#i was not born of ill intentions or from the dark desires of one who wishes to fulfill their own violent whims.

[crescentmp3]

about to sob! genuinely!

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

hi to chrom hater anon i'm a professional chrom enjoyer

if you get deranged enough about awakening i think chrom is a very well done character :) he's ignorant but well meaning which meshes in interesting ways. he's not overtly prejudiced to the plegians he knows personally but still *generally* prejudiced because of his upbringing.

additionally in discussions of the ylisse-plegia war he tends to focus on how ylisse came away from it because that state of ylisse is what shaped his formative childhood years (seen particularly in his feelings about emmeryn's early years as exalt). this is UNDERSTANDABLE but still an extremely DEEPLY FLAWED and naive stance when doing politics on a larger scale, which chrom is incredibly ill-prepared for. it's a very childish view of a large scale conflict.

chrom's propensity for violence is a trait that actually deeply fascinates me. he has intense admiration for emmeryn's desire for peace yet he has a very short temper in tense situations (seen in basically all of chrom's interactions with gangrel), and he tends to lash out easily at anyone he views as an enemy. he admires peace but sees no other means to achieve it than violence. isn't that interesting. the implications here. like, he's the inheritor of the falchion, he's the only son in his family, in all likelihood it was expected that HE would take the throne and continue his father's war, but he was so young when the exalt passed that the crown went to emmeryn instead.

it really seems like emmeryn intentionally kept her siblings away from politics, which results in BOTH of them being naive in vastly different ways, with the expectation that she would always shoulder the burden of the crown yet left all the bigger a void when she died.

mind, intentionally being raised to behave this way isn't an excuse either. it's ultimately still something chrom, as an adult, SHOULD examine critically. this is, in fact, a character flaw, and i think its great.

you can then of course do nice little compare and contrast at the shitty dads, i.e. chrom's dad vs validar. robin's first act as an awakened god is murdering validar. robin became the monster everyone saw them as, the one their father thinks they were born to be. it's a neat lil nature vs nurture comparison if you really get into the depths of grima-ology (hi grima ✌️ mutuals).

to dig more into points the chrom hater anon makes.

"chrom is transphobic for killing excellus" do you hear yourself. excellus was an enemy commander. chrom has no personal grievances against the commanders other than they are part of the army with the known intent to raze ylisse.

SAME WITH ROBIN BURNING DOWN THE BOATS. THEY ARE AT WAR. IF ROBIN DIDNT DO THAT THEY'D ALL GET KILLED. they would have to fight the valm forces ON FOOT and BE KILLED VIOLENTLY because they are vastly outnumbered. it would be weird if he WASN'T at least happy about this.

he could stand to be regretful about the massive loss of human life but honestly hashtag robin warcrimes W.

"chrom makes sure to only recruit white ylisseans" i think this is just dev colorism actually. like you know how robin's dad (who is evil) is brown, but robin (who is good) is white? and how that makes no sense and robin should logically also be brown? i dont think chrom would've turned down if like, mustafa joined him. it is simply that intsys was still in their racism era (which is, tbh, only really ended with engage, like, cmon, look at literally all of FE, this isn't a chrom flaw, it's a FE being racist flaw.)

same with the sexism things actually FE is just homophobic and sexist a lot so all the characters are also by extension. this is called doylist analysis

Chrom tells Aversa "One person's life means nothing in the shadow of millions" Chrom is a hypocrite i hope this helps. additionally what aversa is doing is "help the dark god literally causing the apocalypse rn" whereas the sacrifice/save robin choice is "doom people in some hypothetical far off future" which is FAR less personal than "all of humanity RIGHT NOW".

TLDR: the real chrom enjoyers know about his character flaws and love him anyway because it's nice flavor to chew on

also never insult my beautiful daughter lucina ever again. she is deeply compelling even if she is narratively underutilized. anyone who calls themself a chrom fan and hates lucina is a faker and will not survive the winter.

also learn the difference between flaws of the story's writing and flaws of the character otherwise everybody in awakening is sexist.

anon you should read chrom/grima fanfiction unironically we fucking love tearing this dude to shreds for his flaws. this has all been a ploy to say that. chrom is naive and selfish and hypocritical and i love him very much he is my wif e :)

.

[hrizantemy]

I love writing snippets of Rhysand’s sister, like a diary of some sort so here is more!!

I’ve always understood that my fate was predetermined, far removed from the whims of love or choice. While my brother had the freedom to pursue his heart’s desires, to love and be loved in return, my path was set in stone from the moment I was born.

Marriage was not a matter of affection or compatibility for me—it was a strategic alliance, a political transaction orchestrated by those in power. My hand would be offered to the highest bidder, traded like a commodity in exchange for power, wealth, or influence. Love was a luxury I could ill afford, a notion reserved for the pages of fairy tales and the dreams of foolish maidens.

I watched as Rhysand roamed the Night Court, his heart untethered and free, while I remained confined within the walls of duty and obligation. My future was not my own to mold; it was dictated by the needs of our people, by the machinations of those who sought to control us.

In the world, where power and politics intertwined seamlessly, my brother Rhysand had the privilege of finding a mate—a partner who complemented him in every way, whose love was a beacon of light in the darkness that often enveloped our realm. Their bond was forged in the fires of passion and mutual respect, a rare connection that transcended the constraints of duty and obligation.

For me, however, the concept of a mate was a distant dream, a fantasy reserved for those fortunate enough to be born into privilege. Instead, I faced the prospect of a husband—a man chosen for me by those who held sway over my destiny. If I were lucky, he would be decent, his intentions honorable and his demeanor tolerable. But luck was a fleeting commodity in the world of arranged marriages, and more often than not, the reality fell far short of my hopes and expectations.

I braced myself for a future filled with duty and sacrifice, where my husband’s desires would supersede my own, and where love was but a distant memory, overshadowed by the weight of obligation. While Rhysand basked in the warmth of his mate’s love, I would navigate the treacherous waters of marital politics, longing for a freedom I could never truly attain.

My acceptance of my predetermined fate was not born solely out of resignation; rather, it was a result of the careful orchestration of my father, who had ensured that I would walk the path laid out before me. From a young age, he had instilled in me the importance of duty and obedience, molding me into a vessel of his ambitions.

My father’s influence loomed large over my life, his presence a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon me as his daughter. He had made it clear that my future would be one of significance, that my marriage would serve as a means to secure his power and influence within the Night Court. And while his words may have lacked the tenderness of a loving parent, there was a certain conviction in his tone—a promise to ensure that my husband would be a man of stature and authority, if nothing else.

In his own way, my father had pledged to make sure that my husband would be powerful, as if that alone would be enough to ensure my happiness and security. And so, I resigned myself to the role he had carved out for me, finding solace in the knowledge that, at the very least, my union would serve a greater purpose—one that extended far beyond the confines of my own desires.

In the end, I found comfort in the knowledge that while my brother may be a fool for dreaming of love, I was wise enough to recognize that power was the true currency of our world—a currency that would ensure my survival in a realm where love was a luxury few could afford.

[rockislandadultreads]

Fairy Tales & Legends Retold

A Spindle Splintered by Alix E. Harrow

It's Zinnia Gray's twenty-first birthday, which is extra-special because it's the last birthday she'll ever have. When she was young, an industrial accident left Zinnia with a rare condition. Not much is known about her illness, just that no one has lived past twenty-one.

Her best friend Charm is intent on making Zinnia's last birthday special with a full sleeping beauty experience, complete with a tower and a spinning wheel. But when Zinnia pricks her finger, something strange and unexpected happens, and she finds herself falling through worlds, with another sleeping beauty, just as desperate to escape her fate.

This is the first volume of the "Fractured Fables" series.

Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The Jazz Age is in full swing, but Casiopea Tun is too busy cleaning the floors of her wealthy grandfather’s house to listen to any fast tunes. Nevertheless, she dreams of a life far from her dusty small town in southern Mexico. A life she can call her own.

Yet this new life seems as distant as the stars, until the day she finds a curious wooden box in her grandfather’s room. She opens it—and accidentally frees the spirit of the Mayan god of death, who requests her help in recovering his throne from his treacherous brother. Failure will mean Casiopea’s demise, but success could make her dreams come true.

In the company of the strangely alluring god and armed with her wits, Casiopea begins an adventure that will take her on a cross-country odyssey from the jungles of Yucatán to the bright lights of Mexico City—and deep into the darkness of the Mayan underworld.

Juniper & Thorn by Ava Reid

A gruesome curse. A city in upheaval. A monster with unquenchable appetites.

Marlinchen and her two sisters live with their wizard father in a city shifting from magic to industry. As Oblya’s last true witches, she and her sisters are little more than a tourist trap as they treat their clients with archaic remedies and beguile them with nostalgic charm. Marlinchen spends her days divining secrets in exchange for rubles and trying to placate her tyrannical, xenophobic father, who keeps his daughters sequestered from the outside world. But at night, Marlinchen and her sisters sneak out to enjoy the city’s amenities and revel in its thrills, particularly the recently established ballet theater, where Marlinchen meets a dancer who quickly captures her heart.

As Marlinchen’s late-night trysts grow more fervent and frequent, so does the threat of her father’s rage and magic. And while Oblya flourishes with culture and bustles with enterprise, a monster lurks in its midst, borne of intolerance and resentment and suffused with old-world power. Caught between history and progress and blood and desire, Marlinchen must draw upon her own magic to keep her city safe and find her place within it.

Kaikeyi by Vaishnavi Patel

“I was born on the full moon under an auspicious constellation, the holiest of positions—much good it did me.”

So begins Kaikeyi’s story. The only daughter of the kingdom of Kekaya, she is raised on tales about the might and benevolence of the gods: how they churned the vast ocean to obtain the nectar of immortality, how they vanquish evil and ensure the land of Bharat prospers, and how they offer powerful boons to the worthy. Yet she watches as her father unceremoniously banishes her mother, listens as her own worth is reduced to the marriage alliance she can secure. And when she calls upon the gods for help, they never seem to hear.

Desperate for independence, she turns to the texts she once read with her mother and discovers a magic that is hers alone. With it, Kaikeyi transforms herself from an overlooked princess into a warrior, diplomat, and most favored queen.

But as the evil from her childhood stories threatens the cosmic order, the path she has forged clashes with the destiny the gods have chosen for her family. And Kaikeyi must decide if resistance is worth the destruction it will wreak—and what legacy she intends to leave behind.

[ddarker-dreams]

Deep Sea Chapter IV. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader

>Rating: Mature. >Warnings: Yandere themes, mentions of amnesia, misgoynistic language, minor violence.  >Word count: 6k. >Deep Sea Index.

CHAPTER IV // ORPHAN SPIRIT

The fortune slip in your hand is heavy, even if it bends to the slightest breeze.

Mt. Yogou overlooks the rest of Narukami Island as if it were nothing but an insignificant speck. The buildings down below are tiny, the people tinier. You stretch your hand out into the horizon and grasp the distant Inazuma City and hold it in the palm of your head. How perfectly it fits, you muse. If only the same could be said for myself.

High up on the mountaintop, past the torii gates that welcome you into the realm of the divine, you fooled yourself into thinking the gods might hear out your plight. The dark ink painted on by elaborate brushstrokes echoes the same premonition it always has: great misfortune.

You sigh and consider what to do next. Last month, it was purchasing an omamori, but your luck remained as lackluster as ever. What should you try next?

Superstition creates the traps meant to ensnare you while simultaneously offering the supposed only option to escape. Following your past trips, you would tie the ill-boding paper to the fortune slip hanger and pray that the stars of your fate would shift into a new, more desirable constellation. You’ve borne witness to no such change in alignment.

This time could be different, you try and convince yourself. Rumors have spread that tying it with a certain style of knot beseeches favor…

It sounds ridiculous, even to you. People petition the gods when they want something they can’t have. You’re no different in that regard. You’ll humor the little tricks gossiped about by townsfolk on the off chance they’re true. If it works, then that’s good and well, you’ll attribute a sliver of credence to them. And if they don’t, then that’s just as easily explained away.

“Making your monthly visit, are you?”

Yae Miko’s voice is akin to a shinobue — melodic, giving the illusion of floating carefree in the air, while being planned to the note.

If you thought her to be pretty from afar on the rare occasions your paths crossed, then she was nothing short of beautiful up close. The innocent curiosity she regards you with comes across as artificial; she knows more than she’ll ever let on. If it could be said that the best strategizers know when to tip their hand, then you wonder what that’d make the Guuji who never revealed anything of her intentions yet ended up on top anyway.

Still, you sense no nefarious intent. Kitsune are known for being mischievous, not malicious. You mind your manners and bow, observing her seniority over you. She thinks little of your politeness, so instead of wasting her time with further propriety, you seek to entertain.  

“I’m honored that you take special note of my pilgrimages.”

By the tightening of the skin beneath her eyes, you must’ve done just that. She reminds you of a cat pawing a ball of yarn. Pulling you to and fro for amusement’s sake, the rest of the world seemingly unimportant until the second you become a bore.

“Cheeky. I like that about you,” She covers her coquettish smile with her hand. “But I’d like your honesty even more. Tell me, what is it that troubles you?”

Should you bother revealing a glimpse of your inner turmoil to the divinely aligned? Counsel wasn’t what you came here for, but it might be what you need. It wouldn’t hurt to give her some vague idea of your grievances. You haven’t uttered a word of it to anyone, not even Misato, who normally serves as your confidant. The last thing you wanted to do was add further stress to her while she recovers.

Misato would chastise you for thinking this way, you realize. Perhaps it’s easier to continue avoiding the problem. That’s what led to her falling ill in the first place — neither of you being willing to speak what should be said.

Steeling yourself for whatever comes next, you take care in choosing your words.  

“I’m at… an impasse, of sorts. One that made me realize I haven’t had to think for myself much these past few years. It’s just as frightening as I imagined — it’s no surprise I avoided it for so long.”

You try to keep your tone light and playful, yet bitterness seeps into the ground, poisoning the soil. Yae Miko thinks over your plight for a moment, her smile returning to something more neutral, almost as if she were preparing to conduct herself in a manner befitting her position. The lingering silence is uncomfortable enough that you feel the impulse to fill it. Before you can, she voices an inquiry.

“What is it you’re hoping to find here?” Sensing your confusion, she elaborates, “If you’re praying to the Raiden Shogun for guidance… hm, you might just have better luck somewhere else. She’s quite the independent mind, that one. Stubborn to a fault too. Yes, why not seek the help of another god?”

You blink, once, twice. Did you hear her right? Yae Miko, the head priestess of the Grand Narukami Shrine, is suggesting that you devote your religious allegiance elsewhere? Was she even allowed to say that? You’ve heard rumors of her eccentric nature, but this is something entirely outside of your expectations. You wait for her to give some indication that she was joking and find she’s deadly serious. The smile from earlier returns, though different in its curvature; this time, you’re certain she’s privy to knowledge you are not.

You recall your conversation with Scaramouche and the steadfast conviction you held at the time. In the heat of the moment, you told him your past meant nothing to you. That your focus was upon the future. He didn’t believe you then. You can’t blame him — you don’t think you fully believed yourself either.

Here it was again. A door, slightly ajar, ready for you to open and explore. Do you dare to take the steps forward to reach it?

A little peek wouldn’t hurt, would it? That sounds harmless enough.

“And what god would suit me best?”

The door that kept you stagnant was never locked. No, you were the one who stubbornly held it shut every time it threatened to show too much. For what lies beyond frightened you more than the possibility of never knowing the truth.

Wind caresses the all-encompassing branches of the Sacred Sakura, watching faithfully above you both. Clusters of pink petals descend from the heavens, dancing and twirling in the breeze, some landing in yours and Yae Miko’s hair. You swallow thickly. The head priestess must delight in making others squirm. She doesn’t rush to appease your growing discomfort and instead commits herself to scrutinizing you as she would manuscripts sent in by fledgling authors.

“The god that would suit you best…” She trails off, pressing a finger to her cheek. You lean forward, bewitched. “Ah. I believe their name eludes me.”

And just like that, the spell is broken, your shoulders slumping in a manner that’d surely earn admonishment from your teachers. Those kitsune were more fickle than a dying flame. Yae Miko’s soft chuckles serve to further sour your mood. It’s no wonder those at the okiya bemoaned working with her. She was efficient at what she committed herself to, while the rest was discarded if it failed to capture her interest. Even that was another layer of the game to her.

You suppose you should be grateful she paid you enough heed to speak this long.

“Now, now. There’s no need to look so crestfallen. Chin up, sweet girl. I have just the thing.”

Yae Miko disappears, leaving you in a stupefied state. Could you ever hope to decipher the cryptic words of a centuries-old youkai? You’d have better luck swimming here to Liyue’s shores. A god that the head priestess believes would do you good… if you had a Vision, that could’ve been a decent lead. That meant some god in a far-off nation acknowledged you, right? No one knows for certain how Visions work, but that was the commonly accepted theory.

When she returns, there’s a book in her grasp. The cover boasts a blue to pink gradient with a figure’s silhouette in the middle. The title is sprawled on in classic Inazuman script, reading Sangonomiya Chronicles. Sangonomiya… it could be read as coral shrine, indicating some intimate connection to the divine. Where have you heard that name before?

Yae Miko gingerly grabs your wrist, lifts it, then places the book in your hand.

“For you, little maiko. I hope that regardless of what happens, you’ll continue to make your visits to our humble shrine.”

You hold the book to your chest and nod your head. “Thank you for the generous gift, Guuji-sama.”

“Gift?” She reiterates, her ears twitching. Then another giggle. “Oh, how you amuse me so. Have you forgotten? I’m the owner of Yae Publishing House, if you’ll recall. This is a sale. Although, since you’ve made my day less boring, and you’re rather cute, I’ll give you a discount.”

… Maybe you’ll become an atheist after all.  

You leave Mt. Yougou with lighter pockets and begin to consider the rest of your day. It’s been a week since Ishioka put you on temporary leave. A week of frolicking about with no concrete goal in mind, rather than figuring out how to pass the time. You’ve pestered Tomoki with a slew of new culinary ideas, played alongside Yoimiya and the children who stick to her side, even aided Misato in her recovery whenever possible.

In short, you’re no closer to reaching a decision than you were a week ago.

Yoimiya is busy preparing fireworks for an upcoming festival and Keiko shooed you away from the okiya, encouraging you to get some fresh air after tending to Misato for multiple nights in a row. The afternoon sun shines bright in the sky, almost blinding you in the process. You were planning to hang around the shrine for brownie points with the Raiden Shogun, but if that meant you were subject to further torment from Yae Miko, you weren’t going to take the risk.

So here you are. Wandering the roads of Narukami Island, no real destination in mind. Perhaps you’ll find refuge near a shady tree and read this book.

“Psst! Psst! Miss, can you hear me?”

Behind you, a young girl tugs at your furisode’s sleeve, who you recognize as Futaba. This girl is the adopted daughter of Konda Village’s Chief. Sensing that she now has your attention, she motions for you to lean down, which you do.

Futaba cups her hand near your ear and whispers, “Careful going that way, miss. I saw some funny guys… I think papa calls ‘em Fat tooe. He said I can’t go near ‘em, cause they’re scary. They might turn you to stone!”

You think she’s mixing up the story of the mischievous tanuki that parents tell their children to keep them from misbehaving, but the declaration catches your attention nonetheless. Continuing to walk down this path leads to the area where you and Misato got robbed. Where that bastard, Scaramouche, mixed up your bags, landing you in a world of trouble.

“Are they wearing masks?”

“Mhm! It’s not even a festival, either!”

“Thank you for the warning,” you pat the girl on the head. “Don’t worry about me, I know how to hold my own. I’ll be careful.”

After parting ways with the young girl, you trudge through the thickets, preferring to take the off-road to see what’s going on. Guilt festers in your chest with each step you take. You tell yourself that you’re only trying to appease your curiosity, that you have every right to know what that shady organization is doing. Navigating overgrown grass, low hanging branches, and stepping over grumpy onikabuto, you remember the latest promise made with Misato. She’d since explained to you what a Harbinger was and the disaster that clung to them like thick, thunderous clouds.

Spoken in hushed tones, she told you, “I don’t understand what Ishioka-sensei is thinking, doing business with a Harbinger like that. They’re nothing but bad news. Personal pets of the Tsaritsa. You saw how strong he was, didn’t you? Please, nee-san… promise me you’ll do what you can to avoid him.”

Misato was still nursing a fever at the time. It had gone down from its original height, but being the concerned older sister you are, you didn’t want to risk exciting her further. So you swore to steer clear from Scaramouche whenever possible. You thought you could smoke out the desire to understand his designs better, but if given the chance, you wouldn’t mind having more information about him.

Murmurs of voices grow louder the closer to the vicinity you get — they speak in an accent that is foreign to your ears. You peek out from behind a bush to get a better look at the bunch. They wear the same mask and garments of the Fatui you’ve seen skulking about in the city. It’s difficult to imagine a plethora of corpses once littered this land, only to be cleaned up as if nothing happened in the first place. You know what you saw. The awful cracking and crackling, the stench of death, Misato’s whimpers.

There’s no Scaramouche in sight. It then hits you that this is the wooded area he emerged from, you picked the same place to hide and observe. The thought churns your stomach over on itself.

One of the men bends down and begins rummaging through the foliage. He stands back up, sunlight gleaming upon a golden ornament in his hands, that you recognize immediately. A kanzashi belonging to Misato. In the whirlwind of chaos, she lost it but was hesitant to ask anyone to come back and search for it. Were the Fatui here to clean up the crime scene further?

The man stuffs the prized possession into his pockets without a care in the world. You bristle, the blood running through your veins rising to a boil.

Misato, the girl without a family name to take pride in, would’ve no doubt tried to stop you had she been present. She may have been right to do so. It’s such a small, insignificant item in the grand scheme of things. When you see the object that she takes care to polish every morning and night treated so harshly, it incenses you. She treasured it more dearly than the pocchiri passed down in Shinju-an from generation to generation. Scaramouche — the Fatui — who are those people and what makes them think they can do whatever they please, without considering how it might affect others?  

The men turn their heads to you upon hearing your approach.

You give your best, least aggressive smile, years of training in the art of communication rising to the forefront of your mind. These men are diplomats, a fair conversation shouldn’t be impossible. If it comes down to it, you’re willing to trade what remaining money you have to get Misato’s belonging back.

“Good afternoon, gentleman,” you greet, saccharine. “I happened to be passing by when I noticed you found something belonging to a dear friend of mine.”

You nod your head toward the Fatui agent who pocketed the kanzashi. It���s difficult to gauge their mood from body language alone, the masks obscuring their faces hiding more than their identity. That might be what compels them to act so boldly, never fearing the potential repercussions. In some way, you have a begrudging inkling of respect for Scaramouche, who never hides his face in cowardice.

The Fatui group’s attention secured, you try your hand.

