#half of them got crueler and the other half got kinder

[ritual-unions]

I always imagined Ubbe having the biggest breeding kink ever, so I’m asking for that kind of image! Love your fics, I’m happy that people are writing for this beautiful fandom!

To help with the Sunday Scaries (of course I cannot keep any thing under 500 words, especially when it comes to these two):

It had been two moons since Avaritia had blessed them with a baby girl, and with each day that passed Ubbe showered his wife with gifts. Furs piling high on the bed, chests full of gold and treasures from his father’s first raiding plunder, a cottage out in the country, away from the stuffy halls of the King’s Villa, a place she could truly call her own.

Had he the mind to he would have worshiped the ground she walked on for giving him his first child. Avaritia seemed to sense this, hiding a haughty smirk in the corner of her mouth any time Ubbe cooed at the babe, or held her for his older brother to admire, or spoke words of praise about her to the shieldmaidens and warriors who asked after her health.

Since giving birth to their child Avaritia has been different. In a way he cannot quite put his finger on and so he lets it pass unspoken. 

“I have to meet with the king,” he says that morning, slipping the crucifix over his head. He grimaces at the weight of the chain resting against his neck and at the endless favors Alfred requires of him. “Tell Lagertha we will not make dinner.” 

“Tell her yourself,” Avaritia scoffs at the command. “I am not one of your thralls,” she sneers at the use of his mother tongue.

Ubbe chuckles quietly to himself, raising a brow in her direction. 

She does not meet his eye, instead consumed with the bolts of cloth on the table before her, imagining the different dresses she will have made for herself. The same bolts had he bought for her. 

His mouth twitches, with a half shake of his head he rids himself of his crueler instincts.

He steps towards her, wrapping his arm across her belly, leaning in her backside, pressing his lips against the exposed skin of her neck. She has not yet dressed for the day, still styled in her nightgown, that slips off of her shoulders.

“I like it better when you are with my child,” he says, not able to keep the amusement away from his mouth when she struggles against his grip trying to spin around so that she might glare daggers at him. 

The part of him that is still víkingr, even after all his time spent among the Christians, thrills at her struggle. He had tried to do better by his father, be a different kind of man, make peace among his enemies but there is still a piece of him, residing deep in the depths of his belly that lurches forward upon seeing others terrified at the sight of him. Witnessing the contemplation cross their features: run or fight. 

Avaritia holds her fighting instincts close to her, tight in her chest and in her heart. It does not bare its teeth or roar unceremoniously at him like he has seen in the Norse women of his past. It is only after the birth of their child that he starts to see that Saxon-bred beast lash out for him. 

And it excites him, a reminder of his heritage, of his forefathers who razored the lands they came across. Merciless against those who stood before them.

“You were kinder,” he says, grinning at the thought of her swollen with his child. She had followed at his heels like a puppy, seeking his approval any chance she got, desperate to keep his attention.

His lips move against the hollow of her ear once she has settled down, hands braced against the table before her, holding herself steady against his rolling hips. 

He nudges her jaw towards him so that he might catch her eye. See that fire one more time. 

Exasperated she rolls her eyes before finally meeting his gaze. He laughs, his mouth a beat away from hers. 

He does not kiss her like she expects, instead he moves along her jaw and down her neck, his breath hot on her cool skin. He would not kiss her, not yet, not when she was acting like this.

The anticipation causes her breath to catch in her throat, distracting her from his wandering hands. Her silk nightgown catches on the rough pads of his fingers as he pushes it aside, seeking her warm entrance.  

“And scared-” she gasps as his thumb brushes across her clit - “worried I might leave you.”

He grins at the memory and at her melting into his touch. 

He lets her move now. She turns around to face him, tripping over her feet, as his thumb moves in slow steady circles around her clit. She clutches at his shirt and around his neck, steading herself against him. Her forehead presses against his chest as he pushes a single finger inside her.

The blood that has been so vehemently pumping through his abdomen rushes to his head at the sight of her falling apart before him. He breathes out the heat of it through his nose, rustling the dark hairs atop her head. Her walls squeeze around his fingers, pulling him in, begging for more. 

Yes?” He asks, pushing her back against the table. He tugs her nightgown up around her belly and down past her breast, wanting to see every part of her as he fills her up. He unlaces his pants with his free hand, lining himself up with her entrance.

He grunts, pushing into her with a slow roll of his hips, fingers gripping onto her sides, as he tries not to growl as she swallows him whole. He drives himself a little deeper, pressing against her cervix, causing her to gasp.  

“Hm?” He demands again, quietly, wanting to hear how frightened she was at the idea of losing him while pregnant with his child.

“Yes,” she agrees with a hasty nod of her head, dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. “I need you, Ubbe.” She holds her peace for a moment, biting her lip, trying not to meet his gaze.

Finally she begs, “please.”

A grin ticks the corner of his mouth as he finds his pace. He becomes soaked in her juices, the sound of their bodies melting together fills the room.

“Full with the child of a heathen.” He can not help but mock her at the idea, how it terrifies more women than he had ever imagined. “My child.”

“Should just keep you full with my seed always,” he groans under his breath as she clenches around him at the announcement.

He reaches out for her neck, thumb caressing the base, before traveling out to her shoulder, keeping her place. Keeping her from running away.  

“Maybe,” he grunts, flicking his hips into her. “Your attitude will adjust after this one,” he says, holding himself flush against her as he shoots his seed inside of her.

+++

Thanks for requesting! I had too much fun with this one.

Avaritia is my Saxon OC from Green Ivy if you're interested in more of their dynamic.

#vikings fanfiction #vikings smut #ubbe fanfiction #Ubbe smut #Ubbe x ofc #Ubbe x oc #Ubbe x Avaritia

[sadboytournament]

ROUND ONE

Propaganda

Jonathan: Jesus Christ this poor man. He’s had severe survivor’s guilt since he was 8. He got eaten by worms. He’s been kidnapped like five times. He spent most of a season slowly starving to death and yearning for his boyfriend who went to work for an evil god of loneliness. He literally lives in his office. He is literally so scared of everything that he was used to kickstart an apocalypse of pure fear. I Am So Sad About This Man.

Sev: Sev is the Earth-97 version of Psychic, a psychomancer who works for the antagonists of Friday Night Funkin'. Sev is a younger, kinder, and ultimately more tragic version of Psychic in a universe where his employers, the Dearests, are crueler to him than in the original universe. In his universe, he was born in a lab as an experiment to recreate the Psychomancer species, and being artificial, cannot enter the dimension where others of his species reside. Like the original Psychic, Sev is a being entirely made of energy, but unlike him, he must feed off of the mental energy of others in order to stay alive. In this universe the Dearests took him in and raised him when he is very young, in return for his service. Being much kinder than his original counterpart, Sev would have been horrified had he known about his employers' actions behind the scenes. In order to keep him beholden to them they twisted many truths and essentially manipulated and abused him into serving them without question. One way they did this was by shaming him for his need to take others' energy to survive, despite that being his only option. Eventually, when he by chance caught them trapping one of their rivals in another dimension, he later confronted them about their misdeeds in righteous anger. This led to a fierce magical fight that ended with him being expelled from the family and forced to survive in the streets on his own. A year and a half later, he has become an urban legend in the city, as he resorts to luring passersby into alleyways and draining them of energy before moving on. He cannot eat or drink and so has no other means of sustaining himself. Additionally, every time he uses his magic, that expends his power and so he uses it very little in order to stay alive. He's the ultimate sadboy due to his incredibly low self esteem and inability to trust anyone, including himself. He believes himself to be a bad person by the very nature of how he survives. He sees life as a give-and-take situation and his own life as a situation where he takes and takes and gives nothing back. Sev doesn't feel like he deserves anyone's help, and if he did receive help he would wonder how to make up for it. Still, he would gratefully accept it out of pure necessity. He used to be much more vibrant, but now he can't afford to indulge in any kind of pleasure as his priorities have shifted entirely to survival.

#jonathan sims #the magnus archives #97!psychic #friday night funkin au #sad boy tourney #tumblr polls

[szethsmom]

Not me starting my Monday off with an incredibly realistic dream about estranged family members trying to force their way back into my life 💀

#at least the dream went on for long enough that I saw myself tell them what for #but like.. seriously brain?? #ughhh fuck those people #on a related note: I fucking love my cousins. maybe I’ll text them before work. ❤️ #not sure how that side of my bio family ended up with both the nastiest and the most wonderful people I’ve ever met lol #it’s the ✨trauma✨ #half of them got crueler and the other half got kinder #the kinder ones are the ones who put in the work <3 #heheheheh now I’m imagining how my girlfriend would react to my gr*ndp*rents #she is NOT to be messed with and honestly I would love to see her go off like that 🥰 #yeah I’m fine guys. just needed to vent. <3 #cptsd #family bullshit #vin screams into the void

[kalinara]

I actually saw someone try to justify fandom’s disproportionate response to Nate by claiming that it’s because Nate “weaponized mental health���.  And honestly, I’m very skeptical about that as an excuse.

First of all, the Nate hatred started long before the final two episodes of the season.  I personally remember it getting pretty bad around Headspace, when Nate’s behavior was admittedly pretty bad, but definitely not any worse than Jamie in season 1. There were a number of essays on how Nate’s behavior in Headspace was worse than Rebecca trying to destroy the livelihood of an entire team.  And quite a few people who posted in defense of Nate got visited by a passive aggressive person/people who I like to call the “anti-Nate anon”.

One of these people called me a Nazi for defending Nate.  And that was LONG before Nate betrayed Ted.

So yeah, I’m skeptical.

But I’m also skeptical about this idea that Nate “weaponized Ted’s mental health” being the main justification for hatred because if that’s the case, where is the hate for Trent Crimm?

Trent’s situation is different from Nate’s of course.  But Trent is just as involved as Nate in exposing Ted’s personal mental health information to the world.  And while a few people here and there have criticized that, for the most part, he’s lauded as a HERO.

I’ve seen folks (particularly on reddit) talk about how Trent somehow “defeated” Nate’s plans by his text to Ted.  And...how exactly?  The article still went up.  Ted was still humiliated!  And it’s not like they couldn’t have figured out it was Nate.  Beard had already!

Trent is not a hero or savior in this situation.  Sorry.  

Now, it is true that Trent’s article was much kinder to Ted than he could probably expect from any other journalist.  But how much does that really matter, when you think about it?

It’s not like the first journalist to break a story has exclusive rights over it.  Trent’s article didn’t protect Ted from George Cartrick attacking his masculinity on international television.  It didn’t protect him from meaner articles like “Is Ted Dead in the Head?” or “Panic at the Lasso”.  It didn’t protect him from the stares and pointed questions from the people on the street.  It didn’t protect him from having to face his team and APOLOGIZE for keeping his private and personal medical information from them.

Maybe Ted got a half day’s grace period that he wouldn’t have gotten if the first journalist to break the story had been a dick.  Maybe.

There’s this idea that if Trent said no, Nate would have brought the story to another, crueler journalist.  And maybe that’s true.  But maybe it’s not.

