stance again and regards you with interest in his dark eyes.

You raise the shield the way he instructed you to you offer him a smile of your own. Hvitserk goes through axes and swords, gives you a smaller and a bigger shield. His short phrases telling you how to stand, where to put your strength help you, but after a while your body, unused to this, begs for retrieve.

When the Viking knocks you off your feet for the fourth time in a short while, he puts the axe back in the rack where he took it from, and offers you a hand to stand up.

“Turns out that fighting is as hard as it looks. Thrilling.” You dead pan, licking your lips and wondering why you taste blood.

The Prince smiles your way and tugs on a lock of your hair that by now has fallen in complete disarray and no longer resembles the traditional updo you worked on this morning.

“This won’t work if you want to learn to fight,” He laughs, “Don’t you know how to braid your hair?”

“Sit.” The Varangian asks, motioning behind her.

“No.” You state back, arms crossed. Her green eyes flash with fury for a moment before she sighs, running an inked hand over her face and attempting again.

“Sit, child.”

“I do not need to learn because I will not wear war braids, Sie-…”

Her expression when she lifts her eyes again to yours silences you quickly.

“Sit.” She orders.

You do. It never hurts to learn, after all, right?

She teaches your fingers to move with voice alone, and when you tug a little too hard, when you catch a knot and end up with a tuft of hair in your brush, she says nothing. She just grunts and tells you to start from the beginning.

You learn to make war braids, learn family is what we make it. Learn the Varangian is a mother to you, by Fate if not by blood.

“I do,” You reply, trying to ignore the pang in your heart at the reminder of the gently brutish woman that spared your life and raised you. “But we wear them differently in my homeland.”

He raises his eyebrows in question, and in a moment of confidence you do not have you motion for the wooden steps at the entrance of the longhouse, offering to show him.

Hvitserk laughs, but nods his head, “Alright, show me your magic, witch.”

You sit behind him and work meticulously on disarming the braids at the sides of his head, before moving upwards and separating the last one.

“You’re fast at that.” He notes.

You hum in response, focused on your task. Your fingers make quick work of his soft hair, finding it incredibly easier to disentangle than Sieghild’s. 

You start with the small braids by the sides of his head that would fall loose like a woman’s curls to frame his face, trying to recall the hair you saw actors of Leonidas wear when you were young.

You lose track of time as you work on his hair, but judging by the way he asks for an apple to one of the passing merchants and starts eating quietly, you do not think he is in a hurry.

While you are working on the braid that makes the hair move back and away from his face, you feel a tap on one of your knees where they rest one on each side of Hvitserk’s body.

“About Ivar’s decision to give me time to avoid losses in Strepshire,” The Prince starts swiftly, “Thank you.”

“I did nothing, Hvitserk.” You mutter back, but find your work interrupted when Hvitserk tilts his head back to look you in the eyes, skepticism written all over his face.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” He sentences dryly, almost resting the top of his head against your stomach and messing up the braids, so you roll your eyes and push him so that his head is upright again.

“Because in my experience you sons of Ragnar are incredibly odd in your relations with one another.”

He laughs at your words, and you think it is an acceptance of them. “You don’t know half of it.”

From an errant thread of your own sleeve you manage to close the loose knot of braids at the back of his head. Although these people’s hairs are straighter and thicker than the ones you worked on back home, Hvitserk still could look like one of the depictions of young King Leonidas you saw when you visited Athens.

When you release his hair and lean back, he immediately reaches up to touch the braids, scrunching up his face.

“It’s strange.”

“It’s what we peace-loving Greeks wear.” You smile, correcting your work with a few light touches.

The Prince stands up and you do the same, but he still wears that uncomfortable expression on his face.

“I hate this.” He mumbles, looking indignantly at a minuscule braid that falls to frame his face.

“I don’t blame you,” You reply, shrugging. “I can disarm it, if you like.”

His eyes stray from yours and his eyebrows lift.

“I think you do not have any more time.” Hvitserk offers with the beginning of a knowing smile on his lips.

When you look over your shoulder you catch the King’s angry gaze set on you. Ivar stands unmoving by the entrance to the training grounds, making you question how long has he been watching you interact with his brother.

“Oh.”

“You see, I have dealt with…that my whole life. It’s your turn, witch.”

You watch him take his leave, and don’t miss the way the King’s eyes follow his brother as he walks past him. You are almost certain words are said, but you cannot hear them. Even then, this only seems to make Ivar even more angry, nostrils flaring and lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes quickly return to you, silently berating you for breaking a rule he didn’t set.

Still, you take a deep breath and walk towards the King. Before you have a chance to speak, his growled words reach your ears.

“What did he tell you?”

“Huh?” You ask, dumbfounded. He takes another step closer, the movement of his shoulders as he moves his crutch only helping remind you of that injured Lynx you stumbled into as a young girl. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“I don’t want you spending time with my brother.”

“Well, I don’t recall asking for your permission.”

He holds your gaze for a few moments, nostrils flared and eyes cold and yet furious; but eventually just grunts for you to come with him. You do, and you bite your tongue and keep silent as you do so, even if you itch to talk.

“You and Hvitserk seemed…content,” He starts, a muffled grunt leaving his chest when he moves his braced legs. If you weren’t so weirded out by his choice of words you would ask him if he’s in pain. Either way, the King soon continues, “Must be that he’s not a monster keeping you captive, right?”

“What?” You frown, stopping when he does. Ivar turns to look at you with fury in his eyes, however held by the mask of cold and distance of the King of Kattegat.

“Is that not what you think, hm?” He asks through a smile as false as it is cruel, “You have no interest in being at a monster’s side, isn’t that right?” It feels strangely like having your own words spit back at you, but you cannot dwell on it, for Ivar steals your focus and breath as he moves. None of the usual grace in his movements and another muffled grunt leaving his lips, he crosses the distance between you. You hold your ground, even as he towers over you with the eyes of a man that would kill for less offenses than yours, “You have been wishing and praying for a way out, but you won’t get one.”

You feel your heart beating wildly in your chest, and your temper begs to rise to meet his, to argue back with just as much fire and return as much as you get.

But, you force yourself to keep your calm, looking into his eyes and trying to see what is making him say these things. Surely it was not seeing you and Hvitserk together? No, this is something else, something else entirely.

“What…what brought this on?”

“You’ve blinded me, and you know it. Did the same to that poor bastard you promised to marry. I won’t let you-…” He snarls back at you, eyes blazing and mouth curled too alike an animal baring its teeth. Even though he stops himself, you hear the words he doesn’t say: I won’t let you tell me one day that it was all a lie. With an even lower voice, he reminds you, “Give me reason to believe you’ve betrayed me, and I won’t keep any promises I made to you.”

“Don’t threaten me. That’s not-…this is not what I want, for us to fight.” You try, your hands tightening to fists to keep your anger at bay. When you look into his eyes, you know he also hears the words you don’t say, it isn’t what you want either.

A clench in his jaw, his eyes hardening, his voice low as he speaks, “What do you want, then? What will you ask for now, hm?”

“Honesty.” You reply without hesitation, voice low.

To your surprise, Ivar tilts his head to the side, and accepts your words with a gesture of his mouth. It all looks awfully performative, false, an act, and you stand your ground, ready for whatever it is that he has driven himself mad with.

“Alright, let’s be honest, wife,” His gaze pierces into yours, and his mouth curls into a snarl, “How long did you wait for someone to come save you before you lost hope?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have kept your eyes on the people coming and going, on the ones close enough to your homeland. You have been waiting patiently for a chance to have them take you to your home, have them save you from me. But it never happened, did it?”

The edge in his voice, the bite, the tone, it all reminds you of that first dinner you had with him here in Kattegat. It reminds you of manic words, of deluded convictions.

“You sound…”

Ivar smile manages to make you feel cold and small. And you realize that is exactly what he wants, that was the game he was playing, the part he was playing. To corner you into defeat.

“Like a mad man?” His smile trembles, and for a moment you see the mask slip, for a moment you see him, and you see the fear, you see the pain, you see the desperation. But Ivar pushes, “That’s what happened, isn’t it? You waited and waited for someone to come save you, and when they didn’t you…” He gestures with his hand, the nonchalance in the gesture completely lost at the rage written in his eyes, “Caved.”

“Caved?”

He shrugs, but you see past the façade, “Agreed to play pretend, to…to keep the monster happy, to keep yourself safe.”

“I don’t cave, Ivar.”

His smile is mocking, “Oh, but you do. You like to pretend you don’t, your insufferable pride likes to pretend you don’t. But you do, and you have,” Ivar nods to himself, the cruel smile on his lips earning a manic edge you haven’t seen in a while. He presses, “Will you deny that’s what you saw in me? I thought you wouldn’t lie to me, wife.”

“I thought those things when everything was different!” You insist, gesturing with your powerless arms and not caring if someone is to hear.

Ivar moves closer again, and this time you meet his stride, also stepping the distance between you and looking into his eyes. Your Gods and his both know you may lose a battle of power with him, of strength, of courage. But not one of wills.

He will have to kill you to have you relent.

Still, he insists, and if the mask slips, if the so tightly held control vanishes through his fingers, if the armor cracks, if his questions are true and not cruel tricks, who can truly know?

“How are things different? How is any different how you see me now than before? To you I still am the monster that imprisoned you, nothing changed since the first time you saw me.”

“No. Ivar, if you’re a monster…what does that make me? I stand by your side, I trust you, I-…”

It makes you a monster too.

But the woman that lured Narses to the cliff the Varangians pushed him off of, the woman that accepted the thrill of war knowing she would lose and die, that woman was a monster already, and didn’t have anything to do with Ivar.

Maybe you both are monsters, maybe you’ve just been playing at being human.

The thought doesn’t unsettle you as much as it should.

Ivar holds your gaze, before he takes his eyes from yours with a breath that seems to shudder past parted lips. You keep your attention on his expression, on the tremble of his brows, on the conflict between vulnerability and anger.

After a few breaths you hold, Ivar lowers his head, leans closer, quietens his voice,

“Tell me things have changed. Tell me I’m not...seeing things.”

You cannot help the foolish and hopeless beating of your heart, that both soars and breaks at his despairing request. The words that that same foolish heart wants you to say back are at the tip of your tongue, held back by sheer will even as Ivar’s uncertain and unmoored blue eyes look into yours looking for…anything.

But you can’t give in. If you give words to it, if you name things you make them real, and if the flutter in your heart, if the emotion tight in your chest, if the truth even your mind accepts are real, then you are nothing, you’ve failed your legacy, your homeland, your people.

But you cannot return to fighting, to this mad chase for a freedom that never was and never could be.

Because you know the bindings keeping you tethered to Greece are as punishing and as suffocating as those Ivar first set on your wrists. Learning of Laconia’s victory wouldn’t have felt the way it did, you wouldn’t have threatened to break when the chains loosened, if you weren’t a prisoner to them as much as you are to Ivar.

And you’ve realized you are also nothing of without Sieghild, without her guidance and her Gods, without Kattegat and all the freedoms it has granted you, without…without Ivar.

So you look into his eyes, and you can’t do what your heart tells you to, but you can’t do nothing. So you step closer, you lay a hand on his chest, let your palm rest over his heart.

