He doesn’t look up from where he’s mending my chlamys, great brow made heavy with concentration. It’s probably the needle. Chiron keeps them blunt so we boys can’t skewer each other when we start playing around. Father’s probably used to metal so sharp it cuts through space and time. He’s probably used to servants doing his mending for him too.
Maybe he’s mad cause all this parental duty is beneath him. Maybe that’s why the gods so rarely raise their kids. I wonder if he’s making an exception for me since I have no mother to do such things for me instead.
I don’t know about any of that. My father is busy but he comes when I call for him. He corrects my form when I fumble with the bow and smiles at me when Chiron compliments my writing. And he’s here now, divine hands fumbling through mending torn wool while he sits on the rocky ground, no more the vision of a god than shepherds picking straw from their rams.
“Father?” I call again. This time, I hear him hum, low and questioning. He puts the curved needlepoint between his lips and the metal comes away gilded and sharp. When he puts it to the frayed fibres, he does some godly magic that ties the broken ends back together again. I gasp and quickly lean over his shoulder to closer watch him work. All my words disappear beneath my wonder.
He laughs - just a soft puff of air and the smallest quirk of his lips - but does not shield my view. It must be magic, the way he binds it as though a sword had never pierced through. We stayed like that for a long while, him and I on the cold ground, my eyes glued to his deft mending like I could decode his secrets if only I focused long enough.
In the end, it’s Father who breaks the warm silence.
“Tell me again,” he runs the back of a painted fingernail up the freshly mended strip, a lightness to his voice that makes the skin on the back of my neck and arms tingle, “who tore your chlamys?”
“I did,” I lie, quick and confident. “It caught on a bramble while I was gathering fruit and — “ The weight of Father’s gaze is always heavy but now it seems immense. A burning, scratching thing that scalds me from the inside out. A boulder trapped in the small space of my throat. My mouth snaps closed, my tongue clammy and too warm in my mouth. I don’t know what my father will do if he learns the other boys don’t like me much. I don’t know what he’ll think of me that I couldn’t stop them.
Father averts his gaze for a moment, unfolding himself so he can fasten the cloth about my shoulders to study the drape of it. All of him is so warm, like a fever constantly burns his blood, if gods even have blood. His big hands tell me to be still and when he taps my calf, I know he wants me to stand at my fullest height so he can see just where the lowest folds fall against my skin. The boulder stays in my throat through it all, my chest pounding with the weight of my anxious heart. Don’t cry. Father’s hot fingers burn the line of the cut into my side, right there from knee to hip where Ion had slashed my chlamys. Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry.
I squeeze my eyes shut as the silence settles like ash around us.
“A bramble?” he says, flat with disbelief. It’s a question and a warning all in one. The cut was too high up for any natural thorns to have reached. The line too straight by far to have been made from pulling.
Still, I nod, careful to not meet Father’s burning gaze again, “Yes, sir.”
One long moment passes. Then another. I wonder what Father’s face will look like twisted in rage. I wonder if he’ll punish me with lashes to my calves like all human fathers seem to.
Instead, Father slips the mended cloth from my shoulder and begins folding it, all the room’s hot tension disappearing like clouds blown away by the summer breeze. “You’ll have to be more mindful,” he says, and my heart still races endlessly in my chest, mind abuzz with the wrongness of this dismissal, “this is the only time I will mend it for you. Next time, you’ll wear it torn ‘til Chiron grants you a new one, understand?”
I fix my eyes to the rug beneath my father’s feet, “Yes, sir.” He puts the chlamys on the tabletop then silently makes his way to where my practice tablets are stacked. He doesn’t touch me when he passes by.
Immediately, those stupid tears are prickling the back of my eyes again and the boulder triples in size and drops like an anchor to the pits of my stomach. Wrong, wrong, wrong. My face and arms burn like steam has scalded my skin. Worse than any anger or disappointment, Father’s quiet distance feels like rejection. I rush forward and hold his thigh, uncaring of the way my clumsy fingers wrinkle the fine cloth of his skirt. “Are you angry with me?”
Father does not pause in his checking over the tablets, sparing me not one reassuring glance or the hint of an amused smile. My heartbeat races up my windpipe ‘til it's pulsing in my mouth, all my teeth rattling behind my shaking lips. Father may not like me for being a coward but he definitely despises liars. I don’t even know why I lied in the first place.
“Father!”
Finally, with a deliberate sort of slowness, he puts the tablet down and turns to face me, eyes dull with disinterest. I pull at his skirt so he will kneel and meet me at my height but it’s like trying to move one of the great stone statues that decorate Chiron’s garden. Fat tears roll down my cheeks. Ion was right, I am just a spoiled baby. “You’re angry, aren’t you?”
Father’s head tilts, dog-like, inhuman, “Why should I be cross? I can hardly blame a bramble for growing just as I cannot blame you for being caught in its thorns.”
“Not for that!” I cannot meet his eyes. Not even Chiron could meet Father’s eyes when they smoulder with such darkness. Maybe human fathers discipline with whips because they cannot steal the air from a room with just the tilt of their chins. “I — I lied.”
“Hm,” Father gently pulls my shaking fingers from his leg and folds himself onto the floor again, bending his back so he can meet me eye to eye. I rush into his broad chest, making myself small. He still isn’t smiling, but he adjusts my legs and props my back against the broad side of his arm, cradling me the way boys my age must never be held. “So you have. Still, I do not see why I should be angry.”
Confusion stills my tears. I keep my ear pressed to Father’s warm chest, devoid of heartbeat or the sound of rushing blood but full of familiar comfort all the same, “You don’t like liars. You punish them harshly.”
“And yet, you came forward and confessed. Why?”
Father’s hands rub soft circles against my hip. I sniff, loud and ugly and full of phlegm. “It’s only a lie if I never tell the truth.”
I feel it before it happens. The way Father’s stomach sucks in and his chest gets wide with air. He laughs; full and musical, all his jewellry tinkling like bells. He leans over me, bright gold hair like sun-streaked clouds at twilight and presses his forehead to mine. In the dark of his body’s great shadow, the gold flecks in his eyes glimmer like little stars. It’s beautiful and horrible, like the full weight of the sky is staring down at me, like Father can see everything I am, was and will be.
“I always know the truth, Asclepius. There is nothing beneath the sky that you can hide from my eyes.”
If it’s meant to comfort me, I feel none. Curled up in his arms, eye to eye under the sprawling weight of his divinity, I feel picked apart. Raw. Ashamed. There’s no way to run so my tears begin anew, innards trembling and limbs weak. “If you already know, why bother asking?”
“Because, child,” and Father blinks, breaking the spell. He kisses my forehead, then each of my cheeks, then my chin. My skin floods with heat then tingles from the magic resting there. “I am also your father. It would be nice if you’d confide in me from time to time. All my wisdom and power is meaningless if you never ask for help.”
[ For @superkooku who is constantly in the Asclepius pit with me]
a creature of the undead is roaming jericho, fleeing the men who hauled her back from the grave. a professor at nevermore academy might just be the only one who understands her - but can she trust him, or will he seek to possess her like every man in a lab coat she’s met before?
a/n: a snippet from the fic currently pouring out of me lmao, where professor!isaac is the one who takes in the town’s latest brain-eating pest :))
His eyes were the first thing you noticed: shining in the darkness, two dark opals in a pale face lined with suspicion.
You shrank back, breath caught in your throat as he leaned closer to the car’s window. One hand still rested on the wheel, the other tapping a steady beat on the console, the leather of his glove amplifying the sound. A stray curl fell across his creased forehead as he studied you.
“Are you the one who whipped them into a frenzy?”
His voice was low, soft, something stilted in it. He was speaking along to a melody you couldn’t hear.
“Well?” He sighed, lips pursing, and you flinched when he opened the car door.
“Don’t come near me,” you hissed, your mouth moving awkwardly around the words. He paused, one polished black shoe halfway to the pavement. “Stay in the car.”
“I don’t usually like being told what to do,” he said, sliding easily to his feet. “I’m the one doing the telling, typically.”
You lunged, pinning him to the car’s doorframe, his head tipped back as your hand pressed against his jaw, forcing him to bend backward against the low roof. His weight was heavy beneath you, so real now that you were close enough to hurt him.
He watched you with narrowed eyes, tracking your laboured breaths, the blood on your mouth. His jaw clenched beneath your grip.
“I could kill you,” you ground out. “Now.”
“I’m sure you could try,” he said. “But I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
You leaned in, tongue hot as you breathed in the pulse in his throat, the warmth at the base of his skull. Up close, you could almost smell him: clean, something earthy and sweet.
“I need to,” you muttered, mouth already closing around the space beneath his ear, his bloodstream thrumming against your ruined lips. “I have to -”
You were thrown so hard you didn’t understand until you looked up from the pavement. He stood over you, frowning, one hand held above you and making lazy circles in the air. You could feel your limbs folding together, your body growing heavy as roots and earth rose up to hold you. The dim light of the road faded slowly as the earth began to swallow you.
“Maybe I’ll come get what’s left of you later,” he said, eyes sharp. “I think I have a day off of classes next Thursday. Does that sound good?”
The roots were over your face before you could make a sound, and the world vanished.
or: i don’t care what you do, as long as you pronounce it properly.
gn!reader, nothing too objectionable, domestic fluff with a little bit of flirting for good measure. written for the magnificent @/bluewhispers for @angelicaether's skyside 2025 holiday exchange – i do hope i’ve done your darlings justice! happy holidays, lovely blue, and happy (belated) new year! <3 inspired by i’m beginning to see the light, specifically the 1945 version by the ink spots and ella fitzgerald. and you can go and figure out what’s going on with don’t look back in anger on your own time, if you really feel like it. or don’t, i’m not your gingerbreadmother. damien biting the bowl off the spoon in just over 1800 words.
The sound of his electric toothbrush has stopped, and there’s a familiar shadow standing in the kitchen doorway.
“You do realise you’re a fucking idiot, yes?”
In your arms, the stack of cake tins seems to have a mind of its own, teetering back and forth with every tiny shift of your weight. The cupboard above the fridge seems to get fuller and fuller every time you open it, so you’re resigned to staring at it, unblinking, to stop it from spawning any more rolls of baking paper or tartlet tins before you can put these away.
Down on the counter, you can hear the kettle beginning to boil. It’s difficult to see his expression from up here, twisted away from the door to reach the cupboard above the fridge, but you’re sure that it’s something gentle and encouraging. He’s very supportive. And he likes things to be tidy, so he’s almost certainly looking pleased. Approving, perhaps. Or benign, at the very least.
Resolutely, you nod, secure in your deduction. “Yes.”
“Okay. Just checking.”
The buzzing of Damien’s electric toothbrush starts up again, and a warm hand settles itself against your thigh, steadying your weight and sitting just low enough to not be entirely indecent. You did say he was very supportive, after all.
Metal clatters against metal. It’s not elegant, but with a little bit of engineering—
“Fuck!”
—okay, with a little bit of engineering and a lot of swearing, you manage to cram all of the baking equipment back into the cupboard, minus a single roll of silver foil that’s just going to have to live on top of the fridge for now. There’s a loaf tin that’s probably going to fall out as soon as anyone opens the door, and a little box of fairy cake cases that definitely weren’t that shape before, but that’s a problem for future-you.
The way down is relatively easy, all things considered. The hand on your leg drifts up to your waist, and it feels like you float down the ladder rather than step, a warm thrum of helpful psychokinesis playing across your skin like sunbeams.
“You see?” In an instant, you’re nestled against his side, a self-satisfied grin spread wide across your face. “Expertly tidied.”
Damien’s eyes flick up to the cupboard door, which is still suspiciously not-quite closed, then back down to your face.
“...mghrn.”
He turns to the side and spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. Clearly, he agrees.
