#domestic abuse mentions

[thunderc1an]

red fur.

[blitzwhore]

I'm certain this has been pointed out before, but...

“Lust shouldn't be about force.”

“Oh! No! Never. NEVER that.”

When Stolas said he would never do that to Blitz, he really meant it. After all, he knows intimately well what it's like to be forced.

[mariaiscrafting]

Jack responded, here are some key points:

He stands with Shelby 100%

Although he has his own experiences with abuse, he never experienced anything with Wilbur

He finds it upsetting to see people online speculating about if he had been abused, too

This came as a big shock for him and he likely won't say anything more on the subject in the future

Here's the link to Women's Aid that he provided in chat: https://www.womensaid.org.uk/

[ianthine-ichor]

I had an ask for this story but it was sadly eaten by the Tumblr gods 😔

So for the anon who asked for John Price x Reader who comes to him years later after a bad breakup because they are in danger, this one's for you!

John Price x Reader ~ All I Have is You

Summary: You come running back to John years after a nasty break-up in hopes of finding some help out of a horrible situation.

Word count:: 6.5k

Tw in tags

John's life could never be simple. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many loose ends he pulled together by the skin of his teeth. There always managed to be something he let lay dormant, something he let fall to the wayside just long enough for it to maybe even slip his mind. And damn near every time it did, it came back with a vengeance.

However, of all the things he knew would come back to haunt him, you were what he expected least of all.

He had believed you a long dead part of his life, a piece of himself better numbed in alcohol than thought about. A face he'd spent endless nights trying to forget the smile of, endless partners failing to take your stead. He'd long since conceded to that aspect of himself being buried, hardly remedied by the ‘I love you’ that would fall from whoever had been his most recent escape from the icy cold of his bed.

But then, on a day like any other in this silent little place he'd given up trying to make feel like any sort of home, he'd opened the door to your unmistakable features.

He didn't know what to feel in the years of silence that seemed to pass. His mind and muscles tore themselves apart trying to find what reaction seemed appropriate. A part of himself didn't believe it, a similar part almost reached out to hold you, and another felt infuriated. He wasn't sure if it was because even so close you felt like light years away or if it was because he wanted to slam the door in your face for daring to ever come back. And for a moment, however small, he seriously considered the latter of the two.

But then you spoke. And suddenly whatever amount of spine had led him to the thought melted like butter.

“I need to talk. I know I have no right to ask but…” you paused, your voice softer than he thinks he's ever heard you speak. There might have even been a quiver in it, but he could hardly believe such a sound could come from the person who had once held together his broken pieces like you'd been solving him your entire life.

“I need your help” your chin raises and you meet his gaze, his skin flashing with the familiarity in how your eyes narrowed and your face snarled. It's hard to take your attempt at strength seriously with how feigned of an attempt it was. He says nothing and just the same he watches as you crumble. Your eyes avert, your hands twitch, your body leans away from him.

He hardly recognizes you.

But he steps aside all the same, a nod inviting you in as he keeps his vow of silence. You almost hesitate, but step in soon enough. Like a long lost ritual you kick your shoes off at the door, hanging your jacket and bristling as the light cold leaves your skin. He notes how you don't let him out of your sight but he can't tell why your eyes burn as much as they do.

Eventually he leads you to the kitchen. He wonders if you notice the empty frames. He wonders if you even care to look.

Like some twisted version of an old dream, you take your spot at the table where you used to sit. And before he even realizes what he's doing he's perking coffee, his eyes turning to you.

“Coffee?” He asks, but he isn't even sure why he does. Looking at you would be enough of an answer. You looked like you hadn't slept in months. You nod anyway.

He pretends to forget how you make your coffee. Out of spite? Anger? Frustration? It doesn't matter. He simply couldn't find the energy to put into someone whose presence made his heart find an old pace that left him biting his tongue at the bittersweet taste. Either way you get your coffee and he somehow finds the energy to sit across from you.

“You wanted to speak. Speak” his words come out harsher than he means them yet he doesn't find regret settling in his chest. Only minor annoyance as he watches you almost recoil from him, your drink pulled to your chest. Your eyes seem to search around for a moment, as if the words you needed so badly to speak would simply appear in front of you. He remembers how he used to find it sweet and can only react by biting his tongue harder.

“You haven't changed much” you begin. He can't help the grimace he shows as the annoyance in his chest grows. He catches how you straighten up under it.

“And you have” he answers back. You say nothing for a long moment and he isn't sure if he offended you or not. But he watches as you take a deep breath, your face hardening in a way he doesn't like.

“I know this isn't exactly…great for you. But it isn't for me either-”

“Why’d you leave?” the words slip out of his mouth before they had even been a thought in his head. Yet where he expected a look of anger or annoyance of your own, you only pause. And soon after, your look manages to grow colder.

“Because you didn't love me anymore” you answer back succinctly, calmly. He feels rage bloom in his chest at the words.

“Bullshit” he mutters through gritted teeth. He doesn't catch the sudden grip you hold on your cup and the way you slightly shake. But other than that you don't break.

“I must have phrased that wrong” there's a tone in your voice, an inflection of something horrible on your tongue.

“You did a piss poor job of making me feel like I was anything other than your fucking bed warmer” your words fall like acid on him. They soak through his marrow and into his bloodstream and become him. And his body rejects it just as quickly.

“You knew the type’a job I had when you met me” his voice is low and restrained as he tries to hold himself back

“It had nothing to do with your work-”

“Well what the bloody hell did it have to do with then!?” He stands, his hands slamming on the table as you immediately flinch away.

“Sit-!” You yell almost instinctively, the only thing he catches is the sudden terror in your tone. You take a stilted breath before speaking again.

“Sit down…please” your voice is much calmer but it does a horrible job at hiding the hitch in your voice or how your subtle shaking suddenly isn't so subtle. The strange demeanor stuns him for a moment, long enough for his flash of frustration to cool back to a simmer. There's a horrible feeling that crawls up his spine at your reaction, this gnawing, biting disgust that rips through him in a way he can't quite explain. He listens despite its elusive source or how he hates the way your eyes are locked on his every movement.

A horrible quiet passes that only further smothers the flames that had grown in his chest. You both hardly took any sips of your coffee as you seemed focused on your breathing and he was focused on loosening the sudden tightness of his muscles. Soon enough he spoke again, though he wasn't about to attempt that conversation again, as unsatisfied as he was by your answer.

“Why are you here?” He asks and this time he finds that his voice is weaker than he'd have liked it; betraying the words that he had meant to sting.

Yet despite that, he watches as your breath pauses and your grip tightens. How had you managed to grow even more tense?

“I don't have anyone else left” you answered, your eyes finally missing him, flickering away for what was barely a single moment. In spite of how hard he fought against it the painful beating in his chest left him worried. He tried not to show it. He hoped he hid it well enough for you not to notice.