Nate, as we’ve seen, can be very cruel.  But it’s not a calculating cruelty.  Nate is very impulsive and very reactive, and when he lashes out, it’s generally because he feels like he’s been hurt.  We didn’t get to see Nate tell Trent, so we don’t know how it happened.  Maybe it was a cold and calculated decision.  Or maybe it was Nate, being Nate, blurting out something in the heat of the moment that he shouldn’t have said.  All we really know is that after the information leaked, Nate looked uncomfortable and guilty, not satisfied or smug.

So maybe, if Trent had said “No, I’m not publishing that”, Nate would have calmed his ass down.  Or maybe not.

But maybe Ted might have preferred that someone else break this article.  Someone that he could be mad at rather than have to protect.

We act like it was this great magnanimous gesture that Trent messaged Ted with the article.  And I think Trent meant well when he did it, but does it really matter?

Ted’s spared the humiliation of reacting to the article in public, sure.  But that’s about it.  It’s not like Trent would have pulled it, if Ted asked.  And the “would you care to comment?” bit is a little backhanded at best.  “I know I destroyed your life, but would you like to say something completely off the cuff, without any kind of preparation, that I can use as an exclusive?”

(I don’t think Trent meant it that way, but still...)

Trent reveals his source, giving Ted an easy way to retaliate against him.  But we know, and he knows, Ted wouldn’t do that.  So this becomes yet another burden that Ted has to carry.  Another secret.  And Trent, because he’s a friend, becomes yet another person Ted has to protect.

Ted can’t even bake a biscuit right at the moment, but he still has to devote some of his already spent mental energy to defend Trent against Rebecca and Keeley.

Trent “redeems” himself at the end by revealing to his boss that he gave his source away.  Arguably, he ruins his own life as penance for ruining Ted’s.  Okay, that’s...  a gesture.  And the romantic in me absolutely appreciates that.

But it doesn’t wipe the slate clean.  It doesn’t really even put them on an even playing field because Trent CHOSE to destroy his career, where Ted never chose to be an advocate for mental health in sports.  Not really.  He’s making the best of a situation that he is powerless to stop.

I am not writing this because I hate Trent Crimm.  I love Trent.  He’s one of my absolute favorite characters.  And I’m a multi-shipper.  I ship Trent/Ted just like I ship Rebecca/Ted or Beard/Ted.  I’d be thrilled if the show went that way.

But I think it says something that Trent has largely, in the eyes of fandom, escaped a lot of criticism, and even been lauded as a hero for allowing a disgruntled employee to use him as a weapon against a well-meaning boss.

If Nate’s irredeemable sin is his betrayal of Ted’s mental health, then he’s not the only guilty party.  And it’s worth thinking about why so much of the fandom is acting like he is.

#ted lasso #theodore lasso #nathan shelley #trent crimm #(possibly this should be anti trent crimm but I really do love the guy) #(I just think maybe fandom biases are at work here)

[darth-does-stuff]

and now for the kinda fleshed out plot for the pirate au -

patton and logan are just kinda chatting when, oh shit, they see another ship across the horizon that is steadily approaching. they quickly alert the whole crew and ready the cannons just in case (better safe than sorry is pattons motto) they’re half expecting for the ship to cruise right by but instead grappling lines get thrown onto their ship from the other pirate ship, drawing them in closer. now all of them are like ‘oh shit it’s gonna be a battle’ and ready all their weapons (even if they aren’t thrilled by this)

quick switch to virgils pov and watching the panic start to set into the other ships crew before the first mate and captain calm down them down. he’s all like ‘get the boarding shit ready we’re gonna swarm them’ because idk maybe he got word from someone that this ship has a big cargo of money and shit and his crew would really prosper from that so then he decides to attack

back to the other crew, patton and logan are readying their own weapons, logan much less excited to fight than patton (although patton would rather avoid bloodshed when it’s unnecessary too) anyways the other crew boards and there’s a big fight. virgil gave his crew specific orders not to kill, only to wound, so there is quite a few injuries. patton didn’t have as many qualms as he didn’t know that fact, but he also told his men that if there was no other option, then and only then they can kill the other crews men, otherwise only shoot to wound

virgils crew wins (they have more numbers) and captures the other crew, virgil finds no huge cargo like he was told but there was a sizable amount so it wasn’t a complete loss, but he sure as hell is going to track down that informant who lied to him

anyways, pattons crew is captured and forced to do the menial work (such as cleaning the ship and dishes, dealing with the brunt of the worst work, etc.) and they sleep in cruddy hammocks that leave their backs sore and muscles cramped. they are constantly watched and supervised (some of the crueler crew members taunt them, but this is quickly shut down by virgil (not that pattons crew know that last fact they just know it abruptly stopped))

logan is one of the few bright spots in the captured crews lives, constantly joking and keeping their spirits from plummeting too much, taking a lot of the work from others (which patton also ends up doing because he is a Good Captain) but to the other crew he is SO passive aggressive it’s insane. and he is so petty to virgil and janus omg they are so done with him. to the kinder members of the other crew (the ones who had tried to protest their capture) he is a lot more nice to them, but not overtly friendly, just more polite.

ok i am going to stop this here since this is getting really long but i will make a second part of this post ghfhdjsjfs

1/2

#sanders sides #ts #logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #well #roman and remus will make an appearance at least lmao #ts logan #ts roman #ts remus #ts virgil #ts janus #ts patton #platonic drlamp #endgame ship i am sure of is #analogical #rivals/enemies to lovers babeyyy #also virgil you’re a dumbass just saying <33 #can’t believe you’d capture your future lover like that smh my head #ghdhdajsds #pirate au

[datawyrms]

what if i really liked @chibigaia-art mastermind Kiibo Au comic too much and wrote a thing. hahaha. unless...

On A03 (Which has formatting I have not translated to here.)

It was the scream that jerked him into action, throwing open his door to an empty central area. It had sounded like Tenko, but no sign of her or a struggle was here. It had sounded so close, almost right in his head, how could he be too late to help anyone? His inner voice seemed to be taking it worse than he was, though it was oddly muddled and muted, not the clear declaration it usually was, Disappointing he could understand, but boring? Someone could be in trouble and the voice only wanted to express that it was not interesting enough, or too short? He had to do something, yet the room seemed as muddled as his thoughts. The robot had to close his eyes, clutching at his head to try and wait out the disorientation.

The mastermind was dead.

Rantaro had done what he had set out to accomplish. End the killing game. Tsumugi Shirogane was a lifeless corpse, head cracked open by the very weapon she had intended to use. This was a good thing, mostly. Killing was wrong, but understandable considering she had been the one putting them all through this strange killing game. Yet this was also the worst thing? It was boring, it was too soon, it was a lame cop out. It could not end here. Rantaro had to pay for his crime, and then the game would continue as planned. He didn’t want that? He did? The voices did. How did he know any of this? The voices demanded more. The show must go on. Kiibo did not want it to continue. He could manage to wrangle that thought out as his own opinion, though his certainty wavered with every new declaration of annoyance. Ignoring or denying the voice did nothing but dump even more feedback, disappointment, anger, even hatred. Too much to sort through. He? They? Demanded he act. The show MUST go on. He knew the mastermind was dead, as he had seen the body. From a camera he was unaware of, oblivious to, reporting to him. It liked that it could transmit directly to him, now that his connection to the entire network had been restored. The voices. The audience. Only here for their own amusement. He was a puppet for them to play with. You exist to entertain. That is your only purpose. That is why you were built. His hands drop, fingers still half curled into fists. His memories contradicted this. His memories were false. If the game continues, the voices will be pleased. The only reason he exists is to make them happy. Rantaro will be ‘wrong’ about Tsumugi’s identity as the mastermind, and they will have a whole new mystery to solve. Didn’t he want to be more than that? To be like the others, like his friends? A person? He never wanted anything Tsumugi Shirogane had not put in his head first. He was a machine, not a real person. Didn’t he want to go off script? Be something meaningful?

THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

The other voices quieted, locked away from influencing him as his left eye opened and switched, a red haze overlaying the room, revealing the resources he had control over and commands he could make. The voices could not be allowed to see who the new mastermind was, after all. Monokuma asked the question, still hearing it in the bear’s voice even as only a message read in his head. So what’s the plan, boss? This was wrong. He didn’t want this. Yet the information Team DanganRonpa had dumped in his hard drive made one thing very clear. As their robot, he did not really have much of a choice in the matter. Either he did it now, himself, or he could be reset back to default and do it anyway. At least as himself, he might be able to tone down the brutality? Make the body discovery announcement.

The horrified gasps that come from his classmates, his friends, his enemies is both discomforting and thrilling. He had caused that. He had meant something to all of them, in that brief moment. He dropped his connection to Motherkuma and the rest of the mastermind resources, Monokuma’s AI knew how to prep for a class trial without any input from him. That, and if he mentioned overhearing something he had no logical way to hear, the mystery of if there was a backup mastermind would be solved too quickly. The voices returned as his eye snapped back to the normal blue hue, back to the more consistent singular idea at any given moment. Go and see what happened. They were excited, surprised, pleased. At least obeying that command did not feel as much like a betrayal.

Rantaro had the sense to admit he had killed Tsumugi when the entire class had gathered and the bears asked who would claim the first blood perk. After all, everyone already knew he had done it. Monokuma had a lot of fun with it, mocking everyone for even thinking there was a mastermind. Did they all like thinking Rantaro totally had a good reason and wasn’t just using this ‘mastermind’ excuse to look better in their eyes before he left? Ryoma had been incensed, raising his voice as he asked Rantaro why he had killed her, after he had already offered to die instead if he just wanted out. Honestly, he did not have to meddle much. Monokuma and the kubs did more than enough to spark tension and throw doubt that a mastermind existed. After all, Kiibo could act on his own, who said they couldn’t? Who said there had to be someone behind it? He’d been properly offended, his anger genuine. “I am nothing like you!” He was exactly like them, and he hated it. He spared the others from knowing ‘leaving’ was getting to see the airless 'outside world', ordering Monokuma to cut the feed once the door was open to maintain the surprise. It was too early for them to know of the devastated 'world' outside. It was too painful to watch the one who managed to end the killing game try to scrabble back to life giving air, only to be denied by a savage kick from the Exisals. For him to die thinking he had been wrong, mistaken, possibly killed an innocent... It was unfair. Yet this is what they all wanted. So the ‘Ultimate Survivor’ suffocated alone, the others still getting to have the hope that Rantaro would get word out. A peek outside would be all the crueler with his rotting corpse on display, hands outstretched to a worthless, meaningless hope.

Even though the Monokubs managed to mess up the motive delivery, he did not need to act as the mastermind. Kirumi getting her own video had sufficed to get desire to kill in the air, no matter how hard Kaede tried to get the group to stick together and ignore the videos. Kokichi had been a major help in making sure Ryoma had seen his own video with his viewing party scheme, while also being an active antagonist during the trial. He may ultimately have led them to the right conclusion, but it was unlikely anyone else would notice it off hand. So this was how Tsumugi intended to remain in the shadows. Who would suspect her when there was this relentless troublemaker front and center? Who would notice that she wasn’t actively participating that often, or only parroting things someone else said first? He had it just as easy. After all, his existence was a joke. Robots aren’t people, unfortunately for all of them. He wanted to be one, but that was the punchline. No wonder all of them ignored any upset responses he made to such comments. It was like being offended about the sky being blue. Being mad at reality, at something that was not going to change. None of them would still be in this game if he could truly be a person. Kaede managed to help Shuichi let go of his need to hide behind his cap, to face the reality that Kirumi had killed Ryoma, and died for it. That Maki was indeed an assassin and hid it. It struck him as somewhat cruel to force the timid detective to face the truth head on. There were no kind truths to be found here. Deflecting it, embracing the lie that escape was possible would be kinder. Though they may die before they learned that truth.

Korekiyo’s actions made him question if a mastermind was even needed to keep this game active. Beyond choosing when the motive should go out, he got to play student. The sheer irony of the mastermind being in Angie’s Student Council didn’t escape him. Any harmony brought through her actions he’d be obligated to break, but it was nice to be wanted for something that wasn’t reprehensible for a change. The voices usually voted in favour of spending time with the others, which was always difficult. Kiibo wanted to be their friends, to help them. On some level he did still care for them, wanted their approval, hungered for it as if it would make him more human. That may be why none of them realized he was lying to them. He could almost forget he was the monster behind the curtain while the sun was up, averting his eyes as Kaito tried to hide his illness. A nasty little virus that he had delivered to the astronaut, making sure morale would drop near the ending stretch. Yet he dared to try and be their friends? Blaming the voices would be easier, and he did nothing but lie these days, what was one more to himself? Would any of them actually believe the pain he expressed learning of each death was genuine? That he pitied them and mourned the loss? The executions made him doubtful. Anyone creating such painful deaths clearly did not care for anything but the spectacle and misery. Shelve those false friendships, remember what you are. The blood of four people is on your hands.

Miu’s death shatters that flimsy pretense. The only one who saw a machine as worth knowing, saw it as a positive instead of a detriment was dead. The last flashback light had been too much, it had pushed her over an edge and he could never take that back. A few of the students seemed to notice she was off, but did not press. Her fevered work to modify the VR program to cover her tracks was precise, careful. Her tracks would be covered, her target would die, and then the rest would fall shortly after. He could step in, try and talk her down from this murder plot. If he was a friend. If he could explain how he'd found out. He couldn't. So he let Monokuma take Kokichi’s deal, thinking he had a plan to protect himself from Miu’s plot. He had managed to figure it out without the help of being to see everywhere, after all. He had been right, Kokichi did have a plan, said plan involved killing her. Of course it had, anything the mastermind had a cold hand in would lead to death. It had been a stupid hope, thinking it might have kept both of them alive a little bit longer. (He needed her to build things, they’d been getting along okay, did the answer have to be death?) Kokichi reveled in the negative attention, drawing all eyes to him. It was all lies, but everyone seemed to buy his declaration. Couldn’t they see his smile was a bit fixed, that he barely stopped to breathe as he ‘gloated’ about being better than them, how he felt nothing for Gonta? That wasn’t joy, it was hysteria. This was a ploy, but what he intended to accomplish with it, the robot couldn’t understand. Maybe he would have fallen for it if he couldn't see how the boy trembled while hidden and alone. So he kept his hands off and ‘hated’ the smaller boy with the rest.

Having someone play at being the mastermind and locking down all his firepower had been unexpected. It was bold, to try and flush out the true mastermind like this. Kokichi had almost slipped when Himiko pointed out Rantaro’s corpse, but managed to keep up the farce. The motive card had only shown the video after all, and Tsumugi had made that before the grisly new addition to the scene. Even Kaede’s endless optimism faltered with Kaito a coughing, bleeding hostage to insure their good behaviour. Shuichi was left to keep Maki back on his own, having to point out they had to be careful to save Kaito later. Really, the ploy was genius. Bore the mastermind into action and catch them. It wasn’t as if Kokichi could account for his ability to fabricate new flashback lights on a whim. He clutched the new flashback light for a long time, the urge to simply smash it and let the voices be bored was incredibly strong. A pointless sentiment. At least it was almost funny that he had to fall back on his original purpose, to be a bringer of hope in order to get the murder everyone wanted.

Managing to blank out all the cameras and hiding the survivor in an Exisal to obscure the killer and victim was exciting in a way. If he lost like this, if Monokuma could not know the facts of the case, the game may truly end. That would be fine by him. Shuichi was simply too much of a seeker of truth to realize they should be taking the offered lie and running with it, to let it rest when he could only guess who was inside that red Exisal. Instead the detective worked with him, helped Monokuma determine the reality of the case. Only when it was too late did he realize handing the mastermind the answer was a mistake. How much courage had it taken to wait under a slow crushing death? How much had Kaito needed to even press that button?  If the voices truly pitied those who died, why were they here? They wanted to help, to push through. This was only happening for their sake! Kiibo may have let a bit slip there by admitting to Kaito that he believed the final words Kokichi had said to the astronaut were true, but none of the others questioned the robot. Kaito’s death was a little more pressing than the passing words of some silly blue eyed machine. Monokuma may not have been thrilled with Kaito dying before his execution was finished, but he didn’t care. The flying debris that almost hurt the others was more concerning. Was it foolish to help people that you had been tormenting and killing the entire time? Yes. Still, it felt better to do so. He was going to need to head to his lab for a quick fix, perhaps he could excuse himself from the final exploration that way. They would all know the truth soon, the voices would have their ending, and they would all despise him. At least it would be over.

Monokuma was happy to tell the students they had to determine the future of the gopher project and set them loose to explore the remaining hidden rooms and the planted clues, only Rantaro’s room remaining locked. The classic hope and despair final vote, either a risky trip back to space, discovering a new place to live, or simply give up and let the human race die here in safety. Not that there were enough people to even try and continue the human race with the chosen settings, but that would be for the post show nitpickers, his friend victims would not likely think that far ahead. From what he could tell they had already dismissed the possibility of Kaede having a twin as false. (Which was fine, it wasn't like he made for a convincing twin. He probably should have just tossed it.) He would argue that they all stay here, regardless of if they chose to discover who the mastermind was or not. That was his job now. Did he want them to find the whole truth? No. Yet he would give it to them if they pushed. When Shuichi expressed his belief in Kokichi, that his mastermind plot had been for a reason, the robot could only sigh. Why couldn’t he believe in him by just taking the lie?

His grip tightened on the stand as the conversation returned to the mastermind. Maki, too sensible, too logical.

“We can’t vote on something like this if the mastermind is among us, this whole ‘trial’ is pointless.”

“Didn’t Rantaro just make that up? Not that it mattered..."

“No, Shuichi thought there was one too. There was no reason to have a hidden door like that if there wasn’t someone hiding among us, remember?” Kaede shook her head at Himiko’s question, brow wrinkled as she pondered.

“Did we ever see it get used? It could be a false door?” Kiibo offered, struggling to keep the resignation out of his voice. They never found the card before he swiped it from Tsumugi's room.

“We got to go in there while you were gone.” the detective clarified. “It definitely isn’t fake. What I don’t get is why Monokuma wants to push some stay or go vote now. To protect the mastermind from being discovered? Kokichi must have realized something to put a target on his back like that.”

“So we just need to figure out who the mastermind is, get the answer out of them and go from there,” Maki gave everyone a sharp glare, only Shuichi managed to keep from flinching.

“Um.” Kaede stopped looking down, looking more upset than confident. “Tsumugi absolutely was the mastermind, right Shuichi?”

He nodded stiffly, averting his eyes. “The secret passage, the fact she managed to get there completely unseen, there’s no doubt she was the mastermind.”

Kaede was looking at him now. She knew. It was practically written on her face. The confusion, the betrayal was painful even if he deserved far more than that for this. “Could it be? Kiibo are you...the mastermind?”

He still had to try to dissuade her. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Think about it, there’s no other option!” she leaned forward, intent on getting the answer. “Rantaro killed Tsumugi and yet the killing game didn’t end! And all the clues point to you!”

Right again. “But! I can’t hurt human beings!” he sputtered, trying to think of a reason. “It’s not in my original programming-”

Shuichi pounced on that slip like lightning. “‘Original programming?’” the detective saw how he froze. “Does that mean...something was changed?”

Kiibo keeps his face still, not even looking at the detective. Yes. Please don’t push. Please don’t realize it doesn’t make sense for him to be changed if Tsumugi is dead and the human race is gone. Just let the lie stay.

Shuichi continued his questioning in spite of the stillness. “Were you infected by a virus?” If only. “Was your AI overwritten with something?”

He wasn’t going to be able to deny this. The voices were getting noisy again with the ‘twist’ that they had been watching from the Mastermind’s eyes the whole time. “The show has to go on.” his tone was flat, trying to ignore their reactions. “That’s what my inner voice...no. That’s what the voices told me…” It wouldn’t make this better, but he felt the need to explain. Was it pity mixing with the disgust on their faces? He clenched a fist. “...but you can’t have a killing game without despair.” The voices of the audience were silenced as he dropped his disguise as a student and tried to meet the four’s eyes as the mastermind. “The moment Tsumugi Shirogane drew her last breath I was no longer the ‘Ultimate Hope’” They were avoiding the gaze of his red eye, but he kept firm. They wanted a mastermind, to know the whole truth. So he would deliver. “Your deductions are correct. I’m the backup mastermind of this killing game.”

“Why? How could you-” Himiko still couldn’t look at him head on, but her voice was strong enough.

He laughed, needing to grip the podium to keep stable. “Why? I said why!” It was almost funny how no one listened, even when he admitted to being a complete monster. “Ask Kaede, or your detective! You know, don’t you?”

“You said this was a show.” Shuichi was hesitating, hands reaching for a hat that was no longer there. “So that means-”

“Every flashback light was fake.” Maki finished, regaining her composure faster than the others. She had managed to turn that confusion into proper hatred now. “Made up for someone else’s amusement.”

“Correct. You’re all as fake as I am.” his shrug was dismissive. It would be easier if they simply hated him and moved on with their lives after this, but the world wouldn’t accept an ending where they didn’t overcome despair. “There is no Gopher Project, there is no Ultimate Hunt and all your memories are fabrications. I set you all up. You died as entertainment,” he kept the red eye turned towards Maki as he tried goading her “Kaito really should have been more careful about what he ate.”

The absolute fury in her clenched teeth and stiff posture said more than any words. Yet Kaede stepped in, trying to get the assassins attention. “Revenge isn’t what Kaito wanted, Maki. Just hold on.”

“So these voices are-”

“The audience. The real world. My creator, and yours.” The robot snapped his fingers, letting the comments of those watching fill the screens that surrounded the courtroom. “The world might as well be over for all of you. You don’t belong there. Nothing you recall, no one you know exists. There are only these people. Who see you as entertaining toys.”

“No one else here is a robot! No one made us!” Himikio’s denial was honestly surprising.

“I suppose you can think that, if it makes you happy. The fact hundreds of thousands of people watched me have you slaughter one another and did not lift a finger to help you remains the truth,” he glanced at the screens. They liked watching his ‘friends’ be crushed. “I just gave them what they wanted. What they demanded.” The humans kept silent for a time, discomfort clear as they watched the casual words drift by. Realizing you were just a prop was likely harder for those of flesh and blood, judging by how they paled.

“So you’re a coward.”

He tilted his head at Maki’s spat words “More of an idiot than a coward. But yes.”

“You could have stopped all of this, but you didn’t.”

“Do you honestly think I wanted this?” Anger slipped into his voice as his shoulders hunched. “How did you put it, Himiko? A robot is useful by blowing itself up, I think? If that’s what you do with a useful one, what will a human do to a useless one?”

She shied back from his question, prior bravery apparently gone. That, or she knew the answer perfectly well. They would do whatever they wanted, a robot was just a tool.

“Then you should have died!”

“You’d still be here, having this conversation!” he glared at Maki, frustrated that she didn’t notice the obvious problem. “It would just be a slightly different version of me. One that never gave a single care for any of you. They talk in my head, you can’t honestly think they can’t just control me!”

“You never had a choice.” Kaede’s words cut deeper than any of Maki’s, even without the accusatory tone. She pitied him. After all of this, she still felt bad for some machine. “Did you stay to protect us?”

Why did she care? He’d failed! He didn’t even manage to let their game end without exposing all the mysteries they tried to solve were pointless window dressing for them to play with as they got on with killing each other. “No. I just wanted to live, as Maki said. We are not friends.” Friends did not kill friends. Friends did not notice a murder plan and just watch it happen. He didn’t deserve to feel anything about them.

“So why did you mention your ‘old’ title?” Shuichi prompted, looking distracted.

“I’m not very good at dramatics, but hope being twisted into despair is rather impactful.” At least, he thought it might have been. “We’re getting off topic. I have told you the reality that awaits you,” he paused to gesture as the scrolling comments, the constant refrains of loving to see them in pain clear as day. “That world that has used you is all that awaits you. You can choose to leave, to insist you can face it and deal with the consequences. Being closer to them will not make them see you as people with thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. After all, they had a first person view all this time, and still they say these things,” his disgust was genuine. He probably should have covered it better with disinterest.

“A first person view?” Himiko was shaking a little, keeping her hat tipped down to avoid reading anymore.

“They could see through my eyes when I was fooling you. That was my original purpose...Rantaro just made the need for a backup plan rather urgent,” his shrug was stiff, unable to act completely at ease. “This is how they act towards people like you. They were your friend, and could tell me how to act before this. This is how they treat people they like. Do you really want to go out there?”

The magician seemed to crumble in on herself, completely silent in the face of that reality. So she was not his replacement. Maki was too angry...would it be Kaede or Shuichi that led the rest to the end despite it all? Or perhaps he would be the one to ‘win’. It was likely only his original programming speaking, but he still didn’t really want despair to win.

“Or you simply choose to stay here. It may be a killing game, but you know who’s behind it now, and have no reason to want to escape. It would be relatively peaceful, with no one watching. You could pretend everything was normal.” He offered the second option as the silence stretched on, watching for reactions. “Hope and leave. Despair and stay. That’s all there is to it.” Nothing. Tsumugi likely would have been gloating at this point, or at least trying to goad for a reaction. Though it wasn’t as if Team DanganRonpa could complain, he wasn’t made for this, in the most literal sense.

"Does it really matter what the people watching think of us? The world is a big place," her voice strengthened as she went on, trying to catch her friend's eyes. "We're still real, no matter what they did to us. We all know that!"

Shuichi leaned over, whispering something to Kaede. What reason would there be to whisper now? Whatever he said had cheered her up somewhat, straightening while nodding at the detective.

“You said the voices could tell you how to act Kiibo. Does that mean right now, they can't?”

Shuichi’s question threw him. “The audience cannot speak to me while I’m like this. It would have exposed who the mastermind was if they could.” He covered the eye with his palm, ignoring the discomfort warning him from touching the lens with metal. “The ones in charge still can.”

“Don’t they just want an ending? Who says it needs to be their choices?” Kaede added, somehow still managing to smile.

“...That is how this works. The mastermind acts for despair, and the rest of you attempt to overcome that for hope. You pick one or the other and it ends. There are not any other choices to make.” he looked down at his hand, puzzlement prompting him to try and focus. Had he missed something? "That is why we were made, to act out their story."

“...bet there’s some dumb catch for the good side though to make the bad end look good.” Himiko mumbled, roused somewhat by the confidence the detective and pianist were showing.

“Hope does ask for two sacrifices, but you all seemed so put out it didn’t seem worth mentioning.”

“Well you keep mentioning ‘hope’. You already said the mastermind is the despair option, but who is standing in for the hope one?” Shuichi pressed again after sharing a glance with the others in the room.

“Whomever of you manages to get your friends out of the negative perceptions the mastermind is creating. So honestly, I don’t know.” Kiibo crossed his arms, uncertain on where they were going with this. It seemed like it might be Kaede, based on how she was the one trying to get them all to ignore the fact they were all pointless fakes.

“Well if the ultimate hope and the mastermind were the same person, we wouldn’t be able to pick, right?” She made it sound so simple.

...Would that work? No. He lost any right to that title. “They can't be the same person.”

“Weren’t you saying they built you for that first one?” Maki asked, though her dislike was still evident.

“Well assuming they can be the same person, couldn’t they just end this? The mastermind is in charge, and if we simply can’t vote because there isn’t more than one option…” Shuichi’s attempt to make it sound like a hypothetical wasn’t fooling anyone, but it did seem reasonable.

It was tempting. It wouldn’t make up for anything, but if all four could leave it was better than nothing? When was the last time he had made a choice?

"You think our lives matter, don't you?" she spoke softly, as if lying to lure a kitten out from under a bed. "Even if our pasts are fake?"

Maki didn't seem all the convinced. "Or maybe you enjoyed it and Kaede is just being Kaito right now. An idiot."

"Almost fooled me when Miu died..." Himiko's reminder only twisted the knife. Of course they mattered. Yet he hesitated. Wouldn't admitting this just make it harder? "You mean as much as I do. Nothing."

"I say our lives matter." She shoved away his insistence easily, as if they were simply talking out at the courtyard. "So if we're all the same, you matter too."

"So, can you end it? The mastermind might keep the game running, but they end it too." He was leaning forward, not letting the robot look away from him. "We don't need to care what the outside world thinks, or what they want anymore." Defiance had never seemed possible. Yet if he was acting for the others, it wasn't really disobedience. He was just following their hope. That was his purpose too, wasn't it? Well, there was an easy way to check. He pulled up the mask from his collar and attempted to call on the upgrades he had installed on the chance more violence was needed. The fact his arm responded and changed to the cannon was almost a surprise. Miu would have gotten a kick out of that. Kokichi too, really. Too dead to care now.

“Is that a yes?” Kaede had no fear of the cannon, not even considering that he could simply turn it on all four of them. It was almost Kaito levels of belief. Foolish. He was their enemy...but maybe she did truly trust he never had the desire to do this.

“You all choose to have me end this, then? To have no say?” They had no fear. There was no real happiness there, stiff upper lips and raised chins at best, but they certainly were not in some state of despair either. “Is that really what you want?”

The nods were short, no hesitation. “We do. I trust you, I trust all of our lives matter. No matter what the outside world thinks!”

He stared at the pianist for a long moment, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” His chiding was somewhat muffled between the mask and the high pitched whine the jets made as they fired up. “Someone smarter than me will take advantage of that.” If she responded, he didn’t hear it. He didn’t want the four’s plan to fail if those in charge suddenly objected to this course of action. A few test shots that did nothing to the dome enclosing the school meant they had prepared for that possibility. The fact the part of the school he shot at to make sure he had the power level at max exploded rather spectacularly made it clear only one weapon was going to do anything. It could still fail...but he wouldn’t be around to be disappointed. The timing was good, he knew he felt his shoulder start to clip the dome as the self destruct timer hit zero. Whatever happened next would be up to those four. He could hope whatever it was would be better than here, at least. They’d suffered enough.

#drv3 #kiibo #Mastermind Kiibo #v3 killing harmony #keebo #inspired stuff #does this mean i fanficed a fanfic #yes #the comic is way better but i wanted more ok #so this exists #i need to work on my stuff now that this is out of my head lol

[antagonisms]

a self-para, and parting gift, for my second-favourite korean 

trigger warnings for: allusions to domestic and child abuse

general warnings for: evan being a dick

i.

“This is her, right?”

Evan’s gaze flits to Connor’s phone screen. There’s a photo of a woman sitting cross legged on a piano stool, back turned against the keys.

“Yeah,” Evan tells him. “That’s my mom.”

“You look alike,” Connor says.

Evan laughs. “I know.” And it’s a nice thing, half the time, that he can look at the mirror and not see Rina’s husband instead. Lord knows he doesn’t want to be reminded of a pain that’s been buried. Still, there’s some pain seeing Rina’s face reflected, too — when the distance between past and present elongates, even the best memories turn bitter.

This is what they discovered about Rina Watanabe: She abandoned her ex-husband’s surname. She runs a semi-popular music store slash studio and still teaches basic piano to little kids. She abandoned the rolling mountains of Blackrock for the sepia-toned city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, which is apparently a real place that people live in and not just a state Eisenhower invented to add more stars to the flag. It’s also nine hours away from Montana by bus. 

This is what Evan discovered about Connor Park: He cares enough to take him there. 

He also knows Evan well enough to offer the window seat. Knows Evan well enough to inch away even if the seats are small and the bus is already pretty cramped. He knows Evan well enough not to say anything when Evan’s eyes, still lingering on his mother’s photo, turn downcast with the rest of his expression.

Of course, he reminds himself, Connor’s been through the same shit, so he has the decency not to pity him.  

The rest of the bus ride is quiet. Behind the window, Wyoming’s rolling fields blur into long yellow lines. The mountains get smaller and bluer with distance. Connor’s listening to music on his phone. His fists are balled into his lap, and his expression is tight in a way that makes Evan suspect that he’s less focused on whatever he’s listening and more focused on a question running through his mind, like he wants to ask Evan something but doesn’t know where to start.

Evan realizes he wants to ask Connor things too. Wants to keep his mind away from his absent mother and the hole she left — wants to ask about the similar-shaped hole Connor might have, what’s the system like, do you remember your mom, how long have you and your brother been fighting, do you remember being a kid?

Instead he taps at his ear, gestures for Connor to pull an earphone out. When Connor does, Evan asks, “What are you listening to?”

Connor hands over the other earphone. “Do you wanna hear it?”

Evan takes it. It’s a Frank Ocean song, likely from Evan’s lost years, because it’s not anything he’s heard before. Still, the mellowness is familiar enough that a wave of wistfulness settles on his chest. There’s nothing out the window but vast space, so Evan looks at Connor, and right on that beat Frank Ocean croons, it’s quite alright to hate me now. 

