#I was just pulled into The Metamorphosis and woke up in the middle of the night to finish reading it

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Uh-oh. This is bad

[xoxonawalwrites]

Metamorphosis chapter two

My eyes lock in with the 4 boys, as they all approach me. I sucked in a quick deep breath, straightened my back and pursued my lips in a pouty shape as I bit the inside of my mouth.

‘Woher kommst du?’ The brunette asked enthusiastically. 

‘Huh?’ ‘Sorry I didn’t get that’

‘Sie sprichst Englisch Albert’ said the Harry Potter lookalike. His smile widened even more and asked ‘where come you?’ To which I chuckled as ‘Harry Potter’ quickly corrected Albert’s horrendous grammar.

I explained to them how I normally woke up, annoyed that I was awoken from my beauty sleep, brushed my teeth, ate my breakfast, got changed, did my makeup and landed in the middle of nowhere in a place stuck in 1910. 

As expected they all looked at each other as if they had found out that the moon was really made of cheese. Albert continued smiling at me as wide as a Cheshire Cat , Ludwig whom I assumed was the smarter one of the clique, was lost in deep thought and for the round faced dude and the lanky curly head, both seemed to be mesmerised with both my makeup and outfit. However a quick glare was enough to make them cough and divert their gaze.

‘My father is a physics professor at our school , he may have theories on how this phenomenon came to be..’ Ludwig piped up. ‘There must be a scientific reason for this’. 

‘Ja I agree, and considering your clothes and face paint I believe you’re not from this era’ Albert chuckled. I didn’t let that slide that easily. His smile quickly erased. 

‘What I mean is that girls here, in this era don’t wear such things, not that you don’t look good, it’s just that… that…’

The curly head spoke up, ‘Albert is trying to say the clothes girls in your era wear 

is vastly different to the ones in our era.’ 

His eyes trailed down on to my toned waist and up into my eyes again .

 ‘Forgive us if you feel we gawked at you, we just aren’t used to girls showing so much… skin’ 

His pale cheeks quickly turned rosy as his eyes met mine. I think his name was Paul. Suddenly, my right arm was pulled from behind. 

‘Let’s go to the school Alessia, Ludwig’s father is bound to be there’ said Albert charismatically. As Ludwig and Albert led the way, I was stuck behind Paul, the shy boy I had just met to my left and Franz to my right. I felt a pair of eyes stare from the left. Soon my eyes met directly with a pair of teal eyes, however this time he didn’t look away.

[642stories]

Story 48 "Metamorphosis vs Parabiosis"

This story came to me in a creative writing club I'm currently participating in.

The theme of this season is “Metamorphosis.” It is inspired by Kafka’s novella of the same name. The first sentence of the novella goes, “One morning Gregor Samsa woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found he had turned into a large verminous insect.” (Translations vary slightly). 

The prompt: 

Write a story that begins with the sentence “One morning [Name of Character] woke in his bed from uneasy dreams and found/realized/saw he had turned into/become … .” 

___

“So one morning I woke up in my bed from uneasy dreams and found… you there,” he grinned at her and she couldn’t suppress a smile of her own.

“You believe in fate?” he snorted at her words, and Ani poked him with an elbow under his ribs.

“What else would you call it? We were broken and then suddenly we weren’t. This is a quintessence of a metamorphosis.”

“We are past that phase, Ani. We are more like a part of a parabiotic experiment now.” M. finished his drink in one gulp and put a glass on the coaster with a muffled thump.

“Parabiosis,” he raised an index finger to draw Ani’s attention. “That’s what it is. Remember how we met?” under the table he put a hand on her bare leg, his fingers brushing the soft skin near the hem of her skirt.

M. had big pale hands, which stood in stark contrast to the rest of his body – tanned, tall and seemingly fragile as if he was a good ten pounds below slim. Exactly the way when she first had seen him at the entryway of the intensive care unit. In a narrow hallway she brushed arms with a beautiful stranger, oblivious to the world around him. A silent sorry slipped past his lips and when their eyes met she couldn’t look away. Unable to move sideways, glued to the man standing at the door, she just kept staring, confronted by the pain etched on his face. His sharp hollow cheekbones and purple shadows under the bloodshot eyes did a poor job at masking his beauty. He looked like he was holding the weight of the whole universe on his fragile shoulders, yet he had found the strength to wind up on his feet.

