#fic: augury

[afrenchaugurey]

A snippet from my WIP. I'm so deep into it since september (like 160K deep)... story one is done for more than a month but... I can’t manage to write the bestiary's introduction 😭

So, for now, just a snippet (from story 2 if I remember well... so the hurt/maybe comfort one)

#fantastic beasts #newt scamander #tina goldstein #newtina #fan fiction #fic : Auguries of innocence series #fic : a heaven in a wild flower

[ihavenosoul12]

oh god okay new fandom new me new fic.

tied down (together)

repeating the same actions and hoping for a different outcome was insanity. if she wasn't insane, she was alone. endure the rinse and repeat cycles or have no one.

eggman would always win more than he lost.

two mobians working for eggman, no other option: it's them against the world, only each other to rely on. but as sonic begins to understand what's going on, and as their trust in one another begins to wear thin, can they walk away from the only constant in their lives? will they even have the choice to?

debut of my oc inizio the raccoon and my friend's oc augury the snowy owl. they are very fucked up little guys and they're my blorbos. squeezes them squeezes them squeezes them squeezes them-

#sonic the hedgehog #idw sonic #sth #sonic oc #sonic original character #sonic fanfiction #sonic fic #sonic fanfic #my writing #writing #inizio the raccoon #augury the owl #augury the snowy owl #(girlfail gets two tags)

[chronically-ghosted]

Madame Ghosted invites you to a world of mysticism and magic! Enter through the veil for a night beyond your wildest dreams! the portal between this world and the next will be open for one week: March 31st - April 6th

let's get our freak on at the devil's sabbath for 1000 followers - pick a mystical art! (one at a time please)

augury 🦉 - a powerful omen of things to come. send me this and i’ll share a paragraph from one of my wips and talk a bit about it (feel free to pick a specific wip/on-going series if you'd like)

astrology 💫 - discern your past by studying celestial bodies. send me a pedro boy from either the cute and cuddly prompt list or the smutty list and i'll write a drabble

mediumship 👻 - communication between familiar spirits or spirits of the dead and living. mutuals, i love you so much! send me this and i'll tell you which pedro movie i think you're most suited to

palmistry ✋🏼 - divine the future in the palm of your hand. send in a pedro character with a trope/mood and i'll give you three fic recs

numerology ⚖️ - draw meaning from the symbols in your life. ask me anything you want to know - anon or otherwise - or we can play a game! (would you rather, FMK, etc.) (feel free to check out my brand-spankin' new about me page for any inspiration)

sappy thank you note below the cut:

i cannot translate all the gratitude, love, and awe i feel in my heart into words. thank you SO MUCH for every follow, reblog, comment, and follow you've all given me. when i am in a bad place, i come here for friendship, community, and kindness. when i need a laugh, i come here. when i need to get my rocks off, i come here (yeah, that's not a pun). when i need to feel surrounded by some of the greatest people i've ever met, i come here <3

it's been less than a year since i did my 100 follower milestone with a similar mystical theme, so it only seemed right i do it again. and to my surprise, a lot of those at that milestone are still around today. i'll tag some friend-o's below, but truly, thank you so much to all one thousand of you!

@sp00kymulderr @perotovar @gnpwdrnwhiskey @trulybetty @theywhowriteandknowthings @suzdin @kteague @heareball @tvversionperson @bitchwitch1981 @dilf-din @agentjackdaniels @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @whatsnewalycat @tightjeansjavi @hellishjoel @futuraa-free @covetyou @morallyinept @5oh5-library @opallouu @beskarandblasters @luxurychristmaspudding @pedrorascal @janaispunk @burntheedges @ladamedusoif

#1k followers #follower milestone #follower celebration

[liveyun]

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑 ; TEASER

pairing. kim taehyung x female oc/reader

genre. fantasy carnival AU, smut in the full fic

rating. 18+

warnings for the teaser. NSFW , ‘ tarot card readings which are totally made up by me, and the possibilities are probably inaccurate , tae gets an er3ction (1) , he's confused

word count. 727 (12-13k for the full fic)

est. release date : mid-february(?)

main masterlist

The shadows surrender to reveal the deck of cards beneath the flickering glow of a dying candle.

A soft sigh escapes his lips.

It wasn't uncommon for Taehyung to feel an initiative connection towards the deck he handles, or organizes, but what makes him intensely inquisitive is that once again, he feels the meticulous change about his surroundings. The sudden rise in temperature causes perspiration to gather around his temple, his throat cracking up with thirst, brain clogging up with an exhilarating energy which renders his mind empty.

The deck of cards resonate around his nimble fingers, and the glow of his jacquard fabric on his shawl glimmering a brilliant shine in his dim chamber. Taehyung’s hazel eyes concentrate on the message which they are trying to communicate; but something tells him that they're not messages, but rather, a signal. For him, to him.

Initially confused, he's not unfamiliar to any of the emotions he's going through, though. If anything, his heart palpitations grow as each whisper grows deeper in the depths of the night, and the stirring of his cock within his robes tells him that the message is solely for him; something which is a cue to be the querent.

With an anxious heart and an innate desire to understand what's the interpretation, he's quite relieved that the Arcana still resonates through their apprentices.

Lust.

His usually cold and eerily quiet chamber now tingles with the melody of the herb bottles crinkling against each other, notifying him of a possible augury. Whether it was a good one, or a bad one, was totally now upto what his fate had in for him.

His mind drifts over to the time when he used to work for his Master, and how his master especially warned him of the introspection sometimes the existential wisdom can lead him through the magical realm. A longing press vibrates against his chest at the remainder, something he admittedly made himself forget. A deep yearn for something, something.

Melancholy.

Shifting uncomfortably in his mat, Taehyung spreads out the deck of cards grasped within his hands on the table, each one carrying the weight of a story yet to unfold. His pupils dilate, threatening to shallow the thin, tawny ring surrounding them as his own energy intertwined with the symbolism of the cards, something Taehyung knew was necessary for proper response.

His hands, shuffling down the two decks to feel which card, frenzied their energies to reach out to him; his calculating gaze locked with the cards spread out and the energy between them pulsed with intensity. It was a representation of the unseen forces at play—a dance of hearts, an exploration of desire, suppression of feelings and congested desires.

His eyes widen when his brain tries to examine the possibility of two voices together in the realm; and when his hands sort out the two cards together to place them on the velvety rug, his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, hiding underneath the black shawl he draped himself in.

The bubbling confusion dies in this throat. Impossible.

The Lovers card, now revealed, depicted two figures entwined in a dance; and right beside it stays the Five of Cups, unveiled in its melancholic vicinity, portrayed a solitary figure standing amidst spilled cups.

His palms feel sweaty by the time his lips part to withdraw an exasperated sigh, equally puzzled and frustrated about the peculiar and out of the box combination; but his heart throbbed at the confirmation of what he had surmised already.

So did his cock.

Even in the realms of clandestine destiny, there was no answer to which face of the conjuncture was for him— he wasn't bothered about any, but he was for the fact that the realm chose him. Arcana chose this odd combination for him. Ever since he's been told to never ever doubt Arcana and Their choices, Taehyung couldn't help but feel uncanny when he felt the tapestry of emotions inside him swirl like crazy— melancholy poking his heart with a potential to Destroy—and his body burning with the ache to touch himself, to please himself.

Yet none exceeded the excitement he felt at that moment, the dim illumination of the chamber making the glimmer of his eyes stand out with a grin stretched on his ridiculously pretty face.

Afterall, he was chosen for the fortune hour.

a/n : this idea of fortune reader!tae has been on my mind rent free ever since the season greetings 2022 has been out 😫 though this genre is totally new and difficult for me to write, i’ve had fun writing it so far! i’m currently at 7k words and wanted to share it with readers to know your opinion.

hence, feedbacks are very much appreciated !

i’ve made an anonymous feedback box for all those readers who don't want to interact openly. it's just a feedback box, not even e-mail is collected, so please go ahead and consider dropping in a feedback if possible :-) i’ve been feeling burnt out since a long time and your feedback would mean a lot to me.

are you intrested to read the full fic/to be included in the taglist ? fill out this form ! thank you 💜🎀

→ taglist form (for this fic)

→ anonymous feedback box

#illuminated ocean.net #bts smut #bts x reader #bts x you #bts fics #bts au #taehyung smut #taehyung angst #taehyung fluff #taehyung fics #taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #bts fanfic #bts x female reader #taehyung x female reader #bts fantasy au #taehyung fantasy au #taehyung imagines #kim taehyung smut #sdq : somebody does queue

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

saw your name on the erised particpant post and i'm so excited to read what you wrote! it's like seeing authors in the wild when they do fests and stuff. can't wait

Ahh thank you! I've participated three times in Erised and unfortunately, this year will be my last time for that particular fest, but I am glad you are looking forward to it! There's another fest I participated in as well that will get revealed in the next couple weeks. If you are interested in my past fest fics, I'll link them.

-Dear Cousin, Love Regulus [Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018] As the sole Malfoy heir, Draco understood that his path was set long before his birth; who to be, how to act and what his choices should be. What he had not counted on was the power of outside influences. Letters from his deceased cousin caused him to realize that he did have choices, starting with the choice to be someone else, to be who he wanted to be. The road to self-discovery was difficult and navigating that path in the shadow of Harry Potter was its own challenge but maybe, just maybe, his friends would help him along the way. And he would owe it all to Regulus Black.

-Ardour of Karma [H/D Erised 2019] “Malfoy knows something is going on with you and unless you both want to go back to fighting and death glares, you should fix it.”

“How do I do that? Just waltz up to him and say, ‘I know I’ve been a prat but your scent makes my dick swell. How’s your day?’”

“Mind repeating that?”

The familiar drawl had Harry’s throat clamming up as his blood ran cold. Oh no.

-The Forsaken [Harry/Draco OwlPost 2019] When Draco imagined his future as a child he thought he'd be a Potion Master, get married and maybe have a kid. But the reality was he was a retired Assassin, bitten by a Vampire and mated to a reckless, idiotic, foolish ex-Auror now turned Veela—Harry Potter.

-Borrowing Courage [H/D Erised 2018] After years of being a Magical Artist and painting for other people, Draco decides it’s time to paint for himself for once. The secrets pile up as he tries to unravel the mystery of his relatives but the only thing he didn’t count on was having to go to Potter of all people for approval.

-Save a Horse, Ride a Malfoy [HP Kinkfest 2020] Riddles are woven throughout life, some never answered and many lost in frustration. Whatever riddle it was that defined what Harry and Draco had was a mess of a riddle that worked for them, despite what everyone else thought, even if there was no answer—yet. Sex was another riddle, only that was one they had solved many, many times over. 

-Still Standing [H/D Fan Fair 2019] Not many know the evil origins of a Philosopher's Stone. When Draco discovers that the Goblins found one and kept it, he'll stop at nothing to see it taken care of. Even if that means having to deal with Gringotts' very own resident twat: Harry Potter.

-Augury Forecast [HP Drizzle Fest 2018] Draco had always known that teaching at Hogwarts would be an experience, he just didn’t think that meant a flash flood in the kitchens, a windstorm in the Great Hall, or a sandstorm in the Quidditch pitch. Months of extreme weather would grate on anyone’s nerves, but to have Potter, the ever annoying Divination Professor, around every corner was even worse. So much for a quiet life at Hogwarts.

-Teach Me [HP Contest Fest 2018] "If you can’t learn Occlumency, then you can’t become an Auror.”

No. All of this couldn’t be for nothing. Harry hadn’t spent so much time proving himself, proving that he was more than just a famous name for all of this to go to shite. “This can’t be the end.”

"I have someone in mind that could teach you if you are willing, but I can't guarantee he will help, especially considering your... past." 

"You don't mean Malfoy, do you?"

-Worth Betting On [HP Joggers Fest 2018] The easy way Malfoy breezed into the arena in an unprofessional attire—grey joggers that outlined far too much, and a white dress shirt open with nothing underneath—which showed off his chest, his sweaty sweaty chest—had Harry sitting up straighter. It wasn't unusual to see Malfoy in such a state of undress, it was a signature move that he refused to change.  

Not that Harry wanted him to change. 

 Or the one where Draco is a professional Duelist, and Harry can't stay away from the matches.

#drarry #my stuff #XxTheDarkLordxX Writes #my fest stuff #didn't realize I was in so many of them over the years #i would like to participate in more this upcoming year #we shall see what life throws at me

[lvsifer]

the sweet & talented @cilil tagged me on WIP Wednesday, so have a lil snipped from the next chapter of my Paul x Feyd fic <3

Feyd-Rautha lies down on the bed, closes his eyes and thinks of the boy. Reflected red light slashes the tenebrous room in half, a laceration that cuts Feyd-Rautha off by the chest. He touches where the light warms his skin just above his seventh rib and dips his fingers between his costal arches. Here. He imagines Paul’s blade push inside. He moans. “Come to me, Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha murmurs into the empty room, then throws an arm over his face, bites at his own skin enough to bruise while his free hand sinks between his legs. What if the secret door opened and the boy came to him now? Feyd-Rautha imagines Paul’s lesser weight on top of him, spreading Feyd-Rautha’s thighs.

And ALSO, this super old angbang wip from...2016..........that I will finish...some day:

Yet in gloaming Melkor had once more returned, gargantuan and of-augury. A light had shone in his eyes, both fiery and frore. Naught of offering or promises foul, only this: his hand extended, and crackling along the whiteness of his skin, power. And Mairon had taken it. For what Mairon wants is not to serve. He wants to make. Suddenly he needs not pledge himself. Nil binds him, but his own will to power. Torn from slumber, he for the first time sees, and stares into the depths of the world. And deeper than woe or servitude, cradled in igneous rock, lie his own blackening desires, clamouring for eternity. And eternal shall they be.

tagging: @sauron-kraut (i know cilil also tagged you but still <3), @jamlocked, @liesmyth, @saintstars, @crackinthecup, @curufiin @theskeletonprior

#wip wednesday #feydpaul #paulfeyd #paul x feyd #paul atreides x feyd rautha #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #paul atreides #dune #dune fic #dune fanfic #angbang #melkor #mairon #seduction of mairon #silmarillion #silm #silm fanfic #also yes absolutely referencing Nietzsche in my angbang fic. what about it.

