#none of their worship. none of their sacrifices and gifts and pleas make you feel a thing and what a haunting thing it must be

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #tsaritsa #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #tsaritsa x reader #this is. technically not a sequel but not a prequel but a secret third thing (mental health crisis) #kidding i just wanted 2 write the prev fic from more reader oriented pov bc it wasnt fucked up enough!!!!! #i need fucked up reader who is irreparably changed in horrifying ways!!!!!! and they cant die bc teyvat kinda needs them 2 uh #exist at all. and if u die well thats it. hits reset button #the horrifying fate of a mortal forced to be a god against their will and all the drawbacks that come with it #where is love to be found when they all cannot see themselves as anything but beneath you? there will always be imbalance #oh they try. they claw and scramble and beg but being the creator has changed you. #none of their worship. none of their sacrifices and gifts and pleas make you feel a thing and what a haunting thing it must be #do they reject it? delude themselves into thinking that they must try harder? #or do they accept that this is a god? absolute. horrifying in its entirety. something that even the archons cannot truly understand #a manmade god who seeks absolution in only the most heretical. the most blasphemous #literally shaking chewing on the bars of my cage LET ME OUT #i love deep dives like this sorry 2 everyone i made think i was normal my bad #i just think immortality and godhood r funky concepts and i love making them WORSE #also this took so long because i was playing b@Idurs g@t3 3 erm. censored so it doesnt show up in tags PLEASE DONT SHOW UP IN TAGS #taking i need the tsaritsa to bite me to a whole new entirely worse level!! #i just think (starts talking for 5 hours straight and doesnt Shut Up) #this one is also. considerably more openly fucked up then the other fic. even if its hidden behind flowery language uh. take it seriously. #okay im done no more angst its fluff from here on out i need 2 be NORMAL. i am a normal well functioning adult. maybe.

[thequeenofthewinter]

TES Summerfest: Day 5

Divine Language

@tes-summer-fest

I've really been having fun stretching my writing muscles with these prompts. If you're interested in the one I wrote yesterday.

Link to AO3

While in the midst of a chaotic and bloody Civil War, it might be said that for Skyrim, the outcome looks uncertain, even bleak. In times like these, the humble people of the province turn ever more fervently to their Gods for guidance and deliverance. Out of all of the Nine Divines sacred to the Nordic pantheon, it could be said that none is closer to the heart, for better or worse, than Talos. He is, after all, the main cause of the conflict which rages across the land, dividing brother and sister and turning friend into foe. However, there are many citizens who have taken to praying to Kynareth, to create lasting peace. Those who have taken up worshipping Arkay, to spare them from the pain of losses; or Stendarr, to bring swift mercy upon their shores. And of course, there is always Akatosh, to grant them all more time.

Religion and war seem to go hand-in-hand. Where there is desperation, there is always prayer.

In the Temple of Talos in Windhelm, Dahlia Wintersnow kneels on the frigid stone floor in front of the statue of the divine himself, her lips moving quicker than the wind in silent prayer. She has long since lost track of how much time she has been there, and she isn’t even sure if this is the right place for her; however, there are no other houses of worship within the city. Beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to place, and this is as good as any.

Laid out before her is her Amulet of Talos, and gripped tightly in her hands is an Amulet of Mara. It almost feels like blasphemy to her to be devoted in worship to other gods and to be inside the temple of one. Dahlia is desperate, and this is the only place where she feels she will be heard. Her father Akatosh made her brother Talos, just as he did her, Dragonborn; and perhaps, that connection will grant her some small favor. And if there is anyone on Nirn who would need or be deserving of it, it is she.

The precious, silent minutes, gifted to her by the hours of early dawn, tick quickly by, just like the shifting sands of Elsweyr. They are here one moment, and next they are gone.

Dahlia continues to mouth her prayers silently, not daring to move a single muscle for fear of upsetting her concentration and her connection with the Divines.

Brother Talos, hear my plea for strength. I would ask that you grant him strength to persevere because without him, I would have nothing left. He fights for justice for those who fearlessly prayed for your guidance and in defense of those who cannot lift their swords themselves. His cause is righteous and anger justified…

Father Akatosh, her thoughts trail off. What she should ask of him seems blatantly obvious, yet she feels she should say something more.