Maybe all Connor wants is for Evan to have the closure he and Noah never got. It’s too late to tell him that it’s not worth the effort — Evan’s not worth the effort — and what kind of person does this, anyway? What kind of person exhausts themselves to make sure another person doesn’t feel the pain that they’d felt? Evan furrows his brows. He imagines Connor, five years old, sat on a swing set waiting for a mother that wouldn’t come back. He imagines himself, twelve years old, staring at a window and waiting for a car that would never return.

The same story, different endings. Evan gets his heart broken and keeps the pieces to himself. Connor gets his heart broken and offers the pieces to other people. The comparison fucking stings. For a fleeting moment, he considers berating himself for being so goddamn selfish, but then he tells himself that, you know what, maybe it was neither of their fucking faults. There are versions of themselves that could have been kinder had they simply been afforded the privilege of being loved. A version of Evan where he isn’t too guarded. A version of Connor where he isn’t too insecure.

He imagines them then, as children, their hearts full and whole and unbroken. Evan’s much taller at six years old than Connor is at five, so when Connor sits at the swings his legs are still too short to kick himself up high enough. It’s the make-believe Evan that stands behind the swing, grabs it by the chains, and pulls. When he lets go, Connor soars.

Right on time, Frank Ocean sings, we’ll never be those kids again. 

ii. 

In the music store in Wyoming, there’s a small child. Her face looks like Evan’s. A near splitting image of his eight-year-old self. Evan watches her run up to the woman leaning by the cash register, gives her a kiss on the cheek and says, I’ll see you at home, Mom. 

Then his eyes find the woman at the counter. Evan knows that posture. Relaxed shoulders, elbows propped on a surface behind her, back leaning, entirely graceless and casual. She waves goodbye to her child as her mouth splits into a smile, a fondness Evan doesn’t realize is familiar until his heart sinks to his chest.

Mom.

Evan takes a breath. 

Connor faces him. Evan can feel the concern in his eyes even without looking. “You don’t have to do this now,” he says, and he’s right, because they’re both still exhausted from the bus ride. “There’s still time tomorrow.”

Evan shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Hands slide into his pockets. He doesn’t break his gaze from the woman, who has yet to notice him, too busy throwing her head back in laughter as she gets lost in her conversation with the man at the counter. She looks happy. Happier than she ever was at home. If any painful feeling arises from that, Evan keeps it buried.

He drags his feet toward her. His heart feels heavy. This is a bad idea, he thinks, but he doesn’t stop walking until Rina turns her head and stops at the sight of him.

Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens, then closed. She looks at him the same way most people in Blackrock do, at least after the lost years. Like the can’t tell if the man they’re looking at is anything more than a ghost.

Evan wills himself to smile at her. “Hey.”

She smiles back, startled and painfully forced. “Can I help you?”

“Mom.” His voice drifts with the softest sort of desperation. “It’s me.” 

She blinks. Her gaze won’t meet his. There’s shame evident in her eyes — which, if he were crueler, might make him feel better about all this, but now all it does is stab a knifelike pain through his chest. 

Her lips press into a thin line. If he remembers her correctly — and he probably doesn’t — it means she’s fumbling her mind for words. Her eyes finally meet his, and when her mouth opens, the words are slow to come out. 

“Do you,” she asks, “want to talk outside?”

Now, it’s Evan’s turns to pause. “Sure.”

Connor’s standing by one of the drum sets, one finger tracing the circumference of a cymbal. He stops when he catches Evan’s gaze. Evan mouths, I’ll be right back and waits for Connor’s nod before following Rina out the door.

Outside, Rina fishes a pack of Marlboros from her pocket. She leans against the wall and plucks a light out of the box. Head turning to him, she says, “Do you smoke?”

Evan purses his lip. “Kind of.”

She hands him the cigarette in her hand and picks out another for herself. It’s silent, mostly, when she takes out her lighter and sets the tail end aflame. Evan doesn’t ask her to light his. It seems that she, too, forgets to offer.

She takes a drag. A long one. Only when she huffs the smoke out does she face him again. “You’ve grown.”

“I mean,” Evan says. “It’s been a while.”

Rina sighs. Evan can’t tell where the frustration is directed: herself, or him. Her brows crease and form a worry line. “I’m sorry — I just. I thought you were—”

Evan cuts her off. “I’m here now. The girl in the store earlier. Is she your—”

“She’s my daughter.” Even if guilt drips through her voice, the words are a gut punch.

He’s been playing the same made up story in his head since he was twelve. Sometimes she comes up in his dreams. It starts without awkwardness. They speak about everything and nothing until the conversation’s strong enough to carry the heavy shit — the questions he couldn’t ask and the answers she failed to give. At twenty-seven, his mind rewrites the story. First, she’ll asks, where have you been, and whatever flippant excuse he might give for his disappearance won’t matter, because she’ll throw her arms around him and say that she missed him, say that she’s sorry she ever left him behind.

But she doesn’t ask him where he’s been. She asks, “Why did you come here?”

And here’s where he starts to regret asking for a light. Grief wells at his chest, pushing his heart to his throat. I had some questions I wanted to ask you, he should say, but his impatience gets the best of him, pushing the words out too soon. “Did you—” And he shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answers to. “When I disappeared, did you — did you look for me?”

Rina looks down.

She folds her arms. It makes her posture look more closed, like she’s putting space between them. “I tried. I tried very hard, for a year.” Rina wraps her arms tighter around herself. Her head hangs low. “I just — I had my obligations here, so I had to—”

“You gave up hope,” Evan says.

She tilts her head up slightly, to face him. There’s very little resentment in his eyes, but she still seems to shrink under his gaze. “But you’re alright now, aren’t you?”

It’s tempting to snort at that question. Six years, Evan things. Nobody had seen him for six years. “I’m getting by,” he says, voice flat. “Dad’s dead. You probably already knew, though.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

The laugh he tears out of his throat is small and dark. “Come on. Don’t lie. We both wanted him gone.”

And maybe his expression’s gotten darker, because his mother’s shrinking deeper and deeper inside of herself. “It must have been hard, still.”

“It was harder when he was alive.” Evan steadies his voice. He knows he doesn’t need to say more than this. But the anger wrenches at his chest, and the bitterness leaks through his words. “You know, everything he did to you, he did to me.”

Her face is all heartbreak and shame. Not the strong-willed mother he once knew. Or maybe she was just louder in the house because she needed to be. He used to think neither of them gained anything from living in that shitty manor, but maybe, in the cruelest sense, it was a learning experience. Rina learned to fight back, and when she couldn’t, she learned to run. Evan learned to take a hit.

“I’m sorry.”

Evan scoffs. “I mean, it’s cool.” His voice is a calm and wretched sound. “Did you know bones get stronger after you break them? They have to adapt after the fracture. Become more resilient to stress. I think I feel invincible now. You can put me in Guinness records for world’s best pain tolerance.”

He imagines himself, on a swing set, waiting. Hang on. That’s not right. He imagines himself, at a piano, waiting. He imagines this small girl, at a piano, Rina holding her small hands, guiding her fingers along the keys. He imagines this girl, a bruise on her neck in the shape of a man’s hand. Wait. That isn’t right either.

He imagines himself, twelve years old, sitting shotgun at Rina’s car, watching Montana blur past them. Rina turns the radio up and tells him to sing with her, so he does; he sings and stares at the road ahead and smiles bright even if — or maybe because — he has no idea where they’re headed. He imagines a life where she saves him. He imagines a life where neither of them have to heal.

“I’d understand it,” she finally says. “If you hated me.”

Evan’s face falls. “I never hated you.” He drags a sigh out of his throat. “I just — I don’t know. I guess I just wished you loved me.”

iii.

He’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like he didn’t expect this. Did he get his hopes up a little? Maybe. But it’s not something he can’t survive. That’s what he’s good at, right? Surviving. He survived broken bones, a broken home, a broken life. He can survive a broken heart.

Connor shuts the door of the motel room and leans against the wall. Good. He knows when to keep his distance. But Connor opens his mouth, because of course he has to say something, and immediately, Evan thinks, this is going to get ugly.

“If you need me—”

Evan says, “I don’t need you.”

“—I’m here.”

This is going to get ugly. 

“Thanks,” Evan says. 

Connor looks so small like this. When Evan meets his eyes, Connor’s gaze flits away. Maybe that pisses him off. Things are fine, right? So Connor should be a better friend and act like things are fucking fine.

But maybe Evan wants Connor to open his mouth again, say something stupid, cross a line. Don’t take it personally. His anger’s just a ticking time bomb and it just so happens that Connor’s within the blast zone. 

“It was hard too. When me and Noah found out that our—”

Evan laughs. “How’s that hard? It’s not like you actually knew her.”

“Our mom,” Connor continues, and Evan can tell that it’s getting harder for him to stop himself from getting angry. “She had a new family, too. I’m just trying to say that I get it.”

Evan’s mouth splits into a wry smile. “Projecting. That’s always fun, isn’t it?”

“Evan,” Connor warns.

“Maybe that’s why you brought me here. Couldn’t fix your fucked family relationships, so maybe fixing mine’s enough of a compensation.” Evan puts a hand on his chest. “Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds. Thank you, Connor.”

Connor narrows his eyes. There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze. “You asked me to take you here.” 

“I said thank you, didn’t I? I think it’s real nice of you to keep putting in so much effort as if it’s ever done anyone any good.” Evan’s mouth curls into a sneer. “Persistence. I like that in a man.”

Connor frowns. “I’m gonna take a smoke outside. Don’t talk to me until you’re done throwing a tantrum.”

“Oh, nice.” A wry laugh leaves Evan’s lips. “Connor Park’s walking away from someone. Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

That gets Connor to flinch. 

His eyes meet Evan’s. “Look, I get that you’re hurting, but don’t you dare take it out on me.” A sigh leaves his throat, frustrated. “All I fucking wanted was to do something nice for you.”

“I’m not,” Evan strains to say, “hurting.”

“Like I said.” Connor’s gaze doesn’t break from his. “I get it. I’ve been there.”

“You really think we’re the same, huh?” Evan folds his arms. Under Connor’s stare, his body feels very close to shattering. Still, he keeps his voice tight. “You don’t know me. You don’t know half of what I’ve been through.”

“Can you stop acting like you’re the only person who’s gone through shit?” Connor snaps, with a fire that almost gets Evan to smile. “Look, fine. I don’t know what happened to you. But I know—”

“What do you know?”

“—that you like to lash out when you’re upset.”

“Go on,” Evan says, sharp and venomous. “I’d like to know more.”

There’s a glint of cautiousness in Connor’s eyes. For a fleeting second, Evan expects silence, suspects that Connor is afraid of saying the wrong thing, as he always is. Connor opens his mouth anyway. “You’re pushing me away so you can prove that I don’t really understand you. Because you don’t want to be helped. Because you want to hurt yourself. Or Because—”

Connor pauses. His eyes meet the ground. Evan’s voice goes tight. “Because what, Connor?”

A breath escapes him. Connor finally tears his gaze away. “You don’t want people taking care of you. Because then they’ll have the power to hurt you.”

