#the world was too cruel to him for simply being born without asking for it. he didnt ask to be born and even less as a genetic experiment

[mickeyswhore]

I'm Gonna Kill You

A/N: My first time posting a fic in this brand new side blog, if you enjoy it, please consider reblogging it and if you want more you can follow me.

Summary: Randy is your best friend in the entire world, Billy doesn't enjoy the power he has over you and decides to do something about it.

Billy Loomis x Reader

Warnings: toxicity all around, a splash of daddy kink, filming without consent, a little bit of degradation, death (I mean it's Scream) but nothing gory, let me know if I missed anything else.

Want me to make a Tag List? Here!

GIF by @coppoladelrey.

You and Randy were born on the same day, your mothers went to High School together so the two of you were bound to become best friends. Your friendship with Randy is great, the two of you spend most of the time together and you barely ever fought. There is one massive problem in your life and you weren’t even aware of, Randy loves you, he loved you since you stood up for him in kindergarten but you were obvious to his love, Randy was happy to be just your friend but that doesn’t mean he would allow you to have a love life.

You trust Randy with your life, if he says that someone is not good for you, you listen no questions asked. Randy takes full advantage of the power he has on your life, a sick power 

play that you weren’t even aware of. If pressed on the issue, Randy would swear up and down that it is for your own good, but he knows the truth, he’s too scared to admit his true feelings but more than happy to cock block you without you being aware.

Being a virgin was one of your main concerns in your otherwise uneventful life, you had Randy as your best friend and a few acquiescences mainly Sidney, Tatum, Stu and Billy. You loved hanging out with them even if you weren’t as close, Stu made you laugh to the point of almost peeing your pants, Sidney and Tatum were extremely and the three of you went shopping at least once a fortnight. The only person you didn't spend time with was Billy, not because you didn't like him, quite the contrary he simply intimidated you too much to allow you to exchange pleasantries with him, his piercing chocolate brown eyes made you all warm and tingly inside. 

You never said anything to Sid and Tatum because Sid and Billy used to be a couple in Elementary School and Tatum was her best friend, Stu was too much of a jokester to take anything seriously and he would run to Billy and the two of them would probably laugh, not because they were cruel but simply because Stu would never take this seriously. Then there was Randy, the only person that knew everything about your life except this major crush on Billy Loomis but life goes on.

Casey Becker and her boyfriend were murdered and the whole town was on edge, and Randy was going on and on about horror films and you thought it was in poor taste, this isn’t a film! People are dead! So you gave him the bullshit excuse of getting your period and you basically qucicked him out of your house.

You decided to go to a coffee shop and just be alone for a change, you said hi to the barista gave her your order and after getting your drink you were sitting down by the window. You weren’t thinking about anything in particular but Billy Loomis came to the forefront of your mind, as he usually does. His eyes, his lips, his hair. As if it was on queue, Stu Macher spots you from across the road and ran towards the coffee shop.

“Stu, how are you?” You smiled seeing him, maybe that meant Billy was nearby? Stu didn't miss your eyes wondering, looking for Billy.

“I’m good, you know? Hey, would you like to hang out? Tatum is busy right now and you’re super cool, so…” Before you could he was getting your bag and helping you get up, you simply laughed and followed him, you truly enjoyed his company.

You’ve to Stu’s house a couple of times but only with Randy, maybe this was a good opportunity to actually be friends with Stu. He opened the door for you and allowed you to get in, he was helping you remove your jumper when you heard Billy’s voice.

“Where the fuck were you? Did you bring the…” Billy stopped in his tracks when he finally saw you, and Stu couldn’t stop grinning. Billy wanted to get alone with you for ages but Randy was always there, Stu really did him a solid.

“Oh man, I totally forgot I ran into her and totally slipped my mind. I’ll be right back, you don’t mind being here with Billy, right?” You looked at Billy who was already looking at you and you looked down and shook your head. “Okay, bye.” And just like that Stu was out of the house.

You still kept your gaze down, playing with your shirt. It was so hard to keep eye contact with Billy Loomis.

“Hey, we can watch something on the TV.” You simply followed Billy but still keeping your gaze down, Billy thought you were the hottest girl at school and now he has you all to himself, he really needed to thank Stu later. The two of you sat down and Billy decided to break the silence. “You don’t like me very much, do you doll?” You finally looked at him with a frown on your face and Billy was smirking. “There she is.” He whispered with a hint of a smile on his face, his thumb went to your chin and goosebumps rose all over your body, Billy wasn’t blind to the effect he had on you.

Billy wanted you since the two of you were freshmen, but Randy was always hanging around you like a leach, in Billy’s eyes. He wanted to kill Randy as his and Stu’s first victim but Billy wanted Randy to suffer after hearing the two of you talking. Randy let it slip rather loudly that you and him were still virgins and Billy thought Christmas came early. He wanted you for the longest time and finding out he was going to be the first man in your life, to touch you, to make you cum? His cock got incredibly hard just thinking about you moaning underneath him, riding him and eating you out like you were his last meal.

“I like you, Billy…it’s just that…” You took a deep breath, how could you explain your predicament?

“You don’t want to hurt Randy’s feelings?” Billy almost believed his own tone, it felt so sincere and honest, he almost wanted to laugh at the relief on your face.

“Yes, we’re not dating or anything.” You wanted especify, and Billy smiled. “But he’s my best friend, literally since day one. And I have no idea why he doesn’t like you very much.” You started playing with your nails and Billy raised your chin to look in your eyes, his piercing gaze was giving you burtterfiles in your stomach.

“We can take this slow, yeah? I want to do this right and take you out for dates and you be my girl, yeah?” Billy looked at you expectantly, and you nodded biting your lip. After that, he kissed you. He couldn’t believe that he finally got the girl of his dreams.

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

It has been months since you and Billy started dating, and you couldn’t be happier even with the killings getting progressively worse. You had Billy to protect you, so things weren’t as scary. The only problem was Randy, he comes to your house unannounced and Billy has to hide and it’s always when the two of are about to fuck, it seemed that Randy had this radar to find out when you were about to lose your virginity and it was driving you and Billy insane. You were more than ready for this and Billy had major blue balls for months.

The two of you were now at school, talking in the hallway. Billy wanted nothing more than to take you to the nearest bathroom and fuck you in the stall but he knew that you deserved much better than a quick and cheap fuck, you were his dream girl.

“I asked my parents for the lake house this weekend and they allowed. I can pick you up right after school, is that okay?” You nodded and smiled, you couldn’t believe how romantic and thoughtful your boyfriend was. The two of you were very good in not having PDA at school but you were so excited that you kissed him and Billy was more than happy to oblige. 

His hands went to your waist and yours went straight to his hair, Billy’s hnads were about to land on your ass when the two of you heard his voice.

“Unbelievable.” Randy yelled and you stopped kissing Billy, you had a guilty look on your face but Billy was angry. “You’re with him? Mr. I am clearly a serial killer.” Billy was about to beat Randy up when you stopped him.

“Look, Randy. I am so sorry for not telling you before but saying this shit about Billy is not cool. If you can’t accept him, don’t talk to me again.” You grabbed Billy’s hand and walked away while Billy had the biggest grin on his face. Once the two of you were outside, he hugged you.

“Are you alright? I know how important Randy is to you, I don’t want to get in the middle of your friendship.” Billy was selling this so well, and you just smiled and shook your head.

“You’re the best boyfriend ever! And no, don’t ever say that, Randy will come around eventually. I don’t want this to stop our little getaway.” You were going to handle Randy later after you spent time with your boyfriend.

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

Billy’s car stopped right in front of the house, it was so pretty and quiet you loved it. Billy took both of your suitcases and guided you to the front of the house. The door was opened and everything inside was very rustic, it was perfect and apparently Billy’s parents had people come and clean in preparation of your stay there, they were always so thoughtful. Billy put your suitcases on the floor and looked at you.

“So, do you want a tour of the house?” He smiled at you.

“Start with the bedroom.” You jumped and wrapped your legs around his waist and Billy did exactly that.

He opened the door and dropped you on the bed, even though you were a virgin Billy could tell that you liked it rough. Every bite that was a little too rough, you had to stop yourself from moaning and rubbing your thighs together, every whispered ‘good girl’ on your ear made you sigh and bite your lip and one small ‘my little slut’ made you moan.

“I’m gonna fuck you right now, baby. Is that what you want? I wanna hear you beg.” Billy started kissing your neck and biting it and nodded your head fervently. You wondered if people could die of horniness for a second. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want from me?” Billy was taking off his shirt and still kissing you.

“I want you to fuck me, daddy.” You put your hand over your mouth, he wasn’t supposed to know but Billy had the biggest grin on his face.

“Yeah? You want daddy to destroy your little pussy even though is your first time? Is that what you want?” Billy finally started removing your clothes, leaving you in just your bra and panties.

“Please, daddy. Fuck me, I need it please.” You didn't care about sounding needy, Billy was your boyfriend and you loved him and he loved you.

Billy’s cock was so hard and you could see how big it was even through his underwear, your mouth was watering at the sight.

“Does my needy little slut wants me to fuck her throat?” Billy removed his underwear and you could see his cock leaking with pre cum, it has been so long since he fucked anyone.

“Yes, please daddy.” You got on your knees and looked at him with the biggest innocent eyes he has ever seen, fuck Billy could cum right now just by looking at you.

“Open your mouth, baby.” You did exactly that, you licked the head of his cock tasting his pre cum and you slowly started to take him in your mouth. Billy was very patient and you took his cock so well, Billy out his head back and groaned loudly. He also made sure that the camera was at the right angle.

Billy’s hands went to your hair, you were hollowing your cheeks and also playing with his balls. He held your head in place and started to fuck your throat, the noises you were making were pornographic and Billy loved every second of it.

“Oh, fuck I’m gonna cum.” Billy removed his hands from your head but you kept sucking his cock. “Fuck, baby.” Billy came, thick ropes of cum down your throat and you swallowed it all. You were still on your knees and you opened your mouth you to show Billy that you swallowed it all. “Fuck, how did I get so lucky?” He helped you get up and kissed you passionately, he finally removed your bra and took one nipple in his mouth, now it was your turn to get your hands on his hair, Billy carefully laid you on the bed and removed your panties.

Billy opened your legs started sucking on your clit, he was relentless and again your handd went to his hair. You were moaning and panting, the feeling of his hot, wet tongue on your pussy is like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Billy was enjoying very much seeing you fall apart with only his tongue.

Your moans started getting louder, and the grip on his hair got stronger. Billy’s tongue was working faster to bring your orgasm quicker, he also inserted a finger to slowly start stretching you out. He was was observing all of your reactions, how your legs were shaking and how your moans were louder by him finger fucking you.

“Billy, I think I’m gonna…” You knew your body very well, but this was different.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me, cum all over my face.” Billy sped up his ministrations on your clit and you pulled his hair and you came hard, your eyes were shut and pleasure that you never felt before ran all over your body. When you finally came to it, you felt under the bed wet, quite wet. When you looked over, you started panicking.

“Oh my God, Billy I’m so sorry. I have no idea why this happened?” Billy shushed you and kissed your forehead.

“No, baby. You just squirted and it was hot as fuck.” He kissed you and he laid on the bed again.

Billy pinched your nipples and you moaned into his mouth, his hands were all over your body and vice versa. Billy was about to burst, he was painfully hard again and he couldn’t wait to fuck you.

“Are you ready, baby?” Billy put his hand on your cheek and his eyes were looking into yours and you’ve never felt more connected with him before.

“More than ever, Billy.” 

“Okay, I’ll go slow. Let me know if it hurts, alright?” You nodded and Billy positioned his cock at your entrance, he was looking at it then at you.

You felt his thick and veiny cock on your pussy, Billy had to contain himself and not cum at that second. Your velvety walls milking him, Billy was groaning and moaning in your ear, inch by inch his cock was entering you. Billy was fully inside you now and stopped to compose himself, your pussy felt like heaven to him. You on the other hand was almost passing out from the overwhelming pleasure his cock was giving you and you wanted, no, needed more.

“Please move, Billy.” He obliged and started moving slowly, the last thing he wanted was to hirt you. He found a comfortable pace for him and you. “Harder, please.” You wrapped your legs around his waist and with that all of his self control was gone.

Billy started punding into your pussy with reckless abandon, your nails digging on his back the noises coming from felt like you were in a porno. 

“Do you like that, baby? Is that what you wanted my dirty little slut, huh?” His filthy words were driving you insane. You started clenching around him and Billy started laughing condescendly. “You like that, huh? You like being my little slut?” You only nodded, the pleasure wouldn’t allow you to speak, the noises were louder and louder. “Are you cock drunk already, baby? You can’t even speak right, can you? I want you to cum on my cock, baby.” Billy’s thumb went to your clit and started making hard and small circles, he wanted to see you falling apart.

“Billy, I’m gonna…” You didn't finish your sentence, and you came on his cock and Billy helped you ride out your orgasm. Billy started chasing his own orgasm, you were sensitive but the line between pleasure and pain were blurred and that resulted in more pleasure for you.

“You’re gonna take my cum, aren’t you baby? You’re gonna let me cum deep inside your pussy, imagine if I got you pregnant?” You clenched around him and Billy laughed. “You want everyone to know that you’re my little slut? Walking around with a big belly and huge tits full of milk?” Billy stopped and came with a groan, he was breathless. He kissed you and removed his cock out of you. He laid down and pulled you over to him, he started kissing the top of your head and caressing your arm.

“Did you enjoy that?” You asked and Billy could sense the vulnerability in your voice.

“That was the best thing that ever happened to me, you were perfect baby. I love you.” He kissed your forehead and you mumbled ‘I love you too’ and you fell asleep rather quickly. After making sure you weren’t going to wake up, Billy got up and stopped recording, he couldn’t wait to put his plan into action.

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

Randy was pissed, your mom told him that you went on a trip with Billy. I mean what were your parents thinking? Allowing you to be alone with that serial killer? But you were about to come back and Randy was going to do everything in his power to break the two of you up. You never dated anyone before, you couldn’t! You belonged to Randy and he was going to make sure of that, no matter what.

Randy got in his bedroom, he found a tape that was odd he didn't recognise it. He put it in the VHS anyway, and he recognised you immediately, on your knees for Billy Loomis, Randy was about to take the tape and show it to you how Billy is gross and you should break up with him, but he got a call.

“Hello, Randy.” The modulated voice said.

“Billy, you sick fuck. I’m gonna fucking destroy you, she’ll never look at you again.” Randy was screaming, he couldn’t wait to destroy your relationship, that way you would fall for Randy and realise no one but him is good enough for you.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that Randy.” The voice was tauting him and Randy was furious.

“And why is that?” Ghostface opened his closet and was right behind Randy.

“Dead men tell no tales.” Randy turned around but only in time to be stabbed in the neck, after that Ghostface grabbed the tape and left Randy’s house.

Billy was with you when you heard that Randy was killed by Ghostface, he comforted you and said that everything was going to be okay.

“I was angry at him the last time we saw each other, I’ll never forgive myself.” Billy shused you and said that it wasn’t your fault and you couldn’t have known.

Billy held your hand through the funeral and made sure you didn't fall apart, you were so lucky to have in your life. Billy was overjoyed, he had his girlfriend all to himself and he didn't have to hide or worry about the nerd that hanging over her, everything was right in the world.

#billy loomis x reader #billy loomis x you #billy loomis x female reader #billy loomis x y/n #billy loomis smut #billy loomis imagine #scream 1996 #billy loomis

[animusxy]

Aemond Targaryen with a Blind! reader, Pt 1.

Summary: Aemond meeting and befriending the reader after she finds him crying over the cruel comments of his missing eye by the servants of the Red Keep. Reader is from a noble family and completely blind, a bit of a renowned sweetheart as well.

Warnings: Allusions to Parental Neglect towards Reader.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 3.5 / Part 4 / Part 4.5 / Part 5

Aemond had met you when you'd first come to court with your mother and father. You were both around the same age, so it was encouraged but not forced that the two of you spoke together.

You were both around 13 at the time but Aemond was older than you by nearly 10 moons.

Although this was mainly for alliance purposes, your parents never expected you to get married with your condition. So close friends were the next best thing.

Besides everyone who had met you could say that you were a kind and caring person, so most people you met were willing to lend a hand if your family needed it.

The two of you didn't meet face to face until around a week after your arrival.

You were sitting in the Godswood of the red keep, feeling around the flowers beneath the Heart Tree. The flowers were most likely 'Dragon Breath' but you couldn't see its shape nor colour so you wouldn't know for sure unless someone told you. You could only feel around the leaves and stem.

Now, the funny thing about being born without functioning eyes is that your other senses are somewhat more advanced. You can hear more than what others do and are far better at perceiving what sounds could be (purely because it's the only thing you can do when you can't see)

So, you could hear the sounds of quiet crying before said crying person realised you were there. Instead of staying where you were of leaving them to their own devices, you decided to approach them.

It took a bit longer than what you would've liked considering that you kept stumbling over roots and rocks, but it seemed that the person, male presumably, was too preoccupied to realise that someone had arrived from behind.

"Hello?" You spoke gently, not wanting to startle them too much. You heard their breath hitch and they sniffled. You could imagine that they may have been embarrassed about being caught crying here. So, you spoke up again before they got too upset.

Aemond hadn't recognised you at first, after all he'd never met you before, but he knew off you. His mother had warned him and his siblings to be careful as you had 'seeing difficulties' as his mother had put it, not wanting to be rude in the face of your parents. However, your mother had, surprisingly, referred to you as being 'as blind as a bat'.

He introduced himself reluctantly, not wanting to be seen as a Prince who was a cry-baby but many servants had spoken about your kind nature so it seemed as though you wouldn't hold it against him. He was right.

You asked why he was crying, promising that you wouldn't dare speak of it (which was also true). Naturally, he was hesitant to release this information, so you asked him if it was about his looks. Since your arrival you had heard next to nothing about the younger prince besides from his 'hideous' appearance.

Apparently, he'd lost an eye in a fight with his nephews at Lady Laena's funeral after claiming the largest dragon living in the world.

He responded to your question with a small yes. If you had regular senses, you probably wouldn't have heard it, even though you were sitting next to him now.

To most young ladies, it seemed as though the eye was too much, and they disregarded all else there was to the prince. It was understandable that he was so upset. He'd now taken to wearing an eye patch to lessen their harsh words but even that wasn't enough.

Honestly, you weren't sure what you could say to make him feel better. You couldn't just say that it was alright, because it simply was not. You couldn't say that looks didn't matter because while they might not to you (because, well, you can't see) they most certainly did to him.

Instead, you turned the conversation towards something different. Anything you could think of that Aemond would enjoy. How was his training going? Did he have any lessons today? It didn't seem much to you, just a way to get his mind off of things without talking about his eye.

Little did you know that it was exactly what he needed. He didn't want to talk about his eye anymore. He just wanted to forget about it for now.

And what better way to do that then with someone who couldn't even see the damage?

His mother was pleasantly surprised to hear that he'd talked with you. Aemond wasn't much of a social child, so it came as somewhat of a shock.

What came as more of a shock was how these conversations continued.

There wasn't really much you could do, or rather was allowed to do, due to your disability.

You couldn't sew pretty shapes and pictures onto a piece of fabric, you couldn't write letters or read them. You certainly weren't allowed to help with any meals or chores considering how you'd just bump into things or cut yourself.

Oh, how Aegon loved to tease you over that. You never got annoyed at him for it surprisingly, mostly because you also believed that it was rather stupid how little you were able to do.

Aemond found that due to this you spent much time in the gardens feeling the flowers and the grass. Trying to see if you could perhaps differentiate different flowers.

He knew Helaena would love to be your friend when he found that out.

He sat with you between his lessons and confirmed different species of flowers using a book he'd gotten from Helaena.

You'd ask him how different colours looked and chuckle lightly as he tried to explain them using emotions.

In his defence, he actually described them very well.

Your conversations of flowers grew to other areas, like interests that the two of you shared. You were a fan of history but could never really indulge in it because you couldn't read the books.

Whenever you asked about certain historical events that you were interested in your parents had always turned you away. Not at all trying to hide the fact that they preferred to spend time with their other sons and daughters as opposed to you simply because it took more time and effort for you as you had to be spoken to in order to learn things.

Aemond loves his history, he knew all about the Targaryen Dynasty and its dragons, it was one of the things he was truly proud of. You on the other hand knew the bare basics. The kings and the order that they came in, the biggest of the dragons, and Kings Landing. He was more than happy to indulge you in all the things in between.

From this chance meeting a beautiful friendship flourished.

Okay, I'm definitely making this 'Aemond x Blind! Reader' a little series. In the same format as this one just with different scenarios happening. I'm much better at writing fanfics in this format and I could honestly continue this for days.

If you have any requests for HOTD please send them, I'm happy to see them through. I will read and write anything about some of these characters for hours, especially if they're either Daemon or Aemond. Also feel free to send some ideas about head cannons for this 'Aemond x Blind! Reader' rabbit whole that I'm now getting myself into.

My best ideas always come late at night.

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond stannies #HOTD #house targaryen #aemond targaryen #hbo house of the dragon #hotd 1x05

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (48)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, oral sex, angst, smut, violence ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

In accordance with the king's wishes, they began preparations to return to King's Landing. Neither she nor Aemond were convinced it was a good idea to return now, Aegon, however, wanted to return to the capital as soon as possible as the victor, fearing at the same time that their sister would attack the Red Keep in an act of revenge in their absence, where Helaena remained the only dragon rider.

Neither she nor Aemond spoke much to each other, absorbed in their own thoughts and grief. She felt warmth in her heart, however, when her husband grasped her hand in his as she sat beside him, like him trying to escape his thoughts into the world of books, when his arms embraced her and drew her to his chest as he lay down beside her in bed.

She returned to King's Landing with her husband on the dragon's back. Aegon also flew most of the way on his dragon, but before King's Landing itself he decided to ride on horseback at the head of the army knowing that he would encounter crowds cheering in his honour.

They had no intention of looking at it. Nor did her husband want to be considered a hero knowing that the one who killed Daemon was her father.

She tried not to think about it, but she feared that Rhaenyra's revenge for the death of her husband and firstborn son would be cruel. That in an act of madness she would simply burn down the entire Red Keep. Aegon, however, was too busy drawing on the love of the crowds to consider this.

Royce was furious and did not speak to her. They were forced to send a letter to their sisters for them to come and take their father's body from King's Landing to Storm's End. Royce did not agree to his burial in the fire, and she conveyed his wishes to her husband. Aemond accepted this without surprise.

"He is his first-born son. He has the right to decide."

When the two of them entered the Red Keep they noticed with surprise that it was practically empty. They entered his chamber, where they had lived together before Aemond left for Harrenhal, and it was only through the window that they noticed that Alicent and the entire court were waiting for Aegon in the courtyard.

The Queen, however, did not run up to hug and congratulate her eldest son. She ran to the carriage behind him covered in a shroud bearing the crest of a green three-headed dragon and bent over him, her sobs echoing across the square in a flurry of cheers.

Aemond pressed his lips together and walked away from the window, sitting down in a chair. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and sighed heavily.

She wondered if she should wear black as a sign of mourning, but decided that her father would not have wanted her to, and the colour itself was associated with the party they fought against. She decided that she would still wear the Baratheon colours.

She walked over to her husband and stepped down beside him, sighing quietly. She knew he heard her, but he did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the extinguished fireplace.

She moved closer to him and took his hand in hers, placing it on her womb. She felt him flinch as he looked up at her face and then at her stomach. His fingers massaged the fabric of her gown involuntarily.

"It's already slowly showing." He whispered blankly more to himself than to her.

"What's that?" She asked, stroking his hand with hers.

"That you are pregnant. That you are carrying my child." He said lowly, a note of pride and warmth sounding in the last sentence from which she felt a pleasant tingling in her fingers. She managed a slight, sad smile.

"Only six more months, my beloved." She said softly, and he hummed under his breath, looking thoughtfully at her abdomen.

She knew that the child inside her was the only reason they both didn't go mad and give in to utter despair. They had a purpose, something they both looked forward to, something that filled them with hope.

Their shared heritage.

They both flinched when a servant entered their chamber informing them that the King had summoned her husband to the Small Council Hall. Aemond stood up with a face completely emotionless and told her dryly to go with him. She moved after him without a word.

As they both entered the hall and the door closed behind them she noticed the confused glances of the council members and the king directed at them. Aegon grunted, trying not to look at her, turning his gaze and words to his brother.

"I called upon you, my brave brother." He said softly with emphasis on the information that he wanted him to come alone. Her husband, to everyone's surprise, made nothing of these words.

He moved ahead with a slow, lazy step and grabbed in his hands a large black wooden chair standing on the other side of the room. He moved it to the large table where the assembled people were sitting, placing it next to his own, forcing the maester to move over. Aemond nodded at her to sit next to him.

She swallowed her saliva loudly, feeling the awkward silence and anticipation around her. She approached her husband with downcast docile eyes and sat beside him, his hand immediately on her womb, his gesture of owning her. She stroked his palm with her fingers, her confirmation of his desire.

Aegon stared at the spot where their hands touched, his gaze blank, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away.

"In six months, a new prince or princess will be born in the Red Keep." Her husband communicated lowly, coolly, proudly, and she felt a shudder and the rapid beating of her own heart, ashamed and frightened. All eyes turned towards her.

He had made the announcement official.

She was expecting his child.

The queen looked at her with a dreamy, sad smile, the only gesture she could afford while still feeling such pain, her father put a hand on her shoulder, clearly pleased with the news.

"Won't you congratulate me, brother?" She heard her husband's mocking voice and involuntarily clenched her fingers tighter on his hand, frightened, wishing he would stop, looking uncertainly at the look on Aegon's face.

The king pressed his lips together at his question and looked away, staring ahead. His lips left in a quiet congratulations and wishes for an easy labor, and she let out a quiet breath, feeling her whole body tense up.

Their grandfather, impatient, changed the subject, informing them that Lord Greyjoy was not happy with the changes in their contract and demanded more payment.

She listened in silence to a discussion in which they wondered aloud where the money would come from to pay such a large sum. She felt frustration and anger at Lord Hightower's words that their soldiers would surely understand the situation and wait as long as necessary for their payments.

He was sitting safely in the Red Keep while they were giving their lives for him, and he was going to fail to pay them on time?

"Our soldiers have families they left behind to fight for our king's cause. What are their wives and their children to live off of?" She asked coolly, Otto cast her a disgruntled, protracted look. She saw him glance at her husband, apparently wanting him to point out to her that she should not speak at all, not being a member of the Small Council.

Her husband, however, looked at his grandfather with a stony face and did not even flinch. She thought, feeling the heat flowing through her body, that she and her husband had a silent alliance between them.

She felt a tightness in her throat as the subject came down to Rhaenyra. Thoughts of her, of her suffering and grief kept her awake at night, the realisation that it was her father who had killed her husband and Aemond who had finished the job. That Aegon had killed her son.

She feared that her revenge would be cruel and reach them all.

She shuddered, snapped out of her reverie when she suddenly heard Aegon's voice, cold, mocking, directed at his brother.

"If it were not for your haste, our brother would be still alive."

She felt the tension even in her fingertips, the cold sweat on the back of her neck, her gaze turned sideways in horror. Her husband's face expressed stupor and shock, his mouth open slightly, as if Aegon had suddenly pierced his heart, hurt him, betrayed him.

She clenched her hand involuntarily on his palm feeling the realisation of what his brother had said begin to spread through his body, the understanding of his words.

After all he had done for him, after all she and he had sacrificed for him.

How could he have said that?

And then she understood.

He was taking revenge on him.

He was taking revenge on him for Aemond making him realise that she belonged only to him.

'If you had arrived in time, our brother would be still alive. What stopped you? Another whore?" Her husband hissed, and she swallowed loudly. She jumped up in her seat as Aegon set his cup down with a loud clang of metal, fury in his gaze.

"That's enough!" The queen thundered, rising suddenly from her seat, panting all over in despair, breathing hard.

"Just look at you." She whispered, looking at them brokenly, shaking her head in disbelief.

After a moment, she wobbled, her eyes rolled back, her soft body slumped to the floor, causing a commotion all around. Aegon and her husband rushed towards her, her father shouting to carry her to her chambers immediately.

She watched with a hand clasped over her womb as Ser Criston took her in his arms and left with her through the open door. Otto ordered in an impatient tone that he wished to be left alone with his grandchildren.

She glanced quickly at her husband and he nodded at her. She pressed her lips together and turned away, walking out into the corridor with the others.

She returned to their shared chamber and began pacing around the room, frightened by what was happening. She had hoped that Aegon would change, that he would calm down, but what he had said to her husband was unthinkable to her.

Also, after what her husband had said to her during their second wedding night had not left her mind. The fact that Aegon had dragged him as a thirteen-year-old to a brothel and locked him up with a whore who, in her reasoning, had raped him.

She jumped up in her seat, snapped out of her reverie when her husband entered the chamber suddenly, the door closing behind him with a loud slam of wood. She saw how tense his figure was, his hands clenched into fists, his face pale, his gaze blank and threatening.

"− Aemond −" She said quietly, uncertainly, and he glanced over his shoulder at her in a way that sent a shiver through her.

She knew that gaze.

It was the same way he had looked at her before Luke arrived in King's Landing.

The way he had looked at her after dinner, the day before his father died.

"− sit on the bed −" He instructed dryly, and she swallowed loudly, knowing what that voice meant, knowing who he was now. She nodded and moved uncertainly towards the bed, sitting down on the bedding and kneeling on it. She placed her hands on her knees and clenched them into fists, feeling them shiver.

She watched vigilantly as he approached her, her heart beating harder when she saw his hands untie his trousers. She didn't wait for his command, her fingers spread the material, his manhood already partially hard and swollen.

She grasped his base with her slightly trembling hand, massaging it with a tender gesture up and down, her lips traveled softly over his tip and placed a kiss on it.

She heard his sigh of pleasure, his sign of satisfaction, of momentary relaxation. His large hand ran over her cheek, over her hair, his gestures inadequate to the look she had seen in his eye only moments ago.

"− good girl −" He praised her in a whisper with some kind of pride, and she felt her insides clench around nothing at his words, thirsty. She realised that they hadn't done this since the battle, since he had returned, immersed in their own grief.

The thought made her yearn to please him even more, to return again to their intimacy, to normality as much as they could. She directed his throbbing manhood into her mouth and slid it partially in, only teasing him with the tip of her tongue.

She heard him groan helplessly, his fingers tightening on her hair and forcing her to slide him into her mouth as deeply as possible. She felt his tip hit her throat, tears in her eyes from the exertion and the sudden sense of being filled as he began to slowly move his hips back and forth.

"− shhh − easy −" He whispered softly, soothingly, his hand clamped down on her hair so that she couldn't move or escape from him, but his movements were still slow and steady, his length pulsing hard in her mouth, which she tightened around him.

"− just like that − your husband would never hurt you − easy, my sweetest -" He murmured softly, stroking her reassuringly, and she felt his words between her thighs, her wetness running down her skin, her heart pounding like mad. She felt the fear leave her and instead the heat spread slowly over her lower abdomen.

"− so pretty with my cock inside your mouth − ah − you'll swallow it all, won't you? −" He breathed out and she squealed as she felt his hips accelerate suddenly, his member pulsing greedily between her lips, her hand clenching steadily on his base, driving him wild.

"− a good wife won't waste a drop − fuck! −" He growled out, and she felt his hot semen on her tongue and swallowed it with difficulty, breathing loudly through her nose, trying not to choke. Her husband continued to move in her mouth with a sigh of pleasure and fulfilment, stroking her head.

"− just like that − swallow it all − such a good girl −" He whispered with a contentment from which she felt a tickle between her thighs and a clench, a need for fulfilment. She let him out of her mouth with a loud plop and dared to look at his face wanting to see if he was still enraged.

His face, however, looked completely different, he was sweaty, his lips slightly parted, his gaze hazy and warm with affection. He pressed her against his lower abdomen and hugged her, and she embraced him, snuggling into him, feeling relieved.

"Even when I'm furious. Even when I could kill someone - I would never hurt you." He said with emphasis on the last word, and she swallowed loudly, realising that he knew when he was scaring her.

For some reason she felt warm at his words and a pleasant shiver went through her. At the realisation that he had no intention of taking it out on her, no intention of hurting her even if he could have razed the Red Keep to the ground in his anger.

She looked at him uncertainly, wondering if she should say it, if she could ask for it.

"I need you, husband." She whispered, feeling her cheeks flush. She was all wet, her insides pulsing greedily around nothing.

Her husband hummed quietly running his thumb over her cheek, looking at her thoughtfully, as if wondering what to make of her words.

"How can your husband help you, sweet wife?" He asked lowly, tauntingly, the sparkle in his eye from which she knew he would tease and torment her, that he would get everything he wanted out of her and she would beg him for more. She swallowed loudly at that thought, feeling that she couldn't hold out much longer.

"− please −" She said quietly, hoping this would convince him to take pity on her. He, however, let the air out quietly, as if disappointed, his thumb running over her lower lip and parting her fleshy, wet texture slightly.

"− please, what? −" He asked lowly, impatiently, and she moved anxiously on the bed, feeling her own desperation.

"− please − I need you between my thighs −" She mumbled with difficulty, embarrassed by her own shameless words, and he hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching in a satisfied smirk that painfully cupped her pride.

Her husband pushed her gently onto the bed so that she fell onto her back and knelt in front of her, pulling up the material of her gown and spreading her hips in front of him. She felt him run his thumb over her entrance, all sticky from her juices, swollen with desire, and she tilted her head with a quiet squeal of pleasure, feeling how sensitive she was already, her husband murmured contentedly.

"− hmmm, so wet from sucking my cock − do you like feeling me in your mouth? −" He asked teasingly, looking at her from above her thighs like a predator, the tip of his tongue ran over her pearl making her moan helplessly, her body tensed like a string. She felt her heart pounding like crazy, her whole body hot, her thighs trembling in his hands.

"− y-yes −" She mewled in embarrassment, clenching her eyes, and he chuckled lowly seeing her state, how desperate and on edge she was. She drew in a loud breath and tightened her hand in his hair when she felt his nose pressed against her clit, his tongue sliding greedily between her folds, sinking inside her, tasting her juices with just the tip.

"− you're so hot inside −" He murmured in delight, clamping his hands tighter on her thighs, feeling her writhing before him, trying to press his face closer to her, blocking her movements.

"− your husband has neglected this wet cunt for too long, hasn't he? −" He cooed, sliding his tongue deeper, teasing with each movement inside her the point hidden on her upper wall driving her to spasms, sweet, uncontrollable moans of pleasure erupting from her lips, her eyes clenched shut, her head tilted back in accelerated breathing.

"− ah − yes, husband −" She mewled, her hips moving involuntarily towards him seeking more abrasion. "− please, husband − harder −"

She heard him humming softly, not accelerating though, his caresses slow and steady, his tongue carefully petting and rubbing the most sensitive part of her insides, teasing her again and again, bringing her to the brink of orgasm.

When she felt she was about to reach her desired peak she cried out loud, feeling him pull away from her suddenly, a low, amused chuckle erupting from his chest. She watched with tightened lips as he clenched his hand and jerked his half-hard length, looking down at her.

"− so fucking desperate − soaking wet for me −" He murmured and took her hips in his hands, turning her onto her stomach, pulling her to him by her buttocks, forcing her to kneel in front of him and buck up towards him. He ran his fingers over her entrance, which was dripping with her juices, and she squealed loudly as he gave her one hard slap.

"− oh my, what sweet sounds my wife can make − let's see what sounds you will make when I put him inside you, what do you think? −" He cooed, directing his throbbing, hard manhood at her entrance and slid into her a little. She whined quietly, clasping her hands on the bedding, her walls hypersensitive from his earlier caresses.

She heard him sigh loudly, clasping his hands on her hips, sliding into her fully, filling her to the brim wonderfully, her hot, fleshy insides pulsing intensely against him, intensifying his sensations.

"− fuck − you're clenching so hard − you're close, aren't you? −" He exhaled, beginning to move inside her, his thrusts intense and loud, his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a wet splash of their juices again and again, both of them beginning to pant loudly, thirsting for this closeness like never before.

"− y-yes − ugh, h-husband, I'm gonna cum −" She mumbled with difficulty, moaning in front of him, their shared juices trickling down her thighs as his member pushed her insides apart again and again with each of his thrusts, rubbing her at such an angle that she felt her whole hips tremble, the tension in her lower abdomen unbearable. She heard her husband groan throatily at the word.

"− go on, little one, give it to me − fuck −" He cursed as he felt her insides suddenly begin to clamp down on him in a powerful orgasm, loud moans of pleasure and fulfilment escaping from her mouth, her eyes clenched, her lips parted wide.

Her husband sped up instead of slowing down, fucking her through her orgasm, entering her with a sticky slap of their juices, ignoring her sobs and squeals from overstimulation.

"− just a little more − your husband needs to fill you − fuck, yes, that's it − oh gods −" He mumbled with difficulty, cumming hard inside her, tilting his head back, his warm semen spilling inside her, filling her lower abdomen pleasantly, giving her a sense of both fulfilment and security.

She heard him swallow deeply and slide out of her after a moment, his thumb clamping down on her entrance not allowing a drop of his seed to leak from inside her.

He laid on his side with her, clamping his hand on her womanhood, making sure that nothing he spilled inside her left her, and kissed her neck, panting along with her. They laid like this, cuddled into each other, their bodies hot and sweaty, relieved after their fulfilment.

"I missed you." She whispered softly and felt him freeze behind her, swallowing loudly. He knew what she meant.

Even though they had been next to each other the whole time, it seemed to her that their minds were somewhere else - plunged into darkness, into grief, into a mourning they couldn't get out of. And although she knew they would both not recover from their losses for a long time yet, they were finally reunited, finding comfort in each other's arms.

She heard him swallow loudly, placing a soft, tender kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder.

"I missed you too." He confessed in a low whisper, as if in embarrassment, and she stroked his arm that embraced her. They both lay for a moment in complete silence, playing with their fingers, touching the scars on the inside of their hands, a symbol of their true marriage.

"I'd like to spend some time with Royce. He's overwhelmed with his responsibilities. He needs me." She whispered and felt her husband's body tighten and solidify. For a moment, all that answered her was silence and the sounds of servants talking outside the window in the courtyard.

"Do you trust me?" She asked quietly and he swallowed, sighing heavily, sinking his nose into her hair, his body easing in surrender.

"Yes."

Royce was given one of the large chambers in their part of the keep, however, he hardly left it. She knew that he felt like a prisoner in King's Landing, that he suffered because their father was still unburied and waited impatiently for their sisters to arrive.

She came to him unannounced, and he gave her an attentive glance from above the letter he had just written. He did not speak to her when the door closed behind her.

He was angry with her.

He was angry with the whole world.

He was suffering because their father had died for a king he did not respect or revere.

She approached him slowly, standing behind him, looking over his shoulder at his letter. He had just written to their uncle, Borros' younger brother, informing him of the king's new decisions.

"What is it?" He asked dryly, and she felt pain in her heart at the tone of his voice.

She knew he was in pain, she knew he was terrified that his father was gone, that now he was to be Lord of Storm's End, commander in chief of his army. She knew he didn't feel ready.

On top of that, he had been forced to marry against his will.

"Don't you want to see me anymore?" She asked quietly, powerlessly, and he swallowed loudly, sighing, putting the quill aside. She saw him run his hand over his face and remain silent for a long moment.

"I wish I could take you with me to Storm's End. To escape this fucking prison and forget what happened. Instead, I'm going to bring Iron Whore there with me, a woman who I'm sure has had hundreds of men before me and will cut my throat in my sleep." He hissed out on one exhale everything that was weighing on his heart, and she felt a tightening in her chest. She stepped around his oak desk and settled down in front of him.

"Do you remember the day I sailed for King's Landing to marry my husband?" She asked quietly, and he looked at her with his lips tightened. His gaze softened, embarrassment flashed across his face.

"…of course. I was heartbroken and devastated that…" He said, but was unable to finish.

"… that you and our father sold me. Is that how you felt?" She asked him softly and he looked at her with his lips tightened. His nostrils moved restlessly, his eyes red.

"…yes − fuck, you know I did −" He mumbled, running a hand through his lush dark hair.

"You couldn't do anything, even though you wanted to. Me and my husband can't do anything now either, even though we'd like to." She said calmly, and Royce snorted at the mere mention of him.

"Our father died a heroic death saving my husband. I firmly believe that he is now in the heavens with our mother and can at last tell her everything he has been choking inside himself for so many years." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling a tightness in her throat, Royce looked at her in pain.

"Know that you will always have my support, Royce. Always."

_____

Taglist 1

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#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic #aemond kinslayer #prince aemond #aemond #aemond one eye #house of the dragon aemond #aemond targeryen angst #dark aemond smut #dark aemond #dark aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #aemond angst #hotd angst #ewan mitchell smut #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #hotd smut #aemond fanfic #aemond fandom #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #ewan mitchell fandom #house of the dragon fandom

[11queensupreme11]

While I was reading your old posts another idea for an AU came to mind, this is a pretty dark be brave and read this

The Soul Swap/Possession AU:

In a previous post someone gave the idea of ​​Percy dying in the pjo world and having his soul stolen from the underworld by suitors

Percy returned to her world, and during a battle she was hit violently in the back and died, the suitors watched this in pure agony without being able to interfere, when they managed to open a portal to invade the pjo world it was already too late and Percy's soul had already been sent to the underworld

Not accepting this ending, the suitors invade the underworld and steal Percy's soul and take it back to the ror universe.

First they meet in a council to decide how they will proceed, all the gods are very upset and worried about Percy, his body was completely destroyed and all that remains was his soul, everyone is giving ideas on what to do until that at some point a "God" proposes the best solution

What if they create a new child body and put Percy's soul in it? Getting someone pregnant to give Percy a new life seems like a great idea never mind that the idea of ​​forcing someone to get pregnant or ripping a baby's soul out of their body to give to someone else is beyond cruel and unethical

They make a selection of the female ,goddesses and nymphs, who are most physically similar to Percy.

They choose a candidate and after much, much MORE EFFORT, Poseidon manages to convince his “little friend” to toughen up ALL for his beloved Percy, he manages to get the candidate pregnant or maybe simply pour it into a small pot and Beelzebub takes the seed with a medical syringe and presents it to the candidate so that he does not have to commit "adultery"

Well, after the pregnancy is confirmed, tests and experiments begin on the candidate, Beelzebub begins to do all kinds of experiments and modifications on the fetus to ensure that the baby is a girl and that she has a physical appearance identical to Percy Adriana Lima

No one cares about the happiness or consent of the chosen candidate gods know what consent is? They only care about the health and appearance of the child not because they care or love the child, they just need the child to be viable as a vessel for Percy's soul

For nine months the chosen candidate undergoes several experiments and tests unlike the scenario where Beelzebub tests his own children within Percy, here he doesn't care about the candidate so causing her pain or discomfort makes no difference to him, poor woman, when she is not suffering in Beelzebub's laboratory she is having the healthiest pregnancy possible as she is constantly under the care of the Gods of medicine of all pantheons

she also spends her entire pregnancy suffering psychological abuse because she knows that as soon as her baby is born he will be killed perhaps she will also be killed since she will no longer be useful she knows that absolutely no one cares about her, she has to live with the constant hatred of Poseidon who only tolerates her because she is pregnant with Percy's future new body, everyone treats her with indifference and only addresses her to talk about the child in her womb

She has to attend monthly meetings where the gods talk about her child as if she were just a lab rat, they just talk about how the pregnancy is going and how much the baby has grown, whether the baby is healthy and how they will perform the possession ritual They always ask how is Percy's body?, Is Percy's body healthy? How long will it take until Percy's body is ready?

It would be even worse if during the months of pregnancy she started to truly love her baby, she just had to sit and listen in silence as everyone around her planned to kill and replace her daughter, she had to listen to the gods talk about her baby like If he was nothing more than an object, they talk about your baby like her soul was disposable

Maybe she tries to ask the Valkyries for help, ask them to help her escape, help save her baby but they refuse maybe because they really like Percy or maybe it's because it was Bruhilde who proposed the idea of ​​creating a new body for Percy, perhaps because she was the one who chose the ideal candidate whose daughter's body would be compatible with Percy's soul, perhaps because she bargained for Percy's rebirth for another thousand years of humanity's existence

It would be like one of those mother-of-manhua situations where they are pregnant and then discover that their cheating husbands have a lover who carries out an evil plan to kill her, except in this situation the mother is a minor goddess or a nymph whose chances of go back in time to get revenge and save her baby are -1000000000, in other words IMPOSSIBLE

After his failed escape attempt, the guards and gods around him became even more suffocating and cruel You can't convince me that Loki wouldn't spend the nine months verbally abusing the poor goddess/nymph while monitoring the baby's health until the moment of birth arrived

As soon as the baby is born, she is ripped from her mother's arms and taken to a room where the gods perform a ritual in which her little soul is ripped from her body and is replaced by Percy's soul

Now Poseidon is lovingly holding the baby. Percy in her arms while being surrounded by the other yanderes who are cooing and crying with happiness all this while in the background a goddess/nymph screams and cries in pain over the death of her daughter who didn't even have the chance to see the world, the poor thing died at the hands of her own father and EVERYONE is happy about that

Poseidon fulfills his wish of having been part of Percy's childhood and you can't walk down a hallway in Atlântica without seeing a portrait of her

Percy has his memories sealed since her tiny brain couldn't handle so much information but they eventually manifest themselves in dreams and dreams, she still has the same personality and morals because consequently she is still attached to her human morals from her past human life.