The silence seemed to get to you. That or his stare had. Either way you continued.

“I just need somewhere to stay. Just a few months. I’ll figure it out by then and be gone. Just long enough to get some cash together” you try to explain and finally he spots something familiar in you. But it is not a part of you he once knew that he sees. No, he spots something else.

“You’re running from something” he interjects at his realization, your movements freezing at his accusation. You don't seem shocked so much as worried. He hated that you would ever even try to hide the fact from him.

“Yeah um…I am- but it's- it's complicated okay? I just need somewhere to stay-”

“Is it someone?” He questioned, your words lips closing into quiet once more. It stings a strange part of his soul that you seemed so unwilling to tell him outright.

“...It doesn't matter” you finally speak and he hides how his fists tighten. He hates that he cares at all. He hates that he can't help it.

Your plea for shelter lingers in the air for moments longer than either of you cared for. You couldn't handle the quiet of that for long.

“I don't have much, but I'll give you what I can. I'll get a job and pay you back I-”

“No” he shut you down immediately. Your face fell, the desperation of your gaze fixed on him.

“You can stay and I don't need your money” he clarifies and despite the lack of smile, your relief is more than visible.

“Thank you. I promise I'll be gone as quickly as I can get everything in order” you try to instill any sort of confidence that you would be of little bother, that he would hardly notice you here at all.

He couldn't help but feel his stomach fall to his feet at the words.

-

The first month you stayed had been…surreal, to say the least. For the most part the two of you did pretty well with avoiding each other. For moments of the day he would even wonder if that had been some weird fever dream. You? At his door? After so long? It all just felt so strange. Stranger yet that the circumstances were all but ideal. He thought about asking further, about pushing for what it was that led you here and why you had even been running in the first place. But he found that his tongue nearly died in his mouth every time he saw you around. It almost didn't feel real.

And despite the cold that still ran up his spine, the emptiness that found refuge in his chest, the blood that sat heavy in his veins; despite it all…

You still felt like home.

Yet you were still so far out of reach. Words seemed like complicated equations, conversations like rocket science. His words never left the way he wanted them to, his tone always the wrong amount of harsh. And with the way your eyes tracked his presence when he was around, almost unwavering from him…it all just felt so hard to explain. Something had changed, of course it had. It had been years since you two had last seen each other and it had hardly ended on good terms. Still, there was something so wrong here. Something in the way you ever so slightly leaned from him, or the way your eyes flickered to the closest door, or how it all seemed so familiar in a way that wasn't like home. In a way that was more like the warzones he'd grown so accustomed to.

And he could just see it, that fight in your eyes. That twitchiness that you had never had around him before. And he couldn't help but wonder why. Why. Why. Why. Why. What were you fighting and why did it almost feel like it was him?

It was horrible, the way that question had finally been answered.

The front door had slammed open, startling him from the dinner he had been making and setting every one of his senses aflame. It slammed shut before he had even made it to the hall and when he had he could hardly bring himself to swallow the scene.

You stood pushing on the door like it would hold damn near the whole world at bay. With how violently you were shaking he almost wished it would. Your hiccups and sniffles filled the air as you tried and failed about a hundred times to turn the lock. Your clothes were disheveled, your jacket gone and your shirt caked in dirt and…

No, no that wasn't…

“Y/n?” He hardly even remembered opening his mouth before your name fell out. Quiet and worried in a way he hadn't meant to show.

When your head snapped to him all of his insides twisted in a sickly mess. Features he remembered days of leaving soft kisses on were now warped by deep bruises and bleeding wounds. Your eyes wide and glossy, your skin a mix of blood and tears. Your breath had hitched as if any movement would turn him against you. He couldn't help but feel worse at the notion. He moves. Just one simple step closer.

And suddenly it's as if a dam breaks. Your murmuring words he can't understand, a panic on your face he hadn't seen in all of the time he's known you. You yell and thrash and he can't tell if you even know what you're doing, he can't tell if you even see him anymore. His body almost acts on instinct as he quickly grabs the nearest cloth near him before making his way to you. He places the cloth in your hand, your body flinching in a way that makes him hesitate a moment before he guides you to cover your bleeding nose.

“You gotta breathe” he mutters, no longer attempting to cover the look of confused worry that covers him. You seem to try, but a bloody nose makes that a little difficult. In the meantime he guides you to the bathroom, sitting you down as he fishes out a medkit. You stop talking altogether at that point, going eerily silent.

And it stays that way as he wipes away the blood and around deeply forming bruises. It stays as he cleans the wounds and makes sure your nose isn't broken. It stays when the peroxide hits your skin and when the bandages cover them. It's a horrible, false silence. A silence so loud his ears ring, though that could have just as well been the adrenaline leaving his veins. For a while he's fine with it, for a while it's better than the terror-filled panic, for a while it's better than the way you stared and twitched and sobbed.

But then you get a look in your eye. A dangerous look. A look he's seen too many times in his line of work. And suddenly the quiet isn't so safe anymore.

“Still with me there?” He asks in an attempt to gain your attention. To his relief your eyes flick to him and nod. He doesn't quite like how quickly they had turned cold again. In fact he's sure he hates it.

“What happened?” He finally asks and watches how the distant look in your eyes dissolves. Your lips quiver as you try desperately to hold onto a calm that wasn't coming. Your hands grip tightly onto a bloodied paper towel in your hands.

“I-” your voice cracks and you clear your throat. Your eyes avoid him like a simple glance would kill you.

“It's complicated I-” the panic in your voice rises again.

“I have to go- John I have to go-”

“Now hold on” his hand lands on yours, your body tensing under his touch. He can't help but feel sickened at the thought of you scared of him.

“Whatever happened, I promise it's safe, alright? No one's getting in here. You're safe. Just…” he pauses for a moment, his eyes showing his hesitation before he, as gently as he's ever done anything in his life, he places your hand to his chest. Your fingers flatten against him, familiar and comforting, as he lets out a deep breath.

“Just breathe” he almost pleads, something he finds himself regretting almost immediately. Yet despite feeling that he was doing a horrible job, it seemed to calm you all the same. Much to his relief you managed a few deep breaths, your hand still pressed on his heartbeat that he forced to slow.

He is surprised, after all of this, to hear a faint laugh fall from your lips. Quiet and saddened yes, but a laugh nonetheless. And he couldn't have felt more ridiculous than at that moment.

“What?” Or perhaps it seems he could, his dumbfoundedness not hidden in the tone of his voice. It isn't hard for you to wipe the smile from your face, if it had even really been a smile at all.

“Nothing I just…I remember when I had to do this for you” your tone is bittersweet.