[confused-bi-queer]

It’s Wednesday and I’m trying to not freak out because I’ll return to school on Monday and goodbye writing time:c

Thanks for the tag @palimpsessed @larkral​ @stitchyqueer and @cutestkilla​ 

I’m a bit bad with fic recs BUT I’ve been reading long fics lately since I had the time and the last one was Poison In His Blood by notcanoncompliant. I really enjoyed that fic. Stars werewolf!Simon. And I just loved it. Even bookmarked it.

Well, now to the good part.

Regarding my Ballet AU, I’m struggling to end Chapter 14 but here’s some words from Chapter 10, which is the next chapter to come out.

Do you think Baz has suffered enough? Well. It’s Simon’s turn now.

“Snow,” I call him as he drinks the last sip of his water. He looks my way, and raises his eyebrows, silently asking me to go on. “Doesn’t your mum have alcohol? Or something to drink?”

It is getting sort of late, and the drinks always come after a splendid dinner. If we were at the Manor and Father liked Snow, he would have pulled out a bottle of alcohol already to continue with the lovely night. Joking around by getting just a bit tipsy.

His expression darkens a bit. He shakes his head, putting down his glass.

“She…” He sighs, looking away. “She doesn’t like me drinking. It’s bad augury.”

“May I ask for what?”

He keeps looking away.

“Dad was an alcoholic bastard and—Well, I guess you can imagine the rest.”

I really like this chapter, because it led me to write other 4 more, but the words aren’t getting out at all, so I decided to leave that fic alone for now because I’m going to get sick of it if I try to write more. WHICH IS WHY I found myself writing the next chapter for Protecting you like a Pitch. 

I have to admit that I feel like that fic is really meh for people who read my stuff for no reason. And it doesn’t make any sense because it’s literally my most popular fic, most kudoed, most bookmarked, most everything, and it still feels smol to me.

But well. Ignored the fic for five months and wrote Chapter 18 last night. I just published it, actually. So here’s a few words because I can’t never leave the boys be happy:

I always dreamed of the Mage loving me; he was my savour, after all, so I thought expecting those feelings from him was only logical. He must have had his reasons to show Watford to me, right? Other than wanting a soldier? A puppet?

I look at Baz, and I can’t help feeling that he was right all these years.

I was the Mage’s little dog, following after its owner without a question.

Of course Baz has apologised for having offended me so many times—I have as well—, but his words were always true. And I always knew, but I tried to fool myself. I tried to accept the Mage’s screams, his reprimands, and disappointed looks, because I genuinely thought I was the problem. And I was. Wasn’t as well.

Watching Baz defend me in such a feral way because it was unfair and wrong for the Mage to treat me the way he had always treated me was a shocker. My world turned upside down.

The chapter isn’t about exclusively that, but I thought of the Mage being an asshole and thought of making these two wips have that in common.

Welp, now tagging! @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @martsonmars @tea-brigade @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @forabeatofadrum @bazzybelle @bookish-bogwitch @moodandmist @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @erzbethluna @johnwgrey @captain-aralias @basiltonbutliketheherb @ileadacharmedlife @kherub @artsyunderstudy @dragoneggos @sillyunicorn @ionlydrinkhotwater @foolofabookwyrm-activated @raenestee @whatevertheweather @ic3-que3n @angelsfalling16 @hushed-chorus @whogaveyoupermission @yeonjunenby @kohatenz @ineffable-grimm-pitch @ninemagicks @nightimedreamersworld @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @onepintobean @shrekgogurt

#simon snow #snowbaz #carry-on #carry on #baz x simon #my writing #wip tag #wipsday #wip wednesday #pylap #trafou

[thesherrinfordfacility]

LWA here: I don't take the lockdown video as canon, as it's just too obviously a PSA. I do think there's more to be said about Crowley refusing to hear Chekhov's gun going off in the aftermath of S1, although that may be because I've now back-buttoned out of far too many supposed "fix-fics" in which Aziraphale has to abase himself before his much-abused demon. (Folks, they are equally to blame to the miscommunication pileup at the end! The yin/yang, single-character-split-in-half thing always manifests itself by them simultaneously botching things in their relationship! We are shown and told this explicitly! WTH?!) This is my own sequel to endlessly back-buttoning out of fics for S1.

I guess I'm one of the three or so people on the planet who got to the end of S1 and said, wait, there were two unambiguous betrayals during the course of this season, both related to trust issues, and unless they're discussed and resolved you cannot extrapolate a successful relationship out of this ending. Aziraphale betrays Crowley's faith that their friendship is different by not telling him about the Antichrist; Crowley betrays Aziraphale by manipulating him like /everyone else manipulates him/ by tempting him to kill first Warlock, then Adam. And there was a start to acknowledging the first during the bar scene, but there is no sign in the script that Crowley apologizes, mentions what he did, or even feels badly about it.* Fan attempts to excuse the manipulation usually repeat Crowley's own justification for the act at the park bench, but the script, via Madame Tracy, insists that "you can't kill kids" is a moral absolute. Crowley, and Aziraphale for going along with him, are in the wrong, end-stop. That was just such a massive stickle-burr for me in terms of conceptualizing how Crowley actually sees his own power in relation to Aziraphale's, and this season concretized that they are both suffering from trauma-related superiority complexes that they act out in ways that deny each other agency (Crowley by concealing information from Aziraphale about Heaven & Gabriel, then attempting to demon-handle him back into damsel-in-distress mode; Aziraphale by still being stuck in binary thinking patterns and offering Crowley a redemption plot he doesn't want).

*--I've seen exactly one analysis-in-fic-form that refuses to let Crowley off the hook, "Auguries of Innocence" (https://rainjoyswriting.dreamwidth.org/241857.html#cutid1), written by someone with experience teaching ethics. I think the author makes Crowley much too self-aware about what he did, but her conclusions about why he might be unable to bring himself to apologize are pretty plausible.

sliding this under a cut:

awesome, that's what i was kind of hoping someone would agree with me on (re: lockdown), mainly because from the feeling of the plot in s2 (plus the contextual characterisation already discussed about aziraphale's ability, vs surrender of his will, to protect himself/crowley's compulsion to overprotect), it felt rather extraneous of the canon narrative in retrospect. it felt like a fun, quirky PSA in isolation, but i didnt want to automatically discount it as not having its place in the story either if it indeed had one! so, im glad someone else was thinking what my gut was saying - that it is likely to be the former.

i get that many people are hungry for some kind of comfort following s2's ending (completely understandable), but i can't currently bring myself to read any fanfiction that follows the events of s2 because of this exact reason you've mentioned. frankly, i personally find it a little too uncomfortable that the resolution seen so far - in general terms, there are well-written exceptions - is for aziraphale to metaphorically prostrate and punish himself for the whole breakup, especially when i personally felt pretty much since ten minutes after finishing ep6 that there was more to it than aziraphale seemingly wanting to change crowley "into the angel he wants him to be", and rejecting him when he wouldn't. it's way more nuanced and complex than that. and every time i rewatch that scene, it feels so obvious that they are speaking words that on the surface fit together in terms of dialogue, but they are saying completely different things.

i love a misunderstanding-leads-to-angst trope, it's one of my favourites, and the way the dialogue was written in this scene to have so many interweaving and contradicting layers and meanings was a profound and immersive depiction of this. ultimately my end impression (until a point we get an actual Conversation in s3 that discusses these exact points) of the scene is that:

- aziraphale will always think he should and could do better and be better, even at the risk of sacrificing everything including crowley, and do so with only the greater good in mind... no matter if the greater good doesn't truly exist in the way he hopes or expects it to (and therefore is completely immaterial), and:

- crowley will always continue to keep and bury aziraphale in his own rage and pain, drawing him back in whenever aziraphale shifts to step outside of it, and do so because it's a constancy that has thus far worked in giving him purpose and a sense of being wanted.

there's way more to it than that, but those were the immediate first impressions i got. they may love each other endlessly, beyond understanding, and that's wonderful; but love alone is not enough to sustain a relationship of any kind. there has to be trust, yes, but also mutual respect, support for each others' true wants and needs, and a sense of wholly knowing yourself (even the things you wish you could change, or you dislike) so you know what you are giving to the other person. my perspective on being in a partnership is that your heart is no longer just your own, it becomes the other person's too - if not more - and you have to be someone that can be entrusted with it. neither of the characters give me the impression of having really learnt this yet, and have demonstrated on multiple occasions, including the ones you mentioned, that they haven't.

having a read of what you linked, this is exactly along the lines of why i think crowley doesn't want to recognise, or cant recognise, what he did in tempting aziraphale and manipulating him on the occasions that he did... because what would happen if he did accept it? and opened up the pandora's box that is bringing aziraphale's attention to it? how would aziraphale ever see crowley the same way again? id love to say it was the same lines along which i was thinking when i wrote the below re: saviour complex, but is far more insightful and eloquently put:

and also here, when talking in response to another ask of yours about I Forgive You:

essentially: that if aziraphale were to know why crowley does what he does, did what he did, if aziraphale received an explanation and a genuine apology for it, would crowley only be met with benevolence? or would he be genuinely forgiven in a way that is actually meaningful to him because it comes from aziraphale the person, not the angel? the latter would be too much to bear, i think. the irony however is that in not giving his shortcomings air, taking them out of the locked box he's crafted to hide them, he's occasioning further opportunity for misunderstanding between them.

trauma in whatever form is not a valid excuse to project that trauma onto someone else. it can be empathised with, but not excused. again, as always, at the risk of human-ifying two supernatural beings, it is entirely human to fuck up and do so, it's going to happen - that you hurt someone you love by keeping them in your pain. but it can't keep happening in a never-ending cycle, and has to have a breaking point that all parties actively learn from. this ground, them acknowledging having any feelings for each other, is brand new for them to tread on, but when it comes hand-in-hand with having millennia full of trauma, shame and pain, they also need to tread very carefully.

#i truly would give my life for LWA✨ but their asks do give me migraines and a sense that im not as intelligent as i think i am #good omens #ask #flashback meta #crowley meta #aziraphale meta #s1 meta #s2 meta

[relaxxattack]

BURSTS INTO YOUR INBOX homestuck vrisrezi fic recs?

Song Of The Pyre is unfinished but it is fucking ICONIC and i recommend it to everyone. no-game alternia AU longfic.

we defy augury is a game-over timeline HEARTBREAKER of a fic. oneshot.

8r8k h34ds is a modern day au finished multichapter fanfic RIGHT UNTIL IT ISN'T. featuring rosemary in later installments

the love we deserve and the love we accept are canonverse explorations from both of their povs respectively and also. break my heart.

you gut me in the bathroom is an exploration of all of vriska's relationships with a focus on vrisrezi.

all flesh is grass is a zombie apocalypse au with side jadekan!

storms and saints is an outsider pov and also made me cry because oh my god they're in love

to praise the mutilated world is a bloodswap au in which terezi is a blueblood and vriska's a teal. heartbreaking.

into this sea of air is a s: make her pay fic with a twist: pacific rim au.

we whispered names to the things in the dark is a modern urban fantasy au with some absolute banger side plots.

we are only dreaming and i'm dreaming only of you is a post-game fic (featuring some black johnrezi which is Not my cup of tea but i was able to look past it lmao)

i know what you think of me is mostly focused on vriska and jake but it's got some vrisrezi too! it's a fisherman vriska au

sburgatoria is a dyke drama religious horror suburbia fic. if that makes sense.

a mirror i built myself is about vrisrezi teaching june flarp!

and finally: we will build a new world is an earth c fic series featuring vrisrezi (one fic just dedicated to that)!

i'm going to send another ask with some more hold on

holy shit anon what the hell

you are a magician a life saver a modern day alexandrian archivist oh my god

#vrizrezi #fic recs #save #seriously thank you so much omg????

[dye-it-rouge-et-noir]

"The Merciless Eyes of Deceit"

Rating: Gen

Relationships: None

Characters: Elliot Carver

(Character study fic with some details based on Raymond Benson's characterization of Elliot) Elliot Carver is a man whose lies reach into even his closest circles. No one will ever know how bitter he is over the faults of his biological father, keeping him alone. Prompt Fill 2022 #15: Write a fic entitled "The merciless eyes of deceit"

Word Count: 1,091

Fic is also down here below!

Elliot Carver was alone, standing in a room filled with static ambiance. No matter where one stood, one could never escape it. Each side of the room had a brigade of television screens, projecting the Carver Media Group Network's logo. Flashes of orange and blue illuminated his figure, casting a long shadow behind him.

The room hosted all of his virtual conferences, plotting how exactly to make the headlines echo globally. It was a demented secret that the CMGN were the harbingers of the disasters they reported on. The network's advocacy for the truth was nothing more than a falsehood.

The concept of lying was deeply ingrained into the network's founding with Carver epitomizing it within his veins. No matter how close people came to Carver, they would never be able to fully regard his soul. That was the way he liked it. He reveled in deceit.

He was a master of rhetoric, manipulating words with precision to keep people's hearts pulsating for him. A false promise of truth would have diverted from the reality that he was a man who enjoyed bloodshed. Even then, simplifying his persona's secrets to solely sadism would still be falling for his lies. He wouldn't dare let a single eye gaze at the man lurking behind his persona.

Carver's theatrical media persona bled deeply into his identity off-camera. With a charismatic wink he gave to his fans, he made sure that his innermost circle would receive it as well. He commanded his men to commit atrocities with the same cadence as when he stood behind the podium. His charming front would simply be laced with sinister auguries as he laughed at the horrors he caused.