However, in the future if somehow Percy will be able to recover all her memories and discover how exactly she came back to life which I doubt because I bet all the gods would create a pact where they would promise not to mention a single word about what happened, but I imagine that in an act of revenge the mother of Percy's body would tell her the truth she would feel an overwhelming guilt for having indirectly killed and stolen the body of a little child

I feel like this scenario got really dark really fast.

this scenario is actually similar to a manhua I read where the female protagonist finds out that she and her baby were sacrificed by the temple so she only has a few months to save herself and her baby except in this case she failed

THIS IS PROBABLY THE BEST THING I EVER READ HOLY FUCKING SHIT

NO SERIOUSLY THIS IS SO SCRUMPTIOUSLY DARK OMG

IMAGINE HOW MUCH WORSE THE ROR CHARACTERS ARE GONNA BE??? NOT EVEN JUST THE YANDERES, BUT THE OTHER CHARACTERS TOO

THEY JUST WITNESSED PERCY DIE, BUT THEY MANAGED TO GET HER BACK AGAIN BUT AS A BABY THIS TIME

THIS GIRL IS GONNA BE SOOO FUCKING SHELTERED. LIKE MIZUHIME FROM TSUNAMI BUT 100% WORSE CUZ EVERYONE'S GONNA BE COLLECTIVELY WORKING TOGETHER TO GROOM AND MANIPULATE THIS GIRL

I LOVE THE IDEA OF HER GRADUALLY DEVELOPING HER ORIGINAL PERSONALITY, BUT SHE'S GONNA BE VERY VERY IGNORANT AND NAIVE BECAUSE OF HOW MUCH SHE'S BEING CODDLED AND SHELTERED

ALSO IMAGINE SHE SOMETIMES GETS GLIMPSES OF HER PAST THROUGH HER SLEEP AND POSEIDON'S ALL "oh it's just a bad dream, princess 🥺" BUT HE'S FREAKING OUT AT THE THOUGHT OF HER REGAINING HER MEMORIES SO HE LIKE FUCKING SCHEMES TO MESS WITH HER MIND AGAIN OR SOMETHING

I LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH OMG

#👸🏻| asks #👸🏻| arsenic blues

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

Hi~~ i wish you have a nice day, I love your blog.

I'm quite new to the mdzs fandom but i already fed up with them. Just now, i saw some fans said that lxc being a complete jerk towards wwx and lwj. I know lxc made mistakes as well but being a complete jerk? And then proceed to say that the jiangs treated wwx like a real young master eventho he's a servant's son 🥲

I dont know anymore~

I'm so sorry for rambling here, i hope you dont mind.

Good morning anon, no need to feel bad, it's what I'm here for at times.

Personally, no I don't agree with the many more critical takes regarding Lan Xichen. He is not meant to be seen as a major part of the problem(tm) as others within story. He is simply a protective elder brother that is unfortunately kinder and ignorant in a world that is against that very character in a stage that caters towards the politically corrupt and taking advantage of those characteristics. He is not a cruel leader.

His sect at any rate isn't meant to be politically motivated and this is reflective of his teachings. Culturally if you are that heavily based within doaist teachings, it is not actually meant to be used for the political world. There are sayings that to be a good doaist, you aren't a leader or one to be equivalent to an emperor. You aren't meant for politics essentially other than advisory. Can this be disliked, of course, doaism is supposed to be the divorce of human strife from enlightenment, good and bad are not supposed to shake you as neither extreme are complete harmony.

His point narratively is what this practice means for people in the thick of these human issues and the counterproductiveness of pacifism in the face of needing to come to term with punishment of humans and the hypocrisy of this at times you have to fight with personally.

Wei Wuxian as well. He was treated alright and enough for him to be thankful and happy at lotus Pier, but realistically he was not treated well by several there, it was just that he weighed the good against the negative and was comfortable staying to find his happiness with the situation. However, with the given world building status is flung against him as having become too arrogant given he was born a servant's son, and the expectations of him were to also serve as such and obey. This is used against him by his guardians themselves, Jiang Cheng and the world as recompense for having raised him as a cultivator, he also told his own self whatever sacrifices made by him for it, was of an equal sacrifice for having been taken in and raised as such. This is a theme regarding those that are lower class, they are expected to show full gratitude and repayment that those of higher status do not.

"Consider it a repayment of my debt to the Jiangs,” Wei Wuxian added.

Jiang Cheng raised his head and looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “…To my father, my mother, my sister?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

Wei Wuxian rubbed his temple. “Forget it. It’s all in the past. Let’s not bring it up again.”

This wasn’t something he liked to keep reliving. He didn’t want to be forced to remember the sensation of having his core cut out while he was still conscious, nor want to be forcefully reminded of what a sacrifice it had been and what it had cost.

Had this incident been exposed in his previous life, he would most likely have laughed it off. He would have consoled Jiang Cheng with, “It’s really no big deal. Look at me, haven’t I managed for this long without a golden core? I still beat up whomever I want and kill whomever I please.” But he no longer had the strength to keep up a nonchalant act.

Truthfully, he wasn’t unaffected. Could a person so easily resign themselves to such a loss?

Of course not. It was impossible.

Wei Wuxian’s own pride when he was seventeen or eighteen had been, in fact, on par with Jiang Cheng’s. He had also been someone with strong spiritual power and exceptional talent. Even when he’d fooled around all day catching fish and shooting birds, and

climbing walls and playing pranks at night, he had still been leagues ahead of his fellow disciples who actually studied hard.

But whenever he found himself tossing and turning in the dead of night, unable to sleep and plagued by thoughts of how he’d never again follow the orthodox path to the mountain’s peak, never again display the astounding swordplay that made people’s jaws drop…he would turn his thoughts around with a simple fact. If it had not been for Jiang Fengmian bringing him to Lotus Pier, Wei Wuxian might never have crossed

paths with the cultivation world. He would never have been conscious of such a mystical and magnificent realm. He’d merely have been the leader of some homeless street urchins who roamed the streets and fled at the sight of dogs—or perhaps herded cattle and stole vegetables in the countryside, playing his flute and living one day at a time. He’d have had no way of cultivating, let alone a chance to form a golden core.

And at that thought, he’d feel a lot better.

So he treated it as a repayment of his debt, or an atonement for his sins.Treated it as if he had never obtained that golden core to begin with.

After bringing himself around so many times this way, he was almost able to actually feel as wild and carefree as he acted on the surface. He could even half-jokingly praise himself for the state of acceptance he had reached, while he was at it.

But all that was in the past.

His rationale is very similar to what those in poverty or on the cusp tell themselves, be grateful for what is given to you, no more, and always repay what others have given to you despite anything. Don't whine, take it, be grateful, don't ask for more, and expect to pay back in full due to integrity. Note that this is also what Jiang Cheng insists on, but the goals have constantly shifted as to what Wei Wuxian owes him. First it was because of his parents raising him, next, what he owed Yunmeng Jiang due to being a disciple, then, what he made Jiang Yanli "lose".

You cannot repay something that is not tangentially there any longer, hurt feelings do not have closure unless you have to lay them to rest. Wei Wuxian had done his all to protect the Jiang's son as expected and more. Yet this still is not him bemoaning the situation as he rationalized it was what he needed to do based on the chance he was given. Not many else in the work bother to do more than blame others or shift blame and responsibility.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #wei wuxian

[raichett]

Smile

Okay, but if you think about it, Dream’s dental health has got to be a wreck after prison, right? Anyway, have some post-prison Punz-Dream content. The state of their relationship is kind of ambiguous and could very easily go either way, so if you wanna tag as shipping then please feel very free to do so.

Content warnings: implied/referenced torture, non-graphic dental horror, non-graphic DIY dentistry.

This flash fic can also be found on AO3 here.

–

SMILE

It takes Punz a solid half-hour of direct gentle coaxing on top of the roughly five hours of careful companionship and verbal prodding from the rest of the day to get Dream into their tower. He stands there now, still flighty, cautious on his feet as though at any moment he will be gone right back out the door and Punz will be lucky to see him for weeks.

Punz walks in easily, checking their traps – you can never be too careful ‘round here, by the Void – and pulling a chair out from their dining table casually on their way past. The invitation is implicit, hopefully not too pressuring, what with Punz not even looking at Dream as they shrug off their damp cloak and drape it over the rail they keep by the fire for exactly this purpose. As they kneel down at the hearth, flint and steel in hand, they listen to the soft footsteps and quiet scrape of the chair as Dream sits down.

The fire bursts into glorious life in front of them, flushing their front with warmth. It’ll take longer to heat up the rest of the room, but it’s a start. Hopefully the promise of future warmth, especially in comparison to the drizzle and mist outside, will keep Dream here long enough for him to actually appreciate it.

Punz listens to Dream shift in his chair. “I’ll just be back with the potions,” they say, stepping out of the room. “Could you get the lamps lit?”

Upstairs, Punz gathers healing and weakness in their hands from their medical chest. Then, grimacing, they add a pair of small pliers. It’s nasty work, but – these things have got to be done, and Dream has trusted them. They can’t let him down.

Back in the living room, the lamps hanging from the ceiling now bright and the curtains drawn across the shutters of the windows, Dream looks smaller without his cloak, now draped next to Punz’s, his mask on the table, scarred and thin visage exposed. Punz doesn’t let the thought show on their face; Dream doesn’t take well to what he perceives as pity born of arrogance and self-centredness, instead of pity born of love and care. Punz knows which one they feel, but to convince Dream of it is a war, not a single battle, and Punz knows well how to pick and choose those. Not today.

Dream flinches at the sight of the pliers before freezing in place. Punz carefully pretends not to notice as they set their equipment down: potions, pliers, a cup of water, an empty bowl. Silently, they slide the weakness over to Dream. It’s not the most effective painkiller in the world, but it will simply have to do until the healing takes care of the rest. It’ll numb Dream, at least, make his limbs tired and clumsy. Punz tries not to feel cruel as Dream uncorks the phial and swallows it down like a shot, with all the bleak stubbornness of one who strongly desires to have an unpleasant thing over and done with.

“Which ones?” Punz asks as Dream leans back in the chair and opens his mouth.

Dream shudders minutely. “All of them,” he says, blankly. “Gimme a whole new set. I don’t want any complications.”

Punz can’t stop the wince and discontented twist of their lips. They line up the healing potions next to Dream and take the pliers in hand. After a moment of hesitation, they pull closer another one of the weakness potions and hand it over – double dosing isn’t exactly good for you, but neither is being in immense amounts of pain over the time it’ll take for Punz to replace Dream’s teeth. “They got fucked up that much?”

Dream swallows the second weakness potion, sagging in his chair. Punz knows how immense the trust they’re being displayed is. “Worse. Don’t ask.”

Punz doesn’t ask. Instead, they take the pliers in hand and adjust one of the ceiling lanterns to hang directly above, shining into Dream’s open mouth and the broken and chipped teeth within.

–

After, when the empty bowl is full of bloodied water, the glass nearly empty, the pliers abandoned next to a pile of teeth and the empty phials that once were healing potions, Punz holds a cold damp cloth to Dream’s cheeks as he twitches in the chair, grimacing, his jaw making small wordless movements as his teeth grow back in. They hope it’s helping; Dream isn’t exactly talking yet.

Finally, Dream says carefully, “Think that’s it, or close.” He reaches up to press his hands over Punz’s, both of them holding the cloth to his cheeks. A dribble of water slides down, lingering on his jaw before dropping to spot at his collar. Dream bares his new teeth to Punz’s gaze and runs his tongue over them. “Yeah.”

“Does it still hurt?” Punz tries to modulate the concern in their voice down to Dream-safe levels.

Dream shrugs. “A bit. More ache than pain. I’ll sleep it off.” He pulls Punz’s hands away from his cheeks, not ungentle, taking the cloth and putting it on the table next to his old teeth. “… Thanks.” He still looks far too serious for Punz’s liking; he’s been more prone to solemnity since Punz last knew him. Prison took something from him, dimmed his light, and that’s – unforgivable.

“You’re welcome,” Punz replies, and then, taking a chance, they grin right at Dream. “Finally got your smile back, huh?” they say, handing Dream’s mask to him in the same moment, painted smile leering up at the ceiling, hoping the dark humour will make Dream laugh.

Success: Dream wheezes, almost surprised at the sound coming out of his own throat. “Yeah,” he says. He swipes his tongue over his teeth again, taking the mask from Punz and staring at it one brief moment before meeting Punz’s eyes again. Softer than he probably intends, lips tugging up in a small smile at Punz, he says, “I’ve got that going for me, at least.”

#my writing #flash fic #fanfic #dsmp #dream #punz #staged duo

[unlimited-works-in-progress]

Warden's Disease: Chapter 1

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Category: M/M Relationships: Fenris/Anders, Hawke/Anders, Fenris/Hawke Characters: Fenris, Anders, Blue/Purple Hawke, Sebastian Vael Tags: Sickfic, Unknown Disease, Fantasy Disease Status: Work in Progress

I'm not a medical professional, so some things may be off. I only have Google and my ability to properly use it as my backup.

Chapter 1: First Symptoms

Anders was so tired.

They just finished fighting some slavers or some other unpleasant inhabitants of the Wounded Coast, when he felt it hitting him like a hammer. The bone deep exhaustion born from hours upon hours of cleaning and bandaging wounds, and healing the injuries that could and needed to be mended with magic, as the other methods would be just simply insufficient, too risky, or end in the patient’s long and painful death if not treated then and there.

It caught him off guard to the point that he visibly stumbled and would have fallen on his knees and palms to the ground if he didn’t manage to use his staff to support himself until the feeling became a little less prominent and allowed him to actually stand upright.

He didn’t know how long he will be able to keep it up, though.

He had more and more things that needed to be done, and less and less time and energy to actually complete any of them. On top of being the full time Darktown healer, he also had Mage Underground to worry about every now and then, and more frequently than that Hawke’s little treks up and down the city or outside either on the coast or in the mountains.

Sometimes he wondered how did he manage to do it for so long without any issue.

Was it Justice’s influence? Was it his own determination to be useful to the only person that showed him care and compassion in this cruel world, besides of course Varric and Isabela?

Was he truly so hopelessly in love with Hawke that he would keep up this mad pace for so long? He couldn’t really put it past himself, but something was definitely not right. Was it just a burnout effect that he was feeling now, due to barely any time for proper rest in between of all of his numerous responsibilities, or was his age finally catching up to him at last?

If any of those were true, then it was probably good that he was not invited to the trip to the Sundermount that Hawke was planning next. He would probably just become a dead weight, and he really didn’t want to burden Aregor even more than he already did.

Who said that there were no little mercies for him after all? He will finally have enough time to rest, and hopefully Hawke would not even notice there was any issue in the first place.

***

“Why are we even visiting the clinic?” asked Sebastian, hastily avoiding the puddle of something he would rather not investigate too closely. “You don’t even like Anders, so why the sudden care? I bet he is right as a rain, doing whatever vile things he is doing there”.

Fenris sighed, once again thinking that he should bring Sebastian here more often. He may not like Anders and actively disagree with everything that the man said, but despite being a dangerous abomination on the loose, Fenris knew that Anders did only good for the people of Darktown. That there were no vile blood magic rituals, or any conspiracy going on there. Just a place of healing for all that were ignored and discarded by the society and its Chantry. Sebastian did know that Sisters were not visiting Darktown. He even commented on it a few times when they were here, so it wouldn’t be hard to show him that where the Chantry failed, people like Anders did something good and asked nothing in return. Not even the donations he received from people of Lowtown, Hawke, and his grateful patients when they could share.

“Mage was behaving strangely during the last few missions with Hawke, so before Aregor, Merrill, Aveline and Isabela left for the Sundermount, I was asked to check on him once in a while” answered Fenris. He was not happy about the task that was given to him, but he knew it was important, so he was not complaining. “Hawke was worried about him, that’s all I need”.

“You don’t seem eager” commented the prince, to which Fenris responded with a shrug.

He was not, as talking to Anders was always such a chore, but he was willing to sacrifice his good mood and a bit of time to ensure that Hawke would not have to worry too much and in consequence hurt himself during the trip. Maker knew what they will encounter there.

“Is his work here truly that exhausting?” asked Sebastian curiously, looking around for the patients and seeing nobody. They were already pretty close, so it was peculiar that there was nobody around, no stragglers loitering close to the clinic’s doors waiting for their turn, no queue, nothing.

“Usually there are a few people. I am not familiar with how busy the clinic is exactly in the long term, or how it could be if something unexpected happened, but he is usually busy”.

“You said you noticed him stumbling?” Fenris only nodded at that in confirmation. “I saw it too. He nearly had fallen on the last errant we had together. There were a lot of slavers on the coast, so we run into a few groups one after another. He seemed more and more tired after each battle we had that day. More than normal I would say, as usually he was less tired than me, which I always kind of assumed was due to his Grey Warden enhanced stamina”.

Sebastian seemed to contemplate what he just said. Fenris was too. It was true that the mage was more tired and less robust recently. The fact that he noticed was a proof enough.

“That’s why we are checking on him. I might despise what he stands for, but if something happens to him, we will be short of a healer, and not having access to proper treatment can be far more dangerous in a city as corrupt and full of crime like Kirkwall”.

Fenris didn’t say more, because the very thought that he was doing it out of his own worry instead of the clear pragmatism was absurd, and he tried to bury it very deep until it perished. He noticed that Anders was lacking energy recently, but didn’t think more about it until Hawke brought it up, all concerned about Anders’ well-being. It surely must be mage’s fault in some way. Poor sleep management or spending too much time over his ridiculous manifesto.

“Well… then I hope we will meet his snappy asshole self, because then at least we will be sure that he is alright and nothing is amiss”.

Fenris couldn’t agree more. He never would have thought that he will feel uneasy with Anders all calm and quiet. Not at all responsive to any jab he may indirectly aim at him while sharing his opinion during the quests they went on, but if it meant something was truly wrong, he would rather prefer the anger and yelling or a whole tirade about mage rights than whatever they may find when they arrive at the clinic… that for some reason seemed to be closed today.

“Did he say he will be out today, or…” asked Sebastian inspecting the locked door.

“No. Usually the clinic is open during this hour” responded Fenris, looking at the darkened lamp near them that usually indicated if Healer of Darktown was taking patients, and then at the people around. There was nobody waiting there, just like they noticed previously.

Sebastian knocked on the door and waited, but there was no response, then looked at Fenris and shrugged. Could it be that the clinic was truly closed today? Was Anders busy with something else?

“We should ask one of the locals. They will know if mage went somewhere” he decided, and then they moved quickly up the closest stairs to find someone they could ask. Not far away they stumbled upon a young boy, whom Fenris recognized as one of the helpers at the clinic.

They stopped in front of his cot and leveled themselves to be crouching in front of him. Both for the convenience during the conversation and also to not threaten the poor boy. The kid looked at them suspiciously, and even the sight of the golden coin didn’t change that. Varric and Hawke said something about people of Darktown being fiercely protective of their Healer, but he never thought before that even a golden coin would be far less valuable than having Anders around. Well, he should have known. He said so himself. Not having access to a decent treatment was dangerous if not outright deadly in Kirkwall, so it made sense.

“We may not look like it, but we didn’t come here to take away your Healer. We are Hawke’s companions, and we wanted to know if the Healer said he had any business to attend to today?” asked Fenris carefully, trying not to give the boy any more reason to mistrust them.

“We noticed that the clinic was closed, but he didn’t say anything about it last time we saw each other” added Sebastian helpfully. “You don’t have to say when or where”.

The kid measured them both as if judging if they were lying, but then after a few moments of intense staring he took the coin from Fenris, sniffed, and said “Healer didn’t open the clinic. We all thought that he just went away with Messere Hawke, as we usually do, when clinic is closed. So either you are both lying about being his companions, or he truly didn’t leave”.

Fenris and Sebastian looked at each other, and then at the boy.

“Did any of you saw him leaving?” asked Sebastian.

“No, but we assumed that he may have left early, when nobody was up yet to see him leave, and go through the cellar”. Well, that was at least something.

“Thank you, we will check if he used it”.

They both quickly backtracked and climbed through the cellar to the Amell estate, where they met Bodahn and Sandal, already busy even though Hawke was not around.

“Ah, messere Fenris and messere Sebastian! How can I help you today?”

“Did Anders by any chance used the cellar today?”

“No, messere Sebastian. The cellar entrance is usually closed during the night from this side, and I open it every morning just in case serrah Anders needed to use it. That is the arrangement between him and messere Hawke, that at night the cellar is only open on the Darktown side, in case there was some emergency and serrah Anders needed to hide. The doors on Amell estate side are to be opened only if serrah Anders gives a clear sign”.

Fenris never thought about this, but that seemed reasonable. If the entrance was open at all times, it posed a risk to Hawke. There were dangerous people at night that could accidentally find the entrance and go all the way to Amell estate, and if not kill Hawke, then at least rob him blind. Better to avoid tempting fate like this. But if this was true it meant that Anders was not seen leaving the clinic, and didn’t come here, which meant that…

“He is still in the clinic” said Fenris, suddenly full of worry.

“That’s… but why he would not respond?” tried Sebastian, to no avail. He also was concerned now. Despite his clear mistrust of Anders in general, he seemed to care just a bit.

Fenris didn’t respond and run down the cellar tunnel back to Darktown.

“Thank you for your help, Bodahn!” yelled Sebastian, while running after his friend.

After a few minutes, they found themselves upon the clinic's door again.

“Can you open it without damaging the lock?”

“I can try. But still, why didn’t he open the door if he was there?”

“Maybe he couldn’t” said Fenris quickly.

“Or maybe he was just making fun of us for trying to keep tabs on him” replied Sebastian, while fiddling with the lock, but he didn’t seem convinced. If Anders was there, he would surely open the clinic by now, if not for them then for the patients, both of them knew that. This knowledge, however, wasn’t helping with the matter at hand.

“Done!” Both of them rushed into the room.

Everything around looked normal. Peaceful. As if nothing unusual happened. They went around the main room looking for Anders, but didn’t see him until finally, at the very back of the room, Fenris spotted a shadow on the ground. “There!”

Fenris was there first, and surely they have found Anders, lying unconscious on the ground, his breaths calm and shallow. He would look as if he was sleeping if not for his pale face. Fenris put a hand on his forehead, but there was no heat, and no sweat either.

“What do you think happened to him?” asked Sebastian, hovering behind.

“I am not a healer, but I will try to check. Help me put him on the closest cot” he replied, and soon they heaved Anders’ surprisingly heavy body for how little he seemed to eat up, and laid him carefully on the cot, where Fenris would be able to look more closely at him.