Without giving it much thought – any thought – she caught his trembling hands and intertwined their fingers. In retrospect, it had been a bold move, the one she would never find an explanation for. The man didn’t flinch or pull away, just stirred Ani closer and encircled her with his big hands breaking into wrecking sobs in her embrace. He was tall and she barely reached the middle of his chest encased in a plain gray t-shirt, her forehead pressed into his pectoralis major, her lips against his heart, contracting two hundred beats a minute. He smelled like medicine, coffee and sunflower seeds.

Whatever his ache was, it echoed her own, and she stood there quietly, absorbing his tears with her hair and his sorrow with her soul.

She could never forget his frenzied kisses as he’d mapped out her luscious curves with his big pale hands. As he’d pounded into her, his body slick with sweat. As he’d bawled pressed to the sharp cut of her clavicle in the aftermath of his climax. As the sobs had racked his body and she kept rubbing soothing circles over his back.

Her heart clenched at the memory. M. reached over to wipe off a lone tear trickling down her cheek, the sea blue of his own clouded with moisture. And then he smiled.  They both were in tatters, and then they weren’t. The metamorphosis, indeed.

M. bent over the table and kissed the hollow of her neck. Ani pulled away, trying to look him in the eye, his breaths still dancing across her skin quickening her pulse traitorously. He was drawing numbers with his tongue on her flushed skin, dragging his lips to that sweet spot behind her ear, which he knew damn well made her squirm on her seat. She panted. She wanted him to take her back home and undress. The idea of making love to him was uppermost in her mind. She told him so.

He chuckled softly and nodded at a pizza on the table.

“You don’t want your pizza? I thought you were hungry!”

“Famished actually! Just not for pizza.”

M. looked down at her plate, his hand moving towards the apex of her thighs.

“Pizza is an example of parabiosis.” M. continued calmly as if giving a lecture. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Just think about it! They put cheese on this perfect oval of dough and then – voila – you get an entirely new thing. Parabiosis, Ani.”

“Did you just compare me with a slice of mozzarella?”

 “More like a sprinkle of Parmesan… You, me, combined together. A family, a child, the whole nine yards. Parabiosis.”

“Well, as you said, it’s clear that we are way past the metamorphosis stage.” Ani got out of the booth and extended a hand to M.

“Time to start the parabiosis phase, Romeo. Let’s go.”

[daedalusdavinci]

12 with BruHarv?

12. things you said when you thought i was asleep. i was torn between taking this like three separate directions and im not sure how i feel about this one BUT i think its pretty good anyway so

Bruce had a single. That was the excuse Harvey gave for why he practically lived in Bruce’s dorm, preferring to study within the mess of Bruce’s things than in his own dorm room, with his two roommates that were just as quiet and academically focused as he was. Bruce had a printer and a CD player and a computer, because he was rich, and he could, and so there was no reason not to study in Bruce’s room, because it was so much better. Harvey stayed the night there because it just made more sense than walking back to his dorm at one am. That was all it was.

The excuse felt a lot flimsier at two in the morning, when the lights were out and Bruce’s weight was warm against his side. There was more than enough space on the floor, and Bruce wasn’t even nice to share a bed with. He slept with so many blankets that Harvey felt like he was boiling alive, and then stole all of them in the middle of the night, wrapping himself up into them like a caterpillar going through metamorphosis. He stuck his icy feet underneath Harvey’s calves no matter how many times Harvey pulled away, and he cried out in his sleep often, constantly plagued by nightmares that kept Harvey up just as much as they kept Bruce up.

There wasn’t really an excuse for this. Harvey just liked it. And he didn’t know what that said about him.

Bruce smelled like soap and rain and his skin was still cold and damp against Harvey's nose. He'd melted under Harvey's weight as easily as butter the moment he'd tumbled into bed, the tension bleeding out of him with every kiss Harvey pressed against his shoulders. It made him look softer, limbs loose and face mushed against the pillows. His fingers found Harvey’s in the dark, tangling them loosely together with that kind of subtle, quiet affection that was Bruce all over.

It was easy to relax against him, to let himself indulge in this under the cover of darkness. Bruce made it so easy. Everything about him felt safe in the way that nothing else really had before. The other guy even liked him, and that never fucking happened.

Falling asleep had never been easier. Drowsiness overtook him the moment he settled in against Bruce’s back, warm and fuzzy against his mind. He tracked the slow rise and fall of Bruce’s breathing until he was too sleepy to do it anymore, dozing off to the rhythm of his best friend.