In the end, it was still a lie. A diversion to keep people following his every word and blindly idolize him.

To give up his lies entirely would be to give up those adoring eyes. He'd be giving up everything he was known for. A suave demeanor had been the very reason he was able to keep himself afloat.

Carver grabbed a black tablet resting on a desk. With a flick of the wrist and a few taps, the network's most recent broadcasts were displayed on each individual television screen. Each one was one tragedy after another, a discord forced into a melody.

This was vengeance against the world that wronged him from his very birth. God had betrayed him from the start and there was nobody for him to scream to. He had been given up by his biological father as an infant. What sin could an infant have committed to deserve such a fate?

He was a bitter man still, desperate to hold onto every ounce of admiration he obtained. After being deprived of it, he yearned to be in control of his destiny. He wanted what he rightfully deserved.

With the way words could sway fate into Carver's favor, he weaponized them and welded them like weapons of mass destruction. Now, he was in a position that garnered global attention with the world sitting under his palms like a plaything.

It was never enough; it would never be enough. Carver could never understand why.

He had everything he could have dreamed of when he was younger.

He was a media mogul whose broadcasts reverberated throughout the entire world. This was who he was. Who the world believed he was. He had captured the hearts of the public with his influence, yet that still felt unfulfilling.

Carver's hands grasped his tablet in a tighter hold, watching as the screens flickered through the clips like a kaleidoscope. Though beautifully decadent, the scenes felt like they were missing a critical piece to them.

Why wasn't anything enough?

He began to hear his own voice from the televisions from an event he had attended recently.

Carver's eyes shifted to his visage projected on the screen.

His heart stopped for a moment.

He quickly paused the footage, hoping that he had only been seeing an illusion.

His resemblance to his father, Lord Roverman, was growing more apparent now that he was aging further. As his hair thinned out and turned a silvery white, he couldn't help but think about how uncanny the resemblance was now.

He loathed it.

He loathed this.

Taking a step towards the front of the room where the largest screen was situated, Carver looked closer. He tilted his head in an attempt to get a better angle. He was able to recognize himself looking back at him, yet he remained unnerved by the fact he could see bits of the father who had forsaken him.

Lord Roverman was gone now, yet still haunted him in such a cruel way.

If there were few who knew of the true source behind the CMGN's news reports, there would have been even fewer who were aware of Carver's tumultuous past with Lord Roverman. Richard Stamper had been there to witness it personally and facilitated that sorrowful waste's demise.

That was two decades ago, yet Carver still couldn't let go of how deprived he was of his own legacy. It was the reason why he began this path and why he turned to deceive others like second nature.

Stamper would never understand that Carver was still frustrated at the world after years. Carver was on top of the world now. He wouldn't dare let one of his closest confidants realize that he was still being shackled down by his past. It would ruin the high image he had cultivated.

Though Stamper was undeniably loyal to him, there was still the emotional distance between an employer and employee that kept Carver from truly considering him a friend. Stamper considered Carver to be on an elevated level. They weren't equals to each other, despite being close.

If he couldn't let the man who helped him take his father's head know what lurked behind his persona, no one else would be privy to it. He wasn't going to dare let anything ruin the charms he prided himself in with incessant bitterness. He needed to be perfect.

Shutting off all of the television screens, he watched as they all flickered into pitch black. Soon enough, the only light that remained was the fluorescent ceiling fixtures. He set the tablet aside with a sigh.

He would always be alone with his lies as his only company.

Carver exited the room, realizing how much time had passed. The only thing he could do was speak into the microphone and let the crowds hear what they wanted from him.

#007 fest 2023 #007 fest #007 #james bond #elliot carver #my writing

[afrenchaugurey]

Hi all

Just a head up to say that I posted chapter 5 a couple of days ago.

#fantastic beasts #newt scamander #tina goldstein #newtina #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fan fiction #autistic newt scamander #fantastic beasts fanfic #fantastic beasts fanfiction #theseus scamander #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #original characters #fic : auguries of innocence series #fic : weave a bower in endless night #I'm sorry I don't have energy to make a real post #even if it's probably my fav chapter

[yellowocaballero]

how do you come up with your ideas?

Augury, mostly!

Haha, but no. Everybody has their own story ideas in their own ways. Mine would be no good to anybody else. I can only recommend the same thing that would generate any stronger story - consume a lot of highly diverse books, shows, movies, news, etc. Watch Hellraiser and the Seventh Seal back to back and have the weirdest dreams of all time. A lot of my stuff is built off a place of "this is a retro Kid's WB cartoon!" or "this is a Disney Channel Original movie!" or "this is a satirical war novel!" or "this is an issue of a vintage comic book run!". I have a PBS kid's programming Zoboomafoo-type idea in my head that would only work in a webcomic form that I can't write and it makes me SO ANGRY that I can never realize this vision.

In terms of me, personally, and how things end up working for me. Jokes with friends, overwhelmingly. Very often one idea will spring another - for example, I think I got the idea for New Wave when I was writing the prophetic spring and I ended up constructing a Steph & Bruce relationship that was a) really interesting and fun to write, and b) made me think about how Steph would have been fucking perfect as the first Robin for a million reasons. Covid puppy story was really as simple as a "What if...?" about a Batman arc in the 90s, plus a lot of jokes. Mostly jokes. TBH, most of the time, reading/watching something and going "this is funny, but it would be much funnier if...". Most of my fic is from consuming something I find vaguely mediocre yet enjoyable and riffing on it relentlessly until an actual full concept emerges. So often my brain is just "I want to write Spider-Man 2099 fic but I don't know WHAT to write" and I just have to. Wait til I find a good idea. Shit just happens.

But also I can't explain much. I read a volume of the origin story of Green Lantern Kyle Rayner and then my younger sibling woke up to 80 Discord messages about my perfect complete redo of Kyle Rayner and how I would write the best Green Lantern four season TV show of all time.

It would fuck. By the way. It would fuck hard.

#my asks #my writing #trust me i have the most perfect modern au for The Prisoner in my head #that i'm never writing #because that's fucking stupid. #but it's there! #this really is one of those things where if you want advice #I do have to shrug and say 'eat weird media'' #and if you want what i personally do it's kind of an 'idk it just happens' #big ol shrug emoji #but trust me sometimes shit's in there marinating until I find a good idea #miguel i will write you the minute I have a good fucking story for you

[chronically-ghosted]

Congrats on 1k, love. You deserve a million!!

I’m picking augury because i simply can’t get enough of your writing, and i’d love to see what’s coming up.

Hi Gin! 🥰 thank you for permission to chatter endlessly about my fics!

In the pipeline:

the return of Daddy Dieter - love of my life @burntheedges sent in a request for Dieter and i should have calculated but this whole celebration fell on the tail end of when i am at Maximum Horny, so of course Dieter being the absolute best father and husband is coming back around.

part two of LSYR - I knew going into this that this would be monumental(ly a huge pain in my ass), but not to fear, i am trudging along. promise it will be worth it because part 2 is where we get the 'sharing the bed' trope and praise kink in action 😉

riders of the purple sapir - i think after i finish lsyr, i'm going to focus on my beloved din djarin. i've had this fic as a wip for almost (maybe more than) a year now and i love it dearly. it'll be a four parter, but much shorter than lsyr. i'm so proud of it and i can't wait to share it with you all!

transition of Recovery Road - i wrote and posted Recovery Road (my first multichapter ppcu fic) on my main account when i first started writing. since making this blog, and the positive reception i've received (don't cry, don't cry, don't cry), i want to house all of my ppcu fics in one place. plus, that might give new followers an opportunity to check out my older work!

thank you SO MUCH for this ask! I'm really excited to share all of this with you!

#1k celebration #1k followers #follower celebration #dieter bravo #joel miller #din djarin

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on Ao3

Rated M

It goes by many names.

Augury, Divination, VooDoo, Sangoma, Magic, Sorcery, Jujutsu.

The strange phenomenon known as Cursed Energy has mystified the likes of humans for millennia. To the frustration of most, there is no consensus regarding how and when people first began casting spells. Though, a popular theory attests that spell-casting first appeared when Neanderthals began burying their dead some 130,000 years ago. Fear and evil began corrupting human minds, bringing about the emergence of fearsome creatures, commonly known as Curses. Various religious beliefs of an afterlife coincide with this theory, including the “exorcising” of demons.

Once humanity began to evolve and migrate across the globe, the effects and capabilities of Curse Energy also mutated, giving rise to the emergence of “Sorcerer Families.”

Only a handful of these families exist today, primarily divided amongst the Western families of Europe. And the Eastern families of Japan. With exception to the Voodoo, Sangoma, and Nyongo practitioners throughout Africa, the Navajo and First Nations of North America, and various other sects throughout the Assam district of India. However, it should be noted that these factions have voluntarily chosen to stay out of Western affairs; colonialism mostly to blame for the mistrust.

Having been formally recognized within the Vatican after years of conspiracies and brutal witch hunts, The International Association of Exorcists aligned itself with the Western families, while the Jujutsu clans of the East managed their own affairs. During the great battle to end Ryomen Sukuna in the 11th century, both continents fought admirably together, but lost contact years later. When Pope Clement VIII sent missionaries to Japan in the beginning of the 17th century, dialogue was attempted, but with the rise of the Tokugawa’s Shogunate and calls for isolationism against the “barbarians,” and stubborn ignorance on behalf of the Jesuits, these attempts were soon thwarted. Feudal Japan was labeled a swamp where foreigners weren’t welcome and Christianity went to die, despite having fought alongside each other as equals years ago.

But times were changing.

As Japan entered the modern era and was no longer ravaged by war and conquest, the country started opening its borders, becoming the cultural and economic powerhub it is today. Little by little, the Sorcerer classes began communicating with each other once more, due to the overabundance of Curses and scarcity of Sorcerers. And when rumors began circulating about Lord Thames' niece, who was said to have The Sight, action was swiftly taken. Now with the marriage of Gojo Satoru and Hannah Thames made official, the first of its kind, a bridge was finally established. Relations between the Jujutsu and Western factions practically improved overnight, bringing hope that Ryomen Sukuna would be exorcized at last. However, not everyone was pleased with the arrangement. News of yesterday’s incident spread rapidly and an impromptu meeting was summoned.

The Association’s fury was palpable.

“Outrageous.” A heavy fist slammed atop a wooden table. “Simply Outrageous. You promised us the girl would be safe once we relinquished her in your care.”

“Do sit down, Bishop Matteo,” a bald man wearing Buddhist vestments said appeasingly. “We are carefully looking into the matter, rest assured. Jujutsu High remains the safest place for the seer. Unless you honestly believe those old convents with no protective charms whatsoever would serve better?”

Bishop Matteo scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve been closely monitoring the child since her sixth year. She’s never left our watchful eye.”

Another voice, a man, spoke from the Jujutsu Sorcerers. “Your eyes are useless these days, Bishop,” he spat. “If it weren’t for your inquisitions and witch hunts, the number of Western Sorcerers wouldn’t be reduced to the sham it is now. You have your precious Vatican to thank for that.” His voice twisted. “Or perhaps it's too busy housing pedophiles to concern itself with Curses.” Several of his comrades jeered and nodded their heads approvingly.

If there was any politeness to be had, it was quickly fading. The sex abuse scandals plaguing the Church had reached shores far and wide, calling the Vatican’s credibility into question. It was a painful topic for everyone involved, victim and faithful parishioner alike, but at the mention of pedophiles, blades slid from tethered sheaths and cassocks. A wave of veiled threats whispered amongst The Association, their anger bubbling beneath the surface. What business was it of theirs to talk of such things?

A nun with cat-like frames stood from her whispering colleagues, hands folded in her scapular. A small hourglass hung on a chain along her white kerchief. “You should know better than to cast stones, Kamo Ryoichi,” she quipped. “We’re more than aware of Jujutsu’s own moral failings, particularly within your bloodline. Word has it you named your progeny Naritoshi. My, how scandalous. Any human experiments we should know about?”

It was the Jujutsu Sorcerers’ turn to hiss. Like a homing pigeon, the Christian nun knew just where to strike, re-splitting an old wound.

“You old hag,” Ryiochi growled. “It’s been well over a century. The Kamo clan has atoned for its sins.”

The nun grinned wryly. “Tell that to the dead.”

The airy whispers reached a fever pitch. Wooden chairs scraped along stony flooring and cups filled with green matcha spilled to the ground. East and West rose to do battle.

“Jujutsu skum.”

“Barbarians.”

“ENOUGH!!”

The ferrule of a golden staff struck the ground in a cacophony of blinding light. Bolts of lightning sputtered across slabs of gray, channeled by a powerful wind. Swords and various other armaments abandoned their wielders. The lanterns lining the walls were extinguished, covering the room in total darkness. Soon the bedlam decrescendoed into heavy fits of gagging and confusion. The dust settled.

Cardinal Xavier Wrath lifted the hooked crosier from the ground and with a flick of his wrist the lanterns relit themselves. His beady eyes shone in the flaming embers. “Sit,” he commanded.

All Sorcerers acrimoniously returned to their seats, hiding insults under their breath, but obeying the cardinalate’s order, nonetheless.

Cardinal Wrath surveyed the room, making sure knives weren’t hidden under cloaks. His heart saddened at the perfectly good matcha spilled carelessly on the floor. Such a waste, he thought bitterly. Had centuries of war taught these people nothing? He turned to his companion.

“Yoshinobu, my old friend. It’s been too long.”

The eldar, Yoshinobu, bowed in greeting, his many piercings jangling from flabs of aged skin. “Likewise, Xavier,” he said in a gruff voice, heavy eyebrows like Spanish moss over his eyes. “Though, I wish it were under lighter circumstances.”

“Yes. Quite so,” replied the Cardinal. It had been twenty years since the two men last saw each other, before Xavier donned the red cassock, and Yoshinobu was initiated as an elder. For various reasons, they were unable to meet at the wedding. Happy to see his friend in good health, the Cardinal looked around the room and saw the Gojo seat vacant. He pressed his lips together. “My friend, perhaps I misread your letter, but wasn’t the husband invited to join us? It appears he’s not here.”

Yoshinobu grumbled in agitation. “I told you, Wrath. It’s like herding cats with that boy.”

“Can you really call him a boy now that he’s married, Yoshi?” The Cardinal said, releasing a sigh.

“Marriage has little to do with it. He’s a boy until he learns to take responsibility for his actions. We’re fortunate the seer’s injuries weren’t severe.”

The Cardinal made a sound of agreement, though he was fairly certain broken ribs counted as ‘severe injuries’ under any opinion. “Where is she being kept, you say?”

“She was transferred to her dorm early this morning.”

Cardinal Wrath raised his hands in exaltation. “Praise Jesus.”

Yoshinobu grunted in opposition. “I wouldn't thank your God just yet, Cardinal,” he warned cooly. “When, and if, the boy arrives, there’ll be much to discuss. It seems some ground rules will need to be reestablished. He’d do well to listen this time.”

The Cardinal could only nod at his companion. “Yes. I share your sentiments entirely, my friend. But, while we wait,” he picked up his cup of unspilled matcha, “might we finish our tea before it gets cold?”

Quiet returned to the room. Westerners prayed the rosary, while the Jujutsu Sorcerers meditated silently, and Cardinal Wrath and Yoshinobu drank their tea, waiting for the Six Eyes wielder to turn up.

The doors closed shut.

Hannah blew out the match stick and allowed the aroma of melting beeswax to fill her nostrils.

It was 1.P.M. The pews were empty.

Chevrons of dim sunlight cascaded from high windows, bathing the sanctuary in natural light. Sekiguchi Cathedral looked like something out of a Frank Herbert novel. Its wooden architecture, once gothic, was bombed during World War II, and reforged into Tange Kenzo’s steel and concrete masterpiece in 1964. It was ahead of its time, a precursor to Vatican II, which meant there was little iconography and almost no decoration, except a honey stained-glass waterfall flowing behind a large wooden cross with a halo placed in the center. Red candles burned at the base of the rood, but the tabernacle was obscured by a long Carrara marble altar draped in a white and gold Easter cloth. A bed of lilies skirted the bottom. Hannah clutched her chapel veil, rosary beads in hand, and listened to the thrumming rainfall drench the metal bastion in noise like a requiem.

An ambulance zoomed past, siren fading in and out as it hurled down the street. She could hear a taxi horn blaring, rubber tires trundling on wet pavement, the splashing of shoes, but the rain tuned most of it out. The air-conditioning kept whirring off and on at odd intervals. She shivered, her dress and sandals still damp from the rain. How unsettling to see a cathedral so empty. Where was everybody?

In an alcove, down the left hallway, Hannah knelt amidst twenty-six candles. A statue of St. Jude smiled down at her, holding a medallion and walking stick as it shepherded the burning votives encased in red glass, each newly lit flame representing a lost life. Hannah wasn’t permitted to attend their funerals, so this was the closest she came to paying her respects.

Tobiishi Elementary was a little known school located south of the Namidabashi6 intersection in Tokyo, famous, or rather infamous, for its raucous Trivia Nights and parent fundraisers, and its (occasional) dedication to school curriculum. The primary source of income for most households came from day labor jobs; the neighborhood was poorer than most.

Yesterday, as the evening came to a close, three rows of first graders sat behind their desks, waiting eagerly for Nishikawa-sensei to dismiss them. Their backpacks zipped with homework. Play dates established. Stolen cafeteria snacks passed around and shared. Tiny eyes glued to the clock for that final, freedom inducing bell. But the dismissal never came. In less than 3.4 seconds, a Cursed Womb manifested outside the classroom, possibly the fastest gestation ever recorded, and birthed an unholy creature so evil, it must’ve spawned from the pits of Hell.

When the carnage ceased, twenty-five little carcasses, their flesh whittled down to splintered bone, lay atop each other in a mortem sacrifice. The Curse managed to escape through a crater in the ceiling, leaving the classroom in shambles, save the four walls circumferencing it, Nishikawa-sensei being the lone survivor, barely breathing.

However, the twenty-sixth body wasn’t recovered until late last night from a strange religious school outside the city limits. Face mangled beyond recognition, the little girl could only be identified from her school I.D. badge, pinned to the torn rags of her uniform.

Her name was Nakamura Ami, four days shy of her seventh birthday. That tender age when it’s still cool to hang out with Mom and Dad, and begin wondering whether the boy that sits next to her in class likes her or not. The six year old was known for her long ebony hair, often festooned in ribbons and bows. She enjoyed picnics in the park, playing football with her friends after school, and beating boys twice her age at the one game she cherished more than anything in the world; chess. Her total winnings? A full ¥15,677.89, which her parents kept safely for her in a jar, and an impressive collection of Pokémon cards, including a shiny Charizard that hung in a frame overlooking her bedroom. She won it from a seventeen year old who liked bullying the younger kids for their lunch money. As the old saying goes; All is fair in love and war.

A chess prodigy, the FIDE would’ve hailed Ami a Grandmaster by the time she entered her teens, but that dream now laid to rest alongside her cremated bones. A shining star, lost to the ether. Few would know she ever existed.

The last of her obituary read the following line, “Survived by her loving mother and father,” but that wasn’t entirely true. After all, here was Hannah, standing in a church, alive, still breathing, a bonafide survivor. Had the Curse not been devouring Ami’s lifeless body, Hannah's presence would’ve been discovered a lot sooner. Though, it was ultimately the clattering of a hair clip, ironically shaped as a butterfly, a quiet and unassuming creature, that betrayed her. Nonetheless, Hannah’s heart was beating and Ami’s was not.

“Suppose I'm to tell you it’s all part of ‘God’s plan,’ and we should rejoice that they’re in a ‘better place’…”

Startled, Hannah whipped around to see Fr. O’Malley’s soft brown eyes striding closer towards her, his sandals squeaking atop the marbled floor, Fransciscan robes swishing. In one hand, he held a large black umbrella, dripping behind it a scant trail of rainwater. He stopped beside her, leveraging the umbrella like a cane. “But, frankly, I feel for any parent who is told to ‘rejoice’ in the loss of a child.” He shook his head and bestowed a sad smile. “Apologies, lass. I couldn’t help myself. Spotted Kiyotaka parked outside on my way to see the archbishop. Doubt he’s here for Confession, so I thought I’d better have a look inside.”

Her heart jolted as she stood from the kneeler.

“I-I won’t be much longer, Father,” she said tremulously, turning for the exit. “He’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Nonsense,” quelled the priest. “Kiyotaka is used to waiting. A few more minutes won’t hurt him.” He lowered his voice. “Besides, the poor lad’s had it up to ninety with all the work Masamichi’s been dealing him. He could use a break.”

Hannah began gnawing her lower lip, afraid to meet his gaze. Technically, she wasn’t permitted to leave the school. Convincing Mr. Ijichi to chauffeur proved rather difficult and left her feeling a tad guilty. In ensuring her escape, she had placed it upon herself to “educate” the Deputy Director, albeit with embellishment, the importance of Christian funeral prayers as they relate to unbaptized persons, and the urgency that such prayers be performed quickly and solemnly in a holy place of worship, lest the unbaptized be damned, which was ludicrous given that no amount of intervention had the power to send souls to Heaven, or Hell (excluding the teachings on Purgatory, which were largely misunderstood). Either way, she doubted the director, a staunch Buddhist as she recently learned, would correct her bad soteriology. And using his own ignorance against him, her only serious lie involved Principal Yaga’s behest that she leave immediately, provided Mr. Ijichi be her escort. And to her gobsmacked, hardly thought possible astonishment, the plan worked. Mr. Ijichi believed her. However, looking at Fr. O’Malley, clothed in his humble brown habit and cincture, it was unlikely he’d find her argument equally compelling. Hannah didn’t think herself so clever.

“Was it wrong of me?” she said timidly, gauging him for a reaction. “To come here, you think?”

The priest melted into a half-pitying smile. “There’s nothing wrong with praying for the dead, Hannah. You’ve done these children a kindness few strangers would think to do. Except, next time you decide to sneak out,” he flashed her a look, “might I suggest actually asking permission first.” When Hannah didn’t say anything, he added, “The jig is up, lass. Kiyotaka started squawking, the moment he saw me. Now, what’s this I hear about funeral prayers and unbaptized persons burning in Hell? Mind you, it’s a sin to bear false witness against your neighbor. Perhaps, I should have you apologize to him right now as penance.”

An uncomfortable warmth flanked down her neck. Hannah couldn't hide her shame for having been caught, and judging by the priest's expression, he knew it. Choosing to ignore her flushed state, however, the pastor turned around, and with an outstretched hand made a cross over the candles, saying. “May the Lord grant them eternal rest and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, rest in peace. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“Amen,” Hannah whispered, crossing herself. For the next few minutes, the two pilgrims silently watched the red votives dance in the invisible wind, their little flaming tongues lapping up whatever oxygen they could. Heavy raindrops continued their bombardment on the ceiling as another car horn blared outside. Fr. O’Malley exhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry this happened, Hannah,” he finally said. “We should’ve sent someone to fetch you when you weren’t at dinner.”

Hannah didn’t break from the candles. “Please. Don’t apologize for my sake,” she murmured, tiny infernos reflected in her downcast eyes. “I’m sorry it happened too. Those children deserved better.” Then her face slightly withdrew. “Although, there’s something I don’t understand.” She looked up at the priest perplexedly. “I thought Curses can’t leave their point of origin. How was this one able to break free?”

Given his faint surprise, the priest hadn’t expected her to make such a sensible and otherwise excellent observation, but he quickly composed himself. “Oh, uh, don’t you worry about that, lass. The higher-ups are conducting a full investigation as we speak. They’ll have it sorted out in no time. You have my word.”

“But I was a key witness. Won’t they want me for questioning?”

He paused. Shy though she was, it was wrong to label Hannah a simpleton. She was asking all the right questions, taking things seriously. And, if her escape from campus had anything to show, she could be fairly cunning with enough nerve. The Irishman shook his head. “No, my dear, that won’t be necessary. Satoru debriefed the higher-ups last night while you were recovering, much to everyone’s surprise.” He nudged her with a wink. “Guess he’s not such a useless eejit after all. Who knew?”

Hannah continued biting her lower lip and fingered the crucifix on her rosary. “Yeah,” she softly demurred. “Who knew?”

She saw the hope bud in his eyes. “Does this mean the two of you have reconciled, perchance?” he asked.

In an instant, Hannah felt her heart drop through her stomach and onto the marbled floor. He’d misinterpreted her. “No,” she conceded flatly. “We haven’t.” The words were dry in her mouth.

“Oh.” The Capuchin’s posture slouched. “I’m sad to hear that, lass. Truly, I am.” He gazed up at the ceiling as if forfeiting a long running argument. “Well, I guess there’s no point keeping it a secret then. Someone’s bound to tell you sooner or later.”

Hannah opened her mouth to inquire, but when Fr. O’Malley gestured for her to sit in one of the vacant pews, she fell silent and quickly slid herself between the nearest row to sit down, whereby the priest soon joined her, setting his umbrella along the back cap and crossing his legs, which were hidden under his long woolen robes. He fussed with the troublesome fabric a moment, grumbling irritably to himself, then leaned back into the polished bench, his hands folded in his lap. “But before we delve into that little fiasco, I find it pertinent to ask. Did anyone ever explain to you how that Sukuna finger found its way to France?”

The seer paused and shook her head. “You said the Louvre was still looking into it, last time we talked.”

“Ah, yes. So, I did,” exclaimed the friar, appearing to have remembered the very conversation in Principal Yaga’s office a few days prior. He clapped his hands together. “In that case, you’ll be happy to hear that the mystery has since been solved. Turns out the finger was smuggled into Europe long ago, during the early 1600s. A thieving missionary, ‘Padre Leroux,’ brought it back with him to Paris, where he eventually buried it near the Wall of Philip Augustus just outside the Louvre Palace — How do we know this, you might ask? — Well, it’s because the bleedin’ fool confessed to the deed in his journal entries we found in the museum's hidden archives. Apparently, he was aiming to harness the Cursed Object’s power for himself.” The priest snorted. “Those Jesuits we’re really something.”

Hannah raised her eyebrows alarmedly, “But, Father,” she started. “If that’s true, how do we know the other fingers haven’t been smuggled out of Japan? Who’s to say there isn’t one frozen at the top of Mount Everest, or another below the Mariana Trench, eighty fathoms deep?” She mentally pictured a puce colored finger, swimming with the fishes.

Fr. O’Malley merely shrugged. “You’re guess is as good as mine, lass, but given the sharp increase in Curse outbreaks, it’s unlikely the other fingers have fled the country. Only an immense disturbance could trigger such a phenomenon. Say the unsealing of nineteen Special-Grade Cursed Objects, for instance.” He craned his neck to peer back at the red candles. Hannah’s gaze followed. “I just hope The Sight shows us where they are, and soon. The death of one child is one death too many.”

Hannah’s insides felt as though they were stiff clumps of mud, stuck together. With a heavy heart, her eyes returned to the rosary beads bunched in her lap, deciding then that she would pray an extra Hail Mary for each child when she returned to the school. “So, why’re you upset that Satoru and I haven’t reconciled?” she sighed.