“I never thought I'd be on the other side” your voice is breathless and strained, a certain feeling behind it he couldn't quite place. He finds himself snickering along as the once painful memory hits him. He would agree. He never imagined someone strong enough to pull him back to reality could ever need him to do the same.

“Yeah…world's got a fucked up way of making circles” he replies and you give a half-hearted attempt at agreement. And it seems that a moment too soon you pull away and he feels almost as if you take his heartbeat with you.

“Yeah…Yeah, it does…” you murmur, a sentiment far too true found in the quiet whisper. There is almost silence until you speak again.

“I'm sorry” the apology falls in a way not meant to ever leave you. The sound was as sorrowful as seeing a bird stripped of its wings. An act against nature, a horrible twisting of what should be.

“I’m sorry” you break again, though this time you don't shatter so much as you crumble. And he knows then that those words aren't for him. That he hated how they sounded coming from you, how they weren't what he wanted, how he could only wish you'd take them back so that he didn't have to feel the hole in his chest trying to carve its way through his skin.

And how useless he felt then, sat in front of your broken state knowing that you had once done the same with him. How utterly and completely he knew that there was nothing he could do to wipe this looming, horrible terror that was held so deep in your eyes he could only see a warped reflection of himself in them.

And he simply couldn't handle it. He felt weak, hopeless, useless. But what was there to do? He had never seen you so truly pained, he had only ever known the other side of this situation.

So he did the only thing he could. He pulled you close, slow and cautious, before the both of you crashed into one another. Hands that had twitched at his mere presence now held him as tightly as the shirt on his back. As if, should you let go, you'd be cast adrift again into the crimson rapids. And he could only hold just as tightly, hoping that if he just held on tight enough that the falling parts of you would stay, that he might save even a single piece from the agony you were lost in a sea of.

You two stayed like that for a long while, hardly caring about that time that passed. At some point, so overtaken by the exhaustion of your endless bouts of tears and the near-death experience you'd just endured, you'd passed out in his arms.

And like some cruel twisting of a memory he held dear, he carried you to bed. He tried not to glance too much at your features, the cuts and bruises sending sickening waves through him, as he laid you down. He took a shaky breath as he covered you in a blanket, taking care to be quiet as he left the room.

In the absence of your presence there was only rage.

A fire unlike any he had felt struck him like lightning, a burning hatred at who could have ever done this to you. His feet moved but his mind was preoccupied with who and why and- god why didn't you just tell him what happened? What could have ever led to this?! What had you done? Who had you upset?

The thoughts plagued his mind as he set up his spot on the couch. Yet when the pillows had been laid and the blanket placed, he could not find it in himself to rest. He could only pace and snarl and burn with such a horrible feeling. How dare they. How dare they. How could anyone do this to you? To his-...

It was only those final words that managed to slow his thoughts, a sinking feeling resting in his chest.

Not his. You were not his. Not for a long while, not anymore…

But there was no hiding the fire in his skin. No denying how deeply he held you, how desperately he wished to never let go again. He could only curse whatever higher power could hear him. Curse them for ever doing this to either of you. Of ever letting him know your name.

It was a horrible pain to want so desperately to have you back, but there was no pain worse than you returning in broken pieces. Worse yet to know that, maybe, had he done things differently, you might not have left his arms to shatter against a world he could have protected you from. To know that he failed.

He lit a cigar with a shaky hand. He knew then that there would be no sleeping tonight.

-

Your eyes were heavy as they opened, protesting against your attempts to wake up. You thought, in your groggy state, that it might be better to never open them again, to give in to what they demanded from you. To close them a final time.

But it was only a passing thought in your utterly exhausted state. A whisper held at the back of your mind just waiting for the moment that it might scream itself into existence. But not today. Not now, at least.

And so you forced them open, a groan halfheartedly falling from your lips as you pushed away the comfort of infinite dark. You managed enough strength to sit up, regretting it almost immediately when a dull pain burned your side. You would have been confused, maybe even a little worried, if not for the returning throbs of the many cuts along your face and arms that swiftly and brutally remind you of yesterday.

So close. You had been so close to the end. You were lucky to have made it out alive. It was honestly a miracle you had.

Cornered, like an animal. You remembered the feeling well. Trapped right where you didn't want to be. It was like he could smell your terror as he bared his wolfish teeth in the warm street light. A wicked smile, one that scorched itself into an unhealthy scar upon you. Never to be forgotten, a thing of nightmares.

You had run as far as you could go, lungs empty and feet sore, your hands covered in the warmth of your own blood as you tried to hold even just a part of yourself together, to manage to escape through the skin of your teeth once more. You had done it before, but a second time was surely a test of fate.

You had been lucky, then, that a bus was passing by. It shouldn't have been there so late so far out of town. But by some higher being or just through the world's sick way of fucking with you it was. You had never been so relieved to be met with headlights in your life; you practically screamed in relief as you waved it down. Your hunter was as scared as a doe in them, slithering off into the shadows like the coward you knew him as. The driver, a woman in her forties, looked horrified at the state of you. But you had brushed off her panic and worry and told her to simply drive. You were thankful the bus was empty. You couldn't have handled anyone else's questions in your utter panic.

You had only been a five-minute drive from salvation, from the home you had long since abandoned, only to return to in your time of need. Five minutes.

He must have known. Someone might have told him or you might have mentioned John in one of your many pain-filled benders. It didn't matter. He knew where you were, and it seemed his patience had only grown thinner. You were sure now that he would not stop with breaking you under his iron grip, but utterly destroying you.

All at once these thoughts hit you, flooding your mind with panic and worry. You're breathing shallowed as your mind falls down this path, stopping only when the end of the memory comes to mind.

John…

You tried to move him from your mind, to rid yourself of the sinking feeling that came when you thought of how quickly he had jumped to help you, even after years of silence and weeks of ignoring each other. You try not to think of his attempts at gentle touch, calloused battle-worn hands not quite built for the kindness he was showing. You remove from your mind how he held your hand to him, how it seemed like no time had passed from when you left with how quickly he knew what would truly calm you. And most of all, you try to remove the feeling of his arms around you, desperate and worried and familiar and home. You try, as little as that means nowadays.

You deduce that sitting in silence isn't the best way to distract you from these things, and so you finally stand from the bed, noting only then that you don't remember falling asleep here. But you let that slip your mind as well. You prefer the static buzz of being busy over thinking too much about any of this. It only made things harder.

So your feet moved without you, intimately familiar with the halls and doors and light switches. After all, it had been your home, once upon a lifetime ago.

You hardly stagger as you make your way to the kitchen, accustomed to the constant lull of pain in the back of your mind. A whisper of its own, and one you realized it better to ignore.

You are close to allowing the static buzz to take over, close to numbing and leaving your brain on autopilot. Close to the preferable numbness. So very close. But upon taking a step into the kitchen, you are met with a sight so twistedly familiar you are shocked back into yourself.