Jesus. Connor Park is so fucking smart. 

“Or maybe I just don’t want you taking care of me,” Evan snaps. “I’m starting to think that maybe you like that I’m damaged.”

“Why the fuck would I like that?”

Evan started this fight; he’s not about to lose it, not even when his legs feel weak and his heart wants to leap out of his throat. “Why else?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. “Can’t solve your own problems? Why not throw yourself into someone else’s. You think that if you save me you can save yourself from having a nonexistent sense of fucking self-esteem. But guess what? I’m not you fucking project, Connor. So stop trying to fix me because I’m not fucking broken.”

Connor’s face falls. He looks more hurt than angry. “I don’t,” he says, “think you’re broken.”

Evan knees collapse from underneath him. 

His hands ball into fists at his lap. His eyes fall shut when he lowers his head, body keeling forward, mouth falling open as his heart dredges from his throat a scream that comes out soundless. His lip quivers. Small, unwanted dew drops form at the corners of his eyes and spill into the floor.

There are versions of themselves that could have been kinder to one another had their lives been kinder to them. “We deserved better,” he says, because it’s a lot easier to say than I’m sorry. It’s true, anyway. His mind runs through the same sentence, again and again and again — we deserved better. We deserved better. We deserved better. 

Or maybe he’s very close to proving that he’s capable of being crueler than his past. It’s just Connor that deserves better. Deserves more than an absent mother the set of transient homes she’d doomed him to, deserves better than a friend who gives him a verbal beating for — what? Doing exactly what Evan asked?

Guilt, useless and cloying, floods at Evan’s chest, punishing him for wanting comfort. Evan’s never been good at asking for help. Connor’s never been good at giving it, or perhaps that’s because he gives too much — and Evan would like to ask, now, but what right does he have? An apology is owed and he’s too much of a coward to give it. 

Connor still kneels down in front of him. 

Evan holds his head up. Looks at Connor, watches as reluctance and concern flickers in the other’s eyes. Cautious as always. Evan loved and hated that about him. He moves closer, wraps his arms around Evan, pulls him close to his chest. Against his own self-scrutiny, Evan buries his face into the crook of Connor’s neck.

Evan’s shoulders drop down. His breathing remains shaky and jagged, but it slows as Connor’s arms fold around him. His grip tightens, but it doesn’t hurt. That’s funny. 

“If you let me take care of you,” Connor says, “I promise — I am not going to hurt you.”

Evan’s voice goes very quiet. “Don’t let go, then,” 

“Okay,” Connor tells him. “Okay.”

iv.

The bus ride back to Blackrock is mostly quiet. It’s a night ride though, so Evan’s exhausted, and not even Frank Ocean’s crooning can keep him awake. He drifts off, eyes fluttering drowsily when he turns to Connor, mouth falling open, as if to say something. To ask for something. No sound comes out, but still, Connor lifts a hand and guides Evan’s head down his shoulder. Something warm fills Evan’s chest. He’s not sure what to call the feeling, but it’s quite a special thing, when someone knows exactly what you need, and you don’t even have to ask. Evan’s head stays on Connor’s shoulder for the whole drive home.

#dw ive been given permission to use connor for this One thing #depression is depressing i can only write sad things #self para. #emotional beats? what are Thoooose

[childoftimeandmagic]

Bless This Kingdom

So I am so late, but I did manage to squeak this in while frantically studying. I admit that while long it's a little convoluted. I based this Mythologies AU on the triple goddess the Morrigna more commonly known as the Morrigan of Irish legends and the story of Deidre and Naoise which is one of the greatest tragic love stories in Irish love stories. I hope you enjoy it though.Thank you @everythingisklaroline for running this event!

               When the world was young, following the first war between the gods. The great mother goddess Ernmas looked across the destruction of her land and then looked at her three most trusted hand-maidens. More her children than servants she gifted them with incredible powers. They each would control an important part of life.

The eldest woman was tall and beautiful with eyes the color of the tides and hair long and blonde. She was given the powers over kingdoms and the kings who sought to rule them. She was also gifted at strategy and war. It is said that her blessings could make a king and secure his victory in battle. Though the stories of her curse is said to be enough to completely break a king.

The middle woman was slender and equally beautiful with brown locks of hair, her eyes dark and questioning. She was always searching more information to hold onto, was granted powers over the profound knowledge and chaos that holds this world together she was known for sending sudden storms, draughts, and floods across the lands. Her powers protected and aided the people to prosper.

The youngest, a young mirror image of her middle sister, though were the middle sister was always searching, the youngest was content and her eyes conveyed the love she was brimming with. She was given the power over love, home, and the family. With her task done Ernmas bid the three women to go into the world and shape it into a kinder more loving place, as they left Ernmas feeling her wounds taking hold plunged herself into an eternal rest. Her children left behind to protect the world.

               The earth grew and with it man became crueler and hardened towards the idea of gods meddling in their affairs. Soon the world had turned from the gods altogether. They looked towards technology and the craft of making their own destiny. As this happened and the Earth grew old, legend says that these three goddesses decided to hide amongst the mortals, helping were they could. Hindering those who worked for the darkness of the cosmos. After a thousand years the whispers of these three great goddesses has fallen into myth and legend. Though some covens still offer prayers to them it is no longer clear if they are or were ever real people.

               Klaus stared at the book that his brother had handed him, before he threw it onto his desk. Glaring at his older brother he shrugged, “What am I supposed to do with this? Also since when do you believe in higher beings, we are the oldest beings alive, why should we worry about three long dead legends?”

“Well you have tried three times in as many millennia to create your kingdom but something always blocks you. What if it’s this sovereignty goddess?” Elijah said crossing his legs and looking at his brother. “What could it hurt it’s not as if she’ll answer you, but if you pledge your kingdom to her, she might protect it.”

“Why would anyone help ‘the evilest man’ in the world,” Klaus scoffed and rolled his eyes. He didn’t need a goddess to grant him his kingdom. What he needed were for his advisories to perish and leave him in peace. Sighing Elijah stood up and straightened his suit looking at his brother and shrugging. Without waiting to be dismissed Elijah sauntered out pulling his phone from his pocket and texting some minions about jobs to take care of.

Klaus alone with his thoughts looked back down at the text in the book and groaned throwing his head back. He had the powers of two of the strongest supernatural creatures in the world flowing through his veins, his position at the top of the supernatural world should not come down to the whims of some dusty woman from the beginning of time. Looking over the French quarter, he sighed as his gaze turned towards his still blank easel. He had been going through the most frustrating of artists block.

Walking away from the bay windows he laid down on his bed. While sleep wasn’t a necessity in his life, he found his dreams when not marred by the destruction and the evil he’d perpetrated on the world, he dreamed of the singularly most beautiful blonde woman. While he never got a chance to see her face, the shade of her hair and the curve of her body was now etched into his mind.

 Across the ocean and high in a tall mountain Caroline was going over possible battle plans for a civil war. While she had any names for many continents and ancient nations long dead she had found many ways to stay busy in the 12 millennia that she’d traipsed around the world. When her cell phone rang Caroline rolled her eyes. Katherine was never one to call for idle chit chat, and with their powers often she could just pop up anywhere in the world she wanted. Picking up her cell Caroline swiped the unlock button to answer her half-sisters phone.

“Yes Kat?” she stuck a pin into the best most advantageous spot for battle.

“Someone stole our book,” Kats voiced sounded frazzled and as someone who was now working for the global archives, she had a lot of books.

“That isn’t anywhere near specific enough for me to help you, if I see one of your books I’ll—” she never got to finish her statement.

“Listen to me, I said OUR book, you dunce, the one that explains our origins and the powers we hold,” Katherine had written it once while drunk and it was oddly truthful for a goddess who while known for being an information as well as a chaos goddess.

“Are you telling me that the book that you promised was destroyed forever wasn’t?” her tone suddenly no longer exasperated but furious.

“Care there was never ever going to be a moment that I destroyed a book,” Kat responded sounded oddly insulted.

“Kat, it has our summoning spell in it, at least tell me you didn’t give it to Elena for protection?!” While they both loved their youngest half-sister, Elena was notorious for losing things. She’d once lost an entire civilization in the Indian Ocean because she’d had gotten distracted somewhere else in the world.

“I mean no I didn’t do that, and of course it does, it’s a book about the three of us, each of our summoning spells and prayers for blessing are important, we are goddesses after all,” Kat replied as though anything less was preposterous. Rubbing her forehead, she took a few deep breaths. Caroline was the eldest and she knew that after all this time Katherine was never going to change so she just had to deal.

“Well where was it last? You have to have some idea, you have access to every major library and archive in the world,” hopefully it was in one of those places.

“I thought that it was in my private home in the bayou, but it’s not there. Though the mortal policewoman did mention a robbery,” Kat mused the sound of rustling paper coming through her receiver.

“Speaking of stolen things, have you given any thought to lifting that annoying curse placed on the hybrid?” Katherine asked pausing in whatever she was doing. Caroline groaned. It wasn’t that she was keeping it because she hated the creature, it was just a particularly hard curse to unravel and she had other things to do.

Every couple thousand years, he started building a kingdom and she was required by the curse invoked in her name, to destroy it. His foster father had gone to one of her last true vestiges in the north of Ireland for a curse that would keep Niklaus from ever ruling as the most powerful king the world had ever known.

Katherine and Elena, who each had a sense of prophecy had tried to warn Mikael from this goal, but his hatred of the hybrid had been too great. He’d tried to kill both of her sisters that night, and she’d been rather shocked at the way her siblings had fought to keep a curse from being set. She hadn’t been happy to give a mad man’s curse any power, but the laws of the universe bound her to obey the rules and since it was enacted correctly she had no choice.

“Kat, it’s not that simple,” she said groaning and summoned a glass of wine from her favorite winery.

“Yes, but since the caster is dead, you are technically allowed to lift the curse. Just give him your blessing to negate the curse,” Katherine said before she blinked into existence across Caroline’s wartable, a triumphant smile on her face. Caroline groaned before hanging up her phone and summoning a second glass.

“He’s not really a man that I want to give my blessing towards though,” she said groaning though granting a King her blessing would be nicer than pushing presidents this way or that. The world of rulers had grown boring and the threat of nuclear war had limited her chance of helping soldiers in battle or generals in strategy.

“True, but you haven’t blessed any ruler mortal or supernatural in two thousand years,” Kat said staring at her big sister. Caroline could hear the unsaid comment about her long dead sex life. Katherine sipped her wine before clearing her throat. “I found the book.”

“Did you put it somewhere safe?” sipping her wine she glowered at her sister and looked at her neglected battle plans. She had gotten a jump start on the way she was going to destroy his third try at building a kingdom.

“Um actually I didn’t pick it up, I figured that it would be an interesting turning point for the cosmos,” Katherine looked far to gleeful which was a terrifying look on the goddess of mischief.

“What did you do?” Caroline sat up straight the familiar tugging of a summoning coming over her.