Hastily, the Capuchin roved through his pockets for a silver chained watch, an old Glashütte by the looks of it, his one secret indulgence, and pressed a thumb to its crown, squinting. “Hmm, yes, about that.” He closed the heirloom gingerly, placing it back into his pocket. “You’re aware that it took six high-level Sorcerers to exorcize that Curse in Paris, correct?”

“Yes, and I heard what happened,” Hannah answered, her voice carrying a somber note. “Two of them couldn’t be saved and died before making it to hospital.”

“Indeed, indeed. Very tragic.” Fr. O’Malley lamented, bowing his head mournfully. “Ivan Leibowitz and Vera Avery, two of The Association's finest, gone,” he snapped his fingers, “just like that.”

One of those names caught the seer’s attention. “Sorry, did you say Vera Avery? As in Lady Vera Avery, daughter of the late Viscount Belgaven?”

“Why, yes.” The priest raised an inquisitive brow. “I assume you knew her?”

Hannah pressed her lips together. “No,” she said a little too quickly. “Just surprised, is all. Forgive me for interrupting. Please, continue.”

The priest sensed there was more to the story, but it would have to wait another day. He cleared his throat to continue. “Anyway, like I was saying, you can imagine that the incident has the entire sorcery world concerned. A normal Cursed Womb usually takes two to three Sorcerers to properly excorcize, but Sukuna is a completely different beast, and it’s uncertain whether his remaining fingers will spawn Cursed Wombs. Therefore, to mitigate fatalities, the jujutsu higher-ups have decided that only one person should venture forth to retrieve them for us; A partner to work alongside you, if you will.” He eyed her down purposely. “And I’m sure you know just who the higher-ups have in mind, lass.”

Hannah wilted in the pew like a sunless flower. Unfortunately for her, she knew exactly who the priest was referring to. That’s why he asked whether they’d reconciled. “Please, tell me there’s someone else,” she softly begged, the words tasting like dirt. “Anyone.” But the priest shook his head.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he said sympathetically. “While you may have reason to disagree, the higher-ups are right to choose Satoru. He’s probably the only Sorcerer who can return to us in one piece, should anything go awry — And, besides, the two of you are married. It makes sense that you should work together. Husband and Wife; The Dynamic Duo.” He started throwing fake punches in the air, woolen sleeves folding over his fists as he took a few jabs, but Hannah didn’t share in his enthusiasm.

“How is that possible?” she murmured.

His punches halted in mid air. “Pardon?”

She raised her head. “I mean, how is it that he’s the only person who can return to us unharmed? Are Cursed Objects his specialty, or something?”

A heavy silence fell between them. Rain continued pouring outside like buckets, roaring in both their ears. The friar measured her cooly, searching for behavioral cues that would indicate she was lying, but he found none. Hannah's question was sincere, and it seemed she hadn’t a bull’s notion regarding the answer. A slight simmer roiled in his gut at the implications, Jacob Thames, he seethed silently to himself. What have you done? The priest's fists dropped to his knees. Closing his eyes, he prayed that the Heavenly Father would grant him wisdom for what he was about to impart. It was of vital importance that she knew. He leaned back into the bench with his hands interlocked.

“Hannah,” he said, opening his eyes serenely. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly do you know about the Gojo family?”

The seer’s grip tightened around her rosary beads, along with the fabrics of her skirt. Trepidation spread from the back of her neck to her toes. She didn’t like the way he asked the question, the austerity in his eyes. “Everything I know? she asked. The priest nodded once. Nervously, she swallowed. “W-Well, I know they’re one of the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan and, um…” she stopped to think, “their lineage dates back to the Heian period and up until the Meiji period they served as imperial historians and clerical workers and, uh…” She ciphered her brain for anything useful, trying to remember Sister Edith’s lessons. “I-I think I read somewhere that they’re the most prominent of the Three Sorcerer Families, but…” She paused again, coming up blank. “Other than that, I know little else.”

“I see.” The priest lined his mouth. “So, you don’t know why they’re the most prominent then?”

Hannah could only shake her head. “No, Father.” she squeaked. “I haven’t a clue. Most knowledge outside of Japan is limited.”

The priest gave out another long winded sigh and looked up to the ceiling for guidance. Then, to the best of his ability, on that rainy April afternoon in the church, he proceeded to tell her all he knew about the Gojo family. About the legends relating to the brilliant scholar, Sugawara no Michizane, and the emergence of the Six Eyes and the bloodshed that ensued between the Gojo and Zen’in families throughout the centuries. He told her about the secret inherited Curse Technique known as the Limitless, the abilities to repel and attract, and how Satoru had been the first Gojo born with both the Six Eyes and the Limitless in over 400 years. “Subservient to only God and His angels,” Fr. O’Malley declared. “He is the strongest Sorcerer known to Man. Some circles even claim him to be a bodhisattva, of all things. Though, naturally, I’m skeptical…” And all the while, the Capuchin watched the color drain from the young woman’s face as he prattled on. When his sermon concluded, Hannah looked as though she’d downed an entire bottle of gin in one sitting and was about to hurl it back up, her complexion so pale, she could’ve blended with the Carrera marble.

“The strongest?” she said in an awed whisper. “Y-You’re telling me he’s…that I’m his…” her tongue was like a wet leaf on dry clay.

Westerners cowered at the name of Gojo, never uttered it aloud for fear they’d be struck dead, or turn to pillars of salt. The Six Eyes? The Limitless? The fact that no one, not even Sister Edith, inclined to tell that Satoru wasn’t only a clan leader from the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan, but the strongest Sorcerer alive, meant her duties would entail far greater tasks than tea culture and donning evening gloves for the opera.

While the Jujutsu aristocracy played a pivotal role in maintaining order, it wasn’t solely based on blood and ancestry alone. Rank was also determined by a meritocratic system. The stronger the Sorcerer, the more influence they imbued over the other families, a privilege which extended to spouses, particularly wives, since noble women were seldom allowed to hold power in their own right, and often relied on the status of their grandfathers, fathers, or husbands. Should Satoru be indisposed for any reason, Hannah, as his wife, would be obligated to take his seat at table, placing herself at the epicenter of Jujutsu politics, rather than orbiting around it, something her foreign brain was having difficulty processing. Sure, her Reihō wasn’t terrible and her Japanese, fairly decent, but would it be enough to navigate the Jujutsu social elite? Could a bastard from overseas, who rammed her knees into bed-posts, and stuttered when nervous, accomplish such a thing?

They’ll tear you to pieces, said a voice from someplace dark. You’re already a failure as it is. The gold around her finger felt as though it were burning, grafting onto her skin, a permanence that could not be undone. There’s nowhere to run, the voice said. Nowhere to hide. She felt a hand grip her shoulder, peeling her away from her innermost thoughts.

“Mea culpa, Hannah,” Fr. O’Malley said gently. “It's just…we thought you knew.”

Hannah hadn’t realized tears were streaming down her cheeks, until she tasted their salt on her tongue, nor had she noticed the clean handkerchief held out in front of her. She politely took the linen from the priest’s hand and brought it to her eyes.

“I’m cursed, Father,” she blubbered, wiping the drainage from her nose. “Cursed with The Sight, my mixed blood, and now a husband who utterly loathes me.”

The priest couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh.

“Nah, he doesn't loathe you. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“The opposite?” Hannah lowered the handkerchief from her face in disbelief. “You, of all people, should know better than to joke. This isn’t funny.”

“I never said it was, lass,” the priest parried with a grin. “Only that there’s a fatal flaw in your character assasination — I mean — assessment."

She glowered, not appreciating his tongue and cheek. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

There was a secret in his eyes as the friar leaned forward, the pews creaking under them. “He saved your life, Hannah,” he carefully said, lifting his brows. “Tell me, does that sound like ‘utter loathing’ to you, or does he, perhaps, care a great deal more than you give him credit for?”

Hannah’s rebuttal dissolved on her tongue like powdered snow. She couldn’t think of an argument against that, for he spoke the unvarnished truth. By all means, Fr. O’Malley should be presiding over her funeral today. They were only having this discussion because she’d been rescued from the jaws of death. Swallowing, she lingered on the priest’s brown eyes momentarily, until her own eyes glided to her hand. Contemplation flitted across her pale features as she traced the gold ring on her finger. She stared at it, thoughts channeling through sluice gates holding back recesses of memory.

She could still hear the healthy rhythm of his blood sloshing from one heart ventricle to the other, lulling her to sleep as she stared into his eyes, beautiful and nacreous. Those colourless collagen fibers, scattering light away from the irises, giving them their blue appearance, where God forgot to separate the sea and sky. He was so warm, so present. She wanted to bury her nose in his jacket and smell the coffee and incense clinging to the woven threads and remain in his hold forever. Allow the Six Eyes to fill her, every crevice, every vessel.

It left her wondering how someone could be so terrifying and at the same time a shelter. Wasn’t it only yesterday she was sifting through weeds in the hot sun, trying everything in her power not to think about him? Trying not to remind herself that she would never see her mother’s portrait again? That he was the reason for it. Now, every preconceived notion she ever concocted about the Sorcerer was circling the bottom of a drain. She couldn’t be mad at him, at least, not anymore. Not when he saved her life. Whether it was genuine, or not, she owed him a great debt.

"Don’t worry, Princess. You can thank me later."

She waited for Sekiguchi’s gray walls to replace the sea of turquoise blue before turning to face the priest, her voice small. “You really think that?” she said. “After everything he said to me, you really think he cares?” The friar made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Satoru says a lot of things, lass. My advice would be to ignore 80% of what you hear and, instead, focus on what he does. With him, actions speak louder than words ever could.”

“Actions?” Hannah’s eyes returned to her wedding ring. She continued brushing it absentmindedly with her thumb. “Has he always been that way?”

“What? A stubborn gobshite?”

A ghost of a smile stretched the ends of her mouth at the Irishism. “Yes, a stubborn gobshite.”

The priest draped an arm over the pew and re-crossed his legs. “Yes and no,” he breathed glumly. “You have to understand, Hannah, there hasn’t been anyone like him in nearly half a millenia. The higher-ups have kept Satoru on a tight leash since his first cry. Never gave him the opportunity to experience a normal childhood, or show him proper affection for that matter. As a result, he lacks basic social skills and rebels against authority whenever possible. It’s only gotten worse since Sugu — ” His voice faltered. “Well, it’s gotten worse, let’s put it that way. Masamichi and I worry that if his behavior doesn’t improve, the higher-ups will inflict punishment. They’re this close to washing their hands of him altogether.”

“Altogether?” Hannah repeated, her brows furrowed in concentration, then she blinked. “Wait? You’re not talking about execution, are you?”

The friar stroked his chin as if it were a reasonable possibility. “Hmm, executing him would bring about dire consequences — but, yes, something more or less of that nature.”

Her eyes widened into saucers. “That’s mad. You said so yourself, he’s the strongest Sorcerer alive. They can’t do away with him at a time like this. There’s children dying.”

The priest gave her an exasperated look. “My thoughts exactly, lass, but you can’t always reason with these people. Satoru should thank his lucky stars that his abilities are so valuable. Otherwise, they’d have dealt with him a long time ago.”

“Gosh,” Hannah murmured, feeling a smidge remorse for the Gojo heir, having been quick to judge without knowing his story beforehand. She understood from experience what it was like to have your life overruled by someone else, wanting so desperately to break from the chains that bind. “What of his parents?” she inquired, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “He won’t listen to them?”

The priest’s frown deepened. “No, my dear. Satoru’s parents have been…absent, shall we say. Though, I do believe he lives with a housekeeper; a rather lovely lady, if I’m not mistaken — Bollix, what was her name again? Mikasa? Momoko?...” He imitated Winnie the Pooh, knocking his knuckles on his head, listing random people under his breath.

Hannah sobered from this. It explained why neither’s parents were in attendance at their wedding. We have a lot in common, she thought. They were both hostages to circumstance. “Do you know what became of them?” she said. “His family?”

The priest stopped his muttering, expression turning grim. “Afraid there’s not much I could tell you, lass. I wasn’t given the gory details and Satoru never speaks of it, nor would I think it wise to bring it up in casual conversation next time you see him.” He rifled through his pockets once more, checking his watch, face lighting up like a Christmas tree. “Janey Mackers! Is it really two o’clock? — Sorry, my dear, but it seems we must part ways. Bishop Okada insisted I meet with him and I’d hate to keep the ol’ prelate waiting. Send Kiyotaka my blessings, will you?” He hurriedly snatched his umbrella and rose from the pew.

“W-Wait, please,” Hannah cried, blushing at how her voice carried across the cathedral, her chapel veil sliding off her plaited hair as she reached for his robes. “You haven’t told me what to do about Satoru?”

The Capuchin turned sharply to look at her. “Why, nothing,” he said with a simple shrug. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Hannah appeared taken aback. “But how am I — ” The priest raised his hand.

“Patience, Hannah,” he said kindly. “There is no rift, however wide, that God cannot mend. These things have a way of sorting themselves out. Satoru will likely come to you when he’s ready to talk. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

If this was meant to make her feel better it missed its mark. “And if he doesn’t?” she implored dismally. “What then?”

Fr. O'Malley chuckle was soft, brown pupils glinting. “Oh, he’ll come around, lass. Trust me. If there’s anything I know about Gojo Satoru,” he shook his head, smiling, “it’s that the lad never ceases to amaze — Again, all I ask is that you’re patient. Give him the chance to redeem himself to you, if he hasn't already. In a fallen world like ours, there’s no such thing as too much grace.”

Then, without so much as a polite bow, the Irish priest edged his way to the end of the pew, genuflected towards the altar, and padded away, humming a happy tune that sounded an awful lot like St. Dallán’s “Be Thou My Vision.” Hannah watched him go and when it came time for her to leave, she pushed open the tall doors of Sekiguchi Cathedral, raised her eyes to the heavens, past the skyscrapers and tall buildings, and gaped.

Turquoise blue skies as far as she could see, not a rain cloud in sight.

