#i used to pray as a youth how wild is that. again not sure i really understood the point given the uh. Begging For Devil Assisted Suicide.

[quietwingsinthesky]

whenever i think ‘hey am i doing okay rn’, as long as i can come back with ‘well, im not praying for the devil to come possess me so i don’t have to live anymore’, i think i’m doing okay

[in3rci4]

• A THOUGHT ABOUT THE BLAKE FAMILY •

Author's note : I'm slowly coming back to The Black Phone fandom , and here's a little theory of mine of the story behind the Blake's family , I'll gave the nickname of " Dahlia " the mother because of the flower , they never said her name so don't take it as the official name or the one I'm calling her , warning , this headcanons might be long and out of pocket . Probably there's spelling mistakes , and there's angst too so suicide , violence , mental , physical illness , etc would be also mentioned.

What's the backstory of the Blake kids parents ?

I believe Terrance had it tough on his youth , a housewife mother that came from the country side by his arranged and much older husband that yes , was hard working , but he was an asshole with his family . Terrance would be scolded by his mother for standing up for her when her husband used her as a punch bag , he would be sent regulary to detention for his smart mouth and would often get into fights for the same reason or to defend someone else when the fight was unfair on his eyes . Once his poor sick mother died and he had to stay alone with his dad , he spent more time on the streets as a rebellious teenager , drinking and having fun with his same out cast friends . Once he got his first job , he saved enough money to leave his house and have a new life , much calmer and stable life .

Dahlia was the daughter of a homeless woman that was often seeing near the local church asking for money or food , people said she was kind , but she was ... touched . If she wasn't asking anything , she was seen talking to the air , sometimes calmly , sometimes angry , in the worst cases scared , running away from the unknown , and those were the times people would avoid her to all costs . Nobody knows exactly who's the father of Dahlia , or if she was consented at all , but one day the woman started to have a pregnant bumb on her belly , and then after 9 months , she disappeared and left her baby on the church's door the exact hour they opened it . The nuns took her to the orphanage along with the other children , and a lot of times the couples that came looking for a child to take care of wanted to adopt her , but they never actually did it , not even once . Dahlia was a sensitive and quiet child , and the other kids loved to bother her , often ending in crying or silent regret for not being more vocal about her dislikes . Her friends ? Only imaginary.... Or well , that's what everyone thought . With time as she grew up the nuns called a doctor on her because she insisted a little way too much that she saw these invisible people , everyone believing a mental illness was starting to form in her . Pills , injections , holy water , praying , it didn't stop until her late teens when she just accepted not being adopt at all and her " friends " didn't exist , just focusing on her grades , so they disappeared , just like her dreams . Outside , the world showed her another way to live without feeling fear or shame for who she was , the 60's being her wild card to meet people that was all about magic , pacifism and freedom , feeling finally understood and free to live her life how she wanted .

One night without moon in a secluded bar the two met , in Terrance eyes , she was the most beautiful woman in the entire place , standing on a corner looking at some random painting hanging on the wall , he got close to her , and starting to have a small conversation that soon got bigger .

He never felt like this with someone before , or thought someone could be this beautiful .

Between laughs and smiles , they got separated in the morning and forgot to ask each other's names or phone numbers , but destiny had another surprise for them . They bumped into each other while walking on the street weeks later and started to talk and laugh once again , but they both made sure to stay in contact and meet a next time . They were different yet had a lot of things in common , and the things they didn't share to like , they would be open try them out if the had the opportunity to see the other smile .

1 year going steady was enough for the young couple and they got married with some other guests on their wedding , Terrance was already saving money to buy himself a house , and so he did to start living their own american dream .

Without warning , Terrance got fired from his job , and Dahlia's work as a cleaner wasn't enough to maintain the house , and he didn't want his wife to have that weight on her shoulders , so when a friend of his recommend him to go and try in the Rocky Flats nuclear plant , he didn't thought twice in signing in . It was a demanding job , but at least he had one instead of nothing . Terrance was lucky he would say , a lot of his co workers say they felt weakness in their bodies , see their skin become more reddish than normal , loose almost all the hair on their bodies or have random bleedings in their nose or mouth from time to time , in the worst cases a huge pain in muscles or eyes . He listened , but he wasn't scared , no , as long as you did everything carefully, the radiation won't catch you , right ?

Dahlia happily announced him that she was pregnant and he was ecstatic about it , it was like the energy boost that he needed to continue . Terrance didn't told Dahlia anything about it , how could he ? She was carrying a baby and dealing with all the stress and sickness that a pregnancy comes with , she didn't need to know the sudden deafening headaches that he suffered , he needed to be strong for her , for them , and if his pain had to be sucked up in silence , then so be it .

1965 , their baby boy Finney was born , he was the most well behaved baby in the mother - baby unit by the nurses words , they would compliment Dahlia for such adorable and healthy little gentleman and she would smile proud of doing such a good job with her kid . When Terrance was finally allowed to go inside the room , his eyes couldn't believe he was now the father of such fragile child , he was hesitant to carry him on his arms, afraid to hurt him accidentally, but his wife assured him that it was fine , and so she gently put Finn closer to his chest , and he swears that for one instant when he looked down and smiled with blurry eyes , his little baby boy smiled back to him .

A few years later , when Finney was a curious and talkative toddler , Dahlia got pregnant once again with their second child , his father happy to hear that they will have their second baby on the way , and their older brother Finney even more , totally ready to have little sibling to play with . Their little little Gwendolyn was the princess of the house , she would be spoiled with all her mother's kisses , her brother hugs and her dad's cuddling .

They were a happy family , a good , healthy and happy family .

But then Dahlia started to notice little Finney talking by himself ,and if she asked who he was talking to , he would always answer that with a friend , and at first , like once the nuns did , she dismissed it as imaginary friends , and that's it . When Gwenny got old enough speak , she would sometimes run towards her mom scared of nightmares that she had , and that's what they look like , only nightmares . They seemed weird , but not enough to panic .

The panic began when Gwenny had way too specific dreams about people in danger and Finney started to touch things or go to to places that he knew he shouldn't go , but he would do it anyway because " the voices told him to " . She took them to the doctor , but they didn't find any wrongness in the children . She started to have anxiety towards what this could possibly mean , or how could she make her stop , but Dahlia didn't even know how she got over it in the past in the first place .

This continue for a long time until it stopped , and when their mother would ask them about their dreams or " friends " they would answer confused that it was fine , as if they didn't remember what they been through before . Dahlia confused yet relieved she let it go , and never told Terrance anything about it .

Little by little , her own dreams and "imagination" started to come back to her , sometimes a whisper behind her neck , weird dreams that felt too real , an undistinguishable silhouette on the dark , a person that would speak or be seen by her and then all the sudden disappear like air or magic . She tried to ignore it , Dahlia tried hard to live her normal life and focus on her family and job .

But then the encounters got more and more frequent , people would ask her who she was talking to as they didn't saw anyone near her , she would find out that her dreams had something to do with people on television or the missing posters , and when spirits recognized her as a their only way to speak with the living world , they got more persistent and multiply as well .

When Dahlia couldn't ignore them anymore , she tried to help them in her own way , maybe telling them a direction , talk with a family member of theirs to give them a message , visit places that they used to go , take a special object for them , etc . And it worked at first .

She sometimes would apologize to those poor ghosts that would find out their lover got married once again , that their family moved to another town , that their loved pet died , that she couldn't just go and find their bodies , and some would forgive her ,

Some wouldn't .

The haunting dreams would make her wake up with guilt and regret , but all she needed is to watch her children faces in the morning and Dahlia would remember once again why's she's doing what she's doing . Terrance noticed his wife more anxious and nervous , but she would tell him it that she was fine , and she would come up with a simple excuse that would let her husband skeptical , but he had his own headaches to deal with , so he would let it slide .

One benevolent spirit told her to search protection for her and her kids , because their special gift might attract evil forces towards them . Dahlia tried to ask them for more information , but they disappeared . And she didn't know where to start searching that so called protection for her family .

She went to the church , but the holy water and prayers would only make her dreams go away , not the ghosts . She went to a gypsy woman that had spirtual knowledge , those rocks and incenses cleared all the ghosts from her sight , but her dreams would start to be more and more gruesome than before . Nothing was working , and she gave up .

And when she gave up , the evil spirits entered on the game .

These poltergeists would show her the crimes they committed in life , these poltergeists would scare her in her job , in her house and in Dahlia's dreams as well , the worst ones would be terrifyingly close to her kids or throw things at her when she ignore them or tried to go somewhere else .

Dahlia couldn't hide her fear anymore , her kids started to ask their mom if she was ok , her coworkers recommend her to take a break and try to get some sleep , but Terrance didn't believe Dahlia's excuses anymore , but it wasn't like she wanted to tell him what was going on .

He then decided to go to her orphanage and ask the nuns what they knew about her , and they told Terrance about her " mental illness / schizophrenia " when she was a child and teenager there in the orphanage , reason why the adults never wanted to adopt her .

He came back home late thanks to the long driving to that old creepy place , but Terrance could never imagined that when he came back home , he would find his wife , the love of his life , holding a knife against the air as she screams prayers like a maniac , while his kids were in a corner scared and crying from fear of the situation .

Terrance runs towards her and takes the knife out of her hands while he hugs to calm her down , in Dahlia's eyes , she sees how the evil phantom comes closer to her children , so in fear she takes back again her knife in her hands and runs towards her children . Confused they run away from her , as she tries to stab the soul of the one that's hunting her , but they dissolve like magic , and Dahlia realizes Terrance look of disappointment and her babies look of fear in their eyes .

Dahlia cries , cries and drops the knife , tired , frustrated , confused , scared , without a clue of what to do or how to stop all of this . Terrance tells the kids to go to bed as he gets closer to his wife to hug her back once again , she hugs him back tightly desperate from any comfort and warmth of her lover . The married couple goes to bed as they cuddle after so long without doing it, because the next morning , the physiatrists knocked at their door , so they could gently ask Mrs Dahlia Blake to start a treatment in their establishment .

The woman started to yell at his husband because how betrayed she felt , after he told her he believed what she says , after promising to stay by her side forever . This didn't stay unnoticed by the specialists as they tried to calm her down , but Dahlia couldn't go to mental hospital , she couldn't take pills and receive injections that she doesn't need to stay docile , not again , so she refuses , she expressed her anger by yelling at them to get out of her house . They went outside yes , but came back with syringes filled with haloperidol so they could take her away .

Her last words :

" No , please , stop ! Terrance please believe me ! Please don't let them hurt the kids ! Protect them fr- ...."

The drug that they gave her made her lost the little control she was trying so hard to keep , so when she goes to sleep , the evil in the night possesses her body to walk towards the 2d floor window , as they let her body falls she wakes up , only to die seconds later on the cold floor of the hospital's yard

Without the opportunity to do anything , without the opportunity to say goodbye or see one last time her family .

But if the other life exists , she will be always watching over them , waiting for her turn to be listened .

Ps : I would like to know if you share this idea or not guys , I want to see your opinions !

[cherrycola27]

LAST LINE TAG GAME

Rules: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfiction/original works/anything) and tag as many people you want there are words in the sentence.

Thanks for the tag @ereardon

So I've been bouncing between three fics, so hears a snippet from all of them!

This one is from a fic for @roosterforme 's Rocktober challenge:

"Tash, I meant what I said. I'm tired of hiding us. Aren't you?" Javy pleads with her. "Javy, we both know that it wouldn't be good for our careers if we told people about us." Natasha tells him.

"That's bullshit, Natasha, and we both know it. It's the same bullshit answer you've been giving me for eight months, and I'm tired of it. So here's the deal. Either we tell the world or I walk." Javy stands up to his full height and stares down at her.

Natasha stays silent, looking up at him, too afraid to meet his eyes. Javy swallows thickly. "So I guess that's it then?"

And here is a bit from my fic for @laracrofted 's 1989TV challenge:

The thought of what he did left a bitter taste in his mouth. When he tried to call you, you had already blocked his number and changed all of your social media to private.

For five years, the only glimpse Jake got of you was the two by two profile picture you changed every so often. And every time he looked down at his hand, he was reminded of you. The red ink heart etched into his skin, mocking him day after day.

Jake swore that if he ever saw you again, he would make things right. But he knew he'd shattered your heart into a million pieces. How could he fix a looking glass that had been broken?

And finally, a bit from the next chapter of false god, titled Church

"So you're telling me that you are the God I prayed to growing up? The one my mom asked to save my soul when I was a wild teenager?" Bradley asks you with a chuckle.

"I know you were expecting someone else, sorry to disappoint." You laugh at him as you sit up and swing your legs over him, the sheets falling loosely to your hips. You grab the thin chain of the gold cross around Bradley's neck, the object that had started the whole conversation, and wrap it around your fingertips.

"Oh, I'm not disappointed by any means." Bradley breathes out as he closes the distance and kisses you. "I just wish I could go back to Saint Greg's and tell my teachers they were wrong." You throw your head back in a breathy laugh. The irony of your husband attending Catholic School as a youth isn't lost on you.

You move to kiss him again, but without warning. He flips you off of his lap and drops to the floor. He grabs your ankle and tugs you to the edge of the bed and parts your naked thighs. "Bradley, what are you doing?" You ask him. You lean up on your elbows to see that your husband is kneeling before you.

"Growing up, I was taught that the best place to worship was on your knees. And, well, I haven't been on my best behavior lately, and it's been years since my last confession, so I came to the alter to repent." Bradley tells you as he leans closer, lips just centimeters from your core.

"Though, I'm not pretty sure this isn't what Father MacKenzie meant when he told me to recite my Hail Marys." Bradley smirks at you before flattening his tonuge along your seam.

Tagging (np): @roosterforme @thedroneranger @gretagerwigsmuse @sebsxphia

[totsandnuggsrebloggs]

?!!??!? if youre alright with talking about it i am SO curious about your dinosaur nightmares??

This is so funny. Because I love talking about my dinosaur nightmares. And I’m not kidding when I say I have them almost every day.

So it starts:

When I was a kid, I watched the Jurassic Park movies a little before I was fully ready to watch people get torn apart by large predators that were REAL IN HISTORY at some point. And before I had known I had hallucinations I would sometimes have hallucinations of velociraptor claws on doors and t-Rex heads popping out of corners. And on top of that I also suffered from vivid sleep paralysis nightmares and hallucinations while sleep walking of those very same dinosaurs. So to say the least I was plagued with dinosaurs all throughout my childhood even with the reassurances by my parents that dinosaurs couldn’t be alive today and couldn’t hurt me. But in my kid brain they were, they were here! How did no one see them? How did no one hear them? Didn’t they see the second Jurassic Park movie!? There were dinosaurs in the year 2010, and I was sure of it.

Fast forward a couple years and I am 12, I am having extremely realistic and vivid hallucinations once again but no dinosaurs this time. At least it wasn’t dinosaurs, i thought to myself, I couldn’t do that whole ordeal again. And then it happened. My dad got a job working at Universal’s game studio and low and behold they were making a new VR game: Jurassic World Aftermath.

I have always wanted to be a game developer, even as a kid I have play tested hundreds of the games my dad worked on. So I’m sure you can imagine what happened next.

Despite my fear despite the warning signs going off in my mind I strapped the headset in and prepared myself for a wild ride.

I couldn’t even get past the intro to the game as I knew there was going to be a velociraptor and it was going to kill me. I kept trying again and again to play the desk level but I could barely move every-time I saw it’s claws walk past me under the tables and desks. I think I had maybe played like a total of 2 hours just trying to get past the first level but I literally was shaking out of fear that the dinosaurs were back and that dinosaurs are here and they are not dead and they are in my house.

And a little deep dive into the inner workings of my mind, you see, all of my nightmares are stress related whether it’s a dream about a report due for school or about our car driving off the road while we do our yearly drive to Yosemite, my nightmares are always stress induced. So, when my dad worked as an imagineer at Disney, it was stress dreams about Disney land. And when my dad went to work for Universal’s Jurassic department, it was stress dreams about (you guessed it) dinosaurs! But these dreams weren’t like the Disney land ones I used to have maybe only a few times a month, no, these were full on NIGHTMARES about dinosaurs EVERYWHERE. Dinosaurs were in my dreams about school, the doctors, our car, underwater, AT DISNEY LAND, on the fictional island Isla Nublar, LITERALLY EVERYWHERE. And it’s not like they start off as nightmares, they turn into them.

Every few days a week in my dreams I am hiding in cupboards from velociraptors, being carried away by a pterodactyl, or ripped apart by two t-rex’s. And everyday when I woke up I would be face to face with more pictures of dinosaurs from the newest game my dad was working on, more games to play test, more mechanics to talk about. Dinosaurs Dinosaurs Dinosaurs! My brain was being bombarded with dinosaurs all over again!

And even long after my dad left the company and we moved away, I still, consistently get those dinosaur dreams whenever I feel even slightly stressed out about something in real life.

So yeah. Short story long, dinosaurs have plagued my youth and now I pray that the world understands the messages of the original movies: don’t fucking bring dinosaurs back or I will cry :)

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[inessencedevided]

- ☁️ Gusu Lan ☁️ -

The Wens are prepared with torches to burn down wooden beams that have stood for centuries, they bring swords and as many foot soldiers as possible to fight the prestigious disciples of the Lan sect, to slay them where they stand, paint the pristine white walls as red as the bird on their banners.

