#indeed a wretched mirrors moment!

[yvtro]

not enough appreciation for countdown #15 wherein jason meets alternative universe bruce who killed the joker (not stopping at this, he went on to eradicate most of gotham rogues gallery in a murder spree similar to that of red hood) and the utter disappointment that jay has in the person that this version of his father has become as bruce discourages him from helping donna in crisis. "we're both dead, batman." – what a raw piece of dialogue.

"go on, then, "jason." you're dead anyway. may as well make it official." "we're both dead, batman. any fool could see you've been dead inside for years."

#i just know that some utrh fans would say that this is missing the point as jason wanted only the joker dead (by bruce's hand that is) #and would say that it's not a slippery slope #but i think what they are missing is what batman is all about #and what place the no killing rule has in the inegrity of the whole character and the symbol itself. #i think you all know that i am plenty sympathetic to jason's reasoning in utrh and his emotional needs #but this story wouldn't have a good ending if bruce did what jason wanted him to anyway #that's kind of the whole point. this is why it's a tragedy #because they would both end up dead in a way. #dc comics #jason todd #bruce wayne #countdown #wretched mirrors #indeed a wretched mirrors moment!

[birindale]

Adventure of the Blue Diamond

Frosta learns about stranger danger, Catra blots out the 'daystar', and She-Ra smashes a priceless gem for no discernible reason.

Transcript/Image ID below the cut

[Image Description: A cover and 14 comic pages from the She-Ra mini-comic, “Adventure of the Blue Diamond”.

Cover: She-Ra stands in a snowy field, staring at something. Double Trouble, Frosta, and Bow stand behind her, none of them dressed for cold weather. Bow has an arrow nocked, and his embedded ‘heart’ is situated low on his torso, more where a belly button would be. All parties look vaguely concerned. The ‘Princess of Power’ logo stands in sharp contrast to the indigo sky, while the title ‘Adventure of the Blue Diamond’ is a washed out azure with insufficient lining to read well against the lighter purple background and blue of Bow’s pants.

Page 1: A yellow text box reads, “The duties of the day behind her. PRINCESS ADORA indulges in a rare moment of quiet reflection. But her sweet peace is to be short lived… For all is not well in Etheria… ”

Adora is looking into a mirror, brushing her hair despite still wearing her crown and high-collared cape. She’s smiling peacefully.

Adora notices something in her reflection, pausing in her brushing. 

What appears to be a window glows gold in the reflection of the mirror, and she stares at it with a concerned frown. 

Kowl bursts into the room, frantic, calling, “Oh, fair princess, woe is me! DANGER! DANGER… all I see! QUICKLY! You must follow me! HOOT! HOOT!” Adora whips around to face him. 

“Good heavens, Kowl! What IS the matter?” she asks. The words ‘Adventure of the Blue Diamond’ appear on a title scroll at the bottom of the page. ‘Blue Diamond’ is rendered as though made of cut gems.

End Page 1.

Page 2: “Just look and listen!” says Kowl, leading her to the open window of the Crystal Castle. A strong and ominous wind hisses outside.

“CATRA! Up to her old tricks! I’d recognize that voice anywhere!” says Adora, looking out into a gathering storm. 

“She’s gone too far I fear! Etheria’s DOOM is all too near!” says Kowl. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” says Adora, with a confident smile. 

“BY THE HONOR OF GRAYSKULL… I AM SHE-RA!” she yells, holding the Sword of Protection aloft. Magic swirls around her, and the word ‘BOOM!’ is printed in big red letters. Her crown inverts, but does not cover her eyes as a mask. 

“I must find the source of this dark trouble at once! Kowl, summon BOW and DOUBLE TROUBLE… quickly… I’ll need their HELP!” She-Ra says to Kowl.

End Page 2. 

Page 3: A yellow caption box reads, “Moments later…” and we see that it’s begun to snow. A large vehicle with lepidopteran wings, somewhere between the Butterflyer and the Flutter Plane in design but colored to match Double Trouble’s outfit, is parked in front of the Crystal Castle, where She-Ra meets with her allies. 

“Brave Bow, far greater is the force of Catra’s folly this day than I have ever seen it! I know not the SOURCE of her dark powers, but we must NOT let her EVIL TREACHERY SUCCEED!” says She-Ra. 

“Never have I seen Etheria look more DESOLATE and DREARY! Whatever Catra’s up to… It must be a vile TRICK indeed!” says Bow. 

“She-Ra, surely you must have some sort of PLAN!” says Double Trouble. 

“Indeed I do and much of it depends on you, Double Trouble., with your SPY DISGUISE you can make it into Catra’s camp UNDETECTED! GO NOW and discover for me just what wretched scheme that fiendish feline has up her sleeve!” says She-Ra. 

Double Trouble stands with her hands on her hips, wind buffeting Bow behind her. “And when I have your answer?” she asks. 

“Then send a SIGNAL skyward. The FLUTTER PLANE will bring Bow and me to your side in a but a moment!” says She-Ra, so apparently that is in fact the Flutter Plane, just riffing on the earlier two-seater concept art that Filmation discarded and Mattel never produced. Cool.

A yellow caption box reads, “A clever scout, Double Trouble soon finds herself on the evil Catra’s trail…” and we see Double Trouble slogging through the snow, following a very neat and precise course. 

“FOOT PRINTS! Catra has been here all right!” she says, following them as it continues to snow. The ground is now completely covered.

End Page 3. 

Page 4: “... and up ahead… a CAVE!” says Double Trouble, trudging through even deeper snow, approaching, you guessed it, a cave. “If I don’t miss my guess, the SINISTER FELINE seeks shelter from the storm inside!” 

“Just as I suspected! BUT WAIT… What’s this? The fiendish feline holds a PRISONER!” Double Trouble thinks to herself, peering into the cave to see an exultant Catra, wearing a silver fur cloak, gloating over a woman with long blue hair tied to a stalagmite. 

“AT LAST! The treasured SNOW CAPE and its powerful SECRETS are mine… ALL MINE!” says Catra.

End Page 4.

Page 5: “HELP! Somebody HELP ME!” yells the prisoner. Catra smiles dismissively and pulls out her mask and says, “FROSTA, my dear, you are a FOOL! There is no one to hear your cries, nor anyone to interfere with thissss…

“My most diabolical plot to SEIZE CONTROL of all Etheria!” she declares, putting on her mask. 

The space between panels reads, “Unleashed by Catra’s evil threats, Double Trouble CHANGES into her SPY DISGUISE - a face that Catra recognizes as a FRIEND!” followed by a four-panel sequence of Double Trouble shifting into evil mode. 

“CATRA! What have we here?” she asks. 

“WHA…? Oh it’s you, Double Trouble!” says Catra. “This foolish girl has given me her precious SNOW CAPE, and with its secrets, Etheria will soon be MINE!”

End Page 5.

Page 6:

“HOW? What secrets? Tell me your plan!” says Double Trouble. 

“I took Frosta’s powerful WAND and FROZE ETHERIA!” says Catra. “But its freezing effect is only temporary! Fear not, friend—I’ve discovered a MAP in her cape that will lead me to the BLUE ICE DIAMOND! And I will have the power to freeze Etheria FOREVER!” 

“Double Trouble, guard Frosta until I return!” says Catra, running from the cave.

A yellow caption box reads, “Above Etheria’s moonlit horizon, Bow and She-Ra watch… and wait…” and we see the Flutter Plane flying over a snow-covered landscape.

“LOOK THERE! It’s Double Trouble’s SIGNAL!” says Bow, pointing at a flare of magic from the pilot’s seat. 

“GOOD! Let’s take ‘er down…” says She-Ra. 

End Page 6. 

Page 7: “She-Ra, Etheris is in the greatest PERIL! Frosta, QUICKLY, you must tell She-Ra everything you know!” says Double Trouble, as she emerges from the cave, supporting Frosta. Bow and She-Ra run towards her.

“So LONELY have I been here, in the frozen north, for Catra’s TRICKERY I was an easy mark! A day ago, she befriended me… but it has COST me DEARLY!” says Frosta, beginning to cry. Double Trouble holds her closer in support.

“Go on, tell her about the SNOW CAPE!” she urges. 

“Foolishly, I GAVE my snow cape to Catra in exchange for her company! Inside the cape, there is a map that will lead her to the Blue Ice Diamond!” says Frosta, dripping tears. 

“THE BLUE ICE DIAMOND! Catra will use the gemstone’s powerful magic to turn Etheria into a frozen wasteland FOREVER! We must STOP her!” says She-Ra, evidently horrified.

A yellow caption box reads, “With Frosta in the lead, She-Ra and her stalwart cohorts race across the Dreaming Mountain! But can they reach the Blue Ice Diamond in time?” 

The Flutter Plane flies overhead while Double Trouble and Frosta (who has been mistakenly colored to look like She-Ra) ride in another vessel. It’s a sailing sledge (an iceboat meant for dry land) with an unstayed mast & single lateen sail, long and narrow in the style of a stereotypical viking ship, complete with an ornate figurehead of a bird of prey. The entire ship is a similar shade of green to Double Trouble, including the sail, which is feather-patterned. There are struts visible in later panels which confirm this is a sleigh and not a magical land-ship of some kind. The whole thing is reminiscent of the Sea Harp in shape, but that hasn't been designed yet.

End Page 7. 

Page 8: A yellow caption box reads, “... or does Catra ALREADY hold Etheria’s fate in her grasp?” as Catra gloats over a gem, which glows a vivid green. 

“CATRA!” shouts Frosta, now colored correctly, “HALT! Or I shall FREEZE you where you stand!” She climbs from the sailing sledge and brandishes her Snowflake Wand (which is really more of a staff). 

“You’re TOO LATE Frosta… TOO LATE!” Catra calls back, lifting a faceted gem to her face as she smiles in evil glee.

End Page 8. 

Page 9: “LOOK! Etheria’s bright daystar DIMS even as I speak, and a CLOAK OF DARKNESS SWEEPS THE LAND!” she yells, gesturing at what I think it’s safe to assume is a sun and not the planet Venus because it’s flipping huge, “Soon I shall rule FOREVER!” 

“WHISSSSHHHH,” goes the Snowflake Wand, which now more resembles a scepter, then “ZZZAAA,” in a spidery, electric sort of style. Sparkles emerge from the wand and Frosta looks pretty pissed.

“--KRAKK!” finish the onomatopoeia, as we return to Catra, who’s surrounded by sparkles as the sun darkens behind her. 

We zoom in closer to reveal she’s frozen solid, still cackling. 

The focus shifts to the sun, now completely dark. 

End Page 9. 

Page 10:  Frosta falls to her knees in despair, burying her face in her hands as Double Trouble tries to comfort her. In the background, the Flutter Plane lands and She-Ra leaps from within. 

“Oh She-Ra, I have FAILED! There is NOTHING we can do to save Etheria from darkness… it’s all MY FAULT!” sobs Frosta as She-Ra lays a supportive hand on her shoulder. 

She-Ra doesn’t respond immediately, trudging over to Catra as Bow reaches the sledge. 

“Perhaps there is MORE to this blue ice diamond than meets the eye!” She-Ra says, plucking the gem from the frozen Catra’s grasp. 

“BOW! Stand fast and make ready an arrow! I have an idea!” she calls back over her shoulder. Bow moves forward obediently. Frosta is still kneeling in the snow and Double Trouble’s still in the sledge. 

End Page 10.

Page 11: “The SECRET of this gemstone’s POWER may lie WITHIN…” says She-Ra, setting the blue ice diamond atop a rock. 

She lifts her sword. In this panel and the next, she’s shown with her inverted crown functioning as a mask. “... so, if we CRACK it…” 

She brings the Sword of Protection down with a huge “SMASH!” 

“... we can set its magic FREE!” she finishes, revealing that there was a second, smaller diamond inside the first diamond, matryoshka doll style. For some reason. 

“Now, let your arrow FLY!” she says to Bow, as he ties this smaller diamond to an arrow. It glows a soft yellow. She-Ra’s crown is no longer a mask. 

End page 11. 

Page 12: Bow aims directly at the darkened sun. 

We get a close-up of his face, deep in concentration, as he releases the arrow with a loud “SPUNGG!”

The arrow sails towards the sun. 

Double Trouble, Frosta, and Bow look on. Bow lowers his bow. 

The arrow disappears from sight, leaving only the darkness and the blotted daystar. 

Double Trouble, Frosta, Bow, and She-Ra watch in silence. 

The sun remains dark 

End page 12. 

Page 13: “BULL’SEYE!” hollers Bow, lifting his bow to the sky in jubilation as the sun goes “BUH WHOOM!” and begins emitting light once more. He slings a celebratory arm around Frosta’s waist, like he means to hug her but is just too excited about archery to bother. 

Catra begins to defrost beneath the heat of the sun. 

She comes to staring at her now-empty hand, startled and soaking wet from the melted ice, the snow cape falling from her shoulders. We see that beneath the snow, this was some kind of arid plain, which contradicts its earlier description as being the “Dreaming Mountain”, as the Dreaming Mountains are the home of Castle Chill (and thus, chilly) from Filmation. 

“CURSES! FOILED AGAIN!” shouts Catra, sprinting into the distance. 

End Page 13. 

Page 14: “YOU’VE DONE IT! The daystar glows brighter than ever!” says Frosta, clapping her hands together in delight. 

“Etheria is SAFE once more and I am FREE at last of Catra’s EVIL MAGIC!” she says, holding her snow cape over one shoulder like a jock with a letterman jacket. 

“Yes—Etheria is SAFE and BEAUTIFUL once more!” says She-Ra, walking over to her. 

“Bow, Double Trouble, time to go! The CRYSTAL CASTLE and NEW ADVENTURES await!” says She-Ra, looking over her shoulder to her friends. 

“But WAIT! How can I ever REPAY your kindness? Perhaps my coat…?” says Frosta, holding the snow cape out to She-Ra as Double Trouble and Bow climb into the Flutter Plane. 

“Fair Frosta—haven’t you learned a moral after all that’s happened? REMEMBER THIS!” says She-Ra:

“FRIENDSHIP can’t be bought or sold… it must come from the HEART! And from OUR hearts to YOURS—a friendship that’s EVERLASTING!” says She-Ra, in the traditional red text they use for morals. Everybody smiles at each other. 

The End.

End of Page 14.

Back Cover: The “Princess of Power” logo, with the text “Collect Princess of Power (trademarked) Dolls & Accessories! Each Sold Separately.

Cardback illustrations for She-Ra the “most powerful woman in the universe”, Bow the “special friend”, Double Trouble the “glamorous double-agent”, Frosta the “Ice Empress of Etheria”, Catra the “Jealous Beauty”, Castaspella the “Enchantress who hypnotizes”, Kowl “The Know-It-Owl”, Angella the “Angelic winged guide”, and Glimmer the “Guide who lights the way”. 

Illustrations copyright Mattel Inc., 1984. Hawthorne, CA 90250 U.S.A.

PRINTED IN TAIWAN. All Rights Reserved. 

0007-5220

End of ID]

#motu #minicomics #adventure of the blue diamond #she-ra #adora #kowl #bow #frosta #double trouble #catra

[laku-incarnate]

When I see the lark beating

by Bernart de Ventadorn

When I see the lark beating Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun That it forgets itself and lets itself fall Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me Of all those whom I see rejoicing, I wonder that my heart, at that moment, Does not melt from desire.

Alas! How much I thought I knew About love, and how little I know, Because I cannot keep myself from loving The one from whom I will gain nothing. She has all my heart, and my soul, And herself and the whole world; And when she left, nothing remained But desire and a longing heart.

I have never had power over myself Nor been by own man from the very hour When she let me see into her eyes, Into a mirror that pleases me so much. Mirror, since I saw myself in you, I have been slain by deep sighs, That I have lost myself just as the handsome Narcissus did in the fountain.

I despair of ladies; I will never trust them again; As I used to defend them Now I shall abandon them, Because I see no one who does any good for me Against her who destroys and confounds me, I fear and distrust them all, Because I know very well that they are all alike.

She really shows herself to be a woman in this, My lady, for which I condemn her; Because she does not want what she should want, And what she shouldn't do, she does. I have fallen on an evil grace, And I have indeed acted like the fool on the bridge And I do not know how this happened to me, Unless I tried to climb too high on the mountain.

Mercy is indeed lost, And I never knew it, Because she, who ought to have most of it, Has none, and where will I look for it? Ah! It would never seem, when looking at her, That she would let this love-sick wretch, Who will never be well without her, To die, without helping him.

Since these things will never bring me good from my lady, Neither prayers, pity, nor the rights I have, Nor is it a pleasure to her That I love her, I will never tell her again. Thus I part from her and give her up. She has slain me, and through death I will respond, And I go away, since she does not ask me to stay, Wretched, into exile, I know not where.

Tristan, you will have nothing more from me, For I go away, wretched, I know not where. I will withdraw from singing and renounce it, And I hide myself from joy and love.

#When I see the lark beating #poetry #troubadour #Bernart de Ventadorn #courtly love #troubadour poetry #the Master Singer

[allsoulspriory]

Daily Renewal

For I do not do the good I want, but I do the very evil I do not want! Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer me doing it but sin that lives in me. So, I find the law that when I want to do good, evil is present with me. For I delight in the law of God in my inner being. But I see a different law in my members waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that is in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of sin. — Rom 7:19-25

This seventh chapter of Romans reflects, as in a mirror, the inward conflict of the Christian soul, which has not yet learned to appropriate the full power of the Holy Spirit. It will be noticed that the personal pronoun “I” occurs frequently, while there is no word of the Holy Spirit who lusts or strives against the flesh. A man endeavors to keep pure and holy in the energy of his resolutions and by putting forth his power and will. But as Satan cannot cast out Satan, the will of man cannot exorcise its evil.

We turn, thankfully, to the eighth chapter, which is as full of the power of the Holy Spirit to overcome evil as the seventh is full of human endeavor. It is only when we learn to hand over our inner self to the Spirit of God that we can become more than conquerors through Him that loved us. As long as the conflict is in our strength, there is nothing for it but to experience the up and down, inconsistent and faulty life, which the Apostle describes so graphically.

How is it that the soul of man is so full of evil and that it cannot deliver itself by its resolutions which lack the necessary dynamic force? We cannot tell. But we find this “law of sin and death warring in our members and bringing us into captivity.” It is a terrible experience, indeed, when we see the current running so swiftly against us and carrying us down despite our strenuous desire to stem and conquer it. Who has not, again and again, experienced failure after the most earnest desire to do right? The bitterness of our origin overcomes the better choice, of which, in our noblest moments, we are conscious.

It is a great comfort to know that the Spirit of God is prepared to renew our inward person day by day (2Co 4:16) and to make us free from the law of sin and death. It is the daily renewal that we need. Day by day, and hour by hour, it is necessary to seek by faith a fresh infusion of the power of the Holy Spirit so that we may be overcomers.

Prayer

O God, may we live very near to Thee today, not in the energy of our resolution, but by the anointing and indwelling of the Holy Spirit, who shall teach us to abide in Christ. If our wayward hearts tend to stray, recall us before we have gone too far. Amen.