John sat at the table, two plates laid out and coffee poured. A quaint scene, an old one. A memory from a different time, faded and aged and different in ways that leave you sick. Because he didn't stare with the complete adoration of a man in love, nor did his eyes avert, distracted and tired, as they had on the day you had left him here. But instead they tear through you. Locked on you the second you entered. It amazed you how his eyes of crystal blue, so similar to that of a frozen storm, could burn through you so easily.

You think for a moment that this is it. That he's going to kick you out with only a final meal and that you are going to be thrown to the starved wolf you knew lurked just outside. You prepared yourself to plead, to apologize, to ask for any bit of mercy he might show you. After all, you had lost your dignity a long time ago, and it wouldn't be the first time you had begged for your life.

But then, as if the elements of himself collided, the fire in his eyes cooled to a warm glow. Soft and familiar and warm, warm, warm.

You almost wished then that he'd return to his fiery glare.

“Sit, love” It isn't a command as much as a quiet plea, his voice is soft and calm and maybe even worried, a rare combination for him. It's a sound so foreign now that you almost don't trust it. His expression falls further as you hesitate.

“I just wanna talk” he tried to explain, to give you any reason to trust him. It works, though only barely. You take a hesitant seat across from him.

The smell of the food hits your nose and only then do you realize you hadn't eaten last night. The waft of coffee only seems to make things worse as it reminds you of how tired you are.

“We can eat first” you can't tell if it's a question or a statement, but either way you take the opportunity. You were too weak to deny how much you needed this right now. You would regret it later, you were sure, but for right now you would allow yourself this small indulgence.

And so it was quiet, absent the sound of forks hitting plates. Quiet in a way that you weren't sure if you liked or despised. You wondered if it even mattered.

It was a few bites in and halfway through your coffee that he spoke again.

“I saw a butterfly this morning” his words cut the silence in a way that baffles you out of the static once more. Out of your head and your thoughts and the sinking feeling in your chest.

“Oh?” You respond almost too naturally, almost too much like you used to. If it weren't for the heaviness in your voice, you might have even forgotten that this wasn't like it used to be.

“Yeah. Should’ve seen it. It had all your favorite colors” his words are almost light in spite of the tense atmosphere and, despite it all, it manages the smallest smile from you.

“I’m sure it was beautiful” you reply and watch as the look on his face changes. You can't quite read it, a strange softness is all you can take from it. But there never fails to be that lingering sadness there. That worry. That pain you can't quite bring yourself to address. And so you look away, your eyes turned down to your food once more.

The silence that follows threatens to suffocate the two of you, drown you in this horrible replication of better times, and punish you for daring to seek even this small comfort. And so, knowing that there is only one way this will go, he finally asks.

“What happened last night?” You feel your throat tighten almost immediately, not daring to pick up your fork when the weight of that question falls atop you. You find it hard to give him an answer, let alone one that might satisfy him.

“I…It’s…” you struggle and hope that maybe you might just disappear, that maybe all of this was some horrible nightmare you'd wake from. But as seconds passed it became clear it wasn't. Clearer still that you had to give him an answer after what he'd seen.

“It's complicated” you try to explain but you knew the moment the words fell that they wouldn't be enough. You think that maybe he'll be angry at this, that he'll slam the table like he had before and demand a better explanation. But a glance shows that his expression only deepens in its worry.

“Then explain it to me” he pleads once more. It was a rare day he ever pleaded, begged, or even so much as asked for something. Rarer yet that it's genuine. Your mouth goes dry and silence remains. You can't bring yourself to look at him.

“Love-” his hand reached for yours and the contact shocks every nerve in your body. You flinch away from him, regretting it a moment later when his worry turns to pain on his face. He retracts his hand with the most hesitance you've ever seen from him; a man so usually sure of himself.

“I just need to know what's happening. I-...” he falters, another rare sight. He takes a shaky breath.

“I won't hurt you” those words come out stronger than the rest, as truthful as he could have possibly made them. And, despite its softness, it seems to tear apart the very walls you had built to keep you safe.

But safe from what, exactly? When the wolf lays outside, and this place is your final sanctuary, what does that make him? You weren't quite sure, but somehow you knew that whatever this was, it felt…well it felt familiar at least. A devil you knew well enough to find some comfort in the warmth of.

Your head turns away, arms held against you in a pitiful attempt to comfort yourself. You think, for a moment, that you might run from here. That you might leave everything behind in the wake of the words that threaten to leave your tongue.

But he wants the truth. And who are you to deny him it? It couldn't make things much worse than they already are.

“Where do you even want me to start?” You ask him, voice hollow and cold and empty. There was no more of yourself to give than a story. You wondered if the sacrifice would even matter.

“Wherever you need to” he answers back, his shoulders squared: tense. You had half a mind to comfort him, but you doubt it would've helped. So, with a deep breath that does very little to calm your nerves, you finally answer him.

“When I left I didn't want to start over, but I didn't want to see you again either. So I moved a few towns over” you started, your voice detached from yourself, like it came from someone else entirely.

“A few months later I met someone. He had been so kind at first. Loving, attentive. He made me feel like I existed in the world again. Made me feel wanted” your words murmur and a snarl forms, even talking about it makes you sick.

“I was stupid, blinded, didn't pay attention. Didn't care, really…” you pause, your hands indenting into your skin as if to keep you where you sat, as if to stop you from fading from here.

“I married him” your words come out much more mournful than you mean to, your snarl nothing more than a quivered lip now. You had married that monster.

You didn't have to glance at John to know the look on his face. Anger, rage, a twisted form of jealousy. It was a knife to his back, you imagine, that you might have married another man before he had ever put a ring on your finger. But you weren't quite sure you cared anymore. After all, it wasn't you who had been so cold to him those final days you were together.

“I didn't realize who he was until then. He'd always been…rough. Arrogant, quick-tempered, prone to violence. But I guess I just thought that he wouldn't ever treat me like that. That I was different. That he loved me” your words shake and you do your best to pull those broken strings together. To steel yourself. To not be so pathetic.

“I was wrong…” you allow yourself the pain of those three words and in so scar your heart further as you admit it. He had never loved you.

“I tried to get away, I tried to start over again, but he wouldn't let me leave. I can't get a job without him finding me, can't get a place to stay, can't start over. I thought maybe if I came here, maybe if my name wasn't on anything, maybe if I was careful enough then I could figure it out…I was wrong about that too” you curse yourself when tears sting at you. You do your best to hide it, to disappear in front of his own eyes. But there was only so much you could do. Hiding from him had never been your strong suit.