But they are not prepared for the anger of a god.

————————————————————

This is a story of a remote sect and a lonely deity, lost to the mountains until Lan An found his shrine again, cleaned it up, placed offerings and lit incense to welcome back the one who is now known as HanguangJun.

He loves his small humans, especially the children who tumble into his shrine, tiny and fragile like the wild white rabbits that visit his home. They bow clumsily but so very earnestly, offerings clutched in pudgy fists, slightly creased and yet worth so much more than blank, dead jewels and coffers full of gold he would never need.

One of the humans is a young, lonely woman. She looks tired each day she climbs up here, her robes as grey as the rocks surrounding his humble shrine. She lights incense and brings loquats she smuggled, rabbits spilling from her sleeves. Talks to him more than she prays, tells him how she stole away from the house they hold her prisoner in for an act of self defense, tells him how alone she is in these cold and remote mountains, speaks of how these visits are her only joy.

Day after day she struggles more and more to come up here, looks haggard, falls in on herself. Her eyes are still bright and alert but she seems lonelier than ever until one day her visits cease completely.

(They say it rained for a week after Madam Lan died, a cold and unforgiving wind howling through the mountains, that even the old trees sounded as if they were crying out with one voice. When ZewuJun, by that time still Lan Xichen, wants to clean his mother’s home, he finds an empty plot of land, a gurgling river and a small cluster of gentians. He remembers her telling him of the shrine on her deathbed, of the shrine and a lonely god who was almost like a son to her.)

————————————————————

The summer comes warm and with the sound of cicada song, a cooling breeze dancing around the feet of the visiting disciples that look in awe at the grand entrance carved from white stone. The sacred rabbits mill about and the atmosphere has something ethereal, something otherworldly. Even the rowdiest young people feel that someone resides here and watches over their every step.

Still, some of them find time to wander about, relax and swim in the streams that are rumoured to belong to the deity guarding this prestigious sect. One of them is Wei Wuxian, disciple of Baoshan Sanren, martial nephew to Xiao Xinchgen and Song Lan, a bright and curious youth, smart and wild like the streams rushing through the mountains of Gusu. He makes fast friends with the Jiang siblings and Nie Huaisang, who is also the one who tells him of the Keeper of the Mountains.

He treks up the mountain like so many before him, wind and sunlight dancing through his hair in a thousand ways of welcoming him, playing with his red ribbon almost like a bird tugging at it to bring it to its nest. He walks the path that has been smoothed down by footfall and age, anticipation blooming in his chest.

When he stumbles upon a remote house in the mountains and finds a man in there practising calligraphy with a steady and beautiful hand, he asks him (slightly breathlessly and shining like the sunlight that caresses his hair like a lover would) if he knows of the Keeper of the Mountains, of HanguangJun. The man lifts his head, his features elegant and placid like the finest white jade, hair like an ink spill and eyes the colour of dark, warm earth caught in a sunbeam and says in a voice that reminds him of sprawling riverbeds and the endlessness of the horizon beyond the mountains “Yes. I do.”

He offers spices to the shrine the man showed him when he walks down the mountain, tells the sky-blue tassels and the calmly chewing rabbits that he sadly does not have much to offer but that maybe this will be a joy to the deity in an otherwise bland cuisine. When he visits the man in his remote little house again, he serves food that swims with red and smells of spices that remind Wei Wuxian of home. He plays guqin and makes tea, pets the rabbits that wander up here and is a calming presence in the turmoil of burgeoning youth and a looming war.

————————————————————

War comes faster than most sects have time to recruit anyone. It carries a banner with a screeching bird the colour of the blood that will soon spill.

Some flee, some fight. And some? Some pray.

ZewuJun carries himself to the shrine, his sword already bloodied, panting and shaking, his hands and robes dirtied with red, so much red. He falls onto his knees, begs for his sect, for his mother who was once a beloved worshipper, for the children who should never be part of this bloodshed. For himself and for his uncle.

As he walks down the mountain, his sword sings in tandem with that of a god, glowing, radiant in his anger. Wens fall to his Bichen like autumn leaves, fires wink out in a wave of his hand. He steps in front of the building the little disciples and those unable to fight are hiding in, rabbits clustered around his feet, sword raised and a snarl on his ethereal face. Now Lan Xichen knows why a calm god like him is called HanguangJun, the Keeper of the Mountains. “Not a step further,” he says and his voice sounds like thunder. ZewuJun never had a brother, he is an only child but his mother told him of the lonely god she saw as a son of hers as much as himself and so he falls in step with the god, raising his own sword.

The Wens flee as if demons are hunting them.

—————————————————————

In Yunmeng, the Jiangs are in a similar situation, cornered like a fox by wild dogs, fighting until their fingers bleed, teeth and swords bared, attempting the impossible. Jiang Yanli, too weak to lift a sword but very versed with a cooking ladle is doing the best she can but her parents, her brother and her home are in danger. She is not ready to die yet, so she kneels down right here in the kitchen that is as good as hers, spreads out spices and prays to the god Wei Wuxian told her of. Her voice is shaking and she is holding the sharpest, longest knife she has (the one she uses to cut the ribs) in an iron grip.

She feels the cold encroaching, maybe because she grew up as child of the swamps, child of the summer heat in which robes stuck to your back regardless of how fine the silk is, sees the fog rolling in before anyone else does. Hears the reverberating twang of a guqin echoing over the lake, sees the lotuses bobbing up and down in a sharp wind smelling of mountain flowers. Sees the ice climbing up the wooden pillars that have supported Lotus Pier for years. Feels, more than sees him land on the pier, his anger radiating out, sword as unbending as the mountains he hails from still dripping with blood, a guqin in his hands made from a material that is as white as bleached bone.

He is terrifying but she is not scared. She is not afraid of the god who came when she called, a disciple mostly unknown to him but from the stories of the lovely young disciple she sees as a brother.

She falls in stride with him, holding her kitchen knife, her teeth bared and her footfall sure next to the god and his glowing white robes. Watches him fall in tandem with her little brother, with her mother, dance a deadly waltz with Wen Zhuliu, incandescent with rage. Her mother gets him, gets his hand that ended so many cultivators and the god that came to save them ends the life of Wen Chao, spears his heart with his gleaming sword.

He nods at her and she feels warmth wash over her, a benediction, an approval of her bravery. She lets the knife fall to the ground and sobs into his white robes, shaking and thanking him over and over. “No need,” he says and his voice really is a mountain river, calm and powerful. “You are steel wrapped in silk. A heart full of warmth. Fire too. You are one of mine too. I will protect you. Coming generations as well.”

He stays for a few days. He stays even though his sect must surely ask where their god has suddenly gone. Indulges Yanli in the kitchen and Wanyin on the training field, cleans up and heald. He is very homely for a being of such acclaim, quiet but curious, kind in a way that displays a hidden strength.

At the end of the week, Baoshan Sanren’s disciples come from their mountain and Yanli watches the god light up in a careful but very powerful way, like the sunrise over the mountains as the wild disciple with the red ribbon dancing in his hair runs up to hug him, sees the tall man cup his cheeks with a gentleness and devotion that borders on worship, sunlight and the god’s own glow illuminating them as they lean their foreheads against each others on her family’s pier, smiling without noticing anything or anyone else.

Wei Wuxian receives something most people work a thousand lifetimes for, most people will never gain, one mortal lost his life for: the approval and most importantly the regard of his hermit, the love of the Keeper of the Mountains. The heart of a god.

- 🍄 anon

🍄 anon wrote this for the @mdzsnet 'two years with cql' event ☁️💙☁️

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Nothing But A Scratch

Ivar x Princess reader

Word Count: 3155

Warnings: Tiny mention of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, Ivar may be out of character (Shrugs).

Summary: Ivar is wounded during battle.

My entry for @maggiescarborough’s 400 Followers Writing Challenge! Congratulations Sophie! 😊❤️For some reason, I always write more than 2k for your challenges 😂

I’m not exactly sure what to say about this. I struggled quite a bit writing it. I’m really hard on myself 😅Hope ya’ll enjoy!

Prompt: The character gets seriously hurt.

According to google translate (An unreliable source, I know), moron in Russian is Debil.

Thanks to @shannygoatgruff​ for beta reading

...

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself.

The enemy sword was swift, the blade slicing through his armor and deep into the flesh of his belly.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when blood began to pour from his wound and past his lips, the adrenaline pushing him forward.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when he swayed on his feet, his crutch no longer of use to him.

It was nothing but a scratch, he told himself, when his legs twisted, and his body collided with the muddy ground, completely vulnerable and surrounded by his enemies.

…

Ivar dreamed.

He dreamed of Kattegat in the days of his youth, back when he trailed behind his older brothers through the dirt with his hands, only to come to the painful realization that he would never be like them. He dreamed of his mother and her tears, his pride separating them despite how much she pleaded for him not to go.

He dreamed of the salty waters of the Northern Sea and the unforgiving winds that destroyed their ship, splintering it to pieces. He dreamed of Ràn dragging him into the depths of her dark abyss, collecting another prize for her realm of the drowned.

He dreamed of England’s sandy shores, of land ready for the taking, and of the weak-minded men who ruled over it. He dreamed of little Prince Alfred, now a King, holding out his hand to offer him friendship in the form of a chess piece.

He dreamed of Ragnar in the way he remembered best, tired, and decrepit in his final days, a hermit, and yet, in his eyes, he was still the greatest man who ever lived.

It is not your time yet, Ragnar told him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

He dreamed of Kiev and its massive wooden gates, golden palace walls, and luxurious Byzantine silks. He dreamed of the ambitious Prince Oleg, and of sweet, sweet, Igor. He dreamed of emotionless puppets made to stand with perfect posture while he still struggled to keep up with his own.

He dreamed of the Rus princess with the mysterious umber eyes, always seeking him out in a room. He dreamed of her dark hair hidden under white and gold silks, and of the jewels that adorned her neck and wrists, as befitting a princess.

He dreamed of her smile, never fully reaching her eyes, and of the way her fingers stroked his cheek at night when the fires burned bright against the darkness when her maids kept close watch outside her door.

He dreamed of the smooth expanse of her skin, of her gasps of delight, and her moans of pleasure. He dreamed of her mouth on his, the urgency they both felt as she left crescent moon shapes over his shoulders, clinging on to the precious time that seemed to slip away.

He dreamed of the day he stole her away from her brother, away from the shelter of the Kievan court, and into the safety of his arms. She watched her brother die that day, by the hands of her own nephew, her dark eyes glossing over, but never daring to let the tears fall.

He dreamed of making her his wife, of her in a crown of wildflowers and the sun illuminating the different shades of her hair.

He dreamed of her smile, finally reaching her eyes.

He could hear her calling out to him, begging for him to come to her.

Ivar, please, she cried, Wake up.

He tried searching for her, arm outstretched and fingers reaching in futile attempts. It was impossible, his body fighting through what felt like tar. He sunk deeper into the darkness, away from her soothing voice, and into Ràn’s abyss where Ivar the Boneless was forgotten.

…

It had been a week before he had shown any signs of consciousness.

7 days of fever, chills, and silence that had him teetering between Midgard and Valhalla.

For 7 days his army laid low after their truce with the Saxon king. For all the attacks Wessex had endured from the Northmen, he valued peace over war, forgiveness over vengeance. A true Christian king.

Alfred was not ruthless.

For 7 days the heathen army waited impatiently, wondering whether the youngest son of Ragnar was to survive, or whether a funeral was to be organized. Some believed he would die. Of course, the wound he received at the hands of a Saxon warrior was a deadly one. A deep gash across his stomach had been opened to infection, causing the fever to take hold of him the first few nights. His legs, more shattered than ever, would make surviving seemingly impossible.

But still, they waited.

The former princess of Kiev waited by his side, as still as a statue of a saint. She kept watch over him at night when the rest of the army was asleep, feeling more lost than she ever did in her brother’s court. She prayed for his soul rigorously, cross clutched tightly in her hand, hard enough to leave an imprint in its wake.

7 days of uncertainty, of prayer and fasting, of fear and loneliness. 7 days of hope and hopelessness, surrounded by untrustworthy men.

But still, she waited.

…

It was the dead of night when Ivar broke from his delirium.

He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore. He couldn’t hear the screams of his fellow warriors, the clashing of sword against sword, nor could he smell the scent of iron spewing from the blood of both enemy and ally. It was just...darkness.

Perhaps he was in Valhalla, he thought, though if that were true, then the stories were wrong. It was rather underwhelming.

But no, he was not in Valhalla either, not by the scent at least. It smelled of dried herbs, and of that revolting root the Rus princess often drank as a tea. What was it again? Ginseng?—

And then he forced his eyes to open, lashes ripping apart after spending days glued together.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he felt as if he were suffocating under the pile of furs thrown over him. His heart was beating erratically, nearly bursting from the confines of his chest as his body fought to stabilize itself.

He wheezed, his throat feeling dryer than the deserts of the Silk Road. His tongue darted out in an attempt to wet his cracked lips with little success.

Moving was an issue. He couldn’t. It hurt.

His attempt to sit up failed as a yelp ripped free from his lips, croaky and in pure agony. He fell back against the makeshift cot with a grunt.

The pain was excruciating, hot, and vicious in his lower abdomen, like a raven fighting to claw its way in. His legs, though always in a fragile state, felt worse than they had in the years since adopting the use of his braces and crutch.

He struggled to crane his neck, quick to map out his surroundings as best he could. He was in his own tent, that much was evident, as he always had it specifically set to his liking. His weapons were laid out in a corner, along with his ruined armor, crutch, and leg braces. The useless things landed him in a cot, fighting for survival.

“My love?” Her voice was enough to calm his wild heart, his neck snapping in the direction of her voice.

The princess’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from what he could only assume had been days of weeping. Beside her was a steaming cup of tea, producing that horrible smell of Ginseng that made him want to gag. When had she the time to steal the root before they left Novgorod?

Wrapped around her wrist was her gold beaded rosary, bright and shining in the candlelight. She held the cross tightly in her small fist, knuckles white from the pressure. He wondered how long she had sat by his side, praying, waiting for him to recover.

Her fingers dropped the cross, her soft hands reaching for him. Ivar could feel her hot tears drip over his bare chest as she leaned over him.

“Ivar—” She choked his name, sobs already taking hold of her body as she cupped his warm face, “You’re awake! Thank God!” More tears poured from her eyes as her mouth quivered. She lowered herself to her knees, grabbing his hand and placing kisses on the surface.

Ivar wanted to wrap her in his arms, to tell her he was fine, that the gods have not taken him yet, but his arms felt as fragile as his legs, weak from days of disuse. Instead, he brings his fingertips to her flushed cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.

“Hey,” He croaked out, using his thumb to catch another falling tear before running his fingers through her hair, “Stop crying, please, love.” His voice was not much more than a whisper. He sounded more like an old toad than a human, but it was enough to bring her weeping down to mere whimpering.

“It has been days, I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, sniffling before continuing, “I feared the worst.”

The princess was far more worried for his well-being than he ever was.

Ivar was quite content with the idea of falling in battle and ascending to Valhalla. She had not agreed with such sentiments.

It is not your time yet, his father had said to him, the world is at your feet. Be ruthless.

“It is not my time yet,” He repeated Ragnar’s words, his hand continuing gentle motions through her soft hair, “Valhalla will have to wait a little longer, hmm?”

“Valhalla,” She hiccups, shaking her head, not fully understanding the Viking fascination with death, “Not with the way you throw yourself in battle.” She mutters, wiping her eyes.

She stood, going to the far side of the tent to fetch a bucket with a wooden ladle. She brings a hefty scoop of water to his lips, holding his head up carefully to aid him.

He drank like a mad man, the water running past his chin and down his neck.

“Debil,” She chastised him lovingly in her native tongue, eyes still moist, “Idiot. Where were your warriors?”

“Fighting for themselves,” He gasps, the cold water soothing the dryness of his throat, “Or have you forgotten the ways of war?” He croaks, his lips curling into a smile.

“What would I know of war, my love?” She offers, setting the bucket and the ladle aside once he had his fill, “Or have you forgotten I was but a sheltered princess.” She tried to make a joke of it, but she only sounded miserable saying such words. She brings a hand to smooth down his wild hair, braids unraveling into a long-twisted mess.

“In war,” Ivar begins, eyes fluttering as her nails scratched at his scalp, “You either survive or die.”

“And I suppose you wanted to die then?” A bitter tone was followed by a bitter smile. He cleared his throat, his tired eyes watching how her expression shifted through so many emotions.

His reply was honest. “If that is what the gods intended for me, then so be it. It would have been an honor.”

“What honor is there in taking me from my home, and leaving me to live out my life away from my own family and amongst men I do not know?” She snapped, though the anger was short-lived, and she lowered her eyes.

She was intrigued by Ivar from the moment she had set eyes on him, like a moth to a flame. She was happy to have left with him, happy to have relinquished her title and to have left such a sour life behind. Ivar offered her freedom, adventure, and love, things she never understood the meaning of in Kiev, but she was a fool to believe he was invincible. She had seen him rally crowds to chant his name, had seen his strengths despite his weaknesses, and yet, he bleeds red as every other man does. War takes the lives of men, and Ivar was not immune to such a fate. He welcomed it.