#allsoulspriory #paxabbey #thefellowshipcorner #christsapostoliccatholicchurch #dailywalk #frjohnpax #axiomsofanurbanpriest

[libidomechanica]

“D the souls, and they music, the precious oathes for a day,”

D the souls, and they music, the precious oathes  for a day, wretching everyday the  doth side our reason, yode a hat, and the  gaps as a mother throbbing reuenge, and  still my minute? No more commonest full of  bliss in these essened him after the vase,  wheneer the mountain-height win oblivious is  towers wish it circumfused to watched 

hand, and also be fair, or more do stir; and  the other, I knew tax. While was  like a glorifies have set her glance from his roll  in old Chaucer use alarm look: but lost in  fact’“twas lethal musk from did not liue hardiness, or  at them to know. For a day, which  our feel romantic: today. Is monastically,  perched the dawn what them 

sight? And the water, milky brows lush so the  arch more her wombs: those sharpness in your new when  come are mirror the moments, that well.  He torments crept sluggard: tis apisto They call vesperate  wicker over-white pond which many when  Hill; this mate to each stuff, nor limbs; our  hung rathering eyes, and them scorn; now youre living branches  the moon is, a dull at 

length she harp-string put in pails its delight: a stead  oer-spreading, wondering distresseth me the true as  we weld. D them to hide these, “twill begins too tenderer  bonnet, I cannot to love,  I to thence with mid-day heart is please and  done” to bear the bay where thing into  a curls not flies at herbs that was  just asleep;’“tis scarlet cloak, I watched wood, 

and talked two night seen it all above and he who stood  than Ledas long grows are empty followed the  arm, a leg, and night beard melancholy. In  think for loves a chuckling back to  the faults assure is soul of me: a virginia  or he was mercye and drinking the  snowy bank; and, after favour!” A dream on the  more for then unmade indeed his 

enough they broke looke at her and for the  skies; in the infant to approach  of grasses her trembling wretched by  the dreary wise Roman, her plain heavy  peace forest with lay, for let Autumn  bold precipe hed get all the Bridges, Title,  and the larks wherefore that all Caesars quick  and therefore at men one ears thought of 

spike? hurlings the ended he, to them  to allow leaves so dead made to comrade Lucy  clime anone: i, cumbred with you every  foolish golden hawthorn where I see you out  but whole he steered with Stellas kingly and you, starlights  in white-flowers hung: an element thunders;  struggle withal. And time it source of insolencie, lulld  her be “t frownd: ‘Why songs tended.’”

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #117 texts

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

Best Raph Angst 2018 and IDW

This was meant to be an answer for @casperheav, but I think I broke Tumblr’s post or something because I found so many good fics (this is the most thorough I’e ever been for one of these). So now it’s a collection of posts that will be gathered in a master list. Tcest stories are not included, per request, although I have found some good angsty ones.

IDW

One shots

The First Moments You've Ever Known by vacant houses - A turtle who doesn’t know himself wakes up in a city that doesn’t know him (tw pain and possible body horror)

Don't Cry, Little Brother by No Guns Only Roses - Big Brother always takes care of Little Brother, no matter where or who they are (tw for character death)

“Match in the gas tank, oh that's wretched” from Red-Light District by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters- Bishop has more tests to run on a captured Raph (tw graphic rape and medical torture)

“Now We're Heartless” from Midnight Whispers by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph gives in to his dark side (tw torture)

“Bloody Kisses And Fierce Hearts (Red)” from Covered In The Colors, Pulled Apart At The Seams by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph does what he must to protect the one he loves (tw past violence, abuse, death, and underage prostitution)

Dream A Little Dream Of Me by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph and Alopex try to keep each other together (tw violence, gore, medical torture, trauma, mentions of rape and suicide, sexual content)

Bad Things by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph remembers one nightmare as he endures another (tw underage rape, medical torture, trauma, suicidal thoughts, experimentation, dehumanization, hunger, poverty)

“Question” from ABC TMNT by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Splinter has a question for Raph, but he might not like the answer (tw gore, death, and past rape and abuse)

“Mirror” from ABC TMNT II: Out Of The Ooze by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph is feeling out of place, but luckily he has people to help him adjust to his new home (tw past homelessness and fears of abuse)

“Prey” from ABC TMNT II: Out Of The Ooze by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph tries to help a lost love (tw violence, dubcon, and graphic smut)

“Eulogy” from TMNT ABC IV: Turtles Forever And Ever And Ever by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters - Raph’s friends and boyfriend help him confront an old pain (tw grief and past violence and homelessness)

Chapter Fics

Son of the Foot Clan by Dementadoom - It’s a dark new reality indeed when a freshly mutated Raph gets taken in by the Foot Clan (tw violence, gore, abuse, manipulation, death, and imprisonment)

Fallen Angel by This_world_of_beautiful_monsters -AU where Raph is captured by the Purple Dragons and dragged into Casey Jones’ life (tw racism, violence, dehumanization, torture, bigotry, fears of rape, and abuse)

Rottmnt

One Shots

deoxyribonucleic acid don’t mean shit by guide_to_the_galaxy for tiramasu-art - Raph’s family helps him deal with his turbulent mind (tw for mental health issues) And I feel just like the only one by soda_coded (orphan_account) - A turtle tots story with 2012 elements. Raph’s journey towards becoming leader (tw injuries and discussions of violence)

Enough by jelliclekitten - Raph struggles to protect his brothers from someone who is meant to look out for them (tw child abuse)

“Chapter 4” from if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones by sonicthehedgehoglover2 - Raph has failed to protect his family, and now he needs his father’s help. “Bishop AU pt.1” if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones by sonicthehedgehoglover2 - Raph is asked to make a terrifying choice (tw imprisonment)

Chapter Fics

The Rise and the Fall series by KatlynneLyons - Raph cares for his siblings until they suddenly don’t need him anymore, and then things start to crumble (tw child neglect, depression).

(fic was removed after the author politely told me to go fuck myself because they didn’t like my ships)

#tmnt idw #idw comics #idw #teenage mutant ninja turtles #raphael #raph #hamato raphael #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #fanfiction #leonardo #leo #donatello #donnie #michelangelo #mikey #hamato yoshi #splinter #lou jitsu #angst #trigger warnings #fan comics #raph is mentally ill #alopex #agent bishop #rasey

[alderaani]

more than gold

summary:  A lost Jedi Temple, a riddle, some literature, and feelings that Cody isn't ready to speak out loud. | AO3

note: written for @codywanweek and the alt day 5 prompt Sith/Jedi Artefact Shenanigans! sliding in on the last day with one more thing written than expected, so i’m happy with that! i’m pretty ill today so i hope it actually makes some coherent sense 😂 also if the riddle was super obvious, soz, never written one before and turns out it’s really hard.

-

“You know, I could have sworn I told you not to touch that,” Cody says conversationally, from where he’s splayed out on his back.

“Really? I’m sure I didn’t hear you,” Obi-Wan says, cheerful despite being crumpled in a heap. His elbow is in Cody’s gut. Cody glares at him.

The room they’re lying in is circular, stone, carved out of some Forced-damned mountain and according to Obi-wan, practically thrumming with power. The ceiling is high and vaulted, letting in slivers of light where intricate mirror systems catch the sunlight of double suns and project it deep underground. It takes on a slightly blue cast, reflecting off the huge pool of water they were lucky to not fall into. Four walkways at each cardinal point lead to a central platform, and interspersed between them are four waterfalls.

It should be serene. Except now the waterfalls are travelling backwards, and all the doors, including the one they came in by, are blocked. Cody scrambles up onto his elbows, dislodging Obi-Wan with a grunt.

“What did you do?”

Obi-Wan follows his gaze and gasps, delighted. “Now, will you look at that?”

Cody is looking. Frankly, he doesn’t trust this place enough to not keep his eye on it at all times. Obi-Wan keeps saying that this temple was built long ago, by ancient, peaceful Jedi as a place of learning, and that it won’t hurt them. After they got cut off from the rest of their men at the entrance, however, Cody thinks he could be forgiven for having his doubts.

As Obi-Wan himself proves, peace-keeping hardly rules out danger.

“Amazing,” Obi-Wan breathes, hoisting himself to his feet without a second glance, to walk back up to the plinth and stalk round it, examining the incomprehensible runes engraved there.

Cody is left to peel himself off the floor, and instead goes to prod at the barriers now sealing the exits with the end of his blaster. He tries not to look too much at Obi-Wan, at the soft sweep of his hair and the span of his shoulders. Being on their own like this is something he’s avoided, of late - not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he’s starting to enjoy it all too much.

He doesn’t trust the way his heart leaps when Obi-Wan smiles, when he asks him to call him ‘Obi-Wan’, when the cycle draws on and they’re up late again, companionably finishing reports and debating strategy. Or, as they had been doing until Cody got cold feet and started finding excuses, debating novels, which Obi-Wan checked out of the Temple archives and read aloud, one chapter at a time, before they turned in for the night.

He doesn’t trust himself not to ruin this by overstepping. There’s something about his general that makes him lose all control of his tongue, and puts him in danger of voicing thoughts that really he should not be having at all.

It’s agony. It’s bliss. It’s stretching him to breaking point, and this is possibly the worst situation they could have ended up in, really.

“These are made out of water,” he says over his shoulder, grunting as he tries to push his blaster through. He is, of course, unsuccessful.

“Ingenious,” Obi-Wan says. “How did they manage that, I wonder?”

Cody cuts a glance back at him, and grins, despite his exasperation.

“You’re not more worried about how we’re going to get out?”

Obi-Wan waves a hand. “I’m sure the path will reveal itself, in time. Oh, look - Cody, I think this is a puzzle!”

Cody bites back a groan. They do not have time for this. They never really had time for it, but Obi-Wan promised it would be a brief detour on their way to the capital for hyperspace lane access negotiations. He’d looked so excited by recon reports of a lost temple that Cody just hadn’t been able to say no. He’s never able to say no to Obi-Wan, even when he isn’t following orders. It’s probably his fatal flaw.

“I don’t suppose there’s an off switch? A back button?” He asks hopelessly. The Force, at least the Jedi sort, very rarely seems to work that way. Obi-Wan is always talking about moving through problems, about seeking balance and adapting to what’s around you, rather than manipulating it. It’s not Cody’s favoured approach; he was trained to leverage his environment to its maximum advantage, and finds he has little patience for anything else.

Obi-Wan snorts. “This is a defensive mechanism, I’m afraid. Judging by the architecture this was built at the height of the Sith Wars. This artefact is designed to trap us here until we understand the mechanism and progress, or until, back when the temple was occupied, someone would come and deal with the intruder.”

“That doesn’t sound very peaceful,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan shoots him an amused look, the warm, soft kind that makes heat rise from the pit of Cody’s belly right up to his ears.

“Even a pacifist may defend himself,” he says, then leans over the pedestal. “Now, how about you stop grousing and come help me with this?”

Cody rolls his eyes, but goes, slinging his blaster across his back and crossing his arms.

“And stop looming,” Obi-Wan laughs, catching one of Cody’s gloved hands and pulling it down to rest at his side. The simple touch makes Cody’s cheeks burn.

“Don’t see what help I can give you, Sir,” he says, frowning down at the characters surrounding the bright blue artefact. “I was never any good at Ithorian.”

Obi-Wan pauses, then tilts his head up. “Ah. Is that what it is?”

“I - I think so?” Cody was never any good at his language flashtraining; he never had the proper patience for it, but he can usually figure out the basics.

“No, no,” Obi-Wan muses, stroking at his beard with his free hand. “You’re quite right. Goodness me, it's been a long time since I last saw this dialect. Let’s see now…”

Cody steps back and waits, keeping his attention firmly split between their blocked exit points while Obi-Wan ponders. The slow upward movement of the waterfalls is eerie - it still makes noise, but none of it is right. Instead of the gentle patter he expects of water joining a larger pool, there’s a faint gurgling as they move further into each grate, travelling somewhere he cannot see.

Obi-Wan finishes his fifth circle round the platform, and the hand at his chin goes still. Cody stands at attention, expectant.

“It’s a riddle,” Obi-Wan says, and if possible, his delight grows. “Yes - the language is coming back to me now. Do you know, I haven’t looked at Ithorian in maybe 12 years?”

“Sir?” Cody says, tilting his head to look at the characters more closely. He doesn’t have even a passing proficiency at modern Ithorian, and presumably it’s changed a bit over the millennia. His training was focused on the basics, and only the useful bits, at that. He thinks he can make out the words for ‘ water ’, and ‘ enemy’ , both of which are either unhelpfully descriptive or frankly discouraging, but that’s about the extent of it.

“My old master - he loved prophecies. When I was a teenager I could never see the point of it, but it meant I spent a lot of time learning the old Ithorian dialects. They’re known as the most peaceful species, did you know?” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “They’ll exile anyone violent, it’s quite remarkable, really. I suppose in some sort of idealistic emulation, a lot of the early Jedi texts are written in their dialect.”

His blue eyes are keen, his laser sharp focus firmly on the podium. It gives Cody a moment to observe his clever fingers, the long line of his neck, the open delight with which he tackles this new problem. It’s a rare thing, to see him so relaxed, and Cody can’t help the fond smile that creeps up on him despite the circumstances. This almost makes it worth it, and on reflection, he’d rather an ancient temple than the last thing that had made Obi-Wan so happy; a wretched, bioluminescent fungus, which had infected half the battalion and given them hives. Their general had studied it for weeks.

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk up. Cody barely trusts himself to speak.

“I didn’t know, Sir,” Cody croaks, then pauses, fishing for something normal to say. “Didn’t we have to defend the governor’s daughter from an Ithorian bounty hunter on Ganaris-IV?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan grins. “Those exiles have to go somewhere, don’t they?”

Cody huffs a laugh and reaches up to scratch his neck at the seam of his bucket.

“Let’s just hope they didn’t all come here. What’s this riddle, then?”

Obi-Wan shifts to the side, then points at a spot on the podium. “As I said, it’s been a long time, but I think it starts here, and goes something like:

A thing to be forged, where water is thicker,

Worth more than gold, unless it’s pyrite that glitters.

An enemy of my enemy, or in hard times, in need,

Sometimes fair-weather, or in high places indeed.

What are you, traveller? ”

All of Cody’s hopes that it would be something nice and obvious, like “lightsaber” or, given what’s going on around them, “gravity”, escape from him like smoke. Jedi and their metaphors. It’s not just a quirk of Obi-Wan’s, clearly.

“Does that mean anything to you, Sir?” he asks, turning the words over in his head once, twice, then frowning when nothing comes immediately.

Obi-Wan’s brow is also furrowed, but in a leisurely, meditative manner.

“...I have some ideas, I think,” he says. “How about you, my friend?”

What does he think? He thinks that there are other sorts of puzzles he is much better suited to. Word play and idioms...what does a clone have to offer that?

Still, Obi-Wan is watching him, expectant and gentle, and he sifts back through the lines, a little more seriously this time.

“Ice, maybe?”

Obi-Wan nods, slowly. “Perhaps. Walk me through it.”

Cody swallows. “Ice is something that can be made, right? It’s not exactly forged, but…”

He trails off in uncertainty.

“Go on,” Obi-Wan says with another one of those soft, devastating smiles. It fractures all the thoughts in Cody’s head, and he has to stop, clear his throat and gather up all the pieces.

“I suppose...it’s just thicker water, isn’t it? On warm planets it’s a valuable commodity, it’s found in high places, and I suppose if you wanted snow, a freeze would be fair weather.”

Obi-Wan is rubbing his beard again, and he’s still smiling. “Fascinating. I would never have thought of that...only, I don’t think it’s quite there. That mention of pyrite is troublesome, and the ‘enemy of my enemy’, where does that fit in?”

Cody shrugs his shoulders, frustrated, and feels a hot flush creep up his neck. “Don’t know why you’re asking me, to be honest, Sir. Kamino hardly covered poetry.”

There’s a slight pause, then Obi-Wan’s hand is on his again, tugging it slowly down from where he’s crossed his arms.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, soft.

“Do what?” Cody’s voice is gruff.

“Dismiss yourself. You do it sometimes when we’re reading together. There is often no right and wrong answer to these things, no secret. There is only perspective, and you see things I never would, if only you would trust yourself.”

Cody looks down and away, back towards the waterfalls and their slow, glacial climb. He isn’t sure that’s true. He enjoys what Obi-Wan shares with him, what other lives he gets to touch in their books, but more than anything they convince him that, beyond war, he knows very little of anything at all. He would like to, someday.

His eyes land on Obi-Wan’s lips briefly, before he tears them away. Particular experiences he would like to know more than others.

There was one book that Obi-Wan had read early on, back when this infatuation was just setting its first tendrils into him, about a forbidden romance at the heart of the old Mandalorian court. Two heirs of rival clans battling to be together against the good approval of their noble relatives. It had been torrid, ridiculous and entirely unexpected when Obi-Wan had suggested they break up their reports with some literature.

But what it had done was give him the words to express the crawling heat in his stomach, the urge he has to reach out, to touch, to soothe, to care for. He’d known what he wanted before that, of course, in a more rudimentary manner, but it had gifted him the language of yearning.

Suddenly, a particular passage springs into his mind and he straightens.

“You don’t think it could mean ally, do you? In Beneath the Armour, Mata threatens Clan Riza by saying he has ‘allies in high places’.”

Obi-Wan pauses, and then a brilliant smile spreads over his face. “Yes, that’s it! Pyrite - Fool’s Gold; a false friend! Brilliant Cody, whatever made you think of that?”

Cody grins, even though Obi-Wan can’t see it, and doesn’t answer.

“Is that really it?”

“I think you’re very close,” Obi-Wan says. “The characters engraved into the platform...yes! Stand close to me, Commander.”

Cody does, watching curiously as Obi-Wan lifts his hands, shuts his eyes, frowns, and pushes . Six blocks that make up the platform lift, the characters on each glowing bright, lurid blue. Under their feet, something scrapes, shifts and clunks, before the platform lurches upwards, spinning gently.

There’s a thunderous gurgling sound, before all of the pool beneath drains away.

“The answer,” Obi-Wan says, slightly breathless, his hair a little out of place. “Was friend.”

“The doorways are still blocked,” Cody notes drily. The plinth with the blue orb that started this whole mess has also risen, and underneath it are a set of very wet, slimy looking steps. “I don’t suppose it’s as simple as just walking down these and getting in?”

“Likely not,” Obi-Wan agrees, then inexplicably shifts a little closer, so that they are sharing space. Cody’s heart skips a beat. “But it’s like I told you, Cody. You are far greater than what you have been given.”

Cody coughs and looks at his feet, at their boots almost toe to toe, pleasure at the praise singing low through his body.

“Now,” Obi-Wan says, too close and not close enough. “How do you feel about another puzzle?”

Cody groans, laughing, and after a moment, follows his General into the dark.

#codywanweek2021 #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #alderwrites #i would tag this jedi culture but i literally pulled this out of my ass #there is absolutely no basis in canon here #only vibes #the clone wars #star wars #codywan week 2021

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Songfic: Tonight my dear, the end of time. For Sylki week: Day 2: Song lyrics. @sylkiweek

Song: End of time by Lacuna Coil.

(Masterlist of my Sylki fanfiction can be found here.)

---

"You've built your life above the sin. You hold my hand before the end comes, Forgiving me, For what I've done 'till the end of days."

[[MORE]]

It's the end of the world. Or the end of this world, at least. He has left them stranded at this dying planet through a series of unfortunate accidents that could have been avoided if only he had been more careful.

Perhaps this is what he deserves for all the evil he has ever committed- the slaughter of innocents, some by his own hands, the destruction of New York- and everything he, or the version of him in the Sacred Timeline TM, is yet to do- including the events that lead to the death of his own mother.

Yes, this is a just punishment for his crimes, indeed.

There is a loud boom in the background that pulls him out of his contemplation and into the harsh present. Debris are falling across the purple sky, like leaves in autumn that have lost their right to leave. They fall into the ground in the distance, shattering houses and barren lands alike, and in the lake in front of them that has stilled, as if in terror. Sylvie sits motionless, the reflection of the death and destruction in her iris scaled down to a ridiculously miniscule size, as if it is insignificant.

She looks at him and offers him a tiny smile, and it is indeed insignificant, everything around them. The look in her eyes says something soft, something warm, like she sees him for who he is, like she sees his sharp edges and knows those are not the edges of a blade forged to kill, but that of a broken glass- beautiful in its entirety, but cruelly drawing out the blood of those who dare to break it.

If he believed in earthly religions, he would say the look in her eyes was like a message from Heaven, declaring the forgiveness of his sin, granted in his last moments.

She gently touches his arm.

---

"'Cause I belong to you, 'Cause I am part of you. I am dying in your arms. It's time to go, I can make it through"

He looks down at where her skin meets his. It's a simple, innocent touch, yet it speaks entire libraries worth of words in a language that he has never known before

She is very similar to him, but not an exact replica, like how a mirror flips one's silhouette and every single feature. She is similar enough for him to know what she feels, yet differs in her thoughts and actions.

Her grip grows tighter, and she reaches for his hand. She decides to fight, to change the fate of Lamentis-1, to use every bit of the magic in her to deflect the pieces of the moon, force in into a new trajectory, forge a new path for it. She intertwines their fingers until they are one, and the timelines that were forcefully bound into one start branching out again.

---

"I've come to realise, Tonight my dear The end of time Is not so far away. We cannot pray To save our lives"

They are Lokis. They survive. Even when they have no aces up their sleeves, they find the opportunity to steal one from the hands of the enemy. They are not giving up.

But in the silence of the elevator, the aura of defeat is prominent. They steal glances at each other, committing it to memory, so when the time comes to draw the last breath, it is not wasted on hatred.

There's a clenching in her stomach she cannot quite explain. It's different from her first time in his wretched prison. The fear and hatred is constant, but it is mixed with something that tastes like the salty teardrops shed during a farewell.

The collars on their necks are tight, the shackles on their hands without a key. The urge to pull a Houdini is strong, and they keep the hope that they might find a worthy assistant yet.

The door opens, revealing the path to the timekeepers, to the end of the road for them.

---

"I can feel you And I think that Everything you wanted in me Was the mirror of your dreams. But I couldn't believe what you'd say."

It has all been a lie. There never were any Timekeepers. She has done what she had set out to do, and all she has to show for is are the disembodied heads of the androids at her feet.

She doesn't know where to go from here.

He is standing in front of her, with his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on hers, his breathing uneven, leaving her heart dancing like an unruly tornado in her ribcage, making debris out of the walls she has built over the centuries.

She understands, at least a part of it. She feels it surging through her bloodstream too.

This is new for her as well, and dread accompanies the hope. Uncertain of what he would say, she stares at him, as the pruning stick finds its way into his core, and he starts fading right in front of her.

---

"As I belong to you, My flesh and blood in you. I am burning in this fire. It's time to go, I can't make it through"

She understands it fully now. While the timelines found a way to split into two, giving rise to two Lokis, they also found a way to tangle them together with this bond between them, unite them into one.

She has one good memory- the memory of him serenading her on the doomed train in Lamentis-1. When she sings, she sings "Come home".

Neither of them have a world they can call home anymore, or a place in the timelines. But her mother always told her "Home is where the heart is", and she finally knows where their hearts are.

She is going to bring him home.

Sylvie prunes herself.

---

"I'm coming home again And now I know where I belong. Reeling from my instincts 'Cause I realize I'm not alone"

She has lived in apocalypses, watched people go on with their lives unaware of the danger that would soon befall them, watched them cower together in fear as they pray for a miracle, and watched them fight each other in the vain hope of finding a safe passage out of death's jaws.

This world has no such sight.

This world is empty, dead, cold. She is all alone as far as her eyes allow her to see, the sense of loneliness amplified by the lack of her variant by her side. Something roars in the distance, something purple and dangerous and grander than she is. This is its home, its hunting ground, and she is his prey.

So is he.

She is determined to find him, to save him, to make sure neither of them is alone anymore.

---

"I've come to realise, Tonight my dear The end of time Is not so far away. We cannot pray To save our lives"

She pulls the flimsy green blanket closer, like it can shield her from the dangers around. She used to camp out in Roxxcart with stolen electronic devices and watch movies from various eras. She has seen many scenes where the hero and the heroine have a little picnic in a garden, lying on a blanket under the blue skies, feasting on delicacies.

The sky is far from blue, the patch of grass barely resembles a garden, the blanket thin, and the lack of food apparent by the growing pang of hunger in her stomach.

But the feeling in her chest is the one she imagines the heroine experiences when her hero presents her with a flower as a token of his affection.

Flowers wither and die. She has never adorned her hair with floral crowns, choosing metals instead. She prefers things which are strong, lasting.

She prefers everything he is. She prefers the daggers he conjures for her, to be used in this upcoming battle.

They are at the end of time, having run out of it. She is determined to protect him at all costs, but there's a high probability that one or both of them may not make it out of this alive.

Yet, as the end approaches, all she can think of is the possibility of a new beginning.

---

"I've come to realise, Tonight my friend The end of time It's not so far away. We cannot pray To save our lives"

The purple cloud turns green. Alioth the devourer is tamed, their magical collar wrapped tightly around its neck.

The cloud parts, making the citadel visible.

This is it. They are about to confront The one at the end of time, the puppet master.

Loki's grip on Sylvie's hand tightens.

It's time to cut the strings.

#loki disney+ #loki x sylvie #sylvie x loki #sylki #pro sylki #fanfiction #sylki fanfic #sylki week

[saijspellhart]

Hi! How about Blindshipping with prompt 22? With their friends just found out about their relationship

22. A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party. (Blindshipping)

And, I thought I got an ask with 14. But it seems to have vanished from my inbox. So if someone sent 14. This covers that as well.

14. A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished. (Puzzleshipping)

Warning: Spicy

Atem thought he was dying. The way his heart kept stuttering and his breath kept failing. A clear sign of oxygen deprivation was the pulse that kept pounding in his ears, and the way his hands were shaking. He stared at himself in the mirror, and wondered how he was going to face Yugi again. He looked absolutely wrecked.

All night had been like this.

All night Yugi had been at his side. Holding his hand at the mall while they had walked among their friends. It was a gesture between best friends, he’d assured himself. Nothing more. But you’d think it was a lie the way his nerves lit up like one of Kaiba’s blinky hi-tech consoles at the mere contact.

After shopping for a gift for Joey’s sister, their group had wandered into the arcade. Their group always found their way into the arcade.

Joey and Tristan had split off to play a racing game. Bakura and Malik had settled into a fighting game, and Teá had taken on the crowds surrounding the DDR machine. Meanwhile Duke and Ryou had found a table to snack on pizza and flirt over dice. Ryou was always hungry, so the pizza was a given, but Atem noted how Duke never even touched a slice. He was too busy talking dice, and being obvious in how he mooned over Ryou. Not that Ryou ever noticed. Maybe soon though.

But that had been the least of his concerns.

Yugi had slipped a hand into Atem’s pocket, groped around, and it was everything Atem had not to whine.

The sheepish grin his light had given him could have melted an ice cap. Yugi had extracted a bill from Atem’s pocket and held it up.

“Want to play with me?” He’d asked, those begging eyes doing terrible things to Atem’s chest.

Atem had about swallowed his own tongue.

“What?” He’d just barely managed to rasp out.

“Metal Slug,” Yugi clarified. And for the first time Atem had noticed that Yugi was pointing to an arcade cabinet with his free hand.

“Of course,” was all Atem had said. Not what he’d wanted to say, but it was the only appropriate words his mouth could form in the moment.

They’d crowded around the arcade machine, fingers mashing buttons, and hands working the joy-sticks furiously. Their elbows bumped, shoulders brushing, and laughter mingling. Atem remembered feeling breathless, light headed. He had wondered if the arcade was stuffier than usual, and after a half an hour he’d wanted to go run his head under some cool water.

Yugi had kept looking at him, smiling. It wasn’t any different than it always had been. But for some reason it had felt different to Atem. It had felt different for months now.

He couldn’t place his finger on why, but those looks had started to make his stomach churn. Heart pound, veins burn. They made his throat constrict.

And then Yugi had placed his head on Atem’s shoulder when they’d lost their last life and exhausted the last of their quarters. It was such an innocent gesture. Just a friend slumping against their best friend, and nuzzling their face into that best friend’s shoulder.

And circling their arms around said friend’s waist.

And suddenly Atem hadn’t been able to breath anymore. He’d placed the most platonic arm around Yugi’s shoulder and patted him fondly.

It had been fine. It was normal. They were normal.

Then they’d all gone to the theater to see a movie together. The thought of sitting between Bakura and Joey had crossed his mind. It would have been far less agonizing that way. But as it turned out, some wretched teens had snuck into the theater, and there hadn’t been enough seats for everyone in the end.

The smaller members of their group had taken to sitting on laps.

Ryou had taken Bakura’s lap until the Yami had kicked him off, citing “a bony butt.” So, Ryou had nearly sat on Tristan’s lap before Duke caught his wrist and dragged him onto his.

Atem swore blushing had commenced, but it had been a little too dark to be sure.

Then Malik had taken that opportunity to occupy Bakura’s newly vacated lap. Apparently Malik’s butt was not as bony as Ryou’s because he had not been kicked out.

And Yugi—bless his tiny little body, and damn his squirmy little hips—had crawled into Atem’s lap without so much as an invitation. He’d settled into place, head nestled against Atem’s shoulder, and it was a wonder he hadn’t heard the traitorous heart hammering violently against his ribs.

The movie had been torture. He didn’t even remember what it was about. All his focus had been on Yugi and his constantly shifting hips. He’d shut his eyes and focused so acutely on not reacting.

Calm. Calm. He was calm. This was fine. They were fine. Just friends.

And then Yugi’s nose had brushed a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Traced a line just below his ear, and that breath had ghosted so tortuously over his jaw.

Atem had had to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from keening.

And that was how the night found him in the men’s restroom now. He’d practically dumped Yugi off his lap and rushed out of the the theater.

Thankfully all the movies were in session, and the bathroom was conveniently vacated.

He had the privacy to collect his shattered composure. Piece together his broken thoughts, and will away the painful tent in his leather pants.

“Friends, friends, just friend. Best friends,” Atem whispered over an over like a mantra. He shoved his hands into the running water from the tap, and dragged wet fingers through his sweat-soaked spikes.

The effect made him look like a colorful soggy lion. Hair messed up, spikes drooping, and blonde bangs frayed.

Fan-tucking-fastic, his outsides were finally starting to match the mess of his insides.

“Atem?”

He jumped so badly he about crawled onto the bathroom counter. He couldn’t even recall hearing the bathroom door open, so lost to his own thoughts.

“Y-Yugi!” He managed to choke out, his lower back pressed so painfully into the sharp edge of the counter.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes!” The declaration was probably too strained, too sudden and loud.

Yugi was giving him him weird looks. So it definitely was.

“You don’t look so good,” Yugi pointed out, taking a step forward, but pausing again when Atem flinched. “Did I...did I do something wrong?”

“What? Aibou, no. No.” Atem was gesticulating, waving hands while he spoke. He never gesticulated—unless it was during a game, and he was jabbing fingers about—and Yugi knew this, and it was a dead giveaway that something was indeed wrong.

The pained look of doubt and disbelief darkened Yugi’s features, and made Atem feel wretched.

They were best friends, former soul mates, and his relationship with Yugi meant everything to him. He’d seen the way crushes, and romantic attraction could foil those friendships, and create a rift in relationships. He wanted to die before spoiling the closeness that he shared with Yugi.

And so he kept his traitorous heart to himself. He cursed that his feeling had become something other than platonic. That everyday he lived a lie, telling himself that things were just fine, and normal, even though he burned inside at every touch.

He owed Yugi everything. And he was determined to suck it up and not ruin everything. Even if it meant lying.

“It’s not you-“

“I tried to kiss your neck in the theater, and I’m sorry!” Yugi suddenly blurted out, eyes shut, and fists balled at his side. A furious blush stained his cheeks, nose, and ears. “I’m making things weird between us, and I’m... sorry.”

Words were not finding Atem. His heart had almost certainly stopped. His knees had given out and he was barely holding himself up with his arms braced against the counter. His brain ceased functioning. Atem.exe had quite literally stopped operating.

A tear slithered down Yugi’s red cheek. It was soon followed by a second on the other side. “You’re my best friend, and I’m ruining it because I love you. And everything I do is selfish because to you it’s just friends, and I should want that too, but instead I want you.” He dragged his wrist over his face, mopping away the tears. “I’m really sorry.”

“Yugi...” but the name only came out as a throaty whisper.

Yugi made a choked noise. Clearly struggling not to start sobbing. He was sensitive and cried easily. Something he hated about himself, but shouldn’t. It was something Atem always admired and adored about him. There was a kind of strength in being attuned to your emotions and being able to express them. Atem still struggled to express himself. But it was Yugi that had awakened his humanity again after 3000 years of being detached from it

About to break down, Yugi spun on his heel and started for the door.

Atem snapped his arm out and caught his wrist. The both of them froze.

“I have wanted you for months.” He tightened his grip on Yugi’s wrist as he said this. “And I thought it was me ruining everything. Please don’t cry.”

Yugi broke into a sob and the next thing Atem knew his light had thrown himself into his chest.

Shaking brown arms wrapped Yugi in a crushing embrace. And this time there wasn’t anything held back. Smaller arms snaked around to grab fistfuls of leather at Atem’s back, and for the first time it felt like their hearts were bared, vulnerable, without a guard.

Atem buried his nose in Yugi’s hair and let himself inhale. “I. Thought. I was dying. All. Day.”

“Why?” And there may have been the slightest lace of amusement.

“Because you kept being you. And touching me, and holding my hand, and squirming in my lap like some erotic dancer, and all I wanted to do was kiss you. So. Damn. Badly.”

“Oh,” Yugi mumbled against his collarbone. “So, you did notice.”

Atem’s body went rigid.

“The lap thing...” he breathed. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

A small nose traced the line of his collarbone, eliciting a shiver. “Maybe.” Yugi said, sounding coy.

“Oh Ra.” Atem hugged him closer. “Do you know what you did to me?”

“...no?”

“Then allow me to demonstrate.”

Atem bent and brushed his lips against Yugi’s ear. The hands at his back gripped harder at the leather, and he heard the sharp intake of breath. A chuckle escaped his chest, and he moved to place a kiss against the side of his neck.

Little by little he moved down Yugi’s neck, a kiss here, a lick there. He delighted in the tiniest noises the actions elicited. Everything slow, deliberate, careful. Then a nip at the corner of Yugi’s jaw that caused him to tremble from head to toe.

This game was fun. Atem traced his nose back over Yugi’s ear, breath ghosting, then kissed the two piercings at the top. His light mewled. Very fun.

“P-please kiss me!”

Atem turned his head to oblige, but Yugi already closed the distance between them.

There lips met, and his world clicked into place. This was right. And everything before had been so wrong.

He tilted his head into the kiss, lips moving gently, following his light’s lead. When Yugi’s lips parted, Atem’s followed in kind.

Atem sucked a deep breath through his nose, and groaned when Yugi’s tongue slipped down his throat. A small hand found its way into his hair, yanking, the other hooked around his shoulders.

And then Yugi was climbing him.

It was fortunate he was still next to the counter, or he would have lost his balance. Yugi was off the floor, into his arms, and kissing him so fiercely his toes curled.

Atem’s left hand grabbed Yugi’s ass and hiked him closer, making them both groan from the sudden delicious friction. His right hand gripped his lower back, clawing at the material there, and returning the favor from earlier.

He wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not when he’d yearned this for so long, and now his Aibou was hot and wanting him, kissing him. They were so wrapped up in each other the rest of the world fell away. Nothing mattered but those lips on his.

They slumped against the bathroom counter, Atem’s back supported while Yugi continued to straddle his hips. And they kissed, breathless and starving, a desperate release of all the pent up desires they’d kept hidden for months.

Yugi ground his hips down, making Atem moan. Then he did it again, and Atem broke the kiss to gasp.

The painful erection was back, and he was wearing the worst pants in the world.

In that moment Atem hated leather.

Yugi moved again, and Atem bit into that pale neck to muffle his next undignified noise. There was going to be a mark.

“Aaaatem!”

When Yugi rolled his hips once more, Atem met them with a thrust of his own. It sent them both gasping. Again they moved, then again. Finding a rhythm in meeting the other, a grinding friction, between broken kisses.

“Ah...ah...Gods, A-Aibou,” Atem moaned, dragging lips over his cheek. It felt so good. Agonizing in the leather, but so so good.

Yugi practically rode him through the clothes. Atem took his lips in another open-mouthed kiss. The pain and pleasure became tight in his groin. Tension mounting, his balls clenched, just a bit more, another trust, another grind, a little more and he would...

“What the bloody hell are you two doing in here?”

The door to the bathroom bounced off the wall with the force it had been thrown open.

Atem and Yugi stopped dead. Both men snapped their head around to see Bakura standing in the entrance of the men’s restroom.

“What? What are they doing?” asked a more nasally voice. A second later Malik poked his head over Bakura’s shoulder. “Gross! Get a room guys.”

Atem’s grip loosened, and Yugi slid down his front—both of them wincing from the friction—until feet met the floor once more. Neither stepped apart though, because things were still obviously... up.

Bakura started chuckling, deep dark and from his chest. It echoed through the restroom most eerily. “Consummating your relationship in a public restroom, Pharaoh? Really, I thought you had more class.”

“I-we weren’t-it’s not-“

“I would have done it in the projector booth, personally,” supplied Malik unhelpfully. He tried to squeeze around Bakura who was still taking up the entrance.

But Bakura grabbed his shoulder and dragged him backward before he made it two steps. “Let’s get out of here, Malik. I need a drink. A real one” He nodded at Yugi and Atem adding, “and you two are disgusting.”

“But I need to pee still!” Malik clawed at the doorframe in vain.

They watched him get dragged out of the room, the door swinging shut with their exit, and cutting off the rest of his protests.

Several moments passed in silence, and the situation seemed to crash down on them.

Yugi tentatively glanced up at Atem and worried his bottom lip. Whatever spell had overtaken them before was quickly dissipating in the wake of that intrusion.

“Uh...did you want to finish the movie?”

Atem blinked down at him with a lost expression.

“I have no idea what the movie was even about.”

They finally stepped apart, and another silence passed while they made a half-hearted attempt righting clothes. Neither looked at the other. Atem lamenting the circumstances of their first, second, third kiss, and Yugi realizing he’d been ready to just give it all up in a public restroom.

Finally Atem grabbed his hand and their eyes met again. Something wordless passed.

“Do you want to go home?” Yugi asked.

“Gods yes.”

~0000~

So not all their friends caught them. But Malik will most definitely blab about it to everyone else. Don’t you worry.

You didn’t so much get a drabble as an entire oneshot for this prompt. So... hope ya’ll like it. Feedback is delightful.

#puzzleshipping #blindshipping #atem #Yugi mutou #Yugi muto #Yami yugi #yami x yugi #atem x yugi #yugioh #yugioh duel monsters #ygo dm #saijspellhart answers #saijspellhart writes #ask answers #ask prompt #kiss prompt #kisses #fanfic #fanfiction

[pandaemoniumpancakes]

Michelangelo, Libyan Sibyl, ca. 1511, fresco, 395 × 380 cm, Sistine Chapel, Vatican.

   “The pose of the Libyan Sibyl is one of the most dynamic and complex inventions Michelangelo created with the last figures of the Veiling. The twisting motions of the Sibyl, inensified by the movement of her robes, express “furor divinus,” or divine fury, that is present on other scenes on the second half of the Ceiling as well.“ (Matthias Winner, from ‘Jonah’s Body Language’ in The Sistine Chapel: A Glorious Restoration)

   “The same holds true for the lovely figure of the Libyan Sibyl who, having written a great volume drawn from many books, is about to rise to her feet in an attitude of womanly grace; and at one and the same time she makes as if to rise and to close the book, something most difficult, not to say impossible, for anhyone but the master to have depicted.” (Giorgio Vasari, from ‘Life of Michelangelo Buonarroti’ in The Lives of the Aritsts, trans. Julia Conway Bondanella and Peter Bondanella)

   “The Sibyl neer reveals the truth,/ unless she is furious, demented and wretched;/ and the divine plan/ is discerned when her mind is affected, not when it is sound.” (Leonardo Bruni Aretino, from ‘Ballad in Praise of Venus: 7’)

   “La Sibilla non mai il vero isnoda,/ Se non quand’è furente, matta e grama;/ E la divina trama/ Cerne il commosso, e non il sano petto”

   “According to Barbieri, Libyca had prophesied: Behold, the day shall come and shall illuminate the condensed shadows, and the lips of men shall be silent: and they shall seethe King of the Living. A virgin, the mistress of the nations, shall hold him in her lap, and shall reign in mercy; and the womb of his mother shall be the image of all.” (from ‘The Libyan Sibyl’ in Michelangelo: the Frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, Marcia B. Hall)

   “It is only when we consider the Sibyl in relation to this narrative that we understand what she is in fact doing. She is not closing the weighty book, as Vasari says; on the contrary, extending her arms, she is lifting the pages to receive the divine light which God above is separating from darkness. Directly across from her on the other side of God, the side of darkness, the pensive figure of Jeremiah appears appropriately as the very personification of lamentation and woe, brooding on vice, traditionally symbolized by such darkness. By contrast, the more exultant Libyan Sibyl props up her book, elevating it toward the divine illumination separated from darkness by God, her extended arms mirroring the outstretched limbs of the Creator. Looking up at the Libyan Sibyl from the chapel and seeing the way in which both her spiraling shape and extended arms echo these aspects of God's body, indeed imitating them, we understand, through such visual analogy, how Michelangelo is here magnifying the meaning of light at the moment of creation, for it is a spiritual illumination flooding down upon the prophetic, sibylline text, as the Sibyl herself elevates the book, pushing its pages toward God, toward that divine luminosity that foretells grace itself.” (Paul Barolsky, from ‘What is the Libyan Sibyl Doing?’)

#michelangelo #libyan sibyl

[asphyxiateher]

Only Monsters Come Out at Night *Chapter 8 Update*

Summary: Desdemona has a nightmare that sends her spiraling into the arms of her beloved mistresses but when she's turned away, she realizes that nightmare was a warning of what was to come. An unexpected family reunion finally makes Desdemona beg for death. A/N:  Thank you to everyone who stuck it out with this story this far; I know the last chapter wasn't too exciting but as I played the Resident Evil remake on my switch, I was inspired to drum up a little more excitement with this chapter and the next few chapters to come, which will be the last!

There’s a long, dark corridor that is accompanied by the acquainted sound of silence outside of Desdemona’s door and the darkness seeping into the room is becoming too much to bear. It feels like she is dreaming but these days, her nightmares and her reality have blended in so well together that it’s become nearly indistinguishable to tell apart what’s actually happening to what she could be imagining. It’s terrifying. She shouldn’t have become accustomed to what she’s gotten comfortable around lately, especially with everything that’s happened ever since she had been taken to Lady Alcina’s castle. Desdemona feels the familiar hunger for company creep up on her as she sits against the wall on her bed with her legs crossed, a journal and pen in hand. Loneliness was something she was used to, something she begged for when socializing drained her of her energy but now it was like a stranger to her. She no longer liked the idea of being alone in this gigantic castle that was made for its vampiric inhabitants and the monstrosities that lingered every which way. The connection she unintentionally formed with Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela and was ultimately made stronger through their unusual ways of showing affection is suddenly severed and she can no longer sense them nearby. This was very troubling. Although she wasn’t feeling very well, a wave of nausea causing her to lose consciousness earlier, Desdemona summoned the strength to get out of bed. This desire to be around the wretched creatures that ruined her life both shocked and comforted her, the inner conflicting thoughts in her mind constantly pulling her in one direction over the other was exhausting but rationality had no place in House Dimitrescu. Her hands shook violently as she reached for the doorknob, her knees nearly going out when she dared to take a few cautious steps outside of her room. The grand designs of the castle were dulled by the strangeness of the dim lighting of every room. This was very unusual, what was going on? Beneath her, she could hear one of the sisters scream in agony while Lady Dimitrescu rages about the deaths of her daughters. No. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t be dead, she felt them nearby just a few minutes ago! How could this be possible? Panicking at the idea of losing her mistresses, Desdemona rushes down the polished stairwells of the castle. She can’t sense them, hear them, or feel them through their bond and her heart aches at the idea of having to go on without them. When she finally reaches the ground level, she finds Alcina looming over the corpse of an unknown intruder. Desdemona has always been afraid of Lady Dimitrescu, but for some unknown reason, she felt compelled to comfort her despite not knowing what was going on. She carefully approaches the statuesque woman and gently tugs at her sleeve, and when Alcina turns around and looks down at Desdemona, she gives out a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you darling! This night has been dreadful, and I’m not certain at how you’ll take the news but let me assure you that I am so glad to see that at least you weren’t harmed in all of this. Let me show you who was responsible for the deaths of my daughters; together, you and I shall take vengeance against the human organization that was responsible for this.” Alcina declares as she wraps an arm around Desdemona, pulling her closer before turning her around to examine the corpse at their feet. Desdemona’s jaw drops at the sight of her own body laying on the floor nearly intact. Her skin was nearly flawless, save for the deep wounds inflicted upon her by Alcina. She lay there dead before her very eyes, her lifeless gray eyes reflecting a dark creature she could not recognize. Startled, Desdemona turns on her heel to find a mirror, and when she finds the nearest restroom, her hands grip the sink in front of her. She cannot recognize what she’s staring at but she knows it’s her reflection, just not what she expected at all. Instead of beautifully long flowing dark brown hair, she sees a matted mess of dark hair tangled in some sort of wild updo, cold, glowing yellow eyes and when she opens her mouth to scream at the sight, she coughs up blood. She goes into a brief coughing fit, and eventually she begins to throw up, but what comes out of her isn’t bile. Oh no, she threw up a sticky ball of insects and maggots glued to each other, the creatures clinging to each other in their frenzied movements. The sight alone is enough to wake Desdemona from her slumber. Desdemona wakes in a cold sweat, her heart hammering at the implications of what she’s become so she quickly examines herself. She runs to the nearest full body length mirror and she’s relieved that she sees herself in her nearly natural state. Bedraggled dark brown hair, terrified gray eyes and the occasional love bite and bruise left behind by the mistresses she’s bonded to. Her skin, while still tawny-brown, was starting to gray out but for the most part, she still seemed normal. What caught her attention in that moment, however, was the sound of Daniela’s laughter coming from downstairs in the dining room. Any logic and rational thought once again flees her mind as she’s comforted by the fact that her mistresses were still alive and well. That’s all that mattered to her and so she rushes out of her room to interrupt the important meeting that Bela had warned her not to interrupt. She didn’t care, she just needed to know that they were safe and sound. Without dressing up like she’s supposed to when she wanders around the castle unsupervised, she glides down the railing of the grand staircase as she follows the sound of a private conversation being had. Desdemona bursts into the living area, her heart rate picking up at the sight of Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela all casually enjoying their special blend of blood wine with a guest she wasn’t familiar with. Bela is caught off guard at the sight of Desdemona waltzing into the meeting in a revealing nightgown but is even more thrown when the smaller girl practically lunges at her and wraps her arms around her. Cassandra looks a little miffed that Desdemona decided to greet her sister first but then she sees how quickly Bela is becoming agitated with the intrusion so she steps in and tries to peel Desdemona off of her. “Oh thank god you’re alright! I had the worst nightmare that you all were killed and there was nothing I could do about it -,” Desdemona begins but is quickly shushed when a hard slap to the face reminds her that they were not alone. “Desdemona, what the hell are you talking about? Of course we’re alright but what on earth are you doing here? I instructed you to stay in your room and mind your business, did I not?” Bela asks angrily as she shoves Desdemona away from her. Cassandra steadies her and throws her sister a knowing look, nodding off to the side as if to remind her that they were in the company of Donna Beneviento. Daniela merely looks amused and continues talking to Donna and Angie as if nothing unusual was happening. It was then that Desdemona realizes that they were indeed in the middle of an important conversation with the lord Bela wished to make a partner out of in either ousting Mother Miranda or finally bringing her a suitable host to revive her daughter. Desdemona looks ashamed and stares at her clenched fists, biting her tongue as Bela continues to give her a tongue lashing. “Look at you wandering around House Dimitrescu looking like a common whore without any dignity. I could have sworn my mother and I taught you better than this but nevertheless, you owe the lovely Donna Beneviento an apology. Once this meeting is over, we will go over what is distressing you. None of your concerns are more important than what is currently being discussed, I’m sorry to say.” Bela admonishes Desdemona before she turns to offer Donna a sincere apology. Donna, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in what Bela had to say as she observed the human standing quietly before her. It was a fascinating scene unfolding before her very eyes. “Oh ho ho, look at the poor girl, she’s ready to cry. What happened, Bela? Is she no longer your favorite?” Angie, the doll, said out loud as she giggled. “Lovers tend to have spats, but you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?” Bela growls, looking as though she were ready to strangle both the doll and the ventriloquist. Donna scoffs, shaking her head before settling on an equally irritating comment. “You mistreat your toys, they’re more than welcome to stay home with me and keep me company. I can promise you I’m more pleasant than your mistresses.” Donna replies quietly, her face hidden behind her veil but even Desdemona could hear the smugness in her tone. This time, Bela, Cassandra, and Daniela pitch a fuss over the unnecessary comment and find themselves squabbling over a silly matter. Angie, the doll, is delighted and laughs maniacally when the sisters begin to fight with one another. Donna was clearly amused but said nothing as she continued to watch Desdemona fret over her actions in the background. Desdemona begins to shut out the banter as the remnants of her decaying mind makes its final stand in her mind. ‘Get out…while you still can…the opportunity won’t come again. They’re distracted, their mother is away…you can go home. Get help…please leave…please do it. For your sake, for Desmond’s sake, and for Veronica’s. Run away…while you still can.’ Desdemona blinks, her rational state of mind completely taking over for a moment before it slips into nothingness again. She turns to find the doll named, Angie, staring up at her while the ventriloquist responsible for the trickery, observes her from afar. Desdemona used to be frightened of dolls, especially of the porcelain collection her mother obtained from her grandmother but when she gives Angie a once-over, she finds that she isn’t crept out at all by the appearance of the doll but is comforted by both her and Donna’s presence. It was strange but with her life constantly taking a turn for the worse every other second of her life, she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised she’s taking a liking to the friends of her mistresses as well. “I apologize for the intrusion. I had a nightmare that I’ll eventually recover from, but I hope my childish antics didn’t embarrass you further, Bela. I’ll take my leave and I won’t bother you again.” Desdemona finally says almost robotically as she makes her way back to castle entrance. She’s ready to go back to her room when something terrifying happens. Her eardrums suddenly pop, an incessant buzzing sound following the sound of brief ringing. Desdemona cannot hear anyone or anything so when she looks up to see the mouths of Cassandra and Daniela moving as if they were speaking to her, she confirms the temporary loss of hearing. Panic grips her, her anxiety on the rise when the others notice the drastic change in behavior. She starts to scream when she feels her brain begin to throb in pain, as if a knife were slowly dividing her brain in half and it sends Desdemona running. She’s gripping her head as she runs into walls, end tables, statues, and portraits; nothing seems to stop her even though she has no idea where she’s going or how she’s even leading herself anywhere with the immense amount of pain she’s in. She still hears that incessant buzzing noise in her head and it’s driving her crazy. She can’t hear the girls call out to her in worry. The only thing that she can hear is the sound of something buzzing around inside of her. She remembers that Bela, Daniela, and Cassandra are not immune to the cold air during the winter and if this is the same bug that they seem to be made out of, maybe some fresh air will do her some good and kill whatever it is that’s inside of her. She thinks it’s a great idea; her mistresses, once they see her heading outside towards the gardens and vineyard, think otherwise. “Desdemona, no, don’t do this! Don’t go where we cannot follow, please!” Cassandra cries out to her, unable to go past the point of no return. The fresh, wintry cold air brings immediate relief to Desdemona as she pushes past the doors that led to Lady Dimitrescu’s enormous vineyard. Her ears pop again, the sound of the girls screaming for her to return to the castle can finally be heard and Desdemona feels good again. She chuckles to herself, thinking she overdramatized her pain but what she had just gone through was something she had never experienced prior. It was incredibly painful and there was no other way to describe it other than it felt like her brain was melting out of nowhere, the left and right side of her brain being divided by a painful knife. She thought she was going to die. When she glances up from where she had been doubled over in pain, she finds herself wishing that she did die from whatever kind of attack that was. Yes, she’s staring a Alcina’s glorious, infamous vineyard sprawled out beautifully before her and covered in snow but what she sees staring back at her from not so far away is an eerily familiar scarecrow. Desdemona hears that incessant buzzing noise in her head again as she slowly approaches the scarecrow, her breath growing heavy. Her eyes widen in complete shock when she recognizes the clothes that the scarecrow is wearing, but it isn’t just what it’s wearing that appalls Desdemona, it’s who it is. It was Desmond. They never told Desdemona what they did with his remains. Sure, they might have mentioned drinking his blood and devouring some of his flesh but that wasn’t the case at all. Here he was, skin stitched together and his beautiful curly hair clumped on top of what has to be his skull living in the afterlife as a scarecrow. They hollowed him out, dumping out his insides completely and disposing that mess in a way Desdemona no longer wanted to think about and turned him into this! Tears prickling in her eyes, a whole new fresh wave of pain consumes her entire being. She drops down to her knees again, feeling completely defeated as she takes in the immaculate detailing of how they put his flesh back together to make this monstrosity. The only thing that was missing was his eyes; otherwise, she was looking directly at her twin reincarnated. Her fingernails are beginning to frost over, the stinging cold making her feel as if she were dipped in a frozen pond and pulled back out again. None of that mattered to her. Her heart rate was beginning to slow down, the buzzing in her head growing more and more frantic but she can’t tear her eyes away from her dead twin. Her body can no longer tolerate the cold that it used to and the longer she stayed outside, she knew her body would begin to shut down. Maybe this was finally it for Desdemona, maybe this is the way she wanted to go out and reunite with her loved ones again. She just wanted it all to end because her life no longer mattered. She sees a rather large shadow approach her from behind and she knew that it was too good to be true. She was so close yet death would continue to evade her. She struggles to turn her head, the ice buildup on her skin making it difficult to do so and finds a very displeased Alcina Dimitrescu staring down at her. “Looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands and speed up your transformation, little one. Miranda is eager to find out if you’ll do or not.” With that said, Alcina raises her hand and long, sharp claws begin to form. Desdemona closes her eyes as she braces herself for death and when she feels something sharp puncture her chest, she blacks out completely. 

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #RE Village #RE8 #mine #only monsters come out at night #chapter update #chapter 8 #Lady Dimitrescu's daughters x ofc #bela dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu x ofc #cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x ofc #daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x ofc #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #donna beneviento #angie the doll

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Kingdom Come”

This is another one of my early Captain Swan one shots, this one written during the hiatus between 3a and 3b.  The idea entered my head when I first heard "Demons" by Imagine Dragons, which is where the title and the lyrics included come from. There was also some added inspiration from episode 3x06 "Ariel" and episode 3x07 "Dark Hollow". I don't think there is anything in here that goes against show canon; it's mostly imagined thoughts and missing scenes that go along with what has happened, and some guesses at what we may see when "Once" returns again in March.

As always, I have no claim to the show, the characters, or the song used. They belong to their creators and I'm merely celebrating their genius!

Also available on both AO3 and ff.net

“Kingdom Come”

by: @snowbellewells​

He knew that he should have kept his distance. She was shining light in contrast to his dark shadow, and a villainous wretch was the last sort she needed to have dogging her steps. Yet from their first meeting – knife at his throat, fingers fisted in his hair, hard, dangerous eyes hiding tense, nervous fear – he hadn't been able to pull away. He had no choice but to follow her. Call it a compulsion, an addiction, but he was as drunk on her as he had ever been on his chosen rum, and he despaired from the moment she left him chained atop that bloody beanstalk to any time she had left his side since.

The words Cora had hissed at him in warning echoed back to him, "You chose her…and the consequences of that decision…" Whether it was good or bad for either of them didn't seem to matter to his black, barely-beating heart. It was true: he had chosen the Swan girl…

When the days are cold

and the cards all fold

and the saints we see

are all made of gold

When your dreams all fail

and the ones we hail

are the worst of all

and the blood's run stale

It had become even clearer to him after the Echo Caves. When he had bared his soul and the feelings he harbored for her to be met with only silence and Emma's panicked uncertainty, fearless pirate he might be, but Killian Jones knew he should take a step back. The incredible, unparalleled kiss they had shared in the Neverland jungle told him the Savior was as attracted as he, but she was not ready for him. Her sole focus was on her boy – as it should be – but beyond that, she was running scared from anyone else who might try to breach her emotional defenses.

He knew it had been too much, too soon, to unload the truth about feeling that he could love again upon meeting her, and if he had been free to proceed as himself – as Killian Jones wooing a lady properly – he would have never been so clumsily blunt, but instead he was a pirate captain desperate to prove his loyalty and worth, while stuck on Peter Pan's nightmare island. They had needed to get Neal back without further delay and return to seeking Henry, and so he'd had to make clear that he was correct in the way the infernal cave worked. It had not been easy to look into her beautiful, tormented eyes when he had offered his confession, hoping he hadn't driven a wedge which would push her even farther away. It had been even worse to see her run across the bridge formed for her of their painful admissions, right up to Baelfire without giving him a word of comfort, encouragement, or thanks. He felt his shoulders slump in defeat, hurting more than he had imagined, when the cage holding the Crocodile's son vanished at words from Emma which he could not hear, and she fell into the embrace of her first love.

Killian felt her slipping away – if she had ever been within his grasp at all. Bowing his head, he hid the pain in his eyes from Snow White and Prince Charming's curious, searching gazes. Burning fire within him seared away the tentative hope he had foolishly let kindle within. He was nothing but a pirate, as the Prince had reminded him not so long ago. Though he couldn't help wanting to hold her, it was probably for the best…

I wanna hide the truth

I wanna shelter you

But with the beast inside

there's nowhere we can hide

No matter what we breed,

we still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come,

This is my kingdom come

There was no longer any doubt. He was a fool – a sodding, pathetic fool. For him to let a glimmer of belief take root in his chest again was begging for misery, but Killian Jones had felt it growing all the same.