When he woke up later, he wasn’t sure why at first. It was still dark. Bruce’s fan hummed quietly, and the campus was silent, even the latest night owls having finally retired.

Bruce was gone, though. The bed was warm where he had been, a pillow stuffed carefully under Harvey’s head in place of a body. He’d pulled the blankets carefully around Harvey’s shoulders before he left, making sure he’d be warm without him.

The fog of sleep was still heavy over Harvey’s eyes, so for a minute, all he could find it in himself to do was to roll over into the spot Bruce had vacated, pushing his face into the pillow so that the smell of him flooded his senses. He wondered how long Bruce had been gone for, or how long it would take him to get back. Sometimes he had nightmares he felt he had to walk off, but it could have just as easily been a bathroom break, in which case he’d be back in no time. Harvey resolved to give it a while, then try and pry himself up from the bed to find Bruce.

He didn’t manage it. Without any memory of ever dozing off, he woke up again to the feeling of the blankets shifting, something cold and heavy pressing against his back. At the soft kiss pressed to his cheek, Harvey found himself relaxing instantly, leaning back into Bruce’s touch. Bruce’s voice was just a soft murmur, low against Harvey’s skin. “I’m here, sweetheart. Had to step out for a second, but I’m right here.”

In the privacy of darkness, through the haze of drowsiness, Harvey let himself admit the truth. He stayed the night for this- this ridiculously caring man, who loved him enough to try and reassure him when he was asleep. He stayed for the way he loved Bruce, for how it warmed him from the inside out even when Bruce was tucking his freezing fingers against Harvey’s sides. And as he drifted off for the third time, he thought, maybe, one day, he’d be able to admit it to himself in the daytime too.

[pangtasias-atelier]

Irreplaceable

A commission for the great @kanonffa

It’s always fun writing for Takumi cause I love him a lot lol. Also, writing this made me sad about the powercreep in FEH but I still use the hell out of him... 

Thanks again for the commission!

______________

A half battered training dummy staring back at him, Takumi clenches his teeth. Shoulders hunched, his bangs cling to his forehead as he catches his breath. Fujin Yumi in hand, the bow is undrawn as he surveys the training ground. The arena is littered with a multitude of arrows: targets destroyed cleanly in two, a training dummy more reminiscent of a pin cushion, and even the bench is nicked with a few stray arrows.

“It’s still no use,” Standing up, Takumi’s grip on Fujin Yumi tightens. “No matter what I do, I’ll always be inferior,” A few tears threaten to pour from Takumi’s eyes, the salty liquid prickling his eyes. Violently shaking his head, as if his thoughts will stop, Takumi sniffles.

Having been summoned to Askr early on, Takumi’s aid had been invaluable to the Order of Heroes. His relationship to Kiran strained at first, Takumi immediately distrustful of anyone, Kiran’s caring nature warmed him up eventually. Repelling Veronica’s initial assault on Askr, Takumi had been the main cause for the turning point. However, soon enough, his strength was beginning to lack. Foes and heroes grew stronger alike, and he was left to catch up. At first, it simply meant sharing the limelight, something that Takumi was rather fine with. As long as he felt he was doing his fair equal share, working in a team of four was inconsequential. But soon enough, playing catch up was no longer possible. Even with all of Kiran’s favoritism, Kiran offering refines and seals to Takumi first. Eventually, Takumi’s share was no longer equal, Takumi always contributing the least to his team. As Kiran shifted members around, the newer heroes always contributed more despite their increasing recency in being summoned. Once the star of any team, Takumi had been relegated to support, a role that others fared much better in as well, even as Kiran continued her attempts to help Takumi out.

“She’ll give up on me eventually,” Takumi glumly reminds himself. Scoffing, he heads back to his room. He merely offers a curt ‘hello’ to the few heroes that do greet him. He slams the door behind him as he enters his room, placing Fujin Yumi on its stand.

Takumi lets himself fall into his chair. Slouched, the tiny little addition of pudge on his stomach, his beginner abs now washed away by flab, presses against his shirt. “Ugghh,’ Takumi leans his neck back, staring at the ceiling. “If only Ryoma were here,” Takumi shakes his head, imagining Kiran falling for Ryoma if he were here as well. “Well, Hinoka would be nice to talk to,” Realizing Hinoka would most likely tell Takumi to take charge and confess, he rescinds that comment as well. “Sakura…” Takumi trails off, trying to find some fault in his expectation of a conversation with Sakura. But he finds none, Sakura’s reasoning so perfect that he can’t even imagine what she’d tell him.

