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onedaughterofman · 1 year

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You, forever (Chapter X: Dance Macabre)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go. Warnings/tags: descriptions of corpses, death, blood and violence. Biblical references and Satanism. Angst. Around 8K words.

A/N: The end is here. I want to dedicate this chapter to King Satan. None of this would have been possible without Him.

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"The fifth angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth. To him was given the key of the bottomless pit. He opened it and there arose smoke and the sun and the air were darkened. There came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth."

Breathe.

The sky remains calm. Ominous gray clouds obscure the firmament, rendering it black. Copia’s eyes gradually lift from the old, decayed remains of marble tiles and rubble on the floor, examining the area until they inevitably fall on you.

Breathe again.

Copia’s heart jumps inside his ribcage, stopping scarcely for a moment before resuming a measured, heavy pace. His organ throbs and whines painfully, beating slowly. The sensation it’s terribly burdensome, as if his heart alone weighed more than his entire body. Mouth agape, he battles to inhale but even if the air enters his lungs, there’s no substance in it.

The entire world has come to an abrupt stop. No birds or cicadas dare to sing, not even the wind whistles in his ears. Copia is unsure if he’s still alive and breathing, or if he has ceased existing too. His fingers twitch, not quite moving, but desperately yearning to reach out.

You are standing in front of him. As beautiful as the last day he saw you, laying in bed and sleeping soundly. Copia remembers that morning previous to his trip, before the word crumbled at his feet. He recalls your tousled hair in the pillows, the way the dim light fell on your exposed body and how the sheets and blankets swirled around your figure. Copia remembers the little smile on your tender lips, the way your eyelashes fluttered when you acknowledged his departure.

That morning, the sky was equally dark as today, rain threatening to fall at any given moment. Now, even if the air is humid and saturated with dew, Copia fears no storm. The ground could break into a thousand pieces, turning into nothing but fire and lava, and he would nevertheless try to reach out, to hold you even if dread and guilt anchor his feet.

Suffocating as it is, Copia is sure he’d rather experience forever this solid weight his heart carries than to lose you again. It would be a hungry beast to feed, a dreary peace coated in blood and sacrifice. But worth it, so worth it.

It’s been months, years, an eternity since he saw you standing for the last time…And now, now Copia’s right hand lifts, fingers shaking and yearning to take yours. Yet, he doesn’t dare to. His feet are glued to the ground.

Frozen in place, Copia can only stare at the way Goore’s hands hold your waist and wrist, firm grip restraining you in place. There’s a black blindfold obstructing your vision, and the hair falls on your forehead in a way he’s convinced you must hate.

Yes, you used to despise that. His memories may have faded now, to the point he’s no longer certain what is reality and what a dream, barely a product of his imagination and mind tricks. Copia no longer remembers his past, the days and nights have become a blurry, mushed mess in his jaded brain. However, he’s sure of this.

If it’s about you, then he naturally knows it. He feels it in his guts, in his heart.

In front of him, you remain both hauntingly beautiful and sinister, much like the phantasmagorical version of you he has kept alive all this time inside his mind.

“For you,” Goore announces, definitely shattering the deep silence. The tree tops move with the wind, practically in slow motion. “Right back from the bottomless pit.”

One step, then another. Copia’s legs vacillate, weakening at the sight of you oscillating limply in Goore’s arms. Your hand moves by degrees, in a very artificial and articulated way, almost as if there were invisible strings holding you together by the joints. He breathes through his teeth, raw air freezing his insides.

And yet, he moves. There’s no strength, no soul behind his flesh, only muscle memory keeping him upward. Copia’s hand extends again, fingers narrowly brushing the hair on your forehead before something hastily strikes at his face.

The effort to move out of the way makes his heart race. At least, now he’s sure he’s alive. Goore’s laugh pierces the silence, demolishing it into a thousand pieces as a low growl dies in your throat.

Copia swallows, but there’s no saliva in his mouth. His tongue is dry, and something wet is scurrying down his cheek. The realization hits him like a train.

It’s blood. He’s bleeding, from a shallow cut on his forehead.

Oh, impious father, why must he keep suffering? Hasn’t he given enough? Hasn’t he sacrificed everything, everyone in this spiteful earthly realm? He only wanted one thing, and that was to live with you, to love you. Was it too much? Was it so greedy of him, to desire your love?

Is he so wicked, so cursed that not even Satan himself would grant him his one, true desire?

It’s hard to accept it, to face the truth. You have attacked him, mercilessly tried to claw his eyes out of his face. Copia could cry, but his throat is closed and his soul is tired, empty. His lip merely quivers, before he regains control.

Behind his back, he perceives the muffled growling of the Ghouls. The tails are flickering and wiping the air, in a visible demonstration of their uneasiness. Copia gestures for them to calm down, but the growl persists, only becoming a dull rumble he chooses to ignore.

Mary’s chuckles are completely different. This time, their hands nudge you away, making you trip on a pile of debris. Your body doesn’t hit the ground, only because they grip both of your wrists before the fall, keeping your nails away from their face.

“Careful,” Mary advises, blowing a few strands of hair out of their eyes. “Their wrath knows no difference between a friend and a foe.”

“What have you done to them?”

As much as his soul hurts, there is no anger reflected in his voice. Copia is terribly numb, too exhausted to even consider devoting his energy on someone like Goore. If he’s about to plumber to the ground and allow nature to consume him to the very core, then he wants to use his last vital force to hug you and be with you under the moonlight.

“Me? I opened the pit that kept their soul trapped in the underworld. Just like you asked me to.”

“This is not…” Copia begins, but the words taste bitter, like poison. He debates whether or not to say them, pondering if it’s better to spit them out and release them to contaminate the ground or swallow them and hope to die from their venom. “This is not… the person I used to know.”

No. You, the one he fell for, would have never hurt him. You were kind, lovely, so full of warmth. Copia detects bits of you in the creature he has in front of his eyes, notes the resemblance, but there are also striking differences. It feels as if he is looking at you through a thick, colored glass or a distorted mirror.

You’re the same and yet, you’re a stranger. He can’t overlook the way his muscles spam and tremble when he takes a step back, head shaking. Oh, how afraid he is, how strongly the anguish tears into his throat. He’s terrified, frightened of you and of himself, of the things he has done and the blood on his hands and clothes.

The fear in his small pupils is evident. Goore sees it even in the gloomy night, smells it permeating the air. Their lips stretch again, a wide grin on their face. “Man, don’t be like that,” they say, fingers digging into your cheeks. A growl escapes through your teeth, but you remain in place.

When Copia doesn’t move, Mary continues. “You heard that? He doesn’t want you anymore,” they mock, turning your head in the other’s direction. Only a low gasp exits his lips. “You can’t rely on a man’s loyalty, believe me. Been there, done that.”

Finally, his words elicit a reaction. “That’s not…!” Copia complains. To ever think about leaving you or, Lord forbid, you discarding him makes his blood burn, then freeze. You can’t. He loves you. He needs you. You have promised to stay together eternally, to rot and burn forever united. “You must have made a mistake. Something is wrong, I know it!”

Rejoicing in Copia’s internal turmoil, Goore merely huffs in response. Their eyes are wide open, pupils blown inside the light irises. The gaze is intense, malevolent even. If there’s a spawn of the deepest circles of Hell on earth, then it’s Goore.

Maybe it’s not Death the one who didn’t want them. Maybe even Satan preferred to keep them far away.

“Well, you made me speed up the process way too much. Human resurrection is not as simple as one might think.” A long pause. Mary’s fingers uncurl from your wrists, pushing you away. Your legs tremble and give up, barely regaining your footing before reaching the ground. “Why, though? Death doesn’t take everything away, only the soul. The flesh and bones remain, just like the memories stored in the brain. If you give them a little push, a spark of life, they start moving like flesh puppets.”

Yes, that sounds right. Most of Goore’s projects were just flesh puppets made to satisfy whatever selfish desire they had. It quickly became a boring hobby, a stale one. Mary wanted more. So, they got more. “But yours? This one has a vigorous, tortured soul. That’s why it’s fucked up. I told you to only bring the body back.”

“You’d say it’d work.”

“It works. They need some adaptation time to reconnect the soul, body and memories.” Or so, Mary hopes. All their past projects were incomplete, way too complicated to be allowed inside the Ministry. You’re different, a masterpiece, a beautiful creation. “If you still want them, here they are. Hell, I’ll make them behave for you.”

A deep breath is all it takes. When Goore concentrates, it’s almost as if the cords holding you in place suddenly tensed up. Like a puppet with no visible strings, your back straightens and both feet get planted firmly on the dirt. A twitch of their fingers makes you twirl and dance round and round under the ghastly moonlight.

It’s awful.

“See? Are they not more beautiful now?"

No. It's terribly awful. Copia stares, eyes wide open, air frozen in his throat. His guts hurt, and he feels about to puke. “Stop!” he yells, moving forward. His fingers touch you for the first time, and there’s a spark there. He feels shivers down his spine, the bile rising to his mouth.

Oh, Satan, if he’s been a good servant, then he only pleads one thing: let this be a nightmare. Copia is suddenly small, so scared, both happy to finally hold you but terrified of this reality. He has you back, but something is terribly wrong, he can tell. The realization of what he has done, how he has turned you into this, condemned you to this monstrosity, hits like a train. He could cry, sob and wail for days to come.

But he doesn't. “Just leave them and go. We are done here.”

“As you wish,” Mary says, starting to walk. They stop before crossing the old Ministry’s gate, head tilted to one side making the long bangs fall on their eyes. “If you put them back in places they used to like, their memories will come back quicker and maybe they’ll regain some of their humanity. Don’t remove the blindfold yet, the resurrected don’t like it. There’s a reason why Nihil had to wear those stupid sunglasses during the rituals.”

“Maybe, you say?” The leather gloves make a loud noise over the silence when he clenches his fists tight, knuckles turning pale under the cold material. “I sacrificed everything I ever had to the Old One, and all you can give me is a maybe?”

Under his breath, Papa Emeritus IV curses. Why? Why is this happening to him? He was chosen. He’s Papa now.

It’s not fair. Life has never been fair to him. Maybe Imperator was right all this time. If you want something, you don’t ask for it, you don’t pray and hope to get it.

No. You conquer, you destroy, you take it by force. That’s how she lived, no fear, no guilt, no shame. And Satan liked it, Copia is sure. He rejoiced in the suffering she caused, fed off the atrocities and sacrifices she offered. Satan is a cruel mouth to feed in the Ministry, a curse that weighs on top of all of them, all the time.

In this world, either you bleed, or others do it. There’s no magical benediction, no way to free the soul from curses. They are all slaves to someone. Perhaps Terzo was also right. There should be no God, and no Satan.