“I am not sure, but it looks like overwork was the cause” said Fenris after a few minutes of diligent inspection, while checking the pulse and iris reaction just to be sure.

“How do you know?” inquired Sebastian.

“He clearly slept, as there are no dark shadows under his eyes, so he didn’t pass out from lack of it. However, now when he is sleeping, I can hear that his resting heart rate is higher than it should be. Other than this, we both saw him stumbling, but beyond that, when he wasn’t surprisingly quiet he was more distracted and irritated than usual lately. Prolonged bad mood is also a sign of overwork”.

Sebastian nodded as if to agree it was all true. “Should we wait till he wakes up?”

Fenris looked at Anders, still unsure if his diagnosis was correct. If it was truly just overwork catching up with the mage, wouldn’t Justice step in and wake him up by now?

“That would be best. He is alone and vulnerable now, and I would rather not leave it to chance that he won’t wake up at all if we leave or someone will break into the clinic”.

They waited an hour, maybe two, before Anders finally stirred and groaned, signalling that he is in fact still alive. Fenris moved closer to help him sit up straight, while Sebastian went to prepare some herbs to drink for the mage.

“Ugh… Fenris? What are you doing here?”

There was a slur in the mage’s voice that Fenris really didn’t like.

“We came to check up on you and found you passed out on the floor” replied Fenris, before moving aside, so Sebastian could provide Anders with the steaming mug of herbal tea. Mage looked at the drink, and then at them confused, but accepted the mug and drank from it.

“How are you feeling?” asked the prince curiously.

“As if I was hit by a bronto, or stomped at by a drake… how long was I out?”

“We came around noon, so it should be past 2PM now”.

Anders groaned in frustration. “I remember waking up at the usual hour, and then when I was preparing to open the clinic, suddenly the world tilted and then…” he shrugged.

“Do you know what caused this?”

Anders sighed. “If I were to guess, I would bet I was too exhausted and my body just gave out, as overwork is something that cannot be just pushed away with one or several good night's sleep”.

Fenris nodded at that, even though he still thought that something was not right here. He didn’t think that Anders was lying, but the fact that Justice didn’t make an appearance just to at least put his mage back in bed instead of leave him on the cold ground for the most part of the day, didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t know if that was common, but he assumed that if Anders was unable to move, Justice would take over the body in his place. Which was a little disturbing if he really thought about it, and also the reason why he didn’t mention it out loud. He didn’t want Sebastian to mistrust the mage even more. Even Fenris, who expressed healthy wariness of mages, was reluctant to see Justice as a threat to the clinic that he wanted to protect, but Sebastian saw this issue differently, so he decided not to risk it.

“Will you be alright now?” asked Fenris, earning himself a raised brow from both Anders and Sebastian. He should really try to sound less worried and more like his usual self, especially considering that he didn’t even know why he was fussing over the mage like this.

“Yes, don’t worry about me” said Anders, smirking at him, which was actually a pretty good incentive to make him stop caring at all if he did. But he did not. Fenris scowled at him in return.

“Fine. We will be going back then” he rose to his feet and headed outside. “Try to not drop dead while at it”. Sebastian huffed in amusement at his sudden change in attitude, and then went after him, saying at the end. “Your patients and we as well need you alive”.

***

Anders’ should have known that nothing can end well for him.

He thought that he will have time to rest, which was true, but hoping that Hawke will not notice that anything is wrong was apparently beyond his measly luck, considering that he sent Fenris and Sebastian to check on him, when he was away. Figures.

Anders sighed and stared into his tea.

He told Fenris that it was exhaustion, but he was not so sure himself. Something odd was happening. Normally, if he lost consciousness like that, Justice would react in some way. He often didn’t understand that Anders needed to rest, so it was common for him to just wake Anders up whenever he was knocked up. Could it be that Justice realized that Anders needed to be left alone and that’s why he didn’t appear? It was possible, considering the fact that he was found on the floor. Justice didn’t have a body before Kristoff, and Kristoff was dead so his body’s ability to feel was also damaged, hence why Justice didn’t need to eat, sleep, or even just lie down on something comfortable simply because he wanted to. He could now feel a bit of that through Anders, but he still didn’t see it as necessary for rest, which his body will probably keep reminding him off for the next few days.

A thought to berate the spirit for this arose in his mind, but there was no responding stir that he grew to associate with Justice. The feeling that he knew was his, but yet wasn’t. Usually when they communicated, it was without words. Justice had a hard time relaying his will in a body that had a will of its own like a living body instead of a corpse he inhabited previously, so his responses were mostly stirs of feelings that Anders needed to learn to distinguish from his own, and now it was easier for him to see when spirit was responding and when not.

It was however unexpected that Justice didn’t raise to his bait. Did something happen? He searched his mind looking for something, the most fickle of feelings that may have been Justice, and soon he found only a small feeling of reassurance responding to his probing for answers, but nothing concrete. What was Justice doing that his response was something that Anders could roughly translate to “It will be ok?”. That really didn’t help him not to worry!

He sighed again, this time in frustration, then finished his tea, and opened the clinic.

Hopefully whatever is wrong with him will pass soon. He didn’t like the idea of dealing with Hawke and his overprotectiveness. Knowing him, Aregor would find a way to insert himself into his life and force him to stop doing anything until they learned what was happening.

Anders didn’t have time for something like this. He had a revolution to plan.

And he really didn’t need any handsome men to hinder him.

~***~

AN: I seriously wondered if making Fenris and Sebastian run around Darktown frantically isn't a bit too much, but in the end I decided to leave it, because they may dislike Anders, but he is their only healer and if something happened, and they did nothing it'd be bad. Not to mention that Fenris is already interested in Anders, he is just in denial about it. Sebastian is a good friend that will run around with you if needed. As you can see, I'm also fanoning the Clinic a bit, because in the clinic in the game they would probably spot him outright. Let's just say there were obstacles on the way that made them not see him at first.

#dragon age 2 #dragon age fanfiction #fenders #handers #fenhawke #fenhanders #sickfic #unknown disease #fantasy disease #warden's disease by varis #v.a.r.i.s writing

[rinarin-karimel]

Fumetsu is, of course, a very glassy and painful canon, despite the possibility of resurrection for some people. But when I talk about painfulness, I don't just want to mention deaths, or emotional pain, or the tragedy of situations. And another aspect.

Let's compare with my other favorite manga: Pandora Hearts. A large caste died, giving us a lot of tears, but...Before their death or earlier, the heroes of the manga came to some kind of peace of mind, understood their delusions, or could die peacefully. But in Fumetsu this is completely absent. Let's see:

Parona

Parona could not forgive herself for the death of her sister, and considered herself to blame for her death. Hence part of Parona's behavior and her desire to protect March at all costs. But she fails to protect March, she is defeated and dies at the hands of the murderer of her dear one, and now we are not even talking about universal injustice, but about the fact that Parona could never forgive her far-fetched sins.

Gugu.

In his first appearance, Gugu asks himself: why am I not special? After being wounded, he hides his face under a mask. In the Modern arc, his classmates accept him without a mask, but he still returns to Takunaha, where there are many like him "Gugu under the mask" and most readers see this as a positive thing for him, that he has gone to where he wants to be . Gugu in the future world is also covered with a mask, although he had plastic surgery in the Modern world and Fushi could resurrect him with a healed face. But he never let go of his desire to hide.

Tonari.

Tonari on Janada, even as a child, considers himself “dirty” and a terrible person (and Fushi is his antipode). She, at the end of the past arc, never gets the opportunity to begin to consider Fushi an equal (she asks to be buried at his feet). She also continues to consider herself dirty and unworthy in the modern arc, she believes she must suppress her love for Fushi and considers herself a terrible old woman. Has Tonari cured her complexes and overcome her terrible vision of herself? No.

Kahaku.

Well, he is the standard of this example. His family instilled in him an inferiority complex as a child and proved to him that he was to blame for being born into the world. When he meets Fushi, he has a guilt complex for his own existence and a feeling of guilt, for something that he was unable to influence (he considers himself guilty that the Bennett Church began to hunt Fushi, but as a child he could not influence this at all ) this is almost the first thing we see in him. He further blames himself for the fact that the Church caught Fushi and tortured him with a hot iron. This progresses as he begins to believe that he can't help Fushi and the end of the Renryll arc is quintessential. He can't separate himself from what Left Hand did or forgive himself for his role in it, which leads to his death, but he never forgave himself or let himself go simply for being born and it's so nightmarish.

Messar. Well, here, too, everything is clear, Messar simply drank himself from alcohol for two AGES, wasting his life, unable to forgive himself for the death of Alma. (The question is, why couldn’t his comrades code it by force?).

Fushi.

Well, everything is clear too. As he began to consider himself to blame for all the deaths, he continued. He accepted that he “killed Gugu, Parona, March” (of course, this is not true), he considered himself guilty because he thought that the Knockers were killing people because of him, and having learned otherwise, he continued to consider himself guilty and responsible, hence his self-destructive behavior in Renrill, which he does not let go of, but only reinforces at the end of the arc, concluding that he should have simply obeyed Bon and “he should not have wanted or asked for anything.” This is incredibly cruel.

Mizuha.

Many regard the finale for Mizuha as a happy ending for her in terms of her character: she does not act selfishly, she does something in the spirit of Kahaku in the finale, and it would seem that she also learned to give something to Fushi, and not just accept. But. Mizuha used to live in the concept of “I do everything for my mother, I live an ideal life for my mother,” she did not truly live for herself. I'm not at all sure that the object of this credo just didn't shift from mom to Fushi/Hanna, did Mizuha just live for herself?

It doesn't really work with March or Hairo or Eko and Kai, and I'm not sure about Bon because I don't understand him, but more than half of the main cast just never broke out of the established framework of self-blame and self-harm, and didn't accept themselves and did not forgive themselves, even if their sins were others. The canon of unprocessed injuries. It's very sad actually.

#fumetsu no anata e #to your eternity #fnae anime spoiler #fnae

[walkingwiththegods1]

Pagan Misconceptions Clarified: Why Gaia, is NOT "Only the Goddess of The Earth, which people called too; Mother Earth?!"

     People tends to think in Gaia, as a quiet figure; that doesn't did much in mythology, except to siring children; and retiring of her role of power, after her children takes The World and Heavens; as their new rulers, but... That's all about Gaia?!... She is simply a motherly figure, that just stopped to participate in The Myths and The World; at all?!... Or... She doesn't even have a role in The World, or in our lives; today?!...

     ...Of course! ...She is much more, than "The Embodiment of Earth"; itself!

     In the next lines, you may end surprised of how many atributes she have, how powerful she is; and even... How she influences our lives today, mostly positively; without we even know it!

    Gaia, was the first being with form that existed after The Chaos; and she ended pregnant without companion, (Yes, you readed right: It was a virginal pregnancy!) to Uranus, Pontus; and Ourea (The Mountains): Uranus and Pontus, have children with Gaia. With her son, Pontus; she was The Mother of The Primordial Marine Deities... And, with Uranus; she was mother of The Titans, that eventually became the parents of... The Olympian Gods! In Rome, she recieved the name of Tellus; and mostly, the name of Terra.

    And now... I will say why Gaia, is more than the sacrest ancestor; of "The Mighty Ones than dwells, in Olympus..." And... Than she is a Deity that any Pagan, Wiccan or Witch; should respect, follow; and/or, to rely on!

    The history of Gaia's power, starts here!

    After making to Uranus, (The Sky) her husband; she have children with him, starting with The Titans; followed by The Cyclopes, and finally; The Hecantochires. BUT... In the most egoist act ever told in Greek Mythology, of "I love making children!... But... I don't love the idea of have them; or raise them!"; Uranus, as soon The Cyclopes and Hecantochires; are born... Pushed them back inside the deepest part of Gaia (Tartarus), AGAIN! She was in constant pain, for having their children backed inside of her; and very distressed and angry, for this act of cruelness toward her children; and to herself, so... She devised a plan, to ended the rule of her tyranic husband: She made a sickle with adamantine, and asked to any of The Titans; which one of them will ambushes to Uranus, and the only one that offered himself; was Cronus. He hid, and when Uranus was about to sleep with Gaia... Cronus, castrated him! From the Blood of Cronus, that fell on Earth after he was castrated... Was borned The Erinyes, along with The Gigantes, (Giants) and the Ash-Tree Nymphs, The Meliae! After the Castration of Uranus, The Titans became the rulers of The World; and Cronus, the youngest of The Titans; as their Ruler! A time later, Cronus imprisoned to The Gigantes with The Hecantochires and The Cyclopes again; and took to his older sister Rhea, as his wife; to rule as king and queen of The world...

    …That rule, was called; The Golden Age! (And, despite it was an awesome time to live; well... It didn't last much!...)

    Cronus, founded out by Gaia and Uranus; that according to Gaia's prophecy... He will be overthrown by his own chidren, someday; like he did, with his own father. For this, as soon Rhea gave birth to a child, he devoured them! The children, were devoured as soon the were borned, from the oldest, to the youngest; were: Hestia, Demeter; Hera, Hades and Poseidon. When Rhea was pregnant of her last child, Zeus; she searched the help of Cronus and Gaia, to save to the child to be born; so when Zeus was born, Rhea give a stone to Cronus instead of her son; and Gaia, put Zeus under her care. And... Was under Gaia's advice, that Zeus could defeated to The Titans; and became, with her brothers and sisters; the new Ruler of The World! When Zeus and Hera get married, Gaia giften with The Golden Apples of The Hesperides; as a wedding present! A time later, Gaia; (Enraged for the cruelty suffered to their sons and daughters, The Titans; by Zeus...) concieve with Tartarus, to Typhon: A monster conceived, to overthrown to Zeus and The Olympians; which was the last child of Gaia, and the last treath to Zeus's power and authority!

     As you have seen, Gaia; is a very powerful Deity, that was the reason behind the succesful succesion of three powerful male deities: Uranus, Cronus... And, Zeus!

    But, the participation of Gaia in myths, it doesn't ended with her attempt of overthrowing to Zeus; from power...

   In mythology, was said that an Oath made to Gaia; was one of The most sacrest of oaths: Gaia can punishes easily to the one that breaks that vow, 'cause "Nobody can escape from Earth, because; she is... EVERYWHERE!"

   Gaia, is too The Mother of The Ancestral Spirits; Rustic Deities, of Dragons, Pheme (The Goddess of Rumours, Fame; Gossip and Renown), and of a few Human Tribes: The Pygmies, The Laestrygones and The Phaeacians.

    With Tartarus... She bore to the Female Monster, Echidna (Mother of many famous monsters in myth); and to her last child, the fearsome Typhon!

    In a well known myth, when Hephaestus tries to abuses of Athena; and she fleds quickly, the result of that struggle; was that Gaia ended pregnant of Hephaestus, and gave birth to Erichthonius. (Gaia, gave the baby to Athena; which she raised as her only son, and when he growned up; he became one of the first kings of Athens, that governed with Athena at his side; as an councelor and a protectress of the King, and of her adoptive son!)  

    In other accounts, Gaia helps to Daphne to became a tree; to turned the nymph Ambrosia, into a Vine; The Titan Syceus, into a fig tree; and when Pitys, a nymph that was killed by Boreas; The God of The North Wind for refusing his love, she was turned by Gaia into the pine tree after her death; 'cause Gaia felt pity for her, and for her violent death.

    In other myth, The Giant Orion; while hunting with Artemis; said to her that he will hunt down, "To every single animal on The Earth"; which enraged to Gaia so much, that she sent to The Giant Scorpion; that killed Orion, and that was put in heavens; to made the Zodiac Constellation of Scorpius!

   The Giant Tityos, that was borne from one of Zeus's Lovers; while she was hiddden under The Earth by Zeus, is called too; for being borned under The Earth, as "Son of Gaia."

    Gaia, had a torrid affair with Poseidon; which produces various children; including to the famous Anteus. (Which only could be killed, if his feet stopped to be in contact with his mother; The Earth, and was eventually killed; by Heracles.) It was said too, that she shared The Oracle of Delphi with Poseidon, until Apollo killed to The Pyton Serpent that lived there (A daughter of Gaia); and Apollo became the new Deity of the same place.

    Gaia, in a late myth; sent The Gigantes, (Sons of her and Uranus, when his blood fell on the earth; after he was castrated by his son, Cronus) to revenged the way Zeus treated to her children, The Titans; which was the origin of the famous battle, called; The Gigantomachy, which was prophesied that The Olympians will win it; only if a mortal helped to The Gods: The Olympians winned, when they got the help of Heracles!

    In one story, Gaia saved to Nictimus; (One of children of King Lycaon's) from The Wrath of Zeus, by grabbing his hand; before he killed the prince with a thunderbolt, after he killed to almost all of Lycaon's chidren; for their cruelty, and she raised him as her son.

    For her roles as an Mother, raising foster children; and being The Mother of Animals, some Human Tribes; Monsters, Plants and Spirits; she was venerated in various temples, and her most known epitheth; was: "Mother of All"

    And, according to a myth; Aristeus, (Yes, the one that causes accidentally Eurydices's Death; and was the first beekeeper in history!) was turned into an immortal; by... Gaia!

   Well, now is time to say the relevance of Gaia; today!

    Gaia, under her Roman name of Tellus; was the origin of the word, Telluric; which is related to The Telluric Energies, which is The Earth's natural electricity. And her other Roman name, Terra; is the origin of the name that recieves our Planet, in Spanish: Tierra!

    Gaia, is too The Mother Goddess of All The Plants and Animals; as probably you all have already guessed reading what I put above, BUT... She is too, The Mother Goddess of a very unique and special being; that lives today, on the face of the Earth: Gaia, is The Mother Goddess of All The Humans than have lived, and... Of all that are alive, today! (How that is even possible?!... You may ask: Don't worry: I'll get there, soon!)

   Gaia, was the Mother of The First Primordial Beings that were born by childbirth; and Uranus, was a father with Gaia of The Titans; which were the Parents of The Olimpians; AND... According to a earlier myth, Zeus; (The Ruler of The Olympian Gods, and an descendent of one of The Titans) create to The First Humans, while in later sources; was The Gods or Prometheus, (all descendents of Gaia) who created to The Humans. In other words: Gaia... Is of everybody; our "Great Powerful Ancestor!" And... That makes us all, brothers and sisters; so... Let's stop to discriminate, to hurt and/or fight against each other; and let's leave all differences behind, 'cause I think than Gaia will like that; Okay?!)

    In conclusion... If you feel alone, unlovable; or you were abandoned for family or friends, remember that Gaia; fought for all her children, including The Hecantochires and The Cyclopes; that were monsters: Gaia, loves everyone inconditionally; don't matter how they looks; or their past... There is always a chance to change to be better, and nobody; is unlovable for her.

    If you have a bad relation with your mother, or you never knew your mother... Gaia, can be your mother: She gave everything for the wellbeing of her children, and she still sustain to all of us today; despite most of us never thank her for the food, the air; the water, the beauty we enjoy in nature, the days of good weather we have, for living over her skin; or... For walking on her!

   That's all about The Deity that keeps us alive everyday, and for which all the days must always be; "Mother Earth's Day", for all that she do for us; without we even know it: Gaia!  

Have all of you days of abundance, and of feeling Gaia's Neverending Love; for all of us... So Be It!

#paganism #pagan writings #pagan writer #pagan misconceptions clarified #hellenic paganism #hellenic polytheism #hellenism #pagan goddesses #pagan goddess gaia #greek goddess gaia #greek goddess gaia is not only the goddess of the earth #gaia deity #gaea deity #pagans #pagan #eclectic pagan #ecletic pagan #hellenic pagan #lokean #pagan from the caribbean

[heavenlymorals]

Healing Patron

Ivar sees Heahmund as untouchable, as perfect, but he is just as human as everyone else.

In other words, Heahmund becomes sick and philosophical discussions follow.

This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @nothingtolosebutweight , who is always so kind, so encouraging, and so talented and amazing! I hope you like it ❤❤ Go check her stuff out! Her fics are always amazing and I always find myself coming back to them❤ So wonderful!

Ivar respected strength. 

He respected the physical power that can come from someone teeming with strength. He respected the callouses that can form on one’s hand as they plowed through day after day with only strength as their crutch. He respected the way that that strength could cause someone to wring out blood and life like second nature. 

Now, of course, those were just a few examples of the physical feats that strength can provide. Strength, much like beauty, came in both a physical form and a mental form. 

 He respected the feats strength can allow one to achieve. He respected the ambition that it can provide someone. He respected the determination that it can allow one to have. 

How can one not respect strength? How can one not yearn for it, when it was the one thing that made men men? How could one not long for it when it was the one thing that separated the warriors of old and legend from sniveling cowards who groveled and begged and knew not of personal pride? 

Ivar liked to consider himself a strong person. He simply had to be. He wasn’t given the liberty to not be strong. He wasn’t given the freedom to tap into his most inner, vulnerable self like other men did at times. Any freedom of that sort of expression was nipped at the bud the second he was born with mangled legs that rendered being ‘normal’ an inherent impossibility. Every time he heard jokes and quips at his expense, he learned to bite back just as hard. Every time someone made it difficult for him to do things on his own and without the humiliation of asking for help, he would try ten times harder to be freer in his autonomy. Every time he wanted to cry because living in such a cruel world simply became too much, he would force his head up high and continue marching on like the warrior he was robbed of the opportunity to be at birth. 

From the waist up, his strength could be labeled as physical strength. His arms were toned, and his chest was sculpted. His stomach was riddled with dips and curves as his abs were worked frequently. In the few times that Ivar was able to see himself in a mirror without a tunic, he would, for once, ogle the parts of his body that were worth something. Though he didn’t much like the unnatural coloring of his eyes, they did not offset his other natural features. 

Sometimes, if Ivar was feeling especially good, which weren't many times at all, he would even consider himself…pretty. Other times, he would be enamored with the powerful muscles that coiled in his arms and chest, flexing them lightly and admiring the power that lay beneath them. Of course, he could only do this with his upper body. The second he catches even a glimpse of those useless husks that can only be his legs, he beings to  hate himself much more, and again and again. 

The weakness of his legs, ironically, was far stronger than the strength of his upper body. He forgets all about the power that was coursing through his toned muscles the second he remembers his physical plight. 

And of course, it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t walk, run, jump, or do any of that which was taken for granted by others every single day, the physical strength that he built through years of physical suffering was rendered null and void to most people. 

Because of this, Ivar was more attracted to the second form of strength. The strength of the mind. Oh, what a beautiful thing it was, that sort of strength. It was abstract, always twisting and turning, always plotting and scheming. It was the branches of a strong and weathered tree, always triumphant against the winds of winter. It was the branches of a strong and weathered tree, always vulnerable to the heated touch of fire. In any case, intellect attracted Ivar. It made him strong. 