“Any of them would be nice to talk to,” Slumping, Takumi crosses his arms over his chest with a pout. The only of his siblings summoned, any sort of talking was done with Kiran, but with his issue involving Kiran herself,  the lack of his siblings was starting to become increasingly obvious. “I should clear my mind,” Unwilling to dwell on the issue further, Takumi stands up. He heads over to the mess hall, eating his idea of clearing his mind.

Upon arriving at the currently near empty mess hall, Takumi immediately focuses on the two rowdy heroes eating together. The two of them newer additions to the Order, Gatrie and Osian both have hearty helpings of food. A couple of plates for each, the two talk about their training regimens in between bites, talk of women equally as involved as their talks of their regimens.

Takumi continues to listen in as he grabs something to eat. The idea of more food, Askr’s delicious myriad of dishes a soothing comfort, at the cost of some extra training sounds revolutionary to the desperate Takumi. Grabbing an extra serving of spaghetti, Takumi greedily rubs his hands as he sits down. He imagines his dream body, a defined chest with strong biceps, glistening abs and powerful legs to finish it off, Kiran surely falling for him if he puts on some muscle. Stronger with the added muscle, he’d be able to better pull his weight. His vision in mind, Takumi greedily devours his spaghetti.

Unwilling to spot any other fault with his mind too busy being preoccupied over his lack of strength, his indulgence of food for comfort escapes Takumi’s notice. Training so hard, a bit of extra snacks, or even meals, is a necessity. Or needing the extra food to aid his bulking process to impress Kiran. Takumi is far too willing to rationalize his indulgent behavior as anything but an issue. Even as the bit of pudge on his torso grows some more before that too becomes a noticeable sliver of lard. The extra girth to his body is simply his body being in the middle of his metamorphosis onto bigger and buffer things. At least, Takumi consoles himself as the days pass by. His training sessions grow frequently shorter and as his meals grow comparatively larger. Already deep into his training, a few more days will show some actual growth. And yet, the days turn into weeks, Takumi finding zero progress as the month passes by.

Well, not his intended progress.

Having just woken up, yesterday’s extra helping of cake sits in Takumi’s stomach. It heavily sits in his stomach, Takumi as stuffed as he is groggy. He rests a pudgy hand on his budding gut, his thick fingers curving alongside his stomach. “I…” Looking down, Takumi grits his teeth. His extra girth notable to everyone with eyes, tears threaten to prickle his eyes once again. His stance a tad wider than before his training regimine, his thighs curve a bit inward from the extra flab, the bundle of fat slightly squishing up against each other. The budding layer of fat marking the onset of his double chin presses against his chest. His love handles, both the size of dinner rolls and perfect for a grab, jut out on his sides. “...I just need to train more,” Takumi’s eyes shift, as if anyone else is in his room. Reaching for the nearest shirt, his clothes uncomfortable to sleep in with a clear lack of breathing room, Takumi grunts as he lifts the shirt over his head.

The fabric is already taut as Takumi stretches his shirt to cover his doughy back. Yanking the material down, he lets out angry puffs as he struggles. Fabric catching on fat, the material wrinkling, he yanks his shirt down each time. The hem going past his chest, he grits his teeth as he pulls harder; his arms squish against his sides. Tugging down, the hem goes down as far as possible. The bottom bit of Takumi’s flab remains exposed, his shirt unable to go any lower. His torso is absolutely stuffed inside his shirt. His outward ovular  curve of his love handles press against the fabric, the material clinging to his rolls. His shirt is painted on, his soft chest bulging through the top; the outline of his moobs are visible.

Takumi stomps his foot, the pressure reverberating in his leg. “This is..” Takumi grabs his love handles. He shakes them, his gut jiggling alongside his love handles. “This is pointless!” Crashing back down on his bed, a strained sob escapes him as he rests his head in his hands. The tiny crack from his bed’s frame goes unregistered. “I can’t impress Kiran now,” Sighing, the prior vigor in his body dissipates. Takumi’s frame curls in on itself as he lies on his side. “Not when everyone outclasses me…”

Unwilling to go out, feeling absolutely ridiculous in his far too small shirