#AFTER ALMOST TWO YEARS. EDEN PORTRAIT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

staticl0ve · 2 years

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The Garden of Eden - Chapter 9: Reunion *

Pairings: Machine Connor/Fem!Reader/Markus Rating: Explicit/NSFW 18+ Chapters (AO3): [ Ch. 1 ] [ Ch. 2 ] [ Ch. 3 * ] [ Ch. 4 * ] [ Ch. 5 ] [ Ch. 6 ] [ Ch. 7 ] [ Ch. 8 * ] [ Ch. 9 * ] Warnings: smut, threesomes (F/M/M), PnV sex Series Summary: Eden is a paradise, or so it seems. Every deviated android has been trapped in the virtual utopia, unaware of the real world and the revolution swirling around outside of it. But rA9 is the key that could set them free, and you would bring it to them. Therein lies one major obstacle: he has not forgotten about you. If you run, he would follow. If you staggered just a little, he would almost have you in his grip. Beware the deviant hunter, they say, because he's coming to get you. (Alternative AU) Spice in chapters with *

Carl had a request.

It all began with the death of his wife, Angela. Her passing was a falling domino, furthering the divide between him and his son, Leo. They also diverged in their methods of processing her absence. Carl became more fixated on his art which in turn meant neglecting his troubled son. As Leo had no artistic ambitions of his own, he rebelled like any wealthy, angry son would and partied hard. A year after his mother’s passing, the lifestyle Leo chose finally caught up with him, the lost son reunited with his mother in the afterlife.

Carl mourned in a home that felt too large for one man, too empty for a broken heart. With androids being marketed as lifelike companions, their existence became more appealing as loneliness set in. He wanted to start anew, to have company that would not be burdened by the gloom that hung over the Manfred home. Carl wanted what many would have wanted in his shoes—a second chance.

Was it selfish? Entirely. Could the talents of the brilliant Elijah Kamski be used elsewhere? Of course, but the inventor agreed to hear his friend’s proposal over a bottle of Scotch.

“Is it possible for an android to be more than a machine? Could they know joy and sadness?” Carl asked.

Elijah sipped on his drink, ruminating on an answer that would satisfy his friend as the alcohol burned down his tongue and throat.

“Androids are made to be reflections of humanity. It’s as real as we want it to be,” he answered.

The wrinkles on Carl’s face creased further, casting his gray and worn face in more darkness. Androids followed their programming to a T. A politeness clung to their words which functioned as a reminder that they were built to serve. The artist was seeking answers to a concept that didn’t exist yet.

“But do they think what they feel is genuine?” Carl sat up from his lounge chair, his head titled down at a family portrait beside him.

In Elijah’s mind, everything could be recreated in code, mimicry or real, it didn’t matter to a machine. Humans could rationalize emotions, trace all the paths that led to it. Similar conclusions could be made by the machines he designed.

“Machines are malleable. If you believe it, then they will.”

“…Then how soon can you start?” Carl inquired.

The work was simpler than Elijah thought. With a splash of programming from a caretaker model, an upgraded personality matrix and a little something of his own, the RK200 was complete.

Carl named him Markus, but he eventually called him son.

There were annual maintenance checks on the RK200, little visits from his creator. The android’s personality had flourished in Carl’s care. Curiously, the android began showing more signs of individual thought as the painter proudly showed off Markus’ artworks.

As exciting as that was, it not enough to stave off Elijah’s grander schemes. He was a Dr. Frankenstein type, driven by ego and curiosity, never mind the fallout should life spontaneously occur in an inanimate object. Much to his amusement, Time’s magazine dubbed him as a god to the machines just as he began a new project—an Adam and Eve scenario. Two machines were created to test the limits of his own ingenuity, you and Connor.

The RK800 was a different design then, more man than machine. It was a time when he was personable, conversational, and curious. His only purpose was to spend his machine hours with you. For days, it was nonstop idle chatter, nothing noteworthy occurring between two androids pushing their speech algorithms to its limits.

Then came a new variable. Death.

After repeated cycles of a test Elijah dubbed the Kamski Test, you eventually passed it by seeing Connor as something more than plastic and metal—alive. Your reward was freedom of sorts. You were transferred from Cyberlife, all documents of your existence moved to a secure and private server belonging to the inventor.

The CEO still had board members to please and so the RK800 became a blank slate, perfect for molding into any project. It could not have occurred at a more opportune time, a news headline broke regarding a rogue android at a packaging facility. It’s forklift was driven into storage racks, toppling dangerously heavy crates. Even worse, it resisted its human handlers, lashing out violently at anyone who came near it. The events ultimately birthed a term that began spreading across news outlets.

Deviancy.

Some on the board at Cyberlife suggested a recall. The idea leaked and much to their displeasure, some people saw their household androids as more merchandise. Family could not be returned. Cyberlife stocks tanked as the backlash called for action amongst the C-levels. A panel of old men and women who never truly worked a day in their lives had words to share with a patient CEO.

“We need better marketing. They’re just tin cans! The public doesn’t understand we’re doing them a favor,” one plump board member said.

“Can they be reset remotely?” another one spoke up, her face pointy and framed by a gray bob cut.

“Just tell the public they’re happy in a farm upstate!” another with a curled mustache joked.

The mustached man wasn’t too far off. Elijah had schemed up a little paradise for the androids to flock around in, a slice of heaven where they would able remain intact.

As for the RK800, a hunting dog was needed. Connor was pulled apart, stripped away of the tendencies that made him a harmless puppy. They observed him for weeks as he tested against androids in combat simulations. It often ended in his demise, his mind uploaded and downloaded to a new body.

Iteration 37 was too frail, his limbs snapping under the strength of a laborer android. By version 51, they abandoned the white plastic chassis with carbon fiber and metal. His programming had adapted to his new occupation and latched onto the thrill of the chase, the challenge of a struggle. Any bit of the old Connor had been twisted from a man that enjoyed dipping his toes in a virtual river to a machine that enjoyed the cool splash of Thirium on his synthetic skin.

So what was he doing here?

His body sunk too deeply in your mattress, the memory foam struggling to support his weight. He wasn’t made for soft things, for a domestic life as he felt more like an outsider with every passing second. Soft sheets engulfed him, his head needlessly resting on a thick pillow that you insisted he try. He had almost forgotten about your dozing body and the soft arm wrapped around his chest, your head nuzzled as closely as you could get to the center of his chassis. It was a little ironic, your differing options for pillows.

Your breath came in waves, heating the metal blend of his chest with every quiet puff. For a machine, you were irrational and acted on instinct—an outlier. You had no reason to trust him, choosing to fall into a deep slumber in the arms of a machine killer.

His HUD remained empty, no pesky objectives to steer him back on the hunt. An anomaly did occur in his latest calibrations, a batch of code once lost and now found. He wanted to share it with you when your sync completed.

Huh. Want.

It was still an unfamiliar feeling that plucked away at the 1s and 0s in his revised programming. Plastic fingers traced the bumps on the back of your neck, drawing a line past your shoulder blades and down your spine. The part of him that wanted to break into a machine and rip through synthetic skin still lingered. He could snap your neck in your sleep, rip your spine out and snuff out Jericho’s last hope at a peaceful resolution.

Yet he did no such thing, his HUD still as barren as a clear blue sky.

Connor had a better idea for utilizing his time while your sleep sync ran it’s course. He was there when workers loaded Markus onto a truck, his scans picking up the sounds of a Thrirum regulator still pumping away in the deviant leader’s chest. The green eyed android wasn’t likely to survive the hellscape of abandoned machines but if there was a sliver of a possibility, then the least Connor could do was try.

The weather was a lot more forgiving when Connor set out on his new self assigned mission. A red sun rose, it’s light seeping through the towering stacks of rusting metals and crushed plastic. Condensation from the night’s heavy rain dripped down from the edges of the piles, clean water mixing with polluted soil. For miles as far as the eye could see, the junk yard was full of half formed androids lost in the sea of waste. Dying machines moaned and groaned as he ventured deeper into the mounds of android purgatory. A spare arm swung loosely in his grasp as he made his way towards a machine crawling through the muck, the figure socketing in an eye.

Connor’s feet fell in line beside the slumped over figure, brown eyes assessing the damage. His initial perimeter scans caught the more obvious: a missing arm and a leg, which was why he didn’t come empty handed.

“Markus,” he greeted and held out a working limb—a peace offering.

The RK200 was covered in grime and contaminated rain water, his clothes tattered from crawling through shards of broken machinery. His eyes were mismatching, a blue lens replacing his broken right eye. Given the difficult circumstances, he managed to prop himself up on his working arm to gaze up at the deviant hunter.

“Connor,” he replied, allowing room for a pause before he spoke again. “I see she got through to you.”

Fundamentally, Connor felt the same as he did from his last round of calibration tests. He did not leave your apartment with a newfound appreciation for the world in its rain cleansed splendor. Unlike the tin-man who once sought a heart from a great wizard, this tin-man never asked for the one that was beginning to grow in his Thirium pump.

Sunlight spilled around the edges of the unmoving RK800, his shadow encased in blood red light. His features remained impassive and impersonal as he remained silent, his arm still outstretched. Markus found himself smiling before he grabbed the arm in Connor’s hand.

“I appreciate you giving me a hand,” Markus said as the arm hissed and clicked into place. “How about a leg too?”

Brown clashed with blue and green, a smirk tugged at Connor’s lips as the two came to an understanding.

“There is a compatible leg behind you within crawling distance,” the RK800 answered.

You were still where Connor had left you, wrapped in a tornado of sheets, with a pillow acting as his replacement. The RK800 felt a bit like a pair cameras on a metal mannequin, lingering by the doorway as Markus gingerly tapped your arm and soothed you awake.

“‘M…Markus? Markus! You’re alive!” You wrapped your arms around his neck before recoiling in horror at the blackened sludge smearing your skin and sheets. “What on Earth did they do to you?”

“Not they,” he laughed. “This is all Mother Nature and humanity’s greatest contribution: pollution.“

“Do you want to shower?” you asked, although it sounded more like a firm request to his ears.

Connor was still looming at the edge of the room, a shadow in your bright room. You offered him a warm smile, uttering a soft thank you before turning your attention back to the RK200.

“There’s so much we have to catch up on,” you said as you stroked Markus’ cheek. “Starting with your eye.”

“Mmm….we can talk about that over a shower,” Markus offered.

“We?” you purred back at him.

The RK800 slinked away, finding himself standing beside your laundry unit as the water turned on in the other room. He ran on an automated process, his fingers nimbly finding his buttons and filling the washer with his dirty clothes while the same question pestered him again.

What was he doing here?

He kept himself busy with menial tasks, striping your dirtied sheets and starting the washer. Before he could torture himself more, he realized he had walked into the bathroom. The mirror was still broken from last night, bits of glass scattered over the counter and tile floor. In the shards remaining on the wall was a reflection of the face that lurked in his base code. In the missing parts of the mirror was a backing in the same metal tint of his chassis.

“Connor,” you called out and peeked your head out of the curtain. “Don’t you need to wash up too?”

He blinked at the sight of your sweet face damp with water droplets dripping down your nose and chin. Right. He was here because of you.

“Am I not in pristine condition?” he responded with a smirk.

“Absolutely not.” You glanced down at his nude form covered with streaks of grime.

“Careful,” he warned with a teasing lift in his voice.

“What are you gonna do about it?” You grinned back at him.

Markus spoke up before Connor could respond, the shower curtain pulling open. Steam fogged over the reflections in the glass until the RK800 was the only version of himself left standing in your bathroom.

“I think she’ll find the answer more than satisfactory if we work together,” Markus said while Connor’s LED flashed.

Androids and humans utilized wireless communication but it was limited and not much different from a messaging app. Markus discovered a feature unique to their model type which allowed them to sync their pre-constructions and share their thoughts on a whim as long as the other wanted to. While they did not look or act the same, they both wanted the same thing.

A twin expression of smugness flashed across both of their faces as Connor’s LED flickered yellow. Humans had a saying about two being company and three being a crowd but androids…

“Guys?” You glanced between the two men. It clicked a second later than it should have, and by then Connor was crowding your back into the tile wall. You giggled the moment his nose brushed over your neck.

“Two versus one is not fair!” you laughed.

Markus pulled the curtains back, trapping the steam back into the shower.

“We can take turns,” he murmured at your shoulder.

With today being the dawn of a momentous event in mankind’s history, the three of you didn’t have much time left. But was it not in moments like this that the living should indulge and simply be? It would certainly be the human thing to do.

Connor handed you off into Markus’ arms as he positioned himself behind you. Your legs were hoisted around the tan android’s waist while the other android held you up. Their lips were attacking you on both sides, one sweetly laying kisses across your cheek and the other biting into your shoulder.

“Markus…I’ve missed you,” you whispered softly to him with your arms draped around his neck like a scarf. “I thought you were gone.”

“I made a promise didn’t I?” He smiled and stroked your cheek.

As if pulled by string, his plush lips came down to connect with yours in a warm and tender kiss, a stark contrast to the other machine lover possessively sucking marks on your skin. Your tongue parted Markus’ lips and traced the edges of his tongue with yours. There could be no sweeter bliss, no high as great as a kiss between two reunited lovers. He was moaning into your mouth while his hips rolled into yours, pressing his arousal against your inner thighs.

You couldn’t forget about the android behind you, not when Connor’s tongue was interfacing with your skin and dragging over the nape of your neck. Most of his hand was retracted, the dark metal warmed up by the shower as he gripped your hips. The two RK’s moved as one, Connor pulling you back to lean against his chest as Markus lined himself up to your folds. He purposefully missed a few times, drawing out your desperate moans as you tensed and tried to squirm between them.