“Would you be so kind as to consider returning it?”

The man standing closest to you speaks up first. “Move along. We have no reason to barter with you.”

Alright, they’re definitely not the friendliest bunch. That doesn’t mean you’re willing to give up just yet.

“I’m willing to pay any price you name,” you press on. To further empathize this, you secure a pouch of mora from your obi. The men murmur amongst themselves in deliberation. You remain firm in your resolve, allowing the purse to sway back and forth tantalizingly. There would’ve been more if not for Yae Miko’s last-minute sales pitch. That crafty kitsune was far more adept at getting what she wanted out of people than you.

“That getup…” one of them appraises your body, up and down. “Alright, how about this. We’ll give you your thing back. So long as you show us a good time, yeah?”

Warmth rises to your cheeks. Foreigners have been the root of mix-ups like this, from what you’ve heard in passing. They’re unable to distinguish the difference between oiran and geisha, if they even know what those two titles mean. You might not be wearing your oshiroi makeup, but seeing as the kimono provided by the okiya are the only clothes you have, you’re wearing the garments you would if working.

“Ah, well,” you clear your thought, then chew on your bottom lip, debating how to clear up this misunderstanding, “That… that is not my profession. I’m sure you kind gentlemen would find someone suitable elsewhere.”

“You got rejected, Lev.”

“Not handsome enough, I bet.”

His two companions take turns leering at the man who propositioned you.

He doesn’t take kindly to the taunts, and tries again, this time closing in the scant distance between you both. The alarm bells begin ringing in your head at the scent of alcohol on his breath. Fatui truly had no class, drinking on the job in the middle of the day.

“Do you take me for an idiot? I know all about that belt trick, or whatever it’s called. See? Means you’re a harlot.”

He points to your obi, tied off in the front, rather than in the back as those working in the yūkaku districts would have it. Your eye twitches, patience waning, trickling like sand through your fingers.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. This signifies that—”

You hear it before you can process anything else.

The sound of skin hitting skin, echoing in the air, bringing with it shock and indignation. Birds resting on nearby branches rush into flight, disturbed from their reprieve. You train your eyes to the ground and grit your teeth. Your fingers twitch by your side, muscle memory tempting you along a bloody path.

Then you lift your head. The man is out of breath, the rush of adrenaline from engaging in this discourse evident from his flushed face and heaving chest. Any urge to retaliate evaporates instantly.

These people are sad, you think, lips curling into a frowning. Very sad indeed. What manner of living is this?

“Prattling on and on like that… do you think you’re better than me, or something?”

“I know. Why don’t we bring her back to our lord? That’d put her in her place.”

Their lord? They must be referring to Scaramouche. Inquisitiveness bids you to play along with the charade a touch longer, if not only to scout out more about the enigmatic man. You apologize to Misato in your head.

They seize you by the wrist and begin dragging you south, using the backroads to avoid alerting doushin.

The group has noticeable difficulty in traversing the terrain. They bemoan the heat, humidity, and the constant buzz of insects. Snezhnaya must be the polar opposite to an archipelago like Inazuma.  

“The drinks are weak too,” one of them chimes in. “Need that shipment of fire-water to come in before I start pulling my hair out.”

What kind of stuff are they used to drinking up north? You’ve poured a single cup of sake for customers only to watch them retire home early for the night, barely able to remember their name. Everyone’s got different tolerance, you suppose.

Soon enough, you arrive at a base that must be in the Fatui’s possession.

This camp has a makeshift feel to it, from the freshly snuffed out campfires to how the stakes were hammered into the ground. So this is where the vermin congregated. Far away enough from the city to not make their presence known, yet close enough to still stir up mayhem. You’re unable to admire the scenery for long. The second you slow down, one of the Fatui agents not so kindly nudges you along.

You stumble forward but manage to regain your balance. The men escorting you snicker at the glare shot their away, though the sound quickly dies off when what must be a superior approaches. You feel his gaze burning on your body from behind his oddly shaped mask, which almost reminds you of a bird’s beak. He has a clipboard in his hand that he only diverts his attention from for a second.

“Bring your whores back at night, not in broad daylight,” his voice comes out in a guttural manner, regarding you with little to no care. “You know the rules.”

A man wraps his arm around your taut shoulders, then declares, “This one here isn’t for us, we were gonna hand her over to our lord. He’s been in a foul mood lately, so we thought we’d bring him a gift. Get some stress out on his little plaything.”

“Plaything…” The superior repeats the word, as if realizing something, then freezes. “Wait, woman, what is your name?”

You return his urgent question with silence.

“Your ears work, don’t they? Answer ‘im already,” the man with an arm wrapped around you demands. You can’t imagine what difference knowing your name would make. Without any other options presented to you, you give up what he wants to know.

“... Suzuko.”

The superior parts his lips as if to say something, but is never given the opportunity, as the tent’s entryway parts to reveal a familiar figure.

“What is it with this infernal racket—”

Scaramouche makes himself known then silences himself just as quickly. In any other situation, you may have thought it comical, the manner in which his eyes widened and jaw went agape. His mouth splits into a grimace. He brushes shoulders with the men’s superior, utilizing enough force to knock him back, despite the latter’s attempt to scurry out of the way. The visceral animosity is not directed toward you. No, the unfortunate souls earning his wrath constitute of the three Fatui agents who brought you here.

The first to suffer by Scaramouche’s hand is the one who had been in physical contact with you. His arm is jerked from your person, dislodged from its socket, then shoved unceremoniously onto the ground. He shifts into a cowering position and bows his head, as do the others present. Your heart hammers loud enough to be heard in your ears. Was he about to execute them? The tapestry of events is unraveling too fast for your mind to keep up with what you were seeing.

Electricity gathers in Scaramouche’s palm.

“Um, my lord—”

He snaps his head around at the hesitant sound of your voice. The ravenous, bloodthirsty look in his eyes is enough to still your tongue. Much like the tempests brewing over Seirai Island, his hues contain gales you cannot withstand, powerful enough to sink any ship. Your knees threaten to buckle and coherent thought exits your mind.

Then you witness the eye of the storm.

The electricity dissipates, scattering harmless energy out into all directions.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Scaramouche’s attention returns to the kneeling group, who barely contain their trembling. “Now get out of my sight while your legs can still function.”

They depart immediately after hearing his order. You watch in awe over how these men, each of which must be a foot taller than Scaramouche, run with their tails in between their legs. Misato wasn’t exaggerating when she stressed how dangerous Harbingers are. She went to such lengths to warn you, and here you are. A few measly feet away from the very individual she stressed for you to avoid.

“Normally, I can’t get you to ever shut up,” Scaramouche remarks. Any witty response you may have had dies a premature death as his standing is reinforced. He really could kill you at any given point and time. He has the resources, connections, and ability to do so. The fact you weren’t eviscerated into ash the second you got snarky with him is a mystery.

“Well? Have you nothing to say?”

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, my lord.”

You don’t really mean it or put the effort into acting like you do. Scaramouche heaves a sigh and strides past you, back to the tent. He lifts the fabric, holding it in place with the clear intent of wanting you to follow. Not seeing any other choice, you do just that, delving further into enemy territory. Misato is going to blow a gasket if she ever catches wind of this. That’ll be a scolding that you’re well deserving of.

There are tables with maps and various documents strewn about them inside, the furniture of a decidedly western leaning in its design. Everything here must have been shipped directly from Schenzaya itself. In the far left corner is a large bed, dresser, and couch, all plush and taking forms you’ve never seen outside of books belonging to outlanders. Curiosity urges you to ask Scaramouche why he wants you in here, when shooing you off would be so much simpler, but you hold your tongue.

“What happened to your face?”

Charming as ever, this man is.

“One of your subordinates struck me,” your cheek still stings at the memory.

Scaramouche mutters something beneath his breath that you can’t quite hear, but considering the darkness seeping into his delicate features, you’re fine with that. He engages in his favorite activity of forgetting the commonly accepted concept of personal space. Hovering near your face is the same hand that had taken lives like a shinigami reaping its harvest, his face mere centimeters from yours. Indigo eyes inspect the wound from top to bottom.

Then, they widen.

“You’re… bleeding…?”

His whisper is tinged with disbelief. This might be the first time you’ve seen him taken aback, and it’s over something as innocuous as a little blood? You have no doubt he’s witnessed his fair share of bloodshed, reveled in it even, so it can’t be because he’s squeamish. A comment slips by your lips before you can think to stop yourself.

“Do you not?”

It’s meant to be a joke. The fierce glare that you receive in return has you clenching your jaw shut. What a sourpuss, is trying to lighten the mood illegal? He scowls and removes himself from your person.

“What a stupid question,” Scaramouche shakes his head, having overcome his initial shock. “... Stay put for a moment. I’ll get the tools to clean you up.”

You don’t see why he would bother after he’s been openly hostile and provocative. Perhaps he’s gone on a journey of self-discovery in the past seven days that you were unaware of, redeeming himself in the process. The concept has you fighting back a smile.

Scaramouche takes your silence as reason to believe you’ll do what you were told and departs. Weariness weighs down on your body following the day's events, you’re certain you’ll sleep soundly tonight.

Great misfortune, huh, you think. There might be some truth in that.

With nothing better to do until Scaramouche returns, you investigate the surrounding area. This is in part the reason why you allowed yourself to be led here. The center of the tent is what you’re initially drawn to. There are detailed maps of Inazuma terrain, but other nations as well, some areas being circled with notes next to them. If Scaramouche was the sole owner of this map, then he must’ve taken a particular interest in Watatsumi Island.

In the middle of Watatsumi, you see a name that brings you back to this afternoon. Sangonomiya. A mass of water directly to the east of it had been circled numerous times, as if for emphasis. Lines and dots start from this epicenter outward, connecting to various points on the island. almost like a cobweb. Was Watatsumi somehow important to the Fatui? You couldn’t fathom why. The notes were written in neat Inazuman script. If it were related to the Fatui, it would’ve been in Snezhnayan to remain accessible for the bulk of their forces.

No… there is a single word that is noticeably not Inazuman, penned directly under the water mass. You squint, leaning in closer, the letters discernable individually yet not forming a cohesive word in your mind.

Κλυμένη?

You’re unable to study it for long, as you sense the nearing of an oppressive presence. Once Scaramouche revealed his power in front of you, you took note of what it felt like and committed it to memory. He emanates a prickling, static electricity-like energy, that makes every hair on your body stand in anticipation.

You return to the spot he left you to avoid suspicion.

True to his word, there’s a damp cloth in his hand that must be for you. He sits on the couch, motions for you to do the same, then gets to work on wiping the blood away. You do your best to not show any signs of weakness, but the situation is so surreal that you’re unable to sit still. Scaramouche is quick to notice this and clicks his tongue.

“Stop squirming,” he raises his other hand and holds your face in place, “I don’t get why you even let this happen in the first place.”

His hands are soft, you think. Almost unnaturally so. His skin already looks perfect, without blemish or any other imperfection; it makes sense that his hands are as flawless as the rest of him. Looks can be deceiving in that way. The outer layer of Scaramouche is beautiful, a true work of art, reminiscent of the fine hina dolls children of nobles adore playing with. Moving behind the curtain tells a different story entirely. It thinly conceals something rotten, a decaying carcass too repugnant to gaze at for long.

“What do you mean by ‘let’?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t play dumb. You can act like it isn’t true as much as you want, but we both know you have fighting experience. If you really wanted to, you could’ve flattened those bumbling idiots to the ground.”

Your shoulders stiffen.

“I told you I don’t want to hear about the past—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m well aware of your cowardly position, save yourself the trouble and don’t remind me,” he cuts you off. He spares the splotches of red on the rag a final look, an indiscernible gleam flashing in his eyes, then sets it aside.

“So, allow me to reiterate my question. Why did you let them manhandle you? It’s easier to kill people like that and have it be over with.”

“... I’d feel bad doing that,” you mumble. This is a topic you dread exploring further — your intuition says it’s tied to your past, the past that you’ve put such care into avoiding. You don’t want to lose what you have now. It’s possible that your present self would be washed away, like waves along the shoreline. Waves turn everything into a blank canvas. You don’t care if it’s cowardly, like Scaramouche concluded, to never fully open the door that sits in front of you.

Still, you sense Scaramouche won’t be content with this answer, so you try to verbalize your messy thought process.

“What you said is true. I don’t understand it fully myself. Things that other people struggle with, like lifting heavy boxes, have never made much sense to me. I can handle stuff like that while others struggle,” you think back to the first time you were fully adorned in maiko garments. Misato warned you of the weight, yet when the assistant finished securing everything into place, you asked if that was all.

“It must be frightening, being born vulnerable like that, helpless to the whims of an uncaring world. When I think like that… I can’t, in good conscience, raise my hand against anyone, because I love hu—”

You clear your throat, then correct your speech. “I don’t wish to.”

Scaramouche has no immediate quip readied. Your surroundings are so enshrouded in silence that you would’ve forgotten he was there, had it not been for his physical presence. He scrunched his eyebrows together, pressed his lips in a thin line, and settled his hand on his chin as if ruminating deeply. You ended up spilling more than intended, revealing inner workings of your subconscious that even you rarely tread.

“What awful parameters,” he murmurs, so quiet that you barely register the words.

The next time he speaks, it’s loud, having reached a conclusion on some matter you’ll never be privy to.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hm? On what?”

“Continue your duties at the okiya — I’ll pester you about your job selection no more.”

Raising an eyebrow, you cross your arms over your chest. You would love to say it isn’t his position to influence your decision, unfortunately, he does hold sway in your life. Shinju-an wasn’t in a position to deny the whims of a Harbinger if it valued maintaining its existence. That does raise the question of whether he knows about you being placed on leave or not. Word travels fast in Inazuma City, not that you take him for the type to indulge idle gossip. He seems to have some primal obsession with treating your livelihood like a game.

“What brought upon this change of heart? Last week, you had no shortage of lectures on my chosen profession.”

Scaramouche gives a crooked smile. “Oh, so now your memory is crystal clear.”

You take the jab in stride.

“Trust me, I’d happily forget you. I’ll take the opportunity the moment it’s presented to me.”

“So long as that doesn’t mean you’ll try bashing your head against a tree to do so, have at it,” Scaramouche fires back. “From now on, I will be your danna. Consider this a gesture of my goodwill.”

He stares, impatient, as the weight of his claim settles in. The sentence reverberates in your skull, the second's tick on, yet it becomes no less surreal. After the extremes Scaramouche went to so you would question working at the okiya, he’s completely flipped his position? Discouraging you from pursuing life as a maiko to becoming your main patron? The whiplash has you reeling more than the drunkard’s weak slap.

This isn’t an offer you can dismiss with a simple “no thanks” since it’s not ultimately up to you anyway. Scaramouche could easily bypass your desires by confronting Ishioka directly. The financial incentive would be too tempting for her to pass up, not to mention the threat of rejecting a Harbinger’s request.

You loathe the thought of owing him anything. There’s no way he wouldn’t somehow use that to his advantage.

“I’m still a maiko, my lord,” you remind him, ignoring the unease growing in the pit of your stomach, “I cannot imagine why you’d want someone in training over someone who has already turned her collar.”

He exhales through his nose as if finding your feeble excuse insulting to his intelligence. You have an idea of what he might suggest to remedy this problem. This is given further credence by how his posture relaxes, taking the form of someone who has their eyes set on an assured victory.

“That’s no issue. The best method to remedy that…”

Scaramouche gestures to your red and white collar.

You grip the fabric in your lap, bunching it up in the process, your mind entering a frenzy. No, please don’t say it. My promise is more important than maintaining your power delusions—

“... Is to graduate into a geisha, promptly.”

[vlly-of-despair]

Will Graham’s entire character is about self acceptance for an individual who doesn’t conform to societal ideals.

When we meet him, he’s desperate to shape himself into the man he’s suggested he should be from his environment. He has a neorodivergence and sees the world in a fascinating and beautiful way, but from a lack of understanding from others, their dismissal or flat out perturbation of his nature, he grows ashamed. He’s socially withdrawn, afraid because he finds the very ‘self’ a cause of causality, that he’s fundamentally broken. He works for the FBI, became a cop prior, as a moral justification for existence. He has to prove that he is a good man, no ill intentions. It’s like he read how to be culturally acceptable in a book and longed for this to become what he could be.

He has an empathy disorder, yet tries to withdraw from expressing many emotions. He desperately attempts to work as a police officer before academic study. His romantic pursuits are attractive white woman who he can have a marriage with and take care of and give hospitality to without having to share himself too much. Alana could never have fulfilled this narrative after his attempt because she saw him for more of his own nature. His relationship with Abigail is odd, until you realize it isn’t about the girl herself fully, but his desire for fatherhood. We see this more in season two with Margot. He believes a child could bring him to be more acceptable. He desires it but it can never be what is true to him.

Do I condone murder? No. However in the context of the story, Will’s progression to murder is a metaphor for self acceptance. Will has the capacity to kill and a deep seeded bloodlust and attraction to violence. He tries to deny this, of course, but as the shoe progresses he escalates and finds himself true to his essential attributes of his innermost self. He allows himself to find more pleasure in his designs and innate brutality with a guiding hand.

And here’s where we see Hannibal come in. Hannibal has always expressed his manipulation as a mechanism to Will’s becoming. This becoming isn’t about changing Will, but rather a progression of recognition, to forbearance, to embracing. He says he doesn’t know himself as well as he does with Hannibal. That’s because Hannibal allows him to say what he wants without scrutiny, he’s rather proud by what he thinks. He has no expectations of conformity, the exact opposite! He doesn’t have to mask around Hannibal, because he’s just as unorthodox. In season one, he claims murder is the most horrible thing in the world. Season two, he ‘tolerates’. I’m season three, he finds it beautiful. These can be read about his feelings on his own desires.

When Will has a wife and child, he has all he ever wanted. He’s indiscriminate, normal, living the perfect, happy, simplistic life of white-collared Americana. Only it’s an illusion, it’s an ill fitted glove and he knows that. In a way, Hannibal is the personification of Will’s ‘forbidden fruit’ if you will, an eradication of morality or norms. Artistic, flamboyant, unapologetic, affluent, indulgent darkness and supremacy, and providing a relationship far from paternity or god forbid a white picket fence, but something unpredictable, sadistic, homoerotic, and all over deeply strange. Yet in the end he makes his decision, for he can no longer harbor his shame, and Hannibal is his absolution.

His plunge into the water is a baptism to be born again, no longer tethered to his self inflicted chains of condemnation, his person suit, and fully actualized.

[fangirlings-things]

— Lost Without You I

anon said: hey! could you please write a song fic with anthony bridgerton, I don't have any specific song in mind, but just some angst would be perfect because you write it soooo beautifully :') hope this is ok, kissess

A/N: hey, love!! I faced this as somewhat as a challenge and it was quite amazing to write!! thank you sooo much for your words, I sincerely hope you like this 💖

*this is supposed to have two parts, so if you guys like it and want the rest, please let me know your thoughts 🥰 lots of love

TAG LIST: @for-bebbanburg ; @venusflwer ; @avrilstaro || GIF CREDIT: @fifty5hades

This is based in Freya Ridings song, Lost Without you

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x female reader

Word count: 6.3K

Summary: One would need to be Lady Whistledown to know about the ever existent bond between the eldest Bridgerton son, Anthony, and Lady (Y/N) Kerrington. They made a good work at hiding their intentions even from their own families. According to their plan, when the Miss came to age, they would marry each other quite fastly, since they had been courting one another through the entirety of their lives. (Y/N) Kerrington thought so too, but the Viscount's actions and decisions, changed it all.

[ I ]

“Have you two gone completely mad?”

Turning around, within the heavy rain and through the drops of water that kept falling from the sky and soaked your whole body, seeming to permanently attach your dress to your skin, you saw Anthony Bridgerton standing at the back door of his own house, protected by the rain.

He had his forehead frowned in confusion as he stared at you and his sister, Daphne, whom stood by your side at the Bridgerton’s garden. His hair was a bit of a mess, like he had been sleeping recently and his hands were on his waist. His eyes, deep brown eyes that made him look a lot older than he really was by the intensity they carried, were fixed upon you.

“Join us, brother!” Daphne invited, laughing as she turned her face upwards and enjoyed the feel of the rain directly on her features. Her arms were open alongside her body, as she embraced the rain. That was something you both liked doing together, ever since your early childhood days.

“No, I will not sister and you two really should get out of there before you fall ill!” her older brother replied and the tangible worry in his voice made you smile more largely than you did before.

“It could be fun, Anthony!” you said to him and with a spark of joy, did not fail to notice how he squeezed his lips on a thin line for a moment at hearing you call him by his first name. Such thing could be seen as a lack of manners that being if, you had not known each other through the entirety of your lives, which allowed you to comfortable around every single member of the Bridgerton family.

Your family, the Kerrington’s, had been the Bridgerton’s neighbor even before you had been born. Both families, that had a similar amount of money and same high position in society, had always been closely bond to one another. You had grown up with Daphne as your best friend, frequenting her house or she yours almost every single day. Her siblings had always been nice to you and you loved them all as if they were your own siblings.

But not Anthony.

Oh no, Anthony was a completely different thing.

There was nothing brotherly in the way you thought of him and such thoughts were only intensified by some situations you found yourself in like this very one, where he seemed to be genuinely considering your words after having just denied his sister’s. Little actions that instigated your fantasies.

“If I do, only for a moment, will you come back to the house with me afterwards?” he questioned, ever so serious, looking from you to his sister and then back at you.

You looked at Daphne who had turned her head back down and as soon as she smiled mischievously at you and raised her eyebrows, you turned back to Anthony. “We swear!”

Anthony nodded his head in agreement and then sighted heavily. His eyes went to the dark sky for a few moments, the entirety of it made of grey clouds filled with drops of water that had not yet fallen. You watched with the most absolute attention as he mumbled something to himself under his breath before finally stepping away from the house’s protection and starting to make his way towards you both.

When he reached you and Daphne, his hair was already soaked with water and was attached to his forehead. Drops of water ran down his handsome face. His white shirt was now as good as nothing, the details of his arms and chest now exposed to your wanting eyes. “Is it enough?”

“You did not have fun yet” Daphne argued immediately and with the same smile as before on her lips, kicked a puddle of water, splashing quite some in his already wet pants. The angry expression on his face made her laugh loudly her unique laugh.

You laughed also, and then found his gaze landing on yours once more. “Are you on her side, (Y/N)?” a drop of water right in that moment ran down his nose and fell in the grass. He stood close, closely than you had noticed before. Just two steps, and you could have touched his chest.

As you lost yourself in such a tempting and inappropriate thought, Lady Bridgerton appeared on the back door, in the exact same spot Anthony had been before, her mouth hanging open in shock for moment as she saw what has occurring on her own garden. “What is happening? Anthony Bridgerton! You allowed your sister and Miss (Y/N) to such recklessness?” Anthony did not even turn around at hearing his mother’s angry voice, just sighted once again and looked at Daphne when she laughed hard like before. “Come inside right now, the three of you, before you fall ill!”