The kitchen is a little bit cold, but he’s as warm as ever, and the faded cotton of his T-shirt is excellently soft beneath your cheek. Behind you, the switch on the kettle flicks up as the water reaches boiling.
“Are you making tea?”
“Maybe.”
The words are nothing more than a jumble of syllables, smeared across his shoulder as you bury your face in his neck. “Can’t move.”
He huffs lightly, the low vibration of his laugh rippling through the side of your head. “Pardon?”
“Can’t move.” It’s not fair, it’s just not fair, why can’t he understand? He’s so lovely and it drives you mad. “Y’re too warm.”
“Am I? Aw, baby, I’m sorry.”
By degrees, he manages to slowly turn the two of you around so that he can reach the kettle with his free arm, the one still holding the toothbrush now looped around your middle. “You must be hating it, then.”
Pouring water, steam hissing. He snatches in a breath as your palms dart underneath the hem of his shirt, pressing flat to his back and feeling him tense up at the temperature difference. “Not li— Jesus! – not like you spent most of this morning enjoying it, or anything.”
Solemnly, you shake your head, although it probably just looks like you’re trying to give yourself a friction burn with his collar. “I would never.”
“So I’m told.” You can almost hear his eyes rolling. “I believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”
Reluctantly, he lets you go so he can pick up his tea, retreating towards the microwave. Damien tends to move a little further away from you whenever he’s drinking tea – he drinks it obscenely hot, and ever since Lasko almost gave himself a second-degree burn trying to hand it to him, he’s made a habit of keeping it well away from anyone else. It’s very sweet of him, and perfectly understandable, although it would be nice if he didn’t have to.
Above your head, there’s an ominous thud from above the fridge.
“One of these days, I’ll melt that fucking ladder,” he muses as he watches you glare at the cupboard, sipping his tea and steadfastly ignoring your indignant protestations. “Don’t think I won’t! You know I will!”
“Wh— it’s not even that tall!” you splutter. He talks about it like you’re climbing Everest, not a tiny little stepladder with three steps to its name. “It’s useful!”
“It’s a death trap!”
“You’re a death trap!”
Sluuurp. “Well, you’re very welcome to come and climb on me, instead.”
God, you could just strangle him, sometimes. Instead, you settle for flinging a tea towel at his stupid, smirking face – he catches it, because of course he does, the bastard – and resolving to definitely not take him up on that offer, no matter how tempting it sounds. Or how tempting he looks. Or how temptingly he’s looking at you, dark eyes trailing slowly down your body, quick fingers tapping wickedly against the side of his drink, leaning back against the counter like it would be nothing at all for you to slide into his grasp, your hands in his hair, his lip between your teeth, heavy breaths that only get hotter, sweet and slick and— and— and—
“Don’t let me distract you, or anything.”
Damien yawns, catlike, and with absolutely no sense of human decency whatsoever, stretches juuust enough for you to catch a glimpse of the strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his sweats, stretched infuriatingly low across his hips. It’s just a flash, but you couldn’t hope to miss it – the violet trail of hickeys scattered across his stomach like flowers, blossoming innocently beneath his skin.
“I hate you,” you say weakly.
“Okay.”
The time on the microwave is 10:03. He sets his tea down on the side, and pushes it away.
“Like, I hate you hate you.”
“Mm. I guessed.”
It’s raining outside, condensation on the kitchen window. Someone’s phone, probably yours, buzzes quietly from the living room. A shiver goes up your spine.
“No, like actually.”
“...yeah. That’s… that’s what I said.”
The kettle is hot, the water ready. If you wait, it’ll go cold, and you’ll have to boil it again.
“Fuck this,” you spit, and he tastes like jasmine and that dreadful blue toothpaste he always buys. Everything’s so warm as he gathers you up against his chest, helplessly melting into his hands and his laugh and his kiss.
Damien, Damien, the loveliest boy in the whole wide world. Utterly charming as his eyes flutter closed, palms skating enthusiastically across your back, your waist, your hips, as if he couldn’t possibly settle for just one. Entirely too precious, his wry smile that makes your heart race, soft words dripping off a sharp tongue.
