Marischka
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Summary
I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth. - Anne Carson, An Oresteia
series warnings | 18+ smut, discussions of domestic abuse, corrupt government, violence, murder, physical, religious, and psychological trauma, misogyny, very bad, very toxic relationships, manipulation, angst six ways to sunday, this story does not follow canon, at all
Bookmarked by Marischka
23 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
She gets a better grip in the back of Gators’ slicked hair to pull him upright. His eyes are scrunched shut, still grimacing in the shock of pain, little whimpers puffing out on each of his exhales. And she likes it, feels good about it. The first thing she’s felt good about in a while, if she’s being honest, a smile threatening as she leans in to speak into his ear.
“You’re going to apologize to Officer Peters, do you understand?” Little tug, little sharp pull of his neck when he doesn’t answer, and then Gator’s breathing out a yes, yes, ma’am and she likes that too, drinks that down and lets it simmer somewhere sickening inside her.
“Now.”
“I’m sorry.” Not good enough, said with a whine. She tugs a little harder at his hair, pulling his spine into a strung, snapping line while he winces.
“Mean it.”
“Fucking– I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please!” She likes please, didn’t even know she was looking for please, but it almost feels better than the apology she was originally looking for. She would like more please from him. But for now it’s catch and release, he’s limping out of the office the instant she lets go of his hair, and she’s left simpering under Dave’s bewildered stare, fear of god widened eyes and jaw dropped in wonder, or horror, or both.
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He looks bewildered, no regret or remorse, just that pall of confusion, of uncertainty. And it clicks for her because of course. Of course, that felt right to him. That pain felt right to him. She knows what he is, what he comes from. She’s seen the ex-wive's files, murals of pain inflicted on their bodies, broken birds in a broken cage. Mercy that they escaped. But the prince was not so lucky. Something maybe even worse for the prince. He likes the cage. So of course, the pain and the words and the tears. He was raised on poison milk. Of course, the pain feels good.
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The seams hold long enough for her to drive back to her all cold, all white apartment, all sharp and all lines and all sterile, stark. And when she does get home, but not really home, not even house, but when she does, she splits into pieces. She cries, and she shakes, and she curls over herself, head in hands. She is failing.
Awful, all this filth, this king and his wretched domain, cobbled together with lies and guns and a bible. Built upon broken bodies. And awful, the people like it. Awful, she isn’t the savior. She’s a thorn in the belly of this terrible beast of a town, and nothing more.
But what is perhaps most awful is that for a moment, for a breath, in that parking lot with that foolish, flimsy prince, she was a part of it too. She liked it too. Filth, too.
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It isn’t much of a debate when there’s only one man on stage, but she seems to be the only person minding that. Something close to hysteria, he certainly knows how to work a crowd. To get men up on their feet, nodding and grunting, burst capillaries in their jowls shaking with their devotion, and the women clutching their children close and nodding their own quiet assent, not that theirs matters, not that theirs counts. But still, but still. When he says stand, they stand, and when he says kneel, they get down and tilt up their chins to look at their deliverance, in blue jeans and a pressed flannel shirt no less.
It’s all the things that men like Roy Tillman tend to say. Something about the constitution, and a country under attack. Something about guns that isn’t about guns, but really, it is. Something about freedom that sounds more like oppression. And really, she’s not sure why he’s putting on such a show. It’s not like there’s any competition.
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And this voice is hers, no matter how much she wishes it wasn’t, coming from somewhere deep and darkening inside her.
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The mutt prince has found something he likes, and he is going to hold onto it, breathing his damp heat all over it. She thinks idly to herself somewhere between sleep and not that she will break each of his fingers if she has to. Vacant violence that floats away with another wave of sleep.
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His back in the pale light, a mural of gnarled scar tissue, pink and puckered cross-hatching. She isn’t surprised, but she still takes in a sharp breath at the sight and she’s sorry for it, reminding him of the fact of his body that he had forgotten for even a moment. Caught, he glances at her over his shoulder and he sighs because there’s nothing to be said.
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To a child weaned on poison, anything other than violence is a miracle. Anyone offering anything other than violence, a god.
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Gator stares at the hourglass sitting on the shelf at the bottom of the staircase.
Series
- Part 4 of February Ficlets 2024
- Language:
- English
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- 480
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- 1/1
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Bookmarked by Marischka
23 Jul 2026
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Sizing people up is how he survives. To see who flinches, who folds first. Chin tipped up so his eyes aren’t level with yours, so you’re forced to look up at him while he peers down over the bridge of his nose.
You hold his gaze.
Longer than most people would dare, you can tell. It’s the faint twitch of irritation in his eyes that gives him away. All that swagger, all that posturing—nothing but a kid playing dress-up. A puppy barking at its own shadow.
...
You mistake the deputy sheriff of this backwater county for a stripper. Cue the most disastrous meet-
cuteever.Bookmarked by Marischka
18 Jul 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
“Ohh my god,” you gasp, stumbling toward him. “And he’s hot too.”
“Woah, what the—”
Too late.
You loop the bachelorette sash around his shoulders like a lasso and give it a sharp, sloppy tug, practically launching yourself forward. He grunts as he catches your weight, hands coming up instinctively around your waist. Your palms slide over the slope of his pecs, his shoulders, down his arms, gripping wherever you can reach with zero shame and even less coordination.
Half the party goes dead silent because the locals know exactly who this man is. The other half loses their minds, screaming encouragement like it’s a private show.
For a split second, he looks genuinely stunned.
He's got these big, adorable round eyes the color of dark whiskey, brown with a hazel glint, catching warm gold under the bar lights. They’ve gone wide with shock, his plush, baby-pink lips parted in disbelief.
You take full advantage of his disarmed state, crowding him back against the bar, sliding a hand into his slicked-back hair, fingers curling tight at the nape of his neck.
You manage to get in one good, solid tug before the world flips.
"Oof—!"
You’re spun around so fast your heels skid. Your chest bumps the bar as he bends you over, one broad hand pressed between your shoulder blades. The other pins your wrist to the small of your back in a clean, textbook hold.
The bar erupts into noise, one half clamoring in disbelief, the other whooping and hollering because the show just got a whole lot better.
“Ma’am,” he murmurs, low and close to your ear, voice smooth as sin, “’fraid I’m gonna have to arrest you for that.”
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Sif rests a night in Markarth and finds some very welcome company.
Bookmarked by Marischka
16 Jun 2026
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In death's other kingdom by lanyon for apiphile
Fandoms: Greek and Roman Mythology, Norse Mythology
08 Sep 2014
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Summary
One god's apocalypse is another god's whimper. (In which Ragnarök gives Zeus a mild headache.)
Bookmarked by Marischka
16 Jun 2026