There should be only men, only himself.

Blown pupils burning holes on Papa’s face, Goore speaks up one last time. “What can I say? Suffering for the Lord is not an easy thing.”

Copia allows himself to fall to his knees when Mary crosses the gates and disappears into the darkness. Behind his back, the ghouls mutter between each other, words in a language he can’t recognize. If they are laughing or mocking him, he doesn’t care.

In his arms, now on the ground next to him, your body twitches. Copia takes hold of your wrists, pulls them until your head comes to rest on his chest. The tickle of your hair on his cheek reminds him of old, better times. It’s a bitter comfort, a loving touch to his starved skin.

“Amore, it’s okay,” he whispers over your hair. “You’re home now. I’m here with you.”

There’s no reply. Holding you closer, Copia lets his eyelids fall as he slowly rocks his body back and forth, humming an old song. When your skin begins to retain part of his heat, he feels a smile forming on his lips. The humming grows louder, melody vibrating in his vocal cords.

Oh, how happy he is. Copia’s mouth opens to let out a joyful chuckle, but only sobs come out of it. The tears fall on your hair, clinging to the strands like dew drops.

“It was commanded to them that they should hurt only those men which have not the seal of God in their foreheads. In those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.”

In the abbey, although now run down by the passage of time and the unforgiving fire, there is a garden.

Long time ago, Papa Emeritus I took it as his job to build an educational area where Siblings could study and research herbs and plants used to treat diseases or to create deadly poisons. The exotic species were guarded by gargoyles and surrounded with beautiful painted tiles, a gift he received from a Bishop resident in northern Italy.

When Papa Emeritus I died, the maintenance of the garden fell on the Siblings. Shortly after, diverse rumors began to be spread, whispered in a hushed voice on the hallways. Some Siblings were convinced the soul of the old Papa was still roaming around, carefully tending to the plants and haunting anybody who dared to disrupt the peaceful and educational nature of the garden.

If the rumors are true, Copia doesn’t know it. The whole yard is nothing but a burned, withering mountain of weeds and dry leaves. There’s no ghost tormenting him, not heavy weight pounding down his shoulders and no promises of revenge coming from Primo.

It’s almost disappointing. Sitting under a tree, Copia wishes Primo could be here. The old man used to be the least bothersome of them all, and also the one who dedicated himself to the church the most. If only he could be near, willing to impart his wisdom for a bit of time, he’d be grateful.

Some kind of ancient rite, a special herb conjunction or even a spell could help him sleep for a whole night, without falling prey to the terrible horrors of his dreams. Copia endures the way his eyelids weigh down, desperate to offer some relief to his weary eyes. His sight is blurry, sclera bloodshot.

Copia is tired, so tired all the time.

There’s no respite for his old soul. He can’t rest, for as long as your situation remains uncertain. Copia knows deep in his heart that you must ache so badly. Still, on long days and eternal nights, he merely wishes to hold onto your body and wrap his arms around you, whispering sweet nothings into your skin. If love could heal and relieve any ailment, if it could become a vital motor of life, then you would live perpetually in peace.

What a selfish idea. And yet, love is such a selfish, cruel thing to impose on others. The crushing weight of it, the brutal nature of desire and hope… Copia is aware of how abrasive his longing is, of how much his love will follow you like a restless shadow. He recognizes, deep down, that he is constantly asking so much. He’s begging for things no one else ever gave him, for him was not even worth the idea of it.

And you didn’t care about it. You never minded his flaws or his ugliness. Instead, you embraced every little detail with the tenderness of a lover.

Love: brutal, wonderful, cruel and tender, both a blessing and a curse. Since that first moment you asked for a dance, he hasn’t experienced peace.

There’s no peace for you either. He understands how being trapped in this existence must hurt you. Still, when the idea of ending it enters his mind, he feels repulsed. No matter how much his hands hover over your neck, wishing to squeeze it until you stop moving, he doesn’t.

No, you must stay by him, love him beyond death. You will come back to him, forever his. During interminable nights, you two will dance under the moonlight and eternal sky. The flames of his desire and adoration will burn as bright as the stars, but not as much as your gaze when your eyes meet his.

You’re his fate. Copia will do anything to make sure no one will ever touch you again. Nothing will happen. Not anymore. He’s not weak, he has found strength and power hidden deep within his guts.

Copia died, the same day he lost you, and now he’s been reborn. Just like Christ.

A whole new figure.

A whole new person.

You’re a whole new person too. Two lovers, different than they used to be but still reaching out to each other, swimming eternally in damnation.

And damned, that you are. In the dark, the earth trembles and crumbles. A deep pit, no bottom to be seen, opens its mouth to devour you whole.

Falling. You are falling away from the light, the warmth. Consumed by the shadows and the cold, your fingers reach for the sky, for whatever vestige of light that your eyes can see.

It’s useless. Heaven has darkened, and wisps of smoke curl around your body, engulfing every inch. It’s freezing, everywhere. The frigid air burns in your lungs, bites at the exposed skin of your cheeks rendering it numb. Gradually, all your muscles become numb, rigid.

Stiff, falling into nothingness, you try to focus on the last ray of sunshine in the distance. Through tear coated lashes, your pupils stare until the smoke completely obscures your vision.

Something wet is on your face. Maybe it’s tears, blood. Or maybe it has begun to rain.

Descending, you close your eyes. There’s nothing to observe anymore. No sound, either. Deep in silence, you wish something would save you. What’s happening? Where’s Copia? Why isn’t he here, with you, holding your hand?

Is this… the end? Just like that? It’s not like falling asleep. No, it’s like drowning in liquid darkness, thick fluid filling your mouth and nose and permeating your lungs.

It burns, so hard. The pain doesn’t feel right. It’s not raw, real pain. No, it’s more like a vague memory, as if you were merely remembering past sensations.

Death, won’t you spare me over until another year?

Someone hauls you out of the dark pond. A frozen hand on your own. Moving your fingers, yanking your wrist. Someone is handling you, pulling, holding. A hand, long fingers, cold skin. Someone is there. Something is there.

Then…

Light, air, it’s too little, too much. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see. There’s dirt on them, something coating them. Blind, you reach out. Your ears ring, loud, so loud. It hurts, and this time the pain is right, raw, pure, vivid. You wish you could go back to where you were before, comfortably numb, lost away.

Who…

Who are you?

Everything is overly bright, too loud. There are voices, too many of them, screaming until your ears ring. Pressing on them doesn’t help. Your nails dig in your scalp, and now there’s warm, fresh blood dripping down your forehead too.

What happened?

Where are you?

Who are you?

Memory broken into pieces, shattered beyond recognition, you try to move but your body doesn’t respond. The voices keep screaming. Or maybe that’s just you.

“The sixth angel sounded, and I heard a voice from the four horns of the golden altar which is before God, saying to the sixth angel which had the trumpet, “Loose the four angels which are bound in the great river Euphrates”. And the four angels were loosed, which were prepared to slay the third part of men. By these three was the third part of men killed, by the fire, and by the smoke, and by the brimstone, which issued out of their mouths.”

“Have you ever heard of the Codex Gigas, my girl?”

The Nameless Ghoulette stands still, long fingernails going over the edge of the desk. Copia perceives the body heat radiating from her, senses the strong outburst of intense energy that she releases.

“It’s an old tale,” she responds, clicking her tongue. “But humans like to change stories as they please, so I wouldn't know much.”

Slowly, Copia nods. The myths around Codex Gigas, known as “The Devil’s bible”, are various. “Legend says it was written during the 13th century in a Benedictine monastery in Bohemia, by a condemned monk seeking absolution. He admitted having committed numerous sins, including fornication, gluttony, envy and bestiality.”

“A spicy one,” she adds, a smile on her face. The gesture is partially obscured by the black mask, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in her pupils.

The amusement she provides is contagious. Copia allows himself to let out a few hollow chuckles, too. “That’s not what the Abbot thought. They sentenced the monk to be walled up alive, but before the punishment was completed he begged for mercy,” he explains. “They ordered him to make a book that would include all the world’s knowledge, and to do it in a single night.”

The task was impossible. In the secret underground library, Copia’s eyes absentmindedly examine the pages on top of the desk. The manuscript is ancient, faded by the inclemency of time. Next to him, the Ghoulette’s fingers continue drawing lines on the desk, nails following the swirling pattern of wood. “The monk made a deal with Satan. He surrendered his soul in exchange for the book.”

“Our Father is too kind. What use would He have for an old human soul?”

Kindness. If Copia ever had to describe Satan in a way, he’d never employ that word. Kindness is a human emotion, a trace of something He could never comprehend. Much like the infernal creature next to him, the Old One might behave and speak like a human, present himself as he wishes, but he’d never understand the whole spectrum of human emotions.

No, Satan isn’t kind or cruel. Copia used to believe he knew so much about the Lord, about the principles and history of their religion. Maybe a part of him, that intrinsic mortal part of himself, was so afraid of the unknown he clung to whatever could offer him respite. The idea of being watched over, guided, protected by Him…

That idea made Copia feel safe, wanted, needed. Now…

Now he no longer experiences such stupid feelings. “I don’t believe Satan asked for an old soul either,” he carries on, sucking in a deep breath. “I think he wanted the book to be written, shared between humans.”

“He took it as a personal project, then? Was He giving a message to humans?”

The silence in the room is profound when Copia nods, pupils observing the flickering flames of a torch. It’s cold between these walls, incredibly so. Deep in the underground tunnels, he barely remembers the sensation of the sun on his skin, the warmth coming from it.

As cold and dark as it is, Copia would rather spend most of his time there than to adventure to the upper levels, where you are kept under the watchful eye of the Nameless Ghouls. He left some of them caring for you, being unable to face the task himself without his stomach churning and hands trembling.

No, it was too hard, extremely nerve-racking. He’s a coward. Copia knows it, and yet…

Yet he’s only human, weak and flawed. No one could blame him, though. Even the Ghouls appear uneasy to spend time in your presence, flickering their tails and baring their teeth when you make a sudden move. It makes them tense, to be in front of someone who resembles a human but it’s anything but it.

An insistent tapping on the desk plumbers Copia back to the present. “It has all the world’s knowledge, from above and below. It’s a treasure to many, a curse to even more people.”

Everything has a price; Copia has learnt it long ago. Wherever that book went, chaos and blood followed. “The manuscript is now at the National Library of Sweden in Stockholm,” he continues, waving a hand and staring back at the walls. “But it’s not complete. Ten whole pages are missing, and no one knows what they say.”

From the corner of his eyes, Copia manages to catch a glimpse of the fleeting glint on the infernal creature’s eyes. The opaque glass does nothing to hide it. She’s interested in his story, probably more interested than any other ghoul would be.

It’s not a surprise. Ghoulettes are, after all, more ambitious, smarter and unruly.

The words are measured when he speaks up again. “No one but Sister Imperator and me,” he declares, moving the stack of papers closer to the demon. Her fangs glisten under the golden light when her mouth opens, a grin on the lips. “These are the missing pages. They were hidden under the Ministry, behind a secret passage. I don’t know how they came to be here, or who brought them, but whoever that was is now gone and forgotten.”

Gradually, the Ghoulette steps closer. Copia senses the faint whistle of her breathing under the mask, and endures the unmistakable heat of her body. She smells like burnt wood and smoke, a mix of sweet briar and incense coating her clothes. The sharp nails trace the pages, written in neat calligraphy. All the letters are the same size and style, still clear over the yellowish paper.

Copia’s hand darts out to prevent her from tearing the thin paper, but he halts before making contact. Ghoulettes are scarier and more dangerous than their male counterparts. They don’t react well to any aggression.

No. In general, Ghoulettes don’t react well to any man. Since the beginning of the times, they have chosen to aid women. During centuries, only priestesses were able to summon and strike a deal with Nameless Ghoulettes. It was a major surprise when pathetic, poor little Cardinal Copia was the one who without precedence managed to summon not one, but three.

Imperator was immensely proud. She bragged about it to Nihil for days. "I told you my boy is special," she said. "He's the one we were searching for, Papa."

Contrary to his own fears, the creature doesn’t shred it. The pages crack under the soft pressure, but remain intact. “What are they about?” she asks.

“How to summon Satan, the coming of the Antichrist…”

“Beware of the storms that gather in the sky,” the text said. “For the thunder will bloom and the birds will caw. Listen to the moonlit star, the one who exclaims: ‘I see no day, only the cold night that will fall, summoned by your own hand.’”

The story matches that one The Clergy used to repeat. A secretive nun, carrying the old man’s bastard child. Copia heard it a thousand times, without completely understanding all the implications of it. To many, it was just an old scary tale to tell in the dark, some wishful thinking.

And yet…

The crows were incredibly loud the night Goore was born, their file said.

“The Earth will shake and break, and death all around will rise, lifting old hopes from shallow, troubled graves. The estranged son will return, unleashed from the bottomless pit.”

Everything matches. The first time Copia read it; he didn’t pay much attention to it. Now, after everything he has gone through, after studying Goore’s old files and witnessing the raw nature of their power…

Now Copia’s eyes are wide open. Why would Satan choose someone like Goore as The One? He can’t grasp it. Goore is everything The Clergy feared and despised, everything himself tried to avoid. He was devoted, a believer… He gave up everything for this cause, for the Ghost project and the church.

Goore never had to give up anything. Goore only took and brought devastation. But...

“Straight out of Hell, the Antichrist will walk the earth.”

Maybe Copia never truly understood his own Lord. For all one knows, he is and has always been wholly Fatherless, alone.

And perhaps that’s the way it should be.

There is something else in the pages, something no one should ever witness. It’s dangerous in the wrong hands, revolutionary in good ones. And his, his are meant to hold these pages. “The last pages are the more interesting ones. They share the forbidden, necessary knowledge to become Him.”

In a swift movement, the Ghoulette’s nails press harder. Copia looks at her, notes the way her fangs are bared and her pupils are blown behind the opaque glass. “Become Him, you say?”

“Did you know Satan is a given name? Much like Emeritus, it’s only a title. It means adversary,” a pause. “The Satan we serve had this power bestowed upon, at the beginning of the times. But you know how it is with empires. They must fall, one day.”

“That’s a risky thing to affirm, especially to a servant.”

“I always thought Ghoulettes had a bit more independence, but I might be mistaken.”

The Ghoulette thinks, for long seconds. There is a loud rumble coming from her throat. “You are crazy,” she says, at last. “Completely mad, absolutely unhinged. Yet, now I see why my sisters heed your call. You have His fire. I’m curious.”

It’s time. He’s been pondering over it a lot, wondering what his next steps should be. To find himself suddenly lost, no Imperator or Saltarian to tell him what to do and no Dark Father to ask for guidance, Copia has been severely lost. Now, he’s seen the light.

With you back at his side, he can do anything. Even if you don’t completely come back as you were, he can march straight to Hell and recover whatever vestige of your soul might be still lost there.

It all makes sense now. He’s the number one, you’re his number two, and there’s so much work to do. “Are you and your sisters in the mood for some hunting? I think we have to send one last gift to our Father. As a farewell, si?”

“You know us well, Papa.” The Ghoulette leans in closer, a feral look in her eyes, pupils a slit. “Give us the command.”

In her ears, Papa whispers the words he has long wanted to tell. His white eye glimmers in the gloomy room while issuing the command and, with a click of his tongue, all the nefarious Ghoulettes are set loose on earth, to feast and to conquer.

There can only be one architect of the new world, and that is him.

“The rest of mankind who were not killed by these plagues still did not repent of the work of their hands; they did not stop worshiping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood—idols that cannot see or hear or walk. Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts.”

They pass the old ministries' ruins first. Speeding through the tombstones and the raised roots, they run to the left, then right. The starless sky remains calm, motionless and frozen in time, like the rest of the forest.

The smell of rotten flesh is what gets to them, first. It’s a murky and complex fragrance, a mix of sulfur and old blood, of decay and putrefaction. In the distance, the faint grunts and wails become a dull rumble, barely audible over the raging sound of blood pumping in their veins.

It’s natural to run, pushing vigorously until the burn on their legs makes it painful to continue moving. Wherever their feet touch, the ground trembles and shatters open, bones and remaining tissue filling with the impulse of life. Maggots and flies swamp the place, sticking to their hair and clothes, crawling in the dirt and brimming over the air.

Despite their efforts, the flesh puppets don’t last. It makes sense. Necromancy is a fine art, much like playing guitar. You can’t simply grab an old, broken, forgotten instrument from the trash and make it sing. No, you require time to repair it, tune it and make it feel right underneath your fingertips. Just like that, you can’t take a decayed corpse and infuse vital energy and a soul back into it.

And fuck, you definitely can’t do it while running for your life.

A sudden, loud noise forces Goore to duck, rendering them immobile. Their legs tremble, muscles spamming after all the effort. Heaving for air, they pant as their back hits the trunk of an ancient tree. Not too far off, probably near the remnants of the abandoned chapel, the monsters feast and tear the flesh off the undead, their growls echoing into the night.

The smell is always the worst part. Sniffing the air, Goore detects the distant tinge of blood and rain. It’s odd, the sky is clouded but calm, and rain hasn’t fallen in ages. It’s almost as if it is waiting, waiting for something to come, for the hammer to ultimately fall.

The bittersweet stink of Death follows them through the woods and the cemetery. They continue running, escaping in vain. There’s no way they can outrun beasts from Hell, but the rush from this chase fills their body with a thrill.

Yes.

Goore only feels truly alive when he’s about to die.

The path deep in the shadows calls their name. Mary follows it, heavy combat boots crushing the dead leaves. The smell grows more pungent, distinctive, before the glint of a black mask becomes evident in his side vision.

Oh, there she is.

One of them, at least. The other two are apparently still hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce and sink their claws and teeth in skin and muscle tissue. Goore’s boots sink into a mix of mud and leaves, fingers reaching up to remove a few branches off their hair.

Is this it, then?

The Ghoulette’s head tilts to one side by degrees, movement blurry and paused. There’s a loud crackling sound coming from her, a deep growl circling around them. Goore stares, and it resembles the feeling of watching a movie that’s slightly corrupted, all missing frames and delayed noises. In the distance, he hears a final wail, and it’s not hard to sense the last one of their flesh puppets has fallen.

Well, it was fun while it lasted, at least.

“Are we delaying this any further, or…?” They ask, voice vaguely coated with mockery. “Are you supposed to deliver a message?”

No one answers. Those round glasses on the visor glint, mask slowly regaining its original position before tilting to the other side. Mary’s skin shivers when something blows air over the exposed skin of his neck and hell, there is the other one.

Right next to them.

The razor sharp claws dig over their leather jacket, making it creak. The strength is not enough to pierce the thick material, but Goore nevertheless feels the bite. From up close, the glint in the creature’s eyes is almost blinding. Her pupils remain nothing but slits, thin and long, inside the irises. He notices it even through the dark glass.

“No message for you,” a voice says. It comes from within the forest.

Silence grows more deafening in the woods. Not even the bugs dare to disturb it. The only sound comes from their wild, beating heart and from the rush of hot blood, so loud in their ears. “I’m a bit disappointed,” their voice is a growl, a low rumble through gritted teeth. “He could at least curse me, at the end.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll curse you enough.”

Everything goes dark. It’s only a few seconds, a blink it’s all it takes. When Mary opens their eyes again, they are staring right into the clouded sky. The tree tops obscure their vision, leaves falling in slow motion before swirling in the wind. The ground is damp under their back, and something wet trickles down their forehead.

Blood. It tastes like blood when they lick their lips to clean it off. A drumming sound fills his ears, rhythmic and rapid. Mary inhales, snatches a shallow breath before enduring the burning cold of the air. The indistinct murmur of the demons comes from their right, words almost unintelligible.

Fuck. They are awake, but soon it will change. These creatures are hungry for blood and despair, insatiable. Goore fears no death, not anymore, yet the pain stabs their nerves right to the core. Once again, their body grows cold, muscles tense and skin too tight.

“Should we play with it first?”

“Papa said to have fun.”

Mary blinks once, then twice. Each time their eyes open, there’s the same gloomy sky and the tree tops. Their head hangs to one side, body completely limp in the hands of the demons. The stench of blood is extremely pungent, and their clothes are completely soaked in it.

Fuck. The world moves around them in a hazy bliss, almost like a dream they can’t completely wake up from. Midnight has passed long hours ago, and now it’s the devil’s time, the hour for them to rise again and bathe in the perverted lust of gore.

If the glimmering fangs and shiny eyes of a demon it’s the last thing they see, that’s okay. They feel no guilt, no shame. Heart hammering in their ribcage, wild adrenaline pumping along the blood, Goore smiles one last time. They only wonder how long it’ll be until they are reborn in morbidity, just like before.

Until then, they’ll remain as nothing but another bloody corpse, forgotten and buried under an upside-down cross.

“The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, which said: “The kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever.” And the temple of God was opened in heaven, and there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament: and there were lightning, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail.”

“Amore, careful there, please.”

This place… Copia recalls it as if it was yesterday. He had been ordained Papa, there was a party in his honor and he felt overwhelmed, shaken. Imperator urged him to prance around and talk to people, something he dreaded. He hid underground, in his sheltered place away from prying ears and judgmental eyes.