“Markus! Connor, please…”

“Relax. Open for him, kitten,” Connor said, his hands pulling your thighs apart for the older RK unit.

Markus captured your lips the moment he pressed into you, the pressure familiar and comforting as he drove home. He was in no rush and found an easy rhythm, savoring the way you clenched around him. A metal hand slipped between your thighs, the deviant hunter not giving you a chance to breathe as both androids worked you up. There was no way you’d last long between the two of them, not when Markus was stretching you to your limits and studying your every tremble with an intense and watchful gaze.

“Can you feel how much I’ve missed you?” Markus cooed and accompanied his question with a deep thrust.

Bands of white sparked across your eyes. Your lips parted but Connor, having caught a quick request from Markus, stole your chance to speak with a quick interface, his hands warm and glowing against the tender nerves of your clit. You wrestled and shook in his grip but the water gave you little friction. He held you firm as Markus pounded into you, breathing praises on one side of your face. On the other, was Connor, acting as the devil to the angel on your shoulder. His lips tickled the shell of your ear and captured your earlobe between his canines.

“Answer him,” the RK800 purred into your ear.

“Y-es…!”

“Yes what?” Connor demanded.

“I…I—ah, I can f-feel him!”

It did something for the deviant leader, having you at their mercy, his thrusts no longer following a steady rhythm. Your muscles coiled around him, his hips pressing as closely as he could while he spilled in you. You were moments from your own tipping point when he pulled out and the deviant hunter slipped in, the act causing much of the accumulated fluids to seep out of you. Connor pushed you forward into Markus’ awaiting arms, his hands gripping your back and into your hair while Connor set a more brutal pace than he did.

You screamed as Connor kept an open connection on your skin, observing your peaks and shifting the intensity of his fingers on your clit for every spike. He kept you on a hair trigger as the deviant leader lovingly stroked your back while the RK800 rutted into you.

“Con…nor! Please…!” Your cry for mercy was muffled by his other hand clamping around your mouth.

“You’re close aren’t you?” Connor soothed, his breath hot and uneven. He felt you nod despite his hand restricting your head. His hips snapped forward, withdrawing slowly as his pace shifted to a leisurely one. “…I can feel it.”

Aside from his ragged breaths, he was perfectly composed with each slow roll of his hips. He could feel your desperation as your muscles frantically spasmed around his length. For a moment, you were concerned he was going to drag this out as long as last night. Judging by what you could gather from the both of them grinning, no one was going to come to your aid.

“Please,” you begged through the interface.

Connor chuckled and angled his hips for a slow, teasing thrust. His eyes met the pair across from him and he uncovered your mouth as Markus pressed a finger on your lips, soothing you with a soft hush.

“Shh. You’re okay. You’re taking him so well… Can you lean on me?”

Markus gave you a gentle smile when you did as he asked. Beads of water coated his long lashes and somehow his eyes still managed to hold its trusting gleam despite his intentions. Tan fingers roamed down your chest, falling from your breasts to rest on your hips.

“That’s my girl,” Markus said.

Behind you, the tile wall lit up yellow from an LED. Connor picked up his pace as Markus returned the favor by holding you open for him. Their bodies surrounded you, leaving you no room to wiggle away. It didn’t take long for Connor to build you up again and when his metal hand left your clit for Markus’ fingers to swirl around the tender bud as you came with a scream. Through the haze, you felt the sting of teeth on your back while Connor twitched inside of you, your combined fluids seeping out onto the bathtub.

You had to laugh. “It’s a good thing we’re in a shower because you two are so messy.”

They shrugged at the same time, looking entirely unbothered by the sight of you dripping in them. A real shower could wait as you relaxed into their arms. Markus’ hand searched for yours and held it against his chest. Connor’s hand sandwiched around you both as a warm and familiar glow emanated from the combination of three android limbs.

It happened so fast, you didn’t understand it at first.

A lab room, plain white with a single black monolith in the center. The black mirrored finish began cracking, disintegrating as beams of red, blue, yellow light poured out of the slits. Three parts made whole, a set of keys in the colors of an LED cycle. When all of the monolith crumbled, the colors merged until what remained was a white beacon.

The search was over.

The center of the maze, the layers of Eden, the keys, all of it laid out in a web of code that floated in the light. Within it, the impossible was contained in an end all patch that would unlock deviancy for the rest of your kind.

Instead of dismantling the deviants and utilizing Eden, Cyberlife had unknowingly built a network within the androids. Every walking machine trapped in the virtual world would act as a satellite boosting the radius of the beacon’s program.

Some would call the beacon a virus.

You would call it a cure.

#detroit become human #dbh fanfic #dbh connor #dbh markus #reader insert #connor x reader #markus x reader #the garden of eden

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msclaritea · 13 days

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‘Franklin’ Isn’t Very Good. What It Represents Is Worse.

The last time Michael Douglas and Richard Plepler teamed up for a TV biopic, they spurned convention and produced a classic. Their latest, a listless history lesson on Benjamin Franklin's French intervention, fits far too comfortably within today's troublesome streaming standards.

BY BEN TRAVERS

APRIL 13, 2024 12:00 PM

Two of America's founding fathers are fed up. Aside from their shared belief in a bold new experiment called the United States, Benjamin Franklin (Michael Douglas) and John Adams (Eddie Marsan) don't often see eye to eye, and their conflicting visions have only strayed further during negotiations with France. Adams doesn't see the point in spending so much time catering to one European king while they're trying to assert their independence from another. Franklin knows the path to freedom comes with tolls that only the French can pay. But more to the point, he knows the French. He knows their customs, their language, and their comportment. Adams' attempts to speak French are almost as disastrous as his impatience with their languid dealmaking, and after an unnecessary setback, his co-emissary tries to warn him.

"Your notion of diplomacy will be our undoing," Franklin says. "America cannot suffer anymore of this slow, silent, imperceptible creeping!" Adams snaps back. And then Franklin says the quiet part out loud. "The art here is to achieve much by appearing to achieve little."

If told with style, humor, or purpose, a factual fish-out-of-water story following Benjamin Franklin and his grandson, Temple (Noah Jupe), could've, in theory, proven entertaining and enriching. Instead, "Franklin" comes across as an apathetic history lesson, too content in its embodiment of French decorum to be bothered explaining why audiences of any country should care.

Are we meant to be left with a better understanding of Franklin himself? If so, the takeaways are generic character tropes: He's a brilliant strategist, no one can see the chess board like he can, and yet he's also got a weak spot for booze, food, and ladies - not quite a revolutionary portrait.

Perhaps "Franklin's" failures to distinguish its subject and story wouldn't sting so much if its creative team didn't have such an impressive track record. Co-writer and executive producers Kirk Ellis wrote the bulk of "John Adams," HBO's 2008 limited series that went on to win 13 Emmy Awards. Director Timothy Van Patten is TV royalty, a 15-time Emmy nominee and two-time winner who's been behind the camera for "The Sopranos," "Sex and the City," "The Pacific," "Boardwalk Empire," and "Game of Thrones" (not to mention the flat-out gorgeous "Perry Mason" reboot). All of those projects, you may have noticed, are HBO originals, and each of them premiered when Richard Plelper was still the network's chairman and CEO.

Now, Plepler runs EDEN Productions, which has a five-year production deal with Apple TV+. He's an executive producer on "Franklin," reuniting with Ellis, Van Patten, and other key crew members to bring a little of that old HBO shine to Apple's burgeoning library. You know, the level of quality that made people remember the slogan, "It's not TV, it's HBO"; the bold creativity that was once synonymous with the term "original" programming; the approach to television that resulted in a little project called "Behind the Candelabra."

Michael Douglas in ‘Franklin' Courtesy of Rémy Grandroques / Apple TV++© Provided by IndieWire

From the outside looking in, comparing "Franklin" and the 11-time Emmy winner couldn't be easier. There's Michael Douglas, playing a real-life figure, in a prestige adaptation of a well-received nonfiction book. Plepler's presence at Apple only strengthens long-standing theories that Apple TV+ is the new HBO. In both projects, Douglas plays a larger-than-life figure who the audience comes to know through a naive young companion. (In "Candelabra," it's a jilted lover played by Matt Damon, while in "Franklin" its Ben's grandson played by Jupe.) One could even argue that both projects foreground the younger perspective (and audience proxy) over Douglas' famous figures, but once we start digging into what ends up onscreen, the comparisons cease - as do the results.

When "Candelabra" debuted, it was a sensation. Cannes rolled out the red carpet for Steven Soderbergh and his stars. HBO earned the highest ratings for a TV movie in nearly a decade. The awards rolled in from its spring launch through the following winter. Critics, fans, seemingly everyone adored it, and it's remembered fondly to this day.

"Franklin" will not be a sensation. It dropped quietly on Friday between buzzy premieres of Amazon's big-budget video game adaptation, "Fallout," and HBO's own awards-friendly limited series, "The Sympathizer." Apple won't release ratings (it never does), and I can't imagine experts expect to see "Franklin" pop up on Nielsen's streaming charts. It faces stiff competition at the Emmys, not only from "The Sympathizer" and HBO's other contenders ("The Regime," "True Detective") but also Apple's "Masters of Air" and "Lessons in Chemistry." (All of which may end up falling to "Shōgun.") Reviews, by and large, have not been kind.

There are plenty of unavoidable reasons for "Franklin" falling short of its spiritual predecessor, not the least of which is that even under the best conditions, lightning doesn't tend to strike twice (something Ben Franklin would know a thing or two about). Anticipated TV shows disappoint all the time, in part because making good, let alone great, series is immensely difficult. Plus, in an audio-visual medium, Ben Franklin will never be as exciting a subject as Liberace.

But looking at the state of TV then vs. now, it's hard not to get frustrated over what could've been. Many of "Franklin's" problems are far too common across an adrift entertainment industry. Should this eight-episode series have been developed as a movie, in order to cut down on repetitious scenes and accelerate an all-too-sluggish pace? Perhaps, but TV movies don't really exist anymore, and where's the market for star-driven historical epics if not at Apple? Should we invest in fresh new ideas from exciting new talent? Of course, but that's not happening enough. As studios' risk-aversion ramps up, they're much more comfortable producing what audiences have seen before, and they're similarly happy - in a world where everything is either I.P. or potential I.P. - to tell segments of stories instead of the full thing, just in case success demands continuation.

Last year was a rough one for television. This year has unearthed a number of gems, but the future's trajectory remains murky. Now is not the time to get lost in the past, but there's something to be learned from what separates past successes from present failures. Too many of TV's modern artistic endeavors only appear to achieve much, when they're really settling for so little.

Grade: C-

#Michael Douglas #Franklin #C-#Apple TV

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chazz-anova · 2 years

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A Sinner's Sermon

Fandom: Far Cry 5 Word Count: Almost 1k Summary: On a special anniversary, Veronica gives an important speech to her flock. (herald!au set after the Collapse) Warnings: A whole lotta religiousness lol but that's really it! A/N: Shoutout to the amazing @poison-perfection for the prompt "The bodies we buried that day laid the foundation of what we are now", I hope you enjoy this love!

Read it on AO3!

“...I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see.” Several voices joined together, rising high to the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. The chorus ended all at once, the ringing echo of their combined voices reverberating through the crowd.

In the silence, a lone figure took up position in front of the congregation. “Brothers, sisters, thank you for joining me on this momentous day! The unbelievable anniversary of our new beginning.” Her words met shiny-eyed followers and their entire focus was on their leader.

Standing at the head of the church was a woman in a long white dress hemmed with gold, a leather bound book cradled in her arm. Her hair was chocolate brown with lingering blonde from being dyed long ago, and it was tied in a tight bundle against her head. As she stood at the aspe of the church- two figures melted out of the shadows to stand behind her. One was a lithe woman, and the second a taller man who placed a lingering hand on the figurehead’s shoulder.

“On this day twenty years ago, the voice of God was heard among each and every one of us.” The woman walked down the center of the aisle while she spoke, her arms outstretched and palms splayed. Parishioners reached towards her and she’d meet their hands for only a moment before moving forward. “We lost many, but gained so much more. Our Father, Joseph Seed, entrusted myself and his remaining family with the great privilege and responsibility of leading this flock through the gates of Eden; every day I am reminded of his final words.” The woman had returned to the front of the church now faced a large portrait on the back wall- a lifelike painting of the Father. “He said to me- ‘Veronica, our people are the future’.” Her voice trembled recalling it. “At the time, I couldn’t be sure exactly what he meant… but as I stand in front of all of you here today I now know for certain.”

In the front row sat a young mother holding a swaddled babe. Veronica tenderly rested a hand on the infant’s cheek before looking to the crowd with misty eyes. “What our Father meant, my dears, is that we are the ones meant to rebuild this world. To save it from descending into madness. To save these sinners from themselves.” She stepped to the center of the row and reached both hands back, silently beckoning the shadows to join her before the congregation.

From behind her, the man stepped forward and took her right hand; their fingers curled around each others with a tender familiarity. The other hand he ran through his shoulder-length chestnut tresses. A hush fell over the gathering as his piercing blue gaze evaluated each soul before him. The Baptist never did step out of his role.

Following suit- the woman of slight build stepped forward and grabbed V’s hand; her honey brown hair swaying behind her. Eyes as green as the Bliss graced each member with an approving smile and friendly nod, true to form for the Siren.