“With the book or what did ‘Lena do three thousand years ago?” The book is in the hands of that very same Hybrid, as for the other thing, well that would ruin our fun. Have fun I bet they’re going to summon you any moment now,” Kat giggling as her sister’s form started to fade. Caroline cursed at her sister, as she felt her vision tunneling as she was forcefully pulled into a new plane of existence. She wished she’d been wearing something other than a thick sweater and jeans with combat boots.

 Klaus was glowering at his older brother as he and his family watched a powerful witch started to cast the spell written in the book. While the hybrid was convinced that this was an absolutely bollocks his siblings were correct in that either this goddess of sovereignty and war existed, or they had wasted a Friday night. Currently though as the spell was drawing to a close, he was leaning towards the waste of time. When the witch looked from the book to her spell she looked confused, it should have worked. Yet as the hands on the clock ticked on by, and no one appeared in the carefully laid circle the Original six around her started to get testy.

“You must have messed it up,” Rebekah sneered at the woman who looked perplexed. “This is what we get for using one of Kol’s witchlings.”

“I don’t understand it, this spell is highly detailed, far more than an author or hack would put into it,” the witch flipped back and forth in the pages of the book looking at the spell.

Sighing Klaus raised his hand and watched as his youngest brother grinned before ripping the woman’s head from her head. Rising from the chair in the corner he glared at his siblings, “I’m going to my art room, leave me in peace for the night.”

 While the spell had worked, the lack of an enticement within the circle meant that if she went towards the general location she could avoid being trapped in a stupid circle. Currently she was walking around a messy and disaster of an art room. The house that these beings lived in was massive and she’d landed in a bed room with sparse decorations. She’d hastily checked her appearance since she never knew which form would show up. Sighing that she looked exactly as she had when she had been enjoying the comforts of her own home.

She’d wondered quietly around the house-mansion, invisible to the people around her, she took in the people who were known as the most powerful beings on earth. Oh, how the world was funny in forgetting the ones who had given this world it’s majestic nature or created the myths that flowed through their stories. Caroline wasn’t petty, but she took great pleasure in causing a bit of mayhem around the building before slipping into a room at the end of a long hall. That was how she’d found herself in this disaster of an art room.

The pieces were beautiful and some were a bit abstract for her tastes, except the meaning of the pieces were not lost on her. A few pieces were hidden from view by drapes and she silently moved the white coverings to look at the back of a woman, her ear-tips, and the back of her facing the audience. Something was familiar about the woman to her. All the paintings were different styles of the same woman. Stepping back, she revealed herself to the empty room and continued to look around.

“My, aren’t you brave? Most would never break into my private studio,” his voice low and Caroline spun around as she pulled her sweaters hood from her head.

“Well you did summon me, I figured I’d explore before making myself known. Learn about the idiots who are fools enough to summon a goddess,” she said her mouth drying as she stared into the eyes of the world’s greatest predators. For a mass murderer only six thousand or so years younger than herself.

“You? You’re the sovereignty goddess?” he asked eyebrow raised disbelieving that this blonde woman who looked more like a goddess of spring, he had a moment of déjà vu as her gold locks billowed down to her waist. That hair was familiar somehow.

               Caroline made a show of looking herself over and touching her face as though confused. Then pulling out her phone she checked her lipstick before slipping it back into her back pocket. “Why yes, yes, I am,” she said rolling her eyes before walking closer to him though she kept a healthy distance from him. Not because he could kill her, but because bloodstains were impossible to get out of wool.

               “You can’t be though your-your, not,” he was trying to come up with a way of saying she was so non-threatening and kind looking. Not at all how he expected a goddess of war and kings to look. Though if he was honest he didn’t understand why it was a female in the first place. Caroline for her credit just looked bored and frustrated.

               “One of the three Morrígna? The goddess of war and kings, the protector of soldiers, the blesser of Kings and war? I can’t be that goddess? Well I am so if you didn’t want to speak with me I’ll be leaving,” she said arms crossed as she looked at the flummoxed hybrid before her.

               “No, I do, well my brothers and sisters believe that I should,” he said stiffly not used to being treated as an inconvenience not as a threat. It through him off his game. As he stared at her the notion that he’d seen her grew stronger.

               “Why? Your people have no version of myself, you Vikings.” she said raising an eyebrow at the hybrid, “why not call upon one of your own gods to bless your kingdom or the war you plan on waging here and around the world?” She stepped even closer her hand reaching out slowly as her fingertips traced along his jaw. “Why call on me a goddess long shoved to the side, how do you believe me to help you?”

               “You gave your blessings to some of the greatest kings in the history of the world, I want to take me place on that list. It would be nice to have a bonafide goddess bless my reign,” he said the energy flickering off her fingertips bathed him in a warm feeling of peace for a moment.

               “I can’t bless someone cursed though, it would only bring you back to neutral and since I would have then blessed you already, I could not lend you anymore,” she said raising an eyebrow at the man in front of him. There was a sense of righteousness in his eyes, as though the wars and terror he’d raged for three millennia was justified. That concerned her.

               “Cursed? But I broke it two thousand years ago, I’ve been a full-fledged hybrid since the 1500s,” he growled and pushed her hand away. Suddenly she found herself flush against his abs, and the cold wall behind her. As she raised her other eyebrow at his actions she noticed a recognition in his eyes. “You! You’ve been haunting my dreams, why haunt me if you could just show yourself?! Why curse me to never see your face.”

               Caroline for her credit was completely thrown by this notion that, he knew her. That not only did he know her, but he’d been dreaming about her. Anger and confusion exploded from her essence sending the hybrid tumbling head over heels into the opposite walls. Flinging her hand up she trapped him against the wall with little effort. Standing in his art room she glared at him as she whipped her phone from her purse. After a moment of furious typing she was engaged in a three-way phone call with her siblings.

               “YOU INTERFERING LITTLE FUCKING SHITS,” except she didn’t yell. The force and the way the building shook around them made Klaus’ eyes widen, he wasn’t expecting such soft-spoken words to carry such heavy weight to them. She was powerful and from the way she was holding him to the wall without so much as a second glance impressed him even more. Suddenly though two twins appeared in his art room. Great two more strange women in his home. Elijah was going to have a fucking field day.

               “Caroline calm down, you had to see him in person at some point and we both know that you recognize the soul buried under the hybrid, the soul that calls to yours across the cosmos,” Elena said stepping closer to her older sister eyes wide and her hands out to show she meant no harm though

               “Seriously Care you need to lighten up,” Kat said flicking her hair over her shoulder and checking her nails, a sudden gust of wind blew through the room from seemingly no source and pushed the pressure on his chest away from him. Klaus felt his feet hit the floor.

               “Girls you are going to explain to me and Niklaus just how you fucking tied our souls to each other,” she said her tone barely above a whisper, and her normally clear blue eyes were suddenly a nonreflective black. Her hands clenched as she glared the other three people in the room. “Why should I not blow you both to fucking kingdom come and scatter the pieces over running water?”

“Because he’s Naoise you daft bint, the bloke which was promised to you back when the world was new and you still masquerading as the young daughter of King Feidhlim in the early days of Ulster before our mother perished,” Elena said softly looking at her older sister and shook her head. “I see the greatest love stories that have happened, will happen and are currently happening. Katherine sees the all that is and all that was, that is the reason we’ve fought his foster father three thousand years ago at your last true vestige of power.”                Klaus was confused, because as the blonde had told him earlier he was descended from Vikings, he had no interest in the stories or myths of Ireland. “Who was Naoise? What does he have to do with me?” he asked walking closer to the three women who all broke their conversation to stare at him.

“Naoise I would recognize,” Caroline argued as she glared at her sisters though the demon of War with whom she shared her control and powers of battle with faded back under her skin. “Soulmates cannot survive on this plane without interac--” she broke off looking at her sisters, “you mean to tell me my curse prevented us from connecting sooner?”

When Elena and Katherine nodded the scream that was released from Caroline broke every window and brought all in the quarter and New Orleans to their knees the anguish and the pain unleashed in that scream spanned 13 millennia that Caroline had carried around with her. Staring at the reincarnation of her beloved, her soul breaking into shattered pieces, she disappeared. Elena and Katherine waited a few moments before standing up and turning to the shell-shocked hybrid who was touching at the blood dripping from his ears. “What the bloody fuck is going on?”

“Calm your temperamental pants Klaus, those dreams you were having were from us. We couldn’t completely circumvent the curse placed on you by your foster father, but we could do a little,” they said in unison and then giggled. “Caroline’s scream was her soul breaking and when her soul broke all curses cast in her name were canceled,” Katherine said her eyes swirling into a metallic bronze swirling and changing. Shooting a look of concern to her little sister Elena nodded stepping forward she shoved Klaus backwards.

As he stumbled back the surroundings of his art room vanished and the study of a warrior appeared around him complete with a war table. There in the middle of the room was the blonde goddess her shoulders shaking and her eyes glowing black. If Niklaus was honest he had never seen anything more beautiful and full of power. The darkness mixed with the bright light of an inner strength he’d never seen in anyone else was disconcerting. “Excuse me love, are you going to go all Phoenix on my ass?”

Suddenly the weight of a million warriors he couldn’t see were on him and his wolf didn’t like the threat though suddenly his wolf was anxiously clawing at his skin to move closer to the war goddess who was now very threatening. “What the fuck does a self-reincarnating bird have to do with this situation?” her voice leeching coldness into the air around him

Klaus moved slowly around the wartable, steering clear of the weapons on the wall which were humming with energy. As he stepped in front of the goddess he held out his hand. “Caroline if we are soulmates then you need to talk to me, what does that mean for me,” he asked reaching out to take her hand within his own.

“It means that every time I intervened in your desire to build a kingdom, I intervened in our meeting and the happiness we could have been experienced.” Her eyes were slowly bleeding back to blue though the energy in the room still hummed loudly.

“What if the curse allowed me to become so frustrated I demanded you come to my home, what if this is when we were supposed to meet?” he asked wiping a stray tear from her face. “What if now we have till the end of the world to experience the happiness that the world has to offer us?”

“Naoise and I were cursed. I was cursed because I didn’t belong in a human body, my meddling in the life of a baby girl caused a fracture of my people and the loss of my soulmate,” she sniffled and then taking a deep breath, she pulled him into a deep kiss. Lights exploded behind Klaus’ eyes his mind filling with the memories of another life, a blonde woman the mirror image of Caroline, and the tragedy that followed their lives.

When Klaus came to he was laying in a strange bed in a strange room. Then the entirety of the last days’ events came flooding through his mind. Holding his head, he groaned.

“Just breathe I heard that the first few mornings after remembering a life can be painful.” Caroline’s voice came from the corner in a large window box seat overlooking the sea below her home. Klaus turned and offered her a small smile.

“Luv, why are you all the way over there? I can hardly relearn everything about you from across the room,” his eyes were soft and his tone clear.

“We’re different people than we were in that life, you were a noble knight as Naoise. Now you’re the almighty Hybrid. I don’t know this version of you,” she said looking up from the cuppa in her hands.

“Well love, I want to know everything about you. Your hopes, your dreams, what you love in your tea and how you take your coffee, what makes you tick and I want to share all those things with you and more,” he said walking over to him and pulling her from the box seat, setting her cuppa on the table nearby. Leaning down he placed a soft kiss to her lips and when she leaned into him he deepened the embrace walking them backwards towards the bed.

They could forge a kingdom another day, today they were blessed.

#klarolineauweek #day five: mythology #irish myths #klaroline #okay k needs to learn how to stick with a plot. #let me know what you thought!

[notadog]

They set up the system three years ago in June, him and Namjoon, cranky and swearing at each other over a tangle of cables that didn’t seem to go anywhere. 

It was their first studio. Their first honest-to-god dedicated work space that didn’t pull double duty as a bedroom or closet or dinner table. They’d been buzzing with excitement back then, full to bursting with plans for the space, their music, their careers. Everything was still wrapped in the shiny promise of a new beginning. Nothing was impossible. They were going to take over the world, starting with this studio, this 7x10 ft. room, all theirs for only 400 bucks a month.

Looking back at them now, he doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed for them and their optimism, or angry at them for their stupidity. Hubris -- fatal pride. Just desserts for those who think themselves bigger than they are. Fate stepping in to restore the balance. 

But even that is disingenuous. Fate didn’t curse them with a string of half-empty venues and lukewarm rejection emails from any label that accepted cold calls. Fate didn’t have to waste that kind of energy on them; all it had to do was let the clock run out and they would do the work of failing for it. 

They’d built the bank of monitors to be impressive. And to be functional, sure, but mostly to impress. Now they hang over him, mocking. A taunt in the layer of dust over their blank screens, worse when he turns them on and can see only a wasteland of rejected compositions. It’s not like he got into this wanting a roadmap of all his failures quite literally hanging over his head, but here he is. 

He doesn’t know when the tenor of their fights changed. There was never any ‘beginning of the end’ feeling, no fight-or-flight sense of foreboding that would have told him this was coming. 

He’s not sure it would have made a difference if there had been some warning. Would he have been kinder? Swallowed the anger that whipped inside him instead of letting it out to burn and rage nine times out of ten? Would he have stopped the crueler part of himself from sharpening his tongue against Namjoon’s underbelly? Would seeing the end looming over them have been enough to save them from it?

Probably not. 

He’s not even sure he would have wanted it to. 

He doesn’t blame Namjoon for leaving. 

He doesn’t blame Namjoon for taking the stable job with the respectable, regular hours. Despite the vitriol he’d screamed when Namjoon finally manned up and told him the truth, Yoongi was, in a way, proud of him. He was glad Namjoon was out, making something of himself after wasting his entire youth on his best friend’s pipe dream. 

Maybe he blames Namjoon, just a bit. Not for leaving, but for leaving him.

#sometimes yoongi dreams of the life they could have had. where they're on stage. where they're heard by millions. where they're brothers in #the realest sense of the word-- there for each other in the lowest lows and the soaring highs #the dreams never help-- not when he always wakes to an empty studio with no one but his bitterness to keep him company-- #but he doesn't give them up. #it's not like he's ever been very good at making the healthy decision #/ #// #/// #//// #///// #au where yoongi fucked up his life and is as depressed and alone as i am. #because apparently i don't have healthy coping mechanisms

[antagonisms]

[ nightmare ]

Evan released his grip on the wound on his side, winced through the hiss of pain, and pulled the drapes together. The sky was a blazing orange behind the curtains, and the small bit of sunlight that peaked out drew a dim stripe of yellow on her face. Rina sat at the foot of the bed with her legs crossed, opposite him, a sheet of long black hair falling over her shoulder when she lowered her ear closer to the neck of her guitar as her fingers twisted the knobs at its head.  

Evan said, “You never taught me how to play guitar.”

Rina responded with a snort and a look of disgust. “Guys who play guitar are almost always obnoxious.”

“Mom,” Evan scoffed. A smile cut across his face. “Come on.”

“You know I’m not wrong,” she said with a laugh. “They’ll learn, like, two fucking songs and feel entitled to whipping their guitars out everywhere they go. Men think mediocre music ability’s the ticket to pussy — and the sad thing is that they’re mostly right.”

“The bar’s that low?”

Rina sighed. “The bar is that low.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “So that’s really the only reason?”

“It’s a good a reason as any.” She didn’t look up from her guitar. Her fingers were still hard at work, the left twisting the tuning pegs while the right plucked at the strings, gauging whether the sounds were hitting the correct tunes. “If my son grew up to be a dick, I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself.”

His smile grew crooked. “Bad news.”

Rina threw a guitar pick at his forehead. 

A soundless laugh left his throat when it flew at him. Evan scooped the guitar pick up when it fell to his lap. He scooted closer to where his mother sat, hand stretching toward the neck of her guitar, but halfway through, he stopped, suddenly expecting the snap of her voice to tell him not to touch her instrument, except when his fingers brushed against the fretboard, she said nothing. With slight hesitation, Evan reached for the guitar’s center, and plucked at the strings with the pick between his fingers. 

“Well,” she said, holding her palm out toward him, “it’s tuned. Does the patient have any requests?”

Evan dropped the pick into her open palm. He pulled his knees to his chest. A stab of pain surged when his thigh collided with the wound on his side, and he willed himself not to wince. “Something cheesy,” he said. “Like, sad cheesy.”

Rina scoffed, but the sound was full of affection. “When did you become such a sap? Did the wolf bite make your head all loopy?”

“Being sentimental’s a side effect of rabies. Check WebMD.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but he could tell from the curl of her lip that there was some fondness to the action. Evan smiled. His mother kicked her feet off the bed, dangling her legs off the edge of the mattress, and rested her elbow on the curve of her guitar.

                                       Moon river,

                                                    Wider than a mile

                      I’m crossing you in style

                                                                                                  Some day.

Evan closed his eyes. The sound of her voice made the fever bearable. When she still lived here, her voice made everything a little more bearable. The house only really felt like a home in the rare moments of quietness, when she was there, smiling, filling the silence by humming nonsense as she walked through the halls. She sang when she was trying new songs for her piano and she sang when she was doing chores, because said singing made housework fun, and that singing while sweeping the floors made her feel like a really cool cartoon princess. When Evan got older and Rina moved farther he surmised that maybe it wasn’t the singing alone that made her feel like a princess. It was the need to be rescued.

     Oh, dream maker,

                                               You heartbreaker,

                                                                                             Wherever you’re going —

His heart surged. His body felt heavy. Most of the time, it wasn’t the fever that hurt.

“Mom,” he said, “I think I’m going to die.”

She stopped singing, but her fingers still moved, plucking delicately at the guitar strings. “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

A shrug rolled off his shoulders. “Maybe.”

“Are you scared?”

“Not really,” he said. “I think I’m just sad.”

“Death’s not sad for the dying.” She said it like she was sure. “It’s sad for the people you leave behind.”

Evan opened his mouth to protest, but it didn’t feel right to let the words come out. He wanted to argue that even if the last twenty-one years of life had worn him to the bone, a small and sad and hopeful part of him did not want to be denied the chance of knowing whether the next twenty-one would be kinder. And he wanted to argue that there weren’t that many people he would be leaving behind, or at least if he’d left them behind, it wouldn’t really hurt enough to be sad. 

There were many things he wanted to say to her, little knives of truth that might cut her open with guilt. That everything was worse when she left. That Dad got angrier with him, and Evan got angrier with himself. That mostly, all he remembered of being twelve was the way he sat at the piano in the living room every night to fiddle with the keys, and when his mind drifted away from the notes, he stared out the window and imagined her car rolling back into their driveway, imagined her pushing the front door open and move into the space on the piano stool beside him. He imagined her hands on his hands. Correcting their missteps. Guiding their movements. He wanted to say that he believed there was only one safe place in the world for him, and it was wherever she was.

He said, “I really wish you stayed.”

And this was where she let the music stop. Her hand curled around the neck of her guitar. Rina looked down. “I know.”

“Or at least apologized.”

Her gaze met his. There was glint of sadness in her eyes when she looked at him. “I can’t do that.”

His heart rose to his throat. “Why not?”

“Evan,” she said, “I’m not real. None of this is.”

And he knew that, of course. He knew that his heart was desperate and optimistic beyond reason, and he knew that his imagination had a tendency of betraying him when his rational mind lost its grip on it. Still, even with that knowledge, a terrible sort of hurt surged through him, and the resulting indignation seeped through his voice. He furrowed his brows. “What does it matter if it’s not real?”

She said, “Because then you’ll wish it was.”

Evan swallowed, throat thick. He cast his gaze to the curtains, where a small bit of light peaked out. In some, twisted way, he wanted his dream-mother to be crueler. Rage, writhing at the pit of his stomach, ached for somebody to blame. 

But Evan knew perfectly well whose fault his grief was, and right now, it wasn’t hers. Reason’s grip on his being meant that the puerile thrashing of his heart was never free to admit what it wanted, but perhaps its ache was so large that his mind felt the need to mend it, to go and invent a reality where tenderness was no longer impossible. 

Rina rested her palm over the back of his hand. “I don’t want you to wake up from this dream looking for a memory that never happened.” Her voice was terribly somber. “And I don’t want you to to hate yourself for wanting the closure you never got.”

The furrow of his brow deepened. “If it’s not real,” he said, and he loathed how small his voice sounded, “can you at least stay with me a little longer? At least until I wake up.”

Rina sighed. 

“Okay,” she said.

Her hand slipped away from his. She reached for the neck of her guitar. Behind them, the sun had sank completely. No light peaked from the curtains. Evan moved closer to his mother’s side and rested his head on her shoulder. He closed his eyes.

                                 Two drifters

                                                   Off to see the world

                                                                        There’s such a lot of world to see.

                                We’re after the same rainbow’s end —

Somebody nudged at his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open, but the waking world was still blurred around him. He rose up, careful not to hit his head on the bunk bed’s ceiling. Reality returned to him, bit by bit.

Still, half-asleep and drunk on his dream’s gentleness, his heart slipped off into a realm of quiet hope. A woman sat at the edge of the bed beside him. A smile formed on his lips, small and grateful.

Except the joy wore off half as quickly as it came. His eyesight refocused. The world reshaped and reformed; the rest of his reality bared itself to him with unpleasant clarity.

“You’re finally awake,” Lola said. 

Grief was jagged inside of him. The smile fell from his features.

Lola pressed her lips together. She tried to smile, but Evan could still read her discomfort. Carefully, she reached for his shoulder. “You should go downstairs. Diego made pancakes.”

Any other time, he would have told her to leave. But the ache left him with little energy to be unkind. His voice was still trapped in his lungs, as if it still held on to a hope that there was a kinder reality waiting for him. It was stupid. Even if reason knew that this life — this house, this pack, this body — was all there was, his heart still grieved a memory that his mind knew did not exist.

Evan said nothing to Lola. He cast his gaze to the floor. Then, closing his eyes, he rested his head on her shoulder.

                Waiting ‘round the bend.

                              My huckleberry friend,

                                                Moon river, and me.

#this is like 2% lola and 98% me using my period as an excuse to write mommy lore #death mention // #ask memes.