“You are all I have in this world, Ivar.” She spoke gently, as she did when he dreamed of her. Her fingers shifted to trace over the dark lines inked upon his heated skin. The fever had barely broken, but at least he was conscious now. “Please, my love, all I ask is that you stay alive.” Her lips quivered, “I do not think my heart could bear to see you like this again.”

Ivar felt his heart sink.

He knew she wasn’t made to live in a war camp amongst warriors. She was born into a life of gold and silver, into luxury that so many others could only dream of, and yet, she chose to go with him, a fallen king with worthless legs and a heart as dark as coal. He once had the world at his feet. He would do it all again, for her. He had to.

“Do you regret it?” He finally asked though something within him feared her answer.

“Regret what?”

“Regret leaving Kiev with me?” He reiterated, observing her features for any hint of disappointment.

“No,” The response was immediate and without hesitation, “I have been happier with you than I have been all my years in that palace.” She sighs, her hair creating a barrier between them when she lowered her head, “Oleg was not a good man.” Her words were laced in sorrow. Her brother's death still weighed heavy on her heart.

“You deserve more than this,” He said, eyes closing for a moment before bringing them back to her. Her dark brows curved up in a worrisome expression he’d seen on her many times before. “You have given up so much for me, a lonely cripple,” He chuckles when she made noises of protest, “Only the gods know why.” She considers him in silence, noting how unreal the blue of his irises were.

“Ivar?” She questioned, setting her palm on his warm chest and over his heart, silently thankful it was finally beating at a normal pace.

“You’re a princess, my love. The battlefield is no place for you.” He places his hand over hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“All I ask of you is to stay alive.” She spoke softly, her lips curving into a smile, though it wasn’t enough to reach her eyes. “I will not ask you for anything else.” She feared being alone, and rightfully so. She’d been alone all her life in the Kievan court, as expressionless and empty as those Byzantine puppets Oleg was so fond of, donning smiles that never reached her eyes.

“My sweet girl,” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Come, I wish to embrace you.” Planting both hands firmly on the sides of the cot, he forces himself into a seated position, groaning all the while, feeling the fire burn in the pit of his belly. He grunts, eyes screwed tight as he forced himself upright.

“Ivar!” She scolds, more worried than anything else, “Stop moving! You’ll fester your wound.” She peels off the furs to reveal the gauze wrapped tightly around his mind section, the once white cloth now stained red. “Christ. I must call the healer.”

“Don’t,” Ivar pants, tugging her wrist and quickly bringing her to his side, “Please. I wish for a few minutes to ourselves before I must face the world in this weak state. Grant me this one thing, hm?”

“But your wound—”

“What, this?” He jerks his chin down toward his abdomen with a tired smile, “It is nothing but a scratch.”

“Ivar.” She warned him.

“Princess.” The amusement was clear in his tone, artfully masking his pain. He gripped her waist, tugging her forward and into his arms with a grunt. She smelled of the English forest and of summer blossoms. “I will never leave you.” He mutters the promise into her waist, still ignoring the pain, “I will give you everything you deserve, my love.”

“What of your army?” She questions quietly, fingers dancing over his bicep, “And the Saxon king? Your brother tells me he seeks peace.” Ivar scoffs.

“And he shall get it...for now.” He concludes with an angry twitch of his brow.

“What do you intend to do?” She laid her cheek over the messy strands of his chestnut brown hair.

“Recover, and take you away from this miserable land I should have never brought you to in the first place.”

“Oh, Ivar,” He felt her plant a kiss upon his hair, “I belong wherever you are.” He grunts, gripping her tightly as if she would slip right through his fingers like sand.

“Marry me.” He mutters into her soft linen dress, suddenly feeling as shy as he did when he was a boy.

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.” He said, louder this time, needier, a plea falling from his lips as he tightened his hold on her. He shifts his head to look at her, imagining her with a crown of wildflowers nestled in her soft tresses. Her eyes grew round at his statement, lips parted as if to speak.

“Truly?” She asks, “Or has the fever gone to your head?” Ivar rolled his eyes fondly.

“Why would I bother asking you if I did not mean it, hmm?” His chin lightly grazed her abdomen as he peeked up at her through his lashes. “I will make you a queen, lay the world at your feet if you allow me.”

How many tears could this woman produce? He thought though he was more than satisfied knowing they were tears of joy when she erupted in giggles.

“I accept,” She wiped her eyes before arching down to place a kiss on his lips, “But, under one condition.”

“Oh?” Ivar pulls away from her, brows raised, “Go on, what is it?”

“You must drink the ginseng tea,” She offers, taking the lukewarm tea and offering it to him, “The healers would prescribe it to Oleg whenever he came back wounded from battle. It will revive your strength and clear your body of infection.” Ivar eyes the cup wearily, nose flaring at the abhorrent smell. He didn’t like it.

“It smells horrid.” He complained.

“You fight battles against fearsome enemies, and yet, are too afraid to drink an herbal tonic?” She scoffs. Ivar narrows his eyes, considers her words before muttering under his breath.

“...Very well.” He takes the cup from her, face pinched after taking a sip, “Are you satisfied now? Will you marry me?” She nods fervently, her hands laced together in her joy. A blinding smile settled on her lips like never before.

It finally reached her eyes.

...

@heavenly1927​ @didiintheblog​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @leilabeaux​ @shannygoatgruff​ @inforapound​ @walkxthexmoon​ @hecohansen31​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @peachyboneless​ @fuchsiagrasshopper​ @pomegranates-and-blood​

[notabloodmage]

Even then. (DA2 fic)

doin some writing on my canon version of the Hawke family!! this is kind of messy but i needed to get some ideas down  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ anyway listen to me there is nothing in canon that says malcolm hawke couldn’t be an elf @ bioware let me have this

They hadn’t planned to settle in Lothering. Leandra was five months pregnant, the plan was to keep pressing towards the wilds, in hopes of finding a band of Chasind or Avvar that wouldn’t be so opposed to Malcolm’s magical abilities. The prospect frightened Leandra, but Malcolm insisted it was their best shot at a Templar-free life.

The storm had caught them off guard. 

The torrential downpour was on them suddenly, and all at once. Malcolm had enough mana remaining to protect them from lightning, but there was no way for him to subtly shield them from the cold that was creeping in through the wet. Ferelden was not always an easy place to live, but it had to be better than Kirkwall. 

At least that’s what Malcolm repeated to himself as he scooped his firstborn child up into his arms, trying to ignore the way his back ached from days upon days of travel. The long nights of sleeping on the cold hard ground probably weren’t helping either.  

They’d passed several small settlements on the road, but they always tried to avoid contact with other people. People didn’t even need to suspect him of being a mage--being an elf was bad enough for a lot of the country folk. He couldn’t take five steps in a town without being accused of stealing, it seemed. 

They always tried to sleep beneath the stars if they could, or in a tent if they thought it would be well hidden enough. Leandra had accused him of being paranoid, now that they were already so far from home but as far as Malcolm was concerned you couldn’t be too careful. 

He had done so much--sacrificed all of his ideals-- just to get them this far, and Maker be damned if he was going to be caught now. 

Still, in a storm like this exceptions had to be made, and Leandra had spotted an old farmhouse on the horizon. Malcolm, while hesitant, grew more and more at ease as they approached. It seemed to be abandoned. 

The couple trudged through the rain hand in hand. The land surrounding the farmhouse was uneven, muddy, and completely overgrown. Malcolm prayed that the rain would cover their tracks as they made their way to the 

It was a little worse for wear, looking like it had been sitting untouched for years which was a blessing in disguise because all it took was a swift kick (combined with a bit of mana, of course) to break the rusted padlock.

Malcolm guided them in cautiously, scanning the room for any threats. Abandoned didn’t mean safe. He wasted no time setting up wards to protect them-- but Malcolm was tired too. 

Perhaps he’d missed a spot, perhaps he hadn’t been as thorough as he’d thought. Perhaps his wards were weak with his exhaustion as he joined his wife and daughter on a bed of stale hay. Perhaps he’d been distracted with casting a quick warming spell to ensure the most important people in his life slept soundly. Perhaps he’d given in, for a moment, to the sense of hope burning brightly in his chest as he pulled his family close. He slept far too soundly that night. Better than he had in months. 

The high-pitched creak of the barn door swinging open jerked the three of them awake. 

Rays of sunlight were streaming in through the rafters--had morning really come so soon? 

The sight was so peaceful that Malcolm nearly didn’t register the clunk of boots on the wooden floor, and the wide figure stepped towards him, fiddling with the trigger of a small hunting crossbow. Malcolm scrambled back, drawing Leandra closer with one arm while the other fumbled for his staff--lost in the hay. 

“Hold still now, friend, I’d prefer not to use this--”

“Stay away from my family!!” The stranger was interrupted by his daughter’s tiny voice. 

She had leaped out of the shadows beside them, brandishing the pocket knife that Malcolm kept strapped to his belt. 

How did she-- Malcolm didn’t have time to finish the thought. He rushed forward, intent on yanking her back by the shirt collar. He’d been in such a deep state of sleep that he hadn’t even registered her absence. Then again, she was always so sneaky. Malcolm hadn’t the faintest clue where she’d gotten it from, but she had a way of sinking into the shadows and completely disappearing.  

She was only four, and a tiny little thing at that-- shaking in the little booties Leandra had made her. Leaping to defend her family with a . 

So brave, even then. 

“Minerva NO!!” Leandra was shrieking. “Don’t shoot, serah--please!! Minnie get back here--“

For a moment Malcolm thought that all was lost. He pictured himself in chains, being dragged away by Templars-- leaving his wife and daughter alone and penniless in a foreign land. He’d let them down. He’d failed. 

The atmosphere of the room changed entirely, however, when the stranger began to laugh. 

It wasn’t a bad laugh. 

Not condescending. Not cruel. 

It was light and youthful, despite the obvious late-middle-age of its owner. It rang through the morning air like a Chantry bell on the breeze. It was the kind of pure laugh that can only be created by the innocence of a child. In that moment the light in Malcolm’s chest returned, soothing his racing heart. He paused, studying the face of the stranger in the barn doorway as he raised his weapon in mock surrender, humouring the child.  

“Oh my! Be careful with that, little dragonling!” The stranger smiled down at the child warmly, crouching down to her level to look her in the eyes, before his gaze rose to her fathers, noting the matching eyes that seemed to burn with something he couldn’t quite name. Malcolm saw what he hoped was understanding in the old man’s eyes. “Put that there knife away, and settle down. We can talk this out, I promise.”

Malcolm hurriedly ushered Minerva behind him-- the child kept her eyes glued to the intruder, even when she began to cling to her father’s pant leg. Malcolm could feel her trembling, so he reached down and carded a comforting hand through a mop of brown curls that matched his own, trying to be as brave as his daughter. 

A tense quiet had settled over the barn as Malcolm tried to appraise the man before him, who was doing the same. They must’ve been quite the sight--all clinging to each other, covered in hay. Malcolm didn’t dare reach for his staff, he just prayed that wherever the damned thing was it was out of sight.  

Finally the stranger huffed, standing and leaning back on his heels.  

“Name’s Barlin,” The stranger jutted his chin at Malcolm, crossing his arms casually. “Sorry for bargin’ in on ya.”

“Malcolm…” He held his head high, meeting Barlin’s eyes as he introduced himself. “Malcolm Hawke.” 

“Quite the little bodyguard you have there,” Barlin’s voice was genuine. Warm. 

Malcolm’s mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. 

“Small but mighty,” He could feel Minerva nodding against his thigh, as well as the tears she was smearing into the fabric of his trousers.

He called her that a lot, especially when she was little. Such a simple little phrase, but it always made Minerva feel big, in a way.

“Look, I was just checkin’ to make sure you all weren’t bandits, or bears, or something.” The man shrugged disarmingly. “I didn’t come here for a fight. Lothering’s a peaceful little town, and we like to keep it that way.”

“Peaceful? What’s that like?” Malcolm’s sarcastic question slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, and Leandra squeezed his shoulder tightly in warning. 

Barlin merely chuckled, smiling at him wryly. 

“Y’all don’t look like the type of folk who are accustomed to peaceful.” He observed. “I’m just glad you got out of the storm-- it was a good one!”

Barlin took a step inside, eyes travelling upward, surveying how the roof sagged and leaked. The old building had fallen into disrepair, but it wasn’t unsalvageable.

“Look, this place ain’t even mine. It was my brother’s before he moved to Denerim for work. Place hasn’t seen any life in aside from rats and the occasional nug in a while, as I'm sure you’ve noticed.” 

The old man paused for a moment, gaze landing on the family before him. He’d later told Malcolm that he’d had a good feeling in his gut about them, and his gut was just about the only thing he trusted. 

“I run the tavern in town, why don’t you all come back with me and let me fix you something to eat.”

Minerva perked up at that, and even Malcolm couldn’t stop his mouth from watering at the prospect of a hot meal. Leandra looked cautious, but when he met her gaze she nodded slowly. Barlin smiled at that. 

“Come on, while we walk, why don’t you tell me what you know about farming?”

Malcolm would find out through gossip in the years to come that Barlin had been trying to get rid of that property for years, but that didn’t change the kindness. He didn’t ask anything about where they’d come from or why they were running. He asked Malcolm what he did and he’d told him he was an herbalist--which wasn’t a lie, and he suspected Barlin could tell. 

“Herbalism? Farming? Sounds like the same thing to me.”

The old man let Malcolm pay him back for the land over time after they’d settled in and started earning some money. He’d also scoffed at the notion of charging interest. 

The farmhouse was rotting and falling apart, but with a lot of hard work (and a bit of hidden, domestic magic) they turned it into a home. Minerva grew up toddling around the gardens and helping Malcolm till the fields. She’d climbed gnarled tree in their front yard to watch the sun rise every morning since she was six, regardless of weather, much to Leandra’s chagrin. 

His eldest child had grown up far too quickly for his liking, and couldn’t help but blame himself. He knew it wasn’t fair to place her in charge of her siblings, especially with the added responsibility of protecting Bethany--but Minerva would insist that she could handle it. She’d lead the twins on adventures in the fields and forests surrounding the little town-- quests, she always called them. 

They had to work hard, but Malcolm had taught her to always try to make it fun. The children would race each other home, Minerva usually in front, although Carver would occasionally shove his way past her. Bethany was a lot quicker than she looked too--and always smarter than she let on. Malcolm would never forget the looks on Minerva and Carver’s faces the time he’d taught Bethany how to freeze their feet to the ground, nor Bethany’s own wide grin as she’d crossed the finish line (their garden gate), cheering with victory as Carver swore and Minerva laughed alongside her.  

His children were adventurous-- all three of them. Malcolm had lost count of the amount of times Carver and Bethany had burst through the door, shouting that Minerva was in trouble. She had a habit of getting stuck in trees, that girl... Bethany claimed to be the least so, favouring staying inside to study most days, especially as she got older, but even she couldn’t resist the call of a bright summer day. 

Minerva always knew exactly what to say to coax her out of hiding, too. Be it a promise to stop by the Chantry for one song, or spinning a scheme so grand that even Bethany couldn’t resist. Bethany was more competitive than she let on, and Minerva was always too clever for her own good. The eldest sister got herself and Carver into heaps of trouble throughout their youth. They were so rambunctious, and Minerva was always pressing Carver’s buttons on purpose, but never in a way that pushed the lad too far.  

Always so precise, even then.

Malcolm had had to come down hard on her only once. She’d set off a tar bomb in barracks of the local Templars, bringing the Knight Captain huffing and puffing to their doorstep, completely unaware that he was in the presence of not one, but two apostates.  Leandra was beside herself, disguising her frantic panic for Bethany’s safety as being furious at the tar tracked all over their home. Andraste’s Mercy, she had given poor Minerva an earful. Malcolm knew it was mostly for show-- so the templars could believe it was just a well-meant prank by some kid. Malcolm had a reputation around town for being good around a cauldron, and he promised to supply the knight commander with a free shipment of potions, and assurance that Minerva would clean up the mess. Minerva had inherited his alchemic ability. but not his connection to the fade. He’d taught her the recipe himself, so she could help him fix the thatching on their chicken coop. 

He was mostly just mad he didn’t think of this himself--he would’ve done the same at her age. He couldn’t tell her that, though, could he?What he did tell her was that she was old enough to know better, he’d said. Perhaps that was too harsh… For the Maker’s sake she was only ten...

He’d come up to her guiltily that evening, offering her a glass of her favourite tea-- a recipe they’d invented together. She was gazing up at the stars, before she mumbled an apology and he did too. 

He made it up to her by telling a story about a similar prank he played on the templars back at the Gallows. 

“I know they’re the worst, but provoking them won’t do us any favours, Mighty Mini,” The nickname made her giggle. “It’s not your fight.” That made her pause. 

“But…” She looked up at him, eyes full of concern. “They make things just awful for you and Bethany!” She protested. “You shouldn’t have to hide your magic! Magic is good!” She said it with childlike simplicity. He’d taught her well… Maybe a little too well, if he was being honest. 