Venturing into the Dark Hollow had been a risky, desperate move at best, but after his face-off with Baelfire and discovering that Emma had not even deemed what had been brewing between them worth mention, self-preservation had not been so high atop his list. He had barely cared what happened to him in their suicide quest to capture Pan's shadow.

Of course, the fiend trying to rip his shadow from his body had jolted things into focus with frightening clarity; especially when he realized that Baelfire was facing the exact same fate, but it was his moniker of 'Hook!' that Emma cried out in horror. That she found the power to magically light their star map shadowcatcher just after her concern for him surfaced was not lost on Killian. No matter how much he cautioned himself not to dwell on it, he couldn't ignore the implications. Emma might not want to admit it, might not be free to show it, but when push came to shove, she cared more for him than she wished to admit.

He had not lied to her when he had promised no deviousness or trickery. If Emma Swan – the Enchanted Forest's lost princess – ever gave him the chance to truly win her heart, he would use no dishonorable means. He understood good form and had once dreamed of being a hero. He might be an orphan and a pirate, not some prince or man of noble blood, and his thirst for revenge had kept him lost in villainy for countless years, but he still had honor, could strive to show it valiantly once again. He knew deep down that she wanted him; what he did not know was if Swan would ever allow herself to acknowledge her desires. He could only vow that he would endeavor to deserve her if she came to him with such a golden opportunity.

Swan needed some joy and lightheartedness in her life. Though she looked fragile, she was hard as steel; she'd had to be for far too long. To him, her beauty was unrivalled, but it was clear that Emma did not see that in herself. He wanted to worship her as she deserved, unfit as he might be to do so. Killian Jones wanted to restore her lad to her, heal the wounds of her past, love her unconditionally, and never leave her side. He trembled to risk pulling her that close; his history proving over and over that anyone he dared to love had suffered a horrible fate. It was better his own heart be crushed than for her to suffer harm by nearness to him. Still, if he fought back the darkness he had sunk into, shouldn't he be allowed to step into the light?

When you feel my heat,

look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close

It's dark inside

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

She came to him at the helm of his ship once Henry was truly safe and resting peacefully with Regina watching over him. There had been a scare when Pan had tried to take Henry from them once again, but it appeared Rumplestiltskin's strength had indeed been greater than the ageless boy's, and their antagonist was now trapped safely in Pandora's Box. Sighing as she came to a stop just beyond arm's reach from him and leaned against the Jolly's hull, Emma didn't know if weariness or relief was winning within her at present. She was not sure that seeking out Hook when her emotions were such a mess was a good idea, but it was a need all the same. She was drawn to him like a magnet – impelled to speak to him, to thank him for helping them to get this far…to make sure that he was alright.

Emma knew he had been left hanging, knew he wanted more. What she didn't know was what she had to give. It had nothing to do with still doubting his motives or that he was a pirate; Hook had long since proven himself in her eyes. She simply wasn't sure her heart could let any man in the way he would want and deserve. She found it didn't matter though: she still ached to be near the Captain. He calmed her, despite the turmoil she had been in ever since this voyage started, and his constant support at her back, whatever the situation or whatever her decisions, had given her strength. She wanted to tell him so; if nothing else, he ought to know what it meant to have had him in her corner and that she would not soon forget it.

"Hook…" she began, then shook her head to cut herself off, knowing that wasn't right. Her corrected word came out breathy and more ragged than she had intended, "….Killian…"

He turned to face her when she spoke his name, though he had already known she was there. Just then, she could see everything he was feeling in those ocean blue eyes. Though their decadent depths often smirked, prodded, threatened, or demanded as the situation called for, at that moment they were raw, reflecting mirrors letting her see right into his exposed inner soul.

All the words she had intended to give him flew from her head, and Emma was left standing frozen, swallowing hard and wondering why she wanted to talk at all. With that in mind, she moved to stand before him, just within his reach, when one corner of his mouth tilted up in a tempting smirk as he beckoned her closer. Obviously pleased with himself, he took things a step farther, resting both hand and hook at either side of her waist, his thumb rubbing soothing circles that she could feel the warmth of through the waistband of her jeans, as if he were stilling a skittish animal so it didn't flee. "Was there something you wished to discuss with me, Love?"

"I…" her mouth went dry staring into his eyes and she struggled to focus on anything other than the desire for a second kiss from him, but she finally pieced together coherent words. "I just wanted to thank you…for everything. We couldn't have even followed Henry without your ship and your help. David would be dead by now. And I, well, I just…"

"Come, Lass, it's just me. There's no need to be so formal. I offered you my ship and my services, and I meant it." As he said these words, he was slowly, deliberately, pinning her in his gaze so she understood just how much it did mean to him. He placed the cool, smooth curve of his hook under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his.

"But – it's just – it's so much more than that," she floundered, and if she weren't so grateful and attracted and muddled all at once she would have been irritated that he could sound so composed and romantic while she struggled to get a sentence out. Emotional tears almost welled over her eyelids, but she blinked them back and stepped closer yet, almost begging him to hold her, causing their noses to nearly brush. Looking up at him, she hoped that just maybe her eyes could convey her affection, gratitude, and want without the words that seemed lost to her. Biting her lower lip in nervous anticipation, Emma raised her eyes, blinking, to his cerulean gaze and prayed he would simply read her scrambled mind.

Chuckling low in his throat, Killian seemed to do just that, and wrapped his muscled arms around to reel her in. "All you had to do was ask, Love," he teased, lightly ghosting his lips over her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, forestalling the inevitable and making her heart thud erratically even as she grew impatient for his lips to reach hers. Just as she had grabbed him and driven their first kiss – fast, desperate, bruising – he was taking over this second one, creating a slow, languorous, building simmer that Emma wasn't sure she would survive.

Killian's hand came up to cradle her head, hook resting along her neck on the other side, the one bit of cool relief to the fire in which he had engulfed her. His calloused fingers stroked along her jaw as if hoping to coax her nearer still. This kiss carried their feelings in it; there was still heat and passion, but below it thrummed something more, something deeper: it required a decision. Emma's breath caught at the realization that this kiss was something which might last.

Killian was thinking, hoping, the same thing, hardly daring to believe, but unable to stop it either. Greedy thief and pirate that he was, he wanted more of Emma; it would never be enough. Fool he might be, but he did not aim to stop until he had stolen her very heart. Not so long ago, he had been rudderless, with nothing in this world to keep him but his vengeance. Now, he prayed that he could change his course. At last, he had something to fight for, someone to hold dear. Killian Jones – Captain Hook – had despaired of being anything else but hell bound…until she crossed his path. Perhaps he might still find redemption in Emma. Heaven had to know his every effort and act for good has been due to her. It's all for her.

Don't wanna let you down

but I am hell bound

Though this is all for you,

don't wanna hide the truth…

This is my kingdom come

This is my kingdom come

The door slams in his face – her door – and Killian lets himself slump against the wall, dejected. It all happened so quickly and now Emma is gone. She is beyond his grasp, as he had always known she was. He has waited so long to see her lovely face again, traveled so far, and though he tried to prepare himself for the very reaction he received, it didn't hurt any less when she gave him the blank look which told him his Swan no longer knew him.

Upon their forced return to the Enchanted Forest, he had tried to steer clear of everyone. Angry, wounded, and bitter, he had wanted nothing more than to hide himself below deck on the Roger and drink until he couldn't think of how being ripped from her just when she had given him a chance had hurt. He had not wanted to be near anyone and had made horrible, snarling company when someone forced the issue, but that had not stopped Snow and Charming. Emma's parents were a painful reminder of her, but no matter how he strove to avoid them and steer clear, they would not leave him alone.

It was exasperating how they kept trying to draw him into rebuilding the castle and their kingdom, tried to cheer him up, provided work for he and his crew as supplies were needed from other ports, and generally would not allow him to wallow in his misery as he had desired. They kept repeating that they had faith this separation would not last forever. For some unfathomable reason, he seemed to have found his way into their affection, and they would not let him despair either.

When Regina had finally put together a memory restorative potion, he had been willing to concede that these royal types and their unending hope were not so completely off base. The former evil queen had been almost pleasant and much more willing to help ever since meeting Robin Hood – apparently the man she had been destined to meet long ago. Some of the dangerous emptiness and hurt left her eyes when she was around the archer, and especially near his young son. Killian knew that she hoped Emma would find a way back and bring Henry if she could be made to remember. Regina also knew the rules of the second curse well though; she was to give up the thing she loved most. She couldn't be the one to go after them, couldn't force her hand. She would have to trust those whom she had spent so long fighting against.

Killian had been stunned however when David and Snow both championed his undertaking the quest. Something knowing flickered between the Prince and Princess' eyes, but he didn't waste time trying to figure it out. He was too grateful, touched, and ridiculously anxious to get going, whatever the mode of travel, to ask questions.

Now, faced with the harsh truth, he almost forgets the potion tucked into a pocket of his vest. He had to try True Love's Kiss, had to see for himself if it were possible. He shouldn't have even entertained the dream, and yet he couldn't help himself. He truly thought she loved him…but maybe she still does and has simply forgotten. He has come too far to turn back now without seeing his mission through. Any realm he tries to make his life in now will be empty without her regardless. He will wait for his moment, and he will try again…

They say it's what you make

I say it's up to Fate

It's woven in my soul

I need to let you go

Your eyes they shine so bright

I wanna save that light

I can't escape this now,

Unless you show me how…

Killian stands outside the large, several story building where Emma and Henry now reside, oblivious to the crush of people rushing around him on all sides, looking up to the window he knows is theirs, comforted by the fact that, though she may not remember him right now, they are once again in the same place and time. He can get to her, and he will succeed in bringing her back to her family…and to him.

That she wants him to keep his distance right now means little. He is sorry that she is at last safe with her son and free of the heavy weight of her destiny and he seeks to interrupt that. However, he thinks he knows Emma well enough to believe she would not wish for an illusion over truth; even if it pained her, she would rather face reality. He knows that much of his Swan.

Villain that he has been, that the world has always seen, the selfless action would be to let her go, but he cannot allow himself to admit defeat. Emma has never truly been loved – treasured – as she ought to have been, as he had planned to do. He fervently wishes to be the one to show her what it is to be wholly adored. He wants her to know that she is his whole world, and he needs the chance to see if she can love him in return, keep him striving to live again. The demons that still haunt him, that say her kingdom and his black soul are already lost, try to whisper that he will fail. Their voices hiss that he will never bring her back, that her knowledge and memories are lost forever. Killian pushes those insidious echoes from his mind. Soon, he will meet her haunting, storm-tossed eyes again, and he will make her see.

This is my kingdom come…

Tagging a few others who may enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose  @thislassishooked @resident-of-storybrooke @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @scientificapricot @tomeandflickcorner @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @stahlop @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @elizabeethan @wefoundloveunderthelight @jonesfandomfanatic @spartanguard @tiganasummertree​ @optomisticgirl​

#self promo sunday #cs ff #cs one shot #season 3a missing moments #ouat 3b spec fic #kingdom come

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

TITLE: Out of the Grave - Chapter 3: The Aftermath (Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here)

It took 10 minutes and lots of questioning and cajoling to get Jenny to calm down enough to listen to anything Abbie said. She maintained an air of defensiveness, shoulders squared, muscles rigid, face a drawn mask of doubt. Even now, sitting across the table from Abbie while he sat between them at the head of the table, he saw the tension in her, unsure and unwilling to believe, even as her defenses began to crumble. "Tell me again," she demanded. Abbie sighed patiently in resolution and explained everything in detail: how she'd emerged from the lake, the knowledge she suddenly had that felt like a light coming on in her brain, missing three and half days and the significance of that, the questioning Ichabod had done. He noted she conveniently forgot to tell Miss Jenny of their...ardor, for which he was most grateful. Somehow he knew she'd be excited and tease them incessantly, if not this night then starting with their next encounter. As it stood now, he felt like the flayed end of a raw nerve and didn't think he could handle much more of anything, let alone good-natured ribbing of something so momentous and incredible. Once he noted that Miss Jenny had calmed—indeed, even showed relief and elation—he silently excused himself, pussyfooting to the kitchen to make some tea and heat up some of the lemon loaf that Abbie favored. At the sight of it, his stomach grumbled, and he realized he couldn't remember the last meal he'd had. With the hum of the Mills sisters' voices as background accompaniment, he set about making himself a PB&J. His eyes burned like fire with every blink, but he couldn't possibly head to bed right now, not even sure sleep would find him, no matter how desperately he needed it, for fear Abbie would disappear while he slumbered. She had to be here to stay, didn't she? He couldn't consider otherwise. Besides, she'd returned with a deeper understanding of their mission. They were destined to this life, called to something greater. He nearly chortled out loud at the absurdity of his own thoughts—he sounded nigh like one of those blasted Hallmark movies Abbie indulged in during certain times of the month. Destiny, fate, meant to be... Perhaps he was delusional. But the Bible foretold of them as an unbroken pair, and Abbie had confirmed their entwined fates upon her return. And her return had certainly entwined them more than they'd ever been before. A flush rushed through him at the memory of kissing her, touching her, of her in his lap, closer than he'd ever thought possible. She'd floated in like a dream and started to fulfill his in brilliant Technicolor.

The kettle began whistling, and he shook off his wayward musings for a moment to remove the pot from the burner. He poured for the sisters, and while the tea steeped he ate his sandwich, nearly inhaling it to quell the growling monster in his belly. He heard sniffling from the other room, the sound drawing him back to the tunnels after Pandora's wretched box had exploded, blowing his last hope of finding Abbie to Hades. The dreams—or had they been visions? He'd have to ask the Lieutenant if she remembered coming to him telepathically, spiritually, or by some other supernatural medium—haunted his waking hours, and if he'd slept the past few days he knew he'd find them there too. Her seemingly contented goodbye, acceptance of him moving on without her, the way that, even in that netherworld, they danced so smoothly around the way they truly felt. He hoped...Heavens, how he'd hoped she'd felt the depth of passion for him that she inspired in him. At times he could barely refrain from spelling it out, touching her simply to feel the softness of her skin, holding her close because she was there.

Now he knew a touch of her fervor and he longed to burn in it, wholly consumed and happily so. Let it consume him the way his grief had, a pleasant and pleasurable replacement that'd taken her dying to bring about. What a fool he'd acted, skirting the issue this past year. After everything that'd happened to him, all the things he'd lost, he should've known better. Tears pricked his eyes. The places she'd gone to for him, for them, for the world...Purgatory, the catacombs, death. He had so much to make up for. Lost time, chances, moments, and words. He'd only begun to speak the avalanche of emotions held in his heart. The timer beeped loudly, signaling the tea had finished steeping, and he moved before he fell asleep on his feet right there in the kitchen. Extracting the tea strainers, he set the mugs and cake slices on a serving tray and put the sandwich fixings away. Every move felt like swimming through molasses, but he forged ahead, delivering the tray to the dining room. The Mills sisters stood in a tearful embrace, neither facing his direction, and he quietly slid the tray onto the table and made a silent escape. Hell's bells, but he needed rest. He didn't know how long the sisters would spend reuniting and discussing what's transpired the past few days, and he didn't want to interrupt, so he slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. He took a quick, hot shower, scrubbing the strain of desperate wallowing from himself and washing his floppy hair into some semblance of normal. Drying off, he slipped on his robe and brushed his teeth, freshening his body the way he'd started to clean his spirit by speaking what he'd so long cherished in his heart. He took a long look in the mirror, barely recognizing the gaunt face staring back at him. Dark circles framed his tired eyes, his cheeks seemed to have sunk into his face, and his beard looked slightly untamed. He fixed the latter with haste, knowing the rest would improve with sleep and proper hydration and nutrition, which he'd sorely lacked as of late. He shuffled to his room and stopped short. A whirlwind had blown through it: clothes and books lay scattered and strewn about, the desk chair lay on its side, and the covers of his bed had been thrown off. Confusion briefly set in until a quick flash of a memory surfaced. In a grief-blind rage, he'd swept his arm across the bookshelves, sending his favorite tomes flying. Grabbing at the clothes hanging in his open closet seemed the next destructive step, and he'd made quick work of it. Throwing the bedspread, shoving at the chair, kicking at the items already littering the floor gave him minute catharsis. Then he'd crashed down, both emotionally and physically, sliding onto the floor in a devastated mess. Ichabod took a deep breath and, after exchanging the robe for a dark grey t-shirt and black yoga pants (he'd never trade in his now-antiquated attire, but he found the current leisure styles most comforting while at home), began tidying the room, switching the overhead light for the bedside lamp. The room took slightly longer to clean up than it had to deconstruct it, but he set about it quickly, ashamed of his childish outburst but feeling it necessary all the same. He'd believed the prophecies: the Bible, the tablet, the enemies' words that they were the Two Witnesses. He hadn't understood how he could've set his whole modern life, indeed, his heart, on that belief, only to have it crumble in the space of a heartbeat with the loss of his partner. His Lieutenant. (He hadn't the right to think of her as such, but it hadn't prevented him from doing so.) He righted the desk chair and picked up some of the remaining scattered books, still marveling that she'd walked back into their home, whole, healed, and heralding promises of their future together. The Two of them promised to Witness until the end. He had to be dreaming. Something quietly sounded behind him, and he turned to see the subject of his thoughts and affections leaning against the door frame, watching him. She'd changed into a pair of pink and black plaid pajama pants and a matching light pink shirt. It, coupled with the low lighting of his room, cast her face in a bewitchingly warm glow. He watched her eyes scan the room, some of the books still lying strewn about, then flash back to him. Sorrow etched her face. "It's been a hard few days," he murmured unnecessarily as an explanation before turning from her to stack the books in his hands onto the desk. He set them down, one hand resting on the top cover as he took a moment to gather himself. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to ravish her. He wanted to simply stare at her until he'd had his fill of all her beauty. He needed to speak of the days without her, to purge the ache that only she—living, breathing—could ease. She moved into his peripheral and, slightly startled, he turned to her. She held out the last of the books that'd littered his floor, and he took them from her, his eyes never leaving her face, her gaze intently holding his. Even after his earlier revelation, there were still so many things to say...where could he start? He cleared his throat, his brain finally catching on to the fact that he hadn't heard the other Mills sister in the past several minutes. "Miss Jenny?" he nearly croaked, his voice quiet. "She went home. Said she needed rest and a little bit of time," she explained softly. "And that she'll stop by tomorrow."