You were beautiful, as always, but even more wonderful that night. Copia feels his throat tighten at the remembrance, caresses the memory inside of his mind with barely the tip of his fingers. He doesn’t want to stain it, doesn’t wish for it to shatter under the weight of his actions.

Oh, how ethereal you looked, how soft your voice was when you asked him to dance with you. He recalls the fragrance of your perfume, the softness of your hair on his cheek when he leaned his face on the top of your head. How gentle your embrace was, that time. How grateful he felt to be alive, to be able to experience all the wonder of your love, the tenderness of your touch.

Tonight, among the same walls, Copia feels like crying. If it’s out of happiness from having you back or pure despair for all these past months, he doesn’t know it.

“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate"

“Careful here too, my dear,” Copia guides you through the door, eyes buried on the ancient inscriptions that sit at the top of the old stone. Your hands are stiff, and your body moves practically in slow motion, not quite following the same rhythm you used to have.

It’s okay, he understands how tired you must be, how much your muscles and heart ache. Copia’s fingers scarcely trace over your wrists and back of the hands, supporting you as if you were about to break into a thousand pieces with the slight pressure.

Oh, how careful he is, how attentive. He shushes softly, whispering sweet nothings into the air as he escorts you through the place. The black blindfold blocks your sight, but your head follows the sound of his voice and he can almost picture the adoring look in your pupils, the gentleness of your gaze.

If the blindfold is there to shield you from overstimulation or to protect himself from the hate it might fill your stare, he doesn’t recognize it either.

It doesn’t matter. Copia stops in the middle of the ample room, next to the old fountain. His arms embrace you, and you melt into his hold. Copia’s heart stops, restarts at a measured pace, both heavy and pained. You melt into him, between his arms, as if you have never belonged anywhere else.

Silently, he accepts it. Stiff and frightened, his breath hitches when your hand raises, slow as if someone was gradually pulling from the strings that hold you together.

When your nails hardly caress one strand of his hair, Copia feels like crying again. No, not crying. Breaking down, sobbing, wailing, screaming into the night. He's tired, so fatigued and wounded, but your touch is so affectionate, lovingly. It feels like a dream. Even if it's nothing but muscle memory, you cling onto him just like you did that night, so many years ago.

The world seemed so small back then.

Copia allows you to card your fingers through his hair like a young boy tasting love for the first time. To the entire world, he might be the terrible and ruthless Papa Emeritus the IV, a merciless murderer, but not to you. To you, he’s sentimental and vulnerable, nothing but an enamored fool.

Not a single sound breaks the calming silence. Standing in the middle of the room, he looks at you with full attention for the first time in forever. You have become a strange and beautiful companion, skin still ghastly but slowly recovering a glimpse of life. Immobile, your face bears a languid expression and your breathing is so fast your chest rises and falls with a tumultuous respiration.

Copia wants to soothe you, to give you the whole world if you desire so. “I’ll ask you something, just like what you asked that night after I became Papa," he whispers, instead. "Can I be the first person to dance with you, now that you have returned to me? ”

There’s no reply. No verbal, at least. Unhurriedly, your arm lifts up in his direction, extended hand hanging in the air that separates both of you. Copia's mouth remains agape, eyes wide open. If you are a serpent of temptation, the snake offering him the apple of sin, then he’s Eve’s trembling hand blindly reaching for you.

He takes it and knows there’s no turning back. Your hands are cold, but he can’t let go. No, there’s no moment to let go. He’s been calling for you for so long, just like he’d call forever. Copia’s face falls on your shoulders, lips trembling as he presses a light kiss over the soft material of your clothes. He chokes on the whimpers his mouth refuses to let out, eyes closing and brows furrowing. His lids stay pressed tight, lashes coating in tears.

A hand on your waist and another holding your wrist, Copia begins to move slowly. It’s like that first time he danced with you, soon after the release of Prequelle. He was incredibly nervous back then, so scared of you. A part of him feels the same now, nothing but old Cardinal Copia clinging to an unknown Sibling of Sin, wishing for the night to never end.

The air is frozen inside his lungs when your hand moves to his shoulder. Most of your body is still limp, so Copia holds close, guiding you around the place. Eyes closed, he bears most of your weight, experiencing the renewed ardor of a lover. His breath hitches when your cold lips travel along his cheek in the resemblance of a kiss.

Oh, no. He feels like sobbing again, lower lip quivering as he murmurs on your habits. “You are mine,” he declares, placing another kiss. “You and I are one forever.”

Underground, hiding from a world on fire, Copia has never felt more at peace. He is awake in your coiling spirit, illuminated in blood and fire.

It's natural for his hands to tighten on your body. The dancing becomes faster, flowing on the old marble floor. Copia senses how your fingers slowly curl on his clothes too, feet barely gaining a bit more of traction. He hums a song, the same song you hummed for him that time, the same one he used to sing to you on long nights before sleeping to help you relax, or after interminable nights of loving you under the moonlight.

The melody is carried by the air and resonates on the walls before getting lost in the long halls. There’s no one else there, no ghouls or demons, no Satan or human that could ever interrupt this moment. Forever, he’ll dance with you forever, cling to you forever, be with you forever…

There’s a sting in the way your lips graze over his cheek again, barely brushing his own when his head turns around. The bells chime in the distance, coming from a now forgotten chapel. If this is the last time before the end, he just wants to be with you all night.

Below the surface, locked in a loving embrace and following the faint melody of his humming, you two waltz in circles.

“Copia?" You call. There's something wrong, because the sound seems to be coming from far away, anywhere but your vocal cords. It's too rough, full of static.

Throat dry, Copia struggles to find his own voice too. The anguish claws at his neck, but it doesn't matter. You don't give him time to answer anyway.

"I think it’s going to rain soon.”

Those words. He remembers them. Those words haunted him for days and night. You told him that, the night you confessed to him how scared you were for his safety, how much you feared for yourself too. Oh, he should have heed your words, should have listened to you.

No, instead he disregarded your worries, ignored your warning. He won't do that, never again.

"Yes, amore," he mutters, this time. "The wind has changed."

The silence falls upon both of you, once again. He doesn't mind it. It’s okay. No one will hurt you again. No one will bring you any harm. Copia will make sure of it. There’s no one else who could oppose him or challenge him.

No.

He’s God now.

Outside, the first drops of rain hit the ground. Soon, it hails.

“The lawless one opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God …”

2 Thessalonians 2:3–12

The end.

BONUS CHAPTER

#ghost band #ghost band fanfiction #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus iv x reader #cardinal copia x reader #evil cardinal copia #antichrist copia #ghost band angst #my writing #my fics #you forever fic

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yanderes-galore · 2 months

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Can I get a concept for Myrrah from Gears Of War please??

OMG! Finally, It's Myrrah content time >:)

Yandere! Queen Myrrah Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Possessive behavior, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Human pet mention, Slight sadism, Violence, Murder, Isolation, Blood, Forced companionship/relationship.

There are two ways I typically think Myrrah could be written as a yandere.

If she is a platonic yandere, I imagine she'd take you in as some sort of heir.

Due to her "losing her daughter" she may see a young human like you as a replacement, despite her hatred of humans.

She thinks she'll teach you right and purify you of all those human lies.

If she's a romantic yandere I imagine she abducts you with a group of other humans, intending to make you an experiment.

However, upon seeing the prisoners, she decides she'd much rather have you as a human pet.

Her obsession would then continue from there.

Myrrah has an evident hatred towards humans due to them taking the surface and her experiences growing up in a lab.

She herself is technically human... but she considers herself Locust and is superior to any human in her mind.

Despite her intentions you meet her nearly the same way.

You come down to The Hollow as a human prisoner, only for Myrrah to become attached to you in one way or another.

In a way she feels she's probably saving you from being corrupted by humanity.

She plans to keep you to herself and is willing to remove any human or Locust who steps out of line.

I would expect Myrrah to be highly manipulative and possessive over you.

No human but you (and her) ever get in her palace in The Hollow.

Plus tons of heavily armored Locust swarm the palace.

Safe to say the moment Myrrah takes you in, there's not getting back to the surface.

In fact, it was either siding with her or your death.

Myrrah considers this mercy, but really there was no good choice for you.

Since this is a general concept I will try to keep Myrrah's actions towards you ambiguous.

You are heavily protected since you are so important to The Queen.

Locust guards are always appointed around you and they make sure you rarely leave the palace.

Myrrah's goal is to remove humans to have you and her people safe and away from Imulsion.

The Lambent epidemic is a huge concern for her, especially when she thinks she can easily lose you to it.

She may be immune, but you and her people are not.

This is another reason she refuses to have you leave.

Myrrah acts condescending at times, but you mean a ton to her.

She'll act like she's above you (she is) before becoming softer and embracing you.

Myrrah is able to telepathically order Locusts around.

She'd tell them how much you mean to her and how they should treat you like you are an extension of their queen.

No harm should ever come to you.

In response I feel some Locust, at least the Generals and High ranking ones, have a feeling of attachment to you too.

Caring for you is like caring for their queen.

Caring for you will make their queen happy.

Which means you'll have Locust like RAAM or Skorge around you, eagerly trying to attend to you as Myrrah orders.

Armored Kantus and Palace Guards are the most common Locust type to watch over you for Myrrah.

Myrrah is capable of being affectionate at times.

She primarily shows she cares through words of praise and affirmation, occasionally throwing in some sort of name she calls you.

However she may seat you on her lap or hold you close.

A kiss on the forehead if platonic, a kiss on the lips if romantic.

Stuff like that.

Myrrah is ruthless when it comes to others around you.

If the COG ever storm her palace and try to harm you, she'll have them killed.

If a Locust gets too comfortable around you, she has them sent off or even executed.

Wronging you is wronging her, an offense punishable by death.

Myrrah takes her obsession very seriously.

After all, it is a great honor to be one of the only humans she tolerates.

Even Adam Fenix disappointed her... you won't do the same, she knows it.

Myrrah doesn't care how much blood is spilled to keep you.

As a queen she's claimed you and expects you obedience, she even feels she's entitled to you.

I wouldn't necessarily call her all that jealous, but her patience certainly begins to wane the longer someone she doesn't like is around you.

She knows she may have kidnapped you and forced her to live in The Hollow...

But hopefully you won't have to much longer.

She'll find a way to eradicate humanity and move you all to the surface, then you can see the sun again and be free from the possibility of turning Lambent.

She's doing you a favor by removing you from the vermin, you should be grateful she's picked you.

#yandere gears of war #yandere queen myrrah #yandere locust horde #yandere gears swarm #yandere gears

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the-aila-test · 1 year

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I'm working on a library display for Native American Heritage month at work and wanted to ask you this: do you have any recs for books that pass the Aila Test? I'd love to showcase them (if we have any).