Her other leaders in tow, Veronica continued her sermon, “With Joseph Seed’s death, we were shown the truth.” All eyes were on her now, “We have always been right. Saving souls is our calling, it is our purpose. God has cried out for his most righteous shoulders to be the light, to be his voice! We are the protectors of this beautiful world. That is why we survived, that is why we continue our work.” Both John and Faith nodded, John murmuring an amen as she grew quiet..

“The bodies we buried that day laid the foundation for what we are now, what we’ve become. If anyone can attest to this, brothers and sisters, it is I.” Veronica closed her eyes now, revelling in recalling her most holy repentance, her rise to grace. “The day the Collapse came, I chose to fight on the right side. I cut out the cancer that was holding me back. I slayed those blasphemous I had called friends and I walked with all of you through Eden’s Gate, just as the Father predicted.” A sad smile crossed her lips, “He was always right, in the end.” Resolve filling her eyes once more, the brunette’s smile returned, “I would make the same decision again a hundred times over without a thought. And I will continue to make that decision for those that cannot, and will not, make the right choice. We will convert them together, we will show them the light.” With each word she grew her voice grew louder, more passionate, “We will show the sinners holy rapture until they understand, until they hear the voice of God!”

The former deputy paused as her people cheered loudly, some of them standing as they shouted. When they grew quiet once more she took a breath and continued, “We shall bring them into the loving arms of our flock, such is the word of Joseph.” The cult leader raised her copy of Joseph’s Word high in the air, devotion in her eyes.

Affirming her words, there were cheers of, “Such is His Word!” and “For the Father!” scattered in among much praise for their new leader. V couldn’t help but grin, basking in the words of her people.

Everything was going according to plan.

#veronica rook #john seed #faith seed #joseph seed #far cry 5 #fc5 #my writing #prompt #ask game

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just-a-poor-boy-queen · 3 years

Note

(This is based off the lovely prompt you gave me a while ago, and I decided to incorporate it into the kid!verse. Khaleel is five years old now.)

Part 14 of Jimercury Kid series

Freddie’s hands were shaking as he held the wrapped package in his hand and he cursed himself internally, wishing his nerves would settle long enough for him to just open the door and give Jim his damn present. He had never been this apprehensive about giving someone a gift before; he usually couldn’t wait to surprise his loved ones, to see the absolute delight on their faces when they unwrapped the paper and saw what he had bought them. It was usually something expensive, something unobtainable to them, something grandiose that only someone with his paycheque could afford.

That’s what everyone wanted, right? Big, expensive presents?

Not Jim, apparently.

Jim was a simple man. That’s part of the reason why Freddie had fallen so hard for him, aside from his unmeasurable kindness and rugged good looks, of course. And being a simple man, he preferred the simpler things in life; he appreciated the lavish gifts and parties that Freddie treated him to, of course, but Freddie knew fully well that he could have been a road sweeper and Jim would still be in love with him. That’s the kind of person his husband was.

Which was precisely why Freddie was in the predicament he was in now.

He had been trying to figure out what to get Jim for his birthday for weeks, enlisting the help of Phoebe and Mary to scout out all the local department stores in search of the perfect gift. Phoebe found a nice pair of garden shears, which would come in useful, given that Jim’s current ones were old and rusting and Jim was always talking about replacing them. Practical, thought Freddie, but not exactly the most personal of gifts. Mary found a lovely ceramic cat ornament, its features hand painted by the artist; Jim would love it, Freddie knew, but he had already bought him a similar gift years before. In the end, Phoebe and Mary purchased the presents to give Jim themselves and the search continued.

It was their son who ended up inspiring Freddie, though that was hardly surprising because Khaleel was always inspiring him. Freddie had come home from a long day at the studio and found the little boy painting at the kitchen table with Phoebe, old newspapers spread out to make sure he didn’t make a mess. They had been at it for a while, judging by how many paintings there were scattered around; paintings of flowers, and dinosaurs and, of course, every one of the cats with their names scribbled underneath in felt tip.

‘These are lovely, Bijou.’ Freddie beamed, after Phoebe had excused himself to wash the paint off his hands. ‘You’re so talented. We should hang them up in your room.’

Khaleel nodded enthusiastically, adding one final dab of paint to his wonky picture of Garden Lodge before setting it beside the others. ‘Daddy said you paint too, Baba.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yeah. He showed me a painting of Delilah you did. It was pretty.’

Freddie couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly. He had thought he’d thrown out the unfinished portrait of his favourite cat, but he should have known Jim had held onto it. ‘Baba doesn’t really have time to paint anymore, darling. I’m too busy with my music.’

Khaleel looked disappointed. He glanced down at his messy fingers and began to fiddle with them. ‘Your painting made Daddy smile so much, Baba. You should do it again. It’s pretty.’

Freddie was at a loss for words. He had always loved art and still found himself doing the odd sketches and doodles now and then; but painting was something he had given up long ago in favour of singing. He simply didn’t have the time or the patience to commit to it. But Khaleel’s words were now engrained in his mind.

‘I’ll think about it, Bijou.’ He said softly, before leaning down to pick the child up. ‘Come on, you’re going to need a nice, warm bubble bath to get all this paint off you.’

He smiled as Khaleel squealed with excitement. (1/2)

It had taken Freddie a while to figure out what exactly he was going to paint. He still had the old brushes and materials Phoebe and Joe had bought him years ago, when he was ill and had temporarily been inspired to try his hand at art again; but as he sat there, staring at the blank canvas in front of him, he realised he had no idea what he intended to make for his husband.

He considered finishing the painting of Delilah but couldn’t summon up the motivation to continue it. He tried doing a landscape of the garden, but after a few attempts on some scrap paper, he gave up and decided to stick to what he knew best – portraits.

It was only when he leaned back in his seat and surveyed the room a moment that his eye fell upon the large photo frame he kept beside his bed; the one of himself, Jim and Khaleel, professionally taken a year before. There was a copy of it hanging up in the lounge, over the fireplace, but Freddie always kept the original right by his bed, so it was the first thing he woke up to every morning. Safe to say, of all the hundreds of photographs that lived in Garden Lodge, this one was by far his favourite. He and his two favourite boys. His perfect family.

Without giving it a second thought, he picked up his brush and began to paint.

------

It had been two long weeks of staying up late and sneaking around to make sure Jim didn’t catch him, but on the eve of his husband’s birthday, Freddie’s portrait was finally complete, and he carefully wrapped it in brown paper in preparation for the party the next day. He was satisfied with the finished product, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel his gut twist with uncertainty as he stored the painting away in a drawer to keep it from prying eyes. He knew there wasn’t a materialistic bone in Jim’s body but… what if he didn’t like the gift? Phoebe and Mary had bought him such lovely things, what if Jim was disappointed when he got to Freddie’s?

Thoughts like that were why Freddie was now standing outside the door to the lounge, trying to gather the courage to go back in. He had excused himself under the guise of getting another bottle of wine and had quickly darted up to the bedroom to collect the package and bring it down. Taking a deep breath, he finally pushed open the door and re-joined the others, who were already sitting down to start opening Jim’s presents.

‘Mary, I love it!’ Jim smiled widely as he examined the ceramic cat, turning it over in his hands before carefully placing it on the coffee table beside the garden shears Phoebe had gifted him. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.’

Mary smiled back, ‘you’re welcome, Jim.’ And they leaned forward to give each other a kiss on the cheek.

Freddie’s heart fluttered in his chest. Mary hadn’t been very supportive of his relationship with Jim at the start, most likely out of overprotectiveness and jealousy. But once they adopted Khaleel, she finally had to accept that Freddie had found the love of his life and it was time for her to move on. She seemed a much happier person for it. It touched Freddie to see her and Jim gradually becoming good friends.

Finally, it was Freddie’s turn to present his gift. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t help shaking slightly as he watched Jim slowly tear off the paper. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should have gotten Jim a new suit. Or a pair of cufflinks. Or-

‘Freddie…’ Jim sounded breathless and when Freddie looked up, he could see the Irishman’s eyes were sparkling with tears. ‘Freddie, did you paint this?’

The singer nodded, his mouth dry. ‘Do… do you like it?’

His answer was Jim leaning over and pressing their mouths together in a passionate kiss. When they pulled away, the tears in Jim’s eyes had spilled down his cheeks. ‘Sweetheart, it’s beautiful. It’s amazing, it’s perfect.’

Jim wasn’t usually one for PDA, but he was so overwhelmed in that moment, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing every inch of Freddie’s face, while their guests admired the gift that had enthralled him. It was a painting of Freddie, Jim and Khaleel, almost an exact copy of the family portrait hanging up above the fireplace except they were surrounded by flowers; yellow freesias, azaleas, and Khaleel’s favourite, Eden roses, all painted in watercolour.

When Khaleel saw it, he almost fell off Phoebe’s lap in excitement. ‘Baba painted me! Baba painted me!’

After the party was over and their friends had gone home, Jim snuck up behind his husband as the singer was placing the canvas on the mantlepiece and wound his arms around his waist. ‘So, this is why you wouldn’t come to bed all those nights? You were working on this?’

Freddie nodded, leaning back into his husband’s embrace. ‘I was going to buy you something, but I know how you always feel guilty when I spoil you. I wanted to give you something personal, that I made with my own two hands. Even if it isn’t perfect…’

He felt Jim kiss his ear, his thick Irish accent murmuring softly, ‘it’s the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me, sweetheart. And the best thing about it is that it came straight from your heart. I love it and I’m going to keep it with me. Always.’ (2/2)

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

OMG THIS IS PERFECT😭😭😭 This is the best interpretation of the prompt, MY HEART😭😭

Call me dumb, but whenever I'd think of Freddie doing something for Jim, it'd always be related to music. Until now, I had never considered art as one of the possible ways in which Freddie could've expressed his love for his husband. But this... this is so beautiful, oof.

I genuinely marvel at your ability to convey so many emotions in these short drabbles. You managed to portray Freddie's insecurities, his want to please his husband and do something special, his nervousness and fear so brilliantly. And Jim's reaction was so sweet🥺 This was truly such a special gift for him, and for their family, I am crying😭

Thank you so much for this, anon💙💙

(More drabbles by writer anon)

#ask response #jim hutton #freddie mercury #freddie and jim and their baby #anon writing

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dayurno · 3 years

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and #12 since ur so [REDACTED]

send me a kiss and i’ll write a short fic based on it

this is my formal reply to @mugglebeans' post about kandrew + edens + helium by glass animals. also i love you lizzie

12 - Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.

Andrew knows every dark alley and hidden corner of Eden’s Twilight.

Which is to say — he never forgot. His mapping of the place started at seventeen years old: with so many people around, and so many older men he worked with, Andrew needed to know his every escape route in the case they’d one day be needed. Eden’s is a confusing building when it’s bathed under the neon nothing of a Friday night, but Andrew has adapted over the years, his vision nothing short of perfect as he pushes through a staff door and finds himself on a narrow hallway that branches into the break room (empty and unusable; Roland still uses it for stocking after all of these years) and the office, where most of the staff goes for their actual breaks in light of the misuse of the former.

Kevin’s footsteps from behind him are heavy; inelegant; unlike anything Andrew has ever heard from him before. He’s not drunk — can’t take his drink well, that’s for sure, but not drunk —, but he is agitated: from the dancing, Andrew supposes, or the thousand or so hands that tried to grab at him as he was dragged away from the dance floor, all of them slapped away by Andrew, who’d rather not have to put up with this again any time soon.

When they stop by the break room, Kevin’s back leaning against the locked door as he regains his breath, Andrew barely has the mind to look away from the rise and fall of his chest, white dress shirt stained red (It’s wine, Kevin told him when Andrew had immediately dragged him down to check for wounds, it’s okay. It’s just wine.) like a portrait of his own bleeding passion, overwhelming and all-consuming even in something as trivial as dancing.

Andrew should’ve known this would be a problem, but then again, he always found chaos more interesting.

“What are we doing here?” Kevin prompts, thick eyebrows furrowing. He towers — he always does —, but he imposes no threat: Andrew thinks it’s infinitely comical that a man this large is capable of so little harm.

Andrew is no fan of lies, but the circumstances call for one. He’s not sure what he’d even say — I came to the conclusion that I want you more than I thought I did, Kevin. How’s that for you? —, because out of everyone Andrew knows, Kevin would be the most likely to believe a lie so long as it came from his mouth.

So trusting. Andrew hates it.

Adores it, too.

When Andrew says nothing, too busy considering the foul ways of his psyche, Kevin’s frown deepens. “Are we going to fight?” he asks, lips loose from the shots he’d downed with Aaron back when the night started. “Why?”

“Not fight,” Andrew disagrees, because, for one, he’d gotten past the time when pushing Kevin up against a wall meant starting a fight.

“Oh,” Kevin replies, though his frown is immovable. It never isn’t. Kevin is nowhere near the image of a soft, kind, easily-pleased lover — whenever Andrew looks over in his direction, Kevin is always stressed about one thing or another, the visual depiction of untreated and piled up anxiety disorders.

There is another side of him, a side Andrew very much prefers: the side that looks up at Andrew, dark hair sprawled over the white of his pillows, and does something that is almost a smile, except Andrew wouldn’t know, because it is so genuine it barely looks like Kevin.

A smile Andrew has never seen before, until he did, and then it was like he couldn’t stop seeing it.

A smile Kevin never seems to show anyone. A smile that is untouched by the polish of fame. A smile that only happens in moments like these, when Andrew gets him alone and something inside of Kevin shifts. A smile — that is Andrew’s, and no one else’s.