Your voice is hushed, “Everything changed. O-Or maybe nothing did, and I just don’t lie to myself anymore,” You take a breath, and after a moment you offer a helpless shrug, “Maybe we changed. You aren’t the man that put chains on me and forced my hand, I’m not the woman that would have ran from you at the first opportunity.”

Ivar’s eyes search yours, but it seems the fight leaves him for once, and he bites back the anger. Still, he grits his teeth, his head moves with a gesture of annoyance -that you dare think is at himself- and he huffs an angry breath.

Ivar stops leaning so close to you, and with a stab of his crutch on the wooden floor that looks more forceful than need be, he turns his back to you, and leaves you behind.

____

Two things: one, yes I probably broke the poor reader, I didn’t plan it but hey, these characters do what they want at this point, and two, I think somewhere in between I also broke Ivar, also didn’t plan it but hey, fuck it. These two wanna rush like three chapters ahead? Fine, go ahead, I suppose.

Bright side is, look at them argue and giving in/being honest instead of screaming their heads off! :P

Oh, and the Laconia stuff is just me playing loose with history, but Laconia was able to withstand the Slavic invasions of the 9th century and remained pagan till the 10th. I’d have to check, cause I decided on this plot point a long time ago and I can’t remember, but I think there was a failed attempt at christianization in the 9th.

Thank you so much for reading, I love you!!

[lloydskywalkers]

So on the incredibly rare occasion that I do write romance, I have the ability to write one (1) single romance and that is all, and that’s Dumb Fools in Love. Which hopefully fits here, because it’s Glass Girl’s namesake day, so i gotta at least try for @speedythecat, it’s what she desERVES.

(happy valentines this is disgusting fluff anyways i love u speedy)

Lloyd likes the way construction paper sounds. It’s kind of therapeutic, the sound it makes as he drags the scissors through the middle. It’s even more satisfying when he uses them to start stabbing gaping holes through the paper, because he went and ruined the stupid heart shape again, and now he’s running out of pink and red construction paper that doesn’t look like he took a vicious katana to it and went crazy.

“Stupid scissors—”

He doesn’t know if Rain even likes pink or red that much, Lloyd reminds himself dismally, as he untangles his fingers from the scissors. Just that they’re thematically appropriate to the essence of the holiday, or whatever, and they apparently must’ve been the only two colors that existed when whoever came up with Valentine’s Day was around. He hasn’t even found actual purple in any of the little cards he’s seen, just some floral lavender.

Lloyd glances down to the pile of pink and red paper strewn across the table in front of him, then back to the instructions he’s printed out for himself. Then back to the paper.

Maybe he can just like, die instead.

Lloyd is about ninety percent sure that he can’t be the only person to ever look up “how to make Valentine’s Day cards” on the internet before, but it still feels like a crushing blow to his pride and an overall dumb move in general as he does.

But he’s only slightly desperate right now, and he really doesn’t want to reach fully desperate, so he’s willing to suck up his pride if it means not totally ruining his girlfriend’s hopes and dreams by giving her a sub-par and ultimately disappointing Valentine’s Day card that looks like he doesn’t even understand the holiday in the first place.

To be fair, though, he kinda doesn’t.

Like, Lloyd knows what Valentine’s Day is, obviously. He’s not an idiot. He’s just…never really participated in it…as a person. It seems like all the others have cute little stories of getting paper cut-outs and candy hearts in grade school (which he can get behind, if there’s candy), but Lloyd’s experience in grade school was general scorn toward anything love-related at all. Valentine’s Day was well out of the question. Lloyd didn’t even know it existed until he walked straight into a street stand that looked like red and pink had thrown up all over it, before being drowned in like, twenty-dozen bouquets of roses.

He’d been an awful brat of a child then, so at the time, he’d dealt with it by kicking the stand over and being totally grossed out. Now, however, he’s left wondering if those bouquets are worth the money, or if he should invest in the slightly bigger ones they sell over on the east side stands.

How the tables have turned, Lloyd sighs miserably to himself, struggling to peel another stubborn strip of glitter glue from his hand where it’s dried there, sparkling mockingly at him.  Finally digging the glue free, Lloyd brushes his hands off and glances down at his paper.

Go for handmade.

Well, that one’s easy, ‘cause there’s no way Lloyd’s physically bringing himself to walk into a store and buy Rain some cheesy card with a bunch of generic hearts on it. This, of course, leaves the problem that Lloyd now has to come up with the card, and the only thing that’s coming to mind are generic, cheesy hearts.

Hmm. Lloyd taps the edge of the table, humming beneath his breath. He can draw pretty well, but he’s not like, an artist. Not like Cole is, or anything. Lloyd is a lot better at cartoon characters and funny little caricatures of the others than he is, say, detailed roses or something.

Rain likes cats, right? he muses. He could draw a cat, and then maybe have it holding a heart, or something. That’d be kinda cute, maybe. And then he’d get to make some awful pun like “you’re paw-sitively purr-fect”—

Lloyd slams his head down on the table. Nope. This is why he’s not allowed to come up with the idea himself. He’s worse than all the awful grocery store cards put together.

Something in his nose tickles, and he sneezes, sending up sparkly dust all around him. Lloyd blinks, then bites back a moan. Belatedly, he realizes he’s just dunked his head in glitter dust.

It could’ve been the glue, he tries to comfort himself.

Figuring he’s already doomed, Lloyd makes peace with the fact that he’s just going to live the rest of his day resembling a blond disco ball, and lifts his head to return to task, squinting at what’s next on the list.

Make it personal.

Again, that one should be easy too, because it’s Rain. But what’s supposed to count as personal? Is it like, I-love-you personal, or here’s-a-reference-to-inside-joke-number-fifty-eight kind of personal? Should he do both? He and Rain have too many inside jokes, though, it’ll take him half the day to pick one, and he’s already running out of time. Rain’s supposed to be back at noon, and Lloyd does not have that kind of time to kill.

He drums his fingers against the table-top, staring at the outlined drawing of Rain his fingers have absently started sketching out, right next to his doodles of little cats and a mini-Overlord raging terror on the glitter glue scattered across the paper.

Lloyd frowns at the last one. Oops. Well, he can’t give her this now.

“Is that supposed to be the Overlord? You can’t give Rain that for Valentine’s Day.”

Lloyd jumps half a foot out of his chair and slams his knee into the table just so that his entire leg goes dead, his shriek of surprise strangling off as he chokes on the erupting cloud of glitter dust.

By the time he winds down coughing, wiping the reflexive tears from his eyes and glaring, Kai is just staring at him, mildly concerned and whole lot unimpressed.

“A little warning, please.”

“I’ve been standing here for five minutes, bud, it’s not my fault you’re in dreamland.” Kai glances down at the table-top of scattered construction paper and glitter dust, and his mouth trembles, like he’s holding back laughter. “Are you…trying to make a card, or mass-murdering our construction paper supply?”

Lloyd feels his cheeks go scarlet, and he sputters. “I’m not — no, I’m just—” He waves his hands in the air, wishing he could disappear. “Valentine’s Day,” he finally says, haplessly. “Rain. Card.”

“Ah,” Kai says, nodding. He eyes the butchered pile of paper. “It’s going…good, then?”

Lloyd buries his face in his hands, groaning. “I keep ruining it. I’ve never done Valentine’s Day before, Kai, this is a disaster. Rain’s gonna hate it.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Kai says, sliding into the chair next to him, patting him on the shoulder. “Rain’ll be fine with…whatever…you end up making. It’s not that big a deal.” He laughs, rolling his eyes. “I mean, it’s not like she’s going to get horribly upset because you butchered her favorite holiday and dump you for some chump with better taste.”

Lloyd freezes dead, his eyes widening. He has not yet considered this option. What if he does ruin Rain’s entire holiday with his awful gift? What if, by completely disrespecting her last name’s namesake — thing — she does get horribly upset and runs off with like, Ariya to the desert or something, and—

Kai blinks, then his eyes go wide. “Lloyd, wait — no, it was a joke, Lloyd, don’t get that look on your face — Nya!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

And that’s how Lloyd ends up cornered by his entire team at the kitchen table, covered in glitter dust and currently living out his worst life as they try to decide the best way for him not to totally sabotage his love life in one go.

“Honestly, I never really got Valentine’s Day,” Kai remarks. “I didn’t get the whole grade school experience as much, since we homeschooled for the most part. It’s just a lot of hearts and chocolate and flowers and stuff, right?”

“Um, it’s a lot more than that,” Jay rolls his eyes. “It was classroom warfare. Your like, entire life status was measured by how many Valentines you’d get. It was totally lame,” he scowls.

“I dunno, I always got a whole lot,” Cole muses. “I could never figure out why, though. I wasn’t super popular, or anything...”

They all stare at Cole for a beat, where he stands haloed beneath the kitchen lights in all his wavy-haired glory.

“Hopeless,” Jay sighs.

“This isn’t grade school, though,” Nya says. “This is Lloyd’s actual relationship, which we are helping him with, so let’s hear actual helpful stuff, please.”

“Again,” Kai shrugs. “Flowers. Chocolate. Hearts. Bam, you’re good.”

“For crying out loud,” Jay groans. “How do magazines keep labeling you the smooth one.”

“Hold on, he’s got a point with the chocolate part,” Cole points out.

“Of course, you would choose that part to focus on,” Zane sighs.

“Guys, enough,” Nya cuts over them. “I said helpful stuff, not the most generic ideas ever. I mean, chocolate’s nice, but Lloyd’ll probably eat it all before it gets to Rain anyways—”

“I would not!” Lloyd protests.

“—and the card’s gonna be the focal point, so hearts are covered.” Nya glances down the pile of butchered construction paper in front of Lloyd, and winces. “We’ll, uh, help you with that part. But first, let’s plan.” She tugs a half-torn piece of construction paper toward her, uncapping a marker. “What all does Rain like, for starters?”

“Well,” Lloyd pauses, thinking. “She does like flowers, and — no, no I am not going to ask Lief for help, no way, not a chance.”

“Just a suggestion!” Jay throws his hands up in defense. “He’s her friend, though, so he’d probably have some ideas, y’know?”

“So. Not. Worth it.”

“Okay, okay, geez.”

Nya rolls her eyes, but scribbles ‘flowers — not from Lief’ on the paper anyways. “Good, but that’s still pretty standard stuff. Anything else a little more creative? Something that really says Rain to you.”

“She likes rocks,” Lloyd nods.

The marker squeaks violently on the paper, and Nya makes a dying sound in the back of her throat. Kai breaks into snickering, and Jay whacks him on the shoulder, giggling.

“There you go, bud, perfect Valentine’s gift. Give her a rock.”

“No,” Nya says firmly, glaring at Jay. She then turns the glare on Lloyd, who immediately shrinks lower in his seat. “Rocks, Lloyd, really — okay. Okay, do you know anything else she likes? That’s not rocks?”

“Uh, she likes…glass?” Lloyd says, weakly. “And um, seashells. And tea, and — she really does like rocks, I’m serious! Like, cool ones—“

“You are not giving Rain a rock for Valentine’s Day!”

“A cool rock!”

“That doesn’t make it any more acceptable!”

“Ughhh.” Lloyd slides down in his chair with a dying moan, throwing his arms over his face. “You ruin everything. She likes those little paper cranes, I guess. And, uh…”

“You,” Zane reminds him. “She likes you. Therefore, she will most likely love anything you give her, since it’s from you.”

Normally, Lloyd would just scoff at that, but Zane’s voice is so sincere it actually helps, a little. Lloyd sits up in his seat a bit, his crossed arms loosening. “Well…”

“Yeah! So why don’t you just draw her a cat that says like, ‘you’re purr-fect’, or something?” Jay suggests. “That sounds like you.”

Lloyd slams his head against the table, once again accidentally dunking himself in glitter dust. He can’t bring himself to care this time, because the whole world apparently just knows him for terrible puns.

“Stop being so melodramatic, you’re going to remind her of her brother,” Nya clips. Lloyd chokes on his tongue, and dissolves into a fit of manic sputtering as Kai claps him on the back, encouraging him to breathe.

“—was just a joke, Lloyd, don’t take her seriously.”

“—time and place, Nya, time and place—!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

It takes several disastrous attempts and more than a few marker wars — Kai in particular is sporting some spectacular pink sharpie marks along the side of his face, and Lloyd’s got streaking red marks across his forearms as the price for protecting his own face — but Lloyd end up with one brightly-colored, cursive-lettered Valentine’s card for Rain.

He’s feeling pretty confident in it, actually. It says everything he wants it to say, while looking pretty but dignified, and it’s only got one cat on it, so he’s — he’s pretty sure Rain will like it. A lot more than any of his other disastrous attempts, he assures himself. Now all he’s gotta do is grab the flowers Nya made him promise to get, and according to both Wikihow and his family, he’ll have the perfect Valentine. Armed with that knowledge, Lloyd strides confidently for the kitchen table to grab an envelope.

Only to freeze dead when he comes face-to-face with Rain, who’s bent over studying said disastrous attempts from earlier, that he’s left out in full view on the kitchen table like a complete moron.

Rain’s currently got one of his first attempts in her hands, her finger tracing the little design he’d drawn. Her hair’s down right now, all silvery and smooth and falling over her face, so he can’t see her expression.

Lloyd is highly considering running for the hills by like, hurling himself out the kitchen window, when Rain turns around, the end her nose still red from the outside cold, freckles standing out more than usual on her cheeks. Lloyd freezes in place.

She holds up one of the ruined cards. “Are all these...for me?”

Lloyd’s soul makes the executively wise decision to exit his body right then.

“They’re — I — no, they’re for, uh—”

Lloyd’s mind backfires. Shoot, he can’t say they’re for someone else, they’ve got ‘I love you’ and other sappy stuff all over them, what’s he supposed to do—

“They’re, uh, for my grandmother.”

Rain raises an eyebrow. “Your grandmother…named Rain,” she says slowly, reading the name that’s brightly plastered everywhere.

“Her name’s Rain too,” Lloyd tries, weakly.

Rain raises her other eyebrow. She wordlessly holds up one of the cards, pointing to where “Rain Allira Valentine” is highlighted. Lloyd mentally makes a note to murder Kai later as her finger slides down to the “Mr. Rain Valentine” right below, her lips trembling as she tries to hold back a snicker.

“Um.” At least she’s laughing, Lloyd tells himself. She hasn't run off to the desert yet. “I have a better one for you, I swear. Those are just — really, really bad first attempts, which you were never supposed to see, ever.”

Please forget they ever existed, is on the tip of his tongue, but Rain’s expressions softens, her eyes fond as she looks from the cards to him.

“I don’t know, these are…kinda sweet,” she admits, her cheeks going a bit pink.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, his own face heating. “That’s! That’s good, I guess. I mean, this new one’s — it’s a whole lot better, though, and uh…” He frantically rubs the back of his head, trying to get his brain back online and working properly again. Unfortunately, the action sends a tiny shower of sparkles raining from his hand, and Lloyd remembers in horror that he never got that glitter dust out.

Rain smirks, biting back a laugh. “Hold on,” she says, stepping in close. “You’ve got some — here.”

She pushes a hand through his hair, her fingers gently tangling through the thick blond strands before pulling away, leaving her fingers stained in glitter dust. She gives a tiny snicker, then brushes at his hair with her other hand, neatly sweeping a shower of glitter dust from it before carefully tousling his hair back in place.

“There,” she says. “Now you don’t look as much like a disco ball.”

“Maybe I wanted to look like a disco ball,” Lloyd says, petulantly. “Lloyd Disco Ball Garmadon, that’s me.”

“Then I’d have to make you another Valentine’s card,” Rain says, and Lloyd finally spots the envelope she’s been keeping behind her back. “Because I definitely messed up your middle name, if that’s the case.”

Lloyd blinks rapidly. “Wait, you got me one?”

Rain freezes, looking unsure. “Um…yes? That’s kind of…the point, right? You give Valentine’s to people you lo—like—um, love.”

Lloyd’s definitely red now. “I-I probably wouldn’t know,” he finally stammers. “Darkley’s wasn’t too big on Valentine’s.”

Lloyd immediately wants to hit himself, because Rain’s here being sweet and talking about love, and he’s bringing up Darkley’s like a motor-mouthed moron. And now Rain looks sad, and is it too late for Lloyd to pitch himself out the window—?

“Well, lucky for you, I know all about it,” Rain suddenly says, firmly. “You’ll just have to spend the day with me, so I can give you the run-down.”

“That I can do,” Lloyd grins brightly in relief.

“It’s a date, then,” Rain beams, before her smile hitches in laughter. “And you, um, you have more glitter. On your cheek.”

Lloyd wipes quickly at his face. “Oh, come on — did I get it?”

“No, now you’re just — okay, stop, I’ll get it, hold on.”

Rain steps nearer again, brushing her thumb across his cheek once, then again. “There,” she nods satisfied. She doesn’t move back, though, standing close enough that Lloyd can count her freckles, and see every shade of teal in her eyes. There’s a hint of a smile left on her face, and Lloyd swallows. This would probably be like, the perfect time to—

“For FSM’s sake, kiss her, you moron, she’s totally set you up for it—”

Kai’s voice cuts off in a strangled choking sound as Nya throttles him while both Rain and Lloyd go scarlet, and Lloyd makes another mental note to murder Kai a second time later.

“Wanna go out?” Lloyd suggests hastily, his face flaming. “The candy’s probably not gonna be on sale yet, but I bet we can get someone to cut us a deal.”

“Yes,” Rain nods fervently. “Let’s — out. Go out. Of here, sounds good.”

“Great,” Lloyd says, then snatches both their jackets from the hook before fleeing, Rain trailing behind him as they sprint past the others, stifling laughter as Lloyd desperately avoids making eye contact with anyone. Rain’s muffling giggles too, though, and Lloyd can’t help breathing out a laugh as he flings open the doors tumbling out into the chilly February weather.

“So, I have a question,” he says, as their footsteps fall into pace down the street. “What do you think of like, rocks as a present?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Is it like, a cool rock?”

“I mean, hypothetically? Yeah, a super cool rock.”

“Well, if it’s super cool. Then that’d be a good one, I guess.”

“I knew it—!”

[definedwrath]

      uploading  data  …  ⟳  𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴  !  

*  ;  —  welcome  ,  WILL  GRAHAM  .  a  long  way  from  hannibal  (  series  )  ,  huh  ?  hm  …  a  thirty  -  nine  year  old  forensic  psychology  professor  who  looks  like  HUGH  DANCY  —  could  be  worse  .  i  heard  you  were  at  THE  LIGHTHOUSE  when  we  un  -  glitched  ,  &  you  (  had  a  mental  breakdown  ]  .  still  the  intelligent  &  ruthless  type  ,  that’s  why  [  golden  glow  of  a  pendulum’s  swing  ,  waves  crashing  against  a  shoreline  ,  &  blood  looking  black  in  the  moonlight  ]’s  totally  your  vibe  .  the  memory  of  FALLING  OFF  THE  CLIFF  WITH  HANNIBAL  is  hazy  ,  but  maybe  the  (  foldable  pocket  knife  &  red  feathered  lure  )  waiting  for  you  at  the  pawn  shop’ll  bring  clarity  .  +  human  ,  demi  male  [  he/him  ]  ,  bisexual  .

              tws  :  blood  ,  abandonment  ,  murder  ,  death

BEGINNING  —  born  william  “  will  ”  graham  in  louisiana  ,  poor  .  his  father  worked  fixing  boats  ,  and  his  mother  had  left  before  she  had  curated  any  stable  enough  memories  for  him  to  grasp  .  he  followed  his  father  from  place  to  place  in  louisiana  before  eventually  moving  to  new  orleans  .  in  new  orleans  ,  he  became  a  homicide  detective  for  the  police  force  ,  but  he  couldn't  pull  the  trigger  .  he  left  new  orleans  to  attend  george  washington  university  in  forensic  science  and  became  a  professor  at  the  fbi  academy  .  will  has  an  empathy  disorder  ,  allowing  him  to  empathise  with  anyone  .  burdened  with  too  many  mirror  neurons  and  an  extreme  imagination  ;  through  an  exploration  of  the  evidence  as  well  as  his  empathic  nature  ,  this  allows  him  to  mentally  place  himself  in  the  positions  of  serial  killers  .  he  was  brought  in  by  special  agent  jack  crawford  to  hunt  down  a  serial  killer  and  met  a  well  -  known  consulting  psychologist  ,  hannibal  lecter  .  will  goes  to  therapy  with  hannibal  to  ensure  he  has  someone  to  pull  him  back  from  the  dark  places  he’s  thrust  into  ,  but  what  starts  as  something  akin  to  friendship  turns  into  acts  of  betrayal  ,  murder  ,  sacrifice  and  protection  as  both  of  them  begin  to  manipulate  each  other  .  down  the  rabbit  hole  they  both  go  ,  them  both  changing  each  other  with  will  finding  righteousness  ,  justice  ,  in  wrath  ;  in  doing  bad  things  to  bad  people  .  eventually  ,  it  all  comes  to  head  when  will  and  hannibal  kill  serial  killer  ,  francis  dolarhyde  ,  together  .  not  in  horror  of  the  act  ,  but  in  horror  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  action  --  will  pulls  them  both  off  a  cliff  .  

MIDDLE  —  still  ,  born  william  “  will  ”  graham  .  much  of  his  childhood  was  the  same  ,  except  no  longer  did  he  live  in  louisiana  in  his  memories  .  he  lived  in  the  cloud  for  his  whole  life  as  he  recalls  .  he  became  a  professor  at  whitmore  college  ,  teaching  forensic  psychology  .  he's  still  fully  aware  of  his  empathy  disorder  and  tries  to  remain  distant  ,  keeping  a  mental  shield  ,  in  order  to  avoid  seeing  too  much  .