“You’re so, so stupid,” you sigh dreamily, unable to help the way your fingers slide eagerly across his chest, over his neck, up into his hair. “The stupidest there ever was.”
“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, and the words are impossibly soft and gooey as he presses them against your lips. Spit snapping, the crackle of lightning between his mouth and yours.
It’s just getting good, when—
Slip inside the eye of your mind, don’t you know you might find…
—when your phone starts ringing, the custom ringtone changed to whatever flavour-of-the-week song Gavin’s been obsessed with lately, and both of you groan in unison as you’re reminded of the actual reason you’re down here at all.
“What time did Gav want us for?” Damien asks, although his fingers don’t stop tracing little circles across your back.
Begrudgingly, your eyes dart over to the microwave clock. Whenever Gavin said, there’s no way you’ll make it in time. “He’s gonna kill us.”
“Not if we use protection— ow!”
Despite his theatrics, Damien takes your half-hearted slap with remarkable grace, quickly trapping your hand against his side with his own and guiding it down to his waist. “Look, if you want to go without this time, it’s up to you…”
“You— you—” Your spluttering peters out beneath his laughter, half-moon eyes and that great big smile that always makes you want to kiss him silly. He’s got to stop this, he’s got to, your poor little heart can’t take it. “I changed my mind. Gavin won’t get the chance, I’m killing you instead.”
“Do you have to?” Mwah, mwah, mwah, tiny little kisses down your jaw. “I’m told I give very good bribes. Glowing reviews.”
“Unless you’re planning on bribing him too, I think you’re out of luck.”
Damien pauses briefly to grimace against your neck. “Not while we’re out, Jesus. One of the waitresses there is in Lasko’s class this year, I saw her leaving the lecture hall two weeks ago when I went in to give that shirt back to him.”
You snort. “Still can’t believe you walked off in his shirt.”
“I was distracted!”
…Actually, that’s fair. Hux is very distracting, even when he’s not getting out of the pool.
“Besides,” Damien continues, “if you’re so opposed to my shirts, I can think of a solution…”
The air is cool, but his hands always chase the chill away. You’re starting to get the feeling that his persuasion is working, and if the way his lips trail across your collarbone is any indication, you think he knows it, too.
“We’re going to be— fuck, we’re going to be so late,” you manage to choke out, and you know he knows he’s got you. The world spins as Damien pivots you around until your back is against the counter instead of his, and his grin twists into that hateful, haunting smirk, just on the right side of cruel.
“And?”
The edge of the countertop digs into your back. “He’s going to skin us alive.”
“And?”
“I’ll text him.”
He scoffs, not fooled even for a second. “No you won’t.”
Your hips rock against his, just once, and Damien’s head falls back as he moans, loud and shameless in the still air of your kitchen. God, he’s so beautiful, spit-slick and sugary, and ridiculously, painfully yours.
“No,” you say, breathless, and drag him back in. “I won’t.”
—
world’s biggest gulper: ON UR WAY MY ASS
world’s biggest gulper: ITS BEEN 90 MINUTES THIS IS NOT BRUNCH ANYMORE
world’s biggest gulper: istg u two r worse than vincent. FUCKING VINCENT SOLAIRE AND HES NOCTURNAL
world’s biggest gulper: ok i rebooked for dinner. if i see turtlenecks its on sight
—
main masterlist
this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute.
Post-TotK, the Chain learns about Wild’s new ability he learned from the Yiga
He hadn't meant for his brothers to find out about his new skill that way.
Wild still hadn’t told them everything about his second journey. Not that he didn’t want to, but there was so much that happened, he couldn’t always recall certain things until something reminded him.
Like when his sword broke and rather than wasting time pulling out a new one he just used the Earthwake technique he picked up from his infiltration of the Yiga Clan to force a bokoblin away from Four so he could get a better swing at the monster.
He may have forgotten to mention said infiltration. And his learning of said technique.
“Okay, explain it to me one more time,” Twilight said as he paced in front of his wayward brother. “Just so I have this right.”
Wild looked to the skies as if some deity would swoop down and save him from this conversation, but none did. Figures. “I found a Yiga costume on my travels—“
“Right.’
“—And I used it to get into their hideouts—“
“Uh huh.”
“—and they offered to teach me the Earthwake technique.”
“Because your little disguise was that convincing?”
Wild rolled his eyes.”Obviously.”
Twilight was practically vibrating between wanting to wrap Wild in a hug and never let him go and throttling him for doing something so dangerous. Fortunately, Time came to Wild’s rescue, sort of. “What exactly did you have to do to get them to teach you this technique?”
Wild bit his lower lip and mumbled an answer.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I passed the blademaster exam, okay?” Wild exclaimed as he preemptively winced at the scolding he was going to get. When it didn’t come,he opened an eye and peeked at his companions, who were all gaping at him with varying looks of incredulity.
After several agonizing seconds, Twilight finally found his voice. “You’re a Yiga Blademaster?” He asked slowly.
“I mean, technically yes?” Wild shrugged.
Twilight took a deep breath. “That is—“
“—SO FUCKING COOL!” Wind interrupted as he barreled into Wild. “Can you teach other people?! Can you teach ME??”
“Uhhh…” Wild spared a glance at Twilight’s paling face and Time’s stern glare. “Maybe some other time.”
More Dagrid! First bit of Dagur x Sigrid writing here
Tis long (Word Count: 1,691)
She is absolutely trying to kill him, and I am trying to not kill his characterization with my writing aaa
.
Dagur changed a lot over the years. Primarily in terms of looks: lost the braid, grew a patchy beard, gained a few scars, new armor, ditched the dorky helm. But, despite these changes, Sigrid recognized him immediately.
And it was on sight.
Her hammer narrowly misses him the first time. A familiar warning swing that he finds he missed. His betrothed's shows of affection never were… conventional, to say the least. Dagur had always loved that about her.
The second swing misses by a significantly smaller margin. Still, he laughs while dodging about.
"Isn't she actively trying to kill you?" someone calls from the side. Sigrid doesn't look, she doesn't care who it is.
"I know! Just like old times!" Dagur muses.
Ah, nothing's changed.
Or, so he thought.
Back in the day, she would have stopped lunging by now. Sigrid has always been aggressive, and tied to her tribe's ways. Sparring is a big part of their courting rituals - something about finding the one person you'd want to grow alongside for the rest of your life. He's a little rusty on their ways. It's been almost five years since he was last there.
"C'mon, Siggy, is that any way to treat your future husband?" He's trying to diffuse the situation, but, as always, she has a response locked and loaded.
"You denied yourself that title when you missed our wedding!" Sigrid snarls, once again missing Dagur and turning the side of a tree to splinters.
Dagur dodges again with a laugh. Agile as ever, he easily ducks under her weapon and skips to the side. "That's hardly my fault!" He protests, raising his hands in a placating gesture. The amused smirk remains in place, "I had other things to do."
"You-" Sigrid cuts herself off, choking on her own words. Not in the way most women do before they burst into tears. No, that's not Sigrid's style. The way her nostrils flare, her jaw tensing as her gaze locks onto him speaks to nothing but raw, unbridled rage. "I'm going to kill you!!!"
Has she tried to take his head off in the past? Sure, plenty of times. Never with this much anger, though. Over the years, her swing has gotten more gentle. Now, however, what with them having not seen each other in almost five years, and with him having missed their wedding that was due almost three years ago with no word of why or where he was… she's become genuine in her threat. Sigrid is absolutely steaming, rage boiling deep in her gut and rushing through her veins.
Try as he might, Dagur can't laugh it off. The chuckle dies in his throat, drying up into a lump that sticks, making swallowing hard. This is different. It's not like the flirty spars from their early teen years - spars she dominated without fail. If he doesn't find a way to smooth things over, and fast, she may actually kill him. His smirk wavers at the realization. This isn't flirty, or playful, or fun.
She's going for the kill.
Dagur is not usually a man of words, but today, he will have to be.