It made him strong in the ways that mattered, in the ways that made people take a second glimpse at him and realize that he was not only a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, but a son who was special, a son who was destined for greatness, greatness far beyond his late father could ever imagine. Nowhere was that more obvious than after the events of a gruesome battle, where the grass is singed with blood and where the ravens would sing to others to join them in their feast of human flesh. Nowhere was that more obvious than when the warriors under the banner of that soot-stained bird become sober from their adrenaline and ecstasy and realize that their victory came at the hands of the cripple and the reject. 

And by all the gods, Ivar craved it, like how dogs crave bones and how bards crave songs. It made him feel like he was running on clouds when he couldn’t even walk on earth without assistance. 

Now, of course, each type of strength was important. The strength of the body was the tool, and the strength of the mind was the vision. Both were needed, so Ivar tried to be both, but the gods were not kind to him, so he leaned more towards one than the other.

He didn’t want to, but it was simply destiny, and who was he, a lowly human on Midgard to try to change the fate that the gods carved for him? 

But of course, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t jealous, because he often was. Many times, he would close his eyes and start dreaming pretty little dreams about waking up one day and finding his legs as healthy and whole as the rest of him. In those dreams, he would run as fast as his legs could carry him. He would swim faster than anyone else alive. He would make death his slave when he painted landscapes with the blood of his enemies. 

And he couldn’t recall a time he was more jealous than the day he saw a certain Christian man fight in York, covered in filth, screaming obscenities, and sawing the blade of his pristine sword through the stomach of any heathen who made the grave mistake of attacking him or just getting close to him. Oh, and what a sight it was. Of course, his status as a Christian was a bit uncouth, but that mattered little to Ivar as the man he saw in York was the man he always wanted to be. 

Strong.

Whole. 

He made fighting the most savage dance as he coerced death to be his lackey. He moved with such marvelous grace, his movements elegant, confident, and so sure of poise and balance, yet his grace was unlike what one would usually assume of grace. He was no dainty thing, teeming with the poise of a swaying flower licked by the breeze of summer or spring. Oh, no, no, no. He was more like an eagle, like a wolf, savage and deadly, his being teeming with the most primitive and attractive masculinity that can only be described as delectable. That was the only way Ivar could describe his grace as he sliced men, disemboweled men, stabbed men, or pummeled them with the hilt of the beautiful sword that he carried with him like it was a part of his soul. 

He fought differently from all the others. He fought dirty and pristine. He fought passionately and savagely. It fascinated Ivar in a way that nothing else before fascinated him.  Here was a man who could make all the Einherjar in Asgard weep because of their ineptitude, yet he was fighting on the side of the Christians. The cross that dangled from his neck, not unlike the Mjolnir that dangled on Ivar’s, would whip to and fro as he contorted his body to waltz with death. He would scream words of firey motivation to those men under him, and Ivar could see how his words would lull those young Saxon men to face death, if only a little more bravely. 

It was a pity that his allegiance was stalwart for the Christians, but that did not deviate Ivar’s attraction to him any less. 

He learned his name was Heahmund. It was a strange name, but then again, he was Saxon. And it didn’t matter. It suited him quite well, as far as Ivar was concerned. Or maybe it didn’t? He didn’t know the meaning of the name but he wasn’t particularly inclined to care. Oh, bah, whatever. 

When Ivar captured the Christian after the aforementioned chaos at York and brought him to the pagan lands of Scandinavia, he learned something else about Heahmund.

They played hnefetafl several times. Ivar played white and Heahmund played black. Ivar remembered watching those eyes staring at the board, at the checkered surface, at the pawns, at the king. Though they were cooler than when the larger-than-life Christian man fought, the pleasant blue tinged with a sheen of silver was still as bright as ever. Mystical. Enchanting. They let nothing pass their gaze. 

Ivar lost the first time they played. He lost a second time. A third and a fourth. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry though. His pride wasn’t particularly defeated either. He eventually beat Heahmund, preening like a bird whilst doing so, and the man gave him one of those strange smiles of his, which weren’t even smiles at all, but a barely perceivable tilting of his full lips. Ivar noticed though. He noticed a lot of things. 

In any case, Heahmund’s tactfulness on the game board translated quite well to the more real battles of kings and queens. He was intelligent, blunt, a great strategist, and a commander par on excellence. Ivar could only laugh when Heahmund informed him of the situation that led to York’s final capture. 

“The angels granted me a vision-”

“Angels?”

Heahmund studied the board in front of him and moved a pawn with tactful precision. “They are servants of god. Guardians of man.” 

Ivar nodded as he took his turn. If he opened that space, then Heahmund could win in only a few moves. He moved another pawn instead. He will get details of the angels later and laugh at the ridiculousness that Heahmund was incessant on preaching later. “Mmm, yes.”

“I saw the bodies of dead heathens. They were lain across the city in piles. The bodies were gaunt and emaciated from no food. Pestilence nipped on the heels of those unfortunate to be alive. The heathens burned the dead and smoke was in the air,” Heahmund explained as he moved another piece. He grimaced, knowing that he made his position all the more vulnerable to Ivar’s hungry attackers. Ivar seized the opportunity but Heahmund was not out of the game just yes. 

“It was bound to happen eventually. You Saxons barred us from hunting. After a while, no one volunteered to go out hunting. We were bound to starve.” 

Heahmund nodded. “Yes, you were. We saw smoke rising and the stench was rancid. You were burning your dead.” 

Ivar chuckled. “Wrong. We only pretended to burn our dead. I figured that the Saxons were going to try and starve us before taking back the city, so I used that to my advantage. If your King wasn’t duped, then we would’ve truly starved.” 

Heahmund’s fingers gripped the piece violently and set it down with a loud clang! “Athelwulf is a fool. A blundering, idiot fool who hasn’t even the slightest shred of cunning like his father. I told him to wait. It made the most sense. You would be most devastated if we waited some more to attack, but no. He accused me of things most untrue. And look what happened! The city is gone to heathen hands, we lost good men, and now here I am, running amok with those doomed for Hell.” 

Ivar couldn’t help but laugh. “Ah! Then I am grateful to your king for shutting you down. Could you imagine if he didn’t?”

“Yes, I can. It would’ve been glorious,” Heahmund muttered, leaning back against the chair and crossing his strong arms as he awaited the younger man to make his move. Ivar took his time. 

“Mmm. Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Now you’re here. I will make use of your insights far better than your King ever could.”

Heahmund laughed a harsh, snappish laugh. “Oh, joy.” 

Oh, joy indeed!

It was strange, a bit uncouth, but Ivar liked Heahmund. And more than that, he admired Heahmund. How could he not? It would seem ridiculous to not. He was like the heat of the sun on the most tortuous summer day, bright and blazing. He was like the muted silver glow of a waxing moon, mysterious and incanting. He seemed more like a restless spirit, trapped in its own prison of immortality, ethereal and divine, than a man who needed to eat and sleep, who bled, and who suffered. Yes, Ivar had never seen a man such as Heahmund. No one in Norway could compare. Even his brothers, mighty as they were, ravenous and terrifying beasts to behold, seemed like nothing next to Heahmund. Less than nothing, even. Like a lone speck of dust that no one would notice when they dusted their shoulders. That was the magnitude of that man. So perfect, so faultless, so delicious. 

It did not take long for Ivar to realize that his infatuation with Heahmund, an infatuation that was seductive, never ceasing, clamoring, whispering, and so inviting to the soul, who always wandered on white beaches of most blessed solitude, was projection. It was a fantasy that he always kept near and dear to his heart, despite how childish it was. As long as he was alive, the gods may one day take pity on his poor plight and send the most valiant Eir to work her magic on his wilted limbs, but he sincerely doubted that. Thus, it was foolish to hope.

But still. Like hunger or thirst, it came to him when it was least convenient. But what a beautiful fantasy it was. He imagined himself with strong legs. He imagined himself running and jumping and swimming farther and faster than his brothers ever could. He imagined himself to be the most accomplished warrior. Not only leading his men but fighting alongside them. They would fight shoulder to shoulder and crumble the forces of anyone who dares to venture in their way. But no. Those were only fantasies and Heahmund? Well, he was the closest he could ever get to such a fantasy.

Of course, as mentioned before, his identity as a zealous Christian left much to be desired but Ivar could let that slide and focus on the things that actually mattered. Heahmund was who he imagined himself to be if he was given a chance to be normal. So ruthless and so intelligent. The second half to Ivar’s angry soul.

Perhaps it was a bit pathetic, but Ivar felt joy whenever he saw Heahmund doing such uneventful things because it made him dream dreams where he would do such things. Pity! How close dreams were, how you can see them, taste them even, yet they are the farthest thing from reality. Such was the truth of dreams. 

Heahmund was him. Heahmund was him from another world. Heahmund was him if the strength of his body was on par with the strength of his mind. Heahmund was him if he was whole. 

Whole and perfect. 

And so he admired him. He liked him. How could he not, when Heahmund was the ideal man?

So when the first time when Heahmund began to cough, Ivar thought nothing of it. They were small hacks in his throat, nothing too concerning. Sometimes they even masqueraded as grunts or small clearings of his fine throat. They were subtle, faint, minuscule, and nothing to be concerned about, as far as Ivar was concerned. Mothers may run after their little ones if they coughed in such a manner, as children are far more vulnerable to pestilence, but it seemed ridiculous to fret over such nugatory issues when the person in question who was coughing was Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne. Thus, Ivar ignored it, and when he did acknowledge it, it was to jest or to engage in careless smalltalk. 

“Heahmund, please. Harald would be most displeased if you start a plague in his kingdom. I doubt he’d want to aid me in my ambitions anymore if you so.”

Heahmund wracked out another cough, his mouth tucked half hazard in the crook of his elbow. It wasn’t violent or worthy of worrying. It seemed more annoying than anything else. Heahmund relaxed his arm and glared at Ivar with those silver eyes of his. Ivar remembered when he realized his eyes were more silver than blue. 

“Your ambitions mean nothing to me,” Heahmund snapped. Ivar wasn’t surprised at his christian’s irritated mood. He had plenty of reason to be angry. At losing York, at being hoisted to this so-called ‘heathen’ land without choice, at losing his title and his status as a bishop amongst the ‘heathens’,  at staying alive only because of Ivar’s perverted interests. The incessant coughing must just add another factor, even if only a little. Not as noticeable, but still mildly annoying. 

“On the contrary, my ambitions should mean everything to you,” Ivar muttered as he moved over to the table. There was a pitcher on the table. It was foreign, not from this any corner of Scandinavia. There were strange inscriptions on the vessel and when Ivar gave Harald a small inquisition over it before, he shrugged and said it was from a distant land called Persia. Ivar picked up the pitcher and poured water into a cup, which he offered to Heahmund. The older man eyed him suspiciously before taking the cup and taking little sips. Even small victories were victories. 

“And why is that,” Heahmund asked, his words not interrupted by another wave of faint coughs. 

Ivar smiled a devilish smile. If he could read minds then he would know how Heahmund both hated and was infatuated with that smile. Born of sin. Born to beguile. 

“My men wanted to kill you. Now I don’t blame them, you must understand. You alone killed many of their brethren. But I watched you fight and realized that you would be in my best interests to keep you alive. It would be a waste to kill you, so I decided to keep you alive to aid me in my ambitions against the woman who killed my mother. If that ambition did not exist, you would be at the mercy of my men and trust me, Heahmund, there would be no mercy. Especially to someone like you.” 

Heahmund couldn’t help but chuckle. It was a bit gargled from another fit of coughing. “That’s not it. I am but one man in a sea of many. Me being with you or against doesn’t matter, especially if it is only in regards to my skill in fighting.”

Well, that’s true; Heahmund was no god. He was still a man, and one man meant nothing in the grand scheme of things when it came to warfare. 

Ivar shrugged. “That’s true. You are a great warrior, no doubt. That made me interested in you. And when we began speaking to each other-”

“It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice.”

Ivar rolled those too blue eyes of his. Such insolence! “We began speaking to each other and then I realized that you’re much like me. You are strong. You are smart. To kill you would be a waste, thus I saved you and why you are still alive now. If I was only interested in your swordsmanship, you would’ve been a long time over by now. You’re too valuable.” 

Heahmund scrunched his nose and his lips formed into a thin, thin line. “Spare me your flattery. It means nothing.”

Ivar grinned. “It’s a good thing it is not flattery, then. I am not in the business of flattery, your Grace.” 

“You know nothing of grace.”

“So you keep telling me,” Ivar scoffed. He lifted his hand and trailed his fingers absent-mindedly across the expanse of Heahmund’s chest, dusting lightly against the black leather that Heahmund was always enveloped in. “Come now. I know you’ve nothing to do, and I am bored. Let’s play a game of hnefetafl. You can even tell me some more of your Christian stories. I quite liked the last one you spoke of, of Cain and Abel.”

Heahmund could only roll his eyes and then glared at Ivar. The image was disturbed somewhat by another fit of coughing. “What do you take me for, a jester? To entertain you whenever you desire?” 

Ivar chuckled. “No, no, of course not. You entertain me, and I entertain you!”

At that, Heahmund couldn't help but smile. It was a small smile, barely noticeable in the flickering candlelight of the room, but Ivar saw it and it made him warm inside. They played hnefetafl. Ivar won some rounds and lost others. They shared stories. Heahmund spoke of Horsemen, Hell, and the dismemberment of concubines in twelve pieces. Ivar spoke of Valkyries, Náströnd, and the venom of serpents dripping onto the bodies of tricksters. 

In the end, there was no plague brought on specifically by Heahmund. Which was good because Heahmund would no doubt be the chosen sacrifice to beg the gods to have mercy. He was a Saxon Christian. No one would miss him or beg to spare his life. Well, that may not be true. Harald’s kingdom could be teeming with Christians for all he knew, so maybe there would be someone who would want the warrior to live, but Ivar doubted it.

Ivar remembered when Lagertha would come and visit Kattegat back before she revealed her colors as a vindictive bitch, she would tell stories in the great hall and one of those stories was of a plague. She spoke about how the vilest pestilence came and sent many to an early grave. She describes the pale pallor of the dying, tinged with a grotesque yellow. She spoke of burning mounds of dead and the gods reluctantly answering their prayers of mercy after a couple of sacrifices of goats and cows. 

There was no plague brought on by Heahmund, but Heahmund’s condition, which Ivar thought nugatory, became worse. It was as if the image of the perfect man that Ivar imagined was beginning to shatter right in front of him. It was as if the gods were chiding him like a small child for even thinking such a foolish thing. Heahmund was otherworldy and two steps away from perfection, but he was still a man.

And men were fragile things, much like everything else that resided in Midgard. 

Heahmund got worse. And it scared Ivar. It showed Ivar that death crept upon the heels of everyone, like a bothersome dog begging for sustenance. Don't mistake the boy general. He wasn’t afraid of death, no. Death to him was like an old friend, who was always there, with a warm hand on his shoulder, who promised to always be there and to never go away. Death was a constant in Ivar’s life, like his mother’s love, his father’s neglect, his brothers’ apathy, and the pain in his legs. He was used to death. At times, death was even comforting. No, what scared Ivar was the timing of death. 

There were many times when he feared he would die in a way that was lackluster, in a way that wouldn’t bring honor to himself. Now that terrified him. He wanted to die with honor. He didn’t want to die in any other way, for the manner of death determines whether one would sup with the gods, or whether they would dine with sweet Hela. She was a good lady, that mistress of death, but her lands and her promises meant nothing to Ivar, especially when he hears the stories that his mother would weave of his forefathers and foremothers. Those valiant men and women were no doubt in Asgard, basking in the presence of the lords on high, same with Ragnar, and Ivar would do everything he can to be with them as well.

There were many times when he broke a bone and was scared that he would wither away from infection in the span of a few days or months. It was an irrational fear, as his mother’s healers were reincarnations of Lady Eir herself, but the thought that he would be yet another husk destined for Helheim terrified him so much that when he was sure that everyone was asleep, he would indulge himself with soft sobs and wet tears. 

The closest he has ever gotten to dying in a way that would lead him to be barred from the gates of Asgard was when he was with his father. His brilliant father, who tied him to the mass of the ship to keep him from going overboard. Ivar will never, ever forget how the waves churned, how the sky was iron-clad, and how Lady Ran hungered for more souls to fetch in her fishing net. He was terrified of the sea. 

The thought of dying in such ways scared Ivar. And the thought of Heahmund dying from sickness scared him too. 

Scared? Well, that was perhaps too strong a word. He liked the Christian, no doubt, but he could make do without him as well. He was the image that Ivar always wanted to be, but Ivar didn’t need him. That was foolish. 

Unnerved would be a better word. Perhaps even doleful. 

Such a waste. A terrible, terrible waste. 

“Are you alright,” Ivar asked, his brows furrowed in confusion and concern as he looked at his most valiant Christian. Heahmund coughs were worse now. They were raw, dry, and sounded painful. It was as if he was wracking his entire chest with each cough. 

“Never better,” the Christian muttered. Ivar frowned. He loved Heahmund’s dry sense of humor and his beautifully barbed sarcasm, but at times, it became tiresome. Especially at times like these, where Ivar was genuinely showing that he was interested in Heahmund’s wellbeing instead of just masking it with barbed comments designed to reveal truths.

“Heahmund. I’m not jesting.”

A pained laugh. “No, of course not. I’ll be alright, Ivar. It’s just a cough. I have endured worse.”

It wasn’t an answer that Ivar hoped for. He had no doubt that Heahmund endured worse, which was evident by the scars that marred his beautiful body, but he did doubt that it was ‘just a cough’, as Heahmund so eloquently put it. He sighed and walked closer to the Christian before sitting down in front of Heahmund, whose sun-kissed skin was paler and whose hands trembled lightly on the table. It was almost unnoticeable, but Ivar, whose eyes were like that of a hawk or an eagle, spotted the light vibration. “Mm, I should hope so. I will be angry if you won’t be able to fight with us.”

Heahmund snorted at that. If Ivar could read minds, then he would know that Heahmund was comparing him to a petulant brat.

“Oh, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” 

“No. We wouldn’t. It would mean that you would be nothing more than a waste to be buried and to be forgotten,” Ivar hummed, looking at the man, whose eyes suddenly turned wistful, like mist intruding on a fine summer day. 

“The body is nothing but waste, that is true. When one dies, their body rots. It matters not if they were a king or beggar, they will rot. It matters not if they were a warrior or a farmer, they will rot. It matters not if they were a man or a woman, they will rot. If I die here or if I die fighting alongside you, it wouldn’t matter to me. My body would waste away anyways and to be forgotten wouldn’t matter. Only the soul is precious and valuable for that is what enters heaven or hell. Nothing more.”

Ivar frowned. He didn’t like that thinking. He didn’t like that one bit. Out of all of their philosophical discussions, this one irked Ivar the most simply because of how filthy it was to him. “To be forgotten is to die a second death! If no one will remember you, what is the point of doing anything?”

And then, Heahmund laughed, low and gargled. He cackled as if he heard the most ridiculous joke. Ivar felt a red tinge on his fair cheeks. It was ridiculous, as he knew he was right, but Heahmund’s laughter, which was interrupted by another wave of painful coughs, made him second guess himself. Such was the presence of the Christian man. 

“Is that your only reason to live? To not be forgotten? Oh, poor boy, may God have mercy on your damned soul.” 

“Don’t patronize me, Heahmund. I know what I mean.”

“And what is that you mean?” Yet another cough. 

“I am a prince who comes from a line of heroes. My mother was the daughter of heroes and a great queen. My father, a legend. If I am not remembered for anything worth remembering, then the dishonor I would bring to myself and to my family would be unforgivable.” 

Heahmund hummed. “So you don’t believe that being remembered is the only reason worth living. You are just in a situation where you happen to believe it is. What of the farmers whose wheat makes your bread? What of the cobblers who mend your shoes? Are their lives worthless?” 

Ivar shook his head. “No, of course not. But when people are like you and me, we shouldn’t settle for anything less than being remembered for eternity. I am a prince of my people and a warlord. You are a Bishop of the church and a wonderful warrior. We aren’t farmers or cobblers. We are something greater, thus we shouldn’t settle for being forgotten only because the soul is more ‘precious’.” 

Heahmund smiled. It was a wide, toothy smile, and if the light of the sun was less intense, then perhaps Ivar could forget his pale visage and his shaking hands. Alas, that was not the case. Heahmund leaned away from the wall and sat gracefully, or as graceful as he could, on a chair. He cleared his throat.

“Do you know the Romans, Ivar?” 

Ivar nodded his head. “I do. The tales of their exploits travel far. They were very clever.” 

“They were, no doubt. They had a word for it, for the glory that came from one’s life. Dignitas.”

“Dignitas…,” Ivar muttered, rolling the word on his tongue, trying to grasp a feel for it. Dignitas… 

“Yes. Dignitas. The Romans were very ambitious people, and their ideas of honor, legacy, and glory were too important to them. I remember when I traveled once to Rome, I saw the statues of those immortalized by their deeds before the empire fell apart, and it was glorious indeed.”

“What are you trying to get at, Heahmund?” Ivar asked, tilting his head to the side. 

”What I am trying to get at is that most of the people couldn’t even tell you who the men in the statues were, save for a few. Even they will cease to exist in the minds of people at some point. Even with all the war they waged and all the lands they conquered, most of those men are lost to the echoes of time. Suffered terrible fates as well. I suppose what I am trying to say is that the likelihood of people like you and I being remembered by the masses for millennia is less likely than us sprouting wings and flying away. Thus, being remembered, even if we have the means to do so, means nothing for it will go away in time like everything else. It can’t achieve satisfaction nor would it achieve happiness.” 

Ivar frowned. Heahmund’s words were like snakes coiling in his mind, whispering and laughing that the man was right and that nothing he would do or ever do would be able to truly satisfy his ambitions. He wanted to be remembered for as long as men had tongues to speak. Yet then again, even his father, who was once the most famous man in their world, was beginning to have his memories slink back into the shadows. And when one stops talking about someone, that is when they are set to be forgotten. That scared Ivar. That terrified him. Time was infinite and his was limited. He wanted to be remembered just as badly as he wanted to go to Valhalla. 

“So what does matter then, Heahmund? If legacy doesn’t interest you like it should any other man?” Funny enough, his coughs seemed to have seized. Or at the very least, they weren’t as gruesome. It was as if his body allowed him amnesty only to speak his mind with Ivar to prove him wrong. It was an expected thing in their discussions, which always reverted to these back and forths of whose right and whose wrong. It was simply expected.

Heahmund wasted no time answering. It was quick as it was expected. “God interests me, for there is no one more righteous, more powerful, and more beautiful than God. If one is to live, king or beggar, they should live by the words of God. If they should do anything, it should be by the words of God. That is the reason to live. Even to people like…us. True satisfaction and happiness are only achieved in that way.” 

Ivar couldn’t help but sneer. His smile was all teeth, all bite, and no warmth.

“Happiness? Is it the happiness you feel when you cut your back with lashes? Or when you bar yourself from eating because of some stupid ‘sin’?”

At that, Heahmund stiffened, and his eyes widened. Whenever Heahmund did do such things, it was in privacy or discreetly. Well, to put it more accurately, he thought he did it in privacy. He didn’t. Ivar wasn’t respectful of the Bishop’s privacy, and that allowed him to see things that were too strange and too magnificent. For example, he watched him sleeping with a slave from a distance once, and another time, he watched him fornicating with a free woman, a woman who Ivar later learned was betrothed to another man. How scandalous. It was nothing new to Ivar, watching people fucking behind hay bales or in the woods like animals. First, his brothers, and now Heahmund. He has also seen Heahmund whip himself with such vitriol and starve himself for days because of some natural action he took that made him hate himself.

He always looked so miserable afterward as well. As far as Ivar was concerned, that was unacceptable. Here was a man who was absolutely perfect, yet he flagellated himself over such trivial things. It was a weakness that Ivar hated more than anything else because it contradicted quite vehemently with the image that Ivar had of his precious Christian. Strong, whole, and unbreakable. Everything that Ivar wished he could be. A great warrior.

To Heahmund’s credit, his surprised expression quickly fizzled, and that steely look that Ivar adored came back to coat those silver eyes. Those beautiful silver eyes reminded Ivar of a surface of water that reflected the light of the full moon. 

“I am a sinner, that is true. But I try and that is all I can do in this life.” 

Ivar frowned. “But I know it makes you miserable.”

“And perhaps your ambitions to be remembered forever does the same to you.” There was a defensive bite in the older man’s words. And perhaps that was true. The only one truly happy here was Harald. Not because of his achievements or his reputation or whatnot, no. He was happy because he was in love with Astrid and Astrid entertained his feelings even though it was obvious to everyone except that man that she did not love him or want anything to do with him. 

They kept arguing after that, trying to one-up each other each time. It was frustrating as much as it was exhilarating. Perhaps that is why he liked Heahmund so much. He gave as much as he took, and Ivar loved that. He loved their conversations, no matter how heated they could get at times. He liked Heahmund a lot. 

Heahmund excused himself later and Ivar let him go without too much of a hassle. Another vicious onslaught of coughing made his case quite clear. Ivar was even certain that he saw a drop of blood.

Truthfully, Ivar did not now know to treat Heahmund when he was like this. He was too cruel, too mean, and too distant to even begin to know how. Should he be kinder to Heahmund? Someone like Ubbe might’ve said yes as comfort should be provided in such times, but Ivar saw it quite differently.

 Whenever Ivar got sick or broke a bone, his mother would fawn over him excessively. He didn’t have the heart to shoo her away but he hated it because it made him feel weaker and he already was, it made him feel like a baby. He and Heahmund were much alike. He doubted that the man would appreciate being treated as weak. So Ivar didn’t. He treated him the same when he was around him, so he wasn’t around him much as Ivar was uncertain when too much was too much. 

He still spied on Heahmund when he could, though it was much more lackluster now than it was before. He watched with parted lips when he saw Heahmund heaving deep, choking breaths as he tried to force his body to keep up with the training that the Norsemen were engaged in. He left earlier than usual. 

He still messed with Heahmund whenever he got bored, like stealing that cross he was fond of or purposely interrupting his prayers when he could, but Heahmund lost that intensity he always had when Ivar stepped out of bounds. He just didn’t seem to care. 

Sickness did that, Ivar knew. It made people husks. It made people weak. He was painfully young when it happened, but he remembered those times when his father got sick and how much it scared the young boy, seeing that calm, patient man turn almost feral. Heahmund was the opposite. Usually, he was bright and angry, and intense and now he wasn’t. 

Harald announced the burning of the dead later because of some sort of plague. Perhaps Heahmund did bring the plague or perhaps others passed the plague onto him. Ivar wasn’t even sure if it was the same sickness, as the men and women who got it turned far weaker than Heahmund. Or maybe his Christian was just stronger than everyone else. That would be nice, but Ivar wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, however, was that he the smell of burning flesh was overwhelming, even to someone like him, who encountered it everytime he delegated a battlefield or a sacrifice. It was vile, repugnant, and assaulted his senses in the unholiest of ways. Heahmund talked a bunch about Hell and its fires licking the skin of those who were damned to it and all Ivar could think of now was how awful the place must smell. 

“Harald’s talking about sacrifices, you know. To plead for the gods to help us with this…unfortunate plight.” 

Heahmund got up gingerly from the ground and his legs wobbled like a newborn foal as he tried to not tip over because of his weakness. He just finished praying and Ivar cringed at how much his knees much of hurt. Even with his deteriorating health, his stalwart alliance with his god was forever more clear. Good for him.

“Why should I care? Your sacrifices are as worthless as everything else in your heresy. You’re doing nothing except giving the one true god reasons to damn you more.” His words were harsh and laced with sickening venom, but his tone was placid, almost bored even. Ivar huffed.

“They might sacrifice you to the gods.”

Heahmund shrugged. “Let them do as they please. I can take solace in knowing that they will all burn when the time comes.” 

Ivar frowned. He expected more of a reaction and was disappointed when he was greeted with only apathy and no real intensity. Yes, the words were intense, but the cadence of how he spoke was too calm for Heahmund. He grits his teeth and tried to appeal to one of Heahmund’s obvious vices: his ego. 

“Hmph. You’d probably make a terrible sacrifice anyways. The gods would reject you right away and then make the whole Kingdom burn alongside the bodies of our dead.” 

He forgot who he was talking to. Heahmund was not a Norseman. Whether he meant something to the gods or didn’t did not matter to him for he did not believe in the gods in the first place. Ivar wanted to slap himself. He was such a fool. 

“No, Ivar. Your gods wouldn’t do anything. The one TRUE god would be the one to burn this kingdom, not them for they are nothing more than demons and fallen angels sent by the devil to beguile us into sin,” Heahmund laughed, probably enjoying the image was all the pagans burning, their first lick of eternal hell. 

“You’re a pest.”

“You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You brought me here.” 

“And clearly, that was a mistake,” Ivar sighed, rubbing two fingers on his temples before pinching the bridge of his nose. Heahmund let out a short, choked laugh at that. It sounded pained. 

Ivar’s brows furrowed as he stared at the Christian man, who was wasting away day by day. He hoped that the sickness would go away soon and that Heahmund would return to being everything that Ivar wished he could be, but no. He was human. And humans, in this best of all possible worlds, had to suffer. Ivar just hoped that this suffering was not an opening to the chasms of death. 

He left the room for a few moments and Heahmund did not stop him. Not that could. He was Ivar’s prisoner and he was probably too tired to try to chase him or stop him anyways. When Ivar returned, he had in his hands a few sticks of incense, sweet and earthy. He stole them from one of the healers and set them ablaze in the gold-plated thurible that Harald must’ve raided from a Christian church. Heahmund noticed the little vessel and raised a brow.

“Why do you have that?” The Christian man asked, confused as to why Ivar held a thurible that was clearly from a church. He saw them when he was in York. Ivar continued lighting the small vessel. 

“It’s not mine, it’s probably Harald’s. He probably raided it from a church,” Ivar explained. Heahmund frowned at the mention of raiding. Of course, it would bother him. It was no secret that the Christians’ places of worship were always among the key targets that Vikings liked to pillage. They held gold to spend and meek men and women to sell as slaves. 

“Back home, we’d use them for mass…” 

Ivar set the thurible on the table and watched curiously as the smoke curled around itself before fading into nothingness. “Why?” 

“It’s a symbol, I suppose. Of prayers reaching heaven. Amongst other things.” 

Much like everything else in Heahmund’s faith, Ivar found the notion ridiculous but he didn’t say anything. It was less fun provoking the man when he couldn’t bring himself to snap at him with any real vitriol.

 “Hmm. My mother was a Volva-”

“What’s a Volva?” 

Ivar placed his head on his palm as he watched the man. His skin was sickly and pale. His body slumped lamely on the chair. His raven-like hair seemed slick in sweat. “A volva is a woman who could see into the future. My mother saw many prophetic visions and almost all of them came true. She was also fond of runes and herbs and magic.” 

Heahmund tilted his head to the side and smirked. “So a witch?” 

Ivar’s lips pursed and his brows furrowed. He liked Heahmund. He liked Heahmund a lot. But even his leniency towards him, his leniency that allowed the Christian to still be alive and remain unharmed, was limited. “Watch your tongue, Heahmund. I won’t tolerate any disrespect towards my mother, even in your weakened state.” 

Heahmund frowned but then shrugged. His eyes were hooded and he frankly looked terrible. He should be in bed, not here, praying for a God who wouldn’t answer him anyways. Ivar kept silent though. He did not know how to voice his concerns to Heahmund without the fear of looking like a distressed wife, dutifully worried about the health of her husband. Thus, he said nothing and let Heahmund do as he did. Heahmund, it turned out, despite being one of, if not the most reliable warrior that Ivar ever had the pleasure of watching, could not be trusted to take care of himself when his body couldn’t take his intensity any longer. 

“I apologize”, Heahmund said, putting up one hand to sue for peace. Ivar’s frown lessened but the words still irked him.

“I accept your apology. Don’t say such a thing ever again. Anyways, my mother was a volva, so she always had a better understanding of the world than the majority of us ever could. Whenever I got sick, she would burn incense around the room to…clean? Cleanse? Cleanse the area of any bad things.” 

At that, Heahmund smirked, probably imagining a child Ivar the Boneless being fawned over by a doting mother. It was an uncanny image because as far as Heahmund was concerned, Ivar was the incarnate of Lucifer, as treacherous as he was beautiful. He probably also smirked at the little gesture that Ivar tried to convey by burning the fragrant incense in the thurible. A heathen use of the incense masqueraded in a Christian vessel. A strange juxtaposition, but one that was strangely comforting nonetheless. Heahmund barred himself from saying anything to admonish the gesture. Nor did he say anything to thank Ivar for making an effort to rid him of whatever blasted pestilence this is. There was no need to. It would be too excessive, too sentimental, and too unlike them. Ivar wouldn’t know what to say either. 

Instead, Heahmund opted for something else. Not an apology or another stab at faith. He was too tired to argue with Ivar over whatever it is he would eventually want to goad Heahmund with. Instead, he asked Ivar something that could keep him speaking for hours on end. He liked Ivar’s voice. It was quite soothing when he wasn’t screaming.

“Your mother, what was she like? I might as well have a picture of the woman if I’m going to be fighting for her honor.”

“Fighting? You can barely stand up.”

Heahmund scoffed, which made way for more awful coughs. They sounded like one was scratching long nails on the inside of his throat, drawing blood. 

“I’ve endured worse than this. I’ll be fine. Please, tell me about her.” 

There was a sadness in Ivar’s eyes. It came rather quick and nestled in those deep chasms of pure blue that were his eyes. By all the gods, he missed his mother so much. He longed for her as much as anyone could long for anything. How he wished she was there when he came back from England, exhausted and traumatized and angry at the Saxons for taking away from him his father, a father who didn’t deserve his love or his brothers’ love in the first place. But she wasn’t though, no. She was dead. Her body was ash, sprinkled across the waves of the ocean, her endless grave. If Ivar could commend Lagertha for anything, then it would be for giving Aslaug a funeral fit for a queen, with a burning pyre and sacrifices galore. He wondered how many of Aslaug’s things were with her when she died. He wondered how many of Aslaug’s things were still with the dishonorable Lagertha.

By all the gods, he missed her so much. 

He tried to revive an image of her as he spoke to Heahmund. 

“She was the most beautiful woman to ever exist.”

And he spoke of her, too fondly, and too skewed towards idealism. He spoke of how she was a wonderful storyteller. He spoke of how she looked, regal and too perfect. He spoke of her smile, her voice, her intelligence, and her aura that belonged more to a goddess than a mortal woman who suffered like every other woman before her. Then again, her blood did come from the gods. Because of Ragnar’s fame, people came to think of him as the one who was descended from Odin the All-father, but Ivar doubted that. Ragnar just got lucky. The one who was truly descended from Odin was his mother.

He spoke for a long while and when he was done, he left Heahmund alone, closing the door behind him and praying silently that he would be better the next day. He wanted to ask him about his own mother but tamed those curiosities. 

He was not better the next day. Or the day afterward. Or the day after the day afterward. In fact, he got worse, and Ivar was terrified. 

Against all logic and any attempts to explain, Ivar was terrified. It was stupid of him. He tried to convince himself, he tried to convince himself with such rigor, that he did not care for Heahmund’s death. If Heahmund died, so be it. He deserved it. He was a Christian, so he deserved it. He deserved to die a hollow shell in a bed that was contaminated by his sweat and his maladies. Floki would’ve said that. Floki would’ve said a lot of things, but truthfully, Ivar just wasn’t sure.

Heahmund deserved to die, as everyone who ever lived deserved to die. Death was the one constant that everyone deserved and would eventually get. Death was kind in the fact that it did not discriminate between the king and the beggar. The timing of death was a whole other beast, both terribly cruel and terribly kind. 

Heahmund did not deserve to die like this. That was a better way to explain it. He should’ve died in the same way that he lived. With passion, with vigor, with blood and steel. Not like this. 

Somehow, in some way, Ivar convinced Harald to allow him the use of some of his healers to assist Heahmund. Thankfully, Harald was kind to him and allowed him the use of his servants without too much of a fuss. When it came to politics and ambitions, Harald was as cruel as everyone else on a throne in Scandinavia, but no one could deny that he was a kind, and even understanding man when it came to matters that did not clash with his visions. He laughed at Ivar, called Heahmund his Christian pet turned boyfriend, and then left to get advice from a wise woman who lived in the forests of his kingdom on advice on how to please Eir so the goddess could take pity on their plight. So it goes.

He sent the healers to assist Heahmund in any way they can and was left equally parts impressed and equally parts annoyed at how passionately he fought off the healers. The poor women refused to be in the same room as him and fled out of the room as quickly as they could as if Heahmund was some sort of rabid animal. It was quite a scene, seeing those women fly out of the room as he went to go check on them. He asked them what happened. They told him that he complied with their wishes till they started saying their usual prayers to Lady Eir.

“Must you scare away the healers, Heahmund?” Ivar asked as he opened the door. The room was a mess. The floor was littered with things that shouldn’t be there. Ivar frowned when he saw the thurible near the bottom rail of the door, with the ashes of the incense scattered right underneath it. Heahmund was holding himself together near a fire, staring intently into the flames. 

“I don’t trust them. I don’t trust their ways.” 

Ivar rolled his eyes. “They are here to help you, you fool.” 

Heahmund did not relent. “I don’t trust them.”

Ivar shrugged and left him alone after that. His loss. The look in Heahmund’s eyes told him that it would not be a great idea to antagonize him any further, so he did not. A few days later, he came back to Heahmund’s room and was relieved to find the man deep in slumber. His brows were furrowed and his mouth twitched as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t. Ah, a nightmare. If Ivar was a better person, perhaps he’d wake him up, but he did not. 

A day or so ago he found the jaw of some animal lying inconspicuously in the dirt outside of the town while he was on a walk. His foot caught on something and it turned to be the jaw of an animal. He picked it up and examined the thing. Its teeth were sharp, so it was some kind of predator. A fox maybe? He wasn’t entirely sure as the rest of the skull wasn’t there but he pocketed the remnants of the skull and remembered distant memories when Floki would teach him to write incantations on bones with runes. He remembered the small rituals, the little intricacies, where the runes would best be placed, and what runes were appropriate for whatever it is he wanted. Those lessons with Floki pounded in his head and with a small knife, Ivar sat down and began writing healing runes on the jaw. It didn’t occur to him till later that he was doing this for Heahmund. It was automatic, subconscious, and strange for Heahmund did not need or want his help in allowing him a better chance to heal. That was obvious with the healers and how he fought them off instead of allowing them to touch him in any sense of the word. 

He worked methodically, listening to the sounds of the birds and the ravens that sang in their little sanctuaries in the trees. As any craftsman, he found shoddiness in his work but opted to ignore it. The runes were there. They were on a medium. That was all that mattered. 

So again. He was here now, in the room, watching Heahmund sleeping, and thanked all the gods he could name, even those that people would generally forget to revere, his thanks. It was no secret to anyone that Ivar was a prideful person. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was the one who put the runes there. Least of all Heahmund. 

Ivar remembered feeling unnecessarily pained when he saw those runes tossed into the fire a few hours later. 

“What did you do?! Those were healing runes! The gods could’ve listened!” Ivar asked, shrill. Heahmund narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth. Even in his pitiful state, Ivar still felt this shiver course through his spine. He thought about pulling the runes from the fire but didn’t want to risk his fingers. 

“There’s only one god. And I’m tired of your people’s witchcraft! I want nothing to do with it. Tell them to leave me be.” 

“So you would rather die! I-They are trying to help you, don’t you understand that you foolish man?” 

Heahmund laughed. It wasn’t like his usual laughs. No, it was ugly and terrible and Ivar hated it. “Help? Do you think it would help me to submit to your heathen ways? I asked a heathen what that scripture said and he told me it was asking for the assistance of some false idol named Eir! Do you understand what that means to me, boy? To allow myself to accept these heathen customs? It would be a disgrace towards everything I have dedicated myself to!” 

“But-”

“Ivar, please…Leave me be.” 

He did. Against all laws of nature, he did. He left Heahmund alone, slamming the door on the way out to convey his frustration. Scalding tears stung his eyes but he managed to dry them quickly. He liked Heahmund. He liked Heahmund a lot. He was the man that Ivar always wanted to be but was robbed of the chance of being. He was perfect. But the gods were cruel. 

Why were the gods so cruel? That was a question that Ivar asked every now and then, and never once had he gotten an answer that truly satisfied him. Some people have told him that the gods could be cruel because they knew best. Others have told him that the gods could be cruel because they were just like people, as people were built in their image. Floki once told him that the gods were cruel not because they want to be cruel, but because the world itself is cruel and thus they reflect that. Ivar wasn’t sure. He was never sure. 

When Ivar first saw Heahmund, it was like magic. A beautifully seducing magic that called to Ivar like how the devil hidden in the tooth of the snake called to Eve. He wanted Heahmund. He wanted Heahmund all to himself like how a dragon would guard his hoard with utmost ferocity. He wanted Heahmund to fight with him. He wanted Heahmund to be a cornerstone in his ambitions for who wouldn’t want such a worldly man to be by their side?

He wanted Heahmund. He didn’t want to lose Heahmund  just yet either, but if he were to lose him, he’d want it to be done in a way that would be befitting for a man like the Christian. In battle. He should go out like a warrior, a true warrior who Odin would waste no time sending the Valkyries out to pluck from the battlefield. It became more unlikely every passing day. 

“I brought you here to fight.”

“You did.” Heahmund’s voice was weak, lower than usual, and breathy. 

“But you cannot anymore.”

Heahmund didn’t say anything but he sighed deeply, which was all the confirmation that Ivar needed. The boy's frown was more obvious now. 

“You know, I thought about sending someone to kill you,” Ivar muttered out of the blue, his hands folded together in his lap as he watched the dying man. Heahmund smirked at that, closing his eyes. 

“Hmph, and here I thought you enjoyed my presence,” Heahmund let out quietly, chuckling, “but I wouldn’t blame you. You brought me here to fight and I don’t think I can do that anymore.”

Ivar shook his head. “No, no…It isn’t because you can’t serve me anymore.”

“Come now, Ivar, of course, it is. Why must you lie?” 

“I’m not lying…I…I don’t want you to go to Hel. You deserve more than that.” 

Heahmund sighed and closed those clouded eyes of his. They were much duller now and were deprived of that beautiful sheen that swept Ivar off his feet when Heahmund was better. “I hope God will forgive me so I won’t burn in Satan’s kingdom. I’ve done much in my life to warrant it, and many times, I never regretted those sins at all. Hell is on my mind as often as Heaven. Even more so now.” 

Ivar had to chuckle. How could he not? Hel and Hell. One is a place where the souls of those who lived as best they could were able to rest and the other is a nightmare that came from the most gruesome of imaginations. Heahmund raised an eyebrow. “Hell is not something to laugh about.” 

“No, no, of course not. I was speaking of my Hel, Heahmund. The one that belongs to Lady Hel, daughter of the trickster Loki and the Jotunn Angrboda.”

Heahmund smirked at that. “You’ve told me about her, I remember. She is far kinder than the devil, it seems.” 

“So it seems. I don’t want you to go to her realm.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that. Your Hel doesn’t exist.” 

Ivar couldn’t help but roll his eyes. They were fond as well as sad. What affection he held for this stubborn, adamant, bull-headed man. Heahmund had no real sense of humor when it came to anything spiritual. “I always forget and you keep telling me. I don’t want you to go to Hel, like any other sick man. I want you to be in Valhalla, amongst the gods, feasting and drinking and fucking…” Ivar blushed a little at the mention of the last action. Thankfully, Heahmund did not notice.

“Sounds wonderful,” Heahmund replied, repressing his coughs, which turned out to be useless for they escaped him anyways. Ivar cringed, but alas did not show it. 

“It is! You are a warrior, Heahmund. You deserve a warrior’s death. It is not fair that you may die like this. You deserve to go fighting like I’m sure you’ve all your life. Like the first time, I met you. That is why I thought of sending someone to kill you, for I know you would never allow yourself to die in such a way without defending yourself first. And thus, you’d be in Valhalla, in Asgard, where all those who are worthy are bound to go.” 

Heahmund couldn’t help but laugh. They were raw, jagged little chuckles, and Ivar felt a small stab of anger for knowing that he was laughing at the idea altogether. “I’m glad you care for me that much then, but don’t go through the trouble. It would be useles.”

Ivar smiled. Hollow, bitter, and doleful. 

A few moments of silence pass. Neither man said anything till Heahmund opted to break the silence. 

“You know, I never imagined myself possibly dying like this.” Possibly was right. The sickness was cruel. Ivar wasn’t sure if the pestilence that happened in Harald’s kingdom was the same one that Heahmund held, but did it matter? Many died and few others lived. Ivar was unbelievably lucky, as was Hvitserk. He chalked that up to the gods taking care of their descendants. 

Ivar cocked his head to the side. “What did you imagine?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I suppose I wanted what you want. An honorable death at the hands of another warrior, whilst dying for an honorable cause. I had many dreams, you know, of defending my king and my faith will all I had. Sometimes, it would be defending the cross and all it stands for from you heathens. Sometimes, those dreams would amount to me being slain by another man and then being immortalized forever as a Saint. Of what, I’m not sure, but something good. Something important.”

Ivar’s lips quirked upwards. “I thought you believed that being remembered wasn’t important? Especially when compared to your heaven?”

Heahmund shook his head weakly. “It’s not.”

“Then why do you dream of it? Of Dignitas?” 