END  —  will  doesn’t  have  any  explicit  memories  .  frankly  ,  he’s  trying  to  go  through  his  life  as  per  normal  .  the  mental  breakdown  resulted  from  an  influx  of  horrific  images  (  memories  )  at  the  time  .  he  had  gotten  memories  of  totem  poles  made  out  of  people  ;  of  men  becoming  cellos  ;  of  a  girl  sobbing  ,  bleeding  from  a  cut  carotid  ,  as  he  shot  a  man  dead  .  he  doesn’t  have  the  rest  of  his  memories  drawn  out  for  him  .  he  does  have  dreams  about  a  kitchen  bathed  in  blood  , though  ;  himself  ,  coated  crimson  ,  pouring  ,  spilling  .  the  sounds  of  waves  crashing  ,  crashing  louder  ,  in  his  ears  .  copper  on  his  tongue  as  blood  floods  floor  boards  ,  but  nothing  substantial  enough  --  as  if  someone  ripped  up  the  floor  boards  and  replaced  the  tile  .  steady  hands  holding  his  ,  holding  a  knife  to  his  gut  ,  taking  a  gun  from  him  ,  a  hand  cupping  his  face  .  a  man  in  a  pristine  suit  ,  betrayal  lined  in  his  features  .  a  man  he  betrayed  ,  a  man  he  changed  .  a  man  whose  heart  he  took  in  his  hands  and  squeezed  ,  whose  heart  he  broke  ,  thinks  about  hurting  and  hurting  .  a  freefall  ,  no  parachute  .  things  blurring  together  ,  a  different  man  with  a  stern  voice  ,  a  dark  -  haired  woman  and  pitying  looks  .  a  girl  he  couldn't  save  ,  and  the  ache  of  a  parent  who  lost  a  child  .  eye  contact  .  tastelessness  .  

SCRIBBLED  IN  THE  MARGIN  —  

DESPERATE  TO  CONNECT  , 

child(ren)  ;  whether  adopted  or  ‘  biological  ’  ,  i  would  love  to  have  will  adopt  someone(s)  !  it'd  be  cool  to  have  a  pretty  big  family  ,  but  will  could  also  have  an  only  child  !  i  just  really  want  will  to  have  the  opportunity  to  be  paternal  .

hookup  ;  (  m/f/nb  )  ,  someone  he's  hooked  up  with  ,  mayhaps  ?  can  either  be  a  new  thing  ,  a  past  thing  ,  a  casual  thing  ,  or  maybe  one  is  starting  to  get  some  feelings  .  whether  or  not  there’  emotions  in  it  or  just  physical  ,  maybe  a  hookup  .

exes  ;  (  m/f/nb  )  ,  whether  it  was  amicable  or  bad  ,  a  relationship  that  could  have  been  dating  or  something  stronger  in  ties  ...  a  marriage  ?  whether  they  just  couldn't  connect  or  another  painful  reason  .  (  i  won't  accept  a  cheating  plot  for  this  though  !  ]

friends  ;  you  don't  stop  having  friends  even  as  an  adult  !  give  this  poor  man  some  friends  ,  maybe  people  he  went  to  school  with  and  kept  in  touch  with  ?  someone  he  knew  from  his  childhood  ?  a  neighbour  who  became  a  friend  ?  

co  -  workers  ;  people  who  work  at  the  college  with  him  ,  it’d  be  nice  to  have  someone  he  can  get  along  with  while  he’s  not  grading  papers  .  whether  it  be  a  co  -  worker  he’s  close  to  or  otherwise  just  met  ,  any  co  -  workers  would  be  cool  .

TAG  DIRECTORY  ,

i.   alone  in  that  darkness   /   abt.     about  . i.   this  is  my  design   /   beg.     starters  . i.   if  you  can’t  beat  god   /   vis.     visuals  . i.   like  somebody  else   /   ism.     musings  . i.   this  is  my  becoming   /   int.     interactions  . i.   then  i  felt  powerful   /   aes.     aesthetics  . i.   scales  have  fallen  away   /   sol.     solos  . i.   use  a  good  scream   /   ask.     ask  responses  . i.   what’s  important  in  my  life   /   dyn.     family  values  . i.   somebody  you  cherished   /   dyn.     will  graham  &  schrodinger’s  daughter  ,  abigail  hobbs  . i.   you  and  i  have  begun  to  blur   /   dyn.     the  conscious  loss  of  one’s  self  for  another  ,  will  graham  &  hannibal  lecter  .

[starswornoaths]

"free her! have you no pity?"

Phantom of the Opera sentence starters - Accepting!

Ohohoho I had a horrible idea for this, and this turned into a full blown lil fic, so I’m sticking it under the cut :3c 

Spoilers for 3.0, and vague DRK questline spoilers, macabre horror imagery and a nice lil non canon character death nightmare.

ALSO BIG WARNING AT THE TOP BUT WILL ALSO BE IN THE TAGS: This contains body horror, blood, and an execution. Though it isn’t described too much, it’s hard to ignore, and I don’t want anyone to not know what they’re getting into with this!

There was a strange sort of buzzing about Aymeric’s ears that bade he open his eyes. His lashes fluttered, and as his vision came into focus, he blinked away the sleep in them when he realized he was in the Tribunal, seated in the audience, the buzzing attributed to the low din of murmurs around him. What had he been doing before? And why was he here?

“Ahh, you’re awake just in time, my friend!” He heard a distantly familiar voice beside him jovially exclaim.

When Aymeric turned his head to face his departed friend, he had not been prepared to truly see Haurchefant — less so to see him in the state he was in.

“Much longer, and I would have had to rouse you!” The silver haired knight said, his blood stained lips nearly splitting his face for the width of his manic grin. “It’s almost time!”

Horror freezing most of his body, Aymeric’s wide, panicked gaze drifted down, down, and — Halone preserve him, but the hole in his chest was there, too, though the glow had long since faded.

“Oh, do not look at me so!” Haurchefant laughed, and Aymeric watched in ever mounting dread as the blood dribbled down his dead friend’s chin. “Chin up, Ser Aymeric! All your efforts have led to this moment!”

“My...?” Aymeric wheezed, scarcely able to draw breath. “What—”

“We are gathered here today,” Aymeric snapped his gaze to the High Adjudicator as his deep voice boomed in the echoing chamber. “Under the watchful gaze of the Fury, to bear witness to her divine justice exacted upon the wicked.”

There was a rattling at the entrance door, accompanied by muffled shouting. Despite straining to hear, Aymeric could not make out the words. Undeterred, the High Adjudicator resumed as he flipped through his copy of the Scriptures, looking almost bored if not for the frown creasing his brow.

“Bring forth the convicted.” His order rang against the vaulted ceiling.

“An execution...?” Aymeric whispered, and it occurred to him that the Tribunal was rather crowded for such a grim occasion, even as he wracked his brain to recall when there had last been an actual execution that was not done at Witchdrop.

“Shh, shh!” Haruchefant hissed, leaning conspiratorially toward him. Aymeric’s stomach lurched at the copper scent of the blood that yet clung to his lips. “‘Tis starting!”

The doors groaned under the agony of bearing the guilty into the room. Even that, too, echoed in the hushed chambers. As the heavy oak gave way to reveal the sentenced, as the chains rattled with her every move, Aymeric forgot how to breathe.

“Did you not realize what you would do to her?” Haurchefant asked quietly, but Aymeric could not move, could no longer speak, could only watch in mounting horror as she was escorted into the Tribunal. “You must have known. You told her it might come to this, should you fail to prove her innocence.”

The commotion from beyond the doors was clear to him now, unobstructed. The clinking of chainmail as guards held someone back, the sound of a man struggling against the guard’s hold. He could not tear his gaze away from Serella to see who it was.

“You cannot do this!” Edmont’s watery cry was as a gunshot in the silence. He managed to wring himself free enough to make it a scant few steps into the Tribunal before being seized again. “Not her! Not my daughter!”

The movement made Aymeric’s gaze snap to the elder Fortemps, eyes red, face streaked with tears, trembling hand impotently reaching out for his daughter.

“Ah, poor father.” Haurchefant mused in a distant sigh. “You’ve cost him two children now.”

“Serella Arcbane,” the High Adjudicator spoke over Edmont’s desperate pleas. “You have been convicted of heresy in the highest degree for the murder of Countess Ystride de Caulignont, and have been sentenced to death. Have you any last words?”

She remained silent.

“Free her!” Edmont sobbed, and he, too, looked up at Aymeric in desperation, his glassy eyes wide even as they hauled him out of the Tribunal. “Have you no pity?!”

The High Adjudicator waited until the distant sobs of the retired Count tapered off and silence reigned. Aymeric fought to find his voice, to force himself to speak, to act. With a shift, he was startled by the metallic rattle that accompanied the resistance he felt about his chest. With shuttered breaths, he glanced down, startled at the sight of gilded chains tethering him to his seat.

“Your own doing, I’m afraid.” Haurchefant clucked his tongue. “You could yet stop her, were you not so thoroughly kept by Halone herself.” Seemingly unaware or uncaring of Aymeric’s struggle to force his voice to work, the dead knight shrugged a shoulder. “I cannot find it in me to be upset. After all, I get my friend back!” 

“O Halone!” The High Adjudicator called, louder than he had before. “You have rendered unto us your judgement! And we, your humble servants, shall strike down the wicked!”

Serella remained stony faced as the Executioner stepped forward and slowly unsheathed the very same Claymore she had committed her sin with. She looked up at Aymeric, then, and as he found her eyes burning through the shadows that clung to her he desperately begged his body to move.

“Are you watching?” She asked him with her final words.

This is a nightmare. Aymeric frantically told himself, even as he felt his voice burn in his throat, felt his lips quiver with the effort to hold back sobs and force out his words. It must be, it must be, I will wake, and this will not be real.

Dainslaiff drank deep of its owner’s blood, sunk deeply into her chest as it was with one powerful thrust. Aymeric thought he heard Haurchefant speak again, though it was quiet compared to the wet, horrific noise of the heavy blade piercing through skin, muscle, and bone. 

She made no sound, save for the push of air leaving her lungs, save for the blood that she coughed up as her head hung to stare at her blade’s final meal. The chains on her wrists rattled as she swayed in place. Her head lifted with insurmountable effort to find him in the crowd again.

“Are you watching?” Serella whispered with her final breath.

The second the Executioner ripped the blade from her she crumpled.

Aymeric had not realized he had shouted until he felt his throat burn, drowned out by the cheers of the very people she had saved. He watched, horrified, as her blood seeped onto the stone beneath her, watched it stain his soul for how thoroughly he failed her.

“A pity those she fought for have such short memories.” Haurchefant sighed as he stood. “But that is no matter for the dead.”

Still tethered despite fighting, despite struggling against the chains he had so enthusiastically clapped himself in years ago, Aymeric could only helplessly look on when Haurchefant moved down the tiered audience seats, down to the Adjudication floor, and knelt gallantly to scoop up his friend. Through the hole in his chest, Aymeric saw Serella’s face, frozen in tired resignation.

It was only then that his mind allowed him to wake.

He had screamed in the waking world, he realized distantly when that pain in his throat remained. Sticky lashes, chilled, wet cheeks, and the heaving sobs that yet wracked him, he felt awash in all the grief he had fought so hard to ignore since this godforsaken investigation had begun.

Pressing the heels of his palms to eyes squeezed shut he waited for his breathing to level out and his body to stop trembling before he rose from his bed. Working would be preferable to sleep; work at least held the possibility of preventing that hell from coming to pass.

[sunrisehoneybee]

MMM that mare x reader was amazing! i LOVED it so much! if your requests are still open can you maybe do one for my fella phantom? i just think he'd be hella surprised to see his lady singing for him, let alone on stage since she's so shy! and with how he can probably see souls he no doubt already knew she had talent but maybe wasn't aware of the extent?? so her singing him a love song probably made him flustered, at least inside. and thank you if you do it but if not then it's chill. :^)

 Little Surprise

Phantom took his girl to one of his favorite clubs, Shadeaux.  It was amateur night and a great way to find new, undiscovered talent or people desperate enough to make a deal. But tonight, all of that was on the back burner. He was not one to mix business and pleasure.  And tonight was all about her. He loved treating her and making her feel special.