“My exact same words” Anthony said, eyes on the grass, as you three obediently walked back to the inside of the Bridgerton’s house.

“Sorry to get you in trouble, brother” Daphne said, but both her tone and expression made it clear that she had not even a bit of regret. When reaching the back door, she was the first one to rush inside and disappear in the corridors after getting a blanket from her mother, leaving a trail of water behind her.  

“I apologize, Anthony” you said, smile having completely faded away now. Eyes on the floor because you refused to look him in the eye. You took no pleasure in causing him any kind of trouble, especially with his mother, whom now had stepped away to get another two blankets.  

Anthony did realize your afflictions, because he instantly replied. “All is well, (Y/N), do not worry” the softness of his tone made you raise your eyes. You were surprised to find him smiling at you. “By the end of the night, my mother will have forgiven me already”

You smiled because of the confidence on his voice. “I am glad”

You both went silent then, the heavy rain outside continuing to fall and the distant thunders seeming to be as loud as ever. With your eyes locked in one another’s, none of you said a thing. It was a peaceful moment, an intimate one. Shared by just the two of you.

“Oh, my dear, you must be freezing!” Lady Violet Bridgerton came back with two other blankets and carefully placed one around your shoulders, wrapping you in it and without even knowing, ruining one of the best moments you could think of. “What will your mother think of my hospitality if she finds out what has happened in my own garden! Come, Daphne will borrow you a dress for the evening” as she made you walk away after having given the other blanket to Anthony, you could feel his gaze burning your back.

Oh, how you wished to turn back around and stare into his eyes in peaceful silence once more.

[ II ]

“Are you nervous about the next season?” Daphne asked as she looked at you from the couch she sat in, in one of the many rooms in the Bridgerton’s house.

Having taken your place in the very couch that faced hers, you sighted. “Of course” you looked down at your hands, that were joined in your lap. “We are to be wed in the next season already. How could I not be” a pure nervous laugh escaped your mouth as you admitted so. In hopes that no one would see, by the corner of your eye, you looked over at Anthony, who was sitting at a small table, reading a book. He was always your dream when you thought of marriage.

“You should not worry too much, (Y/N)” Benedict, who had been playing with Gregory for the past twenty minutes, came to sit by your side in a relaxed position. “You will have many suitors, I am sure. Daphne, though­…” the unfinished sentence had the desired effect, because Daphne opened her mouth with an offended expression and you laughed with Benedict. In your own mind, you thanked him for being so good and helping to ease some of your tension.

“While (Y/N) marries a gentleman, Daphne will find herself being courted by an old man with no hair left in his head” Colin joined the fun and Daphne’s only response was to roll her eyes and cross her arms over her chest. Benedict though, once again laughed loudly.

“Benedict and Colin Bridgerton, stop making fun of your sister!” Lady Bridgerton said from her spot at the other side of the room as she walked towards your small group. Her expression though betrayed her tone, because she had a small pleased smile on her lips. “I am sure both of them will find a very good match and will be happily wed by the end of the next season, with gentlemens of the highest esteem”

"I hope so, mama" Daphne said truly, smiling at her mother. In the same moment, the sound of a chair being dragged against the floor caught everyone's attention and you all looked in that direction in time to see Anthony storming out the room. You frowned as you wondered what had happened, concern filling your being before you could even control your own emotions.

Not wanting to cause a fush about it, since all the others had apparently ignored his departure as something ordinary, you waited a few minutes in which you pretended to hear the words spoken by Benedict and his mother before you excused yourself and once out in the corridors, started to look for Anthony.

You found him on the library, his face was turned away from you but you could quite well imagine his mood by whatever it was that afflicted him, for the way he moved, tense and yet fast. That was not like Anthony Bridgerton at all.

"Anthony?" you called while entering the room, unsure if you should even disturb him in such time. He had gone away with the clear intention of being alone but still... you could not help it. You had to know he was well.

The sound of your voice made him turn around in the exact same instant and he went to you with a serious expression on his features, so serious it only served to increase your concern. "Anthony, what is—" before you could even finish, he walked past you and for a second you thought he was going to leave but then, he surprised you by closing the door and shuting you both inside. Alone. His expression did not change at all. You stared at him like was crazy. "Anthony, what are you doing? If your mother finds out we are in here alone she will never allow me into your house again!"

And you could not even bare that thought. Yes, Lady Violet was a nice woman, she had never objected you and Daphne at playing with the boys when you were children and as you grown up, she found it pleasing that all of you enjoyed each other's company so much but still, now that you were practically of age to marry, to be without a chaperone in a closed room with a man who was not from your family, it was a scandal. Even if that man was the one you loved with all your heart and had known since forever.

"(Y/N)" he said, taking a deep breath and walking towards you, ignoring your previous words like they meant nothing. He clearly did not see the danger. He stopped a mere step away, looking into your eyes with such meaning you suddenly found it difficult to breathe. His eyes, were as troubled as a storm day. It confused you. "I—" he stopped, took anothet deep breath, looked at his feet. Then he raised his eyes to yours again with renewed determination. "I want to—" again, he seemed to lack the words to finish his thought and clearly frustrated, looked away once more, this time at a point above your head.

All of his actions and words made no sense at all to you and frankly, you started to wonder if he was not drunk, even though you had not seen him drinking. "Anthony, you are concerning me" you said simply, and that statement made in a low, careful tone seemed to be enough to make him snap out of whatever it was that was holding him back.

"I want you to make me a promise, (Y/N)" you opened your mouth to ask him what he meant by that but he was quicker and shockingly taking your hands in his as he kept staring into your eyes, answered to your unspoken question. "I want you to promise me that if I propose to you, you will at least perhaps consider marrying me"

All air left your lungs. Surely, you had heard it wrong. There was no way Anthony Bridgerton, your ever being passion, had just expressed his intentions of proposing to you in the future. That could not be true. Dreams are not realized just like that.

"A-Anthony..." you began, heart pounding in your chest like never before.

The Bridgerton mistook your surprise by hesitation and immediately let go of your hands and stepped back, creating some distance between you both. "I apologize for being so forward. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable"

"Uncomfortable? Anthony, I do not believe I have ever been happier!" as it was his turn to frown in confusion, you were the one who approached him and smiled brightly while looking into his eyes. "I promise, of course! I want to marry you, Anthony. I really do" you looked down and slowly, joined your hands together like he had done before. "Deep down, I believed you had already noticed my affection towards you"

"It crossed my mind once or twice, but I thought it was just my mind fooling me. I dared not to believe you felt the same way I did" he chuckled, happily. You thought you had never seen him with a smile as big as that one on his face. "Hearing my brothers and mother talking about you marrying someone else in there, I could not stand it" he admitted, and a glimpse of shame seemed to cross his features for a moment. "In the next season, when you will be presented in society, I will propose to you. And if you desire to, we will get married"

Trying to control your own happiness, that was immesurable because everything seemed to be perfect, you nodded your head in agreement. "We will get married"

[ III ]

The months were passing too fast. Already, you had only a few months before the season in which you would be presented in society and it would be expected of you to be well married soon.

I will marry Anthony, you thought to yourself with a smile on your face as you enjoyed the peace and quiet of your bedroom for a while. Staring at the ceiling above your head, you had no doubt that everything would work out just fine.

If he was a man of no fortune, your father and mother (your mother especially) would for certain object to your union. But he was Bridgerton, their status and wealth were as high as your own if not bigger and so, there would absolutely be no arguing. You dared to say, she would even be thrilled by the fact that you were going to marry the one day to be Viscount.

Nothing could go wrong, you thought to yourself while smiling still. He loved you. Just as you loved him. With the same intensity and amount of desire, you had seen it in his eyes when he had spoken his mind in the Bridgerton library. You would be happy together, really happy.

Knocks on the door got your attention. "Sister, mind if I come in?"

Immediately in surprise, you sat up and laughing softly because of the joy that hearing his voice brought you, spoke. "Do come in!"

The door was opened then, and you watched as your brother slipped inside of your room, smiling down at you with a warm smile. Without saying a word he opened his arms and you without a moment of hesitation, threw yourself in his arms and hugged him tightly. "I have missed you too, dear" he said with a laugh escaping his mouth.

Only after several moments you stepped back, to be able to really look at him. Thomas Kerrington, your older brother, was smiling as he looked at you. He wore his uniform, and he looked beautiful in it. The pride of the family, the youngest soldier ever made Coronel because of his courage and whom  recieved the command of complete troops of soldiers only weeks later. Since he had joined the Royal Army, you barely saw him twice a year. He was too valuable to be away from action often and you understood that but still, you missed your brother.

"How long will you be staying?" you asked while pulling him towards your bed by the hand, and making him sit down with you.

"Just a couple of days" he answered, smile fading a bit just as you did. Thomas still squeezed your hand in his. "My regiment is being moved and as we are going to be facing hard months soon, I thought it would be nice to see my family" he watched your eyes for a few moments and then, opened a bright smile again and put the sadness aside, like it was typical of Thomas. He always knew how to bring happiness into a room. "Are you excited for the next season?" the young Coronel was not married himself. Having since very soon been involved in the Army's business and interests, court a wife had not been a priority to him and still was not.

"I am, actually" you admitted, looking down at your joined hands as all your thoughts about Anthony and the prospect of marrying him came rushing back into your mind. You and Thomas had always been close, really close. He was a incredible brother who loved his little sister very much and was always there for her. The thought of confiding in someone seemed nice, and whom could be better to do that with than your brother? "I already know who I want to marry, brother"

"Is that so?" raising your eyes to meet his, you saw that he was still smiling. "And is he a good man?" you nodded your head, and Thomas inspected your eyes with his. "Are you sure he will make you happy, sister?"

"I have no doubt" you replied, confident.

Thomas chuckled by your certainty. "Very well then, I guess I have no reason to object to such union" he passed one of his arms around your shoulders and brought you close to him, so you would lay your head on his shoulder. It was so good, to have him there in that moment. "Will you tell me his name, perhaps?"

You thought about it for a moment. He was your brother, you were sure he would not tell anyone. And even though he and Anthony had never been very close friends, they always got along well. But you should not, not when you and Anthony had come into an agreement of keeping it a secret. At least for now. "Come back during the season and, perhaps, you will get here in time to our wedding" you said and the sound of Thomas laugh filled the bedroom.

"Does it have a date already?" accompanying him in laughter, you appreciated your brother's presence. Very much.

[ IV ]

"It does sound like an interest book" you told Eloise with honesty, after having just read some pages of the book she had been reading herself and after some discussion about the quality of it with Daphne, asked you to give an opinion on it.

"Thank you, (Y/N)" Eloise smiled brightly at you and then extended the smile towards Daphne, who sitting on the couch across from you two, rolled her eyes because you had taken her sister's side. "At least you know how to appreciate a good book"

"Perhaps you should consider respecting my opinion, Eloise" Daphne told her younger sibling, with a bit of annoyance in her voice. Those two were always bickering with each other and you, as the oldest best friend, was always around to witness it.

"I do respect your opinion, sister, I simply think that it is not a wise one" you gave the book back to the younger Bridgerton while she said so.

Daphne seemed to be ready to give her a proper reply when Anthony entered the room. His eyes met yours and he smiled tenderly at you for a moment before looking at his sisters. "Have you both seen mother and father?"

"They went to accompany the Kerrington's to the market" Daphne said, referring to your parents, and you nodded in agreement.

"Oh, well" he placed his hands on his waist and sighted. "I shall wait for them to return, then"

"Continuing to plan your travel, brother?" Eloise asked, opening the book back to the page in which she had stopped reading.

"Travel?" you could not stop yourself before echoing the word, surprise quickly taking a hold of you. Your eyes went to Anthony instantly and by the expression on his face, you saw that he was not pleased with Eloise for having said so much.

"Anthony has decided he is going to travel for a while, explore the world alone and live some adventures perhaps" Daphne said, also turning around to look at her brother. "Colin will not stop talking about how much he wants to do the same one day"

"Oh, I see" it took all you had to maintain a natural, comfortable expression on your face. He was going to travel. Just a few months before the season in which you should be married. How long would he stay away? When would he return? Would he ever? All of those thoughts filled your mind and made your heartbeat get faster and faster. You dared not to say anything. No one knew about your intentions to marry one another, and you had agreed to keep it in that way.

Anthony, knowing you so well, clearly saw through your contained emotion. "I just remembered, (Y/N)! Benedict is asking for your opinion in one of his latest sketches, will you accompany me?" it was a lie. You could see that it was, even though his sisters did not see through the fake smile on his face.

Forcing a smile and nodding in agreement briefly, you got up, telling Daphne you would be right back, to which she agreed. After that, you followed Anthony out of the room and to one of the corridors close to the kitchen, where there was no one else by that time. Anthony stopped there, turned around to look at you and sighted heavily because of your sad expression. "I did not mean for you to find out like that"

You raised your eyes to meet his at that, in pure disbelief. "And how was I supposed to find out? Through Daphne, when you had already left?"

"I was going to tell you tomorrow, at dinner" he said in a rush, looking around after a moment to make sure there was absolutely no one there. He took the time to make sure his voice was low as he spoke. "Nothing has changed, (Y/N). I will marry you. This travel, it will take two months, maybe a bit more but nothing great. The season is in three months. I will be back in time, I promise"

You stared into his eyes deeply, worry filling your expression still. Under your inspection, he seemed so genuine and decided. It felt like he had everything planned, had thought everything through. "Are you sure this is what you want?" you asked then, not thinking of yourself, but of him. Travels made alone could be dangerous. And if something happened to him... you did not even wanted to consider that idea.

"I am, (Y/N)" he stepped even closer to you and held your hands, like he had a habit of to. You did like the familiarity of that simple touch. "I want to marry you, but first, I would like to see the world. Later, I shall be all yours"

The honesty in his voice made you smile, emotion was so strong your eyes went blurry with tears. "Then you must go. Do as you desire and when you get back, I will be eager to know all about what you have seen"

Anthony smiled. Letting go of one of your hands and bringing it to cup your face, he sighted. "You are the goodest person I have ever known"

You smiled, leaning into his touch.

Before, you had been nervous by the arrival of the social season. Now, all you wanted was for it to come quickly. As quickly as possible.

[ V ]

"If I may say, you look astonishing tonight, Lady Kerrington" Lord Edwards said, with a polite smile on his lips after having just given you a glass of a drink he had gotten from the Queen's table.

The ball had begun sometime around an hour before. The ball thrown by the Queen herlself that declared opened the social season. You were now, officially able to be courted and expected to be married by the end of it, if you had success. You had gone with your mother and father and as they had stepped away to talk to some friends, you had been left alone in the room and seeing the opportunity, Lord Edwards had approached you.

He was a gentleman, Lord Edwards. He was young, handsome, quite wealthy and his manners were flattering. By a young Lady's, like yourself, point of view, he should be the perfect husband. But not for you.

Because he was not Anthony.

Just to think of his name, it brought back the pain of missing him. Since the day in which he left for his travel, you had not seen him again. Of course, his journey had been cut short because his father, the Viscount Bridgerton, had died tragically all of the sudden, at a young age. It made Anthony have to make the arrangements to return sooner than expected.

And he did. A month and a half after he had parted, he was forced to return because he was now, the Viscount. As the eldest son, he had the responsibility of being there for his family, especially in such a tragic time.

Until this very day, you had not seen him since his return. As Daphne's best friend, you were still always in the Bridgerton residence, after her father's death even more, because you provided the young Lady the comfort she needed. There, you only caught glimpes of him once or twice, a rushed greeting that ended up with him leaving the room seconds later.

You did not blame him for it, of course not. His life had changed so much and so suddenly that it would be a challenge for everyone in his position. He should concentrate in the matters of importance for his family, it was needed. You would not bother him with affairs that were not urgent at the time. No, everything was set, also. He would propose sometime after doing some courting in the season, and you two would get happily married. And that would be it.

Looking around the ballroom, everytime the doors were opened you would look, expecting to see Daphne arrive. It would be nice to have a friend in the same situation you were in. As Lord Edwards went on in a conversation about his great interest in social events, you looked down at your dress. It was a beautiful blue dress, made with soft fabric. The little details here and there made it even more beautiful. Part of your hair had been pulled up and placed there delicately while leaving the rest of strands released freely, in a hair style that you did not fail to notice, got quite some attention from some of the other young Ladys.

Lord Edwards had just began his affirmation of how much he enjoyed the city rather than the country, when the doors were again opened and this time when you looked, your expectations were indeed achieved.

Daphne had just arrived. She looked absolutely gorgeous, making you smile instantly. At her right side stood her mother, Lady Bridgerton, ever an elegant woman and at her left side, stood Anthony.

Oh, the way your pulse accelerated at the sight of him. He was absolutely handsome, wearing the most formal clothes he had. His dark hair was as always that elegant mess you never got enough of. His eyes were inspecting the room, you smiled thinking that perhaps, he could be looking for you.

"Will you excuse me, Lord Edwards?"  you said suddenly to the Lord, interrupting him in the middle of a sentence and he, a bit sad and yet completely polite, just nodded his head and bid you farewell.

You found yourself walking towards the small Bridgerton group, feet seeming to carry you there on their own even though you did know it would be reasonable to wait. But no, you could not help it.

"(Y/N) you look absolutely gorgeous!" Daphne exclaimed when she saw you, smiling as you stopped right in front of her. "Look, Mama, how beautiful she is!" you felt your cheeks get a bit red under your friend's compliments and the fact that you knew, that Anthony was hearing them and beside her, inspected you with his eyes also.

"My Lady Kerrington, how your mother must be proud of having such a lovely daughter!" Lady Bridgerton said, and that filled you with joy.

"I am sure you should be the one who is proud, Lady Bridgerton, because I have no doubt in my mind that Daphne will be the diamond of the season" your friend smiled as she made sense to your words and then, as you fell silent for a moment, you turned to her left to look at Anthony, whom had stayed silent until them. As your eyes met, it was as if sparks were flying all around you. "Viscount Bridgerton"

"Lady Kerrington" he replied. The kind of smile you expected to see in his features was not there.  His eyes did not stare at you for a long while before he looked away. That was unsual. Before you could make up some conversation, a Lord came closer and asked Daphne for a dance. You watched with a smile as he stepped away with the man and then, as Lady Bridgerton came into a conversation with Lady Danbury, Anthony surprised you by stepping closer to you. "Lady Kerrington, mind if we have a word?" 

"Of—" you did not even finished before he had already began to walk away from the doors, where the greatest amount of people were gathered around. Frowning, you rushed as graciously as you could after him, stopping only to leave your glass, that had been given to you by Lord Edwards, on a table.

Anthony only stopped walking when you were both close to one of the walls of the room, just enough away from others so no one could hear what you spoke about or if they did, would not pay much attention to it. Facing each other, after so long, it felt amazingly good. "It is nice to see you, (Y/N)" his voice was low, so no one would hear him call you by your first name.

You smiled, eyes meeting in a way that made your heart beat even faster, which you did not think was quite possible. "It is nice to see you too, Anthony" your voice was as low as he was. "I have missed—"

"I have to tell you something, (Y/N)" he cut you off shortly, eyes not on yours them. There was something in Anthony that did not seem like him at all. His jaw was clenched, his body was all uptight. He seemed more distant to you now than he had ever been in his travel on the other side of the world.

"Very well" you took a moment to be able to get those words out, because all of your happiness had already began to slip away. Surely, there were bad news coming ahead. The way he looked... or even better, did not look at you, that could not mean nothing good. "What is it?"

Anthony did not speak quite instantly. He looked around the room for a while, then took a deep breath. "I can not marry you, (Y/N)"

That felt like a punch. Right to your stomach, making you sick and your head spin like you had suddenly been privated from air itself. And even though you had to fight back the tears of confusion that dared to fall from your eyes, Anthony did not seem to share your emotion at all. He looked stern, decided.

"W-what happened?" you asked, voice trembling and honestly one string away from failing completely. He did not say anything. You were the one to take a deep breath then. "Anthony, look me in the eye" and only then he did. He looked right at you and you felt your heart break in a million pieces. "I understand if because of your father and your new title, you do not find marriage the most important thing right now. I really understand. You must have enough duties and responsibilities at the moment. But there is no problem. I will wait for you, Anthony. I will—"

"I do not want you to wait for me, (Y/N)" Anthony's tone was decisive. "It has nothing to do with my father or my responsibilities"

Your confusion only grew more and more and what you thought would be an amazing evening, was quickly revealing itself to be an awful one. "Then what—"

"I have someone else" he said and before you could even take in that information, he went on with his narrative. "I met her after I came back from my travel, in the occasion of my father's death. I have been with her ever since. I was with her before I came here today. I have been avoiding you all this time, because I did not have the courage to tell you about this. But I figured that this could no longer be postponed"

Your vision was so blurry you could not even see his face clearly. He had someone else. He did not want to marry you. "You said you loved me" were the words you spoke. You hoped no one was looking at you two because if they were, you had no doubt about how crushed you looked.

That simple phrase seemed to finally get a reaction from Anthony. He looked away from you for another moment, took another deep breath. And then, looked back into your eyes. "I am sorry, (Y/N). But she is the one that I truly love" and even though he showed a small reaction then, it was not even close to the amount required to such matter. He was dealing with you as if  you were a simple affair that had to be taken care of. He had indeed become the Viscount, after all.

You swallowed the knot in your throat, spent countless silent moments trying to fight back the tears. And you stared into Anthony's eyes, and made him see just how much you loved him. Just how much he had hurt you. "I wish you happiness, Viscount Bridgerton"

You saw that Anthony swallowed dry. "(Y/N)..."

But you did not stay to hear what he had to say. You turned around and without being able to contain yourself made a run to the door, attracting everyone's attention to you. Tears fell from your eyes and you were so desoriented that you ran right into someone's chest. Cleaning the tears away with your hands, you met Lord Edwards eyes. "Lady Kerrington, are you well?" Without answering him, you continued to run to the door and only stopped when you felt the cold air of the night on your skin.

You cried, hurt by a man who had just made clear he did not want to marry you. He did not want you at all. You wanted to leave. You wanted to lock yourself in your bedroom and not get out anytime soon. Maybe never.

But most of all, what you really wanted but could not have, was your older brother. The comfort only he could give you in that moment.

[ VI ]

Dear readers,

From this author's perspective, after last night's ball, this social season looks quite promising. Young Ladies were presented into society in search of husbands, mothers have inspected their suitors and the Queen watched it all from her throne, seeming entertained. The night was filled with courting and dances, really a magical night for all the debutantes'.

It came to this author's ears though, that the night was not so magical for everyone. It seems that the young Lady Kerrington and Viscount Bridgerton were seen sharing a very meaningful conversation before she left the event in tears. What did they say to each other, is the question that remains. More specifically, what could the Viscount have said that made the young Lady feel so heartbroken?