John feels…well he doesn't quite know. A mixture of everything horrible, he thinks. He can't stand how your eyes avoid him as the words fall, how with each passing word he can only find regret. Regret that he hadn't held you closer, that he hadn't kept you safe. And he hates that the consequences don't fall to him, that he wasn't the one burned, that instead he watches you crumble and break and shatter. He had loved you, he had always loved you. That hole in his heart, that void you filled. Ripped from him and torn apart as swiftly as a flower in a stormy ocean. He hardly had the mind to blame you anymore, hardly had the heart to. He could do nothing but blame himself and the cruel creature he could hardly call human. The one who had dared to lay a finger on you. The one he could imagine tearing apart with his bare hands.

There are questions that circle his brain, words that travel from the top of his head and almost meet his tongue. ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Where can I find him?’ ‘How long had this been happening?’ ‘Why hadn't you said something sooner?’

He lets out a shallow breath, his eyes closing in thought for only a short moment before he stands. The sound of the chair startles you into watching him once more. His steps are slow, and deliberate, as they make their way towards you. You lean away for a moment, as you had since you'd gotten here, but it calms as you watch him. His movement is predictable; safe.

And soon, just as slow and just as softly, his hands fall on your face as they had hundreds of times before. Calloused but warm, a softness he only ever found with you. He is gentle along your bruises, careful with them. You can't look from him now, eyes searing through him. But he had nothing to hide, and so he stared back.

“We're gonna figure this out” he speaks to you, words like comforting slashes against your soul in how they tear your emotions from you. Your attempts to hide were all but vain now, tears falling freely and only barely held from a sob. Your breaths shake as your eyes close into the comfort, hands falling onto his as if he might just slip away. He presses a kiss, hesitant yet desperate against the crown of your head.

“He ain't ever hurting you again” his words are a promise as he mumbles them against your skin before placing his head against yours. You make no attempt to pull away, instead finding that a broken smile falls on your lips, one of utter relief. Somehow you find a will to speak.

“I missed you”

-

Potential part two? Maybe? Probably? Definitely?

[dragongirl642]

The Eyes are the Windows to the Soul (part 3)

Masterlist

First < > Previous < > Next

Ooh it was a close call, but on this poll, option 2 - "The real Cameron comes home, a fight breaks out, and reader chooses Not-Cameron." won.

Trigger warnings: Gore. Body horror. Mentions of domestic abuse. Death/murder. Uncanny valley.

So without further ado, here is part 3.

---------------- Start -----------------

You're humming.

A jaunty little tune you can't remember the origin of. Stood in your kitchen mixing up a bowl of bread batter.

It's been seven months since Not-Cameron arrived.

Seven calm and strangely lovely months.

Even if the occurrences have been getting more frequent. You've grown to almost expect them, and so they have become less frightening. Not to mention that the more affection you've accepted from Not-Cameron, the more distance and space the occurrences have given you.

You suspect the occurences were Not-Cameron checking on you when he "wasn't there" to see if you were trying to leave or secretly call the police or something.... Classic doppelganger horror stuff.

But you never ran to a neighbour for help running away or called the police. You acted perfectly normal and unnasuming.

Not-Cameron has been steadily relaxing around you. A little slower to stop their purrs when you move. Their dopey love struck grins are a little toothier than normal. Hugs feel a little squishier than they should. But honestly, you've found their quirks...cute.

You kissed them last week.

You've been kissed by them before obviously; accepting just a few kisses and cuddles from them so they don't realise you know they're not the real Cameron was part of your plan to stay alive after all. But it has always been Not-Cameron asking and initiating the affection.

Last week that changed.

You kissed them first. It was just a kiss on the cheek and the admission that you missed them all day. You swear they had literal hearts in their eyes, when you followed up with a chaste peck on the lips before going back to finish your own work.

You may have followed up with a few more chaste kisses and a hug or two in the following week. And who could blame you if you needed cuddles after a tiring day. Not-Cameron has soaked up any and all affection you give, and you may have found yourself chasing that little loving glint in their eye.

For three months now, you've felt different, lighter, almost on cloud nine.

It took you a while to realise what the feeling was...confidence.

You can't say the look of awe and love Not-Cameron gave you when you wore the vibrant blouse the real Cameron had said "made you look tacky" didn't feel cathartic.

Your colleagues have noticed something is different about you. You've gotten a few compliments for your work and comments on your bright mood. You've even been to a few of the company social nights and gone out to the movies with friends, some things you never had time for when Cameron was in charge of your social calendar.

It's been tranquil.

Not-Cameron has even started warning you in advance of which evenings they will disappear on.

One of which is tonight.

You pour the batter into a tin and set it inside the hot oven.

There's a pounding on the door. Insistent and demanding.

You grab a knife and creep out into the hallway, eyeing the silhouette on the other side with caution.

You've left your phone on charge in your room upstairs, so you inch towards the landline on the little table in the hallway. Eyes never leaving the swaying shadow through the porch window.

You pick up the phone, quickly dialing 999 when the shadow suddenly ducks down out of sight. It lurches back up and there's the sound of the key in the lock.

You back away quickly, ducking around the corner of the door to the kitchen. The phone vibrates as you press call.

Your boyfriend stumbles inside. His clothes are torn and he has multiple scratches on the sides of his face, neck, and arms. Crusted dark stains down his sides and shoulders, flake of bits of dried blood as he almost falls into the wall.

Out of instinct, you drop the knife and phone on the table as you rush forward to support them.

"Cameron what..." you pause. His eyes are brown. This is the real Cameron.

He's come back.

For the real Cameron to be here, it stands to reason something terrible happened to Not-Cameron.

Making another split-second decision, just like the one you made all those months ago, you decide to pretend like you never noticed the switch and just deal with Cameron's injuries before wrestling with the moral guilt of realising you're disappointed to see your old boyfriend instead of his more-loving replacement.

"What happened? We need to get you to a hospital." You turn to grab your car keys, but the sudden collapse of Cameron causes you to change plans and instead support him to walk into the living room.

He's muttering under his breath. Practically raving with no meaning; spouting over and over the words, "no change", "my face", "that thing" and "have to escape."

You set him on the sofa and fetch a glass of water for him. He drinks like a man who's been lost in a desert, uncaring of the rivulets spilling out of the cup and down his face and chest as he greedily gulps the precious liquid.

You internally cringe at the wet patch and blood stains sticking to your sofa as he leans back.

"Cameron. What happened? Should I get you to a hospital." You keep your voice soft, gently probing for information.

He seems to calm down slightly after the drink.

____ A voice calls your name from the hallway; (Not-)Cameron's voice.

"It's here," Cameron whispers, voice cracking into a squeak at the end as he grabs your wrist and pulls you into the kitchen.

Just as you both duck into the kitchen, your ears pick up the soft pat-pat of footfalls entering the living room behind you.

Keeping up the charade of ignorance, you whisper. "What is..." A sharp pain lances through your cheek and you fall silent.