Heading to his table, he pulled the chair out for her, before sitting down himself.  A waiter came over and handed the menus. “What can I bring you for starters, boss?” The waiter gave her a smile and a nod, “Evening, ma’am. What can I get for you?” Everyone really liked her, and it was clear what an influence she had on Phantom since they’d gotten together. While he was a fair boss, there had been a certain edge to him. He was a bit of a workaholic and pretty demanding. Granted he was good at what he did, but he never took a break. Always wheeling and dealing for souls. But since he’d met her?  He quit living out of his office and started taking time off.  She was the first one he’d ever brought around and they all adored her. Not because they had to, but because she was so genuine and kind, even if she was a bit shy, but honestly that was just part of her charm.

They placed their order, and as the waiter left, Phantom took her hand. “Hey doll, is this okay with you? I mean if you’d rather go dancing we can head to Mirrors if you want. Just, everyone’s been asking when you’d come by again.”  

She smiled, looking down as a pale blush colored her cheeks.  “No, this is perfect.” She had a bit of a surprise for him. Oh, but she was nervous. Her stomach had been full of butterflies all day.  The guys here had helped her get everything ready, making sure the band had the music and everything.  Natemare had even switched to make sure he was playing here tonight. He’d helped her rehearse, making sure Phantom was busy somewhere else so she could get comfortable with the stage. Though, it was one thing to perform to an empty room.  Tonight it, was a packed house.  

The waiter brought their food and drinks. She sipped hers, too nervous to eat. Natemare got up on stage. That was her cue. “I gotta make a quick trip to the ladies’ room.”  She gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped around to the backstage. Mare gave her a discreet thumbs up and a goofy grin. She took a deep breath and let it out. ‘You can do this, girl.’

As she walked out, the house lights went down, and the spotlight hit her. In a way, that was almost easier.  She knew everyone was out there, but she couldn’t see them.  Mare hit the opening and….she sang.  

She’d been to enough of these sorts of things to know that usually there was idle chatter. It wasn’t usually loud, but a definite hum could be heard.  Right now, it was dead silence except for her and the band.  Her voice was clear and pure and not just technically correct. The emotion poured from her voice. She picked her favorite love song because it, of course, reminded her of Phantom.

Phantom had been waiting for her to get back, not really paying attention to the stage until it hit him. Her voice. His girl was up there. Singing. He knew she had talent, he could see it written all over her soul, but no matter what he’d done, she’d never shown any interest in singing.  Obviously, she just needed to find the right muse. And when he realized it was him, he felt a little humbled and in awe.  She was singing to him. He looked over at his staff and saw their big, cheesy grins, shaking his head, which only made them grin even bigger.  They knew.  They’d been in on this whole thing.  She finished, and the crowd erupted with applause.  She took a nervous bow and quickly scrambled off the stage, making her way back to Phantom.  It took a little longer than she thought. People kept stopping her and telling her how good she was.  

She finally got back to Phantom, who was grinning like a loon. “Someone’s been up to something I see.”  He pulled her to him, “I loved it, you ever want a job….”  He left it hanging when she shook her head.

“No, that was just for you.” She beamed at him when he looked so flustered. “Happy birthday.”

“You knew! How did you know?” Phantom hadn’t told her when his birthday was. It had never been a big deal to him.

“Oh, I have my sources.” She grinned as Phantom’s gaze when straight to Mare who just gave him a cheeky wave.

He leaned over to give her the biggest kiss. “Best birthday ever, doll.”

Hey Nony!  Thanks for the compliments and the ask! Glad you liked my Natemare story and hope you like this one just as much.  

@graveyard-melodies @nerdqueenkat @little-nonny @muntiller @brianaraydean @bee-wrecker @ijwrff @matronofthevoid @lifelikefin @bibunnybi @nuggetfromspace @justpandapop @cerberus-shadows 

[walriding]

🤗 / safefromsin

nonverbal starters || accepting

🤗 Pull my muse into a hug

     Radios are a necessity in Hope County. Not just for music, but for tuning in to local happenings – the broadcasts from both the cult and those resisting them. It makes sense, considering the spotty-to-non-existent phone service in the area, but that doesn’t mean Miles has to like it. It seems like an awfully inefficient means of communication, especially when the frequencies vary from region to region. But he’d bartered his way to acquiring one anyway – when in Rome, as the saying went.

     He’s fiddling with it at the kitchen table when, through the garbled static that is liable to give him a wicked headache, there comes a voice. The tone is fairly distinctive even buried under all the white noise, though Miles is trying to pay more attention to what’s being said than who’s saying it. Picking up a nearby pen, he jots down the words he’s able to make out. Somewhere in the middle of his rough translating, Sara enters the kitchen. She pauses with her hand about to pull open the refrigerator door, and from the corner of his eye Miles sees her knuckles turn white. He’s never pressed her for more information about her experiences with the other members of the Seed family, and now doesn’t feel like a particularly good time.

     The broadcast pauses, then loops back to the beginning. Miles sits back in his seat. Sara, still frozen fast, asks “What was he saying?”

     “Something about an escape attempt down in the valley.” Tapping pen to paper in a nonsensical rhythm, Miles tries piecing together his haphazard notes. “I got “tunnel” and “collapse” out of that. Must’ve been something big, though, if there was a broadcast about it.”

     The skin on the back of Sara’s hand turns impossibly paler. Miles’ brow furrows.

     “I guess we could go check it out?” he offers.

     She nods, slowly, eyes fixed on some faraway point that Miles can’t see. If she knows anything about what he’d heard from the radio, Sara doesn’t specify. But Miles has a funny feeling that she’s withholding something, even if it’s just a gut feeling.

     The drive is long and silent. Miles flips back and forth between all two available music stations for a solid fifteen minutes before he gives up. He tries once or twice to initiate conversation, but Sara is all tensed muscles and stony expressions in the passenger’s seat, so he eventually throws in the towel on that, too. As the winding road carries them into the rolling expanse of Holland Valley, Miles keeps an eye out for what they’re looking for. He tries a few routes and side roads to little avail. Just as he’s about to call the whole thing a bust, they come to an intersection punctuated with yet another bleached-white wooden church at one corner, where a perpendicular road veers sharply towards the county’s border. It seems about as promising as could be hoped for on such a blind expedition, so Miles turns the car down it.

     At the end of the newly truncated road sits, as promised, the remnants of a tunnel. Even from a distance it’s obvious that something was detonated in order to bring down that many tons of rock. Cars are dotted around the mouth of the tunnel, like picked-over carcasses at the threshold of a beast’s lair. Miles pulls the car over to the side of the road, parks it at what he thinks to be a safe distance away. Sara is leaning forward in her seat, magnetically pulled towards the destruction ahead. He gets out first, but waits for her to follow suit before proceeding.

     The cars are empty husks. Refuse is scattered about the site, the trash littered in patterns that suggest objects being pulled carelessly from the vehicles. There’s blood in places, too – the occupants of the cars likely got the same treatment as their belongings. But there’s no immediate sign of life, nothing but a slight breeze to scatter the lightweight junk and blow a curl of hair into Miles’ eyes. The one body he does see is already done up in Hope County’s signature fashion – gutted and stuffed with those sickly white flowers, trussed up and left to hang – and therefore very clearly not alive. In the hunt for clues, he spots and grabs one piece of paper in the rubble that looks fresher than the others.

     Here hangs a sinner by the name of–

     He hasn’t been paying much mind to Sara, and he might not have noticed her position at all had she not sobbed. The sound is thick and harsh and wounded, wet with tears and heavy with a primal sort of horror. Miles’ head snaps toward the source of the noise, instantly worried that she’s hurt. What he sees instead is Sara standing under the hanged body, head tilted back with her hands pressed over her mouth. “Sara?” She stumbles back a step, eyes wide with shock. Still holding the note, he moves towards her, hoping to catch her before she trips. “Sara?”

     When he’s behind her she turns and damn near falls into his arms. He catches her roughly, shifts to adjust his weight before she takes him down. Her face is pressed into his chest and his shirt is instantly dampened by her tears. Sara’s shoulders shake and she’s holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping her standing. It’s both the first time he’s touched her and the first time he’s seen her cry since that day in the woods, and there’s no present reason why. Over her shoulder his attention returns, briefly, to the paper in his hand. He skims is as though it might provide an answer. 

     Here hangs a sinner by the name of Alex.

     Fuck.

     Glancing upwards, towards the keystone at the apex of the tunnel, Miles can just barely recognize the corpse now that he’s paying attention.

     “Fuck.”

     Sara’s arms are around him and her fingers clutch desperately at his shirt and he knows that in that moment he could be anyone – it’s not his comfort she’s seeking, just a presence in a world that somehow managed to turn itself upside-down. He drops the note and rests a hand at the middle of her back, at a loss for how best to respond. Offering condolences feels paltry so he just stays there, holds her, tries to ignore the faint taste of bile creeping up the back of his throat every time a wayward white petal drifts past on the breeze.

     Time slips by unnoticed, but eventually her tremors are reduced to shivers. She pulls back and he lets her, allows her to reclaim her space and her dignity but he stops her when she goes to look back. He catches her when she tries, a gentle hand on the side of her head. “Don’t–” she grabs him roughly by the wrist, the pain in her features melting and re-solidifying into something far harsher. “It’s not worth it, I know. I’ve seen–” Lynn. He’s thinking of Lynn. Of her body, bloated and wrong, at Temple Gate. Dead before he could save her. He’d seen her alive so many times before that but that’s the image that sticks, the version of her he sees behind his eyelids no matter how badly he wants to forget it. “Not like this. You don’t want to see him like this, alright? Trust me.” She’s already looked, already seen. A second scrutiny won’t help.

     Her expression crumples around another breathy whimper but she nods, fingers slipping away from his wrist. “Go back to the car.” She looks at him from a place of hurt and confusion as he lets her go completely. “I’m going to try to– I’m going to get him down, okay? We won’t leave him, I promise. But I think you should wait in the car.” For once he trusts her not to go anywhere in the absence of his watchful eye. 

     Before she does anything else, Sara pulls him into an uncertain embrace. The gesture warms when Miles returns it, and it slips into something almost natural, affectionate, before she breaks away to return to the car.

/ @safefromsin

[thecloserkin]

fic rec: in fire, in ice by moirariordan

fandom: Wizards of Waverly Palace

pairing: Justin Russo/Alex Russo

word count: 25k

Is it canon: Yes

Is it explicit: No

Is it endgame: Yes

Is it shippable: Like fire

It’s an on-the-run story! Where they get fake married! For real this fic is #sibcestgoals. It’s justifiably the most widely read and influential fic in the fandom, whose influence transcends the fandom itself: the tagline ought to be “come to the dark side, we have incest-flavored cookies.” Say you had a friend who had never read a word of fanfiction in their life. For a starter pack you would hand them something like The Shoebox Project, right? Something accessible, for a pairing that’s ludicrously shippable, something that would rip their heart out and leave them aching for more. That’s what this story is. I would have no qualms recc’ing it to anyone on the street. Just look at the testimonials on Fanlore or on the TVTropes rec page —these people can’t all be incest shippers right?