Let us be attentive to the upcoming events, dear readers. If I learn to know something interesting in the future, and I always do, you all will the be the ones I share the not so secret with.

This author was a feeling, that many more scandals are yet to come.

Lady Whistledown

[tiesthatbind-tf]

I accidentally deleted 2000 words of story for poor Soundwave last night and had to rewrite everything but tbh, they’re absolutely worthit.  Their armor definitely makes me want to experiment with Celtic motifs for Hot Rod!

Full story below.

Suraya Widodo was born to parents Wijaya and Ni Made Saraswati on the island of Madura, Indonesia. They noticed that something didn’t quite seem right with their baby, who was fussier than most, threw fits when brought into crowded spaces and seemed mostly lost in their own thoughts, though this did little to dampen their love.

The name ‘Widodo’ (healthy) was given to Suraya (despite the masculine nature of it, which does lend to Suraya’s nonchalance about their gender in later years) in hopes that they would grow up alright despite their quirks.

Wijaya, a fisherman who wanted to give his family a better life in the more industrialized town of Bangkalan west of the island, pushed himself hard at his work, hoping to earn enough to allow them to settle down there comfortably.

He began to risk venturing out into ocean areas which were occasionally used as smuggling routes where more lucrative catches laid, careful to fish there during specific times to the day to avoid crossing paths with pirates and smugglers.

However, his luck ran out one day when a smuggling vessel came across him in broad daylight and silenced him from alerting the coast guards to their existence with five shots.

Suraya was five.

Saraswati, desperate to find a way to care for her child as the new breadwinner thought she had gotten lucky when a job scouter for a factory in Bangkalan came to the village. They were looking to offer work to single mothers as part of their corporate responsibility programme and extended the offer of employment to her and promised a hostel and training so she wasn’t out of her depth in the assembly line.

Seeing it as the best option, she left Suraya with her husband’s family while she worked and lived in a worker’s hostel on weekdays and returned to see Suraya every weekend.

She would give money to the family to care for Suraya in her absence, which was crucial since they weren’t fond of Saraswati (they had not agreed to Wijaya’s marriage) and found Suraya’s odd behavior off-putting and claims of ‘hearing voices’ potentially a sign of mental illness (which was fodder for them to demand even more money from Saraswati with the excuse that Suraya was a handful).

This routine continued until Saraswati was suddenly killed in a factory accident.

Suraya was nine.

The compensation for Saraswati’s death was enough for the family for only a few months and after it dried up, the neglect and abuse began. Though at times it was odd because Suraya seemed to know when they were in a bad mood and when they were looking for an outlet for their anger, and  the child would somehow almost always magically disappear during those times.

Then an agent claiming to be from the government came to see them.

He claimed he had heard about Suraya via their mother and wanted to inspect the child to see if they would qualify for a place in a ‘special school’ for ‘different’ children, and this had sounded tame enough to the family, who allowed him to see the shy, withdrawn little waif.

However Suraya immediately could tell what his true intentions were—-to have them locked up in a testing facility to figure out their ‘mutation’—-and attempted to run, only to be caught by his fellow officers outside the home.

The family was paid compensation for officially relinquishing Suraya’s care to the state, and did so without question, only relieved to be rid of their ‘burden’.

Suraya was taken to facility after facility in the state for the first few years to have a battery of tests, many painful, run on them to figure out their ‘special ability’ as an Outlier and to see if it could be replicated.

When they were in their early teens, they were transported overseas to a different facility as a bargaining chip for intel, tech and the like, coming into the ‘care’ of people who intended to use them as a government asset.

They never saw daylight except during transportation and they began to plan their escape as they studied the facility’s layout.

Their first attempt at escape didn’t go well however; they were caught, dragged back and had their eyes burned and blinded as punishment (at this point they had shown their handlers that their highly-enhanced hearing made them capable of navigating the world in total darkness, so said handlers didn’t not see this as ‘damaging the goods’).

If the handlers thought that the punishment would deter them however, it didn’t; Suraya just became more careful and subtle with the planning of their next attempt.

The second attempt came during a transport session where there were less guards and less access to tech to subdue them, though it came with a problem they did not plan for.

In their first attempt, they had tried escaping into the countryside. In this one, they hurled themselves out completely unprepared into a world louder than any world they had ever known; downtown London on a weekend.

The cacophony completely overwhelmed their senses and they barely managed to crawl-stumble into an alley as bounty hunters were enlisted to track them down.

It was here that they ran into one Ramiro Vasquez (Ravage) who was immediately concerned about their situation and once figuring out the nature of their distress, gave them his headphones to drown out the noise and kept them safe and hidden until the bounty hunters had left.

He then took Suraya back to the rented apartment he shared with Lara Soelberg (Laserbeak) and both agreed to let the waif stay with them for as long as they needed to be alright, and the three formed a little familial unit as Suraya grew deeply fond of the two Beast Men whom they saw as two of the most compassionate people in a horrible world.

Ramiro however understood that Suraya needed tutelage to properly harness and deal with their Outlier ability; having heard whispers of a secret Outlier school run Senator Sharifuddin Waseem (Shockwave) and knowing Sharifuddin as one of the few good men in the Senate, he decided to take the risk and confronted the Senator about the matter, promising to keep the secret a secret in return for helping out Suraya.

As it turned out the threats were not necessary, as Sharifuddin was genuinely  concerned for them and came to see them personally at the apartment. Initially,  Suraya was apprehensive about meeting someone else about their abilities, remembering full well how the first such meeting ended, but to their pleasant surprise, they detected no malice in Sharifuddin’s intentions; only the desire to help.

They agreed to enroll in Sharifuddin’s Outlier institute, coming back home to see Ramiro and Lara every weekend.

They excelled in their classes and soon mastered their ability and knew how to deal with the overstimulation that came from it, to the point where they could walk the streets with no problem.

In the wake of murders of Senators Nikomedes Momus and Gayathri Sharma, Suraya offered to become a spy for Sharifuddin, who was determined to solve the deaths, and Sharifuddin began bringing them to Senate meetings under the guise of them being his new aide.

They caught the eye of Senator Radbourne (RatBat) who seemed to pick up the fact that they were an Outlier, but rather than bring up the matter, requested that they work with him as well on.... matters regarding his constituents with disabilities.

Sharifuddin has his reservations about Radbourne and Suraya knew they were up to no good and both agreed to the arrangement so Suraya could dig up more information about them.

As it turned out, Radbourne was dirty as dirty as politicians came, but he had nothing to do with the murders. Rather, he was mostly preoccupied with an individual named Morgan Trayton (Megatron), the same individual whom Omar Parvez (Orion Pax)  a friend of Sharifuddin’s, had mentioned as a great writer.

Radbourne asked Suraya to track down Morgan with an offer the man hopefully wouldn’t refuse and Suraya, intrigued about this man with what they’d heard about him from Omar, agreed to do so.

They found Morgan in a vast underground fighting ring in Moscow, and after voicing some skepticism about him walking his written talk, he allowed them to peek into his mind to see how genuine and committed he was to his cause, and it took them aback for a bit to meet someone who despite being mired in tragedy, had Sharifuddin’s desire to make a better world and the iron will to back it up.

They pledged themself to be among the first members of Morgan’s rising revolution (which was aided by Omar spreading his writings through an underground press) and told them about Radbourne’s offer to supply weapons and augmentations to increase profits from the pitfighting racket.

Morgan agreed if only to use these exact items against the Senate once he’d acquired an army.

It was during this time with Morgan that they also met Ramsey (Rumble) and Friedel (Frenzy), a pair of dwarf miners who the man had been friends with for years, and almost immediately got along with their boisterous, gregarious natures. 

They continued to be Radbourne’s liaison with Megatron until the start of the Clampdown when they watched Morgan kill the owner of the Pit, free those who wanted their freedom and take those who were loyal to him to meet with Sharifuddin to formally establish a rebellion.

It was about this time that Suraya found out that Radbourne had been conducting illegal experiments on Beast Men, something they took grave offense to, and they kept mining Radbourne for more information about where the experiments were taking place.

Upon finding out, they personally hunted down Radbourne as Stefan Scavarro (Starscream) initiated the Senate massacre to Radbourne’s labs, where he tried to fight them off only to finally find out the true extent of their abilities.

Badly-injured, his attempt at stopping them from freeing the captive Beast Men—-his “property” as he would yell at them—-ended up with him hurled into a genetic splicing pod (commissioned from a ‘Mesothulas’) which he accidentally activated.

The process twisted him into a Rat-Bat-human hybrid, and rather than kill him, Suraya decided to leave the option to the Beast Men he tortured for profit in what they saw as poetic justice.

After those who wanted vengeance were done with Radbourne, Suraya gave the  Beast Men the option of leaving free or coming with them to be a part of Morgan’s revolution which would ensure that they were never mistreated and ostracized by the larger world again.

Two of the Beast Men took up the offer; Bastien Saville (Buzzsaw) and Gan Go-eun (Glit).

When Morgan, confident in Suraya’s abilities asked them  to establish their own division focussed on spying and intel gathering, Suraya chose Ramiro, Lara, Ramsey, Friedel and Bastien to work alongside them.

While Suraya occasionally questions Morgan’s actions, two things they have never questioned are his dedication to his cause and the compassion he shows to those they care for, and it’s enough for them to consider themself a true Decepticon till the day his objectives are achieved.

[vivalavillain]

hc + childhood and jareth

{Cutting this because I feel it's going to get lengthy.}

{To start with, one must understand the nature of fae and the various species within that category. There are some fae who are born the way we imagine mortal children being born-- as brand new infants who grow and, for some of them, age. There are some fae who are, in essence, 'timeless;' they have existed as they are since time immemorial, with knowledge that was yet ancient when even the first humans were still learning how to walk upright. They were, once upon a time, young as all things were once young, but I wouldn't so much as say that they were ever strictly children.

{Jareth, as an entity, falls under this latter category. He has existed for as long as the Underground has existed, which is to say for as long as the realm of the Fae has existed. There was a time, certainly, when he was younger, wilder and freer than the being we see him as in the mortal present, when he knew less than he does now but had greater (yes, greater) control over his powers and his realm. In his 'youth,' Jareth was much like what one usually thinks of when they think of faeries-- young in appearance, joyful, playful, with a touch of Seelie trickster but without the malice or ill-intent. Then, the goblins were more his friends than his fearful subjects and they played games with each other and with the other Courts of the Fae.

{It was in these halcyon days that he first met the mortal Sarah-- the first mortal Sarah-- and, against the wishes and advice and warnings of all his brethren, fell in love. He yearned from her from afar, for she knew nothing of him, and granted her every wish. Until, that is, during a spat with her younger brother, Sarah wished the boy to be taken away. Jareth, in his blind love, took the boy as she desired but when she became distraught, he revealed himself to her and confessed his part in the taking. She begged for the boy to be returned, but it was too late-- he'd been brought by the goblins to Jareth's castle in the Underground.

{In those days, the Underground was a more beautiful, idyllic land. There existed the castle and the Goblin City but beyond were forests and fields, home to all sorts of Fae-native flora and fauna. There was no junkyard, no crumbling labyrinth, no dark, strangled trees left to die in the weak rays of a clouded sun. It was here that Jareth invited his beloved to come and see his realm, to collect her brother herself, in the hopes that she would fall in love with him once she saw the resplendent castle and his magics at work.

{They traveled together through the Underground, spending days and nights at each other's side as they made for the castle at the center. All the while, Jareth's heart soared to be so close to the object of his affection. When they arrived, however, they discovered the horrible truth: they were too late. Sarah's younger brother, as all unwanted and discarded children who wind up in Fae do, had turned into a goblin. Horrified, Sarah called Jareth a monster, blaming him and claiming it was his intention all along. She fled from the castle and forbade him from ever coming near her again.

{Jareth, unused to human emotions, felt anger, jealousy, and desperation all well up inside him at once. To keep Sarah from finding her way home, he erected the Labyrinth and trapped her within it, hoping to find her on his own and win her back over by leading her out of it. To this day he doesn't know what happened to her other than that, when he found her, her lifeless body was all that remained of the woman he loved. His heart broke for the second time and he retreated into his castle to mourn.

{There's a bit more I wanted to touch on to bring us full circle between the deciding incident which changed Jareth from the youthful Seelie boy prince into the withered Unseelie King but this has already gotten rather long so I'll leave things at that. To summarize, Jareth was never really a child and never really had what one would traditionally consider a 'childhood' so much as he was once much younger than he is today.}

[kiame-sama]

28 years (1st pregnancy)- Yandere!Silva x Reader (tiny lime)

One of you lovies, requested to know what I think Silva acted like during the first pregnancy in 28 Years! I am currently working on part 3 of 28 years and should have it out sometime soon, but for now, here's the backstory of when Illumi was born! If you would like more from this vein, perhaps I'll just make 28 years into a full-blooded story!

Warnings; mention of blood, protective Silva, mention of adult themes from '28 Years', the struggles of pregnancy, mention of abusive behavior, hypersensitivity, surprisingly fluffy moments, a bit of ooc, Silva's depravity, creepy moments, ANGST, tiny lime moment, milk (women do produce it during pregnancy, after all), MORE ANGST, mention of depression,

~~~~~~

That night, after the female doctor checked you and confirmed you were pregnant, almost everything changed.

She had confirmed you were pregnant after her initial inspection and was promptly told to leave. Quickly following, you had fallen back into a fitful sleep, tired from your sudden sickness and the realization that you were carrying this monster's infant.

You woke up several hours later in your bed, feeling more well rested than you had in years. The room from the beginning had been rather sparsely decorated and had a few modest blankets over the slightly uncomfortable bed.

But now, everything was different.

The bed beneath you was unbelievably soft and plush. It was far more comfortable than it had been before, practically enveloping your body and supporting you. It was covered with a heavenly cloth that was what you assumed to be some kind of high-grade material that you could never afford. Many blankets and similar items had been added during your nap, and they now wrap around your figure comfortably.

Shelves, drawers, and other such things had been added to the room as well. You quickly noticed that all sharp corners and hard edges on the furniture had been sanded smooth. The hard floor had been covered with what looked to be unbelievably soft carpet.

It stunned you and you almost got up before voices came close, quickly pretending you were asleep, making sure to keep your breaths even.

"-stays comfortable. If I didn't know better, I would say you've become more than just interested in her, Silva."

"I told you from the first day she arrived, I have no intention of leaving or losing her."

"Your children are next in the Zoldyck line, so they should carry on the family business and name."

"I'm not losing her to anything, old-man. I'm not losing her to illness. I'm not letting her go. And I'm not losing her life for an heir."

"Her having your child proves she is yours and only yours, doesn't it?"

"..."

"That's what you want, isn't it? That's what you've wanted from the moment you first laid eyes on her. You've wanted her to belong to you, to love you, to worship you like you do to her. You want her to fear you enough to respect your authority, but refuse to actually lay a harmful hand on her. You need her like a drug so you refuse to let her go. You don't want to lose her? Then don't."

"..."

After another moment of silence, you heard the door to your room open for a moment before before gently closing, Silva likely checking in on you. It was odd, as he didn't usually show much concern for your desires or comfort. He would take you when he wished even if you didn't want him to, he always had that strong chain keeping you from being able to reach the door or window, he hardly cared if you wanted to leave or wanted him to leave.

But now it sounded like your captor showed more concern for you than he had initially let on. You had been so scared that he would truly kill you if you didn't obey, but Zeno is making it seem like Silva would never actually harm you like that. He likely needed you more than even he thought, so he refuses to bargain your health for anything.

"Fine. But I'm not taking contracts while she is pregnant."

"That's fine."

"And if it is between her life or the infant's, there is no question that I will choose for her to live. If she dies and the child lives, I'll kill it myself."

You shivered at the sudden dark tone that his voice had taken and you tried not to flinch or react when the door opened again. You couldn't hear the approaching footsteps but you continued your act, laying as still and relaxed as you possibly could. Just because you knew he wouldn't kill you now, doesn't mean you wanted to push him that far just to test it out.

If he thought you were resting, you may learn even more on how you might escape or what you could use to your advantage. For a moment you considered holding the life of the infant hostage, but it was clear he didn't care about the child enough to release you. That thought, however, quickly left your mind as you knew it wouldn't work and you didn't want to draw an innocent life into it.

The child may be of your captor, but an infant shouldn't bear the sins of the parent. If you really were stuck here, why would you ever allow the child to be hurt by your hands? No. As long as you could help it, your child will be safe from their dangerous father and will be protected in your arms.

The bed slightly slumped somewhere near your body as Silva sat down. You knew it was him from the moment the door had opened, but the slight trailing touch on your shoulder confirmed it. Silva barely allowed the female doctor to touch you, so of course he wouldn't let Zeno touch you.

"It seems you truly do care for the woman. At first it seemed that this was just lust, but that isn't it. You love this woman, don't you?"

"... Yes."

The sudden voice of Zeno almost made you jolt as it seems both assassins were in the room with you. Silva was closer to you, judging by the volume of his voice. Another soft touch on your shoulder slightly soothed you, as you were feeling more than a little starved for gentle contact.

You let yourself enjoy the moment, even if it was gentle affection from the man who destroyed your life. The continued gentle action made you actually slip into sleep, resting easy even with two killers nearby.

~~~~~~

You were around three months into your pregnancy and you almost felt like you were actually in a relationship with the terrifying man.

Almost.

You were still collared and your collar was still attached to a chain. You weren't allowed to go outside, no matter how many times or what way you asked.

Beyond that, however, Silva was more accommodating and gentle with you. He no longer took you against your will anymore, instead he held you close and had you sit on his lap. You weren't ecstatic about being forced to cuddle with him, but it was better than the alternative.

He spent almost all of his time with you, needing some kind of contact with you at all times. You faintly assumed it was his way of satisfying his need for you that didn't involve fucking you.

You were currently seated upon his lap, reading a book from the many he had left in the room for you. It was some kind of adventure book, but you weren't really paying attention. As you went to flip to the next page, a sudden pain in your abdomen forced you to drop it, letting out a light cry of pain.

"What? What's wrong? Answer me!"

You felt his form rigid beneath you, one of his hands on your thigh and the other on your stomach. You shook your head, getting your breath back from being so suddenly winded by the sharp pain.

"It's done... It's done..."

"What is?"

"The pain... It's gone..."

"What happened?"

Silva's voice was a low growl and his grip on your leg tightened slightly. He seemed more stressed than you were at that moment and you hesitantly rested your hands over his. At the warmth of your hands he slowly relaxed, frowning in displeasure.

"I don't know what happened. It's probably nothing."

"I'm having your doctor check you."

"I said it's nothing."

"And I say you are going to be checked. I already dislike the pregnancy, I'm not going to let you die and leave me because of it."

He moved to set you gently on the couch as he left to retrieve the kind doctor.

You almost wanted to sigh in displeasure at the idea. Though you appreciated your doctor you felt like you had seen her almost every day.

Her name was Kikyo and she served two roles at the Zoldyck estate. The first being your doctor, as she was well versed in medicine. The second being your decoy.

Apparently her family tried to set her up with Silva and quickly abandoned her afterwards. Zeno often refered to her with a cruel title, "that useless woman," as she was infertile. Her family had been slaughtered for daring to try and trick them, and only by her medical abilities was she saved from suffering the same fate.

Shortly after she arrived at the estate, Silva had brought you in as well. She was the only female there who had medical experience and so she was spared under the condition of playing her two roles.

As your doctor, she obviously took over your primary care. As your stand-in, she was the one who attended meetings and other things of the like to seem like she was married to Silva. Others only saw her and not you, meaning she would be targeted should anyone try to attack the family.

You had made a pact with her, that if anything should happen to you, she would take your child and run. She couldn't have children and you could never leave. You both suffered something and so, you both connected on a different level. Outside of other Zoldycks, she was the only one allowed to come see you.

She was an unlikely friend in your dark new life. You took comfort in her presence and she took comfort in yours. Though you two barely got to speak due to Silva's possessive behavior, you had both formed a near unbreakable friendship.

You looked up when the door opened once more, Silva entering followed closely by Kikyo. You kept a calm facade as you knew that Silva would become jealous should you show excitement upon seeing her, and you would rather not risk the life of your friend.

"What's happening?"

"Sudden sharp pain. It didn't last long, but it certainly was there."

"Centered around the stomach?"

"Yes."

You sat as still as possible, feeling Silva's eyes bore into you from across the room as Kikyo examined you. She gently lifted your loose shirt to prod gently at your stomach. You let out a small squeak of pain when she put light pressure in a certain spot, making her focus on that area.

"It just started today?"

"Yeah..."

"And localized around here primarily?"

"Yes."

"Hm... Might have to preform an ultrasound to see what's going on. Women are more likely to lose their child around the end of the first trimester at three months in. Could be the embryotic sack has been punctured, or it is just a simple pain of your body adjusting to the child. Regardless, it should be checked."

You nodded and she stood, looking over at Silva.

"Sir, I will need to retrieve the ultrasound equipment. Likely should do it soon since these pains can indicate something life-threatening to both her and the-"

"Stay here. I will send out others to retrieve it immediately."

Kikyo nodded and returned to kneeling in front of you, continuing her examination of your slightly swelling stomach. Silva paused at the door, only for a moment and looked back at you and Kikyo, his eyes cold as the darkest ice.

"If she dies or if anything happens to her, I will torture you for days on end and flay you alive. Understood?"

"... Yes, sir."

With that he left, closing the door behind him. You wasted no time in resting your hands on her shoulders and pulling her into a hug, both to comfort her and yourself.

"I wish he didn't threaten you, I'm so sorry..."