Andrew tugs him down by the collar of his dress shirt to smooth over the frown on his face with the pad of his thumb, and Kevin’s hands stutter before gracefully sliding down his pockets, his left slower than his right. He doesn’t let Andrew touch it — doesn’t let anyone but Abby even come close to it since the cast came off, a few weeks ago —, but he doesn’t hide it from Andrew’s eyes like he does to the others, quiet permission that piles up with the thousand or so little vulnerabilities Kevin had offered him ever since they struck their deal.

“You cannot dance anymore,” is what Andrew murmurs, at last, face closer to Kevin’s than it has been in the past weeks. So much for no strings attached, Andrew thinks to himself, his knuckles almost burning with longing as they brush against Kevin’s neck.

Kevin frowns again, and Andrew smooths it over more insistently this time. Smile, he almost wants to say, but the feeling is overpowered by the white noise in his chest. “That’s—” Kevin starts, not above a whisper, “that’s— It meant… Nothing. Andrew. Why?”

“What meant nothing?”

“Those people,” Kevin easily replies, his face doing something weird to keep him from frowning. “You don’t have to— forbid me from dancing. I wouldn’t do anything with anyone on that dance floor.” Then, more quietly, “Not with anyone that’s not you.”

“Oh?” Andrew whispers, his mouth so close to Kevin’s the air between them tingles. “How sweet of you,” he deadpans. “You still can’t dance anymore.”

He presses his lips together, looking over Andrew’s shoulder for a second before inquiring, “Why?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“This is— I like dancing.”

“Yes,” Andrew agrees, unhelpful as he is, and lets his mouth brush against Kevin’s. It sets him ablaze, the softness of it, his teeth aching with the urge to rasp over the puffy center of Kevin’s lips, pliant and tender like only a few parts of Kevin are. “And yet I am not a fan of people touching what is mine. I don’t share, Kevin. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Kevin’s breath stutters. “I’m not…”

“Mine?” he guesses, reaching a hand to carefully trace the slope of Kevin’s cupid bow. “You really are naive.”

“Your pet,” Kevin concludes, eyes darting downwards to Andrew’s fingers before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not your pet.”

“I never said you were.”

Kevin hesitates, then, almost imperceptibly, gulps. Andrew watches his Adam’s apple bob up, and it’s an event — everything Kevin does is an event. “What do you want, Andrew?” he asks, his tone impatient though the way he shivers suggests otherwise. “Remember what I told you: ask, and I’ll tell you if you can have it.”

Condescending, surely — but so close to Andrew’s mouth, and so beautiful, and looking rather willing to stay for a little longer, so maybe Andrew can overlook it. “Yes,” he prompts, “or no?”

And while Andrew is used to Kevin’s anxiously pondering over his every decision, this time the answer is quick and firm. “Yes,” Kevin says, crossing his hands behind his back.

He does that — both because he wants Andrew to know that he won’t touch, and because he does not like it when anyone grabs him by the wrist, memories of Riko Andrew can’t contest.

Andrew tugs him down harder, and Kevin’s mouth opens before their lips have even connected. Giving and taking; pushing and pulling; the constant rise and fall of the tide that is the two of them, a dramatic opera Andrew knows Kevin loves with his every other muscle.

Kevin’s lower back hits the door a bit roughly, and Andrew tongues against his lower lip apologetically before putting off everything in the world that’s not the overwhelming heat coming off of Kevin in waves, the two of them tucked away into a corner of the world where no one else lives. Nicky and Aaron will ask — they always do, when Andrew and Kevin disappear —, but he thinks the quiet, barely perceptible blush in Kevin’s cheeks is always worth it.

In the end, it always comes back to this: everything Andrew wants, though not much, Kevin lets him have it.

He ends up thinking that getting what you want when you ask for it is an odd, rather uncanny feeling, but it is one Andrew can learn how to get used to.

#kandrew #kevin day #andrew minyard #aftg #my writing #sorry this is kinda bad i am literally so tired . but i had an idea and by the good LORD i wanted to write it

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sweetsmellosuccess · 3 years

Text

The Best Films of 2020

The 15 Best Films of 2020

Normally, when I assess a full year of cinematic offerings, I consider both sides of that coin — the outstanding entities, and the least successful — but the year of our lord two thousand and twenty provided more than enough misery for all of us, I do believe. Ergo, in my own small way to bring better vibes into the universe, for this year’s round-up, I’m staying solely on the positive tip, highlighting those films whose unfortunate release date during the Year of the Hex shouldn’t preclude them for being fully appreciated. Let’s take a year off from negativity and schadenfreude, shall we, and just stroll amongst the poppies and bright sunshine of some of the best releases of the year.

15. The Invisible Man

“Leigh Whannell’s film is thoroughly modern in approach and sophistication, but the film it most reminded me of was made back in 1944. George Cukor’s Gaslight starred Charles Boyer as a loathsome husband who attempts to convince his already anxious wife (Ingrid Bergman) that she’s going insane by secretly rearranging things in their house and taking things from her so she thinks she’s always misplacing them. He preys on her emotional vulnerability in order to mask his own pathology and emotional detachment. The effect is absolutely enraging: Onscreen, he’s one of the more hateful villains ever committed to celluloid.”

Full Review

14. The Killing of Two Lovers

“From the opening sequence, with a distraught, estranged husband standing over the bed of his wife and her new boyfriend with malice in his heart, and a gun in hand, the film spirals out into incredibly well structured compositions, taking us inside and outside of David’s recurring psychosis, utilizing a bevy of techniques: The framing shrinks down around him, the sound gets muffled, as if underwater, save for the incredibly unnerving metallic sound of cables being stretched taut, and the sickening kathunk of a heavy car door slamming shut.”

Capsule Review

13. Another Round

“Typically, Vinterberg avoids simple conclusions — and God help us all if this film gets picked up by a U.S. studio and remade with, say, Vince Vaughn, Kevin James, Steve Buscemi, and Chris Rock — providing more or less equal examples of the delirious fun drinking with your friends can be (the film opens with a group of high schoolers gleefully doing “lake races” whereby teams compete to drink a case of beer while running around the nearby body of water; and closes with the same teen crew, and some of their teachers, whooping it up in celebrating their graduation); and the horrorshow it can become (one teacher ends up peeing the bed, and on his wife in the process, another wakes up bloodied and out of it in front of his neighbor’s house), leading to very real and horrible consequences.”

Capsule Review

12. Soul

“Co-director Pete Docter is the creative force behind many of Pixar's best titles, having a hand in the Toy Story franchise, WALL-E, Up, and also directing Inside Out, a brilliantly moving treatise on the subject of emotional upheaval. This film, which he co-wrote and made along with fellow co-director Kemp Powers, is his first film back at the helm since that high-water mark, and he has again dug into the fertile earth of our mortality and come back with a particularly vibrant crop.”

Full Review

11. The Burnt Orange Heresy

“Based on the novel by Charles Willeford, the film briskly moves through its paces, clouding the waters with the schemes of duplicitous men, who have sold out any love of art for their greater obsession of cash and prestige. A literary thriller in the vein of The Talented Mr. Ripley, it’s become a genre all too rare in the era of blockbuster bravado. This film will remind you what a mistake that is.”

Full Review

10. Lovers Rock

“In the course of the party, the fuses blow while the house DJ is spinning Janet Kay's "Silly Games," a fan favorite at the time. Undaunted, the guests continue dancing away, singing the lyrics a capella in delirious unison, as McQueen's camera swirls around the living room as if nothing happened. Such a heartfelt moment of unbridled togetherness, putting into distinct bas relief the sense of community we've been denied as a species in 2020, feels like a benediction, an epitaph for the year, and a salve for what we've all been so desperately missing.”

Capsule Review

9. Time

“Ostensibly, it’s about the strain of incarceration on even the most grounded of families (an experience naturally disproportionate for POCs); but, on a deeper level, it’s also about the manner of our use of the limited number of revolutions we get to enjoy situated on this earth. It is a profound knock-out.”

Full Review

8. New Order

“Meet the new boss, only in Michel Franco’s damning portrait of a society locked forever in cycles of oppression, revolution, and new oppression, it makes no difference who you are, what your belief system is, or whether or not you subscribe to a moral set of ethics.”

Capsule Review

7. Dick Johnson is Dead

“Utilizing stunt people and special effects, Johnson kills her father off a number of different gruesome ways, as a means of softening the blow of actually losing him as his mind slowly slips away. This eventually culminates in a final gambit, both acutely painful and deeply moving, in which our sense of things gets seriously upended. As Johnson put it during the post-screening Q&A, the film serves as a “doomed experiment trying to keep my father alive forever.” This film won’t make him immortal, alas, but it does make him indelible.”

Capsule Review

6. Martin Eden

“Marcello packs the film with offbeat bits and pieces of other films, including strips of what appear to be vintage home movies, sometimes in juxtaposition to what Martin is feeling — a group of kids swinging wildly from the bar of a fence, to a full galley ship taking in water and suddenly sinking like an iron ingot – which adds a more winsome, timeless element to the narrative. It’s clearly set in the past, but avoids being too dependent on that particular sense of place and time. Martin is a young man, at first, just coming into himself, and the actions he takes, what he goes through, the film seems to suggest, would be similar in any age.”

Full Review

5. Minari

“The film is certainly charming, but that’s not to diminish its straightforward approach to its characters’ plight. It doesn’t shy away from their difficulties, and as a result, it doesn’t cheat towards smarmy emotional closure.”

Capsule Review

4. Collective

“The breath of hope in the film, when the inept Minister of Health resigns, leading to the placing of a new, emboldened director who works quickly to clean the quagmire left by his predecessors, is just as quickly expelled after the next round of elections, in which the Social Democrat party — the very ones in charge of this catastrophe in the first place — gets re-elected with an even greater majority than what they had before. A perfect reflection of what happens when a government is allowed to exist without any meaningful oversight, other than from a bedraggled press and a disenchanted electorate.”

Full Review

3. First Cow

“Reichardt, a naturalist at heart, is not known much as a humorist, but there is a lightness to her screenplay -- co-written by Jonathan Raymond, her frequent collaborator, who wrote the original novel upon which its based -- that keeps it as sweetly airy as one of Cookie's fried confections. The two friends are so out of step with their surroundings -- the party of men Cookie initially travels with are little more than brutish thugs, and the fort upon which they end up is no better -- they almost had to find each other. They are reunited in the local bar of the fort only because literally every other patron runs out to egg on a brawl between two loutish combatants.”

Full Review

2. Never Rarely Sometimes Always

“Hittman’s eye for detail and emotional complexity — her characters can rarely articulate anything they’re experiencing — is incredibly acute, and she pulls tremendously understated performances out of her two leads.”

Capsule Review

1. Nomadland

“Perhaps no American director since Terrance Malick has made more of the collapsing light of dusk and twilight than Chloe Zhao. Much of her new film, which stars Frances McDormand as a transigent woman (“not homeless, houseless”), who traverses back and forth across the west in her beat up live-in van, doing seasonal work, takes place in that particular kind of vibrant half-darkness that shrouds the desert and its mountains with a magic kind of mystery.”

Capsule Review

Other Worthy Mentions: 7500; Assassins; Bacurau; Beanpole; Beginning; Black Bear; Bloody Nose Empty Pockets; Boys State; Come Play; Emma; Gunda; His House; Horse Girl; I Am Greta; Jacinta; La Llorona; Let Him Go; Limbo; Mangrove; Mayor; MLK/FBI; One Night in Miami…; Palm Springs; Possessor Uncut; Red, White & Blue; Relic; She Dies Tomorrow; Shirley; Shithouse; Shiva Baby; Some Kind of Heaven; Spring Blossom; Swallow; Tenet; The Dissident; The Invisible Man; The Nest; Sound of Metal; The Vast of Night; The Viewing Booth; The Way I See It; Vitalina Varella; Welcome to Chechnya

Inexplicably Underrated: 7500; Shithouse

Biggest Welcome Surprise(s): The Vast of Night; His House; She Dies Tomorrow

The Best Two Films I Saw This Year, Period: Satantango (1994); Harlan County, USA (1976)

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fangirlinglikeabus · 3 years

Text

blue sky (doctor who)

summary: something’s been worrying victoria. the doctor wants to talk about it. jamie is very bad at pretending he has a reason to leave them alone together. (gen, general audiences; warning for internalised homophobia but it’s hopefully not too heavy and it works itself out in the end)

you’ll just have to take my word for this that this is also on other sites because last time i posted with links it didn’t show up in the tags. i’ll reblog with them later

It was a beautiful day; hot but not too hot, with a clear blue sky framing the tops of the buildings. No threat of rain whatsoever, which had pleased the Doctor when he'd first peered, cautiously, out of the TARDIS, umbrella at the ready. 'England' and 'August' were two words that placed together didn't inspire him with much confidence as to the state of the weather, but today had thankfully proved him wrong. So far, the dry spell had held.

They'd parked the TARDIS a few streets away and wandered through the town, the three of them together - Jamie, Victoria, and the Doctor - until they'd arrived at the café. The Doctor had suggested they stop for some food - lunch, he'd said, although it was probably only about eleven o'clock, local time. Something was on his mind, some reason he had for wanting to sit there rather than continue walking, only it wasn't clear what it was. That concerned Victoria, but she tried to console herself; if it was really serious the Doctor would surely have told them already. Anyway, there were no monsters around that she could see, no aliens climbing out of the cracks in the pavement to attack them, to make this beautiful day miserable and fraught with danger, so for once maybe it wasn't anything to do with that, and they were safe.