Wizards of Waverly Place was a teen sitcom that aired from 2007-2012 on the Disney Channel, starring Selena Gomez and David Henrie as the titular brother-and-sister wizards. They have parents and a younger brother too but for shipping purposes Justin/Alex is the six-ton orca whale in the room. Justin is two years older, boring and responsible; Alex is the wild child. There’s a lot of banter and a lot of snark and it’s that dynamic where the older male does everything by the book and the younger female character categorically refuses to even crack open the spine of a book. There was a made-for-TV movie in 2009, and 87% of people who caught it while channel-surfing came away under the impression that the male lead was Selena Gomez’s boyfriend. I know this because I conducted a highly scientific poll, obviously.

Let me say upfront that I love this story but every time I read it it’s like I just watched Schindler’s List. It’s literally a story about a wizard Holocaust.

It starts with an old man who accidentally torpedoes the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (or the in-universe equilavent). It’s important to emphasize how he gives the game away, which is by conjuring a specter of his dead wife, one that unfortunately winds up outliving him; when the police broke his door down they found her weeping over his corpse. He loved her so much he preferred a flimsy facsimile over the lack of her. Or is it that he loved her so little he would settle for a cheap echo? Either way, love is the downfall of the wizarding community. The tension between love and magic is at the heart of this fic, for love is about sacrifice and at its root, so is magic.

The muggles’ initial reaction is consternation. The dead old man was unfortunately in possession of an extensive and illegal magical library, and pretty soon “every New Age hippie who ever read a deck of tarot cards” descends on New York City to pore over it. Consternation turns to fear turns to anger/mistrust turns to outright persecution of wizardkind.

Alex keeps waiting and waiting for someone to do something, to stop it, to make it go away, but nothing happens.

Alex is still in high school. There are people out there every day braying for her blood and calling for her family’s heads on spikes. Plot happens.

“Is this a good thing?” she asks, because Justin always knows what’s good and right and what’s not, and she really needs to know. He’s silent for a very long moment. “I don’t know,” he says, and for some reason this is more terrifying than anything.

She’s relied on Justin all these years to be her moral compass and when he admits he’s at a loss her whole world crumbles. They’re not canonically codependent, I think, but Alex does a lot of shit she wouldn’t otherwise if she wasn’t relying on Justin to bail her out. Likewise Justin resents how Alex’s raw gumption allows her to brazenly bluff her way through stuff he has to work his tail off for. I think Justin gives himself less credit than he deserves because Alex is right, he is insanely smart and talented. There’s an actual no-word-of-a-lie witchhunt going on and Justin still manages to graduate valedictorian.

There’s an underground railroad of sorts that smuggles wizards out, endowing them with new identities and new memories. The Russos grow desperate after Justin and Alex’s mom falls pregnant, but for plot reasons they can’t all be relocated so Justin and Alex stay behind. There are tearful farewells. The plan is to wait until Alex finishes high school, then rejoin the rest of the family. Things get even darker, but Justin “makes her smile like it’s his job.” LIKE IT’S HIS JOB. My friends, this is the good shit right here.

They eat in his room, most of the time, and do homework. Alex knows that he finds it soothing.

It’s a ritual, don’t you see? Other people meditate; Justin does homework. Alex does it too to keep him company. In fact Alex spends a lot of time in Justin’s bed. She’s always falling asleep there or waking up there and it’s not sexual but it gives you an idea of where her head’s at. Once, she slams out of the living room during an argument, and after a disorienting moment realizes it’s not her room she’s retreated into, it’s Justin’s. Her subconscious has obviously decided Justin’s room is the safest sanctuary there is.

Justin takes her out to dinner to celebrate her grades

IT’S A DAAAAATE only neither of them know it yet haha!

When Alex’s lifelong BFF announces she’s joining the Youth Nazi and invites Alex to join up with her, Alex runs away to a bench in Central Park. Justin shows up in short order:

“How’d you find me?”

“Are you kidding? You always come here when you’re upset.” He sits next to her. “Remember the time you ran away when Mom and Dad wouldn’t let you get a ferret?”

Nobody is conflating the pain of being denied a potential pet ferret to the pain of being deemed subhuman by one’s best friend, but the point of this scene is (1) that Justin gets her, in all her melodramatic over-the-top pettiness, and (2) Justin notices and remembers which bench she prefers — it’s a big gorram park after all. Eventually the political situation comes to a head and Justin and Alex decide it’s not safe to stay in New York City any longer, and they gather up their cash and bounce. Once they leave they have no way of getting back in touch with their parents but they have no choice; it’s too dangerous to stay:

They sleep in cheap motels and pay in cash under fake names, staying under the radar as much as possible because they’re not sure what else to do. They run out of cash in Maryland and get a decent hotel room under the fake account name.

They stop in Indianapolis to celebrate Justin’s twentieth birthday. Alex scores some champagne with one of the fake IDs she’d snagged before leaving New York and they drink it in a hotel room, the TV off and knees touching on the bed

They make it to Denver and get a small apartment and tell everyone they’re newlyweds and Alex dyes her hair red

OMG THEY’RE FAKE MARRIED I AM DECEASED

p sure there was also blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bedsharing in the hotel room

Alex’s hair color is a solid proxy for her state of mind

They save half their money each month in case they have to run again, and for a little bit, things are kind of nice. After her shifts, Alex will walk to the library where Justin works and sit at a table behind the corner with him, reading history books and novels.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you Alex Russo, the girl who a few months ago wouldn’t know which end of a book was up. She learns to love BOOKS and LIBRARIES on JUSTIN’S account and that is everything. Well, this is a nice respite but it doesn’t last and they have to keep running because Alex is assaulted at her waitressing job by a creepy customer who won’t take no for an answer. It’s a highly unrealistic stranger-in-a-dark-alley attempted assault situation but I will let that slide because the point is she instinctively spews magic in self-defense, which of course will bring the authorities down on them in no time. She’s scared shitless and she runs straight into Justin’s arms, the only place she feels safe:

Justin nearly freaks when he sees her, dragging her into the back office and touching her face, her arms, over and over as if to reassure himself that she’s okay. He sees the scrapes on her back and frowns, pulling off his soft cotton jacket and wrapping it around her as she explains what happened in a monotone voice. “We have to go,” she says, “tonight.” He nods and kisses her nose. “You did what you had to do,” he says, and something tight unravels because he’s not mad.

There is so much tenderness in that nose kiss. I feel like they’ve been partners for a long time but this is where it really clicks that Justin’s not “in charge” anymore, he’s not the older brother who knows best, they’re just two teenagers clinging to each other on a life raft because they are everything the other has left.

“The baby must be three years old now,” Alex muses. The champagne they’re drinking isn’t nearly enough to get them wasted, and she suddenly wishes that they were the type of people who get drunk. “Max is fifteen. In high school.”

This made me so sad, how they used to be a five-person family unit and now Alex and Justin are cut adrift and they’ve formed a unit of their own but they’ll never stop missing the others.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you with straight hair since New York,” he says when she emerges from the bathroom. He flicks her bangs away from her face. “You usually look like a street urchin.”

All the hairstyle changes for disguise purposes but she’s still his sister underneath. He’d know her anywhere. Here’s the scene where they first kiss — they’re standing on their own doorstep, having gone out to celebrate his birthday, and Alex (as you would expect) initiates it:

He narrows his eyes at her and she looks, looks, because she can’t have read this wrong – no, she didn’t. There is nothing in the world that she knows better than Justin – his face, his body, his head, his mind, his heart.

Yesssss I need it like air. Later:

(They don’t talk about what happened on his birthday, but they’ve started asking for single rooms.)

Eventually they settle in rural Italy, which I guess doesn’t have the same 24-hour surveillance panopticon that we have here in the USA so it’s easier for wizards to slip through the cracks. I like to imagine them in in the Tuscan hills. Justin is a schoolteacher and Alex a graphic designer. They remain for many years below the radar, until Alex is recruited into the Resistance to help smuggle other wizards out through the Underground Railroad the same way she and Justin were smuggled out. She feels a moral obligation to do it, even if it kills Justin to watch her diving repeatedly into danger and him unable to follow.

She’s never been that great at protecting people, she knows. When she was seven and Justin was nine, there’d been a bully that lived in the apartment  building across the street who used to try and steal her lunch money every day, and every day she would offer Justin’s in return for her own relief. When she was twelve and he was fourteen, they broke Theresa’s glass statuette from Barcelona during a fight and she blamed him without a second thought, and when she was seventeen and he was nineteen, she let him pass up freedom in order to protect her and she will never forget all that he gave up the day he made that decision.

Alex’s great grief is that Justin has given up an assuredly brilliant future, in which he would have shone as a superstar and had his pick of careers, in exchange for being hers.

“You’re so smart, and grown up and good and – and handsome, and I’m irresponsible and immature and –“

She sees his being with her as a sacrifice. She doesn’t know anything about sacrifice yet. She finds her parents living in the same apartment in New York they fled so many lives ago. They’re waiting for Justin and Alex to come back, or send word, or something. It exposes them to an acute degree of risk, of course. Alex orchestrates the Resistance mission to evacuate/relocate her parents, but she does not reveal herself nor reconnect with them. She lets them go. It’s unclear why, although I suspect it would be tough to have a relationship with them without dealing with the elephant in the room, the fact that she and Justin are now together. Yet I think it was important for her to see her parents one last time, because it gave her closure. After she returns to Italy she and Justin welcome their first child. The baby is a mini-dynamo and a nexus of magical potential, sending up trails of rainbow sparks even in utero, so Alex makes the painful decision to give up her powers for good. This means she will be mortal, and so will the child, and any future children or grandchildren. It also means she and Justin will be allowed to stay under the radar and hang onto the life they have painstakingly built. Remember how I said that the root of both love and magic is sacrifice? This is the sacrifice that defines Alex Russo, that she was willing to give up magic -- the thing that has shaped her identity for twenty-odd years -- in order to be with Justin.

[storiesofwildfire]

          { plotted starter for @ataash​ ;; Loki & Cayde }

♔—- Rage.

That was all Loki knew upon waking for the very first time since their death. It was always said that when Guardians were reawakened by their Ghosts, they would still be in the moment they lost their lives. While Guardians did not remember their pasts, the emotions that they experienced lingered. Many woke feeling fear or regret or confusion, but all Loki knew as they sat upright, hand already reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Well... it was there, but it’d been smashed into so many pieces that it wasn’t exactly salvageable.

Why were they so angry, though? A fair question, though one they feared they may never find the answer to. Whatever killed them the first time around, whatever caused their death... It enraged them more than it could ever scare them. Even that didn’t feel right, though. Loki didn’t feel anger over their own demise so much as the bigger picture. Whatever killed him had killed hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of people. That was obvious just by looking out into space.

Even their companion—their... Ghost—didn’t seem to have much insight on Loki’s past. Did she know who and what they were before they were woken up, or was she really as naïve as she claimed? She did tell them what she knew of what happened in this place, though. A war struck by Queen Mara Sov of the Awoken. She sent her people, not only her best and brightest but the majority of them, hurtling through space towards the Dreadnaught, towards Oryx, a threat to the system the likes of which had never been seen before.