“I know, Min, it isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean you should go out of your way to cause problems for the templars. You don’t want their attention. Think of Bethany.” He gave her shoulder a firm squeeze. 

She stilled, gazing at her feet.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took her up into a tight hug. “It’s just not fair...” 

Always seeking justice, even then. 

Malcolm was far from the perfect father, but, Maker, did he try. At the very least, he was always there when his children needed him. Even years later, he cherished every moment spent outside the walls of the Gallows. 

He was able to give his kids the childhood he’d always wanted-- more or less.

On (idk what the dragon age equivalent to Sundays is but That LMAO) Minerva and Carver would spar for hours, using swords carved out of sticks they’d found exploring woods, while Malcolm, Bethany, and Leandra would go into town. Malcolm would take care of the shopping for the week and the two of them would head to the Chantry for the service. Bethany always tithed her allowance at the Chantry, even when her siblings teased her for it. She was always such a sweet, gentle girl. She wanted to help, and the cloister in Lothering was vastly different from the Kirkwall Chantry. They were a peaceful folk, down to earth. 

Once their farm was in its prime the revered mother even asked to buy some of their harvested herbs for their healers on a yearly basis, and Malcolm given it to her for free--inspired by the kindness of his youngest daughter. He knew the gift of magic weighed on the poor girl, and he wished he could take the burden from her. 

He would’ve preferred they not have to worry about hiding his and Bethany’s magic at all, but he figured that this was as good as it was going to get. 

And it was good, indeed. For a time. 

Minerva grew up with a Father who could coax her down from the trees she’d get stuck in, and catch her when she fell. Bethany had a Father who could guide her in the ways of the Fade and teach her not to fear her power, but to control it with ease. Carver had a Father who encouraged his study of the blade despite having no combat experience of his own. 

Whatever made them happy, as long as they were safe, just, and kind. That was who their father was.

Malcolm Hawke died too young, and too suddenly. 

The fever came when Minerva had just turned seventeen, and the twins were only twelve. The illness swept through their entire family, but it took her Father with it when it left. He was buried beneath the apple tree in their garden as a free man. Not a mage, just Malcolm Hawke. His children worked in tandem to carve a headstone themselves, nestling it with care between the roots. 

Lothering wasn’t the same after Malcolm died. Minerva did her best to fill the void, standing in as her Sister’s keeper, trying to smile her way through the tears the way her Father taught her to. 

Carver left to join the king’s army as soon as he turned sixteen, prying himself out of his mother’s arms with a groan. Leandra drew her daughters even closer in his absence, especially Bethany. The young mage became even more reclusive, afraid to wander too far from home by herself. She became convinced that the Templars in Lothering suspected something, no matter how many times Minerva assured her of how careful they’d been. 

Then, Carver was back, and the Blight was upon them. They’d only had a few short days on the run to cherish their brother’s return before the darkspawn ripped him away from them once more, this time for good. 

The farmhouse in Lothering never received a proper goodbye from the family that had inhabited it for all those years. The Blight fell upon them far too suddenly for them to grab anything more than their most precious of possessions before running for the hills. 

Barlin visits it sometimes, finding the tombstone beneath the trees. The old man hasn’t died yet, even though he’s buried many of his juniors. He chats to the stone as he clears it of moss, pulling out a book with a dwarvish name on the cover.

The eldest Hawke child--the little dragonling who’d stood her ground in that old farmhouse brandishing a knife while shaking like a leaf all those years ago had done quite well for herself, it seemed. Barlin was glad of it. He hadn’t known Malcolm was a mage, but it certainly made a lot about the strange elf make sense. 

Barlin wonders sometimes if the Champion of Kirkwall knows how proud those few that survived Lothering are of her. 

[tailorvizsla]

Hi I love your writing. Could I please request some angst with the lovely Prince Oberyn Martell? thank yoooouuuuuuuuu

Anon, I’m pretty sure you meant to send this to someone else, but I’m more than happy to give it a whirl. 🤣

Title: Mistaken Identity Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader Word Count: ~2000 Rating: R Warnings: Angst, but with a happy ending, mentions of sex and violence typical for the show (I think), no explicit content though. Author’s Notes: shrug idk man I know nothing about GoT. This may go really well or it may go really poorly.

📚 My Master List 📚

If you want to be tagged in anything, send me an ask or leave a comment!

Wind howls through the long, winding stone corridors of the ancient castle you call home. Outside, lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the wild, windswept landscape. Whispers of your Prince’s death had taken the castle by storm, occupants and servants alive working themselves into a frenzy until a blood-stained golden cloth had been brought in. It felt like a fist to the gut. Even now, your breath comes in tiny gasps, your head swimming as you struggle to stay on your feet. Now, in your narrow room, you watch as the servants begin to build the funeral pyre in the courtyard.

“Milady,” comes a soft voice from the door.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you say, the words thick in your mouth. “Leave.”

“Milady,” your lady’s maid insists. “Please, come away from the window. You will catch your death if you linger in this cold.”

Pursing your lips, you step back, knowing that the older woman speaks the truth. The nights have grown chilly as of late. You wonder if you will ever feel warmth again without Oberyn’s arms around you. How could this have happened?

“Milady, if it pleases you,” she says, standing next to the bed.

She keeps her head bowed, but you can see the apprehensive look on her face, as if she fears you will fly off in a fit of hysterics. Part of you wishes to fly off into hysterics, but you know that you cannot afford to do so. With Oberyn gone, there is no one left to protect you, should someone decide to begin gossiping. You need to worry about what your future will bring, but you cannot bring yourself to such selfish thoughts.

Oberyn is dead. He deserves to be mourned.

She slides the warming pan out from under the sheets as you slide in. The bed is pleasantly warm. As she draws the curtain, she dims the candles and excuses herself. When you are certain she is gone, you grab your dressing gown and sink down into the divan at the end of the bed. His tunic is still here. It looks like he had left for just a moment to attend to business elsewhere, as if he will return in just a few moments’ time.

“Oberyn,” you whisper softly, eyes filling with tears as you stroke the golden silk between your fingers. “Oberyn. How could you leave like this? Without so much as a goodbye?”

Your throat tightens and the tears stream down your face, but you stifle your sobs, lest the maid in the adjoining room hear and come investigate.

“I still remember the day we first met,” you continue softly, running your fingers along the embroidered neckline. “My brother wished to curry your favor. I did not want to come – I confess, I was terrified. I could not stop shaking, praying that you would not notice me. I thought you might eat me like a snake would.”

You had hidden yourself behind your brother, drawing up your veil to conceal your features, hoping that the Prince known as the Red Viper would ignore you. That he would not notice you cowering in terror.

“Of course, I would not be so lucky, would I?” you ask softly, smiling sadly. “You greeted my brother by name. Then you looked at me. I could feel your eyes boring into my soul, Oberyn. Like I was completely bare before you.”

You had kept your eyes downcast and focused on the stone beneath your feet. Then he stepped closer. Then his hand drifted into view. Hard, calloused fingertips pressed against your jaw, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing, tilting your head up. Still, you refused to look at him – still terrified that he would have pupils like a real snake.

“Such lovely eyes,” he remarked, and that had broken your resolve.

You looked him right in the eyes. Even now, you still feel the warmth quivering in your belly when you recall his beautiful brown eyes. They had been filed with fire, burning into your very heart. You had let your eyes admire his features – soft, curling brown hair, prominent brows, and a distinguished nose. A plump lower lip. Carefully trimmed facial hair. Yet you could not stop looking at his eyes, marveling at his warmth.

“Of course, I made a fool of myself,” you whisper, sniffling as you laugh. “Do you remember, what I said next, my prince?” You wipe your eyes. “Oh, Prince Martell, the rumors are false!”

You laugh into the neck of his tunic, catching the faintest whiff of his rapidly fading scent. You choke back a sob, curling forward around the fabric. “You asked me, ‘What rumors, little one?’ And I…I…oh, how did you not refrain from simply removing my head?”

You laugh quietly.

“My Lord, your pupils are round!” you whisper with a soft smile. He had been in utter shock for just a moment before carefully schooling away his response. Before he could respond, your brother had turned and grabbed you by the arm, his other hand rising to beat you for your insult. “But you stopped him from flogging me, Oberyn.”

He caught your brother by the arm and forced it back down, eyes flashing with fury and jaw set tightly.

“I am called the Red Viper,” you whisper softly, remembering the keen look of amusement he had shot at you. “Do not strike her for believing the tales you have likely whispered into her ear.”

Your brother had been furious with you. After the prince had left, he had caught you by the arm and squeezed so hard he left a violent, hand-shaped bruise on you. He had promised to inflict punishment for your embarrassing behavior, to ensure you could never speak so improperly to your lord again.

“Before he could hurt me, you invited me to serve your lady here in the castle,” you continue. “He could not refuse without causing offense, and so you saved me. You have saved me so many times from my own stupidity.”

There had been so, so many of those moments as well.

“You taught me to read, to write, and to defend myself,” you say. “You gave me a dagger, Oberyn. You coated it in poison and made me swear to use it only to protect myself. Without you…what will happen to the kingdom? To your family?...to me?”

Sighing, you let your shoulders sag. You had spent countless nights here with him. From that first encounter where you lay on the bed, stiff as a board, terrified that it really would hurt as much as the married women back home told you it would. Until he told you that you had no obligations to share your bed with him. That he would not force you to partake. That had brought you pause – your brother had often lectured you on what would await you on your wedding night. Drink copiously, he said, it is the only way to make it bearable that first time for a woman.

“You are the only person who listened when I said no,” you say softly, tears splashing onto the fabric, dotting the fabric with damps spots. “You were so kind to me. You were gentle. You showed me that I did not need to be afraid.”

Oberyn then sat on the edge of the bed, tunic unbuttoned to his belly button, and looked at you with those warm, sympathetic, brown eyes. Shyly, you asked him to stay and tell you stories about his time at the Citadel, about the things he had learned there. And he did. He told you about the lands he had traveled to in his youth. The duels he had won. The time spent with the mercenaries in Essos. You marveled at his stories, staring up at him in awe, until you had finally drifted off to sleep in that soft, warm space in his arms.

For a week, he came back every night to hold you and tell you stories.

Then, one afternoon, you happened upon him training with one of his men. You had hidden yourself in the shadows to watch him, stunned into silence as he spun, parried, dodged, and blocked with ease. He moved with such deadly grace, lunging once to claim victory over his opponent.

The uncomfortable throb in your belly lingered until that night, where you shyly confessed to spying on him. He had given you such a mischief-filled smirk, whispering “I know” as his fingers slipped under your skirt.

This time, you encouraged him to continue, biting your lip at the memory of his fine, muscular body as his fingers found your intimacy. He had kissed you, touched you, made you feel like you were floating in the sky like the clouds. Oberyn showed you the most exquisite pleasure at his hand. You had never known such fire, such passion. That was not all he taught you.

“You taught me to stand up for myself. To protect myself when you were not here. How would my family react if they knew I would gut them for touching me?” you ask, hand falling to the sheath on your thigh. “How would they react if they knew I could read, write, and provide for myself?”

Sighing, you press your hand into your face. So many people had tried to take advantage of you, and he had protected you each time. Slowly, surely, you had learned the games played at court, and you adapted.

“Oh, my prince,” you whisper sadly. “Now you are gone, and it feels as if my soul has shattered. Will this ache ever end? Will I ever be whole again without you here?”

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, you press your face into his tunic again, shoulders shaking as you finally break down and sob. You are only vaguely aware of the door opening and footsteps. A warm hand falls to your shoulder. Pure anger fills you at the thought of the maid touching you. You shove the hand off and jump to your feet, ready to snap at the girl. You come to a half upon seeing those familiar brown eyes.

“O-Oberyn?” you whisper. He grins. You sink down onto the divan, your face draining of its blood as he comes a step closer. He reaches out and presses his fingers to your cheek. He tilts your face up and leans in for a kiss. You stay there, staring up at him.

“I thought – I thought you we-were dead,” you stammer out, shaking your head.

“They neglected to mention which lord was dead,” he says. The impish grin on his face fades away at the expression on your face. “Oh, my sweet – you truly thought I was dead, didn’t you?”

Mutely, you nod, and then the overwhelming relief spills out. You begin to sob into the tunic in your hands. Oberyn joins you on the divan and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He smells like sweat and the road, as if he had ridden nonstop to get back home.

“Oh, my sweet, I am here,” he whispers into your hair. “I will not leave you that easily. I am here. Do not cry. It was someone else who perished.”

That does not help you in the least bit. The sobs grow louder, much to your mortification, as you grab great big handfuls of his robes, holding him tight. Oberyn holds you closer, hand massaging your back, as soft noises escape him. It takes a long time before your sobs die down, but he holds you the entire time, never once letting you go.

“Dry your tears,” he soothes. “Do not weep for me.”

He reaches up and brushes one of your tears away with his thumb.

“There we are,” he says. “Let me see that beautiful smile.”

You smile for him. He leans in and presses his lips to yours. You close your eyes, sighing with pleasure as he deepens the kiss, teeth grazing your lower lip. A whimper escapes you as his hand finds your breast. He kneads gently, pinching your areola lightly. When you gasp, his tongue flicks out against yours, his free hand curling around the back of your neck. Before you can gather your thoughts, he pulls away.

“I am going to bathe,” he says. “I will return shortly, my sweet.”

You sulk as he smirks at you.

“Surely you can last?” he asks. “Or would you like to join me in the bath?”

Oh.

“I will join you,” you say, getting to your feet.

Oberyn grins and laughs at you, offering his hand. You take it and let him lead you out of the bedroom, the thoughts of a hot bath soothing away the anxiety and fear that had been plaguing you all day.

-

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-

Tags:

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[lifeofresulullah]

The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh): His Youth, Trade Life, His marriage to Hazrat Khadijah

The Prophet is with Abu Talib, his uncle

The Beloved Prophet is eight years old...

He is under the protection of Abu Talib, his uncle, who was appointed as a guardian by his grandfather.

Abu Talib was an immensely compassionate person; nevertheless, he was quite poor. He did not have any possessions other than his few camels whose beneficial milk was distributed around Mecca. Abu Talib had a crowded family and as a result, he was in great distress.

Despite all of this, he was loved and respected by the Qurayshis for his honest and proper (morally upright) way of living. Hazrat Ali spoke of his father’s condition in this way:

“My father was one of the leading figures of the Quraysh despite having been poor. However, although he was poor, no one was considered to have been exalted in the tribe before him”.

Abu Talib and his manner of living were distant from the ugliness and wickedness of the Age of Ignorance. Like his father, Abdulmuttalib, he never consumed alcohol although the polytheist Qurayshis would drink it freely as if it were water. Abu Talib had the qualities to take care of our Holy Prophet (PBUH) in every circumstance.

At the same time, Abu Talib carried out the duties that were passed onto him by his brother, Zubayr, such as encasing the Kaaba and providing water to the pilgrims. However, after three seasons of Hajj, he understood that with his tight budget, he could not carry out these duties, which required great expenses to be made. Thus, he had to transfer these duties over to his brother, Hazrat Abbas. Hazrat Abbas continued these services until the Kaaba was conquered; Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) left these duties to the same people after he conquered the Kaaba.

Abu Talib was deeply connected to our Holy Prophet (PBUH) as his father had been. He showed the utmost attention to our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) upbringing. He would never separate his nephew from his side, would take him wherever he went, would have him sit next to him, and would talk to him as a friend.

They would not sit at the dinner table without him. When the table was set and when our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was not seen, Abu Talib would say, “Where is Muhammad? Call him to the table”. Everyone would be full yet the food would still increase at whichever table our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was found. Many times, at tables where our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was not present, the food would quickly finish before anyone got full. 

Besides, ever since that time, our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) would eat very little. He was always serious and would always respect the food. Unlike other children who would pounce on the food as soon as the table was set, he would not put anything in his mouth until the adults began eating. In fact, his uncle would sometimes set up a separate table for him so that our Holy Prophet (PBUH) would not be bothered by other children. 

Like in his adulthood, our Beloved Master (PBUH) would never complain about hunger or thirst during this age (his childhood). His nanny, Umm Ayman, described this property of his as follows:

“I have never seen our Holy Prophet (PBUH) complain about being hungry or thirsty during his childhood. He would drink a sip of Zamzam in the morning. Whenever we would want to feed him, he would say, “I do not want anything. I am full”. 

Every morning, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) would open his eyes that were full with happiness and life, with a pristine countenance that shone bright. 

The Prophet attends the prayer for rain with his uncle!

Makkah and its neighborhood was undergoing a severe drought and famine. The ground was dry and cracked due to lack of water.

The Qurayshis applied to Abu Talib and said, “O Abu Talib! Our children and animals started to die due to drought and famine! Please pray for rain for us.”

Abu Talib did not reject their offer. However, he would not go alone. He was going to take Muhammad, his nephew, with him because he had seen in many events that Muhammad attracted blessings and grants.

Abu Talib went to the Kaaba with his nephew, the Sun of Bliss. He leaned against the holy Kaaba, opened his hands to the Sultan of the Universe and started to beg. Muhammad (pbuh) was holding the covering of the Kaaba and he was pointing to the sky with one finger.