There are many here which are suffering and who pray dutifully to you all days for more time, but I ask that you hear me. Perhaps it is selfish and even conceited of me, but I do not care. Who would I be if not your child to ask for your guidance to help bring the people of my home and those I love most to safety? I believe you have put me here for a higher reason, and I want to fulfil that. I cannot do that without him by my side. You have asked much from me, and I have given it to you freely. This is the one thing I ask: Give me time, and do not make me do this alone.

What else could she ask of him except this? 

And finally, and perhaps least expectedly, 

Lady Mara, Goddess of Love, I beg of you not to take the warm light of your blessings from me. Treat me with compassion, for I have suffered so much, and I cannot bear do so anymore. Your benedictions have been the sweetest and most sacred of all. I hold and cherish none other closer to my heart, and I would sacrifice everything just to keep him.

The cycle repeats:

Talos,

Akatosh,

Mara,

Over and over again. 

So concentrated is Dahlia in her prayers that she does not hear the door to the Temple open nor the heavy, echoing bootsteps of a new visitor until they are upon her.

The newcomer takes a seat on the pew behind her, staring curiously at her position.

What could she be praying for, and why does she look so desperate as she does so? 

He stays there for several more moments, taking in her image until the first rays of sun filter through the windows high in the temple, bathing her in bright, blinding light. If he did not know any better, it would appear if she were divine herself. 

Soon, they both will move out and into the unknown; and as much as he wishes he had all the answers, he does not. That is what brought him to the house of worship this morning: to pray for strength, but not only for himself, for his soldiers, or for his people. He also wishes to pray for her. If anything should happen to her, well…he’d rather not think about it for very long. His nightmares have given him enough torture in that aspect.

After a few more minutes, he moves quietly, so as not to disturb her to kneel at her side. It is at this time that she is broken from her prayers, noticing him at long last.

When Dahlia looks to the man next to her, her hazel eyes alight with something that feels quite like nothing Ulfric has ever seen before. It is the most achingly beautiful mixture of devotion, love, and awe which he has ever seen. She is looking at him with quiet reverence as if he were a Divine, like Tiber Septim himself. It knocks the wind out of him, and he is left utterly speechless. 

His eyes roam her face taking in her features and burning them into his mind. No matter what happens, she will be the last thing he sees, the last thing he remembers, and he will take her image with him to Sovngarde with a smile on his face. 

“Are you ready to go?” She asks him quietly, her words echoing around him in the dim Temple. 

The question startles him from his reverie.

“As long as that means you will go with me, I am ready for anything, and I could do anything.” He whispers as he pulls her closer to him. “When I see you, it is as if my eyes are opened for the first time, and I can clearly see the rest of my life placed carefully before them. And I would do anything to reach that destination.”

“Ulfric…” She tries to interrupt him, his gentle words surprising to her. It is not normal for him to spill such honeyed words of adoration.

Instead, he only quiets her, placing feather-light kisses to her forehead and temple before finally finding her mouth. Her mouth opens softly for him, and they are unhurried in expressing their affection. Each gasp, sigh, and caress between them contains millions of tiny, fluttering, saccharine promises of the future. 

This is the most sacred prayer. It is the most divine language of all that are known, and the one which contains the highest power.

As Ulfric embraces her, Dahlia can almost believe that everything will be okay.

#tesfest22 #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #ulfric stormcloak #dahlia wintersnow #winter writes

[polishksiezniczka]

Camerlengo Patrick McKenna Fluff ABCs | Camerlengo x Female Reader

Il camerlengo deserves more love ❤

Notes: These take place in an AU where the Cardinal Strauss and Commander Richter are guilty of the attacks on the Vatican. 2K words.

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

There are so many things about you Patrick adores: your beautiful, soft smile; the curiosity and warmth your eyes convey; the feminine lilt of your voice. But most of all, he loves you for your heart. The kindness you show towards others makes you an angel in his eyes.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why or why not?)