I will post this publicly so if anybody has any recommendations they can shoot them your way.

For those who are unaware of the rules of the Ali Nahdee Test, here they are:

As for my recommendations for books:

You can't go wrong with Rebecca Roanhorse's Trail of Lightning and Storm of Locusts. Her main character is a Navajo monster hunter and kicks so much ass.

Elatsoe by Darcie Little Badger is excellent. Urban fantasy, very cute.

The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline has one character who passes The Ali Nahdee Test. The rest of the female characters sadly do not. The book is still excellent.

If anybody has any other recommendations, please share.

#ali nahdee test #native literature #native books #native american #indigenous #ndn

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first-edition-dumpster-fire · 2 years

Text

Guess who’s back? Back again! Anddddddd posting for the second time in a day. Wow, I guess there is a first time for everything.

Anyway, on to what y’all are actually here for......

My Classic Monster Headcanons for the Casper Crew + Finn

Bruce Yamada

-he’d most definitely be a werewolf, like full-on 1985 Teen Wolf over here

-he’d try to keep it secret bc of his family, but the other Grabbed and Gwen would all know relatively quickly

-if he were to suddenly become a werewolf - whether that be bitten or activated over time - there wouldn’t be much of an adjustment period, he’d accept being a werewolf pretty quickly

-true to most canine fashion, he’s very good with people, which is why he’s so popular and well-liked

-there are dark sides to every coin tho, he can be very passive aggressive on his time of the month and his heats are no joke. It’s just better to steer clear of him until his head is on straight and he’s more sociable. Doesn’t matter if you’re friend, family, lover, or foe; Bruce is just very angry and aggressive during the full moon

Robin Arellano

-may be a shock to some, but Robin is a zombie

-he may be the toughest kid in school, but he honestly doesn’t look it at all, he looks totally unassuming to strangers

-like Bruce, he’d take to being a zombie pretty quickly and almost seamlessly, he likes how it makes it easier for him to think and the energy he gets from it

-most assume that zombies are slow and sluggish, and while he isn’t the best at math, the rest couldn’t be less true

-on the other hand, his craving for raw meat is pretty inconvenient in fights. And the only thing that he misses about being human is sleeping. For him, sleep was the only real way for him to relax and let his tough guy persona rest; he can’t do that anymore and it frustrates him. Speaking of, try not to frustrate him, if you thought he was bad before in his fights, the lack of exhaustion and need for a break makes him even more fearsome and relentless in fights

Billy “Paperboy” Showalter

-coincidentally, or not, Paperboy would be a mummy

-Paperboy does not take to being a mummy well at all, actively hates on it for a good while, and does his best to keep it a secret from everyone

-luckily, or unluckily, for him, he has all of eternity to get used to it

-he does enjoy the invulnerability, and some of the powers he gets, but he absolutely loathes the random piles of sand he finds in his room or on his person

-no one knows if it’s intentional or not - though the Grabbed and Gwen have their suspicions - but sometimes Paperboy getting what he wants goes too far. Almost as if he doesn’t care about others and their free will. In the cases where he doesn’t get his way, it is infinitely worse for other people around him. Swarms of locusts buzz and bite his classmates. sand finds its way into carpets, hair, food, and in bodies. Blood infects and dilutes the town water supply when Paperboy is angry. And no one knows for sure how it happens

Griffin Stagg

-not that much different than a ghost, Griffin is a poltergeist

-he may not have a large impact physically, but you can be damn sure the world feels it when he’s near

-he doesn’t really seem to have much of a reaction to his new circumstances, he kind of likes to just roll with the punches

-it doesn’t really matter if he tried to keep it a secret, he doesn’t have anyone to tell it to besides the Grabbed

-out of all of the Grabbed, Griffin has the most trouble controlling his abilities - even worse than Paperboy, supposedly - and he doesn’t know why. The only real ability that he has no trouble with is entering the spirit dimension. Sometimes he has dark thoughts about being there, he feels like he belongs there, alone, and always has. On his darker days, you should expect rain storms, inanimate objects moving around, random tragedies, and all around mayhem. It’s not Griffin’s fault, he honestly can’t help it. Right?

Vance Hopper

-vance would be Frankenstein, you all know it

-over-aggressive over little things, violent when provoked, and gets an unnecessarily bad rep

-he hates being Frankenstein actively, despite getting used to his situation the quickest, everyone knows and god help you if you remind him; he’ll go from 0-100 alarmingly quickly

-hates looking into mirrors, pictures, and changing his clothes, he hates any reminder of what happened to him, people already considered him a violent, monstrous freak before. Now he just looked the part

-vance’s temper is off the charts as a re-animated being. He was no where near as volatile before, but now, every simple thing sets him off. Especially fire, or his own reflection. Vance likes being left alone, likes being comfortable in his surroundings. Now, he’s not even comfortable in his own skin, mostly bc its not even his for the most part. The worst part is, he’ll suffer forever, his strength and durability will be his greatest weakness, and make him the biggest threat

Finn Blake

-last but not least, finney would be a vampire

-not exactly Nosferatu, but pretty damn terrifying when the situation calls for it, as we’ve seen

-never truly gets used to being a vampire, and a large part of him will always partially miss being human, but he does enjoy being a vampire

-finney likes that he no longer has to be afraid of bullies bc he’s strong enough to best them, and fast enough to run away if he wanted to, its actually bc of this that people find out about him relatively quickly. Cmon, everyone is gonna notice when the school’s resident punching bag/loser suddenly kicks ass

-still, as kind and demure as Finn might seem, he’s still a deadly and bloodthirsty creature of the night. It’s not his fault he gets hungry. He didn’t choose to become a vampire. Honestly, if the entire town knows of his peculiar...proclivities, you’d think they’d know better than to go out at night. Where Finn is lurking, hungry and waiting. Plus, he’s not exactly good at controlling his strength or speed, so if he accidentally broke Moose’s jaw that one time, he didn’t mean to. It was an accident, after all

Thank you for all the likes, reblogs and follows, guys! This is the most encouragement and love I’ve ever seen for any of my works and it makes me proud and happy with my abilities as a writer and a fan. Of course, I wouldn’t be in this position if not for the attention given to me by the readers of Tumblr. So ask away! Any ideas, recommendations, or suggestions are both welcomed and encouraged. Well, I’ve still got a lot more ideas, so I’d better get to writing for y’all! Bye-bye!

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mymiraclebox · 11 months

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The Kwamis

Alpha Kwamis: Vitaa the Panda of Life Shii the Crow of Death Tikki the Ladybug of Creation Plagg the Black Cat of Destruction Graay the Wolf of Order Prrysm the Platypus of Chaos Stellar the Firefly of Space Koree the Raccoon of Void

Elemental Kwamis: Swaar the Dinosaur of Gravity Longg the Dragon of Storm Tonna the Feathered Serpent of Earth Zeffyr the Griffin of Air Duskk the Grim of Darkness Nokk the Kelpie of Water Emburr the Phoenix of Fire Matto the Pterosaur of Aether Kirrin the Qilin of Light Kiikaa the Thunderbird of Electricity Uunice the Unicorn of Magic Ziima the Yeti of Glaciation

Timekeeper Kwamis: Antiqq the Aurochs of Reversion Shaash the Bear of Preservation Sass the Cobra of Opportunity Zipp the Dragonfly of Progression Allta the Frog of Change Keena the Lynx of Intuition Frostt the Penguin of Stagnation Fluff the Rabbit of Evolution Apple the Red Panda of Lineage Passtel the Snail of Patience Faae the Spider of Destiny Mataara the Tuatara of History

Delta Kwamis: Harmonee the Ant of Cooperation Sannar the Axolotl of Restoration Fangg the Bat of Fatigue Chaapa the Beaver of Innovation Pollen the Bee of Subjection Maggi the Binturong of Magnetism Yanna the Bison of Victory Blancca the Blackbuck of Inversion Nooroo the Butterfly of Generosity Duune the Camel of Perspective Milli the Chameleon of Emotion Purr the Cheetah of Agility Reef the Coral of Sensitivity Dess the Cougar of Apathy Remmi the Coyote of Despair Snapp the Crab of Adaptation Llucie the Crocodile of Clarity Fawnna the Deer of Wilderness Barkk the Dog of Detection Clikk the Dolphin of Sound Olivv the Dove of Peace Liiri the Eagle of Freedom Tuskk the Elephant of Memories Florra the Elk of Growth Sorren the Falcon of Observation Flowwe the Flamingo of Rhythm Trixx the Fox of Deception Elle the Gecko of Equality Parra the Giraffe of Confusion Ziggy the Goat of Imagination Karrma the Goose of Justice Verr the Gorilla of Sacrifice Spikke the Hedgehog of Precision Taamus the Hippopotamus of Density Kaalki the Horse of Migration Ravenna the Hyena of Scarcity Gloss the Ibex of Friction Niisha the Jackal of Connections Belaa the Jaguar of Imperception Jellos the Jellyfish of Hatred Kicc the Kangaroo of Avarice Vexx the Komodo Dragon of Corrosion Valoree the Lion of Courage Donna the Llama of Attention Vollee the Locust of Invasion Xuppu the Monkey of Derision Allces the Moose of Evocation Duux the Moth of Hope Baash the Mouflon of Strength Mullo the Mouse of Abundance Currio the Narwhal of Wonder Attlantis the Octopus of Choice Jiicho the Okapi of Perspective Fleet the Ostrich of Guidance Ziibi the Otter of Transformation Tyyto the Owl of Secrets Stompp the Ox of Determination Lynn the Pangolin of Boundary Ecco the Parrot of Language Duusu the Peacock of Psyche Daizzi the Pig of Love Glaace the Polar Bear of Endurance Anjjel the Quail of Mercy Habuu the Rattlesnake of Beauty Ommen the Raven of Probability Mannta the Ray of Immersion Kaanda the Rhinoceros of Augmentation Orikko the Rooster of Vitality Finn the Salmon of Navigation Aynna the Scarab of Reflection Verriti the Scorpion of Truth Daante the Seahorse of Intimidation Misst the Seal of Elusion Flairr the Secretarybird of Passion Poppy the Shark of Joy Yuume the Sheep of Dreams Frijj the Snow Leopard of Silence Tinni the Squirrel of Diminution Twwist the Stoat of Elasticity Prrince the Swan of Loyalty Acce the Thylacine of Isolation Roaar the Tiger of Force Scuut the Tortoise of Knowledge Wayzz the Turtle of Protection Teer the Vulture of Sorrow Sotaa the Wolverine of Conflict Drill the Woodpecker of Dimension Divvi the Zebra of Duality

#20 canon plus 100 ocs #kwamis #kwami oc #kwami #oc kwami #plagg #tikki #updated list of everyone #hopefully its the last xD

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istumpysk · 8 months

Text

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Daario Naharis = Euron Greyjoy

[Daario Naharis and Euron Greyjoy are the same person.]

TIER:

A Joke: These theories are an absolute joke; anyone who believes them is a fool.

[Tier list overview.]

EVIDENCE:

Fine, I suppose we'll do this.

Both Daario and Euron are similarly attractive with blue eyes, beards, and smooth, fair skin.

The Tyroshi was fair where Ser Jorah was swarthy; lithe where the knight was brawny; graced with flowing locks where the other was balding, yet smooth-skinned where Mormont was hairy. [...] His beard was cut into three prongs and dyed blue, the same color as his eyes and the curly hair that fell to his collar. His pointed mustachios were painted gold. - Daenerys IV, ASOS

Euron was the most comely of Lord Quellon's sons, and three years of exile had not changed that. His hair was still black as a midnight sea, with never a whitecap to be seen, and his face was still smooth and pale beneath his neat dark beard. A black leather patch covered Euron's left eye, but his right was blue as a summer sky. - The Iron Captain, AFFC

Both Daario and Euron exhibit grandiosity, mockery, and a violent, bloodthirsty, brutal, and dangerous nature.

Dany was appalled. He is a monster. A gallant monster, but a monster still. "Do you take me for the Butcher King?" "Better the butcher than the meat. All kings are butchers. Are queens so different?" - Daenerys IV, ADWD

"Just so," said Euron, "and for that sin I kill them all. I spill their blood upon the sea and sow their screaming women with my seed. Their little gods cannot stop me, so plainly they are false gods. I am more devout than even you, Aeron. Perhaps it should be you who kneels to me for blessing." - The Iron Captain, AFFC

Daario commands the Stormcrows, while Euron, known as Crow's Eye, is often likened to a storm.

"Khaleesi," he cried, "I bring gifts and glad tidings. The Stormcrows are yours." A golden tooth gleamed in his mouth when he smiled. "And so is Daario Naharis!" - Daenerys IV, ASOS

I have seen the storm, and its name is Euron Crow's Eye. - The Prophet, AFFC

Daario is frequently absent in Meereen, while Euron's location was unknown during Daenerys' initial conquests in Slaver's Bay.

The most crucial task of all she had entrusted to Daario Naharis, glib-tongued Daario with his gold tooth and trident beard, smiling his wicked smile through purple whiskers. Beyond the eastern hills was a range of rounded sandstone mountains, the Khyzai Pass, and Lhazar. If Daario could convince the Lhazarene to reopen the overland trade routes, grains could be brought down the river or over the hills at need … - Daenerys I, ADWD

"I want them gone. Let them scout the Yunkish hinterlands and give protection to any caravans coming over the Khyzai Pass. Henceforth Daario shall make his reports to you. Give him every honor that is due him and see that his men are well paid, but on no account admit him to my presence." - Daenerys IV, ADWD

Only Daario had been given to the Yunkai'i, a hostage to ensure no harm came to the Yunkish captains. - Daenerys X, ADWD

Asha slid her dirk out of its sheath and began to clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails. "Three years away, and the Crow's Eye returns the very day my father dies." - The Kraken's Daughter, AFFC

Daario gained considerable loot from the sack of Yunkai, while Euron had significant spoils for the Kingsmoot.

Daario had plundered himself a whole new wardrobe in Meereen, and to match it he had redyed his trident beard and curly hair a deep rich purple. - Daenerys VI, ASOS

The mutes and mongrels from the Silence threw open Euron's chests and spilled out his gifts before the captains and the kings. Then it was Hotho Harlaw the priest heard, as he filled his hands with gold. - The Drowned Man, AFFC

Daenerys is infatuated with Daario, while Euron is certain he will wed her.

Her love for Daario is poison. A slower poison than the locusts, but in the end as deadly. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

"[...] No, to make an heir that's worthy of him, I need a different woman. When the kraken weds the dragon, brother, let all the world beware." - The Reaver, AFFC

Daario hails from Tyrosh, while Euron disguised Ironborn as Tyroshi.

"It grieves me that honest men must suffer such discourtesy, but sooner that than ironmen in Oldtown. Only a fortnight ago some of those bloody bastards captured a Tyroshi merchantman in the straits. They killed her crew, donned their clothes, and used the dyes they found to color their whiskers half a hundred colors. Once inside the walls they meant to set the port ablaze and open a gate from within whilst we fought the fire. Might have worked, but they ran afoul of the Lady of the Tower, and her oarsmaster has a Tyroshi wife. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh, and not one of them had the words to hail him back." - Samwell V, AFFC

Euron is thought to use warlock magic to control the winds for faster sailing, which, according to many, might allow him to travel at the speed of light.

"Do I command the winds?" the Crow's Eye asked his pets. "No, Your Grace," said Orkwood of Orkmont. "No man commands the winds," said Germund Botley. "Would that you did," the Red Oarsman said. "You would sail wherever you liked and never be becalmed." - The Iron Captain, AFFC

The wind was at their backs, as it had been all the way down from Old Wyk. It was whispered about the fleet that Euron's wizards had much and more to do with that, that the Crow's Eye appeased the Storm God with blood sacrifice. How else would he have dared sail so far to the west, instead of following the shoreline as was the custom? - The Reaver, AFFC

Compelling stuff.

Other things to consider:

Both Daario and Euron are primarily attracted to Daenerys for her power and dragons.

Daario has no family, friends, or known history.

Daario's gold tooth could be artificial, while Euron's blue lips might be temporary.

Daenerys experiences multiple visions and warnings about Euron, including those in the House of the Undying and from Quaithe. She and others also see Daario as a detrimental influence.

If Euron is so set on acquiring dragons, why would he be preoccupied with the Shield Islands and the Arbor instead of focusing on Daenerys and Slaver's Bay? Shouldn't he be in Meereen?

Some speculate that Euron has warging abilities, eliminating the need for him to physically sail back and forth between Slaver's Bay and Westeros.

Apparently George R. R. Martin once hinted that Daario is more complex than he initially seems.

COUNTER-EVIDENCE:

It defies the laws of physics?

Are parts of this fandom seriously not familiar with the concept of parallel characters?

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

Kudos to those who've noticed the intentional similarities between these two characters, even if no one is asking what that implies about Daenerys.

That said, if you genuinely believe this theory, you're officially ...

a bozo.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective — I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.

NEXT THEORY:

The miller's boys were Theon's sons.

#operation iceberg #asoiaf theory tier list #theory 3 #daario = euron

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beardedmrbean · 4 months

Text

PHILADELPHIA – In the City of Brotherly Love, Gemma Levy sometimes doesn’t feel safe.

Levy decided to attend the University of Pennsylvania partly because of its long history of tolerance toward Jewish students like her. But with recent events – pro-Palestinian protests, antisemitic chants, university President Liz Magill’s perplexing remarks about genocide and her subsequent resignation – the campus hasn’t seemed all that tolerant.

“I’ve felt super unsafe at times,” Levy, a freshman cognitive science major from Brooklyn, said while hurrying to class along the tree-lined Locust Walk in the oldest part of the campus. “It’s a weird experience to feel that way.”

It’s an unsettling experience for the city, too.

Philadelphia, known as the birthplace of the United States, is where the Founding Fathers met and debated the future of the new country. Founded on the principles of religious freedom, it’s home to one of the largest Jewish populations in the country.

The University of Pennsylvania, founded primarily by Benjamin Franklin and now regarded as one of the nation’s premier schools of higher learning, kept its doors open to Jewish students when Harvard and other Ivy League colleges implemented quotas and other measures to limit their enrollment or keep them out altogether.

Today, though, Philadelphia and the university are at the epicenter of the clash over free speech and antisemitism, the Israel-Hamas war and the right to feel safe and secure.

How did that happen? In Philadelphia of all places?

“We’re a microcosm of society,” said Michael Balaban, president and chief executive officer of the Jewish Federation of Greater Philadelphia.

Antisemitism is a virus that mutates over time and is easily spread through the prevalence of social media, Balaban said.

“We see it online in vicious ways every single second of the day,” he said.

'Vile, antisemitic messages'

Antisemitism in Philadelphia has turned up online, on campus and in the streets.

In November, the university responded to what it described as “vile, antisemitic messages” threatening violence against the Jewish community. Antisemitic emails were sent to a number of staffers, and antisemitic language was projected onto several campus buildings. The school said it planned to increase security across the campus, including at Penn Hillel, a Jewish student organization.

A month later, an off-campus protest by pro-Palestinian demonstrators was widely condemned for targeting the Jewish-owned falafel restaurant Goldie. Video posted on social media showed a large crowd gathered outside the restaurant, chanting: “Goldie, Goldie, you can’t hide. We charge you with genocide.”

The Philadelphia Inquirer reported that the restaurant was singled out because its owner, Philadelphia-based Israeli chef Michael Solomonov, had raised over $100,000 for an Israeli nonprofit that provided emergency relief services to Israeli Defense Forces soldiers after Hamas’ attack on Israel on Oct. 7.

Regardless, the White House, Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro and others condemned the protesters’ actions, calling them antisemitic and reminiscent of a dark time in history.

Then came Magill’s downfall.

Magill and the presidents of two other elite universities – Claudine Gay of Harvard and Sally Kornbluth of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology – already had been under scrutiny over how their institutions had responded to a rise in antisemitism on their campuses when they agreed to testify last week before a GOP-led House congressional panel.

Lawmakers lobbed a series of tough questions at the three college leaders, who hedged when Rep. Elise Stefanik, R-N.Y., asked whether calls for the genocide of Jews violated their schools’ code of conduct against bullying and harassment.

Appearing to sense a trap, Magill and the other two presidents gave carefully worded responses that sounded scripted and lawyerly but failed to directly answer the question. In one exchange, Magill called those decisions “context-dependent” but conceded that calls for genocide could be considered harassment “if the speech turns into conduct.”

The backlash was fast and brutal. To some, the presidents’ responses raised questions about whether the schools would adequately protect Jewish students. The White House condemned their answers, donors threatened to withhold millions of dollars, and the House committee announced an investigation into the universities' policies and disciplinary procedures.

Magill tried to walk back her comments, but the damage was done. She resigned last Saturday but will remain at the university as a tenured law professor. Scott Bok, chairman of the university’s board of trustees, also stepped down.

Julie Platt, the trustees’ interim chair, declined requests for an interview but said in a statement after Magill’s resignation that a leadership change at the university was “necessary and appropriate.”

While Penn has made strides in addressing the rise of antisemitism on campus, “we have not made all of the progress that we should have and intend to accomplish,” she said.