The Six Eyes gazing down at her.

Later that evening.

Twenty minutes from Sekiguchi Cathedral, on Omoide Yokocho, affectionately known as “Piss Alley” by the locals, red paper lanterns hung above university students, tourists, and corporate hawks as the smell of grilled meats, primarily fish, roused their hunger. Boisterous laughter and pleas of “Sumimasen” shouted across tables. Servers poured saké into glass goblets until their rims overflowed, a cultural custom when drinking the rice wine, and a birthday celebration began clapping in the eastern corner of the izakaya. It was so clamorous that Shoko wagered hardly anyone heard her best friend’s beer clang atop the table.

“You. Did. What?!!”

Oh, boy. Here we go again.

“Hey, no need to be so loud, Utahime. Yelling indoors is unladylike, ya know.”

“That’s Utahime-senpai to you, and don’t play dumb. You idiot. The hell were you thinking, firing a Curse Technique that close? You’re lucky you didn’t blow her head off!”

“Psch, relaaax.” Satoru waved his hand nonchalant. “I had the whole situation under control. The girl’s alive, isn’t she? — Nanami, help your fellow man. Tell her I did nothing wrong."

“I agree with Iori-senpai,” Nanami said.

“Huh?”

“What you did was stupid.” Satoru opened his mouth to protest, but Nanami would hear none of it. They hadn’t sat in this dank excuse of a bar for ten minutes and already the salaryman was losing patience. “Limitless, or not, your first order of business is to ensure the safety and well-being of others. A rudimentary concept you seem unable to fully grasp.”

Satoru squinted at his comrade behind dark colored frames. “You know what, Nanami? I think I liked it better when you weren't around. Can’t tell if there’s one pole up your ass, or two.” He rested a palm on his cheek and sipped his club soda, annoyance maring his face. He already endured this conversation with Principal Yaga earlier today, which was lackluster compared to the earful he received from the higher-ups. Long story short, a lot of people were unhappy with him.

A lot.

Nanami scowled, thin eyebrows narrowing. “Believe me, I didn’t want to come back, but the higher-ups insisted. I gave them three months' notice. No more, no less,” He loosened the silk tie around his neck and slicked back his parted blonde hair, his glasses resting on the table. “Don’t misunderstand, you’re the last person on earth I’d entrust with a wife, but she’s the closest we’ve come to excorcizing Sukuna, and in your haste, she very well could’ve died.” Exhaustion circled the shadows under his eyes. He reached for his mojito. “So, save your breath. My sympathies are with her, not you.”

Utahime chimed in, parting her lips from her beer to issue Satoru a side-eyed glance. “Yeah, and when morons like you get in trouble, so do the rest of us. You’d best remember that.” She took another swig and re-positioned her legs under the booth. Her violet hair freed from its white ribbon, still wearing her Miko and brown lace-up boots. With the alcohol in her bloodstream, Utahime’s flushed cheeks made her scar more visible, a year old cicatrix that spanned across her right cheek to the arch of her nose. “I’m guessing Mei’s not joining us this evening?” she added.

“No,” clipped Nanami. “She stayed in Osaka. Apparently, a client hadn’t paid their end of the bargain. You know how it is with her.”

Utahime sighed. “Yup, that’s Mei Mei for you. Always thinking about money.” She glowered menacingly at Gojo. “At least she’s competent at her job and doesn't wait till the last moment to rescue a dying person.”

A sardonic smirk lifted the corner of Satoru’s mouth. “Gee, Utahime, you’re right. Mei would never be so callous.” He hooked his middle finger over his index. “Because unlike you, she’s actually strong and a whole lot prettier — ”

The white-haired Sorcerer needn’t dodge the pair of chopsticks aimed for his eyes. They froze in mid-air, an invisible barrier keeping them in place like a dartboard. When Satoru unhooked his fingers, the sticks fell to his lap. He laughed. “So mean. You’ll never get a boyfriend with that attitude.”

“I’m only like this when you're around, you prick!” Utahime spat. “Ugh, you should hear yourself sometimes. I bet your ass must be jealous of all the crap that spews from that big mouth of yours.”

Satoru slowly began clapping his hands in applause. “Wooow, congratulations, Utahime. Those are some fighting words, coming from you. Seriously, what would Gramps say?”

This time the woman reached for a knife, but Nanami forced her hand down. “While I hate to interject,” he said, ignoring Utahime’s death glare. “We need to talk more about last night.”

Satoru clicked his tongue. “What's there left to talk about?” He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his dark sunglasses perched on his nose. “Didn’t you hear me? The girl’s fine. Shoko healed her up and everything.” He careened his head towards the person sitting next to him. “Right, Shoko?”

The Jujutsu doctor hadn’t expected her name to be called. Granted, this was the first time she’d been out in days. Couldn’t she just enjoy her alcohol in peace? What gives? Anyway, she didn’t want to broach the subject any further because, as a matter of fact, she hadn’t been the one to heal the girl.

Hannah’s injuries healed on their own.

But before Shoko could craft a believable lie, the bartender jacked the television volume louder. A news reporter breached through the torrents of laughter and inebriation. The shamans heard every word.

“A tragedy unfolded yesterday as thirteen school children, ages six and seven, were killed in a gas explosion at Tobiishi Elementary, a small parochial school located in the neighborhood of San’ya. Authorities believe the blast was triggered by faulty gas pipes, setting off a chain reaction reducing the classroom to near rubble. The third school incident in over four months, parents from all over the country are now asking themselves; ‘Is my child safe?’…”

Utahime placed her beer on the coaster, her face sullen. “Those poor kids.” she murmured.

The mood surrounding the table followed suit. An entire first grade class, killed by a gas explosion. At least, that’s what they told the public. They’d used that cover-up before, only this time, the story went viral. #Tobiishi and #Prayfor26 trended on every social media platform imaginable. Protests and hunger strikes paraded throughout Japan. Photographs of aggrieved parents and their children, some dead, others missing, splashed on every front page newspaper. Politicians and school officials taking heat from their constituents. And gobs and gobs of online conspiracy theories popping up everywhere.

It was becoming impossible. With too many Curses and not enough shamans to exorcize them, unwanted casualties were bound to fall through the cracks, with Tobiishi Elementary situated along one such fault line, including two other schools and a hospice that shared similar fates.

Satoru clenched his jaw, encasing his empty soda can with Cursed Energy. It shriveled in his palms. His mission following the wedding ended on a trail gone cold. A Window reported a Curse sighting, Level-2 or above, but when Satoru arrived at the scene, he found nothing. If only he’d returned sooner. Failure didn’t mesh well with his pride. Nanami’s voice cut through his internal brooding.

“In this line of work, our job is to protect the living. It serves no purpose, pitying the dead. The best we can do now is ensure more won’t follow in their wake, which is why the seer remains our top concern. We need her alive.” He stared heatedly at Satoru, who turned away, pretending not to notice. “Whatever the cost.”

Utahime pulled a face. “She’s from The Association. How do we know she can be trusted?”

A fair point.

“We don’t,” replied Nanami. “But that’s not what worries me at the moment.”

His voice held a stitch of caution. Even Gojo, amused by some university students playing a drunken game of Jan-Ken-Pon, bent his ear to listen. Utahime and Shoko waited to hear what the man had to say. Kento Nanami? Worried? When was the last time that happened?

The quasi-businessman propped his elbows on the table and laced his hands under his chin. “The investigation is still ongoing. We know Master Tengen’s walls aren’t impervious. However, that doesn’t explain why the protective charm on Hannah’s ring failed to work. Cursed Spirits shouldn't be able to detect her signature within a hundred meter radius.” His eyes darkened. “So, how was this Curse able to track her down for two whole minutes, before causing injury?”

A dead quiet hung over the Sorcerers. It was a good question, possibly the most consequential. Yes, how was the Curse able to bypass the charm? How was it able to see her? Did the ring reject the magic? No, highly improbable. The spell was an extremely old incantation, and magic didn’t expire the way food and medicine did. Nor was it the first time Curses managed to slip through Master Tengen’s walls.

Unless…

Unless………

Shoko’s saké glass clattered to the table at the sudden thought, her heart racing. The words planted themselves in her brain before she could take them back, rolling off her tongue like hot oil.

“Unless, the Curse was being…manipulated,” she rasped, scarcely above a whisper.

Bingo.

Immediately, beer siphoned up Utahime’s nose, causing her to erupt into violent coughing, while Satoru's neck whirled around like a snowy owl, his widened blue pupils scrutinizing the doctor for the barest trace of a lie. It can’t be.

Nanami’s expression remained stoic.

“Hold on — cough, cough — Let’s think about this for a second,” wheezed Utahime, hacking the booze from her lungs. “Say the Curse didn’t wander in by accident, and…“ she chose her words carefully, “he’s to blame for it — cough — Why would he want her dead? — cough — That makes no sense.”

“Perhaps, assasination wasn’t the goal.” Nanami said, looking entirely unperturbed, anticipating this would be the group’s reaction, but Gojo’s stare couldn't be overlooked. He could feel the arctic chill crystallizing from across the table. He sighed through his nose. “Anything you’d like to say, Gojo?” he asked, his tone steady.

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I would,” Satoru seethed, voice matching the temperature in his eyes. His muscles coiled like metal springs, ready to pounce at the slightest upset. “What makes you think he’s the culprit and not someone else?” It sounded more like a threat than a question.

Nanami crossed his legs and brought his hands to his lap, calm as a monk. “I fail to think of another User possessing the Cursed Manipulation Technique. Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Bullshit!” The table shook. “There’s hundreds of unregistered Curse Users running around. I would know if my best friend — ”

“That psychopath isn’t your friend, Satoru.” Nanami’s voice was like the slicing of a guillotine. “He’s a traitor. A murderer. Whatever feelings you still harbor for him are grossly misplaced.” His fingers brushed the handle of his cleaver knife near his foot. “So too are your antics.”

“My…antics?” Satoru scoffed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” Namami hissed, his eyes gunmetal grey. “You had direct orders to report back once your mission was complete. Not dick around and go sightseeing.”

Satoru exhaled a heavy sigh. “Ah, crap, not you too — Look, I already explained this — There was no Curse. I searched everywhere. Someone must’ve gotten confused and rang a false alarm. Happens all the time.”

“Sure it does.” Nanami shrugged. “Too bad the higher-ups didn’t see it that way. Once again, your gift for pissing off the wrong people has everyone riled up, including The Association. I hear they’re asking for your head right about now.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, tell ‘em to get in line,” Satoru growled and threw his head back, arms crossed. “Dammit. Why is everyone acting like this is my fault?”

“Because it is your fault.” Nanami’s lips curled. He shifted his oxfords so they were square on the floor. The pub became still. “She’s your responsibility. Your charge to protect. Your — ”

“She’s a political pawn. The higher-ups should’ve never brought her here. This is Tokyo, for fuck’s sake, the Curse capitol of the world.”

“Except they didn’t bring her here, Satoru.” Nanami countered, jabbing a finger. “You did. You had every opportunity to decline the marriage, and you didn’t. You’re the reason she’s here. So quit bitching, and start acting like an adult for once in your — ”

In a quarter of a second, Satoru was on his feet, seizing the collar of Nanami’s shirt with a clad-iron fist, glass and tableware crashing to the floor. His bared teeth warped into a sinister smile. A crazed look mirrored his eyes, encroaching on pure delight. He welcomed the blood pounding in his ears, the Cursed Energy coursing through his veins. Gone was the jester from moments ago. The world's strongest Sorcerer stood in his place, Six Eyes on wicked display.

“Careful, Nanami,” he warned, voice like shards of serrated glass, “Or else we’ll see just how ‘misplaced’ my antics really are.” He felt a roll of satisfaction as a bead of sweat trickled down Nanami’s brow, focused fear in his eyes. The business man reached for his cleaver knife in self defense, but Satoru apprehended his wrist, preventing him from taking a slice at his torso. For what felt like hours, the two Sorcerers sized each other up, neither one backing down, waiting for the other to make the first move, until a third hand intervened.

“Let him go, Satoru.” Satoru looked behind to see Shoko, her expression full of concern for her friends. “They’re watching.”

He blinked and quickly spun his head to find several pairs of eyes trained on him, chopsticks not reaching their agape mouths. The entire pub, so stunned by the altercation that one waiter, who’d been refilling a customer’s drink, had yet to stop pouring and was now spilling alcohol every which way but the cup. Mired in silence, none of them uttered a peep, or moved a muscle. All wondering what the heck was going on, and why some tall albino dude was borderline strangling his friend with a look of murderous intent.

Feeling rarely self-conscious, Satoru shielded his eyes under his bangs and forcefully shoved Nanami back in his seat, releasing him from the chokehold. The salaryman broke into coughing, massaging his throat to reopen his strained airways. The white haired Sorcerer wasted no time grabbing for his jacket on the chair.

“H-Hey, you idiot. Where do you think you’re going?” accused Utahime, recovering from her own shock.

“Out,” Satoru snarled through locked teeth. He procured a wad of cash from his pocket, more than enough to cover the tab (and mess), and dropped it on the table, glaring menacingly at Nanami, who somehow managed to glare right back. He then gave Shoko an apologetic look. “Catch you guys later.”

And off he went, stepping outside the izakaya, into the busy nightlife of Tokyo.

The strongest Sorcerer on Earth.

Chapter Contents

#gojou satoru x you #gojo x oc #gojo saturo #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #ao3

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Before the devouring (Daughters Anthology)

Daughters Masterlist

Pairing: Gen Fic, but as per canon, some Bjorn/Gunnhild and some minor Bjorn/Ingrid, and because it’s me, hints at Ingrid/Gunnhild.

