So Here Is My Melkor Hot Take Of The Day. I Dont Think Melkor Is More Evil Than Sauron.

I can't believe a poll about Tumblr sexymen made me join another fandom...

Surprised

People who hate Frodo Baggins are my enemy. "He didn't do anything and was useless"--yeah, okay, so what you're not understanding is that he was the sacrificial lamb. He endured physical, mental, and emotional torment that got worse and worse as his will broke. Everyone knew this. EVERYONE KNEW THIS. That's why everyone was devastated about it. Because Frodo was the most innocent among them, that was the entire point. He represented ordinary peaceful people being destroyed by the horrors of war. And as a hobbit he also represented some of the last vestiges of magic in what was basically a post magic apocalypse.

Frodo was basically an innocent puppy thrown into the Torment Nexus so that EVERYONE ELSE could maybe have a hope of surviving. And he did that willingly. HE DID IT OF HIS OWN FREE WILL, KNOWING IT WOULD RUIN HIM.

Frodo haters won't see the light of heaven

I don't know half of Tolkien lore half as well as I should like, and I've studied less than half of it half as much as it deserves.

"DELIVER" Pt.One

✦ | 03.27.23 |

✦ | TWST!VARIOUS X GN!READER | TWST: MAFIA AU

✦ | Violence | Sexual Themes | Smoking | Murder | Gore(?) | Blood | Tread carefully, my love.

✦ | Synopsis: | You deliver letters all across the eight districts and Ramshackles. A quite fulfilling job, until one day you and your neighbor have a horrible mix up. He's involved in something he shouldn't be and you just happened to be the last person he talked too.

[OVERVIEW]

Mafias are no joke.

They're dangerous. Violent. Some more than others. Yet it has been covered in gold, glamorized til the point of no return. Yet it isn't senseless murder, but only a few words can deem any murder from senseless to meaningful. It's best to not interact with them at all, it's best to simply know they exist and avoid them. Unless you desire end with them, or below.

Splattered drops of rain beat down on his form, shoes slippery as he turned down alleyways, shoulders and body slamming into the stone walk, nearly falling over himself to run away. His sight blinded by his wet hair, and clothes stained in dirty and blood.

He's been deemed a thief.

He can hear the loud shouts of orders from behind, the barking of dogs, and heavy footsteps that didn't stop and falter in the rain, an unmoving force that was moving faster than the boy. He continues twisted and turning, praying to any god, that he survives, he has to survive, the people have to know. They must. He stumbles out into the empty street, hands frantically wiping at his face, gasping and spitting out water, a moment to slow.

The sound of a gun rings out, ripping through the flesh of the boy, his body within moments topping over from the sheer-velocity and force, feeling the bullet rip through skin and rest painfully within his back. He blinks the tears from his eyes, as his body lands face first into the cobble stone ground.

Lifeless.

Those chasing him slow, staring the dead body be continuously beat down by the rain, and the rolling crackle of thunder, there's a hushed spread of commands, 'Grab the body. We'll show the Boss.' Voice is blank, as if almost grieving at the unnecessary loss of human life, before turning to his partner- his "friend", who easily tucked the gun away. A shark-like smile spread across his lips.

"He was wanted dead—Now he's dead." He merely shrugs, while the man with a spade symbol upon his face scowls.

"He was wanted alive. You went against the rules." The merman merely shrugs once again, making a 'blah' sound at the mention of the Queendom's rules.

A senseless murder to one, meaningful murder to another.

══════ ♡ ════════════ ♡ ══════

Death Certificate letters are the worse letters to ever have to deliver.

The road bumpy beneath your bike wheels, your leather satchel within your metal basket. You offer smiles to those you pass, those who worked in the gardens, picking and planting fresh vegetables and fruits, a group of older women and young girls, that always offer a wave and without outfail a dinner invitation, always adding 'the more the merrier' and there right, it's fun to not eat alone.

You ride your bike over twisted and bends, passing a small library where the owner watered his windowsill flowers, waving at you, and you wave back with a small smile. He's an old man, wrinkly and gray, with a single wooden leg, some say he got it during a fight with the Octavinelle Mafia, though most the others think he's lying, but a good lie never hurt no one.