Apparently, he had the ability to take creatures all across the galaxy by force and corrupt them into mindless minions that followed his every command, stripping them of the very thing that made them alive in the first place: Their will. That notion made Loki’s skin crawl, but after listening to their Ghost prattle on about it for a little, it felt as though Mara, the queen they supposedly served, was hardly any better than this Oryx.

“Why are you called Saga?” Loki asked, a soft sigh coming from the new and still dazed Guardian.

They desperately wanted to steer the conversation away from what caused Loki’s death and where Loki might have come from. Not because they didn’t want to know. By the Light, did they! Loki’s curious nature hadn’t diminished just because they were reborn, and the mystery now cloaked themselves, so Loki definitely wished to know, but for now? They needed to focus on repairing the vessel Saga found Loki in. Loki didn’t have the functioning gear to go out into space safely and if they were in hopes of getting anywhere that wouldn’t kill them on sight, Loki needed to get the ship running again.

Fortunately, that felt like second nature. For some reason... Had they been some sort of mechanic? Or an inventor, perhaps?

“I think it was a joke by some other Guardians I’ve come across in my search for you, Guardi—erm, Loki. I’ve been looking for you for a long time now. Other Guardians and their Ghosts would say ‘ah, the Saga continues,’ as I crossed paths with them.”

“That’s just a figure of speech. They weren’t literally calling you Saga.”

The Ghost paused beside her new Guardian, floating beside their head. Her flashlight flickered away from the console Loki worked on for a moment, but before they could say anything, she readjusted her focus to shine light on Loki’s project.

“Really...? I kinda liked the name,” she murmured. Her shell even drooped a little in her depression.

Crossing several wires and reattaching them in the proper order, Loki finally pulled themselves out from under the console and sat up. Upon seeing how their comment made their little companion deflate, Loki frowned. “Hey now... it’s a good name,” they murmured. “It sounds like you’re the weaver of a thousand stories, no a million, and everyone would flock to you for a good time. Bet you’re full of knowledge too, eh? All the best storytellers are.”

Now that got her to perk right up. “You like stories?”

“Of course. At least... I think I do? Not really sure about anything right now.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wish waking you up didn’t take so much from you. If I could change that, I absolutely would, but I—” Loki eyed her curiously. “—I’m so happy to have finally found you. There are only a few Ghosts left, you know, looking for their Guardians. I’m one of the last. I’ve waited for you for hundreds of years and I couldn’t be prouder of my Guardian.”

“You hardly even know me.”

“I know your spirit and your heart. That’s why I chose you. That’s why the Light brought me to you in the first place. And by the Traveler, you are beautiful, inside and out. You’re going to do great things. I just know it. And you’re going to be the strongest warlock this system’s ever seen.”

Okay, maybe she was laying it on a bit thick, but it did make Loki smile. Despite the negative emotions they felt upon waking up, Saga’s joy seemed to be infectious, and as much information as she had to dump into Loki’s lap, they never grew tired of listening to her. By the time the repairs on the ship were ( hopefully ) intact enough to at least get them to Earth, Loki knew more information than they ever wanted to about the Traveler, the Guardians, the Tower, and the Last City. It seemed like that was their destination. Loki wasn’t entirely sure they could trust the Vanguard or the Guardians who resided in the Tower, but that was the only place they could currently go that had any potential for support, allies, and proper gear. Loki didn’t even know what it meant to be a warlock or what they could do with their newfound warlock-ness, so, at the very least, they were going to need some help...

“I’m seriously impressed you were able to get this decrepit ship running again. I panicked when you actually woke up, because I had no idea how I would safely get you out of that ship,” Saga mused. “You must have been a crafty Awoken.”

“I suppose so,” Loki agreed. “It felt like second nature, but I’m not sure this thing will hold together long enough to get where we need to go...” They were already switching the systems on so they could take off and hopefully pull out of the Dreadnaught’s orbit without tearing the entire ship apart. “Why were you all the way out here anyway? Isn’t it dangerous to be floating around in open space?”

“Aye, but I was looking for my Guardian. Guardians are revived from the dead. A ship graveyard seemed like the right kind of place to maybe find someone... And I did!”

“How many other bodies did you scan out here before you found me?”

“Don’t do that to yourself. What Mara Sov did to her people is unforgivable. You are some of the good that came out of her destruction. I know that’s not an easy thing to digest.” She gently bumped the side of Loki’s head, her awkward attempt at a gentle nuzzle. Despite how silly it must have looked, it did bring the young warlock a bit of comfort, and they relaxed into their seat.

By some miracle, the standard Crow-issued ship managed to make the journey back to Earth and pull into the Tower without falling apart. If it was going to space travel again anytime in the near future, however... some serious work would need to be done. Saga helped them transmat out of the ship and down into the landing zone of the Tower, which was hustling and bustling with Guardians, employees, and machines alike. At least, the Tower should have been buzzing with how many people were out and about, but everyone turned to look at the newest arrival, staring quietly. Some murmured about the ship that Loki arrived in. Clearly, it was recognizable to them. Others gawked simply because it’d been so long since a new Guardian arrived at the Tower. They were few and far between these days.

“It’s okay,” Saga whispered. “It’s been a while since a new Guardian came to the Tower. They’re just... shocked. The few Ghosts left have sort of gained a reputation for being forever Guardianless.” Now that was just sad. “We just need to find Ikora. She’s the Warlock Vanguard. She’ll help you get settled and introduce you to the rest of her fireteam. Cayde-6, the Hunter Vanguard, and Zavala, the Titan Vanguard. Excuse me!” Saga was already flying off towards the nearest Guardian. “Could you direct us to Ikora?”

“Uh? Sure...” The Guardian was still wearing their helmet, so any hopes of seeing their face or expression went flying out the window. “She’s with the Vanguard, down those stairs over there. Furthest room down.”

“Thanks!” Saga’s cheery demeanor also came in a somewhat loud variety, apparently, but she wasted no time in ushering Loki down the stairs, around a strange woman standing in ominous green lighting and holding what looked to be a destroy Ghost Shell. There were a few employees down there as well as a few Guardians.

“A new Guardian?” a deep voice asked. The Titan stood in front of the Crucible Banner, though Loki didn’t recognize the symbols or what they meant. He wore a helmet with two horns, one broken off, and a fur-lined chest piece that looked classy and oversized. “Excellent! Ha ha! I can’t wait to see what you can do in the Crucible!”

“The... what?”

“Don’t worry about that now, Guardian,” Saga all but pressed her entire shell into Loki’s shoulder blades, egging them further into the corridor. At last, they finally spilled out into a room with floor to ceiling windows across the far wall, a long conference table in the center, and shelves upon shelves of books, maps, scrolls, and interesting looking artifacts. A few crew members stood around the perimeter of the room, busying themselves on tablets or consoles, but three Guardians stood around the massive table, each with a Ghost hovering beside them.

Due to their very distinctive styles, Loki could guess which was which. Zavala, of course, had to be the large one at the end of the table with the over-compensating armor. The Titan Vanguard. Apparently Big was sort of the Titan’s schtick. In the middle of the table, lingering in front of what looked like a giant map, a surprisingly tall Exo stood, conversing with his Ghost about something. He must have been the Hunter Vanguard. Cayde-6, as he was the only Exo Saga mentioned. And Ikora was the only female in the Vanguard, so she had to be the Warlock they were looking for.

All three of them looked up once Loki stepped up towards the table. Curiously, they exchanged glances with one another, but before Loki ever got the chance to introduce themselves, Saga flew up to Ikora’s Ghost. “Hello, Ikora! Good to see you again.”

“Saga,” Ikora murmured, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips. Kind of a rare sight, truly. “You’ve finally found yourself a Guardian, have you?”

“Not just any Guardian! A Warlock!”

“Oh, is that right?” Ikora asked, amused. Loki had been under the impression that she would be a lot more intimidating, but they didn’t see any of that. She did, however, flash a warning look in Cayde’s direction before waving Loki over. “Hello, Guardian. It’s good to see Saga has finally found you. My name is Ikora Rey. I’m the Warlock Vanguard and I suppose, since you’re my newest Warlock, I’ll be helping you get settled in. What might I call you?”

“Loki,” they answer.

That gets her lip to twitch upward again. “Loki,” she repeats. “What a pleasure it is. Allow me to introduce you to Zavala and Cayde, the other two members of the Vanguard.” Though Cayde-6 already looked giddy enough to slide up and swoop in to meet the newest addition to the Tower. Saga eyed the way the Hunter Vanguard practically bounced and already slid closer and she kept herself protectively by Loki’s side as if she would be able to protect them no matter what came after them.

Not that any of the Vanguard were a danger, really, but even still... She just got her Guardian. She wasn’t about to take any chances, so she’d hover close by... Basically always.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all as well, I’m just? Very disoriented about this whole thing. Saga’s insisted that’s rather normal for new Guardians, but it’s not a great feeling. We’ve been through a lot just to get here safely...”

[mariesmemes]

Shameless (U.S) sentence starters (feel free to adjust to fit your muse):

“Silence in our house usually means someone stopped breathing.”

“GIVE ME THE GODDAMN METH!”

“What the FUCK is wrong with you?!?”

“I want to see the world!”

“I’ve seen it. It’s a piece of shit.”

“Circle doesn’t start with a ‘S’? What the fuck?”

“This place is a shit hole.”

“Do I tell you about EMT shit? Leave the goddamn stealing to the experts.”

“This is not a dictatorship. This is America. Give me liberty, or give me meth.”

“All I had to do was pull out and you would have never been born.”

“Your mother told me she had something valuable for you kids, but that it might be dangerous to retrieve it.”

“I WAS NINE AND I WAS TAKING CARE OF YOU!”

“How dangerous?”

“Said the DEA could be involved.”

“She didn’t love me.”

“She didn’t love you.”

“She didn’t give a shit about anyone else but herself”

“I’m glad she’s dead.”

“As long as it’s under a dollar, they don’t care what we charge them.”

“If you want to piss away every single chance that comes your way, that’s your problem, but don’t drag me into it.”

“I’m a good mom. I would never do half the shit that you’ve done to us. Why are you even here?”

“At least turn around and look at me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“__, it’s me baby.”

“Great.”

“Don’t you think you should have asked me before giving out free drinks?”

“This house has been weird recently.”

“Fuck you, __!”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you’ll see me tomorrow because I’m gonna be waking up next to you.”

“Wait, we’re going to leave an angry Russian with a hard on in our bedroom?”

“Do you wanna talk for a minute?”

“Nope.”

“I like my room.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“What? I was going to say something nice. You have a great ass, it makes up for your small tits.”

“What the fuck is an honor code?”

“She thinks it will solve all her problems.”

“Even the homeless get better stuff than us.”

“I told them I was part black, they didn’t believe me.”

“I am kept woman. You want good life, find someone to keep you.”

“My other wife doesn’t love how you sold our wife into sex slavery.”

“Who do I give a BJ to around here to get a meal?”

“Your thing is kinda weird. It has all this extra skin and it freaks me out.”

“Set ‘em up, bar keep. My liver’s been on vacation and I got a months worth of drinking to catch up on.”

“You want to get shit faced in the middle of the day. Vodka’s best. Believe me. I know. I’m Russian.”