Summary: Gunnhild starts her journey as Queen of Kattegat with the counsel and augury of the women who carried the title before her, finding in their sagas written her own. With Gunnhild as Metis (an Oceanid, daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. She is one of Zeus’ wives, the one that helped him defeat Kronos, but she was prophecized to give him children that would overpower him and thus she was killed -eaten- by Zeus. She was already pregnant though, and she stayed in Zeus’ head long enough to raise her daughter before dying/fading away. She is Athena’s mother, and she made armor and weapons for her daughter, the helm she is usually depicted in, and her spear and aegis).

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: Canon divergence for the outcome of Gunnhild’s pregnancy and her death (and tweaking to the timeline, as the baby is 1) born, and 2) born a few months before the battle for Kattegat). Some injury descriptions, themes of (somewhat graphic) death and allusions to/mentions of domestic violence. The usual Ragnar&co. bashing for this anthology, and my incredibly rusty writing. As always, this might be OOC, especially in this case. And finally, this is the least canon compliant part of this anthology of sorts, because season 6 is a fucking mess and I cannot for the life of me find a plotline that I would enjoy writing about, no matter how much I like the characters/dynamics of it.

A/N: Poem (italicized bits) is Metis, the Forgotten King Maker by Nikita Gill and Gunnhild gif credits to @underragingwaves​, from this set, the Margrethe one is also hers but I can’t find the link to the actual set, the Lagertha one I found on Pinterest and I couldn’t find a source, and the Freydis one is mine. There’s also a line from Nikita Gill’s The Metamorphoses of Zeus spoken by a character, specifically: He destroys. He devastates. He devours.

Is there a word for this?

The waiting before the devouring.

The knowing and unknowing

of what is soon to be the ruins of you.

There is something about Kattegat her husband doesn’t know, his brothers don’t know, and his father never knew.

Ever since they first retook the town, Gunnhild has had to get used to unusual sights plaguing the kingdom she is supposed to rule over.

She sees a shieldmaiden with the weight of years slowing her gait searching frantically for the daughters only she cannot see, and as the mother wails her loss Gunnhild is left looking at four girls still cowering in a corner of the longhouse, holding onto each other as if the Gods were kind enough to make girls able to withstand the aftershocks of a man’s ambition.

On some nights she catches a familiar face looking at them too.

Lagertha’s ghost never lingers next to those girls or any of the others, she turns her back soon enough, and each time she does her back curves further under some invisible weight, some unshakeable guilt.

On the nights Gunnhild spends alone, talking to her pregnant belly trying to offer her baby the certainty she herself lacks, into the room stumbles a ghost of dainty features and sad eyes, and each and every time Gunnhild is frozen when Kattegat’s last queen takes a step towards her, hands stretched as if to feel her swollen belly, before her expression crumbles and the bruises on her neck get darker, and remembering the lie, remembering the end, she instead folds her hands in front of her own empty stomach and bows a goodbye.

Freydis’ ghost never wanders far from the longhouse either, but it isn’t the painful tie to those girls that keeps her tethered there, Gunnhild realized that fairly early. No, she stays where there aren’t burn marks etched on the houses and the streets still, she stays where the grief of countless families isn’t so thick in the air, she stays where her guilt cannot reach her.

And Gunnhild wonders if she also stays there as to not see her. The one that was both always and yet never a slave, the one Gunnhild sees walking the streets of Kattegat fervently, rabidly, tearing at herself and clawing at the edges of the town searching for a way out.

And she wonders if Freydis is afraid of her, of her madness, of her pain.

After all, she has seen the woman that whispers still speak of as the one that single-handedly sealed Kattegat’s Fate, the woman that stood her ground before a tyrant and a murderer without flinching; cover her ears like a child and cower in some corner of the longhouse when Margrethe’s screams threaten to tear the very earth in two as she is once again forced to accept she won’t be able to leave Kattegat.

On some nights, when Gunnhild hears her cries she has to grit her teeth to keep at bay her own, and her ring finger bruises and bleeds as Freydis’ neck did, and Kattegat’s walls grow taller and taller as a reminder that she too is trapped here.

“I built them,” A revered woman tells her in one of those nights, a woman made legend. To Gunnhild, she looks as real and as brittle as the day she realized the thing she wanted most in this world was to see her son one last time. Lagertha doesn’t look at her, and Gunnhild isn’t sure if she even knows she is talking to her, “I built them because I thought…I thought they would keep me safe, keep us safe.”

“From whom?” She asks, forcing strength into her voice to keep it from trembling, lest someone hears her talking to a ghost and thinks her mad and weak. She realizes then, with that thought, with that compulsion, that she already has her answer.

“I thought I was…keeping us safe.” Lagertha’s shadow repeats, suddenly not looking at the walls anymore, but at the horizon behind it, at the sea that carried the boat of a once-queen many times over, at the sea across from which her heart died. “But Kattegat needs its monsters, shieldmaiden. It will make one out of you if you try to keep them out.

She turns to her then, clarity in her wide eyes as she meets her gaze, the unwavering strength of the shieldmaiden she admired, the pain and regret of the woman she came to love.

“It -we- made one out of him. Out of all of them, and…ourselves too.”

She notices her husband’s restlessness again that night, the way his thoughts seem to chase themselves in circles as what was supposed to be the mountaintop offers no change from the very bottom. It isn’t the first time she is a witness to it, she was privy to the way he is pulled between the search for glory and the dread of the chains that come with it, long before they made themselves king and queen.

But tonight it is the first night that it worries her, that she puts a hand over her pregnant belly and she fears.

Her husband reminds her of a caged beast, and Gunnhild has too many scars to think to approach him, instead keeping her distance, keeping her shield close and herself ready for the moment the beast strikes.

Because that is the thing, about an animal in a cage. Even a cage it let itself be lured into with promises of glory, even a cage it was prodded into with the weight of legacy. It will lash out, eventually.

It will kill, if it has to. Once it is backed into a wall, or a step away from freedom, it will strike against both friend and foe for a chance to survive, to win.

If given a chance to, it will sacrifice anything for a chance at glory, or at freedom. He has before.

He is a God-King after all.

And I just his consort.

So what if I was his king maker.

Better women than me

have made gentler kings

and still met their ends.

Her worries do not leave her, just as her husband’s restlessness does not leave him, not with another wife by his side, not with a kingdom at his back, not with a daughter in Gunnhild’s belly. She wonders if it is perhaps because of those things that his restlessness grows, that he seems hungrier with each passing day.

She wonders if it is perhaps the life she is growing inside of her that awakens in him this hunger for glory, this instinct to devour. She wonders if he knows, just as his father did, that it is a child’s burden and privilege to live to become greater than their father.

And so her worries grow, as does her belly.

After all, she has seen the Norns taking their children from mortals, ripping them from their mother’s arms be it in a sickness that overtakes their body or because of the bravery they blessed them with. And she has seen men call themselves Gods and do the same, ripping children from their mothers’ arms, men of the same blood as her husband.

She thought she wanted glory, for herself and for her children. She thought she would never want anything more than bringing to this world a child that could claim a demigod as their father, but war and strife loom in the horizon as Fate demands the blood of legends be spilled; and Kattegat’s throne is just a piece of wood and so are the walls around it, and she wants, more than anything, for her child to be safe.

Gunnhild knows she is not a gentle woman, nor has she ever had any intention to be. When she was more child than woman, and times after that as well, she has thought of it as a fault on her part, as a flaw to be fixed. That would be fixed, once she grew, except growing only showed her that the world has teeth and it will sink them into supple flesh and left her no choice but to harden herself, once she married, but she married twice over out of ambition and she knows soft things hunger for love not power, once she had children, but life grows inside of her and all she wants is to find a way to arm her daughter with shield and armor before she leaves her womb.

“Neither your love or your shield will keep her safe from everything,” A familiar figure now sitting beside her says, voice sweet but sad. When the woman lifts her head, she bares to Gunnhild’s eyes dried blood caked around deep bruises that circle her neck. At the sight, disgust wages war with anger, Gunnhild’s lips part and her stomach tightens as if a snake had curled around her middle; and without even realizing she has let her hand fall to her side, searching for the sword that no longer lies there. Freydis lowers her gaze for a moment, but her eyes are still clear, she still holds this inhuman serenity as she states, “You needn’t concern yourself with the likes of me.”

“I decide who I concern myself with.” She retorts without hesitation, a furrow between her brows, in her mind the bruises on her neck the same shade, the same curse, as her mother’s blackened eye. She takes a breath, and admits to a failure that has haunted her since she first saw the once-queen lifeless beside the bones of her child, “I’m sorry I couldn’t kill him.”

It seems to take her aback, her harshness, or maybe the softness hidden underneath it. Regardless, Freydis leans back, clear eyes a little wider, expression a little less controlled, considering Gunnhild for a moment before she offers yet another smile.

This one is dimmer, but it feels more honest.

“Death, by your hand no less, would be too merciful,” The admission is quiet, but she hears the iron underneath. “You needn’t worry, he has paid. And when he returns, he will pay again.”

It is then, meeting her clear gaze, that Gunnhild wonders if some remain because they want to, not because they are trapped here. She wonders still if, even though she keeps herself tied here with nothing but her anger, she will be able to let go and rest one day.

But then in her mind echoes Torvi’s wail, a keen more animal than human but still mother, echoing in the quiet of the village as she learned of her son’s death; in her mind Gunnhild feels herself again upon that bed curling in on herself to try desperately to keep the pain from her heart, to keep the dread from her bones as she heard just outside Torvi mourning. And she realizes now, with those memories aching in her chest and guiding her hand to caress where her daughter grows, that she needn’t know if Freydis will one day be able to rest, for she knows Freydis herself does not care as long as her son is avenged, as long as his murderer is forced to pay.

And because anger always pairs itself with regret when it comes to grief, Freydis’ strength wavers, dims, and her voice quietens as she speaks again,

“I thought…I thought not even a God’s hunger could stand a chance against a mother’s love,” Freydis admits, seemingly steeling herself against the pain her words remind her of, head held high, jaw set tight even though her lip trembles. “I was wrong, and it cost me…everything.”

“Are you trying to warn me?”

“He hungers, you know that. They all do.”

She can only swallow thickly at the truth the woman so bluntly offers, at the reality the wisdom of the dead forces her to see.

Gunnhild closes her eyes with a deep breath, and when she opens them, Freydis is gone. Behind where she sat, just in the direction Gunnhild was looking as she uselessly searched for a remnant of the ghost’s presence, Ingrid approaches, smile tentative but kind as she looks at her.

Her stomach churns when she realizes she seemed most likely a mad woman, talking to herself in the quiet of the longhouse, and just as she is to voice an excuse, Freydis speaks again, her dainty voice somewhere in the crackling of fire, in the cadence of Ingrid’s approaching steps,

“They get that from their father.”

Ingrid eyes the empty seat, big eyes returning to Gunnhild after a breath, and where she expects to find doubt, or mockery, instead she finds Ingrid offers warmth, and a secretive smile.

“Don’t worry, she will be back,” Gunnhild notices the way her fingers are intertwined nervously in front of her, a contrast to the warm disposition Ingrid tries portraying. After a moment, she adds in a mumble, “There aren’t many places for her to go, after all.”

But there’s light in her eyes as she says that, there’s fondness in her voice, there’s the ease of companionship in the curve of Ingrid’s smile.

Gunnhild is certain it isn’t only directed at her, that smile, and finds herself smiling back, cautiously, hopefully, at both the ghosts and the woman before her.

People think having the power of prophecy

and cunning means you can avoid your fate.

No, my loves,

you are simply driven mad

by the knowledge of what is coming

and that you cannot stop it.

She cannot help but wonder, as spring and war and death draw nearer and nearer with each passing day, what her husband is willing to sacrifice for victory, for glory.

It isn’t for them that he fights, it isn’t for the future of his children, but for the past of his father, after all. And what a man isn’t fighting to save is what a man is willing to sacrifice, this she has learned, both in the battlefield with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, and in her once-home with both hands clasping tightly at the skirts of her mother’s dress.

At night, when sleep eludes her, Gunnhild takes to sitting in a small balcony in the back of the longhouse, letting her eyes focus on the night sky and hating how her mind reminds her of the passing of time, the dawn of war in the horizon, each night just by the changed positions of the stars and the moon.

Sometimes there is company by her side, the cold presence of a dainty woman of sad smiles or the warm hold of Ingrid’s hand in hers, but still her thoughts do not still, her dread does not leave her. Because Gunnhild knows, she knows like she knew Lagertha wouldn’t be allowed to be anything but what the world wanted her to, she knows like she knew her husband was too prideful to deny himself anything in favor of loyalty, she knows she is amongst that which he and the world around her will sacrifice for glory.

And more than ever she is now filled with the urge to find a way to don her daughter in armor before she is to leave her womb, to find a way to gift her a shield and sword of her own before she is to even open her eyes, to find a way to teach her the ways of the world and the ways of men and protect her from both.

She fears, more than anything perhaps, that she won’t be able to, that her child will be left alone in this world, that her husband’s hunger will consume her before she can raise her daughter. She fears her child will grow, unknowing that the one she must trust the least is her father even if she must strive to be his favorite, unaware of how to guard herself so what happened to her mother does not happen to her, having forgotten who her mother is and what her own name is.

“Are you-…you are afraid of being…devoured too, aren’t you?” A voice startles her, a slight trembling edge to the words. Gunnhild turns to meet Margrethe’s wide gaze, able only to stare back as the other woman nods her head to herself, as if confirming her own words, “You feel it, you felt it before, like…like hands around your neck. Or a ring on your finger. Only this time, this time you know you can’t fight back.”

She has gone mad, she was once told, we couldn’t take her with us to England.

So you left her behind, she wanted to argue back, because she is nothing if not someone willing and able to make others say what they mean to instead of letting them hide behind prettier words, but instead she merely asked, I wonder what became of her.