“Why? Because I am a sinner and a hypocrite. I masquerade as this-as this holy man of the cloth when truthfully, I am just as terrible as everyone else. Perhaps even worse for people trusted me to live rigidly by the word of God.  My duty is to convey the words of the Lord and to live a humble, spartan life, yet I indulge in the carnal like a glutton whose desires are insatiable, even though I know better. Of course, I want fame. Of course, I want everything you heathens indulge in so carelessly. And at times, most of the time, even, I do indulge which makes it worse for hell is always on my mind yet my desires are uncontrollable, like a dog’s.”

Ivar noticed the subtle cracks in the way Heahmund spoke as if he was getting closer and closer to sobbing. When he looked at his eyes, however, they were still dry. A very astute contrast to his skin, which was teeming with sweat. “You are no dog, Heahmund, don’t make me laugh,” he brought his hand to gently wrap around his warrior’s, “you are a man. A strong, valiant warrior, a smart tactician, and someone who others would kill to be. So what if you are a ‘sinner’? You are everything everyone would want to be and more. So what if you indulge yourself in carnal pleasures? It is only natural and it is only your right to do so. Must you whine about breathing or eating, as well?” 

It felt strange comforting another man. Especially a man like Heahmund, who Ivar subconsciously thought was untouchable. Whether he was actually comforted or not, Ivar was unsure, but the effort was there. Heahmund was quiet for a few seconds before his lips split into a gorgeous, yet disturbing smile. Ivar’s hand automatically tensed away from Heahmund’s as he looked at him, confused. The smile evolved into maniacal laughter before dying down.

“Oh, how lucky you are, dear Ivar, to believe in such things. May God have mercy on all of our damned souls.”

Ivar could only sigh. 

There was no use in trying to fight Heahmund on this. There never was. Whenever they begin to have a spat about faith, they both knew deep down that neither of them would be able to win. They just did it anyways because, in an odd, strange way, it just made sense. To lock their horns of stubbornness together to see who would shut up first and who would quietly be the victor. 

Instead, regaining some of that lost courage, he brought his hand to rest gently on the top of Heahmund’s, fingers draping softly over the soft, inky hair. Heahmund did not fight him, nor did he do anything, so Ivar took it as permission to continue doing what he was doing. His hair felt damp under Ivar’s fingers as he carded them gently through the soft locks. 

Ivar began speaking, his soft voice carrying out the adulations of the stories his late parents told him throughout his life. 

He hadn’t a clue how long he kept going. He only stopped when Heahmund lost himself in dreamless sleep. For a moment, Ivar thought he was dead, but no. The rising and falling of his chest were still eminent to the eyes of the young Heathan. 

Thank all the gods. 

Over time, his condition got better, much to the vitriol of the Norsemen. He would be able to fight soon and honor the deal he was forced into by Ivar. But the closeness of death to Heahmund, and in such a common way, rattled Ivar as much as it certainly rattled Heahmund. There weren’t any more emotional revelations, which equal parts relieved and disappointed Ivar. It relieved Ivar because he was never good at dealing with emotions. Not with his own or anyone else’s. He was sure that Heahmund was relieved that he didn’t let himself go anymore. Heahmund was a prideful man, and Ivar was sure he was ashamed of showing anyone such weakness and vulnerability. It was good for him as well. Ivar was disappointed because…

Well, he wasn’t entirely sure why. It was better not to think about it. 

He stayed with Heahmund whenever he had the time to do so. 

People noticed, but didn’t say much. There was nothing to say. Perhaps it was strange, that the boy-general was spending so much time with his Christian ‘pet’, who was probably dying, but Ivar paid it no mind. There was no point too. 

His reasons were simple enough. 

He liked Heahmund. He liked Heahmund a lot. He admired him, for who couldn’t? Only fools.

He was strong, strong in body and strong in mind, and everything that Ivar wanted to be but couldn’t.

But he was human, like everyone else, thus he was vulnerable, like everyone else. 

And that terrified Ivar, for it only reminded him of how precarious his own condition was.

He continued to speak with Lady Eir, to provide her services to his most valiant warrior and to forget his allegiance with the Christian god. Unbeknownst to Ivar, Heahmund was also speaking to a patron of healing, the archangel, and Saint Raphael, for he was too prideful of a man to accept that he may die in such a paltry way. 

After all, death creeps on all. No one could escape it. 

Ivar could only hope that he would be so lucky as to be accepted into Asgard, just as he hopes Heahmund will one day as well, for Ivar was certain the gods will never pass up the opportunity to claim his soul. 

And so it goes. 

#vikings #ivar the boneless #bishop heahmund #vikings fanfic #fanfiction #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok

[frxgments-of-frxgments]

“you should be who you are, i’ll support you.” (Damien, blueheartedmayor)

It’d only been a matter of time before the issue of Jay’s gender, or lack thereof, came up.

There were only so many times they could go rigid and tense at a title spoken by a well meaning teacher, or refuse to take off their baggy sweater regardless of how obviously overheated they were getting, or throw a punch at some drunk asshole slurring some sly joke about how he didn’t know whether it’d be gay to hit on them, before they’d have to say why. Damien was always kind, of course, Jay didn’t think he was capable of being anything else, but his mounting concern was showing. He knew that his new friend preferred to share things at their own pace, but his patience was running thin with every new cut and bruise he had to dab with antiseptic.

He’d asked then, leaning in close to the rolled up sleeve of Jay’s too big sweater, because even now, with only his eyes to see, they’d still refused to take it off. And on another day, they’d have done what they always did. Deflected. Made a joke of it. Changed the subject. Give a blatantly wrong answer. But in that particular moment, with Damien’s touch soft as ever against the raw scrape of their forearms, his eyes searing into their soul with concern they knew was genuine, the memory of all the times before he’d done the very same thing without a word of complaint...

Well. They supposed now was as good a time as ever.

It hadn’t been smooth. They’d tried to sign the words first, but their movements were clumsy and stilted by the panic hammering in their chest and the terror thrumming through their veins, Damien seeing nothing but frantic gestures, and they’d opted instead to speak them. Stop and start again murmurs, tone low and face tilted close, like they were telling a secret. Hands wringing at their sleeves, loose threads tugged taut and wrapped around fingers until swollen and purple with too much blood, a sensation to ground them. Damien would be kind. He wouldn’t kick them out. Even if he didn’t understand, if he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t be cruel.

(They repeated the thoughts to themselves as they spoke, a mantra to keep them seated and not sprinting for the door.)

They told him that their name wasn’t Jay. Not officially, anyway. They’d been born with a different name, one that had felt like a shirt both three sizes too big and one too small, constricting and swallowing at the same time. They told him about the words that felt like oil slicking to their skin, dragging them down into murky depths that suffocated and smothered them. How their body had never felt right. But like a snake stuck between sheds, half in and half out of their place, twisted and cracked and wrong. The layers of wool and cotton and linen they kept like a shield between them and the world, hiding all of themselves, because the thought of anyone seeing, of anyone knowing, was enough to make them feel sick.

They split their soul in two and spilled it at his feet, all the bloody, messy, tangled chaos of it, and they stared firmly at the ground as they listened to their heartbeat pounding in their ears like a war drum, unable to look up and see Damien’s expression. Would it be disgust? Complete confusion? Rejection? They weren’t sure which was worst. They’d made a mistake. They never should have told him any of this. They still had time to run, time to be gone before he could start yelling, go, their mind screamed, go and never look back, never let anyone else see you, not as you are, run, run, run—

His hand on theirs. His touch so gentle and unexpected, that Jay looks up on instinct before they can think better of it. And what they see is... Kindness.

“You should be who you are. I’ll support you.”

There’s a long few moments of silence, where Jay simply stares. Then a smile ghosts across their lips, a half nervous half joyful twist, and they’re ducking their head to hide the sudden glimmer of tears in their eyes. It takes them several tries to move their hands steady enough for Damien to decipher the signs, but they manage just before they completely crumple into a heap to be held.

Thank you.

#; blueheartedmayor #; through the glass (asks) #; an old friend (damien) #; past tense (pre canon) #tw dysphoria #tw transphobia #WHAT A FUCKING ASK TO COME BACK WITH HUH))

[sunbentsky-archived]

Emcee’s name is/was Michael Oliver Haywood and he was born as the only child of a very well-off family. His father, Charles Haywood, was a conductor, cello player and chamber music performer, and worked as the chief conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. His mother, Sara Noûr Allard, also a regular performer at the Sydney Opera House, was a world-renowed mezzo-soprano and classically trained actress. You can imagine the pressure he was under, ever since he was a young child, to succeed in a musical career. 

At first, he did just that, going to the best schools, studying under the best teachers. He started learning about music theory at two, allegedly being able to read notes before he could read letters. His first instrument was the piano, which he began studying at three. By the age of five, he’d already composed and released his first piano album, solidifying his reputation as a musical prodigy. His parents’ money and influence may have had something to do with that, but young Michael was indeed extraordinarily talented and receptive to learning.

He would branch out then, learning how to play numerous instruments and mastering various aspects of singing and composing. For a good part of his life, he was everything his parents wished he’d become, and therefore worthy of their praise and affection. Between the long hours spent practicing every single day and competitions, recitals, concerts, interviews, etc., there was little room for anything else in Michael’s life.

At some point during his late teenage years, something snapped. Perhaps one too many incidents where, after failing to come up first in this or that competition, he was locked out of his home and forced to sleep outside on the front door mat like a dog begging to be left inside. Or have his hands slapped with a ruler until they were bleeding if he played a single note wrong in a concert. Or many of the other cruel, inhuman punishments he would receive from his parents for failing to comply to their ideas of perfection. More than a son, he became a project to them, something to work on and improve, take apart and break down, show off to their friends, and then forget about when he was not needed. 

One day, he simply took his savings and left without a word. He didn’t get far before being dragged back and locked in his room. But he’d learned from that experience; it opened his eyes to a lot of harsh truths about his parents. The next time he attempted to run away from home, he was already 18 years old, and legally, they couldn’t do anything to stop him. For the first time, he got a taste of what a “normal,” average life feels like. 

He continue pursuing a career in music, but does so at his own pace, on his own terms. He experiments with genres and instruments that his parents would have never allowed in his life. At twenty, he forms a deathcore band and becomes their lead vocalist and main song writer / composer. After one of their concerns, he meets Rachel Jessop. 

It is through her, now known as Faith, that he gets pulled into the cult. He’s an easy target once they offer him peace, love, understanding, a home and family. They offer him payback for what his parents did to him, and in exchnage get to keep their substantial wealth. The powerful potential of music is well understood within the cult, and it’s not long before he’s asked to use his musical talents to help soothe and placate Faith’s Angels, and later to control them. He becomes known as Emcee, or the Herder, and whoever he was in the past becomes irrelevant. His only purpose is to serve Faith and the Father now. His advanced exposure to Bliss is a willing decision taken out of a desire to better understand and connect to the Angels. 

The way Eden’s Gate opperates-- seprating the worthy from the unworthy, the Heralds and the Father knowing what’s best for their followers, not leaving any room for mistakes, dishing out punishments, guilttripping, etc.-- is very similar to how Emcee’s parents treated him throught his childhood. He doesn’t realize that he falls back into a very familiar pattern of abuse, only because Eden’s Gate offers the illusion of love and acceptance that he’s lacked his whole life. 

Unfortunately, he might never realize this. :( 

#EMCEE ABOUT: my final breath swallowed by the womb of death #small bio but there's sooooo much more to talk about #but yeah he buys into the cult's doctrine completely and never questions #it #he holds all heralds in high esteem ofc but he downright *worships* faith because he thinks of her as the one who saved him #might even admit to being in love with her if that weren't so blasphemous #which he punishes himself for 😬 #joseph also has him wrapped around his finger #then john. and jacob probably comes in last as in. he connects to him less than the others but still respects / is afraid of him #he also thinks his feelings for faith are an offence to the father personally so he throws himself at his feet to make up for that #doesn't experience that with john and jacob though #i am NOT proof reading this you get what you get #abuse tw #child abuse tw

[wraithsoutlaws]

🌹💐🌿🍂 for Dagger? :3

🌹 Where in the world does your OC feel most at home? Is there any reason why? If it’s not the place they were born, where were they born? Is there a certain somebody that makes them feel at home where ever they may be? What does home mean to them?

Out in the desert, where it's open and free and a little cruel. It's what he considers his home, where he was reborn, and shaped into the person he is now (for better or worse). That's where he feels the most control, where he feels like a king. It's lawless, and far enough from the whims of corporations that it almost feels like nothing can touch you at all. It also does remind him of where he was born, a little forgotten farm in Mississippi where they had to be self-sufficient, and know how to survive on your own merits.

Home is just a broad concept for Dagger, since after he was 9 he never really had one. Always on the move, always running. Different people and places. There was nothing stable, even when he lived in a bigger city for a couple years. Literally the only constant he's ever had is the desert and it's a comfort to him, as harsh as it is there. That concept does start to shift as he gets older and starts to put down roots in people for the first time in his life and realizes that there are some people he can rely on.

💐 How does your OC handle being unwell or forced to rest in bed? Who cares for them and in what ways? Does your OC enjoy being doted on or are they a terrible patient? Reversed: is your OC good at taking care of others who are ill or in need?

He doesn't handle it well ! Most times he'll ignore it as long as he can, and push himself too much if he's sick or injured. He doesn't even like to admit that there's something wrong, let alone actually take care of himself. He really has a hard time letting anyone take care of him, too. Much as he loves attention, if he's unwell he'll usually push it away as long as he can and that's usually the first sign that's something wrong. If he has to rest, he very much prefers to find a dark place and lick his wounds alone than to let himself be vulnerable and be seen as weak/helpless. He trusts very few people to see him like that, and it's usually Dum Dum that has to knock some sense into him and get him to rest and take care of him.

Dagger actually is good at taking care of others, it's just. he usually chooses not to. He grew up taking care of his little brother, and then surrounded by nomads who HAD to take care of each other, and then became independent to a fault. He knows how to dress/treat wounds and decent remedies for pretty much any ailment. But he has to care. and so often, he just doesn't.

🌿 What way does your OC show that they care without using words? What way do others show your OC that they’re cared about without using speech?

Dagger never uses words. Simply being in his life is a big deal for him, so if he keeps seeking someone out it means he cares, finding an excuse to leave them mundane messages. Sharing music, or if he's very close, making them something out of blood or cross stitch though not usually something someone would ever ask for. Since he's the emotional equivalent of a 12 year old, teasing is sometimes a big indicator that he cares too, or showing off for attention.

🍂 Does your OC enjoy hugs? What do they do as a show of affection for: their friends, their family, their significant other(s) or for strangers? Over all what are they like with recieving affection from others?

It depends on the person. He's generally very touchy to pretty much everyone (whether that's to actually show affection or just to be intimidating). Tbh "friendly" affection is usually used to intimidate--throwing an arm around someone's shoulder, ruffling their hair, a little-too-hard pat on the back. To friends/family he's most likely to show affection in rough play/fighting.

When it comes to receiving affection, it's a little harder for him. He's not used to...soft? touches? And usually cuts himself off from getting that from others unless he's actively seeking it out. This gets better over time, but there's a point where if you touch him you're losing a finger at least, if not your whole hand, or even your life. It just makes him feel Too Much, and he can't have that. However, once that starts to break down, and he chooses to let people in, then he's like an attention starved cat, and partners will see this after awhile. Lots of nuzzling and exploring fingers and constant close contact.

#oc: dagger #oc asks #thank you <3333 #sry these are wordy v.v

[floaroanemoia]

“Do you think God lives in heaven because he, too, fears what he has created?“

@volot

    It is a question that comes veiled in the first moments of dawn, scattered among dusty pink mist, seeding the drops of dew that cling to the underside of leaves to fall from their perch. Words projected up to the sunrise, as though they could climb the warm rays of light and grace the clouds. Piercing the wave of silence that had fallen upon the mountainside, despite being spoken neither with force nor sharpness. Yet the medium’s focus does not shift from the sky, eyes affixed to the last few stars so high up; the way they glisten among pale purples. What strange things he tends to say, and so very out of the blue—as though they have been festering in the depths of the merchant’s mind, and spill forth without warning only when so many are present that some boil over. Like bubbling water over the side of a red-hot cauldron.

         “My, you certainly ask the most peculiar questions, sometimes…”

    Is what leaves Sarana first, intonation light, rhythm steady, and threaded with a soft huff of air.

         “If you mean the Almighty… It has been some millennia since they have last been seen, correct? Or since such an event has been recorded,”

    Could it truly be the fault of an emotion so primal? Is it even possible, the blonde wonders, for a god—the creator of all—to fear their creations so? Oh, but how the thought makes Sarana’s heart ache. What a cruel universe it would be, if even that which gave everything shape, and dedicates themselves to preserving all that was, is and shall ever be, could find themselves so terrified of life they helped give rise to?

         “I cannot speak for the Gods, let alone Almighty Sinnoh… But one does have to wonder why They do not walk among their creations. Why none can lay eyes on them anymore, but could in the past…”

    Upon the back of her beloved Rapidash does she lean down for but a moment, towards the creature’s ear and beside a mane aglow, to run a hand down the side of her neck. And when hands return to her lap, legs splayed over one side of the fire-type, does her gaze finally tear itself from the dawn, allowing herself a moment to gauge Volo’s expression. A look that is, of course, as unreadable as always, even if the air around him—even if his presence— has grown somewhat familiar to the medium. Why in the world he wishes to hear her thoughts on a topic so unknowable, Sarana cannot claim to see. Is it merely a question of wonder? A test, of some sort? Or is it born from something more melancholic?

    Alas, it is yet another thing she cannot discern, lest he speaks it himself.

         “Perhaps fear plays a part in it. There are surely beings in place or powers bestowed upon others to pacify or influence the Gods, should they spiral out of control… If the Almighty is afraid of their creations… then maybe They believe a being with such potential has realised the power they hold.”

    Her gaze leaves once more, off to the stars now so faint, it could be quite difficult to argue that they had ever been there in the first place. Blueish purples now laced with pinks and yellows from the rising sun’s rays, it is odd to think of how time still passes, even when conversing on topics with a weight such as this.

         “If that does not play a role… My guess would fall to a necessary slumber—the sort to replenish their power. After all, other deities do the same, correct? And They must spend so much energy, watching over, maintaining and creating things…”

    Truly, what could it be? Never before had the wanderer put any thought into the reason why Almighty Sinnoh refuses to appear before their creations in any meaningful way. But now—why, it is an intriguing thing to ponder. So much needless stride—so many conflicts over their identity—could be solved with a simple appearance. But no—no. They must simply be resting. In a slumber so deep, fatigued from having created all that there is countless years ago.

         “Or… heaven alone is the only suitable place to watch all of Their creations from on high, without choosing between them.”

    Posture straightens in time with the demanding shift of hooves a stuttered huff. The raising of the pokemon’s neck prompting yet another few strokes from Sarana, before the woman dare to speak up once more.

         “But those are merely my thoughts. What say you?”

#long post #❁⊱⦃ ⏤ {queue.} ⦄⊰❁ #❁⊱⦃ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰❁ #{Volo.} #volot #❁⊱⦃ ⏤ {ask.} ⦄⊰❁ #{welcome back to 'sarana no stop you don't know what you're enabling' part 76465489}

[thewickedxrp]

             WELCOME KIM YONGHWA

                                                         ⁠TO THE PROMISE LAND

DETAILS

age / age they appear: 1376 / 30  occupation: history professor at Jeju National University, antique dealer group: none

PERSONALITY

They are the age-old soul that is known for their silence. Equated to a ghost more than a man or even other fae. His silence is something legends have been written about. But in this silence, there is violence, and Ghost holds that deep with his skin. Like his element, water, the abyssal quality to his soul leaves more unknown then ever known. When he speaks, he deems it important to do so. Doesn’t waste his words on meaningless things. Words careful, blunt, sometimes cruel in how they ring true.

In his quiet, he observes. Supernaturals and mortals alike. All tiny puzzles that he decides if he wants to find all the pieces for. To know. Ghost, knows more about war and death than friendship.  Forgotten more ways to harm a person than he remembers. His history carved into his memories and reflected in the antiques he collects and sells. But sometimes he tries. When people feel worth it.

There are rumors that he could have ruled one day. He carries himself with precision. Like the weapons he is so adept at using. Like a hunter among all. Moves purposeful and measured. He is in control. Most never get close enough to see how his hands shake. His discomfort as the world ages. How lost he is to time.

For the few that he lets close, there is a softness to his edges. A guardian hidden within his skin. someone willing to accept everything you are, as long as the sentiment is returned. But betrayal runs deep for him, and forgiveness is an unknown quantity. He is one to hide himself. Within the depths of his own thoughts rather than allowing people below the waves. But a select few have made it through. They died eventually, willingly or not.

HISTORY

Ghost was born before the whole world was known. Seas seemingly endless, bottomless and mountains people were unable to climb. Gods were dreamt of and known. Death inescapable for those that were hunted by it. When wars were fought with hands and rocks if need be. Metal flashing as time moved on. He could have been a god of war over his years, but he was simply, him.

Korea has always been his home. Jeju more of a choice than a need. It wasn’t until the late 1800s that he found himself living there permanently. A decision he has yet to regret. He had seen the world when it was young and so was, he. Cities and people in the light of flame not the buzz of electricity. The newer ages have left him wanting. Missing pieces of what made the world before. The solace of the night. The stars in the sky. A soul was simply a soul without all of the things added onto it. But he has adapted, year after year. Albeit reluctantly. Mentally dragging himself through each new thing and change. As he had never gotten into the games many faeries play, he does not cling so much to the world. Time is meaningless. The sun rises. The moon falls. His measure has always been the few people he ever cared for dying longer before he ever will. More blood had soaked into his skin than the sky had kingdoms had reigned.

He was more wild than anything else. Like waves crashing on a shore. Or a storm sweeping through the sky. It has taken civilization far too long to get it’s claws into him. Solitude a preference over being near others. A slow life. One worth fighting for. With time came change and that change was no different on the island. He watched as friends and families became enemies. Never getting involved unless it bled into his life. Always willing to allow things to move as they were meant to. Without his hands in things when it wasn’t needed.

It started like that and remained like that for Ghost. A bit of a disconnect between him and so many other creatures of the isle. Their struggles weren’t often his. But he would assist if the right people asked him. The kind he had come to care for and be willing to protect. It’s only recently that he has found himself teaching. History was something he knew well enough to inform others. Something known.