"It's not your fault. We were both thrown unwillingly into this life. We didn't choose this, it was chosen for us. I'm just glad I can help in whatever way I can."

~~~~~~

Five months in and you were already so sick of it. Sick of being stuck in a room. Sick of being told to sit down and rest. Sick of having cravings. All of it.

Pickles and chocolate sauce? Watermelon and pretzels? And damn it, you could barely remember things at times. SIMPLE things. And not to mention all of the tossing and turning because nothing was comfortable anymore.

And the mood-swings. Oh hell, the mood-swings. You can be happily pacing as you've taken to recently, but the moment Silva tells you to sit and rest you're sobbing hysterically or shouting at him. Your faintly surprised he hasn't retaliated or snapped at you. No, he just stays infuriatingly calm and holds you until you calm down or pass out.

It was surprisingly more comfortable to sit on him than the couch or bed, as the way you can lean back and still have support around your stomach did wonders for the back pain.

You leaned back against the warm chest behind you, wanting to just sleep and relax instead of pacing as you usually did. You were starting to slip into sleep when you tugged at your shirt, feeling a wet sensation on your chest.

You opened your eyes to snap at Silva for toying with you, but his hands were resting beneath your stomach. A small bit of confusion sparked in your tired mind so you reached up to examine your shirt. Indeed, there were two wet spots on your shirt.

Out of confusion and lack of caring, you lifted your top completely to examine your chest. To your surprise, white liquid was beading up on your breasts.

"What the hell..?"

Your question drew Silva's attention, making him lean forward to see what you were looking at.

"Seems you've started producing milk early."

"But... That isn't supposed to happen until right before the baby's born..."

"It can happen early... Sometimes months early."

One hand slowly trailed up your stomach, making you shiver in stress. His movement was so slow and sensual that you felt worried he would try something, seeing as he had left you alone for months now. You let out a soft whimper when he cupped your chest, thumb gathering the liquid.

He growled at your whimper, retracting his hand from you and licking the cream off of his thumb. His pupils were fully dilated and focused only on you. He was snapped out of his trance-like state when you protectively wrapped your arms around your stomach.

He stopped himself and frowned, letting his hands rest where they had been, the lust was clear in his eyes. It seemed to be ripping him to pieces to have to resist touching you. His eyes trailed to your stomach and you could have sworn you saw hate in them. When he spoke next, it was softer, gentler. Almost like a low croon.

"You know... I have no intention of sharing you with anyone. No one gets to touch you like I do and no one should even lay their eyes on you other than me. Do you know what I thought when I saw you for the first time?"

"..."

"I thought I had died and actually woke up in the afterlife. I don't believe in any of that, even if my great-grandfather does. But I honestly thought you were an angel."

"..what-?"

"From that moment I knew I had to have you. To hold you. To keep you in my arms. I knew I wasn't going to share you with anyone or let anyone take you from me. So I clipped your wings. Now my angel can't fly away from me. Now you're for my eyes only."

His low voice in your ear made a whimper escape your lips, very suddenly feeling unsafe in his arms. You slowly wrapped your arms around you, moving your hands beneath his, not wanting him to touch your stomach anymore.

His eyes flickered for only a moment, to you stomach and then back at you, a displeased look in his eyes. You began to feel more attached to the life growing within you, now wanting to keep both you and your child safe from the man who claimed to love you.

~~~~~~

Eight months.

Eight long months.

You've begun to notice how Silva has been acting more and more aggressive than usual. He is becoming visibly irate whenever he looks at your stomach, seeming to dislike how he had to leave you alone. He was antsy, he was impatient, he wanted nothing to do with the impending arrival of the infant.

It was only now that you realized what could happen to you. Silva already disliked the child and he had spoken many times about refusing to share you. The child you have been trying so hard to protect would be taken from you.

You just knew it. He would never let you keep your baby.

You began to refuse to let him touch your stomach. You refused to let him hold you. When you would sleep, you did so on your side, facing away from him.

Your actions seemed to bother him in a whole new way. At one point, he seemed to be affectionate towards the life inside of you, even waking you in the night while speaking to it. But now, he was a completely different person.

It seemed he disliked sharing your attention with the soon to be born infant. Like he no longer saw it as a way to possess you, but a threat to his time with you. A threat to him.

Your actions of turning away from him only made it worse. Instead of protecting the child, you only made him begin to loathe it. It threatened him now, and it was taking the attention he felt entitled to.

You worried what would happen when the child was finally born.

~~~~~~

The unconscious woman awoke with a start, panting heavily and looking around. She was in bed. The lights in the room were turned off, and a figure slept next to her.

The first thing she noticed was that her stomach was no longer as extended as it had once been. An emptiness within that made a whimper escape her lips. Her hand resting over her stomach.

"You're awake."

A deep voice from the figure beside her rumbled out, slowly sitting up.

"Where is he?"

"Who?"

"You know who! Where is my baby?"

"..."

"Damn it, answer me!"

"Dead. Died during birth."

The world shattered in that moment. Nothing was real. Nothing made sense.

"I don't believe you... I don't believe you! You killed him didn't you!?"

"(Y/n), stop. This isn't-"

"I heard him cry. I know my baby didn't die during birth. I heard him cry."

The tense silence was nearly deafening, only to be broken by sobs as her anger gave way to crushing grief.

"(Y/n)-"

"Don't touch me you murderer! You killed my baby! You couldn't stand me looking at anyone but you, so you killed him!"

"I did not kill the infant-"

"Stop lying to me!"

She slowly stumbled out of bed, covering her eyes and sobbing. Silva let her go, knowing she would react this way. Of course, he could have told her that the child survived, and the both of them almost died after she gave birth. But he didn't want her to know the child was still alive.

He believed lying to her was more merciful so she could move on faster. But, if she learns the child is still alive, she will never let it go.

But he was wrong. He was so wrong. It had been weeks, and still she wept. Still she paced. Still she pulled on her chain desperately towards the door, hand stretched out as far as possible.

She refused to be consoled, practically feral every time he tried to touch her. She suffered. She would sit for hours, nearly choking herself in attempts to get out to search for any sign of her child being alive. She would pace with empty eyes, arms wrapped around herself as if to try and keep it together.

She was lost. She wailed until her voice was gone. She clawed at him until his arms bled- a rather impressive feat on its own- leaving scars behind.

Then, three weeks after being separated from her child, she disappeared. Her collar on the floor, door open, and nowhere in sight.

"No one saw her leave!? All of you, eyes everywhere and not one of you saw her get out?! Search for her. Now. If any of you dare come back empty-handed I will slaughter all of you."

The butlers scrambled and scurried from the room like rats, all terrified to look back at those cold blue eyes.

"Where is the infant?"

"She wanted him to be named Illumi, and he's in the nursery. She didn't take him. I doubt she even knew he was still alive."

"She's convinced that he is."

"And she's right. It was a foolish mistake to take him from her. She-"

Silva's fist silenced the chastising words of his father, the very wall cracking and breaking. His hand was sunk into the concrete and the metal behind it was bending under the pressure. He had done it with his own raw strength and rage at his little darling being allowed to slip away. He didn't use his Nen, but his bare hand.

"I know. I'm well aware it was foolish. But someone let her out."

"What do you mean?"

"She was set loose by someone. The collar was opened, not torn. The door was unlocked, not burst open. Her tracker was removed, by someone who knew it was there."

"Someone helped her escape."

The soft sound of heels clicking against the ground drew the attention of the two men. Kikyo had arrived.

"There is no blood in the room. So she wasn't taken by force. There were no prints either. Nothing but her own. There is a slight residue left behind, likely from disposable gloves. She was let out by someone who knew what they were doing. Whoever it was likely told her the true fate of her infant."

"If that's so, why didn't she take him?"

"Perhaps she knew not to. She could have assumed that the child is alive somewhere else, or she could believe that the child is safer if she didn't take him."

Silva was about to turn his rage against Kikyo before a soft knock sounded. Silva did not move from his spot, fist still sunken deep within the wall. Zeno was the one to open the door and receive the news, knowing what would result the moment Silva heard it.

"She's been located."

"Where?"

~~~~~~

Empty eyes.

Devoid of light, of emotion, of anyone still left within.

Like a doll with all of the stuffing having been torn out. She doesn't move anymore. She doesn't eat. She doesn't make a single sound.

She sits with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms around them. She hasn't blinked for who knows how long. Her arms and legs covered in blooming purple marks shaped like hands. She doesn't even cry anymore.

"What is wrong with her? Answer me now."

"She's checked out completely."

"The hell does that mean?"

"It means she's so mentally, physically, and emotionally broken she's not there anymore. Maybe deep inside, buried away, but that isn't her anymore. Humans can withstand many things that should kill them. But those who go through extreme loss, or abuse-"

The doctor was cut off, a hand wrapped tightly around her neck, causing her to choke. She tried weakly to claw at the iron grip, though her nails didn't even break the skin.

"Choose your next words wisely. I do not abuse my wife. She needed to learn that running from me solves nothing for her. It only results in suffering to leave. She will not leave again. And if she doesn't leave, she won't be hurt again."

With that he dropped the choking woman to the ground, watching with cold eyes as she gasped and fought to breathe. Still, the woman in the corner did not move, her eyes staring through everyone. She was gaunt, pale, and seemed lifeless.

"She won't come back. Not on her own. You say you taught her to not run? She won't. Not anymore. She isn't even in there anymore to think about running."

Even in his anger, he knew she was right. He knew he had gone too far. He knew his little wife was broken. He hadn't intended on pushing her that far or harming her as he did. Her flame was gone. Her eyes were empty.

That was not his angel. That was a shell.

"Then how do I fix it?"

"I don't know."

"How do I fix it!?"

"I don't know!"

The cry of an infant was heard clearly throughout the room, nearly echoing off the walls. It had come from the door that led out of the cell, and was getting louder.

"What the hell is that old fool doing? Does he honestly think bringing that thing will help-"

"Baby?"

A croaking and strained voice met Silva's ears, silencing him and drawing his complete attention.

She had moved.

She could barely crawl, let alone walk, but still she was drawn to the door, like a moth to a flame. She reached the length of the chain and still kept trying to reach the door, whining in desperation.

"Baby..! My baby..!"

Her voice was strained and gasping but still she extended her arms as far as she could reach, choking herself with the collar. Then it finally opened as Zeno entered, a swaddling of blankets in his arms fussing and crying.

"Baby! BABY!"

Her voice was screeching at this point, fingers tense with stained muscles, all of her energy focused on reaching out to the tiny life in the arms of the elder. He did not hesitate to place the crying infant into her arms, allowing her to retreat to her corner with the bundle held close.

Curling her body protectively, she gently moved the blankets from the face of her child. A soft cooing noise coming from deep within her as she rocked the infant.

"My baby... My Illumi... My light..."

She continued to coo low hums and soft whispering to the now quiet child. Her entire being seeming to strain and hurt, but she still smiled, rocking the infant slowly.

Zeno then joined the two who were silenced by the sudden revitalization of the previously broken woman.

"How did you know that would work?"

"Boy, do you think you're the only one in the entire family who has found someone this precious to them? It tends to run in the family. Yes, you went too far. We all did. Wonder why you're an only child? Why I am an only child? The only difference is she was able to be brought back, and you had better not do it again, do you hear me? You don't know what that loss truly feels like. It will destroy you if you let it. I didn't let it. My father did."

There was a silence in the air at the revelation. The realization of what could happen and what has happened.

"You do not harm her again, because she won't survive it. You will not take that child away until she has healed. And you damn well won't allow this to happen again."

The gentle cooing continued, followed by soft sounds of an infant babbling. Small hands rest against the pale (s/c) cheeks of his mother, large doll eyes gazing up intelligently. He knew who she was. He had heard her voice many times. She was comfort, and her heartbeat gently pulled him into sleep.

"Baby... My baby."

Her soft words carried as she curled on her side, cradling the infant and using her arms as a bed. Her back turned to the others, facing the corner and humming softly, joining the infant in slumber.

"I won't let her get like this again."

[spicycreativity]

Intertwined - Chapter 1

Rating: Teen

Content Warnings: It's a hanahaki fic, so. Mild body horror, blood, respiratory illness. (Starts at Ch 3 and gets worse from there).

Characters: All

Pairing: Moceit

Additional Notes: This one was supposed to be Darker and Longer, but turns out I'm not in the headspace to write angst atm, so it ends up moving p fast. Swaps between Janus and Patton's POVs. Post-PoF, light angst. Not whump. They both get hanahaki, but there is absolutely no version of Moceit in my mind where Janus isn't the one who falls first. My AO3 username is WizatdGlick.

Summary: The story of how Janus and Patton find each other at rock bottom and fall in love anyway.

A gentle knock on Janus' door drew him out of his thoughts. He donned a mask of triumph as he rose to open it, straightening his hat as he went. It couldn't be Remus; Remus never knocked so softly, which meant that Janus had to perform. He slid into the role with difficulty, struggling to find the edges of this gloating persona when all he felt was numb and tired and lost.

It was Patton at the door, and Janus felt everything slip, and Patton's eyes lit up with recognition, and all of Janus' resolve fell away in the face of that beseeching gaze.

"Come for another debate?" Janus asked in a low voice, making no effort to hide his ironical smile.

Patton smiled too, though he dropped it a moment too soon. Janus got the distinct impression that Patton was also far too wrung-out to put on any kind of act tonight. "Just came to check on you."

It would be as natural as breathing for Janus to draw back, place his fingertips delicately to his chest, widen his eyes. ' Check on me?' he would say, all faux-innocence, ' Please, Patton, I'm not a child. I don't need your pity.'

But he didn't.

Here was Patton, reaching out, and hadn't that been what Janus had wanted all along? That tiny, fervent flame that he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge, that smallest ember of hope that someone might just give him what he was convinced he had to take.

The seconds stretched out until the silence verged on awkward, and Janus' pride stood up to do what his cunning would not: "I'm fine." He was fine, strangely. Not happy, as he perhaps should have been, but nothing hurt.

Patton's brow furrowed. "Am I supposed to believe that?" he asked gently.

Something warm and soft and dangerous bloomed in Janus' chest at Patton's look of confusion. He had freckles on his nose, scattered like spilled cinnamon: a trait assigned by Thomas’ subconscious. "Patton," Janus said, flicking his gaze upwards to meet Patton's eyes. "Would you like to come in?"

"To your room ?" Patton asked, eyes widening. He looked past Janus' shoulder and Janus fought not to move and block Patton's gaze with his body. He had just invited Patton in; there was no point getting shy now. "Won't that, y'know, do something to me?"

"It's just a matter of self-control," Janus said, hoping to get a smile out of Patton.

Sure enough, Patton did smile. "What color is my shirt?"

Janus said, "True blue," and stepped backwards to let Patton in.

It was a risk to bring someone into his room like this, but he felt unusually clear-headed tonight, calm and strangely secure despite the fact he had just let a known enemy past his defenses, and despite the exhaustion that made every breath feel heavy.

"Warm in here," Patton remarked, looking around.

Janus motioned him over to a set of armchairs. To be seen was to be judged, and he wasn't sure what he would do if Patton found him lacking again . "I have a question for you, Patton."

In the low light, the tear tracks on Patton's cheeks glimmered when he tilted his head inquisitively. "You do?"

Janus nodded, slow and calculated. He was sure he already knew the answer to the question, and preemptive anger bubbled thick and hot in his veins. "Who," he said, unable to keep from glaring, "came to check on you?"

"Well," said Patton, "Ah… They don't-- Everyone's upset right now--"

"And you're not?" Janus demanded. "And don't you dare tell me that you're fine." His emotions were running too hot; he needed to check himself, but seeing Patton make excuses filled him with a passion he'd only ever felt on Thomas' behalf.

"I am--"

"Don't."

"But I have to be," Patton whispered. "I can't-- I know they told me… They said it was okay for me to be sad, but--"

"If you fall apart, there's no one there to pick up the pieces," Janus guessed. "Sure, you can be sad, as long as it doesn't interfere with your role."

"Don't be mad at them," Patton pleaded, and Janus realized with a jolt that he would get into no one's good graces by slinging around insults.

"It's just hard," Janus said plainly, only half-noticing the words coming out of his mouth. He had just become aware of a keen and sickening new desire, borne on the back of a newfound respect for Patton that he had even lasted this long without having some sort of spectacular breakdown. Janus' whole chest ached with it, that and the equally sickening knowledge that he had just become horrifically vulnerable, that he had fallen under a spell he could never hope to break.

He saw it in his mind's eye: he saw himself stand and lean over, take Patton's jaw in his hands, kiss him long and deep and slow. He saw himself lay his body and soul bare before Patton, getting on his knees to forgive Patton all his perceived flaws. He meant well, after all. He only ever meant well, and it wasn't really his fault that those good intentions were capable of morphing into a cruel and deadly weapon.

But he would plunge that weapon straight into Janus' heart before their lips could ever even meet. Janus could see it now, Patton pulling away in confusion and disgust. His tenuous patience would give out then and there, and Janus would have no hope of acceptance ever again. Same for Remus, probably. They would remain Dark Sides forever, damned to be eternal outcasts. All thanks to Janus' pathetic inability to control himself.

"Why do you care so much about…" Patton hesitated for a moment and gave a shallow sigh. "Well, about me?"

And now Janus found himself walking a chasm’s edge. His instinct was to lean hard into the opposite of the truth and insult Patton so deeply that he left and never came back. Eliminate the threat. But that wasn't an option now of all times. No, he had to maintain a friendship with Patton, somehow. He had to keep himself under control. How fun. "You're a part of Thomas," Janus said. He paused.

"So are the others."

"You've earned my respect."

"Oh," said Patton. "Wow, um. Gosh, that's…" His lower lip trembled. "I should go," he said in a broken voice.

Janus surveyed him in silent agony, teetering on the precipice of a lie. With a monumental effort, he pulled himself away from it and opened his arms. "Come here."

The floodgates opened. Patton fell into Janus' lap, already sobbing. Janus held him, all his muscles stiff and awkward. He was much smaller in the mindscape than he was in Thomas’ eyes and it was difficult to support Patton’s much larger frame. A sharp pain flared in Janus’ collarbone where Patton had buried his forehead and his tears were already starting to seep through Janus' clothes. He cringed at himself and the absurdity of the situation, wishing he had some way to make it better. He should have had words for this, all the right words to soothe away Patton's worries and set him right again. But he was so tired.

"I'm s-s-sorry," Patton said through shuddering sobs that dug his forehead harder into Janus' clavicle.

"It's okay," Janus said, concentrating hard on keeping the effects of his room at bay.

"Are you--" Patton sniffled " --sure you're okay?"

A rush of affection melted Janus' heart and he sighed and held Patton closer despite the shooting pain in his collarbone and the ache in his arms. Even in the midst of a post-breakdown breakdown, Patton was self-sacrificing (self- destructive) enough to check in on him. "You don't have a selfish bone in your body, do you?" Janus sighed, lamenting Patton’s bleeding heart. For some reason, this only made Patton cry harder. Janus cast his mind back to the last time Remus was this upset, found nothing, had to speculate. He and Remus and Virgil were self-sufficient, secretive. When it came to personal crises, they weathered them alone and bore the aftermath in stoicism. "Do you want me to play with your hair?"

"I don't know," Patton sobbed into Janus' chest.

Janus sighed and began to run his fingers through Patton's honey-colored hair, grateful that the thick material of his gloves kept their skin from touching. It was better this way, and a good reminder for Janus. He guarded his heart so closely for a reason.

 

Janus, despite the discomfort from the awkward weight distribution and the clammy feeling of cooled tears on his shirt, was half-asleep in the chair by the time Patton stopped crying.

"Sorry," Patton said, pulling away, and even with snot and tears all over his flushed cheeks, even with his eyes all red and puffy behind his fogged-up glasses and his hair standing up at strange diagonals from Janus' attempts at comfort, he was radiant.

"For having feelings?" Janus asked, gently imaging himself into a new, dry shirt.

"For making them your problem." Patton took his glasses off and began to polish them on the hem of his own shirt.

"Patton, I need you to know this." Janus waited until Patton looked at him before continuing, "I owe you nothing. If I had wanted you to leave, I would have asked you to leave and thought nothing of it."

Patton nodded and went back to polishing his glasses. They were silent for a long moment, during which Janus found himself unable to suppress a series of yawns. It must have been around 4:00 in the morning by this point. They had to have been the only ones awake.

"Hey, Janus," Patton said, finally putting his glasses back on. "You know The Breakfast Club?"

"Yes," Janus said distractedly, trying to figure out where Patton was going with this.

"This wasn't our version of that, was it?"

"What do you mean?"

"When tomorrow comes and we're back to, to some sort of normal… You'll still be my friend, right?"

Now here was a situation Janus had never once envisioned for himself. He had pictured winning over Roman, had pictured gaining Thomas' support. Never once had he expected real friendship with any of them, let alone Patton. "Yes," he said, feeling sick at the irony of it. He had been comfortable as Patton's enemy, was now yearning for his kiss… How could he be friends with Patton when he burned like this for Patton's wholehearted affection? Was he really just supposed to endure it?

Patton smiled, so sweet and earnest that Janus had to bite down on his tongue. "Good," he said. "Speaking of, do you wanna have breakfast with me?"

"Not right now, I hope," Janus teased.

"No, no, not right now." Patton muffled a yawn into his sleeve. "I guess I'd better go."

Janus nodded. "See you in the morning?"

"Um," said Patton, who didn't appear to have been listening. "Thank you, Janus. You didn't have to-- Well, thank you."

He sank out without another word.

Janus imagined himself into his pajamas, imagined the lights off and threw himself onto his bed. "Fuck."

 

--

 

Frigid air seeped from the hallway seeped under the crack where Janus' door stopped just short of the carpet. He didn't allow himself to notice, and continued to put his outfit on piece by agonizing piece. The cold air made his joints slow and achy, and he struggled to get the clasps done up. It was just as well that he hadn't put on his gloves yet. He had become quite adept at handling things while wearing them, but for this task, the bulky fabric would only get in the way. After all, just like his singular snake fang, his gloves were for aesthetics, not function.

Finally, he donned his hat and faced the door, forced to confront that fatal truth: He could never have what he wanted. The moment he had achieved his goal of Thomas’ acceptance, the triumph had slipped away in his hands to be replaced with a truly unattainable goal.

Memories from last night, the phantom sensation of Patton in his arms, teased him until he had to sneer at himself. Pathetic. He was acting pathetic. Falling for Patton was strategically inadvisable, even if he couldn’t help it, but actively pursuing him was out of the question. It was all-risk, no reward. Still, his treacherous heart fluttered, teasing him with the thought of Patton’s lips on his own, Patton’s hands on his body, sharing heat, deepening the kiss--

“All risk,” Janus said out loud to himself, “no reward.” A mantra to see him through. He opened his door, his gloved hand slipping a little on the polished brass of his doorknob, and nearly walked straight into Remus as he passed by with an armful of dismembered dolls.

“Well,” said Janus, tilting his head to better examine the pile of plastic limbs and bodies in Remus’ arms, “I won’t ask what you’re up to.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand, visualizing a piping hot cup of coffee. A shudder wrecked his concentration and he frowned. “Are you the reason it’s so cold in here?”

Remus ignored the question, his feverish eyes darting from Janus’ mouth to his hand to his face. “I knew you were up late last night. That’s why I came this way.” He gave a crooked but strangely boyish grin. “I wanted to know where you’d gotten off to. Or who you’d gotten off with. ”

Janus, to his horror, blushed. Fragmented images flashed through his head-- What if he had kissed Patton? And Patton had kissed back? Mask, mask, mask! “I was spreading the Gospel.”

“You were spreading something , though, weren’t you?” Remus shifted the dolls in his arms and held up a masculine torso. “I know I heard Big Daddy’s voice. Play a little game of Patton- Snake , did you?”

Janus swore he could hear porcelain cracking as his heart began to race. “In all seriousness, Remus, we did reach an agreement.”

“Sounds like you reached more than that.” Remus waggled his tongue.