"Sigrid! Sig. Siggy… Can't we- AH!" He narrowly twists out of reach of her hammer, watching a spiderweb of cracks span the surface of the boulder behind him, "talk about this?"
"You were supposed to be my everything!"
Yeah… he does recall saying that at least once. Promised her a lot. Uncharacteristically sweet words that decimated a layer of the violent walls his fiancee surrounded herself with.
"But you took it from me instead."
There's barely time for Dagur to process what that could mean. She's already swinging on him again. This time, he takes the initiative to stop her. Lunging himself towards her, her grabs the handle of her hammer. It halts her swing, but he can't tear the weapon from her grasp. She finds leverage in this, and uses the weapon to pull him forward so she can introduce the crown of her head to the bridge of his nose.
That earns her a very manly yelp from the Berserker Chief. His hand releases her hammer, going to cup around his bleeding nose instead. It wouldn't be the first time he broke his nose, and it likely won't be the last, but Gods! That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt!
A low growl rumbles from his throat as he glares at her from over his hand, "You're taking this way too seriously! So what if I missed the wedding?"
The words feel doomed the moment they fall from his tongue. Had he meant it? Doubtful. There's a pain blooming in his face right now, and adrenaline pumping through his veins something violent. He was never very good at thinking before he spoke. Their wedding was supposed to be a huge deal, a joining of tribes. He had greatly been looking forward to it, but…
The fast, deep breaths Sigrid is taking is greater proof that his words did not calm her in the slightest. If anything, they pissed her off that much more.
There's a different layer to the tension in her voice. Something he can't quite place as she speaks, "You could have just called the engagement off when you took the role of Chief. Why not just do that?" It's almost eerily calm, how she talks to him. The grip on her hammer tightens until the knuckles go white, "Would have saved my father a lot of expense… and myself a lot of turmoil."
Wiping the blood from his nose sends a new sting of pain through his face. Taking the safe road for a moment - a rare occurrence from him - he takes a step back. Any syllable from his lips could trigger her next attack. He needs to be careful about this.
"Siggy, I-" Finding the right words is hard enough during a meeting with his allies. Finding the right words to smooth over this terrible, violent reunion of lovers? "I never wanted to break our engagement. Other things just… came up. I got busy!"
"Well, I hope whatever it was, was worth it." Her hammer winds back once more, her eyes narrowing at him, "because you missing it called off not only our betrothal, but the treaty between the Berserkers and Bloodtides."
His eyebrows raise, all pain in his nose temporarily forgotten. Truthfully, he never cared for peace treaties, but the one with the Bloodtides was arguably important given that Tribe's volatile nature - and the betrothal attached to it. "The treaty was cancelled, too?"
"Not that you were ever there to sign it. Far as I know, the last four years that island hasn't seen head nor ship of a Berserker." She snorts derisively, shaking her head. "Even if they hope to salvage the treaty with you, it's none of my concern any longer."
Planting her feet, Sigrid draws her hammer back once more, "I'm not one of them anymore, thanks to you."
"Wha- Shouldn't that be a good thing? I thought you hated it there!"
He had born witness numerous times to the way Sigrid's village and family treated her - though, it was her family that was the greatest perpetrators. He caught on in later years to how her father subtly put her down. The trials he put her through to prove her worthy of being heir to the Chief of Bloodtide were brutal. True to Sigrid's almost unnatural strength, however, she always came out on top.
And it never did matter.
Her much younger brother was treated like a true little prince. The only person who could put that spoiled brat in his place was Dagur, and that was only because her mother and father didn't think scolding the Berserker heir was worth the potential risk of Sigrid's betrothal going under.
Sigrid speaks through clenched teeth, that thick tension in her voice again. "Bloodtide was all I had! That, and you!"
Just saying it makes her feel weak. What's worse is the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid-
"My final vow was to hunt you down, assuming I couldn't find proof that you were dead." Staring him down, she points the blunt head of her hammer at him, a mere few feet away. "You look like you've been thriving, though. Carefree and malevolent as ever…
"So, I'm gonna lop your head off and parade it on the end of my hammer."