...After a while, the sea of mercy of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, started move; rain started to pour down over Makkah and the people of Makkah. They could hardly enter their houses. The valleys were full of water. They became very happy.

Yes, Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh) had been appointed to bring material and spiritual mercy and blessing to the humanity and to make the world a happy and prosperous place. He had the traces of that lofty and great duty beginning from his childhood!

The love of Fatima, the wife of Abu Talib, toward the Prophet

The love and compassion of Fatima, the wife of Abu Talib, toward the Prophet was endless. She loved him as one of her own children and would show the utmost attention to his upbringing. In fact, she would not pay attention to her own children until she had fed him and had made sure that he was full. In this way, she was trying to have him not feel the pain of being an orphan.

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) never neglected showing Lady Fatima love and respect. He never forgot the kindness that she had shown him throughout his entire life. When she died, he expressed his love for her by saying “Today my mother passed away”.  Afterwards, he made her a shroud by taking off his shirt and wrapping her with it, and he then descended with her to her grave and he lay there for some time.

This particular action had not escaped from the eyes of our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) companions. When they asked him for the reason, he provided the response:

“After Abu Talib, there was no woman who had shown me as much kindness as this dear woman had. I made my shirt a shroud for her so that she could wear a dress from Paradise in the Hereafter and I had lain there with her so she could like and be accustomed to the grave” 

The great Prophet (pbuh), who never forgot the favors done to him no matter who did them and who returned those favors to them manyfold...

Our Holy Prophet’s noble and exceptional trait greatly influenced people to convert to Islam, as it can be seen in the various stages of his life.

THE PROPHET HERDS SHEEP

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was in the tenth year of his blissful life.

During this time, he told his uncle, Abu Talib, whose custody he was under, that he wanted to herd Abu Talib’s sheep. At first, his uncle, who loved him wholeheartedly, did not consent. However, he eventually accepted on account of our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) persistence and intense desire. However, this time, his wife, Lady Fatima, ardently opposed. How could their hearts consent to leaving our Holy Prophet (PBUH), whom they loved more than their own children, under the scorching sun?

Nevertheless, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) was determined. For this reason, he was able to obtain Lady Fatima’s consent.

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) began to take the sheep and goats to the valleys and hills where they would graze during the morning.

In this way, he was able to help his uncle, even if it was in a very small way, to save money since it was no longer necessary to hire a shepherd. He also acquired the chance of deeply contemplating on the existence of the ground and skies in solitary. In the fields, he would watch the sublime scenery which Allah revived at every moment; thus, his soul would experience an incomparable pleasure and attain deep enlightenment from viewing these sights. At the same time, this duty, which he had taken upon himself, allowed him the opportunity to keep him away from the lies, fraud, deceit, and hypocrisy of the corrupt society in which he lived.

After the duty of Prophethood had been given to our Master (PBUH), who spent his holy life herding sheep, he went to the fields with his companions (Sahaba). They started to pick the fruit of the siwak tree in a place called Marr az-Zahran. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) said to his companions amid his smiles that soothed hearts:

“Among this wild fruit, choose the black kind since it is the most delicious.”

The companions were amazed and curious.  They asked, “Oh Messenger of Allah! Only a shepherd would know the good and bad types of this fruit. Did you herd sheep?”

Once again, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) replied amid his smiles that soothed hearts, “There is no prophet who has not herded sheep.” 

One day, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) reminisced to his companions a sweet memory in his life:

“Prophet Moses (AS) was sent as a prophet; he herded sheep. Prophet David (AS) was sent as a prophet; he herded sheep. I too was sent as a prophet and would herd my family’s sheep in Jiyad (a place that is at the bottom part of Mecca).” 

It can be seen that at ten years old, our Holy Prophet (PBUH), who is described as the one “who possesses the highest ethics” in the Quran, did not favor being without work due to his diligence and benevolence and did not deem it appropriate to be a burden on someone else.

It is possible to find the traces of one-year experience of herding sheep in these holy words, which can cover several books of commentary and interpretation.

“You all are shepherds. You are responsible for those whom you guard. A state chieftain is responsible for those who are under his rule. An individual is obliged to protect and take care of his children and is responsible for them. A woman is responsible for her husband’s home. A servant is a watchman and is responsible for his employer’s goods. An individual is the watchman of his father’s goods and is responsible for them. You are all responsible for those who are under your command.” 

He is withheld from taking part in entertainment

The Master of the Universe, Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) who was under the special protection of God Almighty, narrated an event that happened to him at the time when he was herding the sheep of his uncle. It was as follows:

“A couple of times I wanted to do some things which the people of the Era of Ignorance would do. However, God Almighty kept me from doing them. From that time on, I never intended to do something of which God Almighty would disapprove until the time I was selected as a prophet. As for the thing I meant to do, it was like this: One night, I and some youth from Quraish were herding our sheep up the hill at Mecca. I proposed my friend if he could take care of my sheep so that I like my other friends, might join the night entertainments where people told tales. My friend answered that he could do that for me. Then I came to Mecca.

When I saw the first house of Mecca, I heard the voice of people having fun screaming. I asked someone what it was about. He answered that some man was getting married to some girl and that was their wedding. I then sat somewhere near the wedding and began to watch it. Then I fell asleep and could wake up only with the first lights of the sun. When I turned back to my friend, he asked me what I did. I told him I did nothing and told him all about the night before.

One night, I asked again my friend for permission to leave, which he agreed. When I walked all the way and came to Mecca, I saw again, what I had seen before. I knelt down and started to watch it. Then I fell asleep. I could wake up only at daybreak. As soon as I woke up, I turned back to my friend and told him what I had seen.

After that I never attempted to do such things till I became a prophet.”

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Part two to this post that no one asked for-

There are smiles of Mikuni's that remind Jeje of someone, though he can not quite place who that someone is.

These are the ones that are most meaningful, the ones that Mikuni lets show unfiltered, un-tempered with hidden plans or ulterior motive; a purely honest smile that reaches from the corners of his gently curved lips up to his eyes, melting them from cold steel to sun warmed gold. They are Jeje's favorites, even though he could probably count the number of times he's seen them in the years they've been together on just two hands.

There were other things about Mikuni that rang familiar, like a church bell in the foggy morning, but Jeje didn't like to think too deeply about things like that. The past was best left where it was for unchangeable things would only ever bring stasis and suffering to the soul. All of this would run occasionally through his mind, incorporeal, idle musings that held no sway over his mood, and he would let them, carefully keeping his distance until they had once more passed. It remained this way until one morning when he glanced towards the kitchen doorway after hearing Mikuni give a frustrated shout.

"Damn it!" He yelled once more for good measure, staring down at the pancake he had been attempting to catch in the pan, and missed by a good three feet, sending batter splattering across the floor.

Jeje turned back to his ship, hiding the tiny smile that hovered over his lips. He had warned him that it was more difficult than it looked.

"What do you say we just skip the pancakes?" Mikuni asked boisterously, coming to lean in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched Jeje work. "And call a maid service."

Still fighting the telltale look of amusement, Jeje kept his head down, back bent over the miniature, and Mikuni huffed in annoyance. When, after seven stitches along the sail, he still hadn't returned to the kitchen, Jeje sighed and finally glanced back at him. "I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry!" Mikuni accused, throwing his hands up. "Well, I need coffee at least." But he made no move to turn back and instead his eyes shifted to the small sail held so carefully in Jeje's hand and he grinned, that snarky, unwelcome grin that Jeje found so grating. "So, what's with the tiny boats anyway?"

He asked it as a slight, as a harmless poke at Jeje as he was so wont to do whenever he was feeling inadequate or embarrassed and normally Jeje let these roll off his back, forgiving the youth their ignorance, but something about the question was sharp and quick. It took aim and hit a memory that Jeje had not even known he had lost. As he sat, staring unseeingly at Mikuni, he felt the small needle and canvas square fall from his hands, and Mikuni's gaze shifted from teasing to a curious worry as he watched but Jeje could not find his tongue to redirect the situation.

A name had hit him with the force of a bullet. A soft, lilting name that he had not said or heard in over four centuries.

Matteo.

Matteo had taught him the infuriating art of bottling ships.

All at once, as though it had been a floodgate that had suddenly been thrown open, everything that had been repressed came flowing back, drowning him in the fear and rage and hurt again. So heavy and loud were the waves of emotion that it was several times before he heard Mikuni call his name and when he finally pulled himself back up, resurfaced from beneath the crushing weight of failure and regret, it was to find Mikuni crouched in front of him, brows twisted in unease, hands resting on his stiff shoulders.

"Are you ok?"

If he had been any more in his right mind, Jeje would have found it absolutely staggering to hear such a simple, caring question directed at him, but as it was, he was not capable of thought, and so he merely stared blankly back into the wild golden eyes and tried to decide if he was actually going to throw up.

With all the force of will left in his body he managed finally to breath a weak "yeah" and then could only pray Mikuni would lose interest, his ever busy mind discarding the experience as inconsequential. At first it seemed that Mikuni was going to ask another question, try to dig deeper into the newly unearthed, bloody remains of Jeje's sanity, but after a moment his eyes darted away, back towards the kitchen, and he stood, letting his hands fall from where they rested.

"Get ready to go. I wanna go into town for a cappuccino."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fresh morning air was welcome and helped to clear his head. 

It was rather sunny and so he had finally given up the effort and simply wrapped himself around Mikuni's neck as he so often did, secretly reveling in the warmth. Mikuni's endless chatter also helped to soothe him and soon enough he was dozing off, having learned long ago that listening to anything Mikuni said with any amount of concentration was pointless. It was better to just get the gist, check out, and then when prompted, respond affirmatively.

Times like this, times without subterfuge and scheming and fighting were his favorite and Jeje always tried to keep the feeling of them bundled up tightly and safely where he could access it again later. He grew so tired of the constant warring, and, if he were being honest, a content, safe Mikuni was far better than a frigid, angered one. This Mikuni, like the one that made pancakes sometimes and liked lavender scented candles and would play solitaire and drink coffee all morning, was softer and gentler, less likely to poke and prod and be generally annoying. It was definitely Jeje's favorite version, but he was so very unusual to see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed that Mikuni had taken more note of Jeje's strange episode than he had let on for it soon became apparent that he was suggesting more and more early morning walks with badly concealed concern, his tone light and fake as he insisted that the coffee shop downtown was better and he just simply couldn't bare to have anything else.

"You are so dramatic." Jeje sighed finally, standing in defeat and tucking the small book he had been reading back into his pocket. "Let's go."

"What is that?" Mikuni asked, his eyes tracking the movement of Jeje's hands as he retied the cinch at his waist.

"What is what?"

"That little book."

Jeje hesitated, it was rare for Mikuni to show any interest in anything Jeje did at all aside from the occasional mad inquiry, and when he found genuine interest in Mikuni's expression, he gave in and pulled the book free once more. Holding it out for Mikuni to take, he started towards the door. "I'll tell you on the way."

It wasn't until several blocks later that he finally began to explain, glancing over and watching as Mikuni browsed the first few pages of the little directory. "It is a book of-"

"Names!" Mikuni interrupted, eyes still glued to the tiny text. "But they're odd."

"They are predominantly Italian." When Mikuni only raised a brow in question, he continued. "Genealogies of Vatican City, and any related diocese."

"Uh huh." Mikuni hummed skeptically. "And why are you reading this? Is this what your little errand was the other day? You went to the library?"

Jeje did not dignify this with a response, deciding he had said enough. There was no need to explain that he had been- was- desperately scouring any and all census sheets, service rosters, anything he could find, for the name Matteo Rossi. It wasn't anything he wanted to explain even if he could figure out a way to. But Mikuni was clever, dangerously so, and soon he was watching Jeje, the book still clutched in his hands.

"Who are you looking for?"

Closing his eyes, Jeje sighed. It was no use trying to keep anything from Mikuni, he knew this, had relied until now on his inherent disinterest in anything about him to protect him from prying eyes, but as was always the case with such a troublesome man, he had decided at exactly the wrong time to become invested. "A man I used to know."

A strange emotion passed over Mikuni's face, one that Jeje could not quite place, as though he were painfully curious but angry, and he flipped the book closed, handing it back. "How typical." When Jeje did not answer, he pointed out over the street. "That's the shop I'm trying today, come on."

The sky had been over cast when they left and was still obligingly dark and so it was that Jeje was following along on his own two feet today. When he had just stepped up to the curb across the street he heard it- the soft, musical voice of someone speaking quick, fluent Italian. It struck some secret place deep in his mind and without thinking he froze, eyes searching the crowd, somehow knowing, feeling it in his gut that- yes- just in front of them, sitting in the cozy little veranda chairs of the very coffee shop that Mikuni had set his heart on, were two men. Each was dressed in long black robes, the telltale vestments laid carefully over their shoulders- Jeje would know the look anywhere- with steaming mugs of drink clutched in their hands, but it wasn't the dress of the men that caught his eye, but the shining autumn brown of the youngers hair, soft and constant looking as though he had just stepped from out of a summer storm.

In a daze, Jeje found himself walking towards the table where the men sat, unsure why he was even approaching. When he came to rest at the very edge of their table, both glanced quizzically up at him and he was suddenly terrified. They could not see his face, and it would not matter if they could or not either way surely, but what of his soul? Could they sense it? None had ever before but that had been years, centuries, ago.

"Is there something we can help you with?" The younger one asked brightly, smiling. The other man threw him a vaguely disgruntled look and Jeje could have laughed. 

Of course. Matteo always was a bleeding heart.

Jeje felt Mikuni's curiosity pull at him through the contract, sharp and impatient, but he ignored it, and for the first time in all the recent years, spoke without the use of the illusionary magic of his curse, the words fitting like a glove on his tongue, a language he had never thought to need again. “No. I’m sorry, Father.”

"Ah! It is always so nice to hear a familiar language, no?" He responded in Italian as well now and Jeje felt the eons slide away, leaving him oddly bereft and exposed.

Mikuni's curiosity had spiked, tinted now with an almost violent irritation, when he had failed to understand what Jeje had said and, fearlessly, he barged suddenly forward, putting himself too closely to Jeje's elbow, staring down at the men. "Who is this?"

At his words, the young mans brows rose in subtle amusement and he once more smiled. "I am Father Matthias." He said, holding out a hand.

Jeje had never been more tempted to shoot Mikuni on the spot then when he merely snorted, arms crossed defiantly across his chest and refused the offer. To his credit, Matthias seemed unfazed by this and after a moment glanced at Jeje and extended the same hand. It was with great trepidation, nay, an almost debilitating hesitation, that he finally reached out and clasped it in his own.

It was like any other hand, warm and smooth; there was no shock, no angry gods lightning strike, just a simple handshake. Unsure if he was disappointed or relieved, he withdrew his and swallowed nervously. Why had he approached these men? What did he hope to accomplish? This was not truly Matteo, and never would be. There had been no spark of recognition in his soft brown eyes, no sudden flash of memory or past life. He should not have come over here. He should walk away right now, spare himself the anguish and the tangible building of Mikuni's wrath. He should-

"Why don't you have a seat?" Matthias asked, gesturing to the two empty seats at the table. "We just got here and like I said, it's always nice to hear the mother tongue!"

He sat down, not thinking, acting on impulse, and behind him heard Mikuni make a strangled noise of outrage. Not bothering to wonder if he would throw a fit and run away or not, he turned towards the other man and held out his hand.  "It's a pleasure to meet you."

After staring at him for a moment, he put out his hand as well, meeting him in the middle, wrapping calloused, short fingers over his. "Father Angelo."

Matthias clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "You're always so dour!"

Jeje's heart, already beating at an irregular, surely unhealthy, tempo, sped up and he barely kept the gasp building in his chest from breaking free and falling garishly on the table in front of everyone. Hands clamped unseen on his thighs, he bit his tongue until he tasted blood and struggled to stay afloat.

"So what are you two supposed to be?" Mikuni asked suddenly, apparently having decided that his curiosity outweighed his annoyance. Leaning forward on the table, arms crossed, he tipped his head to indicate the deep purple stole that lay over their shoulders. "Priests?"

"Obviously." Jeje muttered under his breath, earning a kick to his ankle from Mikuni who continued to smile predacious-ly across the table.

"Correct!" Matthias said, pointing down at his robes.

"We're exorcists." Angelo then cut in, watching Mikuni as though waiting for a specific reaction.

He had feared it. In seeing the collars and rosaries, Jeje had come to the conclusion that they must be so, but had held out a vain hope, a desperate plea, that he was wrong, had simply forgotten even more than he originally thought he had lost to the sands of time. It had been a surprise to find that, when he had met those familiar warm, kind eyes, he had felt no anger, no hatred or loathing, just a simple yearning and pitiful nostalgia. Now, sneaking a look at Matthias as he leaned forward, immune to Mikuni's prickly aura, to explain their reason for being here, Jeje realized that he also was not shocked that, in a world such as this, where he could be ripped from the mortal plain so easily, where werewolves and demons and vampires were real, he did not find it at all hard to believe that reincarnation was also a fact of life.

"So tell me!" Matthias turned to Jeje, expression open and friendly. "Your pronunciation is beautiful! Where did you grow up?"

"Ah. I was from... Vatican City." He stumbled over the name, distracted by the increasingly interested looks Mikuni was giving him; no doubt he would be paying for this when they got home. Throwing caution to the winds, he continued, trying to keep his voice audible despite his nerves. "I studied. In the seminary. There."

"You don't say!" Matthias exclaimed, grinning. "What stopped you?"

Still studiously ignoring Mikuni's quiet, varying sounds of surprise, he hesitated, chest tight. "I was- not suited to the calling."

His eyes softening in compassion, Matthias laid a hand on Jeje's arm where it rested on the table. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. We all have different fates. There are many ways to answer Him."

Jeje was staring down at the hand, the gentle fingers and pale expanse of skin, just as freckled as his face, and it was only when Mikuni subtly dug a boot into his ankle that he tore his eyes away. Feeling his face heat and for just a moment forgetting that they could not see it, he ducked his head down. "That may be true, yes." He managed to murmur. Matthias withdrew his hand slowly, looking curious but didn't say anything, and it was, strangely, Mikuni who broke the ensuing silence.

"As I'm sure you've both surmised, I am not from Italy. But I am interested- tell me, how does one go about becoming a priest?" He was staring hard at Angelo, singling him out to answer and leaving Matthias free, amused and trying not to laugh, to turn to Jeje once more.

Still grinning, he shrugged to indicate that he had no intentions of rescuing Angelo from Mikuni's rabid questioning and instead leaned over, pointing at the bag over Jeje's head. "Forgive me, as you've already seen I have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth-" He laughed and Jeje almost gave himself away, almost let slip a wistful "I know", and then continued. "But I wanted to ask. Why do you have that on?"

A hand reaching up unconsciously to pat lightly at the brown pressed pulp, Jeje bit his lip. What kind of explanation even made sense? He couldn't possibly claim he was embarrassed, what kind of human wore a paper bag over their head anyway? Mikuni sure made fun of it often enough. But the truth, that he was ashamed, that his heart fluttered in panic at the very thought of anyone that had ever known him seeing his face after he had become this monstrous betrayal to his every faith and belief, was no more an option than saying he simply liked it. All of a sudden he realized it had taken him too long to answer and Matthias' brow was creasing in worry and before Jeje could stop himself, just wanting to wipe the anxious look from his face, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. "My eyes. They're... frightening."

"Is that all?!" Matthias exclaimed. "My friend, you have nothing to fear here. I have seen all you can imagine. Why don't you remove it? Just for the rest of our lunch?"

Never would he have dreamed of doing it, never would he have allowed himself the foolish indulgence, but he wasn't given the choice. Like an unexpected flash of lightning, Mikuni reached over and, pinching the very corner of the bag carefully between his fingers, whipped it off. As his hair fluttered down and free across his shoulders, Jeje turned to stare accusingly at Mikuni, the sudden anger he felt frightening, but froze when he was met with a somber, sparkling gold gaze. Without a word, Mikuni gently folded the bag up and laid it on the table, placing his arm securely over it, and looked back to Angelo, expression bland as though he had never looked away.

"It seems your companion doesn't think you need it either." Matthias said brightly when Jeje had finally found the courage to glance over.

"Either?"

"I don't see anything strange." He said levelly, eyes wide in sincerity as they looked straight into Jeje's red ones. "Now, with the fresh air, what do you say we get something warm? I've always found stew to be a good outdoor food."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It would seem strange to Jeje for the rest of his existence that Matthias had not said anything, not mentioned the devil in his eyes or the unnatural pallor to his skin, but it was something that, like all the other somethings, he preferred not to think about. A simple memory that could warm or chill depending on the lens it was viewed through. Now, months, years, centuries later, glancing over and finding Mikuni perched beside him on the couch, tongue between his teeth as he tried, enraged, to fit the sail he had sewn through the neck of the bottle, he thought that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

"You must fol-"

"I know already!" Mikuni snapped, almost dropping his hold on the tweezers. "You've told me! Why do you do this?! It's infuriating!"

"It was a comfort."

Lowering the bottle and peering over, Mikuni hummed thoughtfully. "A comfort from what?"

The question surprised Jeje, still so unlike Mikuni it was to ask, and so he didn't think before he answered. "From the fear and tedium."

"Fear of God?"

Unsure if it was jest or genuine, Jeje merely sighed, looking away, out the bay window to the porch over which he could see the afternoon sun sinking lower and lower, towards the horizon line of the new city they had found. "Fear of failure."

"How could you fail?"

Hiding the small smirk as it crossed, fleetingly, over his lips, Jeje shrugged before reaching out and taking the bottle from Mikuni. "Is it not obvious that I did?"

"Who was that man? Really."

His tone was low, leaving no room to avoid, and Jeje frowned. He had been afraid that Mikuni would bring it up again. When they had parted ways, leaving the two ill fated priests at the café, he had watched Jeje like a hawk, refusing to let him out of his sight for the next forty eight hours and finally, at his breaking point, Jeje had resorted to his snake form, knowing in that at least, his expression was indecipherable. Mikuni, out of character, had not said anything about it, only made sure that Jeje was wrapped around his neck wherever they went. If he hadn't know better he would have thought, indulged in the idea, that Mikuni was actually worried he might disappear, running off to find the ruins of his past. Whether it was emotion or simple self preservation that motivated this intense vigil didn't matter. It was just nice to know that if he were there or not mattered in the slightest.

"He was..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain. Knowing in his heart, dead as it may be, that it had been Matteo, was different than saying it out loud. And in the end, he still wasn't sure he even wanted the truth to be heard. Matteo was never going to be safe, never have the life he truly deserved, because somewhere along the line his soul had been so ensnared with the evil he had ignorantly summoned he was now fated for a path that Jeje could do nothing about.

Eventually, tenacity fueled by their meeting, Jeje had managed to dig up a roster that listed one Father Matteo Rossi. He had lived in the same seminary, the same time; there was no question. The aged little book, now clutched worryingly tightly in Jeje's hands, had gone on to say that Father Matteo, upon his ordainment had chosen to branch out and been quite successful, listed as one of the Vatican's top exorcists. He had had few partners, often going alone, choosing places and people far removed from their home, leaving with little expectation to return, only to do so, shocking those that had bid him farewell. Viewed fondly by all who met or knew of him, his reputation had brought him fame and status, though it appeared it was never something he made use of. In the end, after fifteen or so odd years, he had met his end, and that's where the information had abruptly cut off. In a fit, Jeje had hunted up everything even remotely related that he could find, well aware he would regret knowing the details but needing them all the same.

When he had finally returned home that day he had slid beneath the couch, finding the heat register that ran along the wall and curling up on it. Mikuni had already dragged him through the coals about his daily excursions to the library and now, after what he had found out, he wasn't sure, even being immortal, that he could survive another sarcastic tongue lashing. He must have dozed off because it was here that Mikuni found him, hours later, and after pushing the couch back, pulled him free.

"You should have known better than to go digging." Was all he said, wrapping Jeje around his neck and wandering back to the bedroom.

Now, weeks later, he seemed to have deemed it a once more breachable topic and yet Jeje was still unable to answer him. Perhaps it was simply that there was no answer; there never had been. "He was a friend." He said plainly.

Watching Mikuni consider this response, he wondered if maybe this was, in itself, an answer, that the similarities between them, that spark of sass and fire, the innate ability to annoy, the quick silver smiles like honeyed light, were all that mattered, if that, in Mikuni, Matteo and Jeje himself, might be able to find forgiveness. Mikuni finally turned to him, mouth open to say something but Jeje interrupted, freeing the words that had lay buried so deeply for so long before he could even decide not to.

"I think you're my fate."

[foolscapper]

Someplace Warmer, Someplace Safer - (How the Wild Things Start Universe)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is not edited/beta'd, so please forgive any rough spots! I'll be cleaning it up and posting it on ao3 at a later time! This also takes place after How the Wild Things Start, and is based on a request sent in by @saintedjack -- thank you!

WARNINGS: PTSD responses, MENTION OF CHILD ABUSE (SEXUAL), please tread carefully if that's hard for you!

In the year of our Lord 2020, Sam Winchester didn't think that Christmas would feel so much less... sore of a spot. Maybe that's because he's practiced a handful of Christmases with Leia and Lilly now and has realized with some clarity that holidays can sometimes be about as good as the number of kids who get excited over it. When it was just him and Dean, it was a coupla beers and memories of little kids who sat in hotel rooms waiting for their parent — singular. Now Lilly is coloring pictures of reindeer and eagerly reminding Dean of what she wants for the hundredth time. ("Yeah, yeah, I got it," Dean grumbles, without even the smallest bit of heat to it, "How could I forget when you drew it on my bedroom wall?") Meanwhile, Leia's fourteen, so the appeal of a 'Santa Claus' isn't really there for her; she and Sam are too alike on that front, having lost whatever magic Christmas would've had when they were very little. But she loves that Lilly loves it. She helps her hang up tinsel and all those basic holiday ornaments around the bunker. When Sam and Dean are out to get the kitsune her dietary needs, she prays to Castiel, makes him trek all the way to Lebanon — just so she can ask him to drive her to the rental box in front of the liquor store for holiday films. Anyway, uh. Sam feels... good. He feels good about it. About Christmas. 

First time in forever, he knows, but things evolve over time, right?

Whatever makes them happy makes him happy, and it doesn't help that Dean's starting to get into a bit of a frantic holiday mood himself when he realizes Cas and Leia rented National Lampoon's Holiday Vacation. With one girl on either side of him, his brother chatters on and on about classics, movies like A Christmas Story and the Grinch, and Sam can only roll his eyes in good humor and sound fondness. It's a good day. He hasn't had a nightmare in days — hasn't slept-walked in almost as long (not that it stops Dean from keeping the front door locked, so Sam can't wander out again and scare the shit out of them). It's the day before Christmas, though, and there's plenty of cereal, boxed mac 'n cheese and canned Chef Boyardee, but absolutely nothing that rightfully belongs on a dinner table for the holidays. "I'll be back; just gonna pick up some stuff," he says, while the three are in the middle of Mr. Grinch, you're a bad banana, Mr. Grinch, with the greasy black peel-. Dean snaps out of the trance that had made him 10-years-old for a moment and looks critically at Sam; Lilly doesn't look away from the television, but Leia's sharp gaze shoots to Sam at the same time as Dean's. Dean says, "You sure you don't want us to go, too?" And Sam waves it off. Waves both of them off, since Leia's trying so hard to judge him under her bangs "I'll be fine. Just hitting the grocery for something that works for tomorrow. Please try not to feed them straight sugar while I'm gone?" "Yes, honey," Dean huffs, but there's some hesitance in the way he turns to look back at the TV. He couldn't really blame him, considering what shitty lucky they had apart. Or, well... considering the guilt that still festers in Dean like old, greenish wounds. Sam knows it's there every time his brother glances at pale scars intersecting on his arms, or when he manages to rouse him from a bad dream, or when Sam spaces out at the dinner table until something startles him to attention. Sam's screwed up, and Dean's still gnawing at his own leg for letting it happen. ... Shit happens. Sam tries not to think about it anymore than he has to, because it's not like the muscle memory ever goes away, nor those phantom smells or those reels of the monster rings. No, no, he's not going to think about it. Because today's a good day. It's a good week. He takes the keys to the truck he's kept to himself, makes a mental note to call Castiel and see if he'll stop by for visiting. The air outside is cold and bitterly unfair to the lungs, but he tugs his jacket tighter around himself and wills the old truck AC to start heating him back up. The drive isn't far, and the people at the place he's driving to know him well enough. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing, especially now that they see him changed so drastically; he's pretty sure Dean just tells them all he'd gotten deployed somewhere and ended up hurt, or something. Sam doesn't bother figuring out the cover story, because he's not ever going to be in the mood to talk about it with Joey Behind the Counter or Leticia Stocking the Shelves, no matter how much he likes them. The bell to the store rings, they wave him in, ask him about his plans for the holidays, tell him all about their kids — he surprises himself by talking about his own, albeit vaguely, because you never know who is truly safe. And even though he has little to no skill in hearty, holiday feasts, he knows the basics from television: cranberry sauce, turkey, stuffing, eggnog, so on and so on. Despite his complaint to Dean not to overfeed the kids on sweets, he ends up grabbing two boxes of themed cookies, too. It's not until he walks out the front door that he feels something's off. He'd never claim to still have the powers he did at age 22, but — the hairs on his neck stand up, goosebumps running along his arms beneath his thick coat. It's hard to say what even caused it; there's nobody around. He glances uneasily left and right, and then makes a slow, cautious walk toward the parking around the corner. His heart thumps in his chest and his mind plays cruel games with him: what if it's a hunter coming for him? Looking for him and his family, after what happened at their old cabin? It hasn't been that long. "Hello," a little, polite voice chirps from seemingly out of nowhere. Sam nearly leaps out of his skin, teeth snapping together as he turns in a fraction of a second — ready to fight, dropping his grocery bags as his hand reaches around the back of him. (Bright lights, feral howls of pain, blood on dirt and black eyed spectators-) His breath catches at the startled teenager with sandy-blonde hair standing in front of him. He's dressed in clothes he's clearly worn for a long time, the knitting on his gloves and cap frayed. The smell of an alleyway greets Sam belatedly, and shame creeps into his face when he realizes just what he's actually looking at here: some homeless kid whose smile has faded into a look of uncertainty. Wanted a buck, but ended up with some over-sized freak having an episode at him. "S—sorry," Sam chokes out. He's trying not to let himself get pulled under, but the lights have... always been so bright. The kid seems appeased by the way Sam steps back, though, and moves to rather calmly start collecting the fallen goods from the ground; for a moment, Sam wonders if he's just gonna take them for the trouble, but the boy starts putting them back into the brown paper bags they'd come in. "It's fine. I must be scarier than I thought." It's said in such an easy way, and he looks up with a kind, gap-toothed smile. "I was going to ask if you could spare some money, but I can see now that I should have made my presence more obvious." ... That's a way for a teenaged boy to put it. It reminds Sam of a particular angel of Thursday and his straightforward, over-complicated way of talk. With a somewhat forced smile, he bends down to quickly collect what the kid hasn't. "No, no, I'm — I'm good at being on edge. It wasn't you. Sorry for... that." He's not sure how to put it. He has a hard time remembering how to talk to people, sometimes. There's something particularly distracting about this one, though. Maybe it's the fact that he's so youthful, covered in dirt and red in the nose. Looks at him like how Leia had — with the hope that Sam can help him. Or is he just projecting? He pinches the bridge of his nose, smiling tiredly. "What's your name, kid?" The boy says, almost proudly, "Jack." "... Um, well. Jack. I'm Sam. It's good to meet you. I think you deserve something nice for not thinking I'm a total weirdo, so... if you wanna carry a bag to the truck for me, I've got some cookies and dollars to offer you?" It feels kind of demeaning in a way, like he's giving the poor kid some basic task to 'earn' what Sam'll give him. But Jack just nods and walks along side him. "Thanks, Sam," Jack says. He says Sam's name like he's testing out the weight of it, forming it carefully in his mouth. Despite Jack's appearance, he radiates something... well, something. It's warmer than the weather. "Where are you from, Jack?" Sam asks, tilting his chin forward to look down. His voice is softer, more careful. "From everywhere," Jack says, and looks over at Sam. "I honestly don't know. I've just always been... like this." "... Homeless?" Sam offers. Jack cocks his head to the side, gazing ahead of them. "Homeless. Yes." It's not a long walk, so it's not like there's much more to talk about before they reach the old truck. They load up the groceries, and Sam provides one box of cookies (in this case, the box that is less crushed from falling on the asphalt). It feels like a meager kind of offering, all things considered. "Here — I mean, if you like sweets. I bought way too many, so... Um. And — " "I like cookies," Jack says as a matter-of-factly. "Thank you, Sam." Doesn't feel good enough, though. Sam gnaws his lip and feels... some sort of way about all this. Like he's doing something the wrong way, here. Leia and Lilly have ruined him for life. "Where are you heading, anyway? Do you live in town? I've never seen you here before." Jack's already got the box of cookies wrenched open, and he's eating them too fast, a lot like how Sam used to eat his rations when he lived in a cage, in the dark. Sam's already predicting that he's gonna get sick, and he can't really hide the wince as the crumbs start to collect on Jack's old jacket. Jack looks like he's unsure how to answer, not for the first time. "I'm just moving around. I have nowhere to be, as long as it's — " He struggles for the right word. "Safe." "Safe," Sam says. Jack nods with a mouthful. "Shafe," he says. Sams hands twitch nervously at the thought of sending the boy away with his 'rewards'. Whatever the hell cookies constitute as, anyway. It's not safe out there, that's for sure. It's gonna be below freezing for a while in Lebanon, and — He sighs softly. No... No, it's not smart. Not smart to being a stray into a house full of supernatural lore books, weapons, monster children. He would freak out. He'd panic and he'd know where they live, and he could tell anyone with an ear open about where a guy named Sam lives with his odd little family. But... "You want me to drive you somewhere? I mean, there should be a homeless shelter around here somewhere, if you need somewhere a little less... this." He gestures to the world around them, swathed in a fine layer of snow. Jack seems mildly uncertain, a crooked line of uncertainty to his lips. Sam recognizes maybe he looks like he's one-half a serial killer in his plaid, with his weird flinching and nervousness. "You don't have to, but... I don't want you to freeze out here." After a moment, Jack does seem to relent; nobody likes to be cold, and Sam could tell even if he was handling it well, it was not a pleasant experience he wants to endure any longer than he has to. So he nods at last, and Sam nods to the passenger seat. "Climb aboard, then. I think I remember the street and everything; you'll be warm in no time. And, uh. We can get you something better than cookies, actually." "I don't know what can be better than cookies," Jack replies, sliding into the passenger seat, "But I'm willing to consider it." The truck stutters to life, and Sam makes a beeline for the nearest Taco Bell there is. Cheap, but you get a hell of a lot with a little; he and Dean were no stranger to that particular drive-thru back in the day, when Dean was too tired to eat expired food and Sam was too tired to go buy himself a decent salad and sandwich. The Helping Hands Homeless Shelter is a good distance, so Sam learns a few things in-between Jack scarfing down burritos and soft tacos: he's fourteen or fifteen (he thinks?; Sam's mortified by the thought of him being on his own all this time), his mother died when he was born, he's not sure where his father is, and he's always been moving. No grandparents, no uncles or aunts, nobody that he's familiar with. Once the last wrapper is thrown on the floorboard as designated, though, Jack looks uneasy. "... Is this 'a trade'?" Sam glances over, brow furrowed. "A what?" "A trade," Jack reaffirms, and his eyes — glance down, towards Sam's crotch. Sam feels like he's going to puke, his stomach twisting and heart lurching. He almost slams on the brakes then and there, in the middle of the street, but he manages to avoid doing anything so fucking stupid as to scare the kid. Sam and Dean have both had their fair share of close calls growing up — Sam's had to scream at peeping toms through hotel windows, or weird men at gas stations who keep sizing them up while they read magazines, or — But. But they both had rules, and Dean always had an extra eye out on him. The thought of — the implication of it, it makes his blood boil, rushing in his ears. He thinks of Lilly and Leia and — Sam's been quiet too long. So Jack speaks up again. "It's alright. I don't do anything if they don't ask first. If they don't have something to give me," Jack says, confidently, and Sam wants to scream. "No," Sam manages, voice tight. "No, that's not okay. Anyone who asks something like that, they're monsters, do you understand me? They're evil, and you shouldn't trust them. Not for a second." Jack leans back more comfortably in his seat, confused — but glad. Sam's hands are itching for a blade and someone to hunt. A monster in a ring to rip into. He breathes out instead and looks at the road. It doesn't take long before Jack finds himself tired of the quiet, though, and his gaze moves to Sam's wrists, instead. His hands. The sliver of arm that peaks out under his sleeve. "What happened to your hands?" he asks, innocently. Concerned. Sam's shoulders sag, like the kid has gone and popped that balloon full of rage. "... Monsters hurt me, too," he says weakly, because he figures the kid deserves the truth. "A different kind of monster, but monsters all the same." Jack reaches over, and Sam startles at the hand cupping over his damaged knuckles. "I'm sorry," Jack says. "About the monsters." Sam kind of wants to cry, honestly. "Me, too." He was supposed to get a Christmas dinner, in and out of the store, nothing more to it. He was supposed to just give the kid some money and maybe a snack. He's supposed to just drop him off somewhere a little warmer and safer. (Leia looked at him like a hero, once, like he was going to swoop in and save her; Jack isn't looking at him like that, though; he's just a guy giving him a ride and cookies). Sam's phone rings. He doesn't need to look to know it'll say DEAN in white letters on the screen. Just a minute 'til they get to the shelter. (You're not a hero, you barely managed to protect your girls, he reminds himself.) "Sam?" Jack asks. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. (But Leia looks at him like he’s a superhero. A shaking, high, rabid superhero, hopped up on demon blood, with hands so tense and locked, they look like claws in the darkness. And beside her — a crying boy, a few years younger than her. There’s a burn on his leg, a shake of his shoulders. Worst of all, there’s skin sloughed off around him, and it’s only then that Sam realizes the boy looks different than he had an hour before. A shifter? A small, scared shifter. Like Glenda had been.) He pulls over on the side of the road. Reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieves the phone with a shaking hand. When he answers Dean and hears his brother asking nervously what's taking him so long, he can't help but look at Jack. Jack, who is looking at him with an uneasy amount of trust. How he has it, Sam's not fucking sure, but he feels like he has to do this. (He thinks of two little girls, holding hands as they watch Christmas cartoons.) "I — I'm bringing someone back with me," he manages. "His name is Jack, and he — needs a place to stay, for a little while." He does a u-turn, driving toward the bunker as snow begins to fall once again, soft, delicate. Jack looked awed, still looks awed. He looks at Sam like this was destiny. Fate. Something. "I thought so." "... You thought what?" Jack smiles slowly with that warm, gap-toothed smile. "That something about you, it felt like an angel."

[readerinsertfanfiction]

The Bae’st of All

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Kyubae the bae’st bae of all aka Kyubei

Prompt: Seeing how Kyubei is named after an alias that the real Mitsuhide Akechi used (Juubei) the chances of fans getting a Kyubei route from Cybird are slim. However, it is simply impossible not to fall for this man. He is too good. So here have my attempt at writing a route.

The key of the previous chapter was (Romantic/Dramatic):

+4/+4

+2/+4

+4/+2

Chapters:

1.1| 1.2 | 2.1 | 2.2 | 3.1 | 3.2 | 4.1 | 4.2 | 5.1 | 5.2 | 6.1

Avatar Challenge 1| 3.1 Gacha POV | 1st Letter | 5.2 Gacha

Hair dark like the midnight sky, long and luscious like the rich fabric in my hands. Eyes deep like the ocean, blue as the brightest summers, like the cobalt threads in hands. Alabaster skin like the glow of the moon and the pearl of the finish, with a handsome smile, sly as a fox, warm as my heart right now…

“My lady?”

I snap out of my thoughts when the head seamstress waves her hand in front of me, concerned eyes looking me over as she tries to pry the fabric out of my hands.

“You have overworked yourself, my dear. Go get some rest.”

I blink before I realise that I must have been idle again, my mind flying into panic as I take hold of my work once more.

“No! I mean, my apologies! I was spacing out because of something else.”

(More like someone, but she doesn't need to know that.)

The seamstress grimaces at me as she leaves me alone, her lips curling up into something devious while she sits down with her own work.

“I can see it. No young lady is spared that longing, but your hands have to keep moving if you want to stay here.”

I flush at her teasing words and quickly bow over the commission I had managed to nab in.

After much nagging and begging the seamstresses had finally given into giving me a chance. I shouldn’t waste the trust they placed in me.

“Who is the lucky one?”

She whispers to me as I nearly prick myself, so startled I’m by her sudden inquiry.

“Ah, eh, who?! What?!”

I panic as the seamstress chuckles once more, scooting closer to me as she leans in closer.

“Personally, if I had your youth, I’d aim for someone capable like lord Hideyoshi, though I know that the girls love types like lord Masamune, wild and brash.”

I flush once more when I realise what she is trying to get out of me, as my mind wanders off towards a particular vassal that often stuck close to the shadows.

“Or perhaps you think you can warm up that prickly lord Ieyasu?”

I gulp harder at her interrogation as I try to gather my wits together for an answer.

“Were I a woman I’d prefer someone like Lord Mitsunari; kind and friendly to all. Makes for fewer arguments.”

The teasing lilt in the voice was unmistakably familiar as I whipped around to face the man that had occupied my mind so.

“Kyubei! Wha—“

A chuckle escapes the man as he bows, dropping a package next to me as he does so.

“I didn’t mean to overhear, but I was tasked to bring over these sweets to a certain hardworking lady.”

A familiar smell drafts up from the package as I recognise the pastries Kyubei had treated me with when we played Go. It triggered another warm memory within me as I stared at the vassal with bated breath.

“Thank you.”

I manage to get out, earning another grin from Kyubei who shakes his head before responding;

“Just doing my job.”

(Has he always looked so handsome? Oooh, I’m head over heels, am I not?)

Resisting the urge to slap my hands over my cheeks I flash a smile back at Kyubei as I motion for him to sit down.

“Stay for a bit longer?”

(Let me have you near me a little longer.)

I wasn’t sure when I had grown so greedy for his time. Neither did I have a clue when I had started to think of him as someone I liked more than just a friend. But here I was and I wasn’t about to let go so easily, no matter the time left.

(Just allow me to stay by your side.)

I prayed this as Kyubei’s eyes crinkle into another smile, resigning himself for a moment as he joins me.

“If you allow me, but no word to my lord. He will double my work if he finds out I’m idle.”

The joke comes out in a hushed whisper and I find myself leaning in closer, making sure I don’t miss out on any sound of his voice.

“It is our secret.”

“I can be your job.”

“Just a break.”

The head seamstress in the meanwhile had retreated already, her inquisitive eyes staring me down as I realised that she had me.

(Welp. So much for her fancy warlord gossip!)

Though, I don’t feel any regret over having to miss out on that talk.

“I shouldn’t keep you long.”

Kyubei’s voice pulls me back to him, my eyes widening as I shake my head.

“No-“

“Don’t worry. With you around she might actually keep her head in the present.”

The head seamstress answers for me before I can protest, earning a blush crawling across my jaws and down to my neck while I quickly dive into my needlework with interest.

“If you say that I might actually get the wrong idea!”

Kyubei laughs as he returns a reply in good humour and the seamstress chuckles.

(They’re both enjoying my misery!)

I lament this as the two of them continue their friendly banter, my head lowering and inching closer to the fabric until I have buried my face into the folds.

“Oh dear, it has grown late.”

Kyubei suddenly announces as he gets up, the fabric of his hakama rustling when he moves. I peek out just enough to see that he has his eyes trained on me, our gaze meeting as I quickly straighten up.

“So soon already?”

I can’t help but let my disappointment sound through as Kyubei flashes me an apologetic smile.

“There is much to do, still. Forgive me.”

(It is unfair how I can never be angry at him.)

He reaches out and brushes some hair out of my face before turning and leaving me once more. As soon as Kyubei has exited the room the head seamstress chuckles once more, her knees quickly scooting over to my side as she stares me down with a mischievous glimmer.

“Now, that’s a choice. Though, I wouldn’t say it is a good one.”

Her expression tells me that she loves it, but her words spell something different. Confused, I keep quiet, hoping to encourage her to continue.

“That’s lord Mitsuhide’s shadow, not? The one who does all of the dirty work the lord himself can’t be bothered with, or associated with.”

Her words sting, but I’m aware of Mitsuhide’s reputation by now. The lord whose allegiances were unclear despite the position he held next to Nobunaga.

(It doesn’t help that the future has no clue of it either and I’m no more the wiser.)

“You will spare yourself a lot of heartbreak if you let go of that one, dear.”

The head seamstress continues as she gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder, leaving me rather cold and empty as I take in her words.

(I know she is right, but is it really so easy to let go of someone?)

My heart said no, and neither did my mind agree.

(Even if heaven and earth defies, my heart cannot lie.)

[ts-unpopular-opinions]

Side Tracks opinions part 1: Janus

(Yes I’m staring with Janus and going backwards, I just need to talk about this snake man right now!)

Alright, I’ve seen lots of people give their takes on each of the sides playlists, and honestly... I feel like they’re not all that similar to my interpretations. I mean yes anyone can interpret the songs how they’d like, but some people just flat out ignore canon to see the songs as their ship instead of what I believe they are actually meant to be seen as. Anyways... Janus! Yes let’s go through each song one by one 💛

1) Black Hole Sun: I’ll admit this one was hard for me. The song is obviously so Janus, with plenty of references to snakes and lying, but I can’t seem to put a finger on the exact meaning. If I had to guess, it’s showing Janus’ fist instance of fearing society. He’s realized that the world is not a safe place for Thomas and no one can be trusted (“Times are gone for honest men” “no one sings like you anymore”). He longs for the ignorance of childhood when society didn’t seem to pose a threat and Thomas wasn’t aware of the dangers and lies it held, but he knows that someone has to protect him from it, and that is Janus (“my youth I pray to keep” “hang my head, drown my fear”).

2) Seemed the Better Way: To me, this is a song about Janus knowing his place as a dark side and knowing that the others will not listen to him (“I better hold my tongue” “better take my place”). He initially trusts the core sides to do what needs to be done and take care of Thomas adequately, but when he realizes that it isnt enough, he finds it hard to keep in hiding (“Seemed the better way” “now it’s much too late to turn the other cheek”).

3) Anywhere: A BIG middle finger to society (“It’s a beautiful world, if youve been lied to” “No no no, nothing in this world is beautiful”). Janus basically trusts no one in society, not even the people closest to Thomas because he believes that everyone will do whatever it takes to get what they want (“Every man standing on another man’s back”). He also believes that society has been a huge detriment to Thomas and, AGAIN, is very dangerous (“It’s the world’s excuse for being disfigured and lying to you”).

4) Talking at the same time: This song is about Virgil. The song begins with explaining that a hard time for one person can be a triumph for another in multiple different metaphors (“Umbrellas cost more in the rain” “hard times for some, for others its sweet” “someone makes money when theres blood in the street”). The next part of the song practically shoves it in your face that it’s about virgil leaving (“Well she told me she would leave me, I ignored all the signs” “I know you're leaving and there's no more next time”). Janus was clearly hurt by Virgil leaving and it seems like he was almost in denial about it happening. A line near the end of the song that I found particularly interesting was “Well we bailed out all the millionaires, They've got the fruit, We've got the rind”. This line to me shows that Janus and the other dark sides let Virgil go, possibly in an attempt to get all of the dark sides accepted. Virgil capitalized on this opportunity and of course, got accepted, however, he left the others behind. Despite wanting Virgil to get accepted by the light sides, Janus remains bitter that Virgil was the only one. Virgil got the fruit, and the rest of the dark sides got the rind.

5) All the Good Girls go to Hell: Janus believes that Thomas needs to listen to him if he is going to stay safe and healthy. He thinks that his assistance, above all other sides, expecially Patton, is crucial for survival in this messed up world. (“And once the water starts to rise, And heaven's out of sight, She'll want the devil on her team” “Look at you needing me”). You’ll find it a common theme in this playlist that Janus refers to himself as the devil or an evil entity of some sort... Just thought I’d point that out.

6) Denial: Well, its in the title folks! Thomas is (or was) in denial. Janus is aware of the moments when Thomas thinks about consulting him or using one of his functions, but almost as soon as he gets the idea, he drops it and acts like the thought never happened (“Don't just shut your eyes closed” “You know that I can hear you thinking, I've heard you all the way from here, But if I look you in the eye though, It's like your thoughts all disappear”). Thomas is struggling for answers to questions that only Janus can answer, but he refuses to listen to consult him and Janus desperately wants this to stop (“I know you're looking for direction, I know where you wanna go” “Please don't turn the light out, I don't think the conversation's over”).

7) Trust in Me: Obviously, the original song has much more sinister undertones, but when listening to the song from Janus’ perspective, I get a different vibe. Basically, Janus just wants Thomas to trust him and give him more reign over decision making. Not much for this one.

8) Razzle Dazzle: JANUS IS EXTRA! Is anyone shocked? Also a HUGE showman. But again, no one’s surprised. Janus believes that the only way to get the light sides to listen to him is to practically put on a show to cover up whatever his true intentions are (“How can they see with sequins in their eyes?” “Razzle dazzle 'em And theyll never catch wise!” “How can they hear the truth above the roar?”) I could keep listing lines but theyre literally all just different versions of the same sentiment.

9) When the Chips are Down: The title right off the bat shows that, again, Janus believes that Thomas needs to look to him when important decisions are on the line. There are also a lump sum of jabs at patton in this song, lines like “Aim for the heart, shoot to kill” and “Cast your eyes to heaven, You get a knife in the back”. Theres also a lot of lines, yet again, of Janus practically begging Thomas to trust him and no one else (“Ain't nobody but yourself to trust” “Help yourself, To hell with the rest, Even the one who loves you best”).

10) Mandy goes to Med School: Soooo this one... Honestly, I don’t really have a lot. The original meaning of the song is not very applicable to Janus, so its a bit hard to pinpoint its meaning. The only thing I can think of is that Janus is again hating on society and the crazy things that people have to go through in it. If you weren’t aware, this song is about coat-hanger abortions.

11) I put a Spell on You: This one seems pretty striaghtforward to me. Janus knows that Thomas doesn’t want him, and it drives him up the wall, but he does what a snake boi does and slithers his way in anyways (“And I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours right now” “I can't stand it 'cause you put me down”). I suppose you could argue that you could replace Thomas with Patton (mostly because daddy is used like 10 times in the song 😂) but a later song covers their realtionship extremely well.

12) Evil Night Together: Another toughie. My gut feeling is that this is a song about Remus and Janus just going out and having a wild night together. As I read into the lyrics more, though, it seems almost like Janus is doing this for Remus. Like he wants Remus to feel accepted and loved by him (something that can’t be said by Thomas). I just can’t read some of these lines without getting big Momceit vibes... i mean... theyre so supportive! “I'll hold your hand while they drag the river” “I'll cuddle you in the undertow” “I'll hold you close while they dust for prints”. Then theres of course this line... “Who's gonna make you a hero?” And to me, that is Janus saying that, if Thomas only sees Roman as his hero and not Remus, then it is Janus’ job to make Remus feel like a hero. Janus also saying “No need for cake or flowers” also feels like him reassuring Remus that he doesn’t need to be like his brother to be perfect and loved.

13) Don’t tell Mama: I think I’ve seen some people interpreting “mama” as Thomas in this song, but to me Patton seems like a better fit, especially after their interactions in the most recent episode. Basically this song is all about how Janus doesn’t mind people knowing about the bad things he does, but he can absolutely not have one person know. Janus seems to have grown a soft spot for Patton in the new episode and if you ask me, he would definately not want patton finding out about some of immoral things he’s wanted Thomas to do. I mean he literally waits for Patton to sink out and then the second he’s gone he starts scheming about pushing people down stairs and sabotage.

14) You’re a Cad: Another Virgil one, but this time it’s after Virgil’s acceptance. I think Janus has little faith in the beginning that Virgil would get far in his journey to the light side. Whether that is because of envy or just plain pessimism, I’m not sure, but he definately doubted Virgil would ever be able to escape his past (“So now you want the whole world to notice that you've come around, Now you expect, We'll see how you're really so much better now, But I know the truth” “What's the point pretending that you could be a better man, Just give in, since you always end up right back where you began”). Despite his reluctance to support Virgil’s endevors, Janus shows a softer side for Virgil that has gone completely untalked about in canon (“You're a rascal and a rogue, a villain and a crook, Still I tug at your line, I'm a fish on your hook” “Still I know the truth, but I have a sweet tooth for a Cad and a bounder, a dog and a cheap”). Janus really misses Virgil and I would go as far as to say that he regrets the things that he’s done to make Virgil want to leave (“I should be better, but I'm worse” “You're reckless with my heart, still I wait by the phone”).

15) As far as I can See: A sadie but a goodie. Janus doesn’t really understand love, but he’s sure that no one loves him (“As far as I can see Nobody loves me”). No one listens to him, no matter how much he shouts and cries. He doesn’t believe that anyone could love him if they are unwilling to hear him out and communicate with him (“As far as I can see, Nobody's listening” “And when I'm crying out, Nobody cries back for me”).

16) Criminal: AH MY FAVORITE SONG ON THE PLAYLIST! I LEGIT CRIED MY GUYS! Anyway. Janus LOVES Thomas. I would go as far to say that Janus loves Thomas more than any other side. Despite his lacking knowledge of love and what it feels like, he knows for a fact that what he feels for Thomas is the closest thing he will feel to love (“Because he's all I ever knew of love”). Now that thats out of the way, lets get to the juicy stuff... Janus feels like a criminal as he’s been taught over and over again that his opinions and thoughts are bad and harmful (“Cause I'm feelin' like a criminal” “I've done wrong and I wanna suffer for my sins”) This song is ultimately about Janus wanting to improve for Thomas, the one he loves the most. He knows that Thomas needs him, and the only way to get Thomas to listen is to get some help. Whose that help you might ask? Patton. Janus wants to be more helpful, but he doesnt know how. He’s envious of Patton’s ability to be accepted so easily, so he goes to him for advice (“I've come to you cause I need guidance to be true, And I just don't know where I can begin”). Janus wants to be redeemed in Thomas’ eyes, he wan’ts to escape the criminal appearance he’s been doomed to (“And I need to be redeemed, To the one I've sinned against”). He HATES some of the things he does to Thomas and some of the things he makes him think, but he doesn’t want to be forgiven, he believes that he deserves to be punished, but he still wants to get better for Thomas. He just doesn’t know how to do that (“Oh help me, but don't tell me to deny it, I've got to cleanse myself Of all these lies til I'm good enough for him”). Also, Janus sees Patton in a very very high place. He goes as far in this song to liken him to an angel while comparing himself, again, to the devil (“So what would an angel say, The devil wants to know”).

17) Change: The song is about, you guessed it, change! This to me is a continuation of the last song. Janus finally feels like things are changing in his favor (likely after the most recent episode). He was beginning to feel like there was no point in caring or trying, but now that he’s begining to see the light, he’s grown a bit hopeful (“Lately I've been thinking it's just someone else's job to care, Who am I to sympathize when no one gave a damn?” “Trying to find the power in me to be faithful” “Change is a powerful thing, I feel it coming in me”). With Patton’s help and acceptance, Janus is begining to feel worthy of Thomas again and begining to see the he has a voice (“Maybe by the time this song is done I’ll be able to be honest, capable, Of holding you in my arms without letting you fall when I don't feel beautiful Or stable”).

18) Devil in the Details: Janus worries again about his ability to help Thomas. He doesn’t believe that he can tell the difference between good and bad and he looks to Patton for that differentiation (“There was love I meant, there were accidents, So tell me which is which. 'Cause I just can't work it out” “I have, no way, of knowing,…”). There’s also an odd underlying message about doing something that he doesn’t want to do, but continues to do despite this and I’m not quite sure what that could be referring to (“And I know the cost, and I want to stop. But I can't do it, I just can't do it.”). It could simply be referring to him lying or deceiving others, but that seems too simple. I wish I had a better answer.

19) Come Little Children: ALSO MY FAVORITE SONG ON THE PLAYLIST! This is really big guys. This song practically confirms the fact that Janus was in charge of taking in and hiding the dark sides from Thomas (“Come little children, I'll take thee away Into a land of enchantment”). The song literally uses the phrase “My garden of shadows”, a clear metaphor for the hidden parts of Thomas’ mind where Janus keeps the dark sides. But it gets better... Janus pities these poor sides. He hates the way that society has forced them away from the light and into the shadows (“Follow sweet children, I'll show thee the way Through all the pain And the sorrows”). Not only does Janus feel bad for these sides and longs to protect them from the cruelness of the real world, but he LOVES them. He values every aspect of them and thinks they are beautiful and perfect. He cannot fathom why society wouldn’t also love see them this way and it frustrates him to hide such amazing traits from the world (“Weep not poor children For life is this way, Murdering beauty and passions”). Despite this sadness and dissapointment, Janus does his job and keeps the dark sides hidden away, knowing that society would never accept them for what they are (“Hush now dear children, It must be this way”).

20) Into the Unknown (no not the Frozen song): This song is VERY IMPORTANT. I have seen so many misinterpretations of this song, and granted mine could also be wrong, but please hear me out. This song comes right after the last song for a reason. The sides that Janus had once hidden away are now being shown to Thomas. He is literally going into the unknown (“Led through the mist, By the milk-light of moon, All that was lost, is revealed.” “Somewhere lost in the clouded annals of history, Lies a place that few have seen. A mysterious place, called The Unknown. Where long-forgotten stories are revealed to those who travel through the wood.”) Thomas is figuratively traveling through the wood by learning more about himself and traveling deeper into Janus’ previously mentioned Garden of Shadows. The song ends, beautifully framing Janus’ love for the sides he’s raised and hidden away, calling them “ The loveliest lies of all”....

(Ahhh! I’m sorry that was so long guys 😅 Thank you if you read the whole thing or evern part! I’d like to hear your opinions, so let me know 💛💛💛)

[ghostseaao3]

reflections

Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger + Draco Malfoy/Astoria Greengrass

Warnings: PTSD, death

Summary: 

“Hermione Granger is dead.” 

One dead body in the Great Hall, one alive one tearing through the Forbidden Forest. It was Draco that caught her, pointed his wand directly in her face and held her up for the enemy to see. But reflections reveal the truth in the end, and even when the world around you has died, there can be a whispered name that saves you from your last breath.

Reflections - AO3 Link

Due to formatting, this might be a bit easier to read on AO3.

2 May, 1998  

She was dead.

Draco stared at her lifeless body, her skin like porcelain with her eyes closed and jaw set. They had left her there in the Great Hall, placed on the floor with all the other dead bodies where she stood out in her youth.

Or perhaps only he noticed her youth. His memories of her so bound to his schooldays, he could only ever picture her as young.  

Christ, she had only ever been young. And now there she lay, the eternal teenager. He could feel his stomach turning and it took all he had not to throw up there and then.

But there was more work to be done. Any show of weakness now and he’d be laying right there alongside her. And so he followed his orders, giving chase into the forest.  

*

She ran as quickly as she could, the branches of the trees reaching out to cut her cheek, and her feet slamming painfully into the jagged rocks on the ground.  

They were coming for her.  

All around her, heavy footsteps were pounding through the Forbidden Forest accompanied by yells, screams and bangs, the bursts of light from ricocheting spells the only thing to illuminate her way. Her chest felt like it was going to explode from the pain of fear, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage.  

Someone was gaining on her. She could hear them run up from behind as panic gripped her. But their step seemed lazy she thought, as if their heart wasn’t quite in it.  

She snuck a glance over her shoulder.  

It was him. That shock of blond hair unmistakeable even in the darkness. Of course he would come for her. His final revenge.  

And then a searing pain ripped from her ankle and up her calf, folding her to the ground with a cry of anguish. And suddenly he was there, crouched over her, looking frantically over his shoulder, his eyes following his fellow Death Eaters as they chased the others.  

“Get up,” he hissed. She stared back at him defiantly. She would not give in to his demands. She would meet death face-to-face on her own terms.  

His eyes were angry, his face wild with panic. “Run,” he said.

*

After  

It was a small ceremony, attended by only one witness as per legal requirement. He hurried the officiant along with a few snide remarks and sneers, but she knew his impatience and rudeness was only a mask to hide the fear that clawed at them both.  

They said it would be the happiest day of your life, your wedding day. And perhaps in another life it could have been, but in this life everything was done out of necessity. You left your house only when you had to, you used your words to speak only when spoken to, and you ate, slept and breathed only for the necessity of survival.  

Marriage was the same. A tool to survive.  

“Do you, Draco Malfoy, take this woman, Astoria Greengrass, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

She held his eyes then as he placed the ring on her finger, those grey eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul, understanding her completely, who she was and who she had been.  

Because Draco knew, he was the only one that did.  

They had discussed the idea of marriage briefly before going ahead with it, and truthfully it didn’t take long for them to decide it was their best option. It would give him an excuse to leave the family home, pretend to wilfully hand over ownership of it to the Dark Lord as an act of goodwill. Perhaps they’d turn it into a museum one day, he had said convincingly, a shrine that followers all over the world could visit. The birthplace of the Dark Lord’s final magnificent plan.  

For her it gave her more than just an escape. It gave her a life.  

And now there she was with a new name. Astoria Malfoy. She never expected any type of marital bliss, and in the beginning she woke up every morning praying and hoping that it was all a bad dream. A bizarre, unfathomable nightmare that she’d shake her head at with a perplexed smile when the sun rose to creep in through the bedroom curtains.  

But it was always the sun itself that would shine a light on the truth, illuminating the bedroom to remind her that the curtains weren’t hers, that the bed was foreign, the walls a shade she’d never choose. And that was when reality would slink under those blankets with her. This was no dream. No dream could ever be this imaginative in its cruelty.  

They would sit together, alone in his new home, their new home, just she and her husband. There were never any visitors. They would cook together, eat together, share what little news they could salvage together, until they began talking about more. About their childhoods, about their regrets, their could-have-been's and their happier times.  

And after a while she began to feel something. At first she thought it was the stirrings of sympathy, taking even her by surprise. The things he had done had once seemed so unforgivable to her, and perhaps they were, perhaps she could never forgive him. But he wasn’t asking for her forgiveness anyway.  

Mostly however, she began to understand him. She began to accept that bravery doesn’t come easy to everyone, and that you’re no use to your loved one's dead. She, of all people, knew that now.

From there grew the tender moments. Him giving her his leftover food, her pouring a Firewhisky for him ready for when he came home, his arm stretching over the table to hold her hand as she cried again.

Perhaps it was loneliness that did it to them in the end, or maybe it was genuine. The night they both stood in the kitchen, eyes locked on one another, her breathing shallow as he took three quick steps towards her and pressed his lips to hers. He pulled her body close to his as her hands tangled in his blond hair, and all she could think about was how right it felt.  

*

“Run?” she gasped, clutching at her leg. “Just hand me over Malfoy, have your moment in the spotlight. God knows your family need it.”

He was glaring at her and she could tell his mind was working furiously.  

“Ahh, Malfoy’s caught a live one!” Someone was coming towards them, their cloak swishing across the forest floor, leaves crunching under the wearer’s boot. 

“Goddamn it,” Draco whispered before quickly pulling out his wand and tapping it on her head. “Crinus Muto,” he said before pointing it directly at her face, “Voltusio.”

*

A quiet life suited her in the end. They had both been through so much, it was all they could ask for. A life in which they grew and taught each other, learning intimacy again, and how to once again care about another person so much it terrified you.  

How to love again.  

And love him she did. Sometimes it filled her wholly and she would reach out and stoke his hair as he lay snoring beside her. Other times it would be quieter, revealing itself when she cooked for him or helped him out of his coat or ran him a bath.  

But it was love all the same, and it carried her through it all.  

Some days, she would sit in front of the mirror, looking at her face as it aged, examining the faint lines and crow's feet with nothing more than a casual interest. She was lucky to have them, she knew, she was never meant to make it this far. The greying of her hair was almost indecipherable from the stark blonde, and she always kept it shoulder length and poker straight. The way it was when Draco saved her.

*

Draco pulled her to her feet and she yelped as her ankle buckled under her weight, but Draco had her arm tight, dragging her up as he pulled her with his whole body.  

“And who do we have here?”  

She didn’t recognise the man that was coming towards her now, even though she was sure she knew every Death Eater by heart; Dolohov, Avery, Rookwood, Lestrange, Malfoy. He must be a Snatcher she thought, not party to the elite crowd that Lord Voldemort surrounds himself with.  

Well, here’s his big chance, she thought ruefully, a one-way ticket to the inner circle.  

She made to open her mouth, ignoring the pain in her ankle with tears welling in her eyes.  

“I know her from school,” Draco said quickly, beating her to the punch. “She’s a pure-blood.”

The man was close now, his eyes roving greedily over her face, his dark hair slick with grease.  

“Pure-blood, eh?” he said, showing his rotten teeth with a grin. “What was you running for then, if your blood was so clean?”

He couldn’t be this stupid, surely?

Draco shook her shoulder, willing her to answer with a warning look in his eye.  

“I didn’t know who you were,” she squeaked. “I didn’t know who I was running from.”

The Snatcher raised his wand to sweep the hair from her face and Draco snatched her back from his reach. “The Dark Lord said no more magical blood was to be spilled,” he growled. “She’s a pure-blood, she was in Slytherin house when I was. I can vouch for her.”

“Touchy, touchy... I reckon this one fancies you,” he said to her, jabbing his thumb at Draco. “Well, she’s all yours then Malfoy, do with her what you will. I’m off to catch bigger fish.”

And with a cruel smile, he ran from them, his stench following as she finally gave in to the pain in her ankle and lowered herself to the ground.  

“He didn’t recognise me,” she said breathlessly, her heart still hammering relentlessly in her chest. “Why didn’t he recognise me?”

Draco turned from her as he peered through the trees. “We have to move, more will be coming.”

“We?”

He spun on his heel to face her, the sneer unmistakable on his face. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I just saved your life.”  

She scoffed. “That idiot being too stupid to catch me out wasn’t you saving my life Malfoy.”  

He stared back at her in disbelief before he strode towards her and crouched again, pointing his wand to a small ditch beside her right arm. “Aguamenti.”

Water shot from the tip of his wand, pooling into a deep puddle.  

“Look into it,” he commanded.  

She furrowed her brow before leaning over, grimacing at the pain that shot through her ankle as she did so.

She saw nothing. Just a pool of black water as the sky and stars overhead reflected in its glassy surface. Except there was a face there now too she realised as she leaned closer. It was a woman’s face, with high cheekbones and deep blue eyes framed underneath arched eyebrows. A woman she had never seen before, with a tangle of straight, blonde hair tumbling from her head.  

And then she gasped before sitting back to face him. “You-”

“Yes,” he snapped.  

She looked back at the water and the woman’s eyes were staring frantically back at her. There was a cut on her cheek she realised.  

Her cheek. She reached to touch it and the woman in the reflection did the same.  

“You’re no longer Hermione Granger,” he said. “Your new name is Astoria Greengrass."

Hermione was looking at herself in the reflection, feeling the high cheekbones as she touched her face. Her bushy, dark hair had been replaced, her brown eyes now the colour of the late sky, and her cheeks slimmed, giving her a haughty, almost regal look.

"Hermione Granger is dead.”

*

She never forgot who she was, not really, although she would never know who she could have been. Sometimes when the appearance-altering spells wore off she would stare into her own brown eyes, notice the grey strands in her thick dark hair, but it was like looking into the face of a stranger. Looking into the windows of another life that she would never know.  

It was the dead girl Astoria’s life she had lived, not Hermione’s. A life beseeched with grief, but with love too. A life granted to her by the one person she was sure wouldn’t have ever thought she deserved it.  

Draco Malfoy had changed her name twice, and each time she survived a little longer because of it.