God, he was relentless when he was on the scent of something. Janus hid his face behind his hands, realizing a moment too late that this display of shame would only add fuel to the fire. So he took the only option left and muttered, “Boundaries,” into his palms.

“Oh,” said Remus, leaning back on his heels. “ Oh. Janus, you didn’t .”

“Of course we didn't!” Janus hissed, dropping his hands.

"But you wanted to?"

“How much did you hear yesterday, anyway?”

“Oh, I heard the whole debacle, including that heartwarming little moment at the end,” Remus said, rocking forward onto his toes. “Thanks for putting in a good word for me, by the way.”

They fell into an awkward silence as Janus once again reached for words that simply weren’t there. “I didn’t mean it,” he said finally, cursing himself.

“No?” said Remus. “Not even a teeny tiny little bit?” He poked Janus in the chest with the plastic torso, still clenched in his left hand. “Right here?”

“You,” said Janus, “are just as evil as I am.”

Remus backed off with a grin, leaving Janus in doubt that he had ever even been angry in the first place. “So where are you off to now? Roman’s got this place awfully cold; gonna go warm Patton’s snake?”

“You already made a ‘Patton snake’ joke,” Janus said, slamming another mask onto his face to hide his blush. “But to answer your question, he asked me to join him for breakfast.”

“Aww.” Remus wiped fake tears from his cheeks. “You better not start spending too much time with him or I’m going to get jealous.”

[the-great-bbe]

Ready or Not!

Rhaenys crawls under her father’s bed. Mama was quite clear: they were playing hide and seek, and Rhaenys needed to hide her best from all the men looking for her. She stifles a giggle into her little hands. After the count of ten—ready or not, here they come!

or a quick little fanfic, about our favorite game of hide and seek :)

Lyrics of “The Hide and Seek Song” copyright by Headquarters Music.

Who wants to play a game? It’s time for hide and seek!

--

Mama kisses Rhaenys’s forehead. Egg sleeps in his cradle, despite all the noise coming from outside. It sounds scary out there, but Rhaenys is safe with Mama and Egg. Mama will never let anything bad happen to her, not even the nightmares that scare Rhaenys in the middle of the night.

“Let’s play a game, my sweet.” Mama’s hands are shaking, and her voice is high pitched. But everything must be fine, because they’re going to play a game. And not just any game, but hide and seek! “Listen carefully. Many men will try and find us, but we can’t be found by anyone. When the game is over, I’ll come get you myself, do you understand? You must hide very well, not even Balerion can find you.”

Rhaenys nods. “I’m good at this game, Mama! I’ll hide forever and ever and then we’ll have honey cakes after dinner.” Maybe if Rhaenys hides the best she can, Mama will let her have two entire honey cakes!

Mama kisses her again, and hugs her so tight that Rhaenys squeaks against her shoulder. “My little sunshine, I love you so much. Now hide. Hide!”

Rhaenys scurries off. Mama is really worried even if she didn’t say so. This game must be very important—perhaps Grandfather is playing too, even though he never plays games. So where should she hide? Maybe behind the barrels in the wine cellar, or in the gardens? No, beneath Papa’s bed! No one ever goes in his room anymore, and the space is so small that only she and Balerion can fit!

She tiptoes up the stairs, and closes the bedroom door so that it’s almost shut but not entirely. Closed doors are more suspicious in hide and seek, after all. Then she tucks herself beneath the bed, and arranges the heavy bedspread so that it’s not wrinkled. Rhaenys shimmies to the very edge of where the bedframe meets the wall, and waits.

She waits, and waits. She almost wants to go back and ask Mama for how long they’re supposed to play, and how many players. But instead she wiggles with anticipation. Mama was quite clear: they were playing hide and seek, and Rhaenys needed to hide her best from all the men looking for her. And Rhaenys is the very best at hiding! She stifles a giggle into her little hands. After the count of ten, or maybe a hundred—ready or not, here they come!

Rhaenys spies a shadow by the almost-closed door, and holds her breath.

-- Run, run, run! Time to run and hide!

Run, run, run! And now I’m going to find you, scurry off into the darkness.

Hurry, I’m behind you!

Don’t you speak! Hide and seek!

--

“Myrcella! Myrcella, where are you?”

Myrcella bites her lip. Joffrey is no good at being a seeker, he gets too angry and starts shouting for her and the servant children. And of course the servants come out, and Joffrey is so mean when he catches someone! But not Myrcella—she is the very best at this game, and she would rather fall asleep beneath this dusty old bed than let Joffrey win.

Mother tells her to let Joffrey win, to keep him from throwing a tantrum, but Uncle Tyrion says that it’s good for even the Crown Prince to be told no every now and then. She sniffles. One of the serving girls showed her this hiding spot, saying that no one ever looks under here since it’s so deep in Maegoir’s Holdfast and who can fit beneath a bed anyway?

Why does the Hand even have this room—maybe this is where Lady Lysa is supposed to sleep, instead of in Lord Littlefinger’s rooms. Myrcella isn’t supposed to know about that, of course. But she knows a lot. She knows that Joffrey isn’t going to be a very good king, and that Mother and Father should’ve never married, and that the mean old black cat Tommen wants to catch had another owner before. Myrcella heard Uncle Jaime speak about him once, and the person who owned the cat before. Uncle Jaime says many things about before Myrcella was born, but only when he is drunk and sad.

She twists a bit of string around her string until her finger turns purple. By now Joffrey must have found Sweetrobin and Tommen. She hopes that Sweetrobin cried and punched Joffrey in the nose. He gets to hit Joffrey without getting in trouble, since his father is the Hand. Myrcella is just a girl though, and must be a sweet little lady who lets Joffrey do whatever he wants. Last time she complained to him about cheating in games, he bit her ear. Mother wiped her tears and told her to bear it with a smile. Myrcella stopped complaining after that, but it still burns in her stomach.

Father says he won’t be like this forever, at least. Myrcella hopes so. She imagines him fully grown, but still the same way, and instead of twisting her arm he twists her neck. Just like Tommen’s kitten that bit him once. Joffrey let the poor little creature under Tommen’s bed, and Tommen screamed about monsters for weeks afterward. She sighs. There aren’t any monsters here that Myrcella doesn’t already know.

Myrcella hears footsteps down the corridor and holds her breath. Oh, if Joffrey finds her, he’ll tug at her hair and scratch at her arms! He’ll be so horrible, he always is! She’d rather die than be found by him!

--

Tiptoe through the cellar or crawl under your bed.

Anywhere you’ve fled, I am going to find you!

Stay inside the shadows, all you girls and boys.

Don’t you make noise, or I am going to find you!

--

“Are you afraid?” Myriame asks Arya, but she shakes her head. She refuses to be afraid. Not now, when they’re still hiding from the men who took Father away and locked Sansa in her room.

She shivers and Myriame pats her arm. She’s one of the serving girls—Arya heard Father call them Lord Varys’s little birds, once. Before everything went so wrong. But when Father was taken, a group of serving girls took Arya by the arm and hid with her in an alcove. They cut her hair, they dirtied her face, they shredded her fine dress and pinned a dirty pinafore to her shoulders. No more Arya Stark, just Nan. Nan, amongst Myriame, and Celia, and Delight, and Sera. Just another serving girl hiding behind curtains, nor beneath the bed.

“It will be alright,” Myriame whispers. “The only ones who go down here are us. Everyone else gets caught like Princess Myrcella. Those men won’t ever get us.”

Arya shivers. No one speaks of Princess Myrcella and how she disappeared without a trace. Did bad men steal her away like Father and Sansa? She dares to ask, “How do you know?”

But then their breath because there’s men outside their room. Their voices are harsh and drip with ill intent. One of them calls Sansa a whore and Arya wants to stab his eyes out with Needle. But then they enter the room and she squeezes her eyes shut and holds her hands over her nose and mouth. They can’t find her. They can’t! They’ll take her away from Father and Sansa, and who knows what they’ll do to Myriame!

There are four beds in this room, a servants’ dorm. Arya dares to peek. They check beneath one bed. Then another. One of the men cackles, “I can smell you, little girl! Where are you hiding?”

Neither of them dare to breathe. The man says in a high pitched mockery voice, “Ready or not, here I come!”

Arya burrows into Myriame’s side and waits to die. There is noise, yelling, shouting, terrible noise. Then there is heavy silence, only broken by Myriame’s breaths. Arya doesn’t dare open her eyes. Not for a second.

Myriame murmurs again that it will be alright, but Arya keeps her eyes firmly shut, counting the seconds.

--

Run, run, run! Creep up on my grave!

Run, run, run! Stalk the night away!

Scuttle off into the night! But what’ll be behind you?

Don’t you speak! Hide and seek!

--

Tywin barricades the doors shut in his wrath. How do two grown knights go missing in daylight?! And not just any knights, but his own—he needs Gregor Clegane’s bloodlust to scour the Riverlands, like a beast on a leash. And Amory Lorch is slime suited for the most unsavory tasks that Tywin cannot do. But they are gone, disappeared without a trace.

Just like his granddaughter Myrcella.

He sheaves himself onto his chair and pours himself a goblet from a blood red decanter. Years have passed, and still Cersei blames the Dornish. But even Tywin can’t point the finger at them, as there is no evidence at all. Myrcella simply played hide and seek one day, and was never found. Most likely some depraved monster of a servant took the girl for his own desires and threw her into the Blackwater, a fate entirely underserved for anyone of House Lannister. The fact that the girl was too sweet to harm a fly just makes the wound sting greater. Without her calming influence, Joffrey is an unhinged little bastard, and Tommen a spineless fool. What is Cersei teaching her children?

Not to mention she’s let both Stark girls escape! First Arya in the chaos after Eddard Stark’s arrest, then Sansa from a barricaded room! Last Tywin heard, they were both back in their mother’s custody at Riverrun. And Robb Stark is proving himself to be a wolf on the battlefield—he’ll have to deal with the boy himself. If he can stop him from overtaking the Riverlands and spilling into the Westerlands! Tywin could gouge his daughter’s eyes out for her folly. They will never get Jaime back, now that they’ve lost their bargaining chips!

Tywin hears footsteps lead up to his door and barks, “I am to be undisturbed!” He doesn’t hear them head back down the stairwell, and he growls to himself. Idiots, he is surrounded by idiots! He stalks to the door and swings open the door.

There is no one there. He blinks, then closes it. He turns back towards his chair, and the window is open. Cold sweat beads at his brow. He never opened that window, and yet the curtains blow in the wind.

A princess and two knights go missing in broad daylight without a trace. This must be the work of faceless Men from Braavos, paid to…to what? Myrcella is an obvious target, if less obvious than Joffrey or Tommen. But why Clegane and Lorch? Perhaps this is a Dornish ploy, as revenge for Princess Elia and her children—

Something falls over in his adjoined privy and Tywin swears he hears footsteps come up the stairwell once more. He steals into his bedroom without so much as a whisper, as one breath. He must hide. The wardrobe’s doors are swinging in the breeze. The Faceless Man will hear him close them, surely. But where else? His heart pounds in his temples and his vision swims. By the gods, are they already inside the room?

He looks down. It is insulting, but his only choice. Tywin squeezes himself beneath his bed and pushes himself towards the wall. The walls themselves are hollow, to allow the servants to attend without disturbing his betters. If he can find the trapdoor without alerting the assassin, he can survive this.

He is Tywin Lannister, the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He will not die here! He holds his breath, and wills his numb hands to stop shaking.

--

Like a frog inside a skillet, a lobster in a pan.

You don’t understand that I am going to find you!

Be still as a mountain and quiet as a mouse, ‘cause any little sound,

And I will surely find you!

--

Joffrey is dead. Joffrey is dead! And the castle isn’t safe! Tommen scurries into an abandoned room deep in Maegor’s Holdfast. There’s just a trundle bed in the corner, boxes piled on top of each other in the center, and dust coating everything. Once, Myrcella showed him this room while playing hide and seek—but that was when she was still here. Even years later, no one understands what happened to her, or to Gregor Clegane, or Amory Lorch, or to Grandfather. Mother blames the wicked Dornish. Joffrey blames evil Northmen magic. But Tommen knows, he knows that it’s the monsters. He has seen them in the night! They are in the walls! They are beneath the beds!

Tommen told Margaery to run before he fled the wedding feast. He hopes she survives. But he can’t think of more than finding his hiding place. He’ll never make it out of the castle, not with the smallfolk starving and so angry at them. He’ll sneak out at night, before the monster goes feeding. And then he’ll head…somewhere. Anywhere but here!

Try as he might, Joffrey haunts his steps. His bloated purple face, the bile and blood spilling down his chin to pool in Mother’s lap. Mother screamed and screamed when he died, like the day when they couldn’t find Myrcella or Father. The monsters must have killed him too, like everything else in this castle. And now he is alone!

Tommen shrieks, and claws at his hair. He can’t breathe! They can hear him! They can smell him! He is next!

He crouches down on the bed in the corner. He wills himself to breathe but he’s too afraid. Joffrey is dead! Myrcella is dead! Grandfather is dead! Will they ever find his body?! Tommen chokes on his sobs and his entire chest aches. He hurts. It hurts. The fear, it hurts, make it stop—

He collapses to the ground. He writhes, and scoots beneath the bed, and muffles his screams into the dust and the dark.

--

Tick—tick—tock, are you ready or not?

Tick—tick—tock, listen to the clock!

Hasten off into the black, don’t waste another heartbeat,

Don’t you peek! Hide and seek!

--

Dragons roar from over Kings Landing, and Cersei sobs into her hands. She should be on the Iron Throne to meet the usurpers, but then they burned her Kingsguard at the gates and—and she panicked. She ran, and hid beneath a servant’s bed.

King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth, come back from the dead! With silver-gold hair and bronze skin and indigo eyes, thirty thousand Dornish spears at his back and that miserable little chit Shireen Baratheon as a bride with the Stormlands as her dowry! And Daenerys Stormborn, Queen Beyond the Sea, come to help her nephew claim his throne with their shared dragons! They each ride one, with one reserved for the sister that Lannister men murdered along with godsdamned Elia Martell! Cersei could scream, but then they’d find her.

She must escape.

If she makes her way back to Casterly Rock, then she shall be saved. No dragon can defeat the heart of the Westerlands! Cersei can still salvage this, even with all her family dead and her dreams scattered to ashes in her throat—

At least there is no valonqar. The prophecy took her children from her, but her neck is still her own.

At least she got to hold Joffrey as he died. Myrcella and Tommen had no bodies to bury. He was her first, and her last, and she prays that he found his siblings from wherever those wretched monsters stole them away.

Muffled footsteps creep from beyond the corridor and Cersei can’t breathe. A servant? A Dornish spear? A Dothraki? Daenerys? Aegon? A monster?

Bare feet enter the room, splattered with dirt and blood. One of Varys’s little birds? They skip to the edge of the bed, and a sweet voice rings out, “Found you!”

Swift as night and brutal as the Blackwater, a hand reaches under and grips Cersei by the hair. She screams as she is dragged out, and then she can’t scream because hands are at her throat and twisting—

--

Let the countdown begin!

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

--

Rhaenys peeks out from behind the door. All is still and silent. Not even the flies are buzzing. She stifles a giggle into her hands. Aegon raises an eyebrow, and she explains, “Everyone always hides under the bed. A child’s mistake, it can be forgiven with time and wisdom.”

He shakes his head, before resting his chin on her head. “You’ll never need to hide beneath the bed again, I swear it.”

“I know.” She trusts her brother. She loved him before he could even remember her face, of course she trusts him. Him, and their aunt Daenerys, and their family in Dorne, and all her friends hiding in the walls—Rhaenys shall never be alone again.

Her family are in the throne room, and she shouldn’t keep them waiting. How happy they will be to see her! How happy she will be to see them! The weight of years of hiding bows her shoulders. It is time for her to stop hiding, stop seeking, stop this game and take her place in Aegon’s circle. He will be so proud to see how she’s survived. Mama would be proud. But Rhaenys…well, old habits die hard.

She shimmies beneath the bed and pulls Aegon down with her. He laughs and she lets the shadows become her. Just once more. Once more, the darkness becomes her. Rhaenys bares her teeth in a grin. What better tool for a new king than a monster who knows where everyone hides? Aegon survived the last game between them, and she’ll keep it that way.

She tells Aegon to count to ten, and he holds his breath.

A clock ticks somewhere.

There are many who covet the throne. And the countdown begins anew.

--

Ready or not, here I come!

[charlemange1]

Ranking adaptations of Victor Frankenstein from least to most evil

The character Victor Frankenstein has been adapted many times over the years. Sometimes he’s a heroic YA protagonist while others have him using his clone army to wipe out humanity and take over the world. But which Victor is truly the worse?

After reading several adaptations, I’ve decided to rank Victor’s morality in each one and find out! The gothic lit community doesn’t talk about these adaptations much, so hopefully this list can introduce the fandom to some of the lesser-known interpretations out there!

This is part one, which ranks printed retellings only. If people enjoy it, I’ll do a part two and merge the films into the mix!

Disclaimers (please read):

SPOILERS! Victor’s actions in these adaptations will be thoroughly analyzed with no regard for the spoiler tag.

Some of the more evil Victor’s get into dark territory, and while I will not go into extensive detail (lest I go insane) if mentions of abuse, sexual themes, possessive behavior and murder bother you, don’t make my mistake and turn back! (I will leave an additional reminder when said parts come up)

This list centers on Victor’s actions and NOT the quality of the books themselves—so if you see your favorite title getting a low score it’s not because it’s a bad book—it’s because Victor is a jerk.

This list is by no means complete, just the ones I’ve read personally.

These are my silly personal opinions and if you disagree with my ranking that’s perfectly fine!

Ranking: On a 1-10 scale, with 10 being fantastic and 0 being “run if you see this man in a dark alley.”

10/10 Perfect Sunbeam. Overall great, wholesome guy!

*crickets chirp in a serene backdrop of a Romantic field*

Good dude

Junji Ito’s Frankenstein: 8.5/10

Props to the master of manga monsters for making the twist be that Victor is not secretly evil/insane.

Not only does Victor pity the creature and agree to create a mate for him—but he keeps his word! This is especially touching when you consider how the creature treks alllllll the way to Switzerland to dig up Justine’s head as a face for the bride. (Henry says he probably didn’t know it was Justines, but come on, you just happened to pick up the head of the girl you framed and carried it for miles across land and sea to deliver it to Victor instead of stopping somewhere closer? I don't buy it.)

Victor even goes the extra mile, kindly stating:

Yet the bride rejects the creature (not Victor’s fault) and in revenge, the creature kills Henry, Elizabeth, and Alphonse. In retaliation, Victor follows him onto the ice and relates his tale to Walton before dying.

Victor's actions are nothing heroic, but what more could he have done? He didn’t break his promise and kill the bride like in the original novel and he clearly cared about reanimating “Justine” as shown in the above image.

And did I mention this manga was done by Junji Ito? Would YOU stay in the same room if you created a Junji Ito monster? Didn't think so! After the initial mistake of abandoning his monster, this Victor did the best he could to make amends and protect his family--making him an overall good person.

Decent guy

This Dark endeavor by Kenneth Oppel: 7/10

Serving as a prequel to the original novel, This Dark Endeavor tells the untold story of what leads young Victor Frankenstein to create his monster.

While Victor very much struggles with his angsty dark desires (bad), he tirelessly searches for the alchemic "Elixir of Life" to save his twin brother (good). A brother who is more talented than Victor, has the heart of his love interest, and Victor believes everyone prefers over himself.

Good on you, Victor, for letting the love for your brother override understandable sibling jealousy. If that wasn’t enough to make him decent, letting a few fingers be cut off to save his twin definitely does.

What brings Victor down to a 7 is his relationship with Elizabeth. It’s born out of jealousy from her loving his twin rather than genuine affection. Even if this retelling makes Elizabeth a feisty, pants-wearing independent female (to lessen the possessive undertones Victor exhibits, I presume? Read it and judge for yourself), the relationship does nothing positive for his character. Tricking someone into kissing you is a jerk move, bro.

Ok I guess….

Such Wicked Intent by Kenneth Oppel 6/10

The sequel to This Dark Endeavor loses Victor’s careful balance of good and bad traits its predecessor boasted. Victor wasn’t perfect in TDE, but the majority of his negative actions stemmed from trying to save his ill brother and were mostly forgivable. In Such Wicked Intent, his understandable sibling jealously now comes off as petty since Victor’s twin is already dead.

Victor trying to bring his brother back to life (good) is undermined by his growing reliance on supernatural butterflies that increase his abilities despite other characters pointing out the obvious danger. Victor is also not the greatest parent to Twin 2.0 and the previous issues with him and Elizabeth from book 1 don’t improve. He’s the same Victor from TDE, but the plot focusing on his selfish desires makes him more flawed as a result.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (the original novel): 6/10

Depending on how you interpret the events of the original novel, Victor is either a college Dad in over his head and trying his best after an initial mistake, or a misogynistic, irresponsible jerk only capable of thinking of himself. There are enough professional articles to support both interpretations, and I’m not the person to pick one over the other. 

However, if the narrative he tells Walton is to be taken as truth (and the creature not correcting Victor's account tells me it is), Victor spent most of the novel trying to fix his mistake (intentions may vary)—and isn’t too bad as a result.  

Pride and Prometheus by John Kessel: 5/10

Despite being a crossover with Pride and Prejudice, Kessel tries to be as faithful to the original Frankenstein as possible. However, the few changes he makes hurts Victor from a moral standpoint.

Victor’s not the greatest guy when handling the romantic gestures of both Mary Bennet and Henry. Also, murdering his creature's mate with poison right before they leave to start their happily ever after is awful, but understandable from his point of view.

Then there's P&P's ending, where Walton describes meeting Victor on the ice. It’s revealed that Victor left killing the creature's mate and the Bennet’s out of his narrative. While this is probably Kessel justifying why Jane Austen’s characters and his changes weren’t mentioned in the original text (and who can blame him?) it does make Victor a liar. In the original, the creature never called Victor out for omitting anything—so altering the story on his deathbed places P&P’s Victor a rung lower than his original counterpart.

Ehh….

Frankenstein According to Spike Milligan: 4/10

As a nearly-word-for-word retelling with minor, humorous changes by the comedian Spike Milligan, Victor is more pathetic than anything. He’s a harmless, pathetic, hilarious jerk.

Some quotes:

"I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. From a great distance my family could see me bounding with unbridled joy and hilarity." (53)

*

"'I tell you,’ I said, ‘that murderer had his trousers down, was eating fish paste sandwiches and traveling 100 miles per hour.’" (59)

*

"‘I can offer you no consolation,’ said he.

‘Then piss off.’ said I." (54)

Here’s his jail visit with Justine in animatic form (and me shamelessly plugging my other creative endeavors)

Monster by Neal Bell 3.5/10

Warning: contains mentions of animal abuse

On one hand, Victor wants to conquer death to save his family and is clearly disturbed over Justine's and his mother’s death. However, the man expresses little concern at the possibility of William getting struck by lightning with his kite in front of his mother who had already lost 9 children.