Despite his vocation to the priesthood, Patrick would love nothing more than to start a family with you. He views the love you share as a gift from God, not something that should be disgraced or vilified. The arbitrary man-made rules of the Church which prevent him from realizing this longing—your own little family—frustrate him to no end.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

With the utmost care and gentleness. He holds you against him, reverently stroking your hair, face, and body with his warm fingers. He especially loves to admire the suppleness of you, softly kissing each and every glorious inch he can reach. While these moments are few, they are precious to him.  

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

Because your relationship with Patrick is technically “forbidden,” you can’t go on dates in the normal sense. When he can, Patrick will use the secret passage between the Vatican and Castel Sant’ Angelo to discretely travel to the outside world in order to visit you. Because you really can’t be seen alone with him, you instead spend time with Patrick in your apartment, often cooking dinner, talking, and just enjoying each other’s company. Even if you can’t confess your love to the world yet, all he desires is to spend every moment he can with you.

E = Everything [“You are my ____________.” (e.g. my life, my world)]

“You are my heart.”

“You are my treasure.”

“You are my life’s greatest blessing. You are a gift from God.”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

When he imagined his life without you. The pain he felt even entertaining the notion was too much for him to bear. He knew he needed to tell you before it was too late.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

This is one of the main reasons you fell in love with Patrick—he is truly the gentlest soul you have ever met. He treats you as if you were a priceless relic, practically worshipping the ground you walk on and swearing to defend you from any harm. Not that he won’t stand up for what he believes—he is a fierce defender of his faith and possesses the ability to inspire millions with his commanding oratory. But the look of love in his eyes when you catch him watching you makes your heart flutter rapidly in your chest like a schoolgirl’s.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

Secretly and with all the affection he can possibly give. He especially loves to brush his thumb across the back of your hand, squeeze them lightly, or bring them to his lips when they are intertwined. When you are alone together, he always wants to maintain this type of intimate contact.  

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

When you first met Patrick, the always-charming young priest was left speechless. Not only was he enamored of your beauty, he was mesmerized by your intellect and eloquence. At first, he chided himself for such foolish and boy-like thoughts—he was a priest, after all! But after slowly getting to know you, he realized how much you embodied perfection to him: your poise, the uncommon kindness you showed to all those you met, your deep devotion to your Catholic faith. And you couldn’t help but feel the same strong attraction to him.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous much?)

Patrick is not the jealous type—he would never have any reason to be. Your love is built on trust and truthfulness, and he alone holds the key to your heart.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You were the first to kiss Patrick. You had gone to him for guidance after suffering a deeply personal anguish. His words were so gentle and reassuring, you couldn’t help but softly kiss his cheek in gratitude as tears slipped silently from your eyes. You were too numb to even feel ashamed, let alone prepare for Patrick’s response: taking your hand and kissing it lovingly, a gesture meant to assure you your feelings were reciprocated.

Because of Patrick’s profession and his constant presence in the public eye, you can’t be together as often as you’d like. But when you are, you nearly die and go to heaven from his mouth’s attentions alone. Patrick’s kisses are gentle, reverent, and full of love. He is never aggressive or rough; instead, he worships you with his lips, laying them everywhere like a starving man put before a feast.

L = Love (Who says I love you first?)

Patrick did. He was running to the helicopter to dispose of the antimatter chamber, willing to sacrifice his life for the safety of the faithful gathered in the Square and his beloved St. Peter’s. As he prepared to take off, he saw you standing on the steps at the entrance to the basilica, tears in your eyes. He silently mouthed to you, “I love you. Pray for me.” You were distraught but could do nothing but nod as tears clouded your vision and watch as he ascended from the plaza into the night sky.    

M = Memory (What’s their favorite memory together?)

One night you begged Patrick to go for a walk around the city together, like a normal couple would. You couldn’t brush away the romantic childhood notions of strolling through Rome with your beloved. He finally acquiesced to your pleas (your doe eyes and breathy implorations being of great assistance to you) and the two of you slipped quietly out into the dusky night. You frolicked at the Trevi Fountain, gazed at the enormity of the Pantheon, and shared a sweet treat from the gelateria while nestled on a bridge overlooking the Tiber River. Although the ancient city was beautiful, the sight beside him was what truly took his breath away.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Priests are sworn to a life of poverty, so Patrick does not shower you with expensive presents (nor can he afford to). But none of that matters to you because all you care about is Patrick and your love for him. Of his few earthly possessions, Patrick gifted you his late mother’s golden crucifix necklace inlaid with emerald, despite your attempts to dissuade him. He gave you the look of utmost adoration and smiled. “Angelo mio, you are the only one worthy of wearing it.” You wear the necklace every day as a secret declaration of your love for Patrick.  