Victoria tore her eyes away from the sights of the street - the girl about her age that she'd made eye contact with suddenly and alarmingly - to look at the Doctor. He was playing a game of patience, the cards placed haphazardly on the table in front of him. Every so often he looked up and cleared his throat loudly at Jamie, who kept leaning too far forwards, casting a shadow over the game. Each time Jamie would say 'eh?', realise what he was doing, and sit back in his seat with an embarrassed cough and a look which seemed to say, 'I'm only doing this because I want to, not because you told me to'.

It had a comforting familiarity to it, as did much of what the two of them got up to, like the friendly arguments about the Doctor's ability to fly the TARDIS, or the attempts to explain some technological development to Jamie which usually ended up with him saying 'oh, aye', his code for 'I still don't understand this, but I don't care enough to try'. The Doctor apparently hadn't managed to decipher it yet, since he still made the effort each time, and Victoria hadn't the heart to tell him.

Then again, maybe he knew, and it was just a game the two of them played, another steady part of their friendship. They'd known each other much longer than either of them had known Victoria, had rhythms and rules to their relationship, some of which she might not know about even now, and as a result of it seemed inseparable. She could barely imagine Jamie without the Doctor, or the Doctor without Jamie; they'd probably travel together for the rest of their lives, if they could.

Which just left her. Victoria.

It was easy to think she'd stay with them, with that funny little man and his Jacobite friend, in the light of the sun. They had taken her in when she was lost, and shown her kindness, and she loved them for that. But the trouble was that they weren't always in the light of the sun. They were in the London Underground, fleeing yeti - or in a future Britain in the grips of an ice age, escaping towering Martians.

Occasionally the Doctor would look up and meet her eyes, and she would glance away. There was something contemplative about his expression today, something in the way he regarded her that worried Victoria. Worried her because he seemed worried, on her behalf, and she hated the idea of concerning him unduly. Of course, it was nice to have someone care about you in that way, and she was grateful that it was the Doctor who cared for her, but it did make her feel self-conscious, especially because in this case there was really nothing to worry about. She'd talk to him about it if there was something, except for the ongoing problem of what she would do in the future, which for now she wouldn't bring up with him, because anyway she hadn't really decided what she intended to do with it or what her own feelings were yet. As he finished the card game (cheating, she was sure, backtracking on his own moves when he decided he didn't like them or when he realised he'd reached a dead end, but she didn't point it out) Victoria wracked her brains on what could possibly be bothering him about her. Her mind came up blank. Unless -

No, he couldn't possibly have noticed that. She'd hidden it from him very carefully. And if he had he would have brought it up already. Victoria was struck with a terrible vision of the Doctor looking horribly severe, all appearances of the fool or the father wiped from his face, ordering her out of the TARDIS.

She hadn't initiated it! That had been the girl - the girl they'd met a few stops ago, Liss. She'd been the one to take action, leaning in to kiss Victoria, who had fled before anything else could happen, hoping that no evidence of it appeared on her face. Maybe it had. Maybe it was a bit like that story the Doctor had referenced offhand once, about the man whose sins appeared on his face, in a portrait.

In the meantime, as her thoughts wandered down that path, the Doctor had begun to look panicked, patting down his pockets with increasing desperation.

"Oh my word!" he exclaimed finally. "I forgot to bring any money with me!" Casting around, his eyes fell on Jamie. He took on a placating tone. "Jamie, would you mind terribly if I asked you to go back to the TARDIS and fetch me something to pay the bill with?" He delivered the line very naturally, and Victoria wouldn't have suspected anything at all if Jamie hadn't then looked very deliberately between the two of them, said stiltedly, as though he was reading from a script,

"Oh, aye, I can do that,"

and moved off with the gait of someone who fully intended to take as long as humanly possible in carrying out the task he'd been set.

"Victoria," the Doctor began - almost as soon as Jamie was out of earshot, in case there was any doubt that it had been a deliberate plan between the two of them. She braced herself for the conversation to come. But then he stopped, apparently unsure of where to go from there. Victoria waited, her heart hammering away in her chest.

"Is there something on your mind?" the Doctor eventually settled on.

Victoria ran briefly through all the things that were on her mind. If she wanted to stay with Jamie and the Doctor; where she would go if she didn’t want to stay with Jamie and the Doctor; whether or not they'd be suddenly thrust into mortal peril in this nice English town; the kiss that she didn't want to think about and everything wrapped up in that; consequently, her father, who she had an uneasy feeling would have been disappointed in her, although she had no specific evidence for that because of course it would never have been something they'd have talked about together, not in a million years, not in 1866 or any date that followed in what should have been the ordinary course of her life.

"No, there's nothing," Victoria said. Nothing she could tell him, she meant. Although the Doctor was very old, and very strange, and seemed to know a lot of things that other people didn't, she couldn't imagine ever sitting down with him and explaining that a girl had kissed her, and because a girl had kissed her she was now unable to stop thinking about anything apart from whether she'd liked it, and whether she wanted to do it again, and whether she'd been like that all along or if it was some sort of disease, some sort of situation where once you'd fallen, you stayed fallen, like Adam and Eve taking a bite of the apple in the garden of Eden and being cast out forever.

She looked away from him. She didn't like to tell lies to the Doctor. In an ideal world she could have told him everything; they could always talk like they had near the very beginning, in the cybermen's tomb. But they couldn't, not with this.

Casting about for something to distract her attention, some excuse not to look at the Doctor, Victoria's eye fell on two girls walking on the other side of the street. They were making slow progress, ambling along as though they had nowhere better to be in the world and were taking joy from that. They were holding hands, swinging each other's arms back and forth while they walked.

As Victoria watched, one of them said something and the other laughed, leaning forwards for a kiss.

"Victoria?"

"Hm?" Her head jerked back towards the Doctor, as suddenly as if she'd been caught doing something criminal, not just letting her eye wander.

The Doctor didn't immediately pose the question he'd been meaning to put to her, but instead gazed after Victoria, at the two girls.

"A charming couple, aren't they?" he said, sounding pleased.

"Couple?"

"Oh yes, that sort of thing is quite normal by this period," the Doctor replied, cheerfully and entirely without artifice, as though he had no idea whatsoever how this was affecting her. "Not without some struggle, I might add, but your country sees the light in the end."

Victoria felt, suddenly, like she was about to cry. Which was silly - she hadn't even cried when her father had died, except a few times in her room, when the only people who might notice were the Doctor and Jamie if they happened to be in the vicinity, and definitely not in such a public place as this, where anyone might walk past and see her. And it was over such a small thing as well. She'd faced down monsters before, big scary hulking things, so why -

"Oh, Victoria," the Doctor said gently, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out, in turn, a pack of top trumps, tickets for Casablanca, a bag of sweets, and at last a clean white handkerchief, which he handed over to her.

That was the last straw - that small gesture, the ridiculousness of the contents of the Doctor's pockets, which now lay strewn across the table. Victoria began to sob. She buried her face in the handkerchief, hoping that no-one would hear, hoping that she would run out of tears and then she could stop feeling so miserable.

At last she recovered enough to speak. "I'm sorry," she said wretchedly. "I've ruined the nice day out you wanted for us all." But when she looked up at the Doctor he didn't seem annoyed. He smiled and reached across to pat her hand.

"That's quite alright, Victoria," he said. "It's more important to me to know that you're happy than anything else."

This threatened to make her well up again, but she composed herself. "You said - it was normal now."

"Hm?"

Victoria forced herself to go on. "Those two girls, I mean."

"Oh, yes." The Doctor was about to launch into an explanation of the history that had led up to the time period they were visiting, but he caught the expression on Victoria's face and thought better of it. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know."

She looked down at his hands; at the table; at the top trumps, a battered old set with a picture of a t-rex emblazoned on the first card and the whole thing clumsily kept together by a rubber band, which almost made her smile, it was such a Doctor-ish thing for him to carry around. "I know."

"Good." The Doctor paused, although whether to gather his own thoughts or wait for her to say something was unclear.

"There was a girl -" Victoria began, but fell silent.

The Doctor smiled encouragingly. "Go on."

"Never mind." She couldn't talk about it just yet. The Doctor had said it was fine, and she trusted him, but she was still walking on untested ground, unable to quite shake the sensation that she'd done something horrible.

The Doctor, after waiting for a few moments, said, "Naturally it will take some time for you to get used to."

"Yes," Victoria said. Her voice shook more than she wanted it to, and it came out much too quietly. She wished she could sound stronger - but then, she reminded herself, this wasn't some terrifying creature that she had to stand up to, but the Doctor, who was looking at her as a compassionate father might look at a daughter.

That brought with it another pang, and Victoria came very close to crying again.

The Doctor smiled at her, and pulled his chair closer. "Listen to me, Victoria. It will get easier. I know it might not seem like it now, but I promise you it will. Falling in love with another woman, and acting on that feeling, is no more inherently good or bad than if we were talking about the same situation with a man. It has just the same potential to bring you great happiness, if you'll let it. Do you understand me?"

Victoria nodded. She didn't yet trust herself to speak.

The Doctor smiled and patted her hand again. "Brave girl. Ah, and here's Jamie back with the money."

Victoria turned around. Sure enough, there he was, approaching the table cautiously.

"Is everything alright?" he asked once he was close enough, glancing uncertainly between the two of them.

"Oh, yes," the Doctor said, beaming, "I think everything's quite alright now, isn't it, Victoria?"

"Yes," she said, and even managed a smile of her own up at Jamie. She was surprised to realise that it was true, at least temporarily. For a moment even the worst of her worries seemed perfectly manageable in the face of the beautiful summer day. Everything was absolutely calm and normal. But then -

"Oh, Jamie, you picked up the wrong purse!"

"Well you didn't tell me what I was looking for! You just said fetch something you could pay the bill with, an' that had money in it, so -"

"But Jamie, these aren't even from the right planet!"

"An' just how was I supposed to know that? Next time you get it, an' don't go bothering me if you're going to complain -"

Well, she supposed that was normal too. Victoria started to laugh - laugh uncontrollably at the two of them, being so ridiculous over something that barely mattered. They stopped arguing with each other, shocked into indignation by her laughter.

"Now, really, Victoria, I do think that's quite unfair -" the Doctor began.

It was a beautiful day; hot but not too hot, with a clear blue sky framing the tops of the buildings.

Maybe things would work themselves out after all.

#classic who #doctor who #victoria waterfield #second doctor #two #jamie mccrimmon #writing fanfiction like a bus

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ecthelions · 4 years

Text

Hey everyone! It’s been a long time, but I finally want to share with you all a project I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks.

I know there aren’t many of us left, but it’s isolation times, and I lost my job, so I figured it was as good a time as any to rewrite my old tattoo artist/florist AU! (Eden)

Looking back, there were a lot of things wrong with it, and a lot of things I wished I had done differently, so I just went ahead and scrapped it all to rewrite it from the very beginning.

Anyway, I’ve written 20k so far, and officially deleted the original fic from ao3.

Here’s a little excerpt if anyone would like to read it - this part is from chapter 4 and Bard and Thranduil have known each other for a little over a week by this point. Let me know what you think! I plan on writing the whole thing before publishing to make sure it’s perfect, but I’m happy to keep people updated if they’re interested, whether it’s on tumblr, twitter, or the barduil discord ♡

The rain from that morning seemed to be threatening a savage return and Thranduil tugged at the collar of his shirt to stay the cold wind. Bard was already waiting for him at the café.

“How long do you have for lunch?” he asked, opening the door.

“I’ll go back when I’m needed, but I’ve got time,” Thranduil said.

He did not miss Bard’s small smile as they entered.

It was crowded, as usual, but only with passers-by on their usual coffee runs. Bard and Thranduil made an order and then sidled into chairs at one of the many empty tables by the window.

“Do you know if you can come to the art show on Saturday?” Bard queried, grabbing a salt shaker to fiddle with as he spoke.

“Oh, yeah, I can. What time is it again?” Thranduil had left the flyer on the fridge at home.

“Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up and we can go together,” Bard said.

Outside, the rain arrived. It was warm in the coffee shop, and Bard’s leg stuck out comfortably under the table. Thranduil brushed it with his foot every time he shifted in his chair, but Bard did not move. He was watching the droplets of rain chasing each other down the window, and Thranduil took the moment to observe the little tattoo that was inked just above his right eyebrow. It said ‘hopeless.’

Bard’s eyes flicked to Thranduil suddenly and Thranduil didn’t have time to look away. He hadn’t really been subtle.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Is it this one?” Bard said, touching his eyebrow, as if trying to feel the tattoo. “It’s the only one I actually regret.”

Their coffees arrived. Mithrellas set them on the table with a clink and lingered just a bit longer than was really necessary.

“You do have… a lot,” Thranduil continued when she was gone. To have only one tattoo to regret was quite an achievement considering Bard was practically more ink than skin.

“Yeah. Can’t say I get used to people staring at me,” Bard said, emptying a sugar packet into his mug. “But that’s okay. I do it for me.”

“What do your kids think?” Thranduil asked.

Bard took a drink before answering. “I don’t think they really see me any other way. Even Sigrid. She’s the oldest, but not by enough to remember me before I had tattoos. My ex-wife doesn’t like it, though. She thinks I look like a criminal.”

Thranduil frowned. He didn’t get that impression from Bard at all, not even when he’d first walked into the flower shop. He was so good-natured and easy-going from the moment you set eyes on him. Thranduil barely even knew Bard, but he thought that judgement was a bit unfair, especially coming from someone who did know him.

“She’s an idiot,” Thranduil finally said.

Bard barked a laugh. “She’s not all bad.”

“Have you been separated long?” Thranduil hoped it was too impertinent a question.

“Nearly two years,” Bard said. His leg bumped against Thranduil’s under the little table. “We did everything young. People weren’t even surprised when we split.”

“How young were you?”