"You're father won't welcome you back for tha-"
"My father be damned!"
She takes a deep breath, trying to reign back whatever tears might try to form. She won't be weak in the face of the man who betrayed her so deeply. She won't…
"My father only saw our betrothal as a means to be rid of me. Even when you never showed up, he still found a way. This isn't about him. This is about the shit you put me through!"
The swing of her hammer is not as powerful as the last several times. In fact, he's able to catch it with good effort. Like this, they're at a standstill. Her breath heaves, hands shaking in their hold on the handle. Worse yet, her eyes are wet. Deep hazel irises burn with anger, but the hatred in them is lacking.
She doesn't hate him.
She doubts she ever truly did.
What she hates, is the situations her always seems to trap her in. An unwanted betrothal when she was a child. Constant, triannual meetings where she was forced to be around him for the sake of their courting. The wedding she finally came to terms with and was actually excited for… And now, this. Emotional, overwhelmed… unsure if she actually wants to kill him or hear him out.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…
"You abandoned me-"
"I was in prison!" He finally snaps back, shaking her by their combined grip on her weapon. For emphasis, and to shake some sense into her.
Sigrid stares dumbly at him. Then blinks. The seemingly permanent scowl on her lips and brow lightens to something more baffled.
I want you to pin me down with your weight. I’m 300+ lbs myself, but you’ve grown so much bigger than me, larger and heavier than me. With you straddling me, there’s nothing I can do but appreciate your weight on mine.
You’ll beg me to feed you, to stuff your belly. You’re so hungry and can’t believe I allowed you to reach that point. And you’re right, your belly should be full at all times. Stuffed and round, never for a second wanting for food.
Of course I’ll feed you. I love offering up food to you, a worshiper hungry for their god/dess to accept their praise. You accept, like the greedy fatty you are. I watch in amazement at your ability to eat so much so quickly, feeling your belly grow heavier on top of me.
Once you’re satisfied and full, I’ll ask if you could feed me. Just as you love growing your own gorgeously fat body, I know you love making sure I stay nice and fat too. And of course you’ll feed me, offering the food to me like manna from heaven. I accept and feel my weight grow too. You like when I am even more trapped under you: not just from your heavy belly but from the growing weight you’re giving me.
What a generous god/dess you are. What a devoted worshipper I have become.
Long ago, the people of this world were driven far underground, by what, we can only guess. But they adapted, and they survived, and they began to thrive. They built sprawling cities thousands of feet beneath the surface, connected their cities through giant portals to facilitate trade and communication. Despite their bleak start, they were doing amazingly well.
Then, it came. Tearing through their cities, destroying their way of life, destroying them. They could not fight it. All their fighters and weapons and spells failed. And so they fled. They abandoned their sprawling cities, taking what they could and leaving everything else. They shut down the portals, hoping to spare themselves, spare their neighbors, maybe a little bit longer. And they left behind their most fearsome weapon to guard their legacy, to slow down the beast.
And so their cities remain, empty and desolate, built around a non-existent portal. The only sign of life left is their guards, forever patrolling the empty cities. Keeping people out.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: OFC/OMC (Toxic Relationship), OFC & OFC
Characters: Original Statement Giver(s) (The Magnus Archives), Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Original Fear Entity Avatars (The Magnus Archives), Original Corruption Avatar
Additional Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Spheksophobia, or better known as, Wasps, Body Horror, Toxic Relationship, Flowers where there shouldn't be flowers, Mention of gaslighting, Gaslighting, Graphic Description of Corpses, Minor Character Death, Character Death, this is magnus archives of course theres death, Canon-Typical The Corruption Content (The Magnus Archives), Written for a Discord Competition, No seriously this statement is not for faint of heart, The Dove is not Dead but Critically Injured, Not Britpicked, I did my best
Summary:
Statement of Harper Beckett regarding her former relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Jasper Rhodes. Original Statement Given on April 21st, 2007. Audio Recording by [REDACTED].