O = Orange (What color reminds them of their other half?)

There are two: light pink (it is your favorite color and the color of your favorite flower, the gardenia) and white. White symbolizes purity and peace, as it is the color of the angels, and to Patrick, you are his angel on Earth.  

P = Pet Names (What pet names do they use?)

Angelo mio (“my angel”); cuore mio (“my heart”); mi amore (my love); “beloved”; “dearest”; “my treasure” ; “sweetheart.”

Q = Quaint (What is their favorite non-modern thing?)

His rosary, made of olive wood grown on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. It was a gift from His Holiness.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

Ideally, he would spend the day curled up together on the sofa with you, reading, talking, or just basking in the other’s presence. Two mugs of tea and a plate of delectable pastries you had baked for him would sit on the table but would remain uneaten because of the sustenance you provide to each other. When he cannot be with you, he enjoys spending time in his study, doing research, reading Scripture, or writing his weekly homily.  

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

Prayer—he always turns to God and the Saints for guidance.

Naturally, being by your side and in close physical contact immediately quells even his deepest fears. He relishes listening to your soft, sweet voice, lulling him into a sense of profound comfort and eventually, sleep.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

Patrick is an intellectual at heart and loved the time he spent in seminary. He is incredibly well-versed in a variety of topics, including literature, history, science, music, art, philosophy, and theology. You could listen to him for hours and never lose interest.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

You. Patrick can be himself around you, let his guard down. He knows that he can tell you anything. Sometimes when he has a lot on his mind (responsibilities, the welfare of his Church, your future together), he simply gazes at you lovingly and observes the subtle movements you make when you’re engrossed in a task like cooking, reading, or playing the piano.

When he’s anxious and you are not around, prayer provides him a deep sense of comfort. He also relishes in your sweet scent—a small vial of your perfume you gifted him.  

V = Vaunt (How do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

Vanity is a sin! 😉

But in secret, he loves showing off his Latin skills to you! You find it incredibly sensual when he speaks to you in that ancient tongue.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

On a dreamy spring night, Patrick led you up to a secret balcony near the base of St. Peter’s massive  dome—a hidden observatory shown to him by His Holiness when he was a young boy. The view is breathtaking; you can see the whole city bathed in golden light, the inky blue darkness above cut by the silver caresses of the moon. You turn to Patrick in complete awe and could hardly articulate how beautiful the view was. He pulls you close to him and whispers that he would be happy if he could never see this view again if it meant he could spend the rest of his life with you. You turned to him, overwhelmed with love, your breath hitching at the significance of his words. He then knelt down before you, taking your hands in his.

“Y/F/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, of all the blessings God has bestowed upon me, none is more precious than you. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew that we were meant to be together, in this place and time.” His eyes were sincere and insistent, his tone earnest as he held your hands tighter and continued: “My mind told me that we could not be together, that my vows of celibacy and chastity forbid this. But my heart tells me that if a love so pure as ours exists, is it not a gift from God, meant to be treasured? And though I may not deserve to understand, all I wish to know and feel is my love for you.” His eyes shone softly with tears.  

“Y/N, my love, will you make me the happiest man on Earth and spend the rest of your life with me? Will you be my wife?”

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

Patrick loves the ancient hymns from the early days of the Church, their melodies hauntingly beautiful yet powerful. “Ave Maria” also has a special place in his heart after he heard you singing it softly to yourself one evening while preparing dinner.

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Every day! Patrick is so torn between the duties of his priesthood and his intense longing to spend the rest of his life as your husband. He prays to God often about this personal conflict, but finally decides to propose to you before Him alone, indifferent to anyone else’s judgement.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

Because Patrick is so easygoing and affectionate, he would do really well with dogs.

Tag: @lemairepstuff @seraferna

#ewan mcgregor #patrick mckenna #camerlengo #angels and demons #dan brown #il camerlengo #carlo ventresca #ewanfuckinmcgregor #forgive me father for i have sinned

[oelfinessend]

For all that you have thought

Time to dump my fic drafts here! 