She asks herself now if then it was that she started down this path, when before the glory of legends she let her own hunger be ignored, and she wonders if she started letting pieces of herself feed them then, when she kept quiet instead of demanding to know what happened to the last woman that dared hunger more than one of them.

Regardless, silence answered her that day, and in her musings, she finds herself answering with the same to Margrethe’s words.

“Fear it all you want,” Margrethe spits with a shrug, evidently slighted by Gunnhild’s lack of response, with a childish cruelty that for some reason manages to tug at the shieldmaiden’s heart. “You can’t escape it. None of us can, not even them.”

“Them?”

“Them. The kings, the legends, the…the sons. Them,” She repeats again, as if Gunnhild had to have known what she meant from the beginning. Margrethe takes a breath, a shaky inhale that makes her stand taller but makes the tremble in her lip more noticeable, the pain in her wide gaze piercing. “He devoured them all, you know. He was hungry, and…and…”

“They were a threat to him.” Gunnhild states, not really sure why she is speaking as if any man was eaten alive. But still, a realization weighs on her chest with the weight of secrets her husband exchanged with her once, admissions of how he worried he could never be greater than his father, of how he feared he could.

Margrethe’s eyes focus on her with a glint she saw before, in the eyes of a once-slave too, a fierceness and an instinct to protect there that the world was never kind enough to deserve from her, from either of them.

“They were children,” She hisses, sorrow breaking her voice, perhaps forgetting she was a child once too, or perhaps remembering just that. Then again, perhaps she never was. Ingrid has told her, in secrecy, with the vacancy in her chest of no family to speak of past the one her ring gave her, of how no slave is allowed to be a child. Margrethe does not seem to mind her silence, or her prodding gaze, instead nodding to herself and whispering, “He ate the first two drowning her in the river, and another one when he forgot to come home.”

“I don’t…”

I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want to know.

“He ate the younger one across the sea. His own wrists were shackled, so he gave a shackle to him too, one made of gold, and ate him whole with two words,” She turns them to meet her faze again, suddenly steadier in her madness as she asks, “But the first one, th-the last one, him…him he never could keep down, could he?” The giggle leaving her lips is manic, terrified, and Gunnhild can do nothing but stare back, frozen. “Too alike, I think. Like eating your own heart. But they weren’t alike, once, so maybe it was like eating a…a stone. Unnatural.

She is musing aloud, and Gunnhild is left to wonder if it is her madness that made her so, or her loneliness. When the few ghosts of this town that are still more than remnants hide in the longhouse to keep their eyes from their mistakes, or as they did in life now in death offer to her pain the unwavering strength of a shield-wall, Gunnhild wonders if Margrethe has anyone but herself to hear her thoughts, her words.

“But it doesn’t matter why his father couldn’t devour him too. Still, he destroys, he devastates, and he…he devours instead.”

Gunnhild leans back, suddenly more guarded, suddenly angrier, at the mere idea that the man she has chosen to love, the man she has admired from afar and up close is unworthy of such devotion. At the mere idea that she has made a wrong choice, at the mere idea that this, the devouring, is inevitable.

“My husband is a good man, a good king.”

Margrethe’s answering laugh makes a shiver run down her spine. It is a cackle, mad and broken, that dies in pieces as she shakes her head and says,

“They all are, can’t you see? Because they are the ones to tell the stories. He…he never talks about his father’s absence, does he? Or his selfishness?” She nods to herself, not needing an answer, or perhaps aware she won’t get one from Gunnhild. “Neither did my husband. He didn’t talk about the bruises on his mother’s face either, but I saw them, they were there even after all those years. She had the…the mark, like teeth sunk into her flesh. We all do.”

“You aren’t making any sense.” Oh, but she is, she is, and Gunnhild is too proud to beg her to stop.

The blonde shakes her head again, reaching with a bony hand that impossibly grasps firmly and tightly to Gunnhild’s, that chases off the chill of the night with a warmth unnatural to one so far gone, so long gone.

“They…they get to devour until glory finds them, or they find it, or…or however it is that goes,” She dismisses her own words, her own confusion, with a gesture of her hand, and focuses manic eyes on Gunnhild, leaning closer as she says, voice a plea, “But we…we-…glory devours us, instead. If you just get close, you…you are eaten whole. It doesn’t matter who you are, or how much you want to devour instead,” Her eyes search Gunnhild’s, and after a breath she softens her expression, she offers a sad smile, an apology for the truth she cannot help but reveal. “I hungered, once. She did too.”

It is at her last words that her eyes finally stray from Gunnhild’s, and she follows her gaze only to find Kattegat’s last queen standing by the dim fires, quietly, with lowered eyes and bruises around her neck darker than she has ever seen them.

She hears approaching footsteps, and tonight Lagertha’s gait is marked by the limp of her final years, even though when Gunnhild catches sight of her face by the fire, she looks younger and more alive than she ever knew her.

“As do you. As will she,” She says, eyes on Gunnhild’s stomach and face strained with the nostalgia for a world that never was, for a past life she lost, for a future she will never meet. “She is your daughter, and my granddaughter, after all.”

“Lagertha…”

“I couldn’t win, I couldn’t escape. You can’t either, but she can,” Her eyes meet hers again, with the iron she lost once, after too many mistakes, under too much grief, and Gunnhild knows it is an order before she even tells her, “Raise her to devour.”

Until you learn the way I did,

how to alter a foretelling’s truth,

weaponize sadness and deconstruct it

into a life that works for you.

She awakens from the same dream she has had for so long now she cannot fathom it not being a memory instead, only this time she wakes to the soft coo of her baby’s cries, that the healer tending to her husband’s grave wounds tries shushing before Gunnhild tells her she will take care it.

She holds Signý close to her chest, feeling her little head rest lightly over her beating heart, and lifts her eyes to find Ingrid’s gaze. There is much they don’t say, Gunnhild holds it already as one of her greater regrets, but there is much that they needn’t say at all, not when with their eyes they share their fear, their grief, their pain.

The earth under their feet rumbles with the marching feet of the invading Rus, and when her husband calls for her to, Gunnhild grits her teeth and puts her baby back down in her crib to help him don his armor one last time.

And when the time comes, as he readies himself to fight for the legacy of his father to the last of his strength, she stands by his side, certain she will fight for the future of her daughter to the last of hers.

The world buries a legend they adored and admired that day, Ingrid and Gunnhild a husband they loved despite the pain, Signý a father she barely knew.

But even as they lay the last of the stones that seal the door to his tomb, Gunnhild still feels this dread, this gnawing fear, that even in death her husband’s hunger will reach her. Perhaps only in death it can, for she would fight him to the death were he to try and devour her alive.

The world has long ago decided she is to be the devoted wife of a great man, of a demigod, of a legend. The world has long ago decided her story starts and ends with him, no matter her hunger, her name.

The world has long ago decided there is no place for her, for her as the woman she wants to be, the woman she is, now that he is gone.

The woman they decided she was would endure her husband’s failings and disloyalty, and so she did, and found understanding and love in Ingrid’s soft smile; the woman they decided she was would fight alongside her husband, and so she did, to the very end, and kept on that fight months after his death to hold onto the power she was owed but robbed of; the woman they decided she was would honor his memory by raising his daughter to stories of his glory, and so she did, but told her in whispers of how there was a reason she was Signý before she was Bjornsdottir.

The woman they decided she was would refuse to live in a world that didn’t have her husband in it, this is what she has known and refused to accept, this is what his hunger demanded.

So Gunnhild has no choice but to arm herself one last time, grasp onto her shield and call her shieldmaidens to battle one last time. She strides into the battlefield with a war cry that she knows is a lie, fighting for a cause she has fought for half a year now and still knows is lost.

But that is what the woman they decided she was would do, she would fight with her husband’s name on her lips in the campaign he died for, and so she does, but with the certainty that it is willingly that she ventures into the beast’s stomach, that it is knowingly that she is devoured.

And when they strike the finishing blow, the distant feeling of the cold iron of her enemy’s sword running through her feels exactly like the opposite. It feels like an old knife broken free from a festering wound, it feels like relief, like freedom.

For she knows, as her shieldmaidens carry her to the ship and stall the blood flow with cloth a witch she once loved chose and wove a spell over, that she will live long enough to die in Kattegat. She had made sure of it, long before the Gods showed her so in her dreams.

Ingrid’s bitter and grief-stricken smile welcomes her home, but Gunnhild has no regrets about what keeps her here, and neither do the ghosts that guide her in this world in between worlds, now she understands this much.

Gunnhild had ordered long ago that they lay her sword not to rest by her body, but to be saved in a sheath by her daughter’s bed, for it will serve, before it serves Signý in battle, as the reminder to Gunnhild herself of what she ought to do now, of what she is to be for her daughter.

Her daughter, who cannot understand why they speak of how her mother is long gone when she sees her hand grasping Ingrid’s as the now-queen falters, who refuses to accept her mother sits in Valhalla besides her father when she knows each night she sits by her bed and softly sings her to sleep.

____ ____ ____

I originally didn’t mean to avoid saying the names of the men of Vikings, it just happened and I noticed halfway through and decided to go through with it to the end ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyhow, thank you for reading! I would love to know what you think!

Yep, again with me and ghosts in the Daughters anthology. There’s a lot of tragedy in Vikings, ok? Especially surrounding women, and the best way my writing manages to try to show that is through remnants of those people lingering by or returning, either because of the grief of the living (My daughter, my girl), the guilt of the living (I often wish), or in this case, the pain of the dead.

And in case you were wondering who the four girls and their mother from the beginning were, it was Queen Gunnhild, King Horik’s wife, and their daughters. Lagertha leaving the men to kill those children in 2x10 always stayed with me, and thus I headcanon that it also stayed with Lagertha, because no one can stop me lol. I love me some guilt for Lagertha, as you know if you’ve read the previous Daughters works.

Also also, the last-ish part of this was most definitely inspired by (again) Nikita Gill’s work, specifically Athena’s Tale, in the book I already mentioned a thousand times already, Great Goddesses. I just really like it man, idk.

Anyhow, idk if anyone reads these, but hey, thank you for making it this far! I promise I’ll come back with some shippy/reader-insert stuff soon, I’m just trying to get my writing motor going again so whatever romance stuff I finally write isn’t total garbage lol

#gunnhild #gunnhild vikings #Daughters Masterlist #I'm really sorry if this isn't good #my writing hasn't felt good in a while lol #im trying to get back to it #but it'll prob take time #im rusty as fuck #again #sorry lol

[argothiathedreamer]

One line, any fic

tagged by @bakageta

Rules: Pick any 10 of your fics and scroll somewhere in the midpoint, pick a line, and share it! Then tag 10 people!

I tag whoever wants to be tagged!

I think I will also be doing WIPs and finished fics, especially since the vast majority of my fics are WIPs lol.

-

Auguries (BatFam), Chapter 1: He doesn't jump when fingers entwine with his and a slight weight leans against his shoulder. She doesn't speak, just stands there beside him. A warm presence in the cold.

The Myth of the Bat Part 1 (Batman Mythos series) (Batman fandom) (WIP): Some day, on Gotham's darkest night, when smog and the earth blots out the moon, Vicki is going to strangle Roger with his own stupid necktie.

But You Could Hide Beside Me Maybe For A While (FMA): Opening his eyes Ed tilts his head to look at Ling, finding him looking back. There’s no goofy smile on Ling’s face and Ed takes in again how that makes him seem so much more stern than he is. Still Ed kind of likes this look on Ling better than the goofy grins. This is the real Ling after all and Ling trusts Ed enough to show it to him.

Still Breathing (Rewrite) (BatFam) (WIP): More than anything Dick wishes he could just erase every nasty thing he ever said to the kid and start over from the very beginning. So that right now he could feel like he’d have the right to tell the kid he looks like shit when he wakes up and know that he and Jason could laugh about it. As it stands he knows that it’d just sound like another unfair criticism in a long long line of them.

Terminal Pun Disease (BatFam): Jason grimaces. “If you mean the latest additions to my ‘that’s gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow’ list, they’ll mend. The case of compulsive pun disease I contracted from a certain someone way back when though, I’m afraid that’s terminal. One day it will absolutely be the death of me.”

We’ll Be Carrying Each Other (BatFam) (WIP): Despite all their arguments and everything Drake represents, Damian does not actually want him dead anymore. He blames Grayson for this. It certainly has nothing to do with Drake's winning personality.

Literal Drake (BatFam): Damian snarls right back at Tim like he thinks his display has anywhere near the same impact and that’s just adorable. Well, it would be, if he weren’t goading an actual dragon directly after Jason just prevented him from getting crispy-fried. Some gratitude. “Pathetic as usual, Drake. Even in a form where you have all the power you defer to Todd of all people! Shamef--”

Heavens Doors, Hell’s Gates (BatFam) (WIP): Hood chuckles, which sounds infinitely creepier through the voice modulator. “Yes, I do. Because you’re not stupid, Robin. You know how dangerous I am and exactly why I should terrify you. Now I suggest you use some of that self preservation instinct I hope Batman drilled into you and remember to stay far away from me. I might not be in so merciful a mood next time, little bird.”

Bad Influence (BatFam): “Well, you see, it’s very simple…” Jason eats the chip he fished from the bowl before continuing, “Fuck you. Fuck you is how.”

Rescue (BatFam) (WIP): “Ow.” Jason grumbles as he bangs his knee on the corner of the vent he's managed to crawl into. He really really hates being so damn huge sometimes. When he was a kid he could have crawled through spaces smaller than this one no problem. Now it's like stuffing an elephant in a horse trailer and this is the biggest vent in the entire place. Replacement owes him big time for this shit.

#tag game #I forgot my tag game tag and so did Tumblr #I need you all to understand just how much BatFam fanfic I write #There's 300+ files in my Bat Family folder #IT'S SO MUCH! And I'm kinda back into it so expect more in future #Argothia does the writing thing