“They call it distance learning. Know what I call it? Discrimination”

“Can you fucking believe that shit?”

“I want to learn.”

“Okay, here’s a lesson: use condoms.”

“It’d be funny if he actually showed up.”

“Where’s your house?”

“My tent’s right up there.”

“Your tent?”

“No mass murders kids!”

“You could do things with your tongue that would make a rattlesnake blush.”

“I just got us the house back. I’m not getting booted out.”

“He/She/They wasn’t taking advantage of me. We’re in love!”

“I want to know why you think I owe you anything.”

“This is bible study __. We’re here to praise Jesus, not ask him for favours.”

“You smell like a toilet.”

“Nobody wants to fuck Mary Poppins.”

“Forget that barbecued Greek.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m a naturally helpful person.”

“That must be tiring.”

“Fuck that house, and fuck your goddamn dead beat family.”

“You’ll need someone to pick you up, you’ll be heavily medicated. Do you have a husband or boyfriend?”

“She has both.”

“You go anywhere near __, I will set you on fucking fire.”

“I can tell when someone’s being cagey, or being a shit because I spent most of my life being both.”

“It’s your hormones. You leak from your face until the babies come and then you leak from your titties.”

“Yo white girl, I don’t know you.”

“You ghosted him. Now, you’re ghosting your baby.”

“Knives are in the drawer if you want to do a home abortion.”

“He’s coming back. His parents are ass holes.”

“I’m sick of hearing about your dead girlfriend.”

“They pay four dollars for espresso. They can suck my balls if they want.”

“It totally looks like you just fucked a tadpole.”

“Guess our reputation as a shit hole is still safe.”

“What is the matter with you people?”

“He/She/They probably killed herself just to get away from you.”

“Get up old man.”

“Use the downstairs toilet if you’re so fucking desperate.”

“Happy is overrated. Grow up, __.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You have made me happy. I’ve never been very happy.”

“Could I possibly be doing a worse job at raising these kids?”

“__, __, I’m finally happy. People like us, we can be happy. I love him and that’s the most important thing, to find somebody to love, right? Who loves you back for who you are. I want that for you.”

“Why won’t you ever let me be happy?”

“You can’t have a boy in your bed!”

“I am a grownup.”

“No you’re not. No you’re not.”

“I’m pregnant!”

“Does she/he make you happy or is it just about the sex?”

“Sex, mostly.”

“Let’s go get drunk and buy a gun.”

“We should clarify something, because for me personally, part of feeling alive is being alive!”

“Drinking age in my country is four…and a half.”

“You know, having a Russian sex worker isn’t ideal for child care.”

“Yeah, but she/he/they does come in handy.”

“I know! Let’s get crack!”

“I’m not homeless, I told you. I have a home, I’m just not welcome there.”

“Family sucks ass!”

“Such wisdom for one so young.”

“I got nowhere else to go.”

“No, just mentally ill.”

“Fuck you! I’m __, I was just getting started. Fuck you pancreas! Fuck you cells! Fuck you med school! Fuck you!”

“You think you scare me? Bring it bitch.”

“What if he/she/they shows/show remorse?”

“What’s that?”

“It means you say you’re sorry.”

“Sucks to be you! College is so much better without school!”

“Eh, it’s a tragedy when a young man ends up behind prison bars.”

“Oh, don’t blame yourself.”

“Spare me, __. Your kid did not get arrested because of me.”

“Let’s be honest, __ was not exactly destined for great things. Pack your shit and get out.”

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late.”

“So either fight for this marriage or cut him loose. Let him lick his wounds and move on, ya know? This halfway thing you’re doing, giving him space, it’s kind of fucked. Right? If this is a relationship you wanna save, then you gotta fucking save it.”

[definedwrath]

      uploading  data  …  ⟳  𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙴  !

*  ;  —  welcome  ,  HAROLD  “  HARRY  ”  OSBORN  .  a  long  way  from  spiderman  ps4  +  marvel  comics  ,  huh  ?  hm  …  a  twenty  year  old  environmental  law  student  who  looks  like  JEON  JEONGGUK  —  could  be  worse  .  i  heard  you  were  at  PIZZA  PLANET  when  we  un  -  glitched  ,  &  you  (  started  crying  ]  .  still  the  giving  &  self  -  destructive  type  ,  that’s  why  [  stifiling  silence  in  an  empty  house  ,  steady  beeping  of  an  iv  monitor  ,  &  shadows  casted  in  a  quiet  room  ]’s  totally  your  vibe  .  the  memory  of  GOING  UNDER  AN  EXPERIMENTAL  CURE  is  hazy  ,  but  maybe  the  (  leather  -  bound  journal  &  a  laptop  full  of  your  research  stations’  data  )  waiting  for  you  at  the  pawn  shop’ll  bring  clarity  .  +  human  /  venom  host  ,  nonbinary  masc  [  he/they  ]  ,  bisexual  .

             tws  :  death  ,  abandonment  ,  chronic  /  terminal  illness

BEGINNING  —  harry  doesn’t  like  to  remember  his  dead  name  .  the  name  he  chose  is  harold  osborn  ,  going  by  harry  for  everything  besides  standardised  test  taking  and  legal  documents  .  compromised  with  his  dad  and  earned  theopolis  as  his  middle  name  .  he  grew  up  in  an  initially  loving  household  .  his  mother  with  her  teaching  him  how  to  bake  and  explaining  her  passion  for  environmental  responsibility  .  his  father  teaching  him  how  to  ride  a  bike  and  telling  him  how  one  day  ,  oscorp  would  be  his  to  rule  .  a  mother  who  would  live  until  she  didn’t  ,  becoming  something  other  than  living  ,  alive  in  nothing  but  memories  .  a  father  absent  from  chosen  isolation  ,  after  that  .  a  father  with  a  cold  stare  and  cold  words  .  he  had  grown  up  impossibly  lonely  with  only  impossible  wealth  to  keep  him  company  aside  from  his  two  best  friends  .  he  did  his  best  to  be  the  good  ,  generous  person  that  his  mom  raised  him  to  be  ,  but  he  was  never  quite  the  same  after  her  death  .  a  rare  hereditary  illness  ,  oshtoran  syndrome  ,  that  took  away  his  mother  in  everything  including  physical  ,  an  illness  that  took  away  his  father  in  everything  but  physical  .  he  went  to  university  for  environmental  law  ,  graduated  and  went  into  getting  an  mba  .  he  tried  to  continue  his  mother’s  legacy  in  environmental  law  ,  her  research stations  ,  but  he  had  fallen  sick  .  desperate  for  a  chance  to  live  ,  lying  to  those  he  cared  for  to  avoid  them  having  to  watch  him  die  ,  he  went  under  an  experimental  cure  .  the  venom  symbiote  .  

MIDDLE  —  long  since  ditched  his  dead  name  for  a  different  name  .  the  full  name  attached  to  him  in  the  orphanage  was  harold  lyman  ,  continuing on  to  use  harry  as  a  preferred  reference  .  he  lived  here  his  whole  life  ,  having  went  to  the  high  school  and  was  accepted  to  blackwell  university  as  he  does  post  -  baccalaureate  research  in  environmental  science  and  finished  his  degree  in  environmental  law  .  

END  —  when  harry  un  -  glitched  and  got  half  of  his  memories  back  ,  he  understandably  freaked  out  .  he  doesn’t  remember  everything  ,  but  he  does  remember  the  basic  gist  of  what  his  life  was  like  .  he  broke  out  in  tears  at  the  realisation  that  he  hadn’t  just  been  abandoned  by  his  birth  parents  ,  but  that  in  his  real  life  ...  at  one  point  ,  they  were  a  happy  family  .  he  doesn't  quite  know  if  he  prefers  the  clean  cut  ties  of  a  full  abandonment  in  this  life  or  if  the  desire  for  even  a  semblance  of  what  a  family  was  like  in  his  original  life  would  have  been  enough  for  him  to  be  happy  because  he  doesn’t  remember  being  happy  with  that  .  he  fully  remembers  his  oshtoran  syndrome  ,  but  he  doesn’t  remember  the  venom  symbiote  .  as  far  as  he  knows  ,  they  were  still  using  gr  -  27  ,  aka  devil’s  breath  ,  as  the  main  cure  to  his  illness  .  he  does  not  know  that  he  is  currently  hosting  the  venom  symbiote  or  a  synthesised  version  of  it  .  of  course  ,  there  are  still  plenty  of  things  that  remain  foggy  to  him  .  he  no  longer  remembers  what  his  mother’s  face  looks  like  nor  does  he  have  any  positive  connections  or  memories  surrounding  his  father  .  as  far  as  he  knows  ,  they  aren’t  his  family  .  a  family  can’t  be  a  family  if  part  of  the  family  is  gone  ,  dead  ,  forgotten  ,  or  a  mix  of  the  three  .  

SCRIBBLED  IN  THE  MARGIN  —  

DESPERATE  TO  CONNECT  ,

adopted  parents  /  siblings  ;  a  two  for  one  because  they’re  kinda  related  !  if  any  of  you  want  an  adopted  child  or  sibling  ,  harry’s  here  if  you'd  like  a  well  -  meaning  and  well  -  behaved  familial  tie  who’s  just  trying  to  do  their  best .

friends  ;  whether  it  be  childhood  friends  ,  family  friends  ,  good  /  bad  influences  ,  confidants  ,  casual  friends  ,  best  friends  ,  etc  !  give  this  lovely  one  some  friends  ,  he  will  absolutely  spoil  you  in  words  of  affirmation  constantly  . 

crushes  ;  (  m/f/nb  )  ,  past  crushes  ,  mutual  crushes  ,  fleeting  crushes  or  unrequited  ones  !  it's  unrealistic  for  harry  to  not  have  had  someone  in  his  life  he  either  had  a  crush  on  or  had  a  crush  on  him  .

exes  ;  (  m/f/nb  )  ,  previous  relationships  that  ended  amicably  or  horribly  ,  it’s  entirely  up  to  you  .  whether  because  they  fell  out  of  love  ,  weren’t  in  love  enough  ,  or  even  something  about  them  as  people  just  didn’t  match  .  

classmates  ;  people  that  harry  has  gone  to  school  with  ,  is  seeing  at  blackwell  university  ,  etc  .  this  one’s  general  on  purpose  !  they  could  have  been  lab  mates  ,  study  partners  ,  seatmates  stuck  in  a  general  ed  ,  so  on  .

TAG  DIRECTORY  ,

ii.   and  i  earned  it  back   /   abt.     about  . ii.   not  completely  helpless   /   beg.     starters  . ii.   free  as  a  bird   /   vis.     visuals  . ii.   for  the  bonus  round   /   ism.     musings  . ii.   how  spectacular  a  move   /   int.     interactions  . ii.   i've  got  this  on  my  own   /   aes.     aesthetics  . ii.   not  knowing  who  you  are   /   sol.     solos  . ii.   i  know  my  way  out   /   ask.     ask  responses  . ii.   sins  of  the  father   /   dyn.     harry  osborn  &  his  complicated  emotions  regarding  norman  osborn  . ii.   i  won't  forget  my  family   /   dyn.     blood  of  the  covenant  is  thicker  than  the  water  of  the  womb  ,  all  of  the  people  harry  considers  family  .