Or, where Loki is an actual god and I explore the incomprehensiveness of the concept and differences in biology. Unbeta-ed and really, is very raw. 

Loki moves in his prison like a creature unknown, born in all the worlds and none, created among the stars with the sole purpose of being confusing. The guards try to not look at their former commander and thus miss the way he sometimes flinches and cocks his head and turns slightly to look somewhere past glittering walls.

The tickle is annoying at best, but mostly aggravating; Loki can’t pinpoint its source or origins, his mind constantly distracted by that same non-corporeal itch. Some days it’s almost gone and some he is ready to break something, not at all unlike a mindless brute, which is the only reason Loki keeps himself in control.

After one particularly intense bout of distraction he arrives to the conclusion that it is Odin who allows this - not the great punishment, but a mediocre, annoying distraction, that will, unfortunately yet unerringly, lead Loki’s vast mind into ruin. So he grits his teeth and focuses in it, trying as the process might be, catches the illusive thread and smiles as he finally, finally pinpoints it; it has been centuries since they were banned from Midgard, and even then, during his last stay there had never been a plethora of those who would call Loki their own.

But those who would, followed him always.

Loki smiles, inhales and pulls back.

For a lesser being, an ignorant As, or flighty Ljosalfr it would be impossible to right themselves and become the master of the summons, but Loki has been delving deep into knowledge lost and vaults forgotten, he has taught himself what Bor decided to bury forever under the bones and ashes of svartalfar, who had skirted on the edge since their suns were young.

Loki twists himself among the calling threads of rude, invading seidr, tugs at them gently and finally as soon as the oppressive presence of Hlidskjalf is no more on his back, Loki spreads his own will and might and is finally free.

He manifests a splaying shadow among the ruined, blood-soaked stones. Here, the ancient rituals are still carried in the very ground underneath his bare feet. At first Loki thinks that it’s a peculiar coincidence that the new blood awoke the old and he was called, but he cannot recall that place of worship, and he has never liked when all finesse and knowledge of proper calling was cast aside in favour of massive sacrifices.

There are three runes of his, even if arranged improperly, carved with unsure but strong hand in the altar; they are the ones that ensure that Loki hears the pleas, and old victims of this place only helped the prayers to reach him through the thick magicks of Asgard. They, and Odin’s own dismissal; Loki was released from Asgard’s numbers, cast from it’s seidr’s protective shroud and thus became immune to All-Father’s ban of influencing mortals.

Loki’s laugh is everything dark and triumphant as he makes himself visible above the stone. He is not a deity in this moment - so much more, fed by stolen worship-power and his own joy, and the disbelief and elation his summoners feel, the despair and anguish their victims fall into, it all is directed at him, in him, and Loki drinks it all, formless and bright in his blackness, like a sky of stars or nocturnal waters.

The summoner who crawls towards him, Loki knows, is babbling something, but even so drunk on power he is not mindless and so he turns his head - a nebula of singing movement - to the girl spread out on the hard stones.

  why her he wants to know and so his question is heard. The child is nude, and thin and hungry. Loki wished her mind was calm and so she sleeps, and sees the pink skies of Alfheimr shine with predawn.

  she is frail, small and lacking in knowledge Loki’s musings is more of a presence in mind than a voice, a sound wave.

  what is a higher being to do with such a gift and how to crown such a thought

Loki whispers on his many terrible legs across the blood-remembering stones and symbols calling for gods he knows not, recalls not and cares for not.

Eight mortals was given to him so far - five more are awaiting him still; but Loki has no need for blood, no desire for power, no lust for idle madmen’s worship.

He sighs - the water flows to sky from springs nearby and the altar turns to dust, the girl, still sleeping, covered with a blanket made of his will.

  children are but promises of future Loki finally deigns to hum, turning the ground he reclines on to glass, and the one who waited to put a knife to frail mortal skin just turns into nothing.

Among the frenzied, crazed thoughts bombarding him there is one of clarity; vicious and pointed, there is satisfaction, dark victory and even darker gratefulness Loki feels turned onto him, onto his shapeless, many-faceted being, That’s better.