Cameron slapped you. A quick whipping motion with his hand, not enough to bruise or damage you, but enough to set your cheek stinging. You're momentarily stunned by the sudden rush of familiar fear and shame that you mutely stumble along behind him as he drags you along.

His pace quickens to a run when a horrifying nails-on-chalkboard demented shriek suddenly comes from the living room. Primal fear floods your being, your heartbeat races and you scramble behind Cameron through the other door into the hallway, up the stairs and into the bathroom.

The lock clicks into place and you retreat back to kneel in the gap between the sink and the shower door. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear that shriek instilled in you temporarily narrows your vision to a pinprick. You focus on your breath, clasping your hands in front of you and squeezing them together hard.

"Where are you?" You hear the muffled voice of Not-Cameron call from downstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Cameron tucks himself down to kneel beside you and he hisses. "Stay fucking quiet."

You don't answer or even look at him. Focusing on calming yourself quickly so you can figure out how you are going to survive this confusing situation.

"Love, please! Come out!" There's a note of panic in Not-Cameron's voice, a rising shrill sound that sets off an uncomfortable vibration in your teeth and yet also a deep base vibration you can feel in your chest. "Where are you? I'm sorry. I can explain." Their voice grows more distorted as a shadow creeps past the door.

Even through your fear, the sound of their panic tugs at your heartstrings. Your happiest memories from the past few months suddenly flash in your mind's eye.

You come to a decision.

The calls of Not-Cameron fade, then come back, then fade again. From the distance of the calls, they've probably checked your bedroom and the office, they'll either check the guest room or the bathroom next.

Slowly under the pretext of getting more comfortable, you shift to a crouch and brace one foot back ready to run.

Cameron looks at you with a stern glare his black-eye fails to hide. Covering for your motion, you immediately fawn, twisting to grab the long-handled brush from the shower and making a show of bracing to fight.

He nods at you and turns to grab the toilet plunger from behind him. Once he turns, quite stiffly and slow due to his injuries, you move. Springing forward and sliding the lock before he can turn back and slipping through the door just as he lurches to his feet.

The hallway is dark and empty, swallowing your call of "I'm here!" like the void of space.

You falter at the unnatural silence and suddenly pain blooms behind your eyes as your head snaps back against the wall. Bruising pain jumps from your arms to you chest to your head.

Cameron's hands are on your throat.

"You." Speckles of saliva splatter your face as he hisses at you. "Fucking shh."

It's getting harder to breath. His hands are too tight, cutting off your precious oxygen.

You lash out with the long-handled brush, it almost collides with his head but he blocks it ripping it from your grasp before turning to choke you again with a blank hateful look. But the distraction helped to lower the pressure on your throat.

It takes all your strength to utter the word: "help."

Cameron is ripped from your vision in a blur of grey and red. You collapse as the pressure around your neck disappears, gasping for air.

It's dark, but in the light coming through the window at the end of the hall from the street lamps outside, you can make out the details of the thrashing figures only four feet away from you.

Cameron is on the ground, swears and angry screams stream from his mouth as his hands scratch and swing at the creature pinning him to the ground. He attempts to pry off the huge clawed hands holding him down by his shoulders and tries to punch the creature in its ribs, but he can't get enough force behind his fists.

The creature doesn't flinch, just releases a low growl as it hunches over Cameron.

It is humanoid, but its arms and legs are just too long, and the bones of its spine jut out along its back. It is wearing clothes; you recognise the flannel cardigan and jeans combo Not-Cameron was wearing when he left the house earlier. From what you can see of its neck and the ends of the limbs poking out from its sleeves and trousers, its skin is silvery-grey, but it's thin and almost looks like clingfilm, the shining red of its muscles is visible as they stretch and contract beneath the translucent skin. It's hair is pitch black, standing on end and shifting, reminiscent of a wind ruffling a field of corn.

Suddenly, in a motion so quick it appears to be a blur, the creature's head snaps down towards your former boyfriend.

Cameron's screams are cut off by a squelch followed by a wet gurgling that slowly goes quiet with a crunch.

Just as quickly as it started, it's over. The creature draws it's head back up before flicking it, flinging something heavy down the hall. You can just see the edges of the bloody mess that is all that remains of Cameron's neck past it's claws.

All falls still.

Deafening silence consumes your fear.

The creature begins to shake.

You can only watch in horror as it appears to distort and melt and crack and shrink.

Protruding bones retract back into its back, claws shrink, and limbs recede into its sleeves. A pearlescent liquid seems to ooze out from the muscles beneath the skin, swirling and filling the space beneath, hiding the muscles from view before changing colour. The sound of cracking bones and wet squishing sets off an uncomfortable feeling in your teeth.

Before it finishes transforming, it turns to look back at you.

You can't help but let out a gasp.

Glowing silvery-blue irises in blacked-out eyes stare at you from above a stretched-out grin full of sharp teeth. A string of bloody drool hangs from their chin.

Half-of it's face appears almost manequin-like, but from the other half the recognisable face of Not-Cameron stares.

Their skin swirls and distorts, the cloudy ooze beneath their skin floods the right side of their face first, before curling over to the left and solidifying. A ripple runs through their skin as it twists and distorts, growing to mirror the features on the other side to form the recognisable face of Cameron. With a series of spine-tingling cracks, their sharp teeth begin to snap into their gums and out of sight, leaving a set of pearly rounded normal teeth behind.

All goes still and, if not for the gash on their forehead leaking red and the blood drenching their clothes, Not-Cameron looks exactly as they did when they left you earlier today.

Except for their eyes. Glowing silver and devouring black, staring at you with an unreadable emotion.

You don't move. While your brain tries to process what you're seeing, fear and a tinge of confusion keep you rooted to the spot.

Not-Cameron stares.

-----------------End---------------

First < > Previous < > Next

Extra note: There is one more part and then it's over. Ooh, I can't wait (and I'm the one having to write it 🤣).

[the-lovely-planet-earth]

I hate how beating up children to the point of drawing blood is still a prevent form of punishment in india and a common experience many people including me have gone though. You're not really teaching anything by doing that. You're only breeding fear and trauma and abusing your power and just causing a cycle of generational abuse and domestic violence. The adult women, all mothers including my own, literally laugh while sharing stories about how they beat up their kids in brutal ways I can't even recount here as a way to 'teach them a lesson'. Beating up kids DOES equal to child abuse and its time to normalize saying that.

[pompadorbz]

For those who are not in Philza's public discord server, he shared a statement there:

This is also a reminder to everyone to once again give your full support to Shelby, Niki, and any other victims involved! They are what matter most in these situations!