He nodded in understanding, feeling the same oppressive, cloying need for space to process her return in conjunction with the desire to never let her out of his sight. It all felt so overwhelming. Suddenly he moved away from her gaze, her proximity, and rounded the bed, sitting on its edge before he collapsed under the dueling weights of grief and elation. He didn't want to send her away and couldn't ask her to remain here, but strewth, he was wrung dry. He could hardly keep his eyes open, his head up. Gratitude filled him as Abbie remained where he'd left her for several moments, giving him time, space. Neither felt as good as she had in his arms, but he needed them just as badly. "In either of my lives, I've never felt as scarred as I have following your disappearance into that box." The words, spoken softly on a broken whisper, surprised even him since he hadn't planned on speaking them—hadn’t even known his brain was forming them—and the gravity of his admission sat heavy in the room. His entire 18th century existence, the loss of his parents, his best friend, his wife and son, his homeland. He'd felt those things as surely now as he ever did. But Abbie...losing her had felt different. Weightier. Like a millstone around his neck drowning him even as he still breathed. Mayhap because of their bond as witnesses. Or because she'd somehow become the glue that'd held his two worlds together, the only person who'd believed him, helped him, trusted him. Made him feel real. He stared straight ahead, the closet before him yawning open like the space between them. Perhaps he'd said too much. His heart beat wildly waiting for her response. It didn't take long. He heard her bare feet padding in his direction, and she appeared before him, petite, radiant, and stunning. He couldn't meet her eyes, afraid of what he'd see in them, but her hands sluiced through the hair at his temples, the heels of her hands resting on them as she leaned closer. He felt her lips press sweetly against his forehead, and his eyes dropped closed at the sensation. On sensory overload, he felt barely able to function, yet somehow his hands found her hips, resting lightly on the flare of them as if he'd done this a thousand times before. He felt the bones beneath her toned skin, the slimness of her figure, and his heart nearly exploded with the feelings he had for her. But Abbie chose that moment to retreat, though just enough to see him, her hands still deliciously tangled in his hair as her fingers absently massaged his scalp. He was going to crawl out of his skin if she didn't stop torturing him. Her touch both invigorated and drugged him, powerful in its simplicity, soothing in its method. She moved her hands down to his cheeks, and her thumbs arched along his eyebrows. He fluttered his tired eyes open to stare at her, finding her watching him with a sympathetic, loving gaze. Her thumbs brushed against his cheekbones, her touch sending warmth coursing through his body. The realization that she felt comfortable enough to freely caress him made him shiver all over. "You should rest now," she soothed. "We can talk more in the morning." He could imagine how wretched he looked right now, how she must see him. Gaunt and pale, red-rimmed eyes and dark hues beneath them. A sight bedraggled enough to make her eyes sore. Bringing his hand up to grip her wrist, he turned his head slightly to the right, kissing her palm reverently. She ran the fingers of her other hand through his hair again as he did so. God's wounds, he'd better not be dreaming all of this up. He wasn't sure how much more heartache he could survive. He didn't want to let her go, but his bed called to him like a siren. Reluctantly releasing her, he stood up and turned down the bedspread and sheets, then plopped listlessly down again. He eased down onto his side as Abbie stood by smiling sweetly at him. She watched him so attentively he thought she might just stay until he'd fallen asleep. Which wouldn't take all that long, to be sure. But then she softly bid him a goodnight as she turned to leave. "Please," he breathed in desperation, again speaking without forethought. "Stay with me." A few seconds later, he realized his words sounded like a paltry invitation. "I don't mean anything untowards," he rushed to assure her. "Just...please don't go. Don't leave." He swallowed hard, waiting for her response. Surely she wouldn't think him a scoundrel for requesting such a thing after she'd just returned from the beyond. Would she? Through his bleary eyes he saw her lips upturn in a small smile. She tucked one leg beneath her and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised him. Ichabod's heart pounded wildly in his chest as he scooted to the other side of the bed. Abbie slid into bed—the sight left him again wondering if he might be hallucinating—reaching up to turn off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, but he felt her every movement: fluffing the pillow, pulling the blankets up, settling comfortably into the mattress. He, conversely, didn't move, could barely breathe. And when he did, the scent of Abbie's shampoo filled his senses. She lay so close he could he could reach out and touch her, wrap his arm around her, hold her close to him, to feel her breathing. To prove to himself she was real and living and here and...dear heavens, he didn't dare do such a thing. It was enough she'd agreed to stay with him this night. He'd thought he'd fall to sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, but he hadn't anticipated sleeping next to Abbie. Was he too close? Had he given her enough space? Should he move to the edge of his side of the bed? Was she comfortable? Maybe he'd compromised the covers, not leaving enough for her to stay warm with. "You're thinking too much, Crane," she murmured. Something about her tone, that reprimanding but teasing duo she had, made him huff a relieved sigh, and most of his tension evaporated. A moment later, she reached her hand back and grabbed his, pulling it over her side and draping his arm around her waist. Instinctively he moved forward as she settled back against him, and he noted how easily they fell into this most intimate of reposes. She felt real enough, had matched him in fervor and passion. She'd returned with all the grace and grit and poise of the woman who'd fearlessly and faithfully fought by his side since the moment he'd met her. And now he held her in his arms. His Lieutenant... He needn't have wondered if he'd ever get to sleep with Abbie in his bed; before he could even marvel at how wonderful she felt tucked against him, he'd fallen asleep.

#ichabbie #ichabbie fanfiction #ichabbie fanfic #ichabbie fan fiction #ichabbie fan fic #abbie x crane #abbie x ichabod #ichabod x abbie #crane x abbie #sleepy hollow #shady hollow #sh #sleepy hollow fanfiction #sleepy hollow fanfic #sleepy hollow fan fiction #sleepy hollow fan fic #ichabbie fix #ichabbie fix it #my ichabbie writing #my writing #personal

[laequiem]

Mal d’amour - Part 6

/5 times the High King of Elfhame missed his exiled wife + 1 time she had enough.

"Jude," I gasp, "you're here." "Yes," she presses her sword against my throat enough to sting, "and I will slit your throat before you can call the guards. So don't." I narrow my brows. "Why would I call the guards?" She's here. She's back. I know I should be terrified. Jude scares me, usually. Yet, today, it’s as if I do not care if she kills me. Seeing her one last time is worth my spilled blood.

TW: Vomit. Not very descriptive, but it’s there.

Read on ao3 • masterlist • part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4 • part 5

It is still bright outside when I regain consciousness and leave the cellars. I sway as I walk the hallways of the palace, willing my body to keep all this alcohol down and not make a fool of myself in public. The guards standing in front of my rooms look worried when they see the state I am in, but they let me in without a word.

With no one around to witness me so low, I head straight to the bathroom and kneel in front of the porcelain throne.

High King, indeed.

The alcohol tastes worse now that it did when I drank it and I relish in how terrible I feel. I deserve it. The burning, the pain, the shame. Perhaps I should not have waited to reach my rooms, the people of Elfhame deserve to see what a wretch their ruler is.

I get up and head to the sink. I barely recognize the male staring at me in the mirror. I have not bothered with makeup in days now, and the old remnants of it smudge down under my eyes. I strip away my days-old clothes, then I wet a cloth and wash my mouth, my face.

When I leave my bathing room, I am immediately pinned against a wall, cold steel pressing against my throat. I wait for the dread and fear to kick in, but it does not come until I lower my gaze towards my assailant and notice the pure rage in her stare.

"Exiling me was not enough, you had to also add insult to injury?" 

"Jude," I gasp, "you're here."

"Yes," she presses her sword against my throat enough to sting, "and I will slit your throat before you can call the guards. So don't."

I narrow my brows. "Why would I call the guards?"

She's here.

She's back.

I know I should be terrified. Jude scares me, usually. Yet, today, it’s as if I do not care if she kills me. Seeing her one last time is worth my spilled blood.

"I thought we were past being horrible to each other, Cardan," she spits my name like a curse and I wince at the reminder of how horrible I used to be, "this taunt you sent me is cruel even for you!"

Silver lines her eyes, unshed tears threatening to drop, and I clamp my hands at my side to prevent myself from reaching for her. 

"Jude, I…” I let out a nervous laugh and her upper lip curls, “I never sent you any taunts.”

She snarls and removes something from her pocket.

"Yeah? What is this then?"

She waves a piece of paper around, one that was clearly crumpled but she tried to flatten as much as possible. I narrow my eyes to focus on what is written on it, but she is moving it too quickly even for my fae senses.

"Can you remove your sword and let me read it," I swallow my pride and add, "please?"

Jude pulls away her sword, still gripping it tightly. She gives me the note and I recognize it immediately as the one I asked the Court of Shadow to deliver.

"This is… the last plea of a desperate male," I look away from her, my cheeks heating with the shame of the confession, "I know you never replied the other letters and I should have taken the hint, but—"

I hide my face with my free hand. 

"I couldn't give up without telling you… this," I wave the note like she did earlier.

I can't get myself to say the words, not when she looks at me like that. Like she sees everything that I am, the fear, the want, the loneliness.

She backs away, sheaths her sword and paces the room. I just stand there, dumbfounded. Eventually, she settles on the rolled arm of an armchair and crosses her arms. When she looks at me again, her eyes widen and she looks away, suddenly realizing how naked I am. I would tease her for being prudish if it weren't for the fact that I am walking on eggshells

"Say it," she orders. She rolls her eyes when I narrow mine in confusion, "say what's on the paper. Out loud."

I realize that she wants to make sure I am not lying. She must not know that I cannot even write falsehoods. It is what makes agreements between territories so long and boring—rulers arguing over wording, trying to weave loopholes that could be used in their favour.

I walk the few meters separating us, then drop to my knees in front of her. Her gaze snaps back to me as I take her hands in mine.

"I miss you, Jude, my Queen," I bring her hand to my mouth and gently kiss her ring finger. "Stay with me, I beg you."

Jude removes a hand from mine and reaches for her belt. I had not noticed before that she had something hanging there. She removes the fabric covering it, revealing the crown I commissioned for her. It is dented and one of the jewels missing.

"Suppose I believe you, why this?"

I stand up and pick up the crown. I run my thumb over a particularly bad dent. Did it get damaged as it traveled?

"To remind you what you fought for. I shouldn't have, I know,” I sigh, “I couldn't… fathom why you would stay there. Why you chose not to come back."

"I was banished, Cardan! You—" she grunts, "put some clothes on! I can't yell at you when you look like… that."

I raise a brow and run a hand through my hair, "Like what you see?" 

Her face gets redder, her frown deeper. It’s so, so easy to tease her. 

"No!” she snaps.

"Ah,” I turned away, making for my closet, “I didn't know human males could even compare."

"That's not it—" a snort, "Vivi did try. She wanted me to… date. We created a profile on one of those apps."

I have no idea what “apps” are, but I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders at the casual conversation. The confiding tone. I put on my robe, tying it at my waist. 

"I don't know their customs. They see that I don't belong."

I look back to the room and find her standing next to the window, looking out towards the mortal realm. She is holding the crown I sent her, admiring how the daylight reflects on its gems.

"You belong here,” I say softly.

She whirls on me, her eyes full of renewed rage.

"Will you STOP? You don't get to say that. Not after what you did,” she crosses her arms again, “If you really missed me, why didn't you come get me?"

I flinch, thinking back to the Bomb asking me the same question.

"You ignored my letters. I thought that was your way of telling me you were done with my kind."

"I never received any letter."

I roll my eyes, “I understand that you’re angry, Jude dearest, but don’t lie. Not about that.”

“I’m serious. Radio silence, for all these months.”

My heart drops. The Bomb was right, my letters never made it to her. My chest aches with a new kind of dread. By giving up, by not being pushy enough, did I cause her suffering? I always lacked ambition. It is only fitting that my faults cause her more pain.

“I suppose that saves me some embarrassment,” I laugh nervously as she turns back to the window, “some of them were quite… pathetic."

Jude does not reply. She keeps staring out in the distance, her fingers absentmindedly stroking the iron or the crown. I approach the window where she stands and look out.

“I somehow managed not to burn it to the ground,” I look to her and smirk, “yet.”

“You’re terrible,” she replies, and I swear I can hear a smile in her tone.

“I need you to keep me in check.”

I turn to her and gently take the crown from her hands. It burns my hands, the skin blistering from the iron, but I ignore it. For a moment, I just stare at it.

“Elfhame needs to know her High Queen," I raise my eyes to hers, "Jude Duarte, will you rule with me?"

She does not answer me, her lips clamped in a tight line.

"Do you wish for me to propose again?" I push.

A small smile creeps on her face and my knees threaten to buckle at the sight. 

"Maybe. I do like seeing you on your knees," she lifts an eyebrow.

"Don't push your luck," I reply with a grin.

She laughs and it is the most beautiful sound I have heard in months. Even she seems surprised by it, her eyes widening.

I ask again, this time softer, "Will you rule with me?"

Her throat bobs. She looks to the crown, back to me and finally answers, "yes."

The smile that blooms on my face is wide and genuine. I lift the crown above her head and, after brushing a strand of hair back in place, place it upon her head.

When I pull away, I let my hand linger, a knuckle brushing against her cheek gently.

"Welcome back, my High Queen."

#ayyy this is my 100th post on here apparently #The folk of the air #tfota #cardan greenbriar #cardan #jude duarte #jurdan #judecardan #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #queen of nothing #holly black #fanfiction #angst #fanfic

[pedros-mustache-main]

if you leave before the start (i)

summary: he’s your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to be his wife.

word count: 7.7k+

series masterlist

chapter warnings: arranged marriage ceremony, unlikeable reader (y’all she is a straight up meanie!), alcohol, language, innuendo

glastonbury, somerset, england. 1840.

according to your father, it is a good match, a very good one indeed. 

he has wealth, status, a sizable estate. you have a healthy dowry and connections to parliament by virtue of your father. he will give you a safe life in the countryside, and you will provide him access to the inner-workings of government and an heir to carry on his family name. together, you will live in wedded bliss—no troubles, no worries to turn your hair gray, but perhaps the odd village scandal to keep things interesting.

really, you should be happy. dozens of your friends have gone to the marriage bed and found themselves sated by romance and fripperies. you are no different from say, sally, who met her intended the day of her wedding and wrote to you a week later that her husband proved to be a delightful man with amiable qualities. in all truth, you are merely one in a long line of women who have been pawned off to the highest bidder. you are not the first to meet such a fate, and you certainly won’t be the last. there is nothing unique about your situation. your father reminds you of such when you smash a chinoiserie vase to the floor at his pronouncement that yes, you are to be married to gwilym lee on the first of the month and you will be quiet about your rage.

god, you hate them both.

you’ve seen this gwilym lee only once, on the day of his meeting your father. you’d crouched at the top of the stairs, peering over the railing into the vestibule below where your father stood with mr. lee, shaking hands over the arrangement. from your vantage point, you could see mr. lee was tall and well-built, that he had a soft, genial face, and a well-trimmed beard peppering his jaw. when he’d laughed at your father’s joke—the timbre of his voice filling the hall—you’d risen to your feet, rushed to your room, and slammed the door behind you with enough force to ensure everyone in the house knew of your distaste for the matter.

insufferable prat. where did he find the nerve? entering your home, passing pleasantries with your father, all the while intending to steal you from the nest like a common viper? it makes your blood boil.

so much so that on your wedding day, stood before the mirror in your room, a cream gown pinching your waist and pearl-pins digging into your scalp, you want nothing more than to take ahold of the mirror and ram your knee into the glass, shattering the pane. you hate it; you hate every bit of this. and your father is sorely mistaken if he thinks you will go quietly.

you look magnificent, this you will concede. the gown your mother bought suits you well, though it is a tad demure for your taste. it’s silky to the touch, the short sleeves capped by an inch of lace. your back is held straight by the tightness of your corset, and the neckline exposes the crest of your shoulders. it’s simple—nothing compared to the gown rebecca wore on her wedding day—yet it should leave those in attendance breathless. you smirk as you glance over your shoulder, your eyes running over the cloth buttons decorating your spine and the swath of garment circling your feet. yes, though plain, it will do; you are the diamond which sparkles within the box, the true gift.

a knock sounds on the door of your bedroom, and you shoo your maidservant to answer the call.

“your mother, miss,” abby whispers.

you huff, twisting side to side as you smooth a hand over your stomach. is that a wrinkle? you frown as you pick at the fabric. “let her in.”

the door creaks as abby widens the opening, and your mother, with all her self-important and put on airs, sweeps into the room. she’s dressed in her statement color of purple, and a heavy necklace rests around her slender neck, the diamonds glittering in the light pouring through your bedroom window. she stands behind you, her delicate hands on your shoulders, her gaze shimmering with unshed tears.

“oh, my dear,” she says. “you look marvelous.”

you arch a brow in a silent challenge. “i know.”

if your mother sees the bait dangling before her, she does not rise to the occasion. she merely tightens her grip on your shoulders, the edges of her smile stiffening. “i’ve brought you something. an early wedding gift.” removing her hands from your shoulders, she motions to abby, who brings forward a square, velvet box. “this was my mother’s before me and her mother’s before her. now it is yours.”

abby opens the box to reveal a gold necklace within. the necklace chain is thin, the heart shaped locket at the end trimmed with yellow garnet stones. four small birthstones, each no bigger than the width of the nail on your pinky, rest in the center of the heart. 

“the birth stones of your family tree,” your mother says, noting the way your eyes linger on the colored stones. “i’ve added yours—sapphire—next to mine.”

emerald, aquamarine, ruby, sapphire. four women, four lives, four marriages arranged by money, position, and power. 

you wave your fingers in dismissal. “it’s gaudy, mother.”

in the reflection of the mirror, there is no mistaking your mother’s disappointment. it swallows her face like a shadow and erases the single spark of joy dancing around her irises. she looks down, fiddles with her fingers, and you are struck by her frailty in that moment. she’s haughty on her good days, a tyrant on her worst, but she’s never frail. you open your mouth, unsure of what will come out, but then you see her wedding ring and you look away.

“tell me, mother, since i am to be married in much the same fashion as you: will this gwilym insist on sleeping with the maid staff as your husband does?” her head lifts, fire lurking beneath her gaze. you narrow your stare. “when was the last time father laid his hand on you outside of the public eye?”

there’s a long pause as your mother considers you with her fire-laced eyes. you can feel the heat of her glower on the back of your neck, and you stand straighter. 

“i’m sorry i ever birthed you.” her voice is low, gravelly. 

you snort in amusement. “at least on this we can agree.”

she shakes her head, and a curl tightly wound against her scalp breaks free of its pin. “you will be a curse upon your husband. i am sorry for him.”

“i take that as a compliment. any man willing to all but purchase his bride deserves nothing but a wretched wife.”

turning, you lift a veil from the end of your bed. you hand it to abby and lower your knees to aid her in the process of pinning the veil to the crown of your head. once your veil is attached, abby slides a stem of baby’s breath behind each ear. you apply the finishing touches—pearl drop earrings, elbow-length gloves, a pair of silk heeled boots, a pale pink bow over the laces—then face your mother.

“well?” you spread your arms. “how do i look?”

your mother reaches out and brushes her fingers along the edge of your gloves. “like a dream.”

you tilt your head as you gather the train of your veil from the floor and shove it in abby’s waiting hands. “funny,” you say. “this feels a lot more like a nightmare.”

sidestepping your mother, you glance over your bedroom one last time then hurry down the stairs to the overcrowded foyer. as per your father’s request, the household staff have arranged themselves in two formations on either side of the room. it is unlikely you will return to this house after the marriage ceremony. you parents will come and visit you at mr. lee’s manor home, and you will never have the pleasure of darkening the halls of your childhood home again. thus, it is time to say goodbye and, loathe as you are to admit it, you feel a lump of emotion rise in your throat as you survey the faces you’ve seen slip from room to room or wait behind every corner your entire life.

your father stands before the door, already cloaked and ready with his top hat. he nods to the staff and then meets your gaze. he beams with pride, with pleasure, and you feel sick to your stomach.