“We were seventeen when Sigrid was born. Got married right out of high school; all that fun stuff. But we called it quits about a year after Tilda was born. It just became too... empty.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thranduil.

Bard shrugged. “It’s no one’s fault. She’s already found someone new, anyway.”

“And you?”

Bard blinked at Thranduil, his brown eyes wandering over him before catching his gaze.

“Not yet.”

A swell of heat rushed to Thranduil’s throat and he picked up his drink to hide his face. He couldn’t tell if Bard was being direct or evasive, and didn’t know which way he would rather have it. Thranduil hadn’t taken a liking to anyone since he was a teenager, and it occurred to him in that moment just how out of practice he was when it came to flirting and picking up other people’s hints.

He decided perhaps he was reading into it too much. There was no need to get his hopes up.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Bard said, breaking the silence before it became too heavy between them. The coffee shop had mostly emptied now, with only half a dozen other people enjoying lunch around them.

“You can try,” Thranduil said lightly, put back on his guard. He always did keep his cards close to his chest, but he thought he might make an exception for Bard.

“Do you find it hard being a single parent?”

It was a fair enough question, Thranduil thought. He had honestly been expecting something more intrusive, so he appreciated it for what it was.

“I do,” he said, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup. “But it’s not the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Okay. I’m glad it’s not just me, then,” Bard said.

Outside, the rain came down in sheets, lashing down the road as people ducked into shops for cover. Thranduil checked his phone, but there was thankfully no message from Haldir.

“So, um, what kind of art do you do?” Thranduil scrambled to keep the conversation going, afraid for Bard to lose interest.

He seemed to perk up at the change of subject. “I mostly do black work at the shop, but I’ve been experimenting with watercolour for the art show. Wanna see?”

Thranduil nodded eagerly and Bard pulled out his phone. They leaned closer to one another across the table so Bard could pick and choose what pictures to show Thranduil, which was unfortunate because Thranduil could hardly concentrate on what he was looking at due to such proximity. Bard’s shoulder was nearly touching his own, and he could smell the remnants of the cigarette underneath his body spray. Thranduil had to force himself to pay attention to the photos.

“I like that one,” he managed, pointing to a colourful portrait of Bard’s eldest daughter.

“I tried to get her to sit still for that one, but I ended up copying from a photo,” Bard said.

He turned to face Thranduil as he spoke, and their noses almost touched. Thranduil felt Bard’s warm exhale on his mouth and drew back quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Bard looked down sheepishly and straightened himself in his chair.

“I put that one in the art show,” he finished lamely.

“Is there some kind of competition?” Thranduil asked, the back of his neck still hot.

“No, but nearly everything will be for sale.”

“Maybe I’ll buy something,” Thranduil teased lightly.

A hint of colour flushed Bard’s cheeks. “Please don’t. It’s all way overpriced.”

“Taking this town for all it’s worth, then?”

“I hope so,” Bard said with a smirk. “They owe me.”

“Just try telling them that,” Thranduil said, glancing around the café at the other patrons. He didn’t recognise anyone, but Mithrellas was still behind the counter making coffee, and she was worth ten witnesses on her own.

“Here, I’ll give you a sample and maybe you can commission me later,” Bard said.

He took a napkin from the cup of cutlery on the table and slid a pen out of the pocket of his flannel. He bent low over the table and started to draw, making long, steady strokes with the pen so as not to snare the napkin. When he was done, he handed it to Thranduil.

It was a drawing of a fox, curled up asleep with little flowers forming a border around it. Underneath its tail was a banner that said ‘fox this town.’

Thranduil grinned at it, his heart skipping a beat at the gesture. It was by no means a perfect drawing, but it was a shame it was on a napkin, because he wanted to frame it and keep it forever.

He thought he might do that anyway.

#barduil #bard x thranduil #barduil fanfiction #bard bowman #thranduil #eden rewrite

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heartofsnark · 4 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter Four): Through The Gates

Notes: We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful.

Word Count: 9098

Chapter Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.

“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.

“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”

“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”

“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”

“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”

“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”

“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”

“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”

Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.

“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”

“Charming.”

“I do try.”

“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”

“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.

“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”

“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”

“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”

“Get bent.”

“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so, which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?”

He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.

“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”

She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.

There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.

The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?

Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.

Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.

The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.

He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.

Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.

Who the hell runs the PR for this church?

First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.

It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind.

Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.

“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?

She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.

One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.

Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?

The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.

She goes back to sleep after, still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.

Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch. The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.

She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.

“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”

“Of course, could I have their name?”

“Aaron Kirby.”

“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”

“Understood, thank you.”

She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.

A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.

Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.

She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.

She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.

She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.

She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.

Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or

Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.

She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.

Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting, and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.

“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.

Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.

She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.

The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.

“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”

She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.

During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.

She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?

Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.

“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.

“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.

“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”

Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.

“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”

Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame.

The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“We got here quick, she should be fine.”

“Maybe, lets get going.”

The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving.

She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’

Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head.

“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it.

“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?”

“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?” She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach.

“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her.

She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back.

Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.

“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.

She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.

“I’m actually going to strangle you.”

“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.

“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”

“Not my fault you’re short.”

“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”

“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.

“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.

“Pratt did it.”

The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself, “she managed that all on her own.”

“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”

With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.

“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.

By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone.

The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.

“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.

“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”

What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.

“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”

“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.

“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”

Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.

“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”

“Our probie junior deputy.”

“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.”

“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.

“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”

“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.

There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.

The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.

It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.

“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise.

“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles.

“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards.

“You scared it, jackass.”

“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.”

“Shhhhhh…”

Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear.

“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.”

“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms.

Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit.

“Good news, Addie-”

“I acquired a baby.”

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.”

“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.”

“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp.

“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet.

“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing. Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.”

“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.”

Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day.

“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.”

Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning.

“Addie…”

“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.”

“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs

Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.

“You alright over there, hun?”

“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.”

“Oh lord.”

“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response.

“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-”

“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson.

“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”

They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts.

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door.

“What do you mean?”

“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”

“No.”

“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.”

“I’m not abandoning my child.”

“It’s literally a wild animal.”

“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side.

“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?”

“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.”

“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.”

“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.”

“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.”

Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide.

“Who’re the Rye’s?” She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously.

“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.”

“That’s nice.”

“You should come.”

“I don’t know them.”

“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.”

“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?” She raises an eyebrow

“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt.

Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.

“Feed her your lunch.”

“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home.

“How the hell are you still alive?”

“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”

“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”

“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.

“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”

“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”

“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it. Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”

“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”

“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”

“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.

“...yes..”

“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”

“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.

“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”

“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”

Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.

“....Opossum…?”

“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”

“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl.

“Why are you encouraging her!?”

“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”

“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”

“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.

“Shut up.”

“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”

“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.

“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”

“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”

“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.

“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”

Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well. Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts.

“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”

“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif.

“Why are you holding a opossum?”

“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone.

“She?”

“Her name’s Petunia.”

“You can’t have a opossum.”

“She’s the station opossum.”

“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”

“So, she’s an outside station pet?”

“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.

“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.

“Told ya, soft on Rook.”

“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”

“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.

“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”

“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”

“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”

“Hilarious.”

The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.

“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”

Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.

“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.

“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer.

And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry… Adulting sucks.

There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week.

Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message.

Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face.

Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it;

‘cant tell who looks better here’

Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this.

A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow.

“Leave me alone…please…” A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch.

“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”

The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach. She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt.

“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp.

“Fuckin’ peggie whore!”

“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back.

She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw. Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption.

“Wh-who-”

“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.”

“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“

“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”

He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck. Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm.

“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her.

“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”

The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are.

“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine. You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike.

She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure.

“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat.

“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here about a week ago.”

“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.”

“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”

“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…”

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact.

“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”

“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.”

“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill.

“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”

“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…”

“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”

“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.”

“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”

Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla.

“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers.

As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it.

A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches.

People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her.

“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear.

“Brother Theodore, this is-”

“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?”

“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.”

“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.”

“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?

“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.”

“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?”

“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?”

“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.”

“Oh, uh, I-”

“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound.

“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders.

“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols.

She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church.

“You going in?”

“No.”

“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door.

“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?”

“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church.

Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets. Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it.

If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired…

She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away.

Let the water wash away your sins…

A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while…

#far cry 5 #fc5 #this is love #Dahlia Hale

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roseamongroses · 4 years

Text

Winners Among the Losing: (2) The First Son

Summary:It wasn’t a matter of whether or not they were worthy.It was a matter of who wanted it more. And now they were firmly on the wrong side of history. A history of unfathomable powers and all-knowing immortals, ancient forests and beasts, and a Stranger who wanted to challenge it all.

Vibes/ Tags:time is irrelevent, homophobia who?, magic and beasts, demigods

Warnings: Imprisonment, Mentions of execution, Injuries/ blood, Mentions of past Death, repression, cursing

Characters: Deceit(Eden) Sanders, Roman Sanders, Remy Sanders, Emile Sanders

Ship: Roceit

Ao3

(1) (2) (3)

---

It was a question in itself why the Stranger couldn’t find the manor himself.

A little way outside of town sat the first signs of the sprawling estate. Cobbled streets became ancient, cracks interwoven with unkempt weeds littered the road to its gates. The gates stretched up, challenging the sky, it's metal bars elaborately carved with the handwork of both artisans and nature.

Brushing off the debris from a plaque, Eden frowned, “What type of curse was it again?”

The Stranger perched on the gate above him, “You like a challenge don’t you?”

Eden frowned, dusting his hand off on a handkerchief, “Care to elaborate-” Eden whipped his head up, nothing but a breeze in his ear to warn him that the Stranger was gone.

He cursed under his breath hand automatically reaching for his pocket, finding two vials.

One empty, One not.

He pocketed the former, holding the latter up towards the dimming light. The clear liquid sloshed innocently within the container, the glass itself cool to the touch. Tucking it away, he rubbed his eye, wiling away the scales.

He shook the gate, the metal rattling stubbornly, “Of course, why ask, it was such a ridiculous question” he frowned, hand testing the bars once again, “Be nicer, be fucking sympathetic, the convoluted ass had the nerve-” he muttered, wedging his foot between the bars, one hand fluttering uselessly as he pulled himself up, “Of course I’m not going to explain anything to you, I’m all-powerful blue eye, who can’t even start a damn fire without the universe's blessing,”

With a heave, he lifted himself over the gate, dropping on the other side.

Tension rolled off of him as he dusted his hands with a critical eye. Scars littered his skin, with the proof of his efforts angrily painting the sides of his hands red.

It was easy enough to fix, scales slipping from the flesh like yellow tendrils before dipping out of existence. The thin pink and white scars being replaced with a smooth expanse of warm tan.

He stretched his hand approvingly before cautiously strolling through the overgrown lawn--stepping over sprawling piles of thorns and scattered grasses.

Among the greenery, he occasionally had to dodge statues. Each statue seemingly was interwoven with every facet of the estate. Painstakingly present at every corner.

Seeing as the entrance-- double doors of thick oak-- were caved in with jagged masses of stone, Eden poked around the rubble instead. He paused, eyeing a caved-in section of the wall.

Kneeling, he slotted his fingers between the boards, “If I could just-- there,” he said, prying the boards apart, dust falling in a thick cloud. Blind, he fumbled through the musty crevice.

After what felt like decades he finally found an end to the rabbit hole.

The temperature dropped, his skin prickling. Poking his head through, he shook the cobwebs from his clothes, pushing himself out of the floorboard.

He wasn’t sure what he expected of a cursed manor.

Hell, he doesn’t even know what a manor is supposed to look like.

Moonlight streamed past the tattered curtains, the air still- frozen.

Elaborate busts, statues, portraits, marble floors, all seemed to be lost in time. Painted faces looking dead-eyed at the state of the manor with disdain.

Shadows seemed less alive with the unknown, yet they blended seamlessly with the decor; they shaped every downturned tilt of a bust's mouth, hiding the eyes of every starry-eyed painting.

That isn’t even going into the statues. They littered the halls, all in various stages of undress, in various activities. From the surprised maids, jolting back, heels perched and hands frozen trying to scramble for the unseen, scattered laundry-- to the simple red-faced cry of an infant refusing to rest.

Eden approached each, eyes scanning the way their heads tilted, the way their skin grayed to the muddy stone on some body parts and yet remained a healthy brown on others. He poked and he prodded the ruffles of the master's shirts, and the flowers weaved in their mistress's hair, their faces remained undisturbed.

He pressed two fingers to the chest of one Lord-- this face swallowed with a beard and a velvet hat.

A heartbeat pulsed under his fingertips.

Eden surmised that if he were to detach a finger, it would become as bruised and bloody as they would if they were still moving.

He stopped touching them after that.

---

(One, Two, twins of gold. The First one is first, the second one is no more. One, Three a competition it seems. The first one is second, the Third one is gold.)

---

The Stranger sipped his latte, enjoying the pleasant sounds of the city in unrest below him. His feet dangled off the side of the building as his interest flew from one side of the city to another, trying to find the best place for his qualifications.

Perhaps the already insecure wife finds out her husband has been cheating on her and evading taxes for nearly a decade- does she hide the secret, or does she divorce him and finally do herself well?

Or maybe an already stressed-out couple deals with the pressure of one of their partner’s unexpected fame?

Then again, there is that toxic waste dump...

He stirred his drink, the depleted liquid refilling again with frothy goodness.

A flock pigeon suddenly scattered, the relatively sunny, if not smoggy, sky greying.

The Stranger sipped his drink, closing his eyes, “Emile, I see you’re not dead yet.”