So far, he has chosen no sides. With no intentions of doing so. At least, none but his own… but as always, he adapts to change. A dangerous willingness to learn how to survive when needed… in any way he must…

#wd:bio #wd:fae #wd: min yoongi #bts

[the-letter-horror-lover]

The Mysterious Lady Slivermist (Black Butler Reader Insert)

CoolStar69

Summary:

Catching the interest of a mysterious young noble the Noah's Arc Circus crew's fates were changed, taken in by the strange girl, no one really knows why and what she's up to,whenever asked about this weird interest in charity the message is always the same "I simply desire to help"

Chapter 1: Prologue: Fate Changed

Chapter Text

We were all sitting in the alley-ways, huddled close, minding our own for now as straved away while those more fortunate passed us by without a single glance, some doing it as to not acknowledge our existence for their own selfish well being while others were just that rotten.

"I'm hungry, when are we going to find food?" When the question was finally brought up all eyes were soon on me, awaiting my answer since I was supposed to be forming a plan on how to obtain today's meal.

I just petted their messy chocolate brown hair as I gave them the best smile I could muster right now, "soon, I'm still thinking up the final details" they nodded meekly with a dejected gaze.

My heartached seeing her like that, but it wasn'teasy coming with careful plans like this day after day on how to steal enough food for all of us, and as time went on it only got harder, especially with...

The missing arm that would have help with some of our pickpocketing, I secretly balled my fist as I bit my lower lip, out of sight of course as I cursed this world...

None of this was fair, why were we born like this, and in these circumstances?

Poor and disfigured, why couldn't life have just given us one of thesedisadvantages, instead of both? It was just too cruel...

"Stop!" A young girl's voice shouted from out of the blue as a carriage came screeching to a halt, "Young miss, wait!" Another cried out as a sound of doors being thrown open filled the air and clicking heels followed after.

My group and I all turned to face this strange event, only to be greeted with what appeared to be a girl around my age rushing over toward us with long flowing hair of white, her eyes were a ruby red and they shone with joy and the relief of a person that had finallyfound what they had been searching for after hours of looking.

This girl was dressed as if she were from a well off family, so I was puzzled as to why she was in this part of town and was running toward an alley of all places...

When she finally reached us, she stop just a few feet away, her eyes scanning over us for some strange reason, taking in every detail us she did as if to confirm somethimg, but what.

Unsure of whatever she wanted, I for now assumed it wasn't anything good and was readying myself to cover for the others to buy get away time, but that appeared to be unnecessary.

The girl when finished, she finally spoke to us in a kind, non-condescending manner, "would you like to come with me to my home?"

I didn't reply back as I was shocked silent by her offer, while one of my friends however seemed to be just unphased enough to reply back though still quite shocked as well.

"What do you think you're saying, is this some kind of trick!?" My friend became on the defense as everyone else watched, unsure of what to make of these surprising new events, though they wanted to believe this was something good...as did I.

The girl was a little a taken back, but when she glanced over to him, she smiled just a bit and shook her head, "I assure you it is no trick whatso-hey!" The girl was interrupted by the woman who had called out to her previously.

"Young Miss just what do you think you are doing?" The strange girl pulled away from the maid as much as she could, fighting back the woman to get her to release her grip.

"Rose, stop! I wish to speak with them! I said STOP!" The maid let go as the girl ordered once she had rised her voice, once free the young girl recomposd herself and tried to regain her dignity.

She cleared her throat and ignored us for a tiny bit as she addressed the maid, "Rose, I promise that when we get home I will explain everything, but for now I wish to do something kind if they will let me" and with this her attention was back to us as she locked on those red shining eyes of hers.

"Would the seven of you care to come back with me to my house for some food? You can leave once you are satisfied from the meal" I looked back to my group of friends, but they for the most part had looks that said the choice was mine, though their was a tiny azure orb staring back at me with hope I'd accept.

Turning back toward the strange girl with my mind made, I had accepted her offer, her pale lips broke into a wide smile as her eyes welcomed and kept certain emotions while others left.

"Excellent! I assure you, you won't regret it, hurry let's go!" The girl reached out and grasped my hand in her's and began pulling, and like earlier the maid cried out once again for her.

🃏🃏🃏🃏

I didn't know it then, but I couldn't begin to tell you how much I appreciate that hand for reaching out as it did, nor would have ever been able to imagine just how much our lives changed from then on...

------

This new series is made for fun and my own amusement, but I hope that you enjoy nonetheless 😘

Bittersweet

Kantayra

Summary:

The story of how Ciel turned Sebastian's suffering from sweet to bitter. Set post-Kuroshitsuji II.

Notes:

For Phoebe_Zeitgeist.

Work Text:

Sebastian’s suffering is sweet.

I know this because I have tended and harvested many a human, and suffering tastes like the lightest truffle, the ripest strawberry, the most succulent peach. A demon can never taste the suffering of another demon, but I know now that, were Sebastian human, his flavor would make my teeth ache with saccharine.

He dresses me in silence every morning, stoic, dutiful, and empty. One after the other, buttons slip into holes. Demon fingers he no longer bothers to hide behind snow-white gloves glide over my bare flesh, and yet it is never anything but an accident. I can see that in his eyes, every time I trick them into meeting my own.

“Your flaw as a demon,” I inform my butler on one day indistinguishable from the rest of eternity, “is that you were too malleable.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As you tended my soul, I tended yours.” I hold out my foot to feel the silk of my stocking slide up my leg. There is no pleasure in the sensation now. It feels like everything else in this mortal world: decayed and barren. “Do you remember how inadequate you were when we first met? You weren’t fit to call yourself the Phantomhive butler.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I bred it out of you, though.” I accept the offered hand but do not rise to my feet, not just yet. “You flavored my soul with the sweetness of suffering and the bitterness of innocence. And, in turn, I tamed you, molded you, and transformed you into the perfect butler, who serves me today. You realize this, do you not?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” I stand. “Then, on the agenda for today?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“It’s just as well. I grow tired of sickly sweet souls. This time, I think we should hunt innocence instead…”

The first bite of innocence I ever took was so bitter that I spit it back out. Such philosophical questions were puzzling back when I was human. Why do demons not devour the innocent? Is it the higher power of God that protects them? The simple answer is that the innocent have far too acrid a flavor. Sin is so much sweeter.

However, after an eternity of sweetness, a little variety becomes necessary.

“As you wish, my lord,” Sebastian says as if this is nothing new.

A twist of bitters is hard to lure in. I appreciate now the lengths Sebastian went through for the succulent soul I must have once held. A pity, even I think, that it was rotted from within by the demon I have become.

“Another flaw,” I tell him before I send him away to try to capture us a pure murderer for our supper this decade, “is that it is not befitting for a butler to mope so. I do not recall you sulking in a corner when I was human. It grows tedious.”

Sebastian meets my eyes at that, deliberately for the first time in many a year. Red flashes against red. And then, slowly, Sebastian’s eyes slide to the side. “My humblest apologies, my lord.” He says it like he doesn’t mean it at all.

Once he is gone, I lick my lips in anticipation of what bittersweetness will come.

***

One gift of Sebastian’s that I did not fully appreciate as a human, is his impeccable ability to find the ripest morsels in an otherwise-gray world. We alight atop an old stone church as dusk falls. I slip from Sebastian’s arms and stand atop the highest steeple with Sebastian at my back.

Two alleys down, there is shouting and the sound of a child’s pleas. The whip and snap of a leather belt cutting into human flesh results in a scream, and then the sobs fall silent. Finally, a young boy scuttles from one of the houses, and through the orange silhouette of the curtains, I can see his father inside returning to the bottle.

I raise an eyebrow at Sebastian. “Common,” I deride.

“Watch.” Sebastian’s eyes are alive with fire in a way I rarely see these days.

I turn to do so, pause ever so slightly, and turn back to Sebastian. “You presume to order me?”

Sebastian blinks once, carefully, assessingly, and then offers the slightest bow. “My apologies, my lord, but I would not want you to miss the second act.”

I accept this for now and return my attention to the young boy. He runs blindly down the streets, colliding with passersby, tripping over virtually every obstacle in his path. He is headed our way.

“Very common,” I repeat.

The boy scrambles, clumsy and awkward, up the church steps below us and pounds on the side door. I give Sebastian a quizzical look. Sebastian places one gloved finger to his lips in a sign of secrecy and gestures for me to precede him through one of the stained-glass windows he’s slipped ajar.

We whisper like shadows into the church rafters, just in time to hear the sobbing, frightened child in conversation with his savior.

“H-He doesn’t mean it!” the boy insists.

I cluck my tongue in revulsion.

“Manners,” Sebastian chides.

I look at him in surprise, but his red eyes are fixed on the scene below us. I follow his gaze and see the boy’s savior for the first time. A sister of the cloth, in clean, shining, black-and-white habit, with an angel’s smile on her lips. I fight the sudden urge to growl. Having witnessed a true angel’s smile, I find the expression most distasteful. Sebastian’s hand settles on my shoulder in warning. I ignore him and return my attention to tonight’s game.

“Forgiveness is the first step toward grace,” the sister comforts the boy. She has perfectly porcelain skin and clear blue eyes alight with faith. “Our Father in Heaven will not let you suffer.”

The boy sniffles piteously. “I c-can stay here tonight, then?” he pleads. “In the morning, father will be himself again. It’s just what with losing his job and—”

“Of course, my child,” the sister soothes and takes the boy into the security of her arms.

The boy clings to her like an indulgent child, and she smiles serenely and then, as Sebastian and I watch, snaps the boy’s neck.

I lick my lips. I feel Sebastian coil with tension and insatiate hunger beside me.

“Be at peace, my child, at last in the arms of a Merciful Father,” the sister clasps her hands together as if in prayer. The wide-eyed body of the boy falls at her feet, but she pays no heed as if she has done this countless times before.

Sebastian and I act quickly. We have no contract here, and a reaper will be arriving almost immediately to deliver the boy’s soul.

The sister’s soul is sweet with every last life she’s taken, with the underlying bitterness of her untainted heart. I sup first, as is my right as master, and devour her entirely. Only after we have safely escaped the reaper’s scythe, do I lick one finger until it is coated with the perfection of our prey’s soul. I offer my finger to Sebastian’s lips to share this morsel but, as always, he turns his head aside.

***

Two days later, Sebastian comes to me in the morning, subdued as usual. He seems not to have taken my complaint against sulking seriously.

“I have located another, my lord,” he says dully, fastening each pearly white button meticulously.

“So soon?”

“Hmm.” Sebastian steps away so that I may rise. “There seems to be something of an epidemic occurring.”

“An epidemic of righteous murders?” I spread my arms so that he can slip my waistcoat on.

“So it would seem, my lord.”

Something inside me stirs at the thought. The demon in me is hungry, yes, but this is something deeper, older, more essential to my being.

I scoff.

“What’s on the agenda today, then, Sebastian?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“Hmm,” I say and nothing more.

***

Sebastian’s scent is easy enough for me to backtrack. We have been together far too long for his movements to be a mystery to me. I find the new murderer Sebastian’s located well before noon, while Sebastian is still tending to the laundry.

I know the man immediately. He is ladling out food in the soup kitchen among a dozen other volunteers, but their souls lack the delectable fragrance his possesses. It is a trivial matter to slit the throat of the vermin sleeping in the park across the way, cover myself in his rags, and enter the shelter as one of the homeless seeking refuge in this sanctuary. I slip inside and my prey, particularly oblivious in the way that some humans are, spots me and mistakes who is hunting whom.

He beckons me with one finger and leads me into the back. “Poor boy, sweet boy,” he coos obsequiously. “I have not seen you here before. Life can be so cruel. But we must have faith in Our Lord, for He will deliver us unto Salvation.”

He sticks a knife into my innards and twists it around.

I glare at him. “I follow no lord,” I inform him.

His eyes widen, and the knife sinks deeper.

“Stop that. It’s annoying.” I cut off his scream with a hand to the throat. The knife slips out of me and clatters to the ground as my prey gasps for breath. The former is unpleasant, but the latter delicious. The two are always best when paired, I find.

“Who is your lord?” I demanded.

My prey gasps, and his eyes widen, and I feel the elated rush of immeasurable power behind me. I shiver, and my prey is lifted from my grasp. It is not often that I feel the thrill of such a hunter at work.

“If I may, my lord? You should not sully your own hands with such menial tasks.”

“By all means, Sebastian.” I step back to watch Sebastian work. There is no point it asking how Sebastian knew what I was doing; he is, and forever will be, my shadow.

Our prey screams in agony but never betrays his master.

“There is something to be learned from that,” I inform Sebastian smugly.

He looks delightfully irate at this comment.

A scent of another power wafts through the air. “A reaper is coming.”

“Hmm,” Sebastian agrees.

“It’s your call.” I walk away. “Excessive gluttony doesn’t interest me.”

I leave Sebastian, half-starving, with that delectable meal still squirming in Sebastian’s blood-covered fingers. I don’t turn back.

***

I sit at the empty dining table that evening and study the immaculate place settings with concentrated interest. Sebastian waits by the side-board to take away the still-clean dishes when I am through. The silence between us is always pregnant, but more so today. It is a waiting game, and one in which Sebastian has little to lose.

“I believe I’ll retire early this evening,” I finally rise from my seat.

Sebastian clears away the plate and silver and then pauses in removing the serviette from my lap. “My lord?” he says with more inflection than I have heard from him in some time.

“What is it, Sebastian?” I lean on one elbow, affecting as bored a posture as I can manage.

“I let the reaper take the soul.”

I refuse to respond.

“I watched the cinematic record from the shadows.”

A question teases the tip of my tongue.

Sebastian says no more and moves away with the serving tray.

I watch his back with narrowed eyes for a moment and then, carefully, “Well?”

Sebastian pauses, just for a moment, mid-step. It is minute enough that human eyes would not spot the reaction, but mine do.

“Well?” I repeat more loudly.

Sebastian turns to look at me. “I know the master’s identity.”

Our eyes meet with mutual hunger, and for the first time, I feel we are truly of one mind.

***

The dilapidated stone remains feel hallowed even to a soulless demon such as me. I feel as if I am tingling all over. I pause, and I feel Sebastian pause behind me a millisecond later. I turn to give him an inquiring look, and he nods back. He senses it, too.

I alight atop one of the crumbling walls and glimpse the bell tower and the fallen cross at its base. This place hasn’t been a church in a very long time, but the stench of heaven still lurks here.

“Shall we?” Sebastian is silent and obedient as ever at my side.

“Shall. We.” I say it blandly. It is not a question.

Sebastian tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lord.” He bows deeply and leaps into the fray.

I watch atop the wall from afar with eyes of hellfire.

As expected, a demon’s footfall is noted in this place. No sooner has Sebastian landed on the gray pavestones that once formed the apse of this cathedral, than an opponent rises to meet him, our newest prey. Sebastian’s eyes gleam with the challenge before him. The scent in the air is human, and I lick my lips.

“Creature of Satan, begone!” a booming voice sounds through the empty air. It would have undoubtedly been more impressive if there had been church walls to echo off. And also if either Sebastian or myself were the easily impressionable type.

I catch Sebastian’s eye in the distance and yawn noticeably. Something sparks in his eyes.

A figure emerges to stand against Sebastian. He’s an unpresuming man of middle age, dressed in a monk’s robes, and entirely common and unremarkable in appearance. The scent of his soul in the night air makes my mouth water, however, and Sebastian stiffens ever so slightly.

There is also the matter of the rusted iron sword the monk raises to Sebastian’s eye level. The weapon is tarnished and nearly rotted through, yet somehow it glows, burning, bright as a sun lighting up the pitch of night.

Something in my demon blood quakes at the sight, yet relishes it, as well. True death is threatened here tonight, and to an eternal being, nothing is more of an aphrodisiac, I am surprised to discover.

“A holy relic,” Sebastian breathes. “How annoying.” He is lithe and graceful in response to it in a way he has not been since I first laid demon eyes upon him. He is alive against this foe.

“Demon!” the monk accuses, unusually accurately for a mortal. “Cause no further human suffering! The righteous blade of God has been bestowed upon me in His sacred place, and with it, I shall guide innocents into His light.”

“Completely sanctimonious,” I whisper. “Delicious.”

Across the battlefield, Sebastian inclines his head ever so graciously in my direction. He alone can hear my commentary, of course.

The very air seems to hum as the monk wields the holy sword directly at Sebastian’s head. I watch Sebastian evade two swipes before I realize that it is not an effect of the sword’s power, but the actual sound of voices whispering. Sebastian notices it as well, and our eyes both flicker to the surrounding ruins.

One by one, the fire in my eyes picks them out. Nothing but mere humans, yet somehow the sanctity of this space shielded them from us, until we knew to look. “Invisibility’s pointless if you’re praying out loud,” I say with disgust. “Idiot humans.”

Sebastian returns his full attention to dodging the holy light emitting from the monk’s sword. The sword seems to be imbuing the monk with preternatural powers; he is as fast and strong as Sebastian, able to leap superhuman distances. Sebastian looks far too self-satisfied by this turn of events.

I sigh wearily and slowly pull off black kidskin gloves. “Really, is that the best you can do?”

Before the second glove can slip entirely from my fingertips, a powerful grip circles my wrist. I blink at where Sebastian has crossed all the ground between us in a heartbeat. “I would hardly be worthy to call myself a demon butler – or a demon’s butler – if I could not handle at least this.”

“Eh,” I roll my eyes.

“Please, sit down, my lord.” He presses down on my shoulders until I am sitting atop the wall. “And enjoy the show.”

“Eh,” I say more firmly.

And then there is a flash of holy light, and Sebastian flips away. The monk is in front of me, with sword poised. I just look at him. He starts and immediately runs back into the battle with Sebastian. I snort with amusement.

“Stop showing off and finish it up already.”

Sebastian freezes for a moment in place. The monk’s sword stabs. Sebastian blurs to the side at the last minute, and the sword skewers two of the monk’s devotees mid-prayer. The monk is too enraptured with fervor to even notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care; after all, this is the same brilliant mind that decided it would be a great idea to deliver the suffering directly unto death.

The body-count mounts, and Sebastian does not need to lift a single finger against the mortals. How typically human, the sacrifices of war.

The battle is brutal, bloody, and beautiful. Sebastian dances, unscathed, even against the deadliest of weapons. The monk is wearing down, taking minor injuries that slow him more and more. Sebastian could take him down any second now, I realize, but like a cat toying with its prey, Sebastian is dragging the human’s suffering out, long and slow.

Despite myself, I find that I am smiling. “Hurry it up, Sebastian. I don’t have all night.”

Sebastian looks up at me in surprise, as offended as I’ve ever seen him. And then he smirks slowly and deliberately in my direction, as though he finally realizes that I have been laughing at him in my head the whole time.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Sebastian side-steps the monk’s blade one final time and then punches his fingers straight through the human’s chest. The monk gasps, croaks, and falls to the ground in his final death throes. Sebastian neatly kicks the holy sword aside as I approach.

“God have mercy upon my soul…” the monk gurgles out through his own blood.

“Neither gods, reapers, nor anything else shall ever lay claim to your soul.” I can feel my eyes glowing red. I have fed recently, but this blood’s conviction is far too delectable to pass up.

In the distance, I can feel a melting in the air and the scent of ashes. All characteristic of a reaper. Of course, with all the deaths, one was bound to arrive sooner or later.

“My lord…” Sebastian warns.

“In a moment.” I lean in and deeply, delicately suck the monk’s soul from his bones until there is nothing but a husk remaining. His screams of agony as his essence is devoured alive are like music to my ears.

“My lord…” The smell of a reaper’s death is almost upon us now.

I lick my lips. “You’ve got blood on your waistcoat. It’s unsightly.”

Sebastian gives me an exasperated look and then, so quickly that barely my demon eyes have time to react, scoops me up in his arms. “If you’ll forgive the liberty, young master, we cannot afford to be caught here.”

The reaper bursts on the scene, scythe at the ready.

“He did it,” I point to the monk’s corpse and give the reaper my best false smile. “Not us.”

The reaper strikes, Sebastian runs, and I am carried off in the rush of the chase. I feel like laughing. I feel alive. It takes us quite some time to outrun the reaper’s threat, but once the danger has passed, I lean in and tisk in Sebastian’s ear:

“Couldn’t even steal one soul from under a reaper’s eye? Pitiful.”

Sebastian’s eye twitches, but he clutches me all the tighter as he takes me home. I had forgotten how much fun he is to torment.

“Shall I prepare supper then, my lord?” he asks impeccably when he finally sets me down.

There is nothing in such a ritual to satisfy either of us anymore, but it is still a ritual – a propriety – and has been maintained between us at all cost.

“I have already supped tonight,” I say, defying all tradition.

Sebastian stiffens, and I pull him closer.

“You, as I recall, have not.” The monk’s taste is still rich and sinful on my tongue. I open my mouth to Sebastian.

He hesitates, yields, and at long last our mouths meet in a demonic kiss. He sups from my mouth, wicked and ravenous, until I can almost believe that I am the one he is devouring whole.

“You called me ‘young master,’” I say when we pull apart. “Earlier.”

“Did I?” Sebastian is an enigmatic as ever.

“It’s a shame, really.” I reach up to his face, but he catches my hand mid-motion. Always hesitant and coy, my butler. “I trained you so well.”

“My lord?” Sebastian looks as perplexed as I’ve ever seen him.

“The truths I posed to you as a human hold for demons as well. Do really only value the meal still?” I lean in close just to watch him squirm.

Sebastian’s eyes turn deliberately away.

“Revenge,” I whisper, evil and sweet. “I was meant to spend eternity inside you.”

For a second, the impotent rage within Sebastian flares to the surface.

“That was stolen from us both. And the one who took that from us won his eternity in a demon’s stomach with the one he loves. Is that fair, do you think?”

Sebastian’s head turns abruptly to look at me in surprise.

“Our revenge,” I insinuate, serpent-like, “will be even sweeter than that which I rained down as a human.”

Sebastian’s lips part slowly, carefully. “Our enemy is powerful.”

“That will just make wreaking vengeance that much more delectable. Have you still not learned that lesson?”

Sebastian is both hesitant and tempted. I can see it in his eyes. Something is lacking now, but he doubts that my words can ever fully restore what once was.

“A pity.” I pull back. “Together, we could have conquered Hell itself.”

Just as I turn away, Sebastian’s hand snaps forward and catches me by the wrist. His eyes are desperate for something – anything – beyond the meaningless existence he suffers now. A flicker of hope has been lit now, and slowly the sweetness of his suffering turns bitter. He is my greatest conquest, this gluttonous demon.

“Young master,” he acknowledges me consciously for the first time.

I glance at my wrist wrapped tight in demonic clutches. “The first step, then,” I inform him imperiously, “is to mind your proper place.” I snap my hand away and backhand him across the face. “Filthy demon,” I add with a smile.

Sebastian freezes for one moment, stunned, and then a twisted grin curves his lips. “I beg your pardon, young master,” he says with the stirrings of his old insouciance. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” I let him straighten my lapels. “Tomorrow, Sebastian. Tomorrow…”

“What is on the agenda for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we teach Hell what it is to burn.”

And the demonic fire in our eyes lights up the cold night now, forever, and into eternity.

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