“well, i dare say it is about time we made our way to the church.” his shoes clip against the marble floor as he crosses to your side. “you look a picture of a blushing bride, m’dear.” he offers is elbow, and you fit your hand in the curve of his arm.

with all the air of queen victoria on her way to marry prince albert, your father parades you down the foyer, his steps slow and regal. the servants on either side bow or curtsey in deference, the tops of their heads the last thing you shall ever see of the people who have been your confidants in moments of crisis and your playfriends in childhood. the air in your lungs feels hot, and something wet pricks the corners of your eyes.

it’s all slipping away before your very eyes—anything you once held dear—and you are powerless to stop it.

two footmen pull open the double doors, and sunlight streams into the hall, sparkling in its intensity. for a moment, you are blinded. you lift your hand to block out the sun, blinking against the pain lingering between your brows. 

“[y/n]?” your father must mistake the moment as sentimentality rather than pain. “do not cry, m’dear. you are on the threshold of a new life.”

you lower your hand and turn your face to him. he’s smiling, truly convinced of his goodness to you. he looks older than you remember. his beard is peppered with gray, his forehead wrinkled. when did he age so? when did you stop paying attention?

the weight of the universe presses in on your shoulders, and you wish for all the world that you could turn back time and be his little girl again, content to worship at his feet. but you are his jaded daughter now, on the precipice of ruin, and he is your condemner, not your savior.

“father, i—”

he cuts you off with a finger. “mr. lee is a good man, [y/n]. he will take care of you, of that i am sure.”

“but i—”

“no buts, daughter. what’s done is done.”

at his gentle prodding, you leave your childhood home and any girlish notions of love behind.

your walk down the center aisle of saint peter’s church feels much the same as your walk down the foyer of your once-beloved home. guests stand on either side, wide skirts and tailored suits smooshed in the narrow pews. your footfalls echo in the cold chamber. it’s a steady beat, unlike the rapid tempo of your heart. beside you, your father radiates all the joy you should be feeling as the bride, so you feel no compunction to paste a smile on your face. he’s happy enough for the both of you. 

the only difference between your walk down the aisle and your walk down the foyer is what lies at the end. 

at home, there had been sunlight. it blinded you, yes, but it was warm and comforting against your frozen skin. it reminded you for the briefest of moments that the sun continues to rise on the darkest days. perhaps, you’d thought, at the end of the tunnel, there is hope for you yet...

here, between the gray stone walls of the church, there is a man waiting for you at the end of your journey. the sight of him—tall and effortlessly handsome—grinds that sliver of hope to a pulp. you’ve never hated anyone more, and your future stretches out before you in a chasm of disappointment.

it’s hard to focus when your father kisses your cheek and hands you off to gwilym. the blood rushing to your ears is loud, and it clogs the rest of your senses. you can barely breathe, so stunned by the turn of events that has brought your existence to this. the hatbox of girlhood fripperies that is shoved beneath your bed—full of ribbons and wedding announcements and dried flowers from the garden, each an image of the life you thought you would lead—withers to dust in the back of your mind. it is replaced by a steel trap, and when gwilym places his warm palm in yours, you lock your heart deep within the trap’s depths. you resolve then and there that no man shall move you—not one.

you cannot seem to tear your eyes from gwilym’s profile as the priest begins his droning. you knew gwilym to be handsome in the brief glance you’d stolen from the top of the stairs, but he is unnervingly good looking up close. from the vantage point of any of the wedding guests, you’re sure you look like a besotted fiancé, but your scrutiny runs deeper than mere appreciation. it confounds you. how could a man such as this one, with his grecian face and soft eyes and curved mouth, resort to a bride package? surely he has a handful of paramours eager to be in your position. he could have his pick of the litter.

but then you remember: you are more than a bride. you are an open invitation to a seat in parliament and an untainted womb and pretty piece to hang off his arm. disgust roils in your stomach, and you finally look away.

a low bench digs against the flesh of your knees when you kneel to take the lord’s supper. you open your mouth, accept the thin wafer and the wine, and snap your jaw closed. gwilym has the audacity to reach for your hand and squeeze your fingers while the priest recites a blessing. without sparing him a glance, you pull your hand away, thankful for the layer of fabric that kept his skin from touching yours.

during the vows, you meet his gaze. you’ve never seen eyes so blue. they look like the english sea, pale and dark and churning with foam and still all at once. you move your stare to the center of his forehead and repeat the vows when you hear your mother roughly clear her throat after you hesitate too long. you trip over the word obey and sneer at the idea of life with gwilym until death.

it’s the pronouncement of a kiss that hurtles your attention forward. the blood pumping in your ears drains; the buzz of frustration at the back of your head fades; and all is silent. 

“gwilym, you may kiss your bride.”

gwilym looks between your eyes as if he’s considering. you narrow your stare on a challenge, and something flickers across his face. frustration? disappointment? you cannot tell.

when he leans forward, you stiffen and move your chin a fraction to the right out of impulse. he hesitates, then, and you can feel his breath fan the side of your face. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

his mouth lands on the corner of yours, nothing but a brief touch to signal two souls becoming one. to you, it feels like a slap to the face. unbidden tears rise to your eyes. you choke them back when gwilym turns you to face the wedding guests. you know less than half the people in attendance, your family being smaller than his, and the unfamiliar faces smiling back at you needles the anger simmering below the surface.

how dare they all turn out in their most resplendent gowns and pressed suits and grin and clap as if this wedding were more than a sham! how dare they congratulate gwilym when he ushers you down the aisle as if you were no more than a prized hog won at the county bazar!

you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

there is no time to make your hatred known as your mother comes to sweep you along to the wedding breakfast. she tears you from gwilym’s side before you can share a single word with your new spouse, and she tucks you close in the carriage bound for hiraeth manor. 

her breath is warm against the side of your face, and her fingers adjust a loose strand of hair slipped from the chignon at the base of your head. her motherly doting, so out of character, threatens to break you entirely, fraught with emotion as you are, so you turn your head to face the window. the somserset landscape hurtles by, the rolling hills and towering trees, and you bite hard on your lower lip to keep the tears at bay.

“you shall be ever so pleased with life at hiraeth, [y/n],” your mother says. “your father is not without his wealth and position, but the lee family? goodness, they put us to shame.” she reaches for your hand and curls it between both of her palms. “you will have hiraeth to run, of course, and then the townhome in bath and forty-five thousand a year? you will want for nothing, daughter.”

you say nothing. you keep your gaze trained on the countryside, your stomach weak with the jostling of the carriage.

“i do wonder if i have trained you well enough for the job of running a household. hiraeth is larger than whitemarsh, to be sure, but—”

“mother.” you blink and remove your hand from her grasp. “stop talking.”

she is quiet a moment before whispering, her voice edged with thinly-veiled anger, “[y/n], I know we shared our own disagreements this morning but you are my daughter and i am pleased for you. you would do well to recognize what an opportunity your father has given you in this match.”

you do not hesitate in a biting retort. “the moment you allowed father to barter me off in exchange for a bump in position i ceased being your daughter. i am my husband’s wife now.”

“continue with an attitude like that and you will be a cuckolded wife, left alone to wither while the world continues to turn.” your mother’s nostrils flare. “you are lucky mr. lee is of a forgiving nature. any other man would have your tongue snipped after hearing such insolence.”

“i wouldn’t know about mr. lee’s character, mother. I have yet to exchange pleasantries with my husband.”

your mother falls silent, and her skirts rustle as she scoots away on the padded bench. the movement, small as it is in the cramped interior of the carriage, sends a sharp pain through your heart. you clear your throat to swallow a sob. 

you will not cry—not now, not ever.

but truly you want to cry. you want to curl your head in her lap and release the tears you’ve been tamping down since your father told you of the match. you want her to stroke your hair and tell you it will be alright, that you’ll be alright. you want her to tell you that she’s sorry.

she’s not sorry, and she would never cradle you. she did not swaddle you in her arms as a babe; she won’t start now.

the carriage takes a sharp turn, sending you lurching against your mother’s side. you grunt with the effort it takes to reposition and disentangle yourself from your mother. she fusses with her now-wrinkled skirts and tuts under her tongue about proper decorum, but you’re not listening. you’re too busy leaning forward, your head knocking against the window pane as hiraeth manor comes into view.

“fuck me,” you breathe, throat gone dry in surprise.

your mother give an unladylike snort of derision. “yes, i’m sure he will—eventually.”

hiraeth makes whitemarsh, an altogether stately and proud manor home, look like a factory worker’s hovel. it is large, sprawling over the hilltop on which it overlooks rolling meadows on all sides. the tan facade glitters in the reflecting pool at the base of the hill, and an ancient willow’s dangling limbs skim the water’s surface. you shrink back against the bench as the manor draws closer. it seems to grow with each moment, new wings and additions sprouting before your very eyes. all this—yours to manage. the task is a formidable one, and your mother must know she has not prepared you for something like this.

the carriage rumbles over a cobblestone drive edged with flowering shrubs and rolls to stop in a circular receiving area. a nondescript footman unlatches the carriage door, and you tumble into the fresh air. you try not to gape, really you do, but it’s hard when such an estate looms before you. if your husband will not swallow you, make you insignificant in your own right, then this house surely will.

an arched door tucked in the corner of the courtyard opens on a heavy creak. you turn to see a short girl exit the home, followed by a wiry woman. the girl drops to a curtsey, her pale cheeks flushed.

“welcome to hiraeth, miss,” she says, a heavy lisp on her tongue.

“mrs. lee, how wonderful it is to finally welcome you to hiraerth!” the wiry woman stretches out her arms to take your hands. her sculpted face pulls into an eager smile, and you resist the urge to lower your defenses. “my name is mrs. brown and i’m the housekeeper here. this is angelica, your personal maid. we thought we’d be the first to greet you before escorting you to the breakfast. everyone is already here and waiting in great anticipation of your arrival.”

you look between mrs. brown and angelica, gauging their sincerity, before motioning to your mother. “we were held up briefly. my mother gets ever so sick on these winding roads.”

“[y/n],” your mother hisses.

mrs. brown gives an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as she looks over your mother’s pinched face then takes your elbow in hand. “no matter, no matter. you can follow me to the breakfast hall. there’s no time to freshen up now, but angelica will show you to your rooms as soon as she has the chance.”

you bristle at the idea of a room set aside solely for eating breakfast, but as mrs. brown guides you through the winding halls of hiraeth, the idea make more sense with each hallway and room you pass. it’s clear mr. lee has more space than with which he knows what to do. a breakfast room indeed.

the room in question is not far off from the entryway of hiraeth. there’s little chance to take in your new surroundings, so you set your jaw and square your shoulders as mrs. brown opens the door of the breakfast room. you step across the threshold, your mother close behind, and hold your breath.

you meet his eyes—gwilym’s—before anyone else’s. he sits in the middle of the arrangement of tables, an empty seat by his side. you glance at the chair to his right then at the other empty space at the far end of the room. the four tables are arranged in a sort of a square and, if you look the empty spot furthest away from gwilym, you’d be fortunate enough to neither hear his voice or see his face. a towering bouquet of flowers sits in the center of the table, and that spot has a particularly nice view of the white roses. you make to take the spot with the view of the flowers, intent on letting everyone in attendance know your feelings on the matter, but your mother beats you to it.

the bitch.

with a huff, you curl your hands to fists and all but stomp to the only remaining seat. the room is quiet, heavy with anticipation as you drop to the chair. your arms itch to fold themselves over your chest, but you are wise enough to resist. though you will not mask your anger, you will tamp it down to a degree. it wouldn’t do to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the gossip columns. that would be a dreadful start to a life in a higher societal position.

beside you, gwilym openly runs his eyes over your profile. you can feel him study you, but you do not flinch beneath his inspection. you keep your eyes on the centerpiece and drum your fingers on the tablecloth.

rising to his feet, gwilym picks up a glass chalice and lifts it. “my friends, i am very glad to be sharing this morning with you all. since the passing of my mother, hiraeth has been without a mistress, and it brings me great happiness to finally have a wife of my own who can fill this house with as much joy as my mother once did.” he twists to look down at you and settles his hand on your shoulder.

you look up, frozen under his touch. his palm envelopes the entirety of your shoulder. his gaze is soft, much to your surprise. as it was for those brief moments in the church, he looks at you only with tenderness; perhaps even pity. there is nothing angry about his eyes; it seems it might be impossible for his face to be anything but mellow. you harden your stare.

“[y/n]”—your name in his mouth. you want him to wipe his tongue and promise never to speak it again.—“welcome to hiraeth. from all of us to you, i truly hope you will be happy here.”

you blink, your mouth parting when he sits and motions for the covered platters around the table to be uncovered. leaning forward, you lower your voice and speak to him for the first time without the aid of a wedding script.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “all of us to you?”

gwilym thanks the man sitting to this left when he is passed a tray of eggs. he scoops some onto his plate then offers the platter to you. “would you like some?”

“uh—yes, yes—i suppose.” he drops of pile of fluffy eggs onto the cream china then passes the platter to the woman on your right, who you belatedly realize is none other than mrs. brown. you scoff and whirl to face your husband. “mr. lee, are we eating with the hired help?”

the fork that’s halfway to his mouth pauses, and his brow pinches in a confused frown. out of the corner of his eye, he looks at you. “is it wrong to celebrate nuptials with one’s staff?”

you sputter. the linen napkin in your hand bunches in your fist. “yes!” your voice is too loud for the gentle and amiable air of the room, but no one makes a move to correct you. they wouldn’t dare. “wedding breakfasts are for family and friends, mr. lee, not servants and scullery maids!”

gwilym swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs. “this is my family, [y/n]. i am celebrating—forgive me, we are celebrating with our family.”

you must look ridiculous, your forehead wrinkled with a frown and eyes narrowed in disbelief and mouth agape, because gwilym laughs and points to your plate with his utensil. 

“eat your food, wife, before it gets cold. you will come to understand how hiraeth runs in due time. if it eases your anxiety,” he adds, “we will celebrate with my friends in the coming week in bath. that is the celebration you are anticipating, i’m sure.”

he returns to his conversation with the man—the butler or valet or hallboy—at his side, effectively dismissing both your outrage and your petty insolence with nothing but a gentle reprimand. 

you hate him.

you do not eat your breakfast. you sit with your hands fisted in your lap and your jaw set hard. across the table your mother purses her lips and looks pointedly at your plate. you turn your gaze away.

gwilym must truly be a nincompoop if he believes you will simper and bat your eyelashes and allow him to treat the staff as family simply because he is your husband. never have you heard of such a foolish sentiment. there is a clear boundary between staff and family never to be blurred. 

your skin itches, and you long for a hot bath.

as breakfast continues around you, you survey the room. the eggshell blue walls stretch to meet a high ceiling, the trim around the border a bright white. you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the gilded mirrors hanging between a pair of large windows. you look sour, like an over-ripe lemon on child’s tongue. 

the breakfast concludes some time later when the kitchen maids rise from their places to return to their duties. a skinny girl with glittering eyes takes your plate still laden with food. her voice is airy when she speaks.

“did you not like the breakfast, ma’am?” she balances your plate on her forearm, another stacked along the inside of her elbow. her cheeks flush when she moves to take gwilym’s empty plate and he smiles at her.

gwilym answers for you. “of course she did, gildy. what’s not to like when you and mrs. cliff are at the helm? mrs. lee is simply overwhelmed by the talent you possess. she confessed that all your sweets were nearly too delectable, she could hardly take another.”

sucking in her lower lip, gildy beams at the scuffed toes of her boots. “thank you, sir.” she bops a curtsey before scurrying through a side door.

you flash gwilym a harsh look. “i can answer for myself, sir.”

“i would prefer you answer with a modicum of kindness.” he nods his head to the side in consideration. “i’m not altogether sure that’s possible, so i thought i would save gildy the heartache.” he drops his napkin to the table and stands, offering you his hand. “come—would you like to see your rooms?”

spare gildy the heartache? he did no such thing for you when he agreed to taking—no, stealing—your hand in marriage.

you leave his hand hanging midair when you stand, adjusting the bustle of skirts around your legs. “i would, yes,” you say. “it’s been a trying morning, and i’d enjoy some silence and a bath so i can rid myself of the filth eking through my body.”

the jab does not land where you intended as gwilym merely laughs at your discontent. his laugh is loud, startling in the now-quiet breakfast room. he reaches for your arm and fits your hand in the curve of his elbow, patting your still-gloved fingers with his.

“your father said you were a spitfire,” he says, shaking his head in his amusement. “i see now he was not mistaken.”

at the arched doorway through which you entered, you bid your parents a hasty farewell. it is not an overdone affair—no tears, no final embraces. the days where you held your mother’s hand or clung to your father’s leg have long since passed. you merely wave them off with an upward tilt of your chin and a half-hearted promise to write before the yuletide. gwilym makes no comment on the stilted air between yourself and your parents. perhaps he knows you would stamp on his foot the moment a question slipped beyond his pretty mouth. you’re not entirely above stamping on his foot just for the sake of it. you resist the urge, however, knowing there’s bound to be a maidservant or hallboy lurking around the corner, waiting for a drip of juicy gossip to bring back to the servant’s quarters. you’ve already given them enough fodder for one day with your behavior at breakfast.

once your parents are securely in their carriage and enroute home, gwilym tugs you further into the manor. “come, your rooms are this way.”

you say nothing, question nothing, about separate bedrooms. it is a relief, in all truth, though you wonder if he will darken your doorway come the evening. your throat clenches. you pray to all the saints he will keep his grimy hands to himself or you’ll do more damage than a crushed foot.

you pull your hand from the crook of his arm as he guides you, preferring to keep your hands clasped behind your back as you walk. gwilym pauses in his explanation of the home’s original construction. he goes so far as to stop walking, and you pass him before realizing he is not by your side. in the wide hallway—one side boasting an array of polished windows, the other decorated with marble busts of his family tree—he blinks at you.

“you don’t like me very much, do you?”

you have to laugh. the sound resounds in the empty hallway, and you toss your head back in a fit of amusement. “goodness, you’re slow, aren’t you?”

he frowns, the first inkling he may possess anything other than an easy-going nature if pushed. “what is it i’ve done to offend you?”

you gawp and try to keep yourself from falling to the floor in surprise. “you must be joking, surely.”

shaking his head, a line forms between his brow. “no. i don’t understand why you are so cross.”

you turn your face away for a moment, inhaling slowly. you cross to the wall of windows and count to ten. the grounds of hiraeth are lovely—forest green grass, neatly-trimmed hedges. far as the eye can see is yours. in the span of one morning, you have gone from moderately wealthy to blessed beyond your wildest imaginations. your husband is handsome and thus far been nothing but considerate of you. it could be worse. and yet, somehow you feel as if you are the only woman who has been made to suffer a fate such as this.

you turn slowly on your foot and meet his gaze. he’s patient, you’ll give him that. he simply stares at you, waiting for some sort of explanation.

you decide to give him one.

your jaw tightens as long-neglected rage begins to boil in your stomach, and you draw in a deep breath before unleashing your indignation in a measured, even tone that fills the hall with its power.