[sinnful-darling]

BAERRR THE MALE SIREN ONE WAS JUST SO— JRKEODKDDNDKSSKEKDJDJDK

SCREAMING. 🛐🛐🛐

He makes me wanna punch him in the face (romantically😳)

Are we getting a part 2 soon?? 🤭🤭

YAN! MALE SIREN PRINCE PT2

tws: manipulation mentions, abuse mentions, torture implications (not directed to the reader), domestic violence mentions, regicide,

i didn’t know y’all would like that so much 😭😭 but yes i can do a pt 2.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who, as mentioned before, is the eldest. He’s the heir of the Siren Folk and because of that, his parents are extremely strict.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who has scars on his back from lashings and has had scales ripped off of his tail as a punishment. His parents punish him when he doesn’t live up to their expectations, so he’s become very introverted and resentful because of this.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince whose name is Mattias.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who is natural kind and nurturing, but is also a master of manipulation. Be careful, his words might not be in your best interest at times!

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince whose father was not only abusive to him, but to his mother as well. Because of this, he plans on killing his father and taking the throne to protect his mother and his siblings.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who tried his best to protect his siblings and mother from his father’s wrath, but when his father laid hands on you, he snapped.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who kills his father in a blind rage, claiming the throne and immediately creates a law that protects all human lovers.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who, in case you were wondering, used a spell to permanently allow you to breathe underwater since you refused to become a Siren.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who is a better ruler than his father by far, but because of that, he doesn’t have much time for you anymore.

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who wishes he left his home with you instead of becoming the King. He’d be able to spend more time with you that way…

♡Yan! Male Siren Prince who fakes your deaths and leaves his home to find a new place to live!

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who’s furious when he finds out his siblings figured out his plan and invited themselves >:((

♡ Yan! Male Siren Prince who begrudgingly admits that the more people there are to protect you and have eyes on you the better. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all… but you have to love him the most!

[just-antithings]

JAT: "I love horror so much! Unless it contains gross, immoral content like incest, rape, sex scenes, nudity or partial nudity in any shape or form, child death, jump scares, domestic abuse, torture (note: unless it's a woman torturing a man, they seem to be totally fine with that), swearing, or excessive gore. It's not REAL horror if it depicts these things! It's just for shock value and to be as excessive as possible!! Anyway I love horror so much uwu"

every damn time

[thunderc1an]

the innocent son 

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: In 1960, seven pre-teen outcasts fight an evil demon who poses as a child-killing clown. Thirty years later, they reunite to stop the demon once and for all when it returns to their hometown.

mod L says: if we remake It again in another seventeen years, then we can finally, FINALLY have a version where Richie and Eddie get to suck face.

👆🏼Mod Z can't help but nod in agreement

Mod Sus: I've tried to read this brick of a book twice and always got stuck after the midway. For no particular reason, it just always ended there for me and then I never finished it. Still haven't seen the movies because I want to finish the book first.

[revacholian-girl-utena]

There are no stars. There is no light. There will be no future. (Requested by @thediscoelysiumlesbian )

Alt text: Screencaps from Revolutionary Girl Utena with overlaid text. 1: A closeup of Anthy's eyes, hair down and no glasses, staring down Utena in the moment she discovers Akio abusing Anthy. Text: "Oh, yes."

2: A closeup of Utena's eyes, wide with shock, from the same scene. Text: "This is real darkness."

3: A framed photo of Akio and Anthy, half in shadow as the window shades rise to reveal the room. Text: "Real darkness has love for a face."

4: Anthy's silhouette, hair flying wildly, pierced by many blades. Text: "The first death is in the heart." End alt text.

[igotsnothing]

Beginning/Previous/Next

Stargazing poses by @herecirmsims, who is wicked talented.

[asocial-inkblot]

Some Little Reminders About Ursa and Parenting/Mothering

• You can be a good mom to one child and not another. 

• You can be a loving (if not smothering) and lenient mom toward one child and a demanding and strict one toward another. 

• A mother can care deeply for all her children but show it differently and less than adequately for one or more of them.

• A mother can love and want the best for all her children, but possibly not know how best to show it to each of them due to assuming that they’re very different, with different needs.

• Making or allowing your child to feel void of your affection is child abuse/neglect.

• We don’t actually have much reason to assume that Ursa wouldn’t have also risked everything for Azula’s safety.

• Saying “what is wrong with that child” can be taken at face value. It doesn’t mean a parent thinks their own child is evil or a monster (even if the innocent child is led to believe so from it).

• Abuse and abusive families are often very complicated and have a lot going on in them, especially behind the scenes. Don’t ever assume you know exactly what’s going on with someone and his/her life, even if you do know that he/she or family of his/hers is being abused.

• She may have genuinely loved Ozai, even if for only a short time, and agreed with his worldview.

• She very likely agreed with Fire Nation politics, as well.

[sporesgalaxy]

followers are asleep post absolutely the darkest joke i am willing to make for this au. I read 1 thing abt how Puritans might have been to children once

[emyn-arnens]

As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf

Eöl & Celegorm | T | 1.8k | @tolkiengenweek Day 3: Enemies | AO3

The light of the open plains burned in Eöl’s eyes as he urged his horse onward, heedless of the wind lashing at his face. Again and again he cursed the names of his wife and son, turning their names into a drumbeat of rage that pounded steadily with the beat of Morroch’s hooves.

Aredhel, as faithless as the rest of her kin, bending to Maeglin’s whims and treachery as soon as Eöl’s gaze was turned away from her. And Maeglin, whose hatred had festered under the eaves of Nan Elmoth, and turned into a foul, fetid malignancy.

They would be punished justly, and his servants as well for not noticing their escape. He knew now that none could be trusted.

Eöl ground the reins into his palms and dug his heels into Morroch’s sides. He focused on the ground streaming beneath the horse’s hooves, averting his gaze from the accursed sun that burned high overhead.

Thus it was that he did not notice the half-ring of Elves that stood barring his passage, until a cold voice called for him to halt, and looking up and narrowing his eyes against the light, he found himself penned.

Eöl noted the light in their eyes, bright and burning with unearthly brilliance, and he resisted the urge to spit at their feet. Noldor. And sons or followers of Fëanor no less, for they wore the eight-pointed stars of all his ilk.

As Eöl drew Morroch to a halt, one of the Elves called to him, his voice mocking. “What errand have you in these lands that one so sun-shy as you would brave the sunlight? A matter of haste, perhaps?” 

Though bitter anger rose in his heart, Eöl mastered his features and did the Elves courtesy, knowing his danger. Dismounting and bowing his head, he said, “I beg your leave, lords. I am following my wife and son, who departed from Nan Elmoth two days ago, while I was away. They rode to visit you, and I, seeing it fitting, sought to join them on their errand.”