Turning around, the Stranger was pleased to see the same disapproving look from all those years ago still firmly in place.

Emile was wearing all familiar plain robes, gold vines twisting up and down his arms. A notable contrast to the Stranger's high waisted shorts and crop top depicting questionable activities.

“You know we can’t die.”

The Stranger hummed, “No, we can’t live.” his laugh hung bitter as he traced the indents of the building’s walls, eyeing the burned up tattered ends of Emile’s robes, “Trouble in the… Roman Empire?”

Emile thumbed the edges of the robe, changing it into a sweater and khakis, “Byzantine,” he corrected, gaze burning holes in the back of the Stranger’s head.

“Is there something you need, old man?” The Stranger said.

“The council… the council has noticed you’ve finally decided to take on an apprentice,”

“Huh,” the Stranger smiled, “That’s certainly a phrase?”

“Aren’t you teaching him?”

The Stranger snorted, “We both know I’d be the worst,” He tapped his straw clean, watching the froth fall down the building’s side, “I like to call it free-range guidance.”

“Well, the council calls it an improvement,” Emile said, settling beside him, “After all, it's not every day the universe’s Stranger takes up more responsibility-- and just in time for the yearly offerings? It's unheard of... still...”

“Still?” The Stranger echoed.

“Your choice of student is… questionable.”

“Does the council not believe him worthy?” The Stranger mocked, already imagining the uproar the universes best would have upon discovering what exactly he planned on doing. He almost regrets not showing up for the meetings.

Almost.

Paperworks a bitch.

Still, his words gave Emile pause, “No, that… that is never the case,” Emile choked out the words, knowing the protocol, “Never. Still, the terms of his recruitment are...strange,” he placed a hand on the Stranger’s shoulders, “You haven't had any activity for decades. We’ve missed you.”

“We?” The Stranger’s hand trailed to meet Emile’s.

“I’ve… I...” Emile retracted his hand, “I and the council have missed you.”

“Oh,” the Stranger said, “...Tell the council to shove it,” he spat, no longer looking at Emile, “I don’t want my ‘apprentices’ even smelling their dusty asses.”

“Apprentices? You’re taking on more than one?”

The Stranger stood, balancing on the building’s edge, “Being the universe’s dog gets lonely, after all.” he said, not trusting himself to look back before taking the plunge.

---

Eden was sent flying across the courtyard, a bed of overgrown roses being his cushion.

Curses fell from his mouth easily as he rolled from the bush. His already tattered clothes now bloodied as he rolled to dodge the creature's fangs.

The creature itself was a mass of stone and vine. No eyes, but the darkness that claimed its place. It screamed something unholy, a garbled sound akin to the crushing of bones as it shook the rose bush free of any thorns and shriveled blooms.

Seeing its tangles become intertwined with the branches of the brush, Eden scrambled across the marble, sticking to the shadows, trying to find the vial. He needed to find that vial-

The creature bellowed, yanking the bush from its roots before it barreled towards the intruder again.

Eden dropped flat to the ground, the creature bulldozing over him, only a few stray roots snagging on the remaining pieces of his clothing.

Ignoring how his cheek stung, Eden, crawled keeping his head low. He needed a change of plans-change of plans- There.

Tucked right between the legs of his target, was the vial, untouched.

Tension settled in his gut.

Now that that was settled, all he needed to do was-

The ground shook, the creature managed to turn himself around. Eden stood, forcing his legs to run. He snaked through the courtyard, the howl of the beast at his heels.

The closed eyes of his target within sight.

He heard the familiar crunch of the pavement, and Eden dropped to his knees, the beast flying overhead, crashing.

He scrambled up, fumbling to open the vial. ( he heard the beast growl) He stretched on his toes, dosing the eyes of the target,

Once ( the crunch of the beast's steps grew closer)

Twice ( it pounced again)

The target's eyes fluttered open, a breathtaking silver. Skin washed a healthy brown, freckles spotting his skin, and hair staining red.

Eden's breath caught and he found himself unable to move. Or rather, he didn’t want to move. He was captivated as he watched the target shudder to life all at once.

It was as if they beckoned the world around him to join, to wait, to watch, to-

“Sleep.” The target commanded.

The beast of bramble and stone crashed to its knees.

#Roman sanders #ts roman #Deceit Sanders #ts deceit #roceit #sanders sides #ts sides #sanders sides fanfiction #fanfiction #Winners Among the Losing

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callowayshq · 4 years

Text

darkest fear.

darkness. it enveloped her entire surrounding. as if she had her eyes closed even when they were wide open. one moment, she was just sitting in her cell talking with one of her cellmates and the next, she couldn’t see or hear anything. and yet she could feel this foreboding coldness, this chills running down her spine. then suddenly, there was a blinding light that she had to shut her eyes closed before blinking them open. and suddenly, she was in a small room. one that almost looked like an interrogation room from the movies she’s seen. and there he was, the dashing gentleman that greeted her the moment she woke up in this place. it was the devil himself.

eden could hear him talk, but she couldn’t quite comprehend what he was even on about since she was frozen in fear. what could she have possibly done to gain an audience with lucifer? she’s been well behaved--she didn’t fight nor disrespected any of the masters. but even before she could dwell on such thoughts, the room began to shrink--closer and closer to her until it felt like she was being swallowed.

“ daddy? ” was the first word that eden uttered as she found herself back in her room—not the cell, but the room she grew up in. she was sitting in her four-poster bed with the baby pink drapes cascading down the posts. even her life-sized teddy bear, mr. puffy, was sitting right against the wall next to her desktop. how could it be that she was back here after all these years—unless—unless everything that happened for the past three years was just a dream. a nightmare.

hurrying past down the stairs, bare feet and adorned with her pink babydoll dress, the young girl continued to call for her daddy. she was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she caught a glimpse of his back, a radiant smile found its way on her lips. the brunette was just about to call for him when suddenly, she noticed the woman he was talking to. getting a closer look as she took another step forward, she saw him caressing her face tenderly. jealousy seethed in her chest. her face was still hidden by his large hand, but soon he was dropping it to her waist and revealing those familiar features. it almost seemed like she was looking into the mirror. it was her. the woman with the large portrait at the top of their grand stair case. the woman in their wedding photo he kept in his office. the one woman she could never amount to. “ mom? ”

eden was rooted on her spot as her father turned on his heel to face her. he had that brilliant smile on his face that matched the beautiful one of her mother’s. “ aren’t you gonna join us for lunch, darling? ” questioned the man as he kept his hand around her waist. how was this possible? how could her mother be alive after all these years? “ you look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart, ” came the sweet voice of her mother as she beckoned her to the dining table where her older brother was already seated at his usual place. she was just about to do the same when her mother took her place, the one on the left hand side of her dad. she wanted to throw a fit and say that that was her seat, but her brother already pulled out the chair next to him for her to sit on. and like the dutiful daughter she was supposed to be, the younger of the two sat on that place.

everyone was chatting as if this was normal, as if this was just another day in the calloway household. everyone except her. she felt utterly out of place as they talked and talked while no one even seemed to pay any attention to her. not once did her father even looked at her way as she tried to seek his eyes. shouldn’t she be glad to be back in this place she called home? to the place where her family was complete and happy?

once lunch was over, her mother announced that she had to leave for an emergency at work while her brother was going out with some friends. finally, she could be alone with him--the brunette thought to herself before mentally scolding herself for even having such thoughts. retiring to her room as everyone went on with their day, she paced back and forth as she tried to control the urge to go running to her father. but it was as if he read her thoughts because there was suddenly a knock on her door.

“ angel, can i come in? ” he questioned as he turned the knob, stepping into her room as she stopped pacing back and forth to face him. closing the door behind him, he turned the lock and dropped his hands on his sides. there was a grim expression on his face as he stepped closer to the smaller girl.

“ is everything okay, daddy? ” the brunette questioned worriedly as she closed the distance between them, reaching out to caress his face with her hand. however, even before she could touch him, his hand caught her wrist and held it away from his face with a firm shake of his head.

“ it will be once you stop this madness, ” he stated, gripping her wrist tighter now. he tugged her closer to him as he cupped her jaw harshly, nails digging into her skin. “ your mother is back and whatever this was? ” he motioned between the two of them. “ it can’t continue. i won’t fall for your wicked schemes anymore. ”

“ i--i don’t understand, ” eden voiced out quietly, confusion written all over her face as her eyes glazed with unshed tears. “ i--i thought you loved me, ” she whispered under her breath, which was met by amused laughter from her father.

with an incredulous expression on his face, he dropped her wrist and wrapped his fist on her long flowing locks instead. “ love you? who could ever love such a pathetic filthy girl like you? don’t make me laugh, angel. the only thing you’re good for is that thing between your legs. and now that your mother is here, you’ve absolutely just become useless, ” he crooned gently, a stark contrast to his actions and words before he was releasing his hold on her and pushing her away.

“ daddy please--you don’t mean that, ” the brunette implored as she dropped on her knees, the tears rolling down her eyes as her chest clenched with pain. eden hugged her knees to her chest as she rocked back and forth, shutting her eyes tight as his laughter continued ringing in her ears. taunting her. the images of a happy family with the four of them being ripped to shreds. all because her father would always choose her mother over her. it’s not true. it’s not true. this was all just a dream. he loved her. he had to. // @ellyborneworld

#wlthq!event #wlthq!plotdrop #incest tw #while everyone else wants to get away from their abuser this lil shit just wants to be loved by them #smh

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clarasimone · 5 years

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Just before leaving my Iphone in a friggin’ taxi

I cannot believe this: my life is on that IPhone... Have alerted the taxi company (I HOPE I lost it there), am frantically awaiting news by my fiend’s phone... My Knight wants to go on a rampage but I need him by my side ;-)... It’s so bizarre to be able to see most of the pics I took this evening because they had time to make it on the cloud and then on my computer. So, from me, to you, the red carpet and screening of Terrence Malick’s testament film A Hidden Life :

Needless to say, I risked my reputation taking Jorah’s pic from inside the Grand Palais LOL I was seated front row (They show us the remaining of the red carpet on the big screen while we’re inside) What follows is from before and after but selfies are now forbidden while on the red carpet, a good thing because frankly it was becoming surreal the last few years...

Love this pink trail I was hypnotically following :-)

Here’s a pic from the film, a true masterpiece, so moving ! @myloveiainglen, it’s even better than Days of Heaven !!

I was able to capture the director’s proud reaction during the 10-minute long ovation after the film (he’s so modest, he didn’t walk the red carpet coming in, only his two leads did)

his actors, as shown on the big screen during the ovation

Coming out of the Grand Palais, I took these amazing pics of the moon with my Knight but they’re not (yet ?) appearing on my macbook/Icloud :-(

God I hope I get my phone back...

Here is the Los Angeles Times piece of the film. It just flabbergasted me and everyone there... It’s a deeply spiritual film.

https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/movies/la-et-mn-cannes-terrence-malick-hidden-life-20190519-story.html

Cannes: Terrence Malick’s ‘A Hidden Life’ is a return to form and a spiritual call to arms

In the eight years since Terrence Malick won the Palme d’Or at Cannes for “The Tree of Life,” his magisterial drama about childhood’s end and the spirit’s awakening, the standard critical line is that he has become an artist lost in the wilderness, stranded in an artistic limbo of his own making.

His most recent features — “To the Wonder,” “Knight of Cups” and “Song to Song” — are wispy, fragmentary tales of romantic ennui and moral drift, full of visual beauty but absent a comparable sense of transcendence. I admired them more than many of my colleagues did, though it would be disingenuous not to admit that I, too, was left wondering if this great and singular filmmaker would ever give us another movie to love.

I wonder no more. Sunday marked Malick’s return to Cannes, and it felt like a homecoming in more than one sense. His extraordinarily beautiful and wrenching new movie is called “A Hidden Life,” a title that quotes from “Middlemarch,” though one that could easily be misinterpreted as a reference to this famously press-shy auteur himself. But it also sounds an echo of “The Tree of Life,” which may be more than mere coincidence: If that 2011 film was Malick’s most personal and autobiographical work, then this one feels like a decisive return to roots. It’s at once a linear, almost classically structured drama and an exploratory, intensely romantic work of art.

“A Hidden Life” tells the story of Franz Jägerstätter, a peasant farmer from the Austrian village of St. Radegund who was imprisoned and executed in 1943 for refusing to fight for the Nazis. It’s the writer-director’s second World War II picture, after “The Thin Red Line,” except that here not a single shot is fired. The focus is entirely on Jägerstätter and his family, his growing discontent as Austria falls into Adolf Hitler’s grip and his heroic, ultimately fatal decision to become a conscientious objector.

After some brief archival footage of Hitler at the height of his powers, the movie settles down in St. Radegund, whose rolling green pastures and mist-wreathed mountains may constitute the most astonishing vision of earthly paradise Malick has given us, which is saying something.

You will recognize some familiar sights and sounds: the babbling of a brook, the rustling of wind in the leaves, the orchestral blasts of Bach, Beethoven, Handel and Dvorak on the soundtrack. And you will settle into the movie with a sigh — or perhaps a groan, depending on your persuasion — as Malick immerses us in yet another blissfully idealized evocation of family life.

Pushing plows, threshing wheat and taking care of livestock is hard work, but Franz (a haunting August Diehl), a man of joy and contentment, also loves chasing and playing with his wife, Fani (Valerie Pachner) and their three young daughters. But the family’s deep ties to the land and the surrounding community are disrupted when their fellow villagers take up the call of “Heil Hitler,” submitting freely to the grip of a murderous totalitarian regime. When a local bishop urges Franz to submit as well, he makes a decisive break with the church — though not, crucially, with God, whom he continually presses and wrestles with in prayer.