Magill, who had been president for just a little over a year, was already on shaky ground even before her testimony. She had come under fire in September over a Palestinian Writers’ Festival that was held at the university and drew criticism for including speakers who have been accused of antisemitism. Magill and others had raised concerns about the program but did not stop it, citing support for “the free exchange of ideas” – even those that are controversial and “incompatible with our institutional values.”

Last week, a pair of Jewish students sued the university, claiming it has become a lab for "virulent anti-Jewish hatred, harassment and discrimination."

Author Jerome Karabel, who has written about the history of exclusion at Ivy League schools, said it is ironic that Penn is facing charges that it hasn’t done enough to quell antisemitism on campus. At some point, all of the other Ivy League schools tried to limit Jewish enrollment. Penn never had any such limitations, he said.

“You could argue that Penn, historically, has been the friendliest of the Ivy League schools for Jewish students,” Karabel said.

'An inclusive and welcoming community for all students'

On campus, there were few outward signs of turmoil this week. With final exams under way, students hurried to class on a cold, blustery late-fall morning. Stickers and fliers supporting the Palestinian people and urging a cease-fire in the Israel-Hamas war were posted on billboards and along walkways and pedestrian bridges.

At Houston Hall, which the university says is the oldest student union in the country, a small group of students has been staging a sit-in since mid-November to show support for the Palestinians. Early one afternoon this week, protesters nestled in big chairs and slept under sheets on cushions. Others painted posters and fliers listing their demands: A cease-fire in the Gaza Strip. The protection of freedom of speech on campus. “Critical thought” on the subject of Palestine. A place for Palestinian studies.

“Nobody here is calling for the genocide of Jews,” insisted Clancy Murray, who is working on a Ph.D. in political science.

Murray said several Jewish students have joined the sit-in but acknowledged that some feel unsafe in the current environment. Some Palestinian students on campus aren’t comfortable being visible either, Murray said, because of threats and the possibility of doxing, harassment and even violence and hate crimes.

As for Magill’s departure, Murray said it’s concerning “that she was driven out” and that “there are a handful of donors who are empowered to dictate what is and what is not acceptable speech on campus.”

David Donovan, who was on his way to his daughter’s graduation from Penn’s nursing school, said emotions surrounding the Israel-Hamas war are charging tensions on campus like never before.

“We are more sensitive to the feelings of other people, and that’s a net positive, I believe,” said Donovan, a history teacher from Morristown, N.J.

When it comes to deciding what constitutes free speech vs. hate speech, Donovan said, “we still have to be very apprehensive and think very carefully that our positions are backed by reason.”

“We need to err on the side of free speech,” Donovan added, acknowledging, “That’s an easy thing for me to believe as a straight, white man.”

The community at large is also grappling with issues of free speech. Some Jewish families are rethinking outward expressions of Judaism, Balaban said.

At his home in the Wynnewood suburb, Balaban flies both the Israeli and American flags in the front of his house and displays a menorah in the window. Before, “that would never have been a question in my mind to do it or not to do it,” he said. But with everything that has happened, “in my household, the question was, ‘Are we OK doing this?’” he said.

“Of course, the answer is, yes, we're going to,” Balaban said. “But did we worry that someone may do something? The answer is yes. I think we will always display an Israeli flag with pride. We will always display symbols of our Judaism. But there was a pause of what does that mean.”

'We will come through this difficult moment'

So what's next? How do the community and the university heal after the trauma of the past few months?

"This is a strong community built on a sturdy foundation. We will come through this difficult moment," the university promised in an email message to students this week.

The university pledged to redouble its commitment to ensuring that Penn is a place where “intellectual growth is cultivated” and students are “supported as a person.”

“Initiatives recently launched to address bigotry and hatred on our campus will continue, and this will be an inclusive and welcoming community for all students,” the message said.

Levy urged school administrators to be more proactive and less reactive.

“I hope,” she said, “instead of being on the defensive and apologizing after things happen, they’ll take steps to actually stop these incidents in the first place.”

#nunyas news

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saulocept · 1 year

Text

always & forever

pairing: ethan winters/reader

rating: m

summary: Tomorrow, he’ll have another chance, and he’ll do it better, play his cards right. And if he doesn’t succeed, then he’ll try again, over and over until he gets it right. Until you’re his, always and forever.

notes: obv ethan’s the best dad (tm) but also its interesting to imagine him as a very devoted, very obsessed husband (which is what im doing rn actually)

warnings: yandere! ethan, implied drugging. nothing explicit but uh. be careful out there folks

It’s routine now at this point, a muscle memory. He can’t remember a life before this – a life where he doesn’t wake early in the morning, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for the sword to fall. (It does. He knows it always will.)

In truth, he misses the days when everything’s alright, a dream come true, a fairytale come to life, with none of the complications that come with it. He misses the days when he’d wake up just beside you, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, that slow, sluggish way your eyes would flutter open, your gaze immediately zeroing in on him like he’s the only one you could see. How you’d smile at him, all sleepy and innocent, leaning in to give him a kiss, and pleading if, just this once, he could stay a little longer, spend more time with you?

Those were the days, the happy ever after of his life. Everything after that is a nightmare, a curse – a burden he wishes he doesn’t have to carry. Something he’d rather forget but can’t. He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, pushes the thought down. He’s not the one who ruined it, after all.

It’s you. It was all you.

Curiosity kills the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. It’s that curiosity that’s driven you away from him, shattering whatever happy ending he’d worked so hard on. He ought to be angry, he knows, and some days, he feels that rage washing over him like a tide, recognizing his need for violence like an old friend.

But he pushes the thought away at the last moment, shaking his head, ignoring the thought. He can’t bring himself to hurt you, or punish you, even if you’re the one at fault. No, he loves you too much to even think about it, and he would sooner die than succumb to whatever feelings are stirring inside him, messing with his head.

He can be patient. He’d done it all before once, when he’s still trying to win you over, make you his. He can do it again. He’s nothing if not persistent, and he can still take it back, get it right, the way it was before, the way it’s meant to be, always and forever. You’ll just have to wait and see.

It’s nothing new this morning. He sits on the edge of the bed, quiet as he waits. You should be waking up now, like the princess from the fairy tales after a kiss from her one true love. Except, there’s no kiss, only the heavy silence that comes with too much waiting.

Still, he yearns for it: the feel of your mouth touching his, how you’d instinctively lean in for more, whimpering against his lips as if you can’t get enough. But those were the days, he knows – those were the days he’s still trying to get back, return to. And he can’t get distracted.

Your eyes flutter open, gentle as the beat of a locust’s wing, and he watches, waits, wonders what’s coming next. Your gaze narrows, squinting from the piercing sunlight. He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to hide a smile. The sight of you like this, so sleepy and sweet, feels almost like a reprieve. The calm before the storm.

But a moment’s only a moment, and he can’t linger in it any longer. He squares his shoulders, stares at you, still waiting for the sword to fall, for the atmosphere to break. There’s a tiny hope somewhere inside his chest, a little voice at the back of his head wondering if today’s going to be the day, the one he’s been waiting for all this time, where everything’s the way it was, the way it’s supposed to be. If he’ll even get his happy ever after back.

These moments always feel like forever. He feels tense, heavy, half-hopeful, half-afraid. It wouldn’t take long for you to notice him now, and he holds his breath for as long as he can, waits for your eyes to meet his.

He misses the recognition in your gaze, the adoration. Once upon a time, you would’ve called his name with such sweetness he’d melt right then and there, swearing to himself that he’d do anything you ever ask, no matter how difficult, troublesome.

But it’s different now. He has to be cautious, careful lest he ruins it all. He has to watch you the whole time, calculate your every move, read your silences as if it’d somehow give him the answer he needs. It’s what he does now, never once glancing away as he takes note of your movements: that slow way you sit on the bed, lazy instead of careful, that sudden turn of your head the moment you catch sight of his form.

You blink a few times, still staring. It takes a second for your confusion to settle in, slowly simmering into something more familiar, something he recognizes all too quickly – fear, and just beneath it all: dread.

You turn your head away, look around you, trying to find some familiarity that’ll ground you down, give you some answers. He knows quickly what you’ll find: nothing. He’d made sure of that yesterday, and then the night before.

Disappointment stirs in his gut, swirls slow and steady in his stomach. He sees the question in your eyes long before you could open your mouth to ask. It’s the same one you’d uttered over and over, morning after morning, and it feels nostalgic, reliving a memory a hundred times and more, enough that he’s memorized how it’d go, what would happen. Some kind of déjà vu, he thinks, though this time, it’s of his own making.

You search his face, try to find something in him you recognize. You find none. Your eyebrows furrow, lips twisting into an ugly frown. He wants to wipe it away, smooth it with his fingers, his lips, but he doesn’t move, afraid he’ll only make it worse, startle you.

You clear your throat, clench the sheets with your fingers, shoulders tensing as if ready to run. “Who are you?”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them again. “Ethan. Ethan Winters,” he answers without pause, without hesitation. You nod your head, accept the answer quickly enough. You’re still gripping the sheets a little too tightly for his liking, and though he wants to reach out, hold your hand, easing the tension from your fingertips, he knows you wouldn’t let him touch you. Not yet. He could still see it in your eyes, fear and distrust swimming in your gaze, sharp enough to cut through him.

“Where am I?”

“Somewhere in Louisiana.” He keeps the answer simple, vague, afraid he’ll jog a few memories if he gets a little too specific. Like that one time, he thinks, though he shakes his head, pushes the memory away. Not the time.

Your eyes narrow, suspicious. You sit up a little straighter now, moving a few spaces away from him, looking ready to run, leave this place. He stares at you calmly, keeps his expression opaque and unreadable. It’s not as if there’s any place to run.

“Who am I?”

He says your name – all truth, no lies. He doesn’t bother to be vague about it. He likes your name enough not to change it, and he returns this piece of you like a gift, both to you and to himself.

The rest is easy; he’s fed you this lie enough times that he doesn’t stutter, or stumble over his words anymore. (He’s struck by the sudden memory of his first mornings, where he’d still stumble over his made-up story, and you’d grilled him with question after question, knowing that something’s wrong but not being able to say it.) You got into an accident, lost all your memories. Amnesia, as the doctors call it, though yours is slightly more different than the usual.

You accept it with a reluctant nod, knowing that something isn’t adding up, but refusing to press any further. He doesn’t like it when you’re like this. Careful, hesitant, afraid of him, wary like a dog.

He wishes for the peace of some other days, when you’re pliant and sweet, eager and accepting. When you’d take everything he gives you and more, knowing you can’t resist the pull he has on you.

Those are the days where everything’s nearly in his reach, closer to the paradise he’s always dreamed of, and yet something always ruins it at the last second, reducing all his hard work into ash. Nothing. A wrong word, a jogged memory. A piece of the truth resurfacing at the wrong time, and he has to do it all again, start from scratch.

But some days, he’s failing before he could even make progress. These are the days he hates the most, when you’re defiant and rebellious, eager to catch him in a lie, some trap or two you’ve woven between the silences.

How many times have you danced this same danced? A hundred times now, perhaps more. He knows what you’re going to ask long before the words are even out of your lips. He knows the way your mind works, or how you’d try to trap him in, catch him in the lie of his own making. It took a lot of tries, but he knows you better now, more than you even know yourself. And he takes pride in that knowledge.

Every bone, every sinew, every nerve ending. He knows which places could make you scream the loudest, knows which ones could make you crumble into seconds, surrendering to him, the feel of his hands.

But knowing everything doesn’t solve his problems. He’s seen that again and again, in the days when you’d refuse to believe everything he tells you, stubborn, defiant even to the very end. He hates you in those moments, hates the way you’d pull away from his touch, squirming in discomfort each time he kisses you; hates the way you look at him like he’s a stranger, recoiling each time he gathers you in his arms, holds you close.

He always has to fight the urge to redo the day again, start over from the beginning even if it’s already late in the afternoon, knowing there’ll be another chance the next day. If there’s one thing he’s learned about this is that real love requires patience, and he’s nothing if not a patient man. He’s made you his before, didn’t he? He’s got everything right once, and he’ll get it again, no matter what. No matter how many times it takes.

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t like it, but he feels it in the air nonetheless, thick as molasses, cloying on the tip of his tongue. He huffs out a breath, shakes his head, tries to ignore it as best as he can. Instead, he focuses on the book on his lap, skimming through the words written on the page.

He’s read this before, more than enough times to lose count – your favorite, the one you’d told him about all those years ago, and something he’d read and reread over and over, desperate to keep a part of you with him always. And yet, somehow, he can’t seem to concentrate; the words are swimming now, becoming jumbled, and all too soon, he gives up, shuts the book with an audible snap, placing it back on the bureau.

He rubs his eyes, then stands up, ready to leave the room. There’s a rustle that comes from beside him, and he stops, turns his head to the side just in time to catch you on the verge of waking, rubbing your eyes tiredly and sitting up.

His breath stills in his lungs, catching in his throat. He stares at you again, watches, waits, patient as a saint. You stare at your surroundings, eyes wide with curiosity as if you’re taking it in again for the first time. He can’t stop the way his lips twist into a smile, but he smooths his expression at the last second, puts the mask back in place the moment he sees you turning to look at him.

You blink a few times, eyeing him with a familiar wariness, frowning. “Who are you?”

Your voice is polite, cautious. He’s a complete stranger this time, someone you don’t recognize at all from somewhere, some distant past. It doesn’t matter.

“Ethan,” he says quickly, without missing a beat. He tilts his head, smiles at you, filled with tenderness and adoration that he knows would disarm you, make you second-guess yourself, “You don’t remember the name of your own husband?”

There it is: that doubt, that uncertainty. It swims in your gaze, stirring like a machine coming to life. He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to hide the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Some progress, at least.

“Okay.” You’re still staring at him warily, eyeing him with a narrowed gaze as you try and rack your brain for a memory that isn’t there. He watches you, waits to see if you’ll come up with something, but a moment later and you’re shaking your head, giving him an apologetic look in response. So you can’t remember. Good. He’s made sure of that last night, when you were close enough to figuring out the truth. And now he gets to do this again, make it right in the way he couldn’t do so before.

“You’re Ethan… what?”

“Winters,” he replies just as quickly. “Ethan Winters.”

“Okay. Good.” You nod your head, take a deep breath. There’s a beat of silence before the next question comes, as predictable and easy as the first time. “Who am I?”

He tells you your name. He sees no use in changing it, especially when it’s yours, one of the things he loves about you. You nod again, accepting the answer quickly enough. Some of the tension in your shoulders loosens, and he sees you relax, leaning against the headboard as you search your brain for more questions. “How long have we been married?”

He smiles. It’s his favorite part of the story to tell. “A few years now.”

You nod, a little reluctantly. There’s a frown on your lips as you mull his words over in your head, uncertain if you should believe him or not. You lower your head, turning your hand this way and that, as if searching for an answer, some sort of proof to back it up. It sits there on your ring finger, a thin golden band, glinting brightly in the sunlight. He smiles again, victorious.

Still, the frustration in your voice isn’t lost on him. It’s clear that you remain unconvinced, the proof he’s given you still not enough. “Then how come I can’t remember anything about you? Us?”

He’s told this lie before, over and over that he’s almost starting to believe it. He doesn’t even falter anymore, or fumble. He’s memorized his lines, like an actor playing a part on a stage. “You got into an accident, a few months ago. The doctors called it amnesia. They said you won’t remember anything from your past for a while.”

You bite your lip, nodding. You’re quiet after that, still unsure what to make of his words. You’re staring at him, searching his eyes, his face for the grain of truth he knows you won’t find. But he lets you anyway, stares back at you impassively, hating how you stare at him like he’s someone else, a stranger and nothing more.

“Okay.” There’s no hostility in your voice, but he’s known you long enough to know that you don’t believe him, not one bit. He grits his teeth, balls his hands into fists. He digs his nails into his palms, hard enough that he feels it hurting. He’s sure it’ll leave a mark later, but he doesn’t care.

Still, he keeps his mask on, nods his head in understanding, pretends that your wariness doesn’t hurt him. He sees the surprise flashing in your eyes, caught off-guard for the briefest of seconds like you’re not expecting him to react like that, and for a moment, he wonders if it’s not too late to make the most of this.

He leaves you alone with only a word of goodbye. You nod at him in response, make no move to stop him. By the time he’s out of the door, there’s already a plan forming in his head. He’ll make it right, one way or another, no matter how many times it takes.

For the rest of the day, it’s like you’re walking on eggshells. You tread around him warily, as if you’re afraid you’ll step on his toes, make him angry. He frowns, though he doesn’t say anything. He sees the distrust in your eyes, the way you stare at him when you think he isn’t looking. Fear, terror. Afraid that he’s not the man he says he is. Afraid that he’ll hurt you if you make a mistake, do something wrong.

He almost scoffs at the thought. He’d sooner hurt himself than hurt you. Still, his devotion changes nothing. More than once he’s caught you staring at the door, examining it at a distance, calculating the steps between you and complete freedom.

He frowns. He hates that look in your eyes, that suspicion, that need to get away from him as quickly as possible. As though you can’t stand him. He wishes he could wipe it away, make every doubt and fear disappear.

Once upon a time, he could’ve done it quickly. A quick touch, a chaste kiss. Fingertips smoothing out the creases beneath your brows, distracting you from whatever thoughts are running through your head. Once upon a time, you would’ve let him. He misses those days already, wishes he could get them back – that paradise, that perfection. The little piece of heaven you’ve made for yourselves. Yours and his alone.

But it’s alright, he thinks. It doesn’t matter. He’s a patient man, after all, and one of these days, he’ll get it right. He has to. He has a promise to keep, after all, and a home that’s waiting for him to come back.

He makes you sweet tea in the evening, just the way you like it. No milk, two sugars. Across from you, he sits on the couch, nurses his own drink, takes a tiny sip as he watches you from the brim of his cup. He keeps his eyes on you the whole time, makes sure you drink all of it, down to the very last drop. He smiles at you when you do, cooing praises and sweet nothings, trying not to grin when he sees your face flushing in embarrassment.

Anticipation can be quite a drug. He feels it on his skin, in the very air around him, humming with a kind of electricity that makes him all alert, alive in a way he hasn’t felt before. His heart pounds against his chest, beats wild and loud as a war drum, enough to drown out every sound.

Excitement thrums in his veins. Every part of him is abuzz, singing. He feels drunk, floating. This could be it, he thinks. You’ve fallen right into his trap, and all that’s left now is to wait.

He stands up, makes his way over to you. His sudden proximity startles you, and you freeze in your spot, uncertain how to react, what to do. He takes this moment to lean in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. He doesn’t linger.

In the hours that follow, he remains by your side, close but not quite hovering. He watches you do your own thing, browsing through your favorite book, reading it all again as though it’s your first time. You grow gradually sleepy, yawning behind your hand, close to falling off the couch more than a few times.

“Sleepy?” he asks, and it takes you a moment to respond, sheepishly nodding your head. It wouldn’t do you any good to deny it, that much he knows.

He smiles at you, watches as you shut your book, try to stand up. You’re getting a little wobbly now, stumbling like you’ve had too much to drink, and quickly, he moves toward you, catches you at the last minute, righting your balance. You don’t protest when he guides you back to your room, carrying you in his arms when it’s clear you couldn’t get there without tripping over your own two feet every few seconds, even with his help.

Gently, he lays you down on the bed, pulls the blankets up to your chest, tucking you in. He occupies the space next to you, lies down in his usual spot. He wraps one arm around your waist, pulls you toward him. You don’t protest, don’t push him away, though you’re still stiff against him, defiant even to the last.

He leans in, closes the distance between you, kissing your hair, the crown of your head. A shaky breath escapes you, though you don’t pull away. Instinctively, he tightens his hold on you, firm but gentle, as if he’s afraid you’ll bolt if he so much as lets you go. He tugs at a stray lock of your hair, presses it against his nose, takes in the familiar scent of your shampoo, pretends he couldn’t recognize the scent of your fear hanging in the air, raw and pungent.

He pulls away after a second, giving you a tiny smile, “Good night, my love. Sleep well.”

He couldn’t see you very well in the dark, but he can hear every sound you make, every little noise. You draw in a breath, shaky and uneven. There’s a slight tremble in your voice, and he can’t tell if it’s from fear, from something else entirely. He doesn’t think he wants to find out. “Good night.”

He hums under his breath. He lets the silence hang, the curtains fall. He counts the seconds in his head, watches you in the dark, waits for your breathing to grow steady. He doesn’t have to wait long. You quickly fall asleep, succumbing to the weight of your exhaustion, and as the silence is gradually filled with the sound of your snoring, he can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He pulls you closer to him, rests your head against his chest. You don’t stir in your sleep. This time, when he leans in to press a kiss on your forehead, you don’t stiffen, don’t try to resist. He closes his eyes, lets himself relax further into the covers, the pillows.

Tomorrow, he’ll have another chance, and he’ll do it better, play his cards right. And if he doesn’t succeed, then he’ll try again, over and over until he gets it right. Until you’re his, always and forever, the way you’d promised him all those years ago, in this very bed you sleep on.

He falls asleep, drifting off into the night, dreaming of happier days and a happier ending.

#renwrites #ethan winters x reader #ethan x reader #resident evil x reader

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