“We marked their passing,” the leader of the Elves said, “though they did not halt to greet us, nor indeed stay with us, for that was not their errand.” He was pale and fair-haired, and in his hand he held a great hunting bow. He wore a wolf pelt about his shoulders, pinned in place with an eight-pointed star that was larger and glinted more brightly than those of the Elves around him, save for the dark-haired Elf that stood to his right, his posture languid but his gaze sharp. They were the lords Celegorm and Curufin, then, the cruellest of all of Fëanor’s cursed spawn. Curufin it was who had first called to Eöl, mocking him.

Celegorm dismounted and stepped forward, handing his bow to his brother. “We suffered them to pass, for their need seemed great, and their flight was as hares that flee before the hunting wolf.” His voice was fluid and sinuous, a voice that entrapped and ensnared.

“So either you seek to deceive us or you are yourself deceived, Eöl,” he continued. “I would warn you that it will fare better for you if it is the latter that is the truth, though I doubt that one such as you is capable of truth.” The Elf-lord’s face was cruel and perilous, and the scornful glance of his eyes as his gaze swept over Eöl in one dismissive motion sent rage burning through him. 

But Eöl held his tongue and stood still and straight before Celegorm as the Elf paced slowly around him, his pale hair glinting in the harsh sunlight of the open plain. Although fear trickled through him, he tilted his chin. He would not be cowed by a kinslayer, perilous though Celegorm was.

Eöl mastered his expression as the Elf-lord again paced in front of him. “Perhaps, Lord Celegorm, you will give me leave to depart so that I might discover the truth of this matter.”

Celegorm stopped and laughed coldly. “And so let the fox loose from the trap so that he might again feast in the henhouse? I think not. It shall be decided here, with my brother and our men as witnesses.” He motioned to the Elves behind him.

He resumed pacing. “How would you bid us to decide in this matter, Dark Elf? To trust the words of one whose speech does not align with his actions, or to trust rather the counsel of my heart, which urges me to consider why the Lady Aredhel and her son seemed to flee as if the very hounds of Morgoth were upon them, and why you, not two days later, fly at their heels even in the light of the sun?”

“You misread the matter, Lord Celegorm,” Eöl said. 

“Do I? Tell me the truth of it, then.”

Though Eöl felt his peril growing, he straightened as much as he could and answered, “My wife does not understand the customs of my house, and she suffers from an affliction of the mind, for I regret to say that she has weakened in mind and spirit since the birth of our son, and strange notions have entered her mind that never would have before. A healer has advised that she remain at home, where my servants can keep her in comfort and banish her delusions of discontent. Surely, kinsman, you understand now why I ride with haste after her. I fear for her well-being and that of my son, whom she surely has convinced to believe her delusions to be truthful.”

Celegorm came to a stop in front of him, and any trace of mockery had left his face, which had turned suddenly stern and cold. “Those who steal the daughters of the Noldor should be less heedless with their tongues, if they value the gift of speech. I name you no kin of mine, Dark Elf.”

Eöl stiffened. “I did not steal what came to me willingly.”

“Did she, or was she ensnared by the enchantments and entrapments you have long devised in the secret hollows and twisting paths of the forest? Do not think word of your work has not spread from the shadowed eaves of Nan Elmoth.”

Eöl’s lips twisted into a snarl. “Why should I bandy words with one who slaughtered his own kin?” he spat. He whirled and reached for his javelin, which was fastened to his saddle.

With a growl, the beast standing next to Celegorm lunged forward and wrested the javelin from Eöl’s hand.

Celegorm took the javelin from the beast, examining it. He ran his finger over the blade, where the poison glistened in the sunlight, then sniffed his finger. His gaze flicked up to Eöl’s. Eöl thought to see anger or triumph flicker in the Elf-lord’s eyes, but they were cold and impassive, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. “I wonder: Who was this meant for—your wife, or your son?”

Eöl felt the blood drain from his face, and he reached for the hilt of his sword.

But the Elf-lord was faster. In one fluid movement, the cold blade of a hunting knife pressed against Eöl’s throat, and Celegorm’s lips brushed Eöl’s hair as he whispered, “Who is the kinslayer now, I wonder? For all our misdeeds, we have never slaughtered our wives or children.”

Gritting his teeth in anger, Eöl kept his gaze fixed ahead, not allowing the Elf the pleasure of seeing his fear, though his heart hammered in his chest.

Celegorm withdrew the knife from Eöl’s neck, and before he could react, the Elf-lord wrenched Eöl’s hand up and swiftly drew the blade of the javelin head across his palm in a stinging slice.

Cold dread trickled down Eol’s spine, and his face contorted in fury as he looked up at Celegorm. “Thou art a kinslayer twice over, son of Fëanor.”

Celegorm said nothing in response, now flint-eyed and in a perilous mood, and he stepped back and addressed the encircling Elves. “Though his words are honeyed lies, his hands have shown the truth of his dark purposes, and he has felt the bite of his own poison. He will be dead by morning, perhaps, but there is now the matter of what to do in the hours until dawn.”

Even now Eöl felt the poison enter his veins, and his heart quailed. “Will you not release me to die as I see fit, or at the least kill me swiftly—or will you not suffer even those comforts, kinslayer?”

The Elf-lord’s smile as he turned upon Eöl was wolf-sharp, and Eöl knew now that the peril he had felt before had been merely a shadow of the peril he now faced. “To hasten the hour of your death would be too merciful, Dark Elf. Do not forget that I once followed Oromë. I can deliver mercy and withhold it just as easily.”

“You would break all laws of the Eldar.” Eöl looked from Celegorm to the other Elves, beseeching. But there was no kindness to be found in their gazes.

“You would have had Irissë die even as you do now, in slow agony of pain unrelenting. Is it not just that you should feel the same fear that she would have?” The light in Celegorm's eyes was wild and fey, and Eöl cowered beneath his glance.

“What will you now do with me?”

A smile curved Celegorm’s lips. “The hunt is about to begin, and we are in need of prey.”

Eöl paled, even as the Elves’ voices rose in laughter, and he leapt atop Morroch and dug his heels in, lashing the ends of the reins against the horse’s flank. Still laughing, the Elves parted as Morroch broke through their half-ring and lengthened his stride into a gallop.

As they fled over the plains, Eöl leaned low over Morroch’s neck and peered back over his shoulder.

Already, Celegorm, Curufin, and their followers outfitted themselves for a hunt. The great hunting bow hung at Celegorm’s back, and Curufin held a tall spear that glinted in the sun. Their followers leapt astride their horses, and hounds milled about the horse’s legs. Celegorm ordered the formation of the riders, and the hounds gathered in front, Celegorm’s slavering beast foremost.

With a cry of fear, Eöl urged Morroch faster, until sweat flecked the horse’s dark flanks, and foam showed about his mouth.

The sharp blasting of horns carried over the plains, and the baying of the hounds joined the bitter cries of the hunters. A howl rose above the din, louder than that of any wolf that stalked the dark forests of Beleriand.

And above all came the sound of cold laughter carried on the wind.