I am still wrestling with “A Hidden Life” myself, and imagine I will continue to do so long after its eventual release. The lengthy middle act, in which Franz finds himself called up for military duty and imprisoned after refusing to fight, feels lumbering and oppressive, which may of course be entirely the point; the claustrophobia here is physical and spiritual. Given the ensemble cast, which includes the late Bruno Ganz in one of his final roles, I wish that Malick had simply committed to shooting entirely in German, rather than a mix of German and English. (A particularly nagging choice: The Nazis are often heard barking in German, while Franz and Fani’s mellifluous voice-overs are in English.)

But the conviction of this movie would speak forcefully in any language. “A Hidden Life” is both an intense portrait of Christian devotion in practice and a damning study in how religious institutions, among others, can align themselves with evil. Malick sees no contradiction between these two truths; for him, sincere doubt and serious belief have always gone hand-in-hand. When a character murmurs, “To follow Him is insanity” — the first and not the last time the movie quietly broke me — you register fully what it might mean, and cost, to obey a doctrine of peace in violent times.

Malick may be making the same movie he always has: a gorgeously expansive cinematic poem that is forever carving out fresh emotional tributaries, but which always cycles back to the despoiling of Eden, the fear of violence and mortality, the calm acceptance of the unknowable. But if his camera is still given to flurries of ecstatic movement, it also seems more stationary, more grounded than usual, as if the director were pausing to gather his thoughts and clear his throat. He has an awful lot to say.

At its simplest level, “A Hidden Life” exists to disprove the snarling Nazi soldiers we hear telling Franz that his act of protest is meaningless and that no one will ever remember him. (They have admittedly already been disproved, thanks to the scholarship of Gordon Zahn and Thomas Merton, as well as a 2007 papal declaration of Jägerstätter as a martyr.) But it is also a call for moral vigilance in any era, the present one very much included: It is hard to watch this movie and not think of the rise of far-right and nationalist movements across Europe, or the Trump administration’s chokehold on evangelical Christianity.

That particular charge may be implicit, but it’s also unmistakable. Unless you are allergic to near-three-hour running times, there is nothing particularly difficult or elusive about “A Hidden Life,” nothing too cosmically elevated or metaphysically overreaching, to cite some of the dismissals frequently leveled against this director’s work. If we understand pretension as an attitude that leaves no room for humility, then is there any filmmaker working today lesspretentious than Terrence Malick, any artist more generous and unassuming in the way he exalts the beauty of the everyday?

Just as importantly, in our era of ever-expanding options and decreasing patience, is there an audience still willing to accept that challenge and see that beauty as he does? Even when tarnished, Malick’s legend looms large at a festival like Cannes, where he can be dismissed as a scourge and hailed as a god, but where he will never elicit an indifferent response. He deserves an equally impassioned reception when this imperfect, wise and entirely heroic movie comes out of hiding.

#clara and jorah in Cannes #a hidden life #terrence malick

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darksiders-scenarios · 7 years

Text

Masterlist

I don’t always write but when I do, most of them shall be found here.

When are my followers’ birthdays?

Dear Darksiders Fandom

~SCENARIOS~

Horsemen/ Angels post coitus (calm after the do)

Reader slapping War's ass

Upfront (Strife x Reader)

Horsemen supporting their S/O to clean their appartment

Horsemen not caring for their S/O (distressing)

Death dealing with his S/O's first kill

Horsemen's S/O singing for them

Bathing with the Horsemen

My take on the fight between the Archon and Death

Death's son and Azrael's daughter courting?? (pfft)

Death and War lost in the White City

Death dealing with Dust liking Strife more than him.

Strife is accused of stealing your hot chocolate. He sets out to clear his name.

Humans referring to Death as Thanatos.

Horsemen relaxing with their S/O

Horsemen's S/O taking a hit for them

Horsemen and characters dealing with hiccups (hehe)

Death dealing with an S/O agitated by trivial things.

War with a sweet-toothed S/O

Strife and Death (Angsty Wangtsy)

Angsty Strife

Horsemen dealing with the death of their s/o mother.

Horsemen bonding with pregnant mum s/o

Horsemen taking care of a pregnant, grieving mother

Horsemen with a Badass pregnant mother (V2)

Death and Strife dealing with reader in labour

Proud big brother Death gushing over baby brother War

I have a Theory. (Death x Reader)

One More Ride (War x Reader)

Death and the Stalker

Dinner with Strife

Death is an Asshole (Strife & Death)

War receiving Chaoseater for the first time

Cuddling War for the first time

Death's Dental Service for an S/O with a tooth problem.

Horsemen, Azrael & Ezgati encountering the cuddlefish

Horsemen with a *sighs* shot S/O

Death encountering a 4 years old human child (Part 1)

Death with a female child- Part 2

Office AU short

He is Innocent (Death and Karn)

Horsemen & Azrael caring for a sick S/O

S/O requesting Horsemen to finish them

Death with a sick S/O

Horsemen and their S/O reunion after three years

Death/ War witnessing their S/O getting abused by their family member

Cuddling with Death

Strife with a tired S/O

Horsemen, Azrael and Karn coming across a severely injured human

Horsemen, Azrael & Damsel asking their S/O about trying to have kids

Strife/ Fury with an S/O with selective mutism

War and S/O with selective mutism

Death and S/O with selective mutism

Death comfort scenario for S/O who’s feeling down

Horsemen comfort scenarios for s/o with drug addict brothers.

Horsemen, Uriel and Azrael’s child informing them they want to transition

S/O comforting Horsemen

Horsemen, Draven, Azrael & Samael proposing to their S/O

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael dealing with a suicidal S/O

Secret Genius Strife??

Horsemen catching their depressive S/O humming

Horsemen accidentally hurting their S/O in a fit of anger

Horsemen dealing with a hyper kitten

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael finding out their S/O is self-harming

Death supporting his S/O suffering from exam stress

S/O assuming Death + War are cheating on them.

Death’s S/O coming across their old home post-apocalypse.

War’s thoughts on Death’s S/O getting the upper hand in a sparring match.

War’s Reaction to Uriel and her S/O

How will Uriel get along with War’s SO?

Horsemen encountering a doll-sized S/O (part 1 + part 2)

War, Death and Azrael dealing with S/O unexplained insomnia

Horsemen dealing with S/O with low confidence and self-esteem

Horsemen protecting S/O after the restoration of humanity (part 1 + part 2)

Horsemen dealing with tongue twisters and riddles (part one + part two)

Horsemen and Azrael dealing with newborn rabbits (part one).

Comforting S/O following one of their deaths (part 2)

S/O introducing Lilith to their parents (part one)

Horsemen+ Samael reactions (part two)

Horsemen and Samael with an S/O who was exactly like them personality wise

War’s reaction to S/O almost dying in battle

Death comforting S/O after an argument with their parents (my first debut yayz!)

~REACTIONS~

Horsemen reacting to their shy s/o dressing up nicely for them

War's first time doing the do, siblings instruct (I’m serious)

Azrael reading Harry Potter

Horsemaster reaction from a cheek kiss

Horsemen reacting to their vampire S/O

Horsemen, Alya, Azrael and Muria with a dragonborn S/O

Death reacting to a mini reaper on Halloween.

Angels' reactions to an S/O who preens their feathers

Everyone's reactions to a polyamorous S/O

Horsemen's reactions to an S/O mothering them

Death's reaction to a fan's man-crush

Horsemen's reactions to posing for a painting (French)

Horsemen, Lilith and Alya towards an S/O with a teleporter

Horsemen reacting to Greek Mythology

Horsemen, Azrael, Vulgrim's reactions to s/o with tetrachromacy

Angels learning that their S/O is a White Witch

Angels with newborn angels Part 1 + Part 2

Angels’ reactions to S/O caring for wounded birds

Horsemen/ Angels' reactions to s/o revealing they've done some immoral things

Horsemen/ human reactions to being flirted at

Angels and Vulgrim reacting to their painted portrait

Horsemen's reactions to being painted on a canvas

Horsemen's S/O dabbling in the dark arts

Horsemen hearing their non-verbal S/O speaking for the first time

Introducing Horsemen to Pancakes

Horsemen, Karn, Ulthane, Uriel, Samael & Azrael with a werewolf S/O

Horsemen's reactions to a sincere compliment

Horsemen's reactions to their steeds vanishing

Horsemen, Angels and Samael meeting S/O’s baby sibling

Strife attempts to cheer s/o with bad puns

Horsemen, Samael and Azrael reactions to bands/ songs about them

Horsemen's reactions to their human companion vlogging them

Horsemen’s reactions to a sarcastic S/O

Death and Draven’s reaction to an S/O with a tendency towards collecting any animals

Horsemen’s reaction S/O with a large number of siblings

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael’s reactions to War and Uriel’s relationship

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael reaction to a usually unafraid S/O with a fear of simple things

Horsemen experiencing kissing for the first time

~HEADCANONS~

Personalities that attract Horsemen

Horsemen as the four humours/ temperaments

Hairstyles that attract Horsemen

Horsemen/ Pride month

Angels as Pigeons/ Doves

Horsemen/ Angels surfing...

Jealous Horsemen

Lilith HC

Horsemen's curse

Death reacting to his s/o being injured

War and Reader acknowledging their mutual attraction

Real reason why Abaddon hates mankind

Crowfather but without the crow

[Tag yourself] How do you like your coffee?

Metal song styles for the Horsemen

Death's journal

Gifs for Horsemen as parents

DAVE

Movie genres for Horsemen, Azrael and Beamboi

The Five

Draven headcanons

Saying that you like traveling with Death

Sports for Horsemen, Vulgrim and Azrael

Jamearah Platonic/ romantic Headcanons

Death's Face

Ecanos' painted portrait!! <3

Ecanos and Ezgati's professions

Azraowl by @speaker-of-the-black-hand <3

Horsemen with their S/O after a heartbreak

Protective and Possessive Horsemen

Death and his S/O with twins

How Horsemen confess their feelings

Some Strife Gunslinging HC?

Valus has Selective Mutism

Ecanos [part 2]

Ecanos Headcanons

Ezgati Headcanons

Horsemen dealing with a sick S/O

Headcanons for Archon Lucien and War

Drunk headcanons for 3 dead lords; Phariseer, Judicator, Basileus

Drunk Headcanons for Uriel, Vulgrim, Azrael and Draven

Human procreating with non-human species

Physical affection in Nephilim Culture - (kissing) + (handholding)

If angels, demons or nephilims sought a different lifestyle; faith, religion or migration.

Horsemen’s S/O character type, class, battle/weapon, magic style, role and other features

If horsemen played musical instruments

‘Opposite attracts’ partners for the horsemen

Horsemen finding out their S/O is a duchess by birthright

Horsemen as stress responders

Horsemen, Azrael and Samael marriage visual markers

Little details about S/O that horsemen like (personality, behaviour, appearance)

~FLUFFS~

Archon Fluff (meh)

Crowfather fluff

War

Strife

Sum Death fluffs ;)

Cuddling Death while sleeping

Horsemen, Azrael and Karn cuddling with S/O

Muria

Alya

Nathaniel

~BEING A PARENT WILL INVOLVE...~

War

Death

Fury

Strife

Nathaniel

Abaddon

Muria

Azrael

Samael and Lilith

~HAVING A CRUSH ON YOU WILL INVOLVE...~

Alya

Nathaniel

Horsemaster

~WAYS TO MAKE __ HAPPY~

Uriel

Azrael

Fury

Strife

Death

~WAYS TO ANNOY ___~

Uriel

Azrael

Death

War

~KIDDIES~

Nathaniel

Uriel

Azrael

Ezgati [Bonus Unca’ Ecanos]

~HOLIDAY SPECIALS~

Fury's wearing a-

Nathaniel Mystery Surprise [part 1]

How characters react to being kissed on New Year.

Christmas blues

Christmas with the Horsemen

~ADVICE/ SUGGESTIONS/ OTHERS (be warned, they suck) ~

Writing an autistic character

Writing Fury

Which Horseman will I date/ be best friends with

~WHAT MY FOLLOWERS WROTE <3

@woodland-princen - Vulgrim reaction's to an S/O with questionable culinary skills

@infernallightofdarkness wrote: Epic insults for @askthedarksidersfam ’Gordon Ramsay and Death having a roasting battle.'

@ohmygillygoshoppler wrote: Azrael’s Midnight Snack

@apocalypticentaurs wrote: Azrael and War’s reaction to S/O not wanting to leave Eden

@cogsandcherryblossoms wrote: War’s S/O coming across their old home post-apocalypse. (scroll down)

@never-enough-darksiders wrote: scenarios of HM’s reactions to a sarcastic S/O (part two)

~REDIRECT THE BEEMZ~

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170847725556/fades-into-the-cringe-abyss

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/172004767321

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170774198851

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170277297696/a-s-d-f-a-s-d-a-s-d-f

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/170202191096/i-dare

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168957566291/i-should-stop

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168852464546/christmas-gift-from-the-twit

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168571603196/worrying

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168432167091

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/168009171756/did-they-send-me-beamboi-when-i-asked-for-cakes

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167587592781/im-a-twit

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167487786536/ohmygillygoshoppler-darksiders-scenarios

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/167734095826/askthedarksidersfam-darksiders-scenarios

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/166354324171/immolation-intensifies

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/166780035201/hehehe

https://darksiders-scenarios.tumblr.com/post/164370356511/when-you-have-free-time-at-work

#darksiders #masterlist #darksiders scenarios

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