The Ramschackles are diverse and lively midday, pressing on the breaks as a young man and his children blocked the road, letting his cattle walk through, leading the towards the pasture on the other side. He greets you, asking about your day, as his son climbs the old fencing shouting for the cows to go faster, and his daughter begs to ride the cows, pulling on the pants of his father. You remember the birth of the twins, nearly 6 years ago. You can't help but smile, giving each kid a piece of candy which you got from visiting Heartslabyul, which the father silently mouths a 'thank you', his wife had died in the last fall.

Once the last cow passed, your sped off, familiar with every bump and lump, though all the large rocks having been removed by a group of men, promising to make the road safer for you, and they did. Even covering up the major holes with dirt to make it even. Even amongst the mass of houses and homes, you can see the house that the certified was for, Ms. Louis, a widower, and now, a mother without her son.

Turning a sharp curve and halting in front of her home, kicking down your kickstand and climbing off your bike, yanking you satchel from the basket and fixing down your hair and clothes as you walked up the narrow stops, skipping the creaky board, as your rummaged through your bag. Before you can even knock, the door swings open, just as you grab the envelope.

"[Name], you're here." She speaks with a soft inhale, as if she ran from her kitchen to answer, she has deep eye bags, and her black hair is messy and undone. She attempts to smile, but you can tell by the shakiness of her hands, she's panicking—scared.

You pass her the envelope, yet you can't speak, far too afraid that your voice would crack, and you'd witness this woman all five stages of grief before she could open the yellow envelope. She doesn't wait til your leave, ripping off the edge immediately, you can see her green eyes begin to water, she already knows what awaits her. She tosses the packaging aside, hands running over the thick cardboard paper, fingers tracing the words of her son. She breaks down in sobs, and you hold her, feeling her frail form lean against you, arms wrapped around your shoulder, as she cries and speaks in broken sobs.

"H-he's dead! They-They kill-killed him!" She hiccups, voice cracking, you can feel her already broken heart shattering. Her crying gains the attention of others, some already sure of the fate that her son befell the moment he left the safety of the Ramschackles. Others asking to look at the certificate, as your pull away, watching them read over the piece of paper.

"Bullshit! That boy was no thief!" A neighbor, he shots angrily, holding the paper firm in his hand, as he points to Ms. Louis. "He ain't no thief!" His wife pats his arm, wiping the tears from her eyes, shaking her head at her husband's outburst. "He ain't mean it, Liz. He just hurtin""

"I know. I know." Liz let's put an exasperated laugh, shaking her head as she wipes her tears, walking down the steps and taking the paper back. "I know my Tommy was doing good," she lets out a shaky sigh, before turning back to you, "he always does good. Forgive me, it's been long since I've cried so hard. I know my boy wouldn't want be sobbin' over him like that."

"It's good to cry." You respond with a smile.

"They'r right. Tears ain't hurt nobody.” The husband speaks with a firm headnod, wagging his finger as Liz merely laughs making her way the steps to her house.

"Im in the process of finishin' that onion soup, with the chicken, if you wanna stay for lunch." The husband and wife immediately agree, the wife promising to get the newest loaf of bread to eat with it, as the husband made his way towards the house. Liz glances at you, hopefully. You feel bad, but pat your satchel.

"I got a few more letters, but save me a bite." You hop down the steps as she laughs, climbing back onto your bike and ringing the bell a few times, with a chuckle, before racing off.

The Ramschackles have always and will always be resilient.

"You had not the jurisdiction!"

Within a room of Crowley Hall, surrounding a table stands seven people. The Red-Rose Tyrant, The King of Beasts, The Deep-Sea Merchant, The Silly Sultan, The Fairest, King of the Underworld, and lastly The General. Tension is thick, palpable, you can almost taste it on yourself tongue.

Vil Schoenheit, The Fairest, was the first to speak, a clear scowl upon perfectly glossed lips, hair pulled back into a bun, clearly tired and annoyed. "Azul, we were supposed to agree,"

"And we did. Forgive me if Heartslabyul was too slow. Floyd is of course an uncontrollable force, and we wanted him dead, no?"

Azul Ashengrotto, The Merchant Of The Deep, has a faux pout, his voice drenched in fake concern, a heavy trench jacket hanging over his shoulders, eyes behind silver glasses beyond amused.

Riddle Rosehearts, The Red-rose Tyrant, stucks in a breath through his teeth, clearly angry, with the furrowing of his red brows. "You had no right. Under law, Floyd's head he be placed along my wall. Our suspect was not supposed to be killed."