He can also talk to dogs and cats (for…some reason?) who are portrayed as intelligent beings with feelings—yet that doesn’t stop him from eating said dogs in the Arctic and killing said cat after threatening her with a knife. He also flings around Bible verses while being painfully egotistical about “being God”.

Using Henry’s romantic affections toward him to his advantage, briefly forcing himself on Elizabeth, and tenderly caring for his monster only to abandon him after the creature expresses a want to die just makes him an awful person all around. The fact he doesn’t do these things with clear malicious intent saves him from being any lower.  

Quotes:

ELIZABETH: A bone. A brittle bit of skin. A tooth—

VICTOR: Would you not be womanish now?

Be useful. Here—hold the Leyden jar,

While I attach the string…

*

VICTOR: A satisfactory morning, then, Mister Puss—tormenting the dogs?

CAT: God gave me a duty. I fulfill it.

VICTOR: Papa says there is no God.

(He takes out a knife)

Pretty bad dude

WARNING: Please note that some of these Victors get into unsavory territory. If the mention of sexual themes/abuse/murder bothers you turn back:

The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein by Peter Ackroyd: 3/10

This one was tricky. The narrative chugs along with Victor being an intelligent, thoughtful guy with only a few obsessive tendencies. He’s chilling with the Shelleys, talking to the poor in the streets and financially supporting Fred’s family along with giving out generous tips. He’s a cool guy. He’s a great dude! He’s….revealed in the final 2 pages to be recounting everything from a mental asylum, the monster was in his head, and he’s actually the one that committed the murders.

Alrighty then.   ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Having his insanity revealed in the final pages, it’s hard to judge whether there was genuine malicious intent or if Victor truly thought he created the creature and believed he was doing good in trying to “stop” it. No matter his intentions though, the body count remains and a child strangler has no place being anything higher than a 3.

The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein by Kiersten White: 1/10

We all knew this one would make the list. Elizabeth’s first flashback sets up Victor as having serious issues—the question becomes how low will he go? Turns out pretty low. 

He’s the one who killed William and framed Justine along with murdering his father, brother Robert and various people at Ingolstadt. 

What really makes him despicable is that Elizabeth is the novel's main POV character who only sticks with Victor so she’s not thrown out on the streets. He’s abusive, controlling, dominating, and so possessive that he’ll perfect reanimation so that not even death can take her away from him! Yikes. I can’t stress enough how being in Elizabeth’s POV makes these actions all the more menacing. 

Quote:

“There was never another path for you. Consider how much worse it has all been for me. How much I have had to suffer. And how much of that suffering has been caused directly by you!” His face twitched, and his fingers tightened on the pistol. Then he sighed. “It does not do to dwell on it. There is no point in fighting. This is your fate, Elizabeth Frankenstein. I will let no other claim you—not man, not death, not even God.” (279)

Nice guy.

Despite his terrible actions, Victor is trying to "save" Elizabeth from death. In his mind, he wants what’s best for her. It’s a crazy mind that mixed up domination and love, but the fact that his evil actions come from wanting to keep someone he wants to control cares about safe vs. other versions where his crimes stem from wanting to rival god and rule the world, this version isn’t THAT bad. At least his hearts in the right place—even if his mentality is utter garbage.

The Memoirs of Elizabeth Frankenstein by Theodore Roszak 0/10

*insert my screams of insurmountable anguish here*

Caroline: Hey son, you should do NSFW things.

Victor: Sure. I will now do NSFW things.

Victor: *proceeds to do NSFW things*

The reprint of this novel mentions on the cover it’s erotica, but the copy I bought (and to this day have not finished) had no such disclaimer. I’ll break my rule and speak on the quality of this book: there is none. For an alleged “pro-feminism” novel everyone is terrible—and Victor is no exception.

Literally Satan.

Dean Koontz’s Frankenstein Series: -∞/10

So you’ve read far enough to join me in Hell.

Where do even I start? This is a Victor who extended his life to the present day. Who worked with Hitler, Stalin, Castro and regretted the fall of the Third Reich. Who created an army of emotionally deprived “new race” creations to kill people and assume their identities so he could ascend the ranks of politics. Who, once he has enough of his new race integrated into society, desires to commit mass genocide on humanity and establish himself as supreme ruler of the world—only then can he conquer the cosmos as well because why the hell not?  

Oh, and he’s a wife-beater/murderer too! Which isn’t a problem, considering he can create a new wife whenever he sees fit (he was on Erika 5 by book 3). The sheer lack of any positive traits in this man is laughable. Koontz really, REALLY wants to get across that Victor is a bad guy.

And if you’re somehow not convinced by the above description, here are some quotes I pulled from the first 3 novels as a bonus to reeeeeally sell how despicable this clown is:

Regarding Elizabeth:

“Victor had not loved Elizabeth. Love and God were myths he rejected with equal contempt. But Elizabeth had belonged to him. Even after more than 200 years, he still bitterly resented the loss of her, as he would have resented losing an exquisite antique porcelain vase if [his creature] had smashed that instead of the bride,” (3.97). 

Regarding Mary Shelley:

“When Mary Shelley took a local legend based on truth and crafted fiction from it, she made Victor a tragic figure and killed him off. He understood her dramatic purpose for giving him a death scene, but he loathed her for portraying him as tragic and as a failure. Her judgment of his work was arrogant. What else of consequence did she ever write? And of the two, who was dead—and who was not?” (1.79-80)

(Author Note: For your information, Victor, The Last Man is considered by some to be the first dystopian novel)

His…ah…"friends”:

“Fire was featured in some of his less pleasant memories. The great windmill. The bombing of Dresden. The Israeli Mossad attack on the secret Venezuelan research complex that he had shared with Mengele in the years after World War Two. Nevertheless, he liked to read to the accompaniment of a cozy crackling fire,” (1.76).

*

“Victor admired Hitler. The Führer knew talent when he saw it.

In the 1930s and 40s, Victor had worked with Mengele and others in Hitler's privileged scientific class. He made considerable progress in his work before the regrettable allied victory…the problem with the Führer had been that his roots were in art and politics…The future did not belong either to artists or to politicians,” (2.24-25).

Dat ego tho:

“When I die, those cells will be capped descend a signal that will be relayed by satellite to everyone made of new race flesh, to every meat machine that walks. And you will fall down dead,’…Victor smiled, anticipating triumph in spite of their silence. ‘Did you think a God would die alone?’” (3.345).  

*

Civilization would not be remade or sustained by Christianity or by Islam. Neither by Scientologists nor by the bright-eyed adherence of the deliciously solipsistic paranoid new religion encouraged by The Da Vinci Code. Tomorrow belonged to scientism. The priests of scientism were not merely robed clerics performing rituals, they were gods, with the power of gods. Victor himself was their Messiah,” (2.25).

*

“With Victor's unstoppable drive for power, with his singular intellect, with his cold materialism and his ruthless practicality, and now with synchronicity on his side, he had become untouchable, immortal.

He was immortal,” (3.329).

*

“How they goggled at him, abashed by his wisdom and knowledge, mortified by their ignorance, over-awed by his godlike power,” (3.330). 

*

“’Murder,’ said the caller. ‘murder…excites me.’

Victor kept the growing concern out of his voice. ‘No, your mind is fine. I don't make mistakes.’” (1.156)

Oh yeah, he has a wife, doesn't he:

“This is why Victor requires …the cruel humiliation of his partner. He has long ago transcended the guilt that committing acts of cruelty might spawn in others...the exercise of raw power thrills him,” (1.244).

*

“I have given you a life…remember that. I have given you a life, and I will choose what you do with it,” (1.464).

Wives view of him:

“She owned literally hundreds of outfits. Having been created to his ideal measurements, Victor had purchased everything…She hoped that someday she would be allowed to shop for herself. When Victor allowed that, she would know she had at last met his standards and earned his trust. Briefly, she wondered what it would be like not to care what Victor—or anyone—thought of her. To be herself. Independent. Those were dangerous thoughts. She must repress them.” (1.107)    

*

And those are just the PG bits, he does much, much worse.

*

In conclusion:

So yes, Spike Milligan made Victor a pathetic jerk, Casebook made Victor a madman, Memoirs made him an erotic predator, Dark Descent had him as an abusive boyfriend ruthless in possessing “his Elizabeth”,  but nearly succeeding at worldwide genocide while abusing/murdering/manipulating people to achieve his goals makes Dean Koontz’s Victor Frankenstein the worse, more morally despicable Victor Frankenstein of them all. At least from what I’ve read.

Annnnd that’s it! If you want me to make a part 2 and add in the films/plays let me know! Hopefully at least one of these peeked your interest as something to check out during spooky season.

Shameless plug-in: here’s my own Frankenstein adaptation

*

Bonus!

Ranking the books on how much I liked them personally!

Great:

The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein: Nice to see Victor’s villainy stem from family relations and not ego and wanting to defy God for a change.

Junji Ito’s Frankenstein: Phenomenal artwork, fairly faithful adaptation, and the changes serve to put Victor in a better light—which I love! The master of manga monsters himself made the right choice in keeping the creature more monstrous in this version instead of focusing on his humanity.

This Dark Endeavor: Frankenstein characters go on a Harry Potter styled adventure. Need I say more?

Average:

Such Wicked Intent: Victor’s character takes a dip, and pit monsters/life-absorbing butterflies don’t quite fit in a Frankenstein prequel.

Frankenstein According to Spike Milligan: It’s a silly, stupid comedy. Got a few chuckles out of me.

Pride and Prometheus: The concept works way better than it should. However, it follows the original text to a fault and can be boring at points. 

Bad:

Warning: contains mentions of suicide 

Monster: Victor’s character was far too inconsistent to be likable. He can talk to animals why, exactly?

Casebook of Victor Frankenstein: So, Victor is revealed to be crazy in the final 3 pages? So, the monster was in his head? Alright. But other characters throughout the book SAW the monster and described him like Victor did. So, there’s no way to separate Victor’s POV from reality and that kills the reread value and makes this a waste of time. Don’t get me wrong, the creature being symbolic for Victor’s inner demons is a fascinating direction if done well—and I recommend the essay “Frankenstein: The Man and the Monster” by Arthur Belefant if you want a much shorter exploration of this concept. It’s not perfect, but beats Casebook by a longshot!

Also, taking the real-life suicide of Percy’s wife Harriet and turning it into Victor murdering her and framing it on someone else to mimic Frankenstein’s Justine/William scene is just wrong. You made a woman’s suicide a cheap plot point in your fanfic of the mistress’s novel. That is what you did, author.

Dean Koontz Frankenstein: It starts out good and has great suspense—too bad the actual plot is awful. Victor’s so painfully evil it comes off as comical, the characters are bad/bland, plot holes abound (they state Mary Shelley’s novel is canon, then mention the windmill which was only in the films—so who even IS this Victor? Book or film?). The conclusion in book 3 is one of the most underwhelming finals I’ve ever read, and the creature “cures” a kid of Autism in the final chapter. No really. How this is a book series/comic series/movie is beyond me.

So atrocious I couldn’t bring myself to finish:

Warning: contains mentions of sexual themes

The Memoirs of Elizabeth Frankenstein: It claims to be pro-feminist, but the women “good guys” blatantly state they are grooming children for sexual rituals and Victor and Elizabeth are coerced into doing NSFW things by Victor’s mother in the name of “women’s rights”. Here’s the kicker: these awful actions are framed as being positive. I—a woman—loath this novel. Maybe things got better by the end (and if there was some plot twist that changed the entire setup, I apologize for ranting about nothing) but I’m not reading to that point to find out! This will forever stay both my first and last experience with erotic literature. Thank goodness The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein exists to give us a decent feminist take on Frankenstein!

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

(1/3) Don't respond yet if you still feel unwell but to comment on that last ask/response, as someone who kept interest in the show mainly for Dean, I don't feel "betrayed" by Carver or Dabb ? Like, they present situations and characters reacting to them and I don't care if THEY think one side is "right" in any given scene, I just use my own judgement and in the last seasons, Sam and Cas weren't "more right" than Dean ? I know the debate is about the authors' intents but why should it be ? -

(2/3) I’m gonna go with examples that were loud for me here but Carver era had an actual scene comparing REGULAR Sam’s actions and demon Dean’s actions to show that Sam is just as, if not MORE ruthless than DEMON DEAN ? He had Sam releasing the Darkness just to save Dean ? Sam not even trying to save Kevin in season 8 ? Using a mentally ill man to track Benny ? Cas selfishly choosing Dean over a shit ton of confused, lost, fallen angels ?

(3/3) Sam projecting so hard on Jack he forgets this isn't just a kid with visions but a being that can go nuclear was, while good intentioned, hella dangerous of him ? Dean’s wariness was justified by SO many things, and not just his grief, which was also very valid ? Cas’ relationship with Jack is very romanticized, but the decision to keep him alive and protect him is literally born from a desire to use him to save the world ? They ALL stayed relatively fucked up til the end lads

Yeah, no, I was just musing about this - in the Carver era everyone including Sam did dark things (although I wouldn’t say Cas owed the angels anything after a certain point, he kept trying and trying to fix something that was broken way before and deeper than what he actually broke personally).

I don’t actually have much to reprimand most of the Carver era (season 11 in terms of Sam is definitely the weakest, but season 11 chose to focus on other things), and definitely I don’t think the Carver era ever really asked us to pick sides or put one of the characters above the others.

The Dabb era, it may be that it wasn’t the intention, but it often felt that way. That the narrative did frame Dean as wrong, his way of reacting to grief/trauma not quite “right”. A lot of people felt this and were hurt by this. Maybe it was just wonky writing, but even I found myself upset multiple times, despite my positive approach. The last few seasons haven’t been always easy to watch when you identify with Dean. The Carver era had Dean do some terrible things and literally become murderous and whatever and yet it never felt this way.

The things you list in the third part, did the narrative really question those? I’m not saying that the narrative needs to spoon-feed us answers or moral judgements because that’s not what it has to do or should do at all, but the characters, in-story, never really had those actions questioned.

[bookfreaky]

LOVE DOING - The Analysis

Intro:

I try to never analyse my work while still working on it, because I believe that the painting must be born from an image in your head, or a feeling, and not from a concrete idea. That is the foundation of abstractionism. Then when you’re finished and you are kind of star-gazing your own work, you try to find what made you create all that, what made you use that colour or this shape. I did that and I saw that all the dots were connected in the same theme: Love.  

Love as a broad concept and my experience with that. I think love is a very liquid sentiment, like water, it takes the shape of its every container you put it, but pretty much it’s still love. That same impulse is there. It can be like water also in the way it reflects the sun light, how it changes colours and distorts shapes. Love can be illusory; it can be lysergic but it can also be the answer to many simple questions in life. In its gas form it can be contagious and performative as it inhabits imagination, but it can also become solid when under pressure, just like water becomes ice under high pressures. In difficult situations, the love you feel for that person may be the only thing that keeps you going. I experienced that, and I think many people did too with so many people getting ill and dying during the Covid pandemic.

Like water it nurtures, like water it drowns. Love can be represented as a substance, like it just did, but also it persists as an action, an abstract action at so, an actual verb. In abstractionism, it’s to be said that colour is verb while shape is noun (I won’t remember to said that), for that reason I focused in this collection mainly in two colours in their variations, red and blue. Without the political branding aesthetic, red is seen in psychoanalysis as a active colour, the colour of human blood. Blue could be described as a “calmer” colour, but not so lacking in action. As Rebecca Solnit said, I quote:

“Water is colourless, shallow water appears to be the colour of whatever lies underneath it, but deep water is full of this scattered light, the purer the water the deeper the blue. The sky is blue for the same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to be dissolving into the sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue, the blue at the farthest reaches of the places where you see for miles, the blue of distance.”

So I dedicate this four paintings to the people I love and whomever loves things, but also to all the feelings that come about with love. Some of these paintings are capable of calming me and I could keep looking at them for hours, forgetting about myself. Others make me feel angsty, uncomfortable and looking at them oblige me to think about my own existence and fear my future.

I really hope you look at the paintings before you read the whole thing, and suffer through the same. Thank you.  

Love Escaping Into the Blue:

This one was the first painting I made, before I imagined it to be a collection, and it was born from the experience of decompressing love from a place of deep passion; where you are taken by this sudden and enormous sadness but also relief. I felt free, really. I read this biology paper from the Monterey Bay Aquarium, called “Light in the Deep Sea”, and it explains that there’s some uniformity of colour in the ocean animals according to how deep in the water they inhabit. Animals living in the great depths of the sea, between 6,000 and 11,000 meters deep, have commonly a very vivid red colour, but closer to the surface of the water, between 200 and 1,000 meters deep, most animals are silver and grey. That’s because in this depth the brightness of sunlight is fragmented into a blue colour, and grey reflects the blue light creating the illusion that the animal is, in fact, blue. A Blue Whale is actually grey, not blue.

[Seadevil Fish (Cryptosaras couesii), left. Blue Whale (Balaenoptera musculus), right.]

The painting shows a leak of red coming into blue and bluer space, which is this feeling of infatuation and selfish desire, possession, fear and jealousy that is very red in colour and has connotations of violence and anger, moving into a place that is not so deep in the water but clearer and wider as the open sea, illuminated by this navy-blue light. It’s like you can finally breathe and see that your love is still there, but it has changed. In hope by being closer to the atmosphere it is also somehow closer to the divine. I imagine some people might feel lost when love escapes into the blue, and I get this sensation too, but it’s about loving freely, learning how not to feel love so deeply into ourselves, but widely like the ocean.

Love Growing in the Pit of the Stomach: 

When I looked at this painting in particular after it was done, I had this sensation of angst that was difficult for me to name. It’s about desire, it’s about this feeling growing inside of you that you know it will be something more than what you want, but what you need. I’ve become obsessed with the image of holes, looking like they are piercing the canvas; I think they show this emptiness I feel, like a window showing how hollow I am inside, but also, they give me this satisfying feeling by looking at them, like opening a wound and poking a bubble. I think this emptiness comes from the idea most trans women cannot take away from the back of their heads, which is if you do or do not have a “female genitalia”. Gender in our culture is very centred around genitals and biological sex, for centuries being a woman has been defined by the person who’s able to carry a man’s child. There is this little fantasy of mine where women have this little hole in them that can swallow the world. The idea of it, for me, has grown into a very real desire very much like the desire for sex. Actually, very close to sex too. But the roots growing out of the hole, in green and blue, represent pain and fear, because I’m not sure if I’m okay with the idea of having to undergo a surgical procedure to fulfil this fantasy, neither I am sure if it is a fantasy or a need.

Most of my work resembles yonic shapes (resembling the form of a vulva), either in this work or in former ones, and it’s never intentional, it sort of just slips from my subconscious. I believe that the vulva, as well as the womb, are under-shadowed symbols of power. Phallic shapes are very common in art and what-not, they are usually associated with offense and aggression. Like when school boys draw a dick on the toilet stalls as if marking their territory. The vulva, however, is never quite portrayed like that.

I read about this Japanese visual artist, Megumi Igarashi, who made several pieces of art shaped after her own vagina, including a yellow vagina-boat (which I absolutely loved) and she got arrested and fined for “obscenity”. I think that for her subversive art-form she should be considered a national hero. Many man-made constructions are phallic images, look at the Washington Obelisk, or the Eiffel Tower, but in nature we most commonly find yonic shapes, like the Grand Canyon.

There is a profound violence in desiring this, feeling as if a part of your own anatomy is lacking, but you can’t grow it naturally, you can’t do it in a god-intended way. The bright red colour represents violence and sex, and in this case both. It’s way more complicated than the concept of having kids and being a mom, it’s a lot more than to be seen as sexual beings, and sexuality, and to feel loved; it’s about symbols of power and somehow getting that denied. It’s about learning how to love this new body, a body that is foreign, infertile, obscene and unconventional. That love is hard to achieve and it is violent because women, and especially trans women, have been taught to hate their bodies.  

Love Falls In The Bathroom:

This one took the longest to finish and left me with the most unsure brush-strokes, much perhaps because it isn’t based off on an idea but on a memory, on dream. In three more years I’ll be the same age my mother had and she had me, 29 years old. Somehow it feels like a looming date. Having kids and getting pregnant, specifically, have been sporadic subjects of therapy sessions – the antithesis is always the same: you are not lesser of a woman for not being able to get pregnant, you can still be a mom through other means, you are not even sure if you want kids or marriage, you can always adopt – Those answers feel reasonable, but none of them ever could appease the deep feeling of something missing in me, like something is perpetually wrong with me. Then I understood that in this painting, I was trying to evoke these feelings. Love and grief.

[My mother, pregnant with me, in the 90s.] 

My friends tell me I seem to be older than I actually am, and sometimes I wonder if that’s not because I had never been a happy child. I feel like I had my childhood robbed from me. I mean, I had an okay, comfortable childhood, and a problematic teenage-hood, but I never had a girlhood. I am still grieving it. I had been assigned male at birth, I’m still grieving that too.

In July of this year, I experienced a very vivid dream, in which although short all the images and the sensations were, felt very real. I was taking a shower in my bathroom, I close off the water, wrap myself around a towel, my usual pink one, and when I’m stepping out of the shower stall I fell. I hit my right elbow against the toilet lid as I fell with my legs open in opposite directions, a sharp pain struck me under my thighs, close to my groin, and a light string of blood followed right after that. It wasn’t menstruation blood, thin and clear red, but thick and dark. It was all very quick but I knew, right then, right there, exactly everything that was happening. I was pregnant, 13 weeks, alone in the bathroom floor, surrounded by blood. I wonder how many days of my recent life, how many hours a day, I am really just sitting down alone on my bathroom’s floor surrounded by blood. I woke up and it still felt very real. I had spent the next two days very quiet, not wanting to speak to anyone. I wanted to tell someone as soon as I was back from the dream, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted to call someone, a friend, anyone, and say “I lost it. I lost my baby”. I realised then, in that post-dreamy state, that I have been silently grieving for a lot of things, things I haven’t yet allowed myself to grieve for. Things I still did not have a chance.

Love Lost In Imagination:

This one is the only one what doesn’t forecast red and blue colours, but instead in red and blue paint mixed together in a royal purple colour. It was the last one I made, and it’s the one that differs the most in shape. I like to imagine it was love in it’s gas form, vaping inside your brain like Nitrous-oxide, with white-coloured cloud shapes and yellow peacock eye-feathers. It’s about how sometimes love can only exist in imagination, how we often elaborate better scenarios in our heads, and we think “what if things were different?”. I believe to be okay to fantasize, anyway the utopia is what moves us towards a reality, but sometimes we can get lost in imagination, and in questioning the same questions over and over. “What if I hadn’t done this and done that?”; “What if I hadn’t said no?”; “What if I had stayed longer to watch that movie?”; “What if had come out as trans earlier?”; “What if I had become a professional writer?”; “What if I had born a woman?”. Is love real if it perpetrates only in thought?