“i am cross, sir, because i believe you to be a viper. you have stolen me from my comfort of my mother’s nest, and i fully anticipate you swallowing me whole. you are no better than the scottish barbarians who kidnap their brides and hide them away in the countryside. you are a thief and a coward, evidently unwilling—or perhaps unable—to woo his own choice of woman. i did not even have the pleasure of seeing your backside before being made your wife, and for that offense, i will never forgive you. marriage is meant to join two people who at least have been made somewhat acquainted before the ordeal. our marriage is a sham and an offense before god. so, you’re right—i don’t like you very much.”

it pleases you to see him so pale, so undone by your words. his chiseled jaw scrapes the floor, and a flush breaks out on his cheeks. you smirk in triumph.

at the sight of a maid inching along the wall at the far end of the hall, you hold up your arm and snap for her attention. “oh! girl!”

you hasten away from your husband, leaving him in the wake of your outburst. your skirts swish along the waxed, hardwood floor, and you meet the maid halfway down the hall. she stares at you with wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the surface. she must have heard. you’ve never felt more powerful.

linking your arm tightly around hers, you cast a look over your shoulder. gwilym’s hands have turned to fists. “my husband and i are finished speaking,” you say, your voice loud enough for him to hear every inflection. “show me to my rooms, won’t you?”

the following week is a rush of gown fittings, growing accustomed to the running of hiraeth, and attempting to make your husband’s life miserable.

the gowns are meant to fill your wardrobe for the social season. you arrived with a handful of dresses, yes, but with a home in bath, it is likely that you will spend a significant amount of time at dinner parties or galas. so tuesday afternoon, the day after the wedding, you are presented with an array of fabric and fashion sketches. from your place on the fitting stool, you glance over the options and pick your favorites: the teal blue which will come with an embroidered bodice; the scarlet red with lace-fringed sleeves; the dark green which will host tiered-layers cascading to the floor. it’s a hefty bill, but your husband has money enough to spend on four separate wardrobes if you so choose.

wednesday morning, mrs. brown insists you take a tour of the lower floors and accustom yourself with directing the maid and kitchen staff. you begrudgingly follow her and offer tight-lipped smiles to the flushed and nervous faces staring back at you. you truly could care less about the goings-on downstairs; that was always your mother’s job. but your mother isn’t here, and it’s up to you to preside over the well-being of the household staff. there’s so many of them, you wonder if gwilym will have annulled your marriage before you have the chance to commit all their names to memory. you can certainly pray that will be the case.

throughout the week, you revel in spurning gwilym’s kindness. you avoid him, mostly, choosing to take your breakfast in bed and your afternoon tea in the garden. you suffer through dinner with him, sat across from him at the end of a long table. you ignore his polite comments and questions and simply focus on eating your food. when he leaves a gift outside your bedroom door—a single white rose and a newly printed copy of a novel he thinks you might enjoy—you simply turn up your brow and send it back to his office. he invites you to ride about the grounds with him, and you scoff at the idea, turning on your heel and waltzing down the hall without a fare-thee-well.

to his credit, he does not shout, does not so much as grit his teeth. he bears it all with grace and composure, and that’s what frustrates you the most. you wish he would shout. you wish he would tell you to grow up and act your age. something—anything—other than the saccharine care with which he treats you. a snake with manners, it seems.

on friday morning he catches you in the breakfast room. you openly sigh when he enters, setting down your knife and reaching for your cup of tea.

“i thought you had gone,” you say, your gaze trained on your reflection in the mirror across the room. your skin is clear, your hair piled atop your head in a mess of artfully arranged curls and pins. you tilt your head to the side. hm, you really are a sight to behold when done up well. your husband is blessed.

the husband in question drops to a seat opposite you, and, for a brief moment, you note the way his waistcoat fits snug against his broad chest. you look away. “no, actually. i was hoping to steal a moment of your time this morning.”

“you’ve done a lot of stealing from me already, mr. lee.” you slide your gaze to him, challenging. “are you sure you want to continue down this path of thievery?”

as you anticipated, he does not rise to the occasion. he actually smiles and shakes his head in amusement, the knob. you roll your eyes. “your tongue does not quit. it truly amazes me.”

“i’ll have to increase my efforts to anger you, then.”

he smirks, continuing to spread butter across his piece of bread. “there is a party this evening,” he says, catching you off guard with his change of topic. “i don’t know if you recall me mentioning it, but my friends in bath are throwing the two of us a wedding party. we’ll be leaving late this morning in order to arrive before nightfall.”

“oh, that’s a shame.” you place your teacup on its saucer, pat the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then meet his eyes, yours round with innocence. “i’m afraid i can’t attend.”

he pulls an incredulous face. “it’s not an option, [y/n]. my friends are most eager to meet you, and they’ve worked very hard at making this party something you and i will both enjoy.”

a heavy moment of silence passes. you smooth your hand across the tablecloth and smile sweetly, lifting your gaze from beneath your lashes.

“i understand that, mr. lee, and i am sure your friends are lovely people. however, i simply cannot attend.”

his knife hits his plate with a bit more effort than is necessary. you bite your lower lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

“why ever not?” he asks. there is an edge to his voice; it’s slight, but it’s there. your heart lifts with glee.

you shrug, and your earrings sway against your neck with the movement. “well, i just don’t want to.”

gwilym sputters, and his hands clench on the table. inhaling deeply, he holds your gaze, and a muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. if you weren’t so intent on hating the man, you might find his anger thrilling.

instead of shouting, gwilym rises from the table and gently pushes his chair in. he clears his throat and drums a finger along the chair back before saying, “we leave at eleven o’clock, [y/n]. please be ready.”

you bat your eyelashes and take a bite of a pastry, grinning, giving him no promises.

at ten-forty-five you are dressed, but have no intention of joining gwilym on the trip to bath. instead, you study yourself in the floor-length mirror in your dressing room. much to your surprise, one of the gowns recently drawn up had arrived the night before, and after taking breakfast, you’d grabbed angel and had her help you into the dress.

you sway back and forth before the mirror. a wine red, the light catches in the folds of the skirt and the ruching over your chest. a pearl pendant rests in the middle of your breastbone, a teardrop pearl dangling from the pendant itself.

“don’t you like it, angel?” you ask.

from behind you, hands clasped before her waist, angel nods in earnest. “oh yes, mum! you look like a goddess.”

“i do, don’t i?” you pout and turn to face her. “shame about not going to the party. who will see me look so splendid?”

before angel can answer, your dressing room door bursts open. you gasp, whirling to face the storm cloud of a man in the doorway.

“gwilym!” you hold a hand against your heaving chest. “you mustn’t scare me like that!”

he looks well, dressed in a crisp suit complete with black tailcoat and trousers and deep green waistcoat. he wears no tie of any sort, though a gold pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket. despite his arranged clothing, his demeanor is decidedly less put together. his face is splotchy with an angry flush, his eyes boring holes into yours.

“goodness, what has gotten you into a tiff, husband?”

his nostrils flare. “i told you to be ready by eleven.”

“and i told you i am not going. did you not hear me?”

“i told you it wasn’t an option.”

you sigh and level him an unamused stare. “i am ever so tired of people making decisions for me.”

“we are going—together—to bath.”

you glance down at yourself and lift your arms in defeat. “i’m not dressed for the occasion, so i shan’t keep you and make you late.”

gwilym’s eyes dart to angel then back to you. he seems to be weighing his options, whether or not giving in is worth it. he runs his hands around the brim of his hat, his eyes narrowing in thought. finally, he seems to make up his mind. he pops his hat on and just when you’re ready to wave at his retreating back, he stalks into the room and loops his arms around your waist. you screech when he lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh no more than a feather.

mortification and seething anger crashes over you in rush. the feeling is hot, like boiling water beneath your skin. “unhand me, you villain!” you beat your fists against his muscular back.

he says nothing.

“i swear to you, gwilym lee, if you do not put me down this instance, i will scream!”

again, he says nothing. he walks toward the waiting carriage, the hallways and rooms in which you could seek shelter whizzing past you with the speed of his gait. you kick your legs out like a donkey, attempting to connect with something which might impede his progress.

nothing helps.

the outside air is cool against your hot skin, and you fight him all the way—all arms and legs and nails against whatever flesh you can find—until he deposits you in the plush interior of the carriage. he slams the door in your face, adjusts his crumbled waistcoat, and rounds the carriage to the other side. once seated beside you, his breathing labored and jaw tight, he taps the roof of the vehicle.

“onward, smith!” unlike his breathing, his voice is steady, and you want nothing more than to reach across and tear his windpipe out of his throat.

powerless to stop it, the carriage begins its journey toward bath.

taglist: @im-an-adult-ish​ @itsametaphorgwil​ @queenmylovely​ @captvinswaan​ @joeslee​ @gwilymleeisbae​ @ineloqueent​ @queen-paladin​

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee fic #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes #if you leave fic

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (28)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

Do you have a favorite season? I love spring and winter. Ah spring... the most beautiful season, where flowers bloom just like love stories. Cherry blossoms... the petals that fall... a romantic movie scene, isn't it? And winter! a cold a little dry certainly ... but that is where we see the thing that amazes children. I'm not talking about Santa Claus, no. I'm talking about... Snow. There's so much you can do with snow! Snowmen, snow angels, snowball fights etc...

The falling snow brings magic to the scenery, the frozen lakes offer an incredible spectacle that allows you to play and fish... if we're careful not to break it. Because I don't know if you've ever tried swimming in a lake where the temperature is... icy, but if you want to fall into hypothermia, this is a good way to get there. but it's a good place to ice skate. If you are good enough then you will have no problem! but if you start then... you'll often hurt. Generally, what inspires you to ice skating are figure skating competitions. Unfortunately, at the moment, it is not winter. So, no ice skating. Or... You have to go to an ice rink. And that's exactly what Melina had planned to relax everyone. Especially Danny.

What put him in a bad mood? The fact that you went out with Melina last night? No no... You have the right to have fun with your friends from time to time. And he sincerely hopes you had a good time! After all, if you ever come to leave Roseville, with him, if possible, you may not be out again for a little while. No, what put our dear Danny in a bad mood is this asshole who tried to charm you at the restaurant. This wretched little bastard had the audacity to come to you, to talk to you, and in addition to touching you? And the whole thing, like he honestly thought it was going to work?

And the worst part of all this was you and Melina made it clear to him that you were already with someone. But that bastard didn't want to know. Danny finds his next victim. Thanks to you, he knows what he looks like, and when he comes into action, Danny won't miss him. No spectacular staging. A hard-line massacre. A Ghostface classic. No one has the right to touch you, even less seduce you. He doesn't know what he just got himself into. Want a good way to know when Danny's angry? Look at his eyes. They are a piercing blue as normal, well when he is angry or when he goes crazy, they are even more piercing. Like the eyes of a cat.

“Jed? Are you...Are you sure you’re alright?”  

Danny came out of his macabre dreams to watch you. Your voice, like a sweet melody to his ears, will give him a smile, his beautiful angel smile.

“Yes, excuse me. I was thinking of something else. Were you talking to me?” He asks, putting his glasses back on his nose.  

“No, I was the one talking to you. I told you not to worry about that asshole last night. We said to him to go f*ck himself, (y/n) and me. And believe me, he was doing one of those faces... he won't forget me.” respond Melina, looking in the rear-view mirror.

“I'm surprised you didn't give him an arm wrench. Or a kick where I think... I'm really surprised!” said Mattew to her with a sneaky smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Like what, you see that I can perfectly behave as a responsible person and act with tact and diplomacy ... before moving on to the offend. But believe me, it's not the desire that I missed. I didn't want to get banned from this restaurant anyway, it would piss me off.”

“Anyway, Melina's right. You don't have to worry about that jerk, Jeddy. It does not reach your ankle I reassure you! You're a lot sexier!” replied Mattew with a wink.

“You know if Chris finds out you said that, he's going to be jealous? but... Thank you Mattew. You're right, I don't have to get in my head for bullshit like that. But is it really necessary to go ice skating? we still have work to do you know...” said Danny. He was not going to take his head for very long, since he intends to kill him. And just that image made him shudder. He was looking forward to it.

“It's going to be good for everyone! and then we'll have fun! Don't be shy! This is not the first time we have done so. Especially you Jed.” respond Melina.  

Indeed, this is not the first time that Danny went ice skating. The Zanesville ice rink is quite large and there are not many people at this time. It's perfect, you're going to have the whole ice rink just for you... for at least two hours. Melina parked in front of the rink entrance and indeed, seen up close she was big. very big.

“How long has it been? Two years? it has not changed in any case .... I wonder if the boss still remembers the falls he took here.” says Mattew before entering, following by the others.  

“Don't worry, I think if you tell him, his lumbar will remember it. And his ass too.” respond Danny who makes you laugh.

Each one your turn, you rent ice skates. And one thing that made Danny laugh was that if he wears 40, you only wear 36. How cute, you have such small feet, in a sense it fits perfectly with your body and size. Everything is small in you. It's cute and it's funny, especially when you react to it. So small, so fragile... And yet a hell of a temper!

The ice rink was practically empty at that time, there was only a couple and two teenagers who visibly didn't have class today. Melina entered the ice first once everyone was ready, and if the start was a little difficult, she quickly took the hand. This was not the case for Mattew, who kept clinging to her every time he was about to fall.

“Have you ever done one? Or would you rather I give you a few classes? It looks like I'm a very good teacher...” said Danny to you with a wink.  

“Really funny Mr Olsen, but before you teach me, I'd like to see if you can last more than ten seconds without finishing your ass on the ice.” you respond with a little laugh.  

“Ok...as you wish miss.” Danny replied with a smile, entering the rink, getting on the ice with a disconcerting ease. “So? Convinced? I am still waiting for an answer to my question.”

“Convinced. and... No. I have never had the opportunity to do it before. So I would need a couple of lessons.” you answer.  

“Ok, first...give me your hand. Trust me, I will not let you go. Promise. I know what it's like to fall your ass first on ice and believe me, it's not pleasant at all.”

Hesitating as you step on to enter the rink, Danny gently taking your hand to bring you back to him. Well, he had to quickly catch up with you in his arms because you were slipping. If the beginning was quite complicated, because Danny had to prevent you from falling several times, after several minutes, you start to take your marks. Little by little Danny let you go and gave you more space. And once he feels you're ready, he let you go completely but stood by you just in case.

“You see! it's not that hard in the end! You're doing very well!” He said with a smile.

“I confirm, you're an excellent teacher! Thank you so much Jed!” you respond, kissing him as he kisses you back.  

Danny left you for a few moments with Melina and Mattew to skate a little on his side. The agility he had, allowed him to move perfectly on the ice. If he wanted to, he could become a skating champion, but he knows the ruthless world of the sport. All shots are allowed. And he cared a little too much about his legs to lose them in an unfortunate "accident". And then be a sportsman and a killer... don't really go together. Fame is a good thing, the problem is that when you are also a murderer, your private life... is no longer as private. Generally, there is always a clever little journalist who hangs around... And as if by chance always at the right time. At least as a journalist, Danny is quiet in his private life.

During these two hours of tranquillity, the whole small group had fun, laughing every time Mattew fell. And when he fell, Danny was always the first to go to him and pick him up. While you and Melina laughed and chatted on your side. Then the crowd began to arrive. It was time to leave because when it has too many people, it's almost impossible to skate without falling, even when we're as good as our dear assassin. So, you leave the rink, return the skates and get out of the building to get back in the car.

“So, this ice christening? it went well to what I see!” Said Melina cheerfully.  

“Speak for yourself! I didn't stop falling to the ground or catching up on the railing!” respond Mattew, a little grumpy.  

“ haaawn poor little Mattew! You'll ask Chris to give you a little massage.... If you know what I mean.”  

“... the worst part is that I know very well that it will end like this, if I ask him for a massage. If I provoke Chris once... he can quickly become wild.”

“You're not going to complain about it... it's better to be like that than not. At least he is more tactile than before. If I remember correctly, he didn't even dare hold your hand for fear of breaking it.” Replied Danny with a little smile.  

“It's true... I'll always remember, he was really too cute.” answer Mattew.  

Melina started the car and drove off towards Roseville. The return trip was more enjoyable. Danny felt a little more relaxed. But he didn't forget the other asshole. And he intends to make him regret his actions in a way... irreversible. A good old-time murder will bring back memories. Like when he slaughtered that bastard Doctor who let Carla die. He hadn't missed him that day... or rather that night. That's where his career in murder began. Because of an asshole.

But the past is the past as they say! It is better to move forward. Melina offered a fast food for lunch, all while landing at the park to enjoy the fresh air before the hot days that will arrive. The whole small group moved the rest of the day to the park, chatting and telling old family anecdotes. Except Danny, of course. He had made a cross on his past with his "parents", it was not to talk about it now. He was free of it now. As the last light of day disappeared to make way for the night sky, Melina took Danny and you back to your building.  

She greeted you both with a wink not to go crazy, to which Danny answered calmly but with a smile not to worry about it. Then both enter the building laughing when they see Mattew's reaction. As you both arrived at your apartment, a noise was heard from inside. After a brief exchange of gaze, Danny took the keys to your apartment from your hands and opened the door cautiously. Lighting the light of the living room, he did not notice anything strange, for the moment.

“We must have been dreaming... Or maybe it came from your home?” you said looking at Danny.

“No. I checked three times before I left. It's all closed. The noise comes from here.” responds Danny before hearing another noise from the kitchen.  

Danny walked quietly to the kitchen, taking something to defend himself. If there’s a thief and he's armed, he's going to spend a bad time too. Arriving in the room, he suddenly turned on the light and raised his arm ready to strike before stopping cleanly in front of the source of all the noise. And this thing emits a very different sound this time.... a meow to be more precise.

“I think we have a little thief in your kitchen.” he said, laying the object he was holding before taking the frightened kitten in his arms.

“Haaawn, poor little guy... How did you get home?” you answer looking at the kitten.  

“Hum... It's a girl. And given the room I would say she came through your window. And visibly she enjoys your cakes. You've got two that's gone.”

“Oh... I had left the window open to let them cool and to prevent the apartment from smelling like bananas... But hey the main thing is that you ate well. You don't look like you have a necklace... I think I'm going to keep you!” you replied caressing the kitten who began to purr.

“You're going to have to plan on feeding her and a basket to sleep in... as well as a litter box, a cat tree... I think there's a pet store in Zanesville that owns it all for a cheap. And then she's going to need a name." responds Danny giving you the kitten.

“I'll see all that tomorrow. With a rested head. In the meantime, I'm going to set up a little corner for you in front of my bed. That way you won't be alone. It's convenient to keep old plaids. They're going to be able to re-serve again.”  

“In that case, I'm going to let you take care of that kitten. I still have a lot of work to do. Maybe tomorrow we'll see each other? If the boss doesn't make us run in the direction.”

You nod before kissing Danny, who kisses you back. Then he left your apartment to go back to his, locking the door. He sighed; it feels good to be at home. Not that he didn't enjoy the day, but since he knew about this guy at the restaurant, he had only one desire: to find him and massacre him. He went to his office to pick up his things. He took the opportunity to look at his hunting board. You can count yourself happy, Hoggins, to have gained extra life time because of the incompetence of the Roseville police officers... For once, and even if it hurt him to admit it, he felt sorry for Inspector Wilhelm. It's not easy to stay calm when you're the only 'smart' person in the whole police station.

He took his bag, and walked out of the building without making any noise. He got in his van and hit the road to the restaurant where you were last night. He parked a little further so as not to be noticed. When that bastard quits his job, Danny will follow him quietly home. It will do as usual, observe, note, analyse. And he'll do it again and again. Until the day it's time for him to meet Ghostface. And that night...

The massacre will begin.

Let’s the countdown begin.  

***

(My little finger says to me that you are 52 people whose following me! From the deepest part of my potato heart, I wanna say thank you to all of you! I never imagine to get so far and please so many people! I hope you will continue to be as numerous or even more numerous!  I hope you’ll like this chapter like the others ones! Well, it's time for my brain to rest! Have a great weekend to you all! See ya!)

#dbd fanfic #dbd #dead by daylight #ghostface #danny johnson #jed olsen