"He was a thief. Isn't theft against your laws?" Leona Kingscholar, The King Of Beasts, stands directly infront of Riddle, still across the wide table, a deeply bored expression upon his face, yet his eyes seemed to glow in amusement.

"Exactly. I don't see why I'm such a target for such hate." Azul lets out a pitiful sigh, causing Riddle to slam his hands against the table, nearly knocking over various glasses, he glowers at the mafia boss of Octavinelle.

"If he fought back! You mercilessly killed him upon Heartslabyul soil! Do not deny it!"

"He had information, why give him a chance to live," Azul pushes up his glasses, a cruel grin spreading across his face, "unless you were working with him?"

Leona shakes his head, eyes fluttered close. "For shame."

"That wouldn't be a good look upon Heartslabyul either." Azul continues, before a clearing of a throat cuts him off.

Lilia Vanrouge, The General, the stand in for Diasomnia's Boss. "He had information. Information he shouldn't have. Information that resulted in his death. A shame it is..."

"It was senseless." Riddle crosses his arms, a scowl deep on his face still.

"But the information made it meaningful." Azul continues to keep his artificial smile, eyes on Lilia. The fae merely clears his throat, crossing his arms, a smile child-like grin on his face.

"We cannot go back in time to do differently. Our next step of action is to find if he could've possibly told another person. Any ideas Idia?"

Idia Shroud, The King Of The Underworld, his eyes dart across him screen before nodding. Using his fingers to spread out a image of the Ramschackles, showing the image of a tiny hovel with a rickety iron fence and old stone pathway.

"Hey, [Name]! This is absolute gold! I gotta tell ya!"

A young boy with blonde hair, and freckles walks beside you as your push your bike. He's holding a letter that you delivered to him simply moments ago. He waves it excitedly. He was a mafia fanatic, loved anything and everything about the place. To the point it had you concerned sometimes. The letter you had given him was from the Thomas Louis, or Tommy.

"Let me tell ya! If I get this to the news! Ooh Wee! Imagine! All that money." He punches the hair, and you shake your head.

"Don't go messin' with the Mafias."

"They aint gon' hurt no nobody like me." Henry has always been excitable, there's not a moment you haven't seen him without a smile that rivals the sun. "Well, I ain't gon' be a nobody for long." He voice quiets, but the smile is still there. Silence.

He opens his mouth to speak again, until a familiar chime of a bell and a holler of 'Henry' sounds loud and clear. "COMIN' MA!" He glances back at you with a grin. "Tomorrow. Imma tell you all about my big plan."

"I'm excited to hear about it." You watch him let out a happy laugh, before running off with a final wave. You spot your home in the distance, picking up your pace, as your place your bike against the metal fence.

Now, you love your home within the Ramshackle, your Lil hovel, and your small garden with your cat. You love it, truly you do. You love your neighbors, and you love the festivals that the Ramshackle holds. You love it all.

Your leather satchel hangs off your hip, filled to the brim with different letters and papers from your most recent trip. You just returned from Scarabia, having a good easy delivery for the old man that lives up the street, and after a long day, you're finally home.

You push past the old rickety iron gate, and up the stone pathway, eyes searching along for your familiar feline friend. He usually waits for you. Hopping the old creaky steps, until you stop right in front of a card. Perfectly placed with gold decor. 'For Ramschackle's Perfect. You're invited to Crowley Hall' written directly on the front. Ramshackle's Perfect was only a joke type name among the people that lived in, said Ramshackle.

Who else would call you that?

You pick up the letter, glancing around the porch, before slipping inside your home, and closing the door behind you. Crowley Hall, also known as the Grand Dinner Hall, a place where all important events took place, especially the meeting of all seven mafia leaders. Why would someone invite you with no other information?

You flip the card, there's nothing else. Your shoulders slump, you shouldn't go. Yet, you stare at the words once again. It could be important or lead to trouble for the other people of Ramshackle. Your eyes drift over to your clock. It was only 7 pm.

You had five hours.

You glance back at the thick fancy card. Five hours before 12. You feel a familiar purr, and glance down at your cat, Grim rubbing against your legs. Five hours, and well, as long as you're back before midnight. You'll be fine.

Right?

ⓒ 2023 cvlutos — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

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