I would be more than happy to quote some of Saint Augustine here, and his theological virtues, love being one of them, but I wouldn’t like to make this essay even longer and complicated.

I think to myself sometimes, when was it that I started to prefer having peace then pleasure. My head has always been very noisy, very noisy, and I wanted it to stop. Now it feels like I’m constantly too quiet about everything. That somehow, like the Little Mermaid by Hans Christensen Andersen, when transitioning into a woman I exchanged my legs (my body) for my voice, and now I can’t voice or even pinpoint what I want. I’m just so tired. So, so tired. My mental health hasn’t been great for more than one year, and the pandemic didn’t help. I’m constantly anxious around people, even the closest ones to me (especially the closest ones to me), I’ve been eating like a bird and sleeping like a cat. Still, sometimes I imagine what future I would like, and I imagine myself living somewhere with open space, trees, breeding horses just like my grandfather did, space for dogs, musical instruments and the kids. Space for being big.

The painting makes me think that sometimes I can only love myself in this imaginary place. Otherwise, it just looks slightly like a chicken’s head. You decide.    

- Original work, G.L. Alódio.

[dumb-ology]

Of Gods and Men (Series)

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

Notes:

This is a fantasy one-shot. The story forms part of a group of short stories set in my fictional world of Iabis, a world I hope someday will be finished and be good enough to publish.

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

Summary:

When he first had been brought before them, the young prince could not say that he was impressed with the ways of the people of Ker... . Or at least that was what he wanted to believe as he silently sipped from his chalice in an attempt to calm the erratic beatings of his heart, distracted as he was under the shameless scrutiny of his betrothed.

Of the Moon-borned and their Barbarians

When he first had been brought before them, the young prince could not say that he was impressed with the ways of the people of Ker. They looked intimidating, too powerful for his own comfort, with strange markings and an even stranger language. They bowed to no man or woman when they entered the halls of his house, and they knew nothing of the manners of his people nor seemed to care.

But as night came, and the stars above them shone brightly against the vast darkness of the sky, his fascination only seemed to outgrow his fears and reservations.

Instruments for which his people had no names began to sound throughout the halls. Exotic and foreign-sounding, hypnotizing in their primal origins, inciting all those who listened to jump and twirl and laugh. And so did the people – crying vibrantly into the night in a mixture of two completely different languages, two completely different cultures. And by the gods did Baekhyun joined them right away in their merriment.

Fire breathers were in action, their flames reaching the night skies as if they were dragons. Delicacies came and go from the kitchens to the tables – skewers, soups, sweet and juicy fruits, spicy meats of mouthwatering smells, vegetables that even he had not seen before – They had all been prepared for the celebration of the new found alliance between the Ker and the Huemor. The gods of the skies and their spirits had at long last blessed both their peoples, and now the Horse Lords and the Riukae sat together and shared the same bread – and yet, for as many Huemor those danced and drinked with the Ker, there were many others that did not looked pleased with this new reality.

But the Matriarchs had been firm. They had insisted at length and multiple times that the end of an era of war was to begin through an era of love, through the union of blood under the blessings and the ever-watching protection of the gods. The Matriarchs made their will known through their most faithful spiritual guides, and although reluctantly, it was becoming more and more obvious throughout Telandis that the proposal to these unions was being accepted by the people – either by fear to the gods, because of love or in order to avoid any more bloodshed, the young prince could only speculate.

And so, their old traditions and their way of life had begun to change.

The Ker respected the ways of the Huemor at first, married their sons and their daughters according to their sacred laws and under the blessings of the All-Seeing, but it was no surprise that once the relations with the Empire began to be more cordial, that they brought with them their own – insisting much to the surprise of a few incredulous, and ill-mannered Huemor, that the marriages amongst the Ker were held between equals. Their ways were to be respected, just as they respected theirs.

Baekhyun’s people called their most popular courting tradition the Reaping – A witty name that some bard in a lively tavern had attributed to the event, and that since, had become its official term. It was a simple tradition, one that required the consent of both participants in the courtship, and while at first frowned upon and misunderstood, Baekhyun knew of only a few participants that had not been… satisfied with the aftermaths: During a night of celebration, the Huemor partner was to be locked in their chambers, awake and ready to defend themselves alongside their family as they waited for their Ker betrothed to break into their rooms in order to take them as their partner.

It was a strange thing in the beginning.

The Reaping sometimes didn’t even happened at night, taking place in broad daylight and in very public places, with men and women alike coming into the markets without any type of ceremony or warning, only to choose their selected partners and slung them over their shoulders, running away from the city while being cheered on by their clan members.

It was a strange thing, but not without reason, as Baekhyun had come to find – The deserts and the steppes that the Ker lived in were dangerous places, life was rough and so they had to adapt to it, and marriage, as many other of their traditions and rituals that were of great importance, took a deep meaning that sometimes the Huemor seemed to have forgotten. The Ker saw themselves forever bonded with another, gifted with the responsibility of another’s life, with the responsibility of another’s clan’s safety, and so strength and bravery was demanded of their own and of their partners.

A Ker that failed to reap its partner was considered weak, and a partner that didn’t put up a fight was shamed as well. It was expected of both to be able to defend themselves, to defend their families and if possible, their future children. The survival of their clan demanded it.

Now however, as the Ker held no wars against the Empire or the Nomads, the Reaping had almost become symbolic amongst the clans from these lands. More reminder than a need to prove their strength in the eyes of their brethren – and as the Huemor started to see the importance of said traditions and saw the appeal of being, as Baekhyun’s sisters fantasized, ravished by a stripling and attractive Horse Lord, the Reaping had become romanticized, desired, and many were the Huemor interested in learning more of the Ker’s culture be it in search of passion or raw curiosity – it was no secret that as ravenous in its search for new knowledge as the Empire was famed for, the Riukae were also known for their depravity and decadency, and the courtship of one from a different culture was a way of satisfying both interests.

Baekhyun however, was tying his destiny with a Ker as it was his duty.

An alliance was needed to set an example, to afford protection for his sisters, for warfare as the second-born children of his Imperial majesty was their trade and their curse. Marrying one of the so-called Horse Lords could avoid tying his sisters onto a life of living by the sword. Or at least that was what he wanted to believe as he silently sipped from his chalice in an attempt to calm the erratic beatings of his heart, distracted as he was under the shameless scrutiny of his betrothed.

The man had been watching him all night, almost like he was studying him. Golden eyes that had lingered in the curves of his body and in the free expanses of flesh that his fusatan could not cover. Long hair that had grown darker as the night had closed in covered in a golden halo of jewelry that had crowned him in the same fashion as the paintings of the Gods he used to marvel at in the temples when he was but an Eyas.

The man held himself proudly, almost like he was exposing himself for his eyes, His posture screamed of a man who knew of war and action.

Through the transparency of his clothes, Baekhyun caught a glimpse of his muscular chest. His arms were marked with strange signs of pale red and brown that seemed to extend around his exposed skin like wildfire. The man was attractive, that much was true, in a wat that he could not explain but appealing to the eyes nonetheless.

Sharing his bed with him was not going to be an unpleasant experience.

Almost as if he had been reading his mind, the rider offered him nothing but a slight quirk of his lips upwards as he stood up and walked towards him, and for a moment Baekhyun felt as if all noise fell silent. It was as if for a moment, he was again a child, hiding himself against the strong legs of his Third Mother, swallowing hard and blinking fast in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

“If it weren’t for the dark colors of your robes and your breathtaking beauty I wouldn’t have noticed the difference between your Highness and a member of the Sun-borned” He simply said in a thick Ker accent. A shiver ran down Baekhyun’s spine at his words, but it was far from unpleasant. “But then again, beautiful things in the desert tend to be murderous… Say Saikhan, do you bite?”

Baekhyun’s breath hitched slightly as his words, hoping that the fire surrounding them could hide the color painting his cheeks. Oh, I could bite, he thought, you need only ask. By the gods, he was such a horny bastard.

“I am honored to meet you at last, Bey Jongdae”

The man seemed amicable, smiling broadly at his poor intent of addressing him in his language, moving to the next topic of conversation gracefully.

“Other Clans have taken Huemor brides and grooms, and in doing so, they have brought the prosperity of our Gods to their lands. I offer you and your house the protection of my clan and my Golden Army. They are strong and their devotion to me will extend to your people, this I swear to you”

Baekhyun hid his surprise as best he could. He hadn’t expected for negotiations to come to this point so quickly, but he stood beside him, tall and regal. “I swear to you that your battles will be ours, as well as your struggles. We will share feasts and your people will be welcomed as if they were our own, the colors of our houses seen as one.” – Anything for his people. With joy, anything they asked of him.

Jongdae laughed, throwing his head back and allowing his hair to fly out of his face. He was beautiful, with lips forming a sly smirk as he composed himself, and a sharp jaw that hid the tiniest of scars. “Your people are so formal, so serious. Fear not, I am aware of what I was promised, I have only come here to introduce myself and make my intentions for tonight very clear…”

Jongdae smirked and stepped closer to him, daring to see how close the young prince would allow him into his personal space. He had been told of the Huemor’s courtships, of the gradual desire that was supposed to grow in between them, but as his eyes roamed Baekhyun’s body in fascination he found the entire thing absurd.

The prince was painfully breathtaking, adorned in silver and shimmering blue fabrics that had move through the crowd with the delicacy of one born amongst royalty. Alluring eyes painted with kohl that had lingered on his own tentatively, allowing him in, inviting him to drink down his face as if it were water and Jongdae hadn’t had a taste for it in weeks.

He was no fool, much to Minseok’s disagreement.

He was aware of his husband-to-be’s beauty since it was his face that had kept him sane during the long waits in the desert. Baekhyun’s fair features, more boy than man, barely an adult when he first saw his lilac eyes. A tease, he learned after, a reminder from Baekhyun’s father for the long nights, small snippets of caresses that only piled up and burned him when he aroused alone at night and realized that his dreams were not tangible.

But standing now, chest to chest as they were, he realized that not even the most lucid of his dreams could ever do him justice.

“Intentions?”

“Yes. I needed to tell you that I have never seen hands as delicate and slender as yours. They are beautiful, and I long to become familiar with their touch and warmth”

“Wha-what?”

The Ker reached out to take a hold of his right hand, and Baekhyun couldn’t help but blush as he took a step back. Enough to give himself some breathing room as his eyes wandered to the thick and strong hands of the Bey, covered in small scars and calluses on his palms.

Better that, than the desire on the eyes of the man.

“My Gods would be displeased if I didn’t tell you how handsome I find you, how smart and capable I know you to be… How brave, how cunning” Baekhyun gasped and felt his blush deepen as the rider’s right hand tentatively descended towards his hips, asking for permission to touch him as he desperately seeked to keep his body pressed against his.

He smelled like leather under the aromatic oils he was bathed in, and he could feel the hot, hard press of his cock against him. Baekhyun bit his lip and looked into his eyes, only to be met with the intensity of a predator considering prey. He made him feel small, overwhelmed, two things that Baekhyun was not used to as he was never the one at the receiving end of such bold compliments.

But they were to be married, and that meant that two could play this game.

“Your charms can only help you so much”, Jongdae’s breath halted when he felt Baekhyun’s hand brush over his member. He stood still, and when he opened his eyes again they were shining with an expression that the prince understood perfectly. “We aren’t even married yet, and already you are behaving like a bitch in heat. How shameful”

“Baekhyun” The rider purred. The skin his golden rings touched felt like it was tingling. For a moment Baekhyun swore he could smell humidity in the air, as if there was an incoming storm nearby. No one had said his name like that ever before, and he liked the way it had fallen from his lips.

It was different, very different, but he found that he could enjoy hearing it being said like that daily, and also in other more… intimate circumstances.

“You have sharp eyes”, he whispered. Jongdae smiled softly a swift rise of his left eyebrow answer enough for him to continue. “We believe that the eyes tell much of a person. Yours are sharp, much like a cat’s; it means you’re cunning, smart… I eagerly await to see how you will try and steal me.”

He was quick to push Jongdae’s hands away from his waist as soon as his words loosened his grip over him. He stepped back, away from the rider and into the crowds, a blush setting his cheeks and neck on fire. Nervously he reached up to press his hand against his chest, hiding amongst the dancing and the drinking, everything to get away from Jongdae as his mind was awhirl with the things he wanted to do to him, his cock itching inside his pants.

All-Seeing curse him, he was already a mess.

----

Sleep, like a mischievous lover, was escaping Baekhyun’s mind.

Any other time, he would have been sleeping heavily, exhausted after a long night of feasting and dancing, assured that all in the palace was calm and that the loyal guards of his family were watching out for their safety. But this was no ordinary night. He was to be stolen, and the excitement of the act kept him awake, his heart hammering fast against his chest.

He was dressed in one of his best attires, a long pastel blue tunic thin and soft to the touch, decorated with silver threads intertwined in the hem and sleeves, slightly transparent in the right places. An outfit designed more for the aesthetic than practicality. But tonight, practicality mattered not.

Even if he was lulled by the sound of the fountains coming from the gardens outside his window, he felt the air shifting, a tension rising through the night. He saw how the curtains surrounding his bed swayed just the slightest bit, righting themselves almost immediately.

Baekhyun’s heart pounded faster. This was it, he thought, he has bested them all. He was careful as to not move, he was prepared.

The locks to his doors jiggled and gave, but once more, only the sound of flowing water blanketed his rooms.

So far, he believed, his stealing was going remarkably well. Suppressing a grin, he pulled his blankets higher up on his shoulders, grasping the small blade hidden amongst his pillows, and waited for the door to open.

And he waited.

And waited.

And wait-

A pair of strong hands grabbed his ankles and pulled him out of the security of his blankets. As fast as he could, he reached up into the abundant pillows and grabbed his blade. The grip of Jongdae’s hands was tight, but Baekhyun knew how to fight as well, and as he was being pulled out in a stunningly fluid movement, he maneuvered himself to rose up on his two feet bringing Jongdae down in between his legs. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, and he couldn’t help but to get momentarily lost in the golden eyes that were flashing under the moon light.

He smirked triumphantly as he pressed the tip of his blade dangerously close to the skin of Jongdae’s neck, before grabbing him by his hair and tilting his head backwards.

The Ker panted when he felt Baekhyun’s lips bite onto his neck, and he felt his member coming to life rapidly. The touches and kisses that the prince peppered in all the skin his lips were able to find were only adding to the fire that was rapidly growing between them. Tentatively he allowed his hands to rest against his rear, and Baekhyun felt as if fire was searing his skin as Jongdae’s fingers fidgeted with his tunic.

Magic hummed around them when Jongdae decided to attack his lips. A tiny bolt of electricity making them separate to catch their breath, the Ker gasping in delight as Baekhyun looked down at him with a smirk.

“I told you that your charms could only help you so much”, He whispered, before taking the chance to flee away from him. The chase was on.

Some people awoke at the commotion, jeering and hollering as they saw the Ker chasing after his husband. Some of the soldiers of Jongdae’s famed Golden Army were amongst the people, marveling at the strength and agility of the young prince, joining in the reverie and going so far as to offer lewd suggestions on what exactly their Bey should do as soon as he had his feisty little Huemor husband tamed in his rooms.

Baekhyun laughed loudly as he was being chased around the palace, dancing out of his reach, and laughing again as he felt Jongdae get close. He allowed him to reach him, coming again and again tantalizingly close to grabbing him, but every time the prince would just turn a different direction, managing to pull far enough for him to not be able to do anything to him anymore. Jongdae knew that he was playing Baekhyun’s game, and the realization was driving him mad with want.

He was going to be his. His and only his to ruin.

They soon entered the gardens and their magnificent pools, and it was here where the chase was cut short.

Baekhyun miss-stepped – purposefully or not, he didn’t know – But he was quick to take advantage of this mistake, reaching out to grab him by his wrists and submit him into the soft grass. Baekhyun tried to keep him away, swinging his blade to try and cut him until his back soon hit the cold floor. Soon he was pinned in by Jongdae’s arms and legs, pinning him on either side of his waist and taking control of his wrists, his blade thrown out of his reach.

The prince was breathing heavily while Jongdae loomed over him, his face barren of any emotion before throwing him over his shoulders to move them both to one of the chaise-lounge of the gardens left for resting under the sun.

Baekhyun was a work of art, splayed only for his eyes to see on the soft cushions and in the most seductive of poses, kicking and squirming as he tried to get away. But the prince didn’t fought back as Jongdae’s hands found his hips and moved to squeeze the skin of his butt, forcing him to rub himself against his member, still painfully trapped inside his pants. They kissed ardently, moaning when Jongdae stopped, hovering again over his body and taking in the view of his disheveled hair and pouty lips.

A whimpering, moaning and breathless mess with a beautiful erection that needed to be tended to. All his. His to touch and to take. He licked his lips when lilac eyes met his. Baekhyun’s expression was far from soft, as it was rather defiant, wanting as his cheeks flushed and perspiration covered his forehead.

“Did I say you could stop kissing me?” He whimpered, and Jongdae felt like he might have come right then and there. “Do not force me to flip you and ride you harder than you have ridden your mare in years”

His brattiness’ disappeared once Jongdae’s lips took over the tender skin of his thigs. His breath catched itself inside his throat, words dying to be replaced by whines as he felt the warmth of his hands sliding around his legs, a warm wet tongue darting quickly to lick up his shaft. He let out a choked moan, eyes shutting tight.

“Such a sharp tongue, little prince” Jongdae tsked, parting Baekhyun’s thighs again as he stood up and pressed his body against his, kissing his chest and creating a path of sloppy kisses down to his belly. Baekhyun was burning up, tangled up as they were, the heat of Jongdae’s skin providing comfort from the soft refreshing air of the night. The rider had slathered his fingers with abundant saliva, cupping one of his butt cheeks as he circled the skin that lay hidden within them.

“Ple-please…”

Jongdae obliged him by sliding a finger knuckle-deep, earning a long, deep breath from the man underneath him. He massaged in, quickly adding fingers as he found the spot that took Baekhyun’s breath away. He felt and saw the thick thigs of the prince begin to tremble in the pale light of the moon, sweat pouring out of him as he moaned lowly and untamed.

Jongdae kissed him and his hair covered the both of them as his hands ripped the cotton undergarments of the prince and freed his hardness from where it had been previously trapped. His cock hung low and thick, twitching as he took one more look at the man under him, thighs spread wide and his hole prepared.

He was going to fuck him properly, like a Ker was supposed to get fucked.

Baekhyun grabbed ahold of his shoulders when he felt the head of his cock against his entrance. He pushed inside him and he couldn’t hold the sigh that escaped his lips when he felt Jongdae’s cock stretching him and moving deep inside. His legs were trembling in the most delicious of ways, one that he had been craving the entire night, but then again, he had to remember that Jongdae hadn’t started to move yet.

The rider pressed his forehead against his, and he waited in silence for Baekhyun’s breathing to calm down. He kissed his neck, his chest, gently taking his hands and licking his fingers. Baekhyun kept looking up at him, too eager for his own good, and his hands found themselves sliding up to his black hair. His expression soft as Jongdae removed the ties from his hair, running his fingers through them until his braids broke loose and his hair was set free.

“You said you wanted to ride me” Jongdae murmured, and in a swift movement, he allowed Baekhyun to be on top as a cry of pleasure from his lips was drowned by sudden surprise. “Then ride me”

Baekhyun’s hole clamped around his cock, one of his hands curling around his neck delicately. Jongdae found himself smothered, suffocating, but he enjoyed the sensation far more than words could explain at the moment. His fingers dug into Baekhyun’s hips and he closed his eyes when he felt his inner walls clamping down around his cock as the prince rode him in a rhythm that only he seemed to know. He opened them again, and they locked in the way his cock moved inside Baekhyun. The pulling out only to swiftly ease back inside. The image was such that he had to concentrate himself to not lose control so soon. He grabbed his hips roughly and kneaded into them, rolling his hips in an attempt to meet his bounces. Baekhyun started to ride him with abandon, taking his hands and placing them over his chest for support.

He rides him. Deep and hard movements that rock him as well as the chaise. Baekhyun moves roughly, lost in the feeling growing in his member, lost by the desire and the power he feels as he sees Jongdae digging into the skin of his hips. Their voices are mingling together under the stars, Jongdae’s deep gravelly moans and Baekhyun’s song-like whimpers.

“Ma’ar, Ma’ar!” Baekhyun screams, as Jongdae’s rough hand takes care of his member while his hips worked their magic. “I’m close-“

Warm liquid cascaded between Jongdae’s fingers as Baekhyun’s back arched, his grip on Jongdae increasing as he loose his breath. Jongdae’s voice is choked off as he grunts and whimpers. His cock throbbing inside him as Baekhyun burns him in the most pleasurable of ways, squeezing around him as he releases himself over Jongdae’s stomach.

Baekhyun hears a loud grunt escaping the Ker’s lips soon after, and he cries out, panting and twitching too as he feels every pulse and shudder of Jongdae’s release. His seed is thick and hot, and he savors the sensation of feeling full once again, of having him so deep inside him, a small convulsion of pleasure causing small tears of absolute satisfaction to escape from his eyes, now stained with silver-colored kohl.

Baekhyun’s thighs and stomach feel wet as he drops exhausted against the cushions. He can see how his essence spills down Jongdae’s legs, staining the chaise underneath them, and feeling pity for whoever would have to clean up after their mess, he rolls and lies down, leaving his ass exposed to the air, breathing deeply as his eyes find his husband’s.

“I can’t feel my legs…” He licks his lips “I think I want more… After some rest”

Jongdae closes the distance between them, biting his lower lip while looking at him. His hair falls like a sheet of black silk over his neck and shoulders. “Good.”

Baekhyun scoffs happily, but the sound gets caught on his throat when he feels Jongdae propping up on his elbows, placing soft kisses on the skin of his back, fingers softly sliding through his hair. “My intentions were honest before” He begins, kissing and stroking the exposed skin before his eyes. “Every one of my soldiers and their swords is at your command. I will only think of you, live through another day only for you. This is what I am swearing to you, not to your father or anyone else, but you”

Jongdae shuts himself up and Baekhyun’s heart beats harder as he closes his eyes when Jongdae’s lips kiss the skin behind his ears, biting and licking the skin of his neck soon after. “I understand”, he whimpers, still sensitive as Jongdae’s hands find themselves wrapped around his reddish member.

“Good.” The rider smirks. “Because I plan on having you bedridden by the time I am done with you…”

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

All Right Reserved

Copyright: ‘Of Gods and Men (Series)’ including all its associated content is COPYRIGHTED. All rights reserved by the owner and creator of this work, Liss (Dumb-ology) and any authorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution, or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of copyright is punishable by law.

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