Many burning, blackless eyes turn onto the man called Jake and Loki becomes Jake for as much as a frail and little mortal mind can allow; and so Jake becomes Loki, for as much as he can bear to witness the form not fit to shape itself on mortal, corporeal planes of Earth.

Jake is a simple man, an accountant who likes his job enough, loves his husband very much and their girls even more. Him and Mike have been planning this trip for almost two years and the twins were ecstatic, and he doesn’t want to die, having heard now every scream those motherfuckers wrought out of other people in their group; but Jake also is grateful it was him who got to ride in the second bus, and not Mike, because poor Isa is only a year and a half older than his girls, and he would have probably gone insane already if either of them was here.

He wishes every last one of those motherfuckers dead, surely but slowly, excruciatingly dead, for every scream they wrought out of poor Ann and Sarah - they were eighty, for fuck’s sake - and sweet little Rose (she was five, five, at five Emma was playing pranks at Sophie and driving both Mike and Jake up the walls) and her poor lab, slightly crazy Derek, Carl, that strange chick who had five names, so Jake didn’t address her and called That Chick in his head, Paul and Tom, unfortunate heirs to a frankly mediocre fortune.

But Isa is sleeping and smiling in her sleep and something has just swallowed the raving lunatic up or maybe disintegrated him, Jake doesn’t care; he wants them gone and to be finally at peace.

what peace is there while you still live The Voice again is in his head, knocking out thoughts and making room for Itself. Jake’s brain can keep up with what that mind part of him is perceiving - a shape among the roads paved with comets, a mind cradling his own and shaping the very air to make a room for Itself. The Voice is filling his body now, a herald of the Mind, which Jake is helpless to push against, but he is not going to - he is bared, so he can take in return.

He knows -

There was a man, a woman, someone, long time ago for them of everchanging Earth, who caught the glimpse of the Mind, like that, and accepted, fully, the knowledge of Its existence and presence, agreed to be the latch and burden.

A balance between living the life for themselves and being devoted to something you have to let go to fully grasp is the only sort of prayer Loki takes, covets, a greedy being, the benefactor of the scholars of Asgard.

Among the dirtied and craven shouts of blood-spillers, Jake’s thought is clear and aimed right at him, at Loki, so Loki will bow so, turn to him who has freed himself to see as much as was allowed; as such will Jake belong to Loki, now; his sight was claimed, his freedom, settled.

And that is fine, Jake knows, if fall, then why not onto the stars?

The flow of mangled seidr ends as soon as the last of madmen is crushed under Loki’s will; as such, he is no longer torn apart by their expectations of him, fear of him and greed for him, his own unwillingness to take a useless corporeal form, or which one to choose. The girl is sleeping still, the blanket turned into leaves, three mortals have become senseless somewhen after his arrival and only his Jake still stands and watches, somewhat detachedly, as Loki allows his form to settle into one he is most used to, then shapes the matter around him into clothing, nondescript but suited for him nonetheless. He may be disowned, he is not lacking in pride.

Thin trickle of awareness is still present - will be until the end of the mortal’s short life, Loki already knows - and it gives him warmth as nothing else.

“What, are you, like, my- my god, or something?” Jake stutters, watches him, pale and drawn, unsure.

“I am Loki, first, last and always.” Loki simply answers and that seems to settle the mortal.

They have a long way to go - there is already a restlessness rising in Jake’s chest, a desire to know what comes next, and as much as Loki can relate, he is displeased, because he laid claim and all questions not to him but about him have become redundant.

No matter, he shifts, yawning, into a canine-like shape and trods away from humans, sniffing at the air and spreading his seidr wide to catch a glimpse of a creature he can mirror.

In a few minutes, there is a howl, ringing through Venezuelan forests; in a few hours, a member of searching party glimpses some animal running from what appers a mutilated human arm, another four hours later, Jake is ushered into a shock blanket as he stares, unblinking, at the black and gold snake resting on the glass of the helicopter, seemingly not bothering the pilot. It opens its mouth, showing two rows of serrated but human-looking teeth, sniggers and twists, turning birdlike as it dissolves into goldish mist.

#my fics #For all that you have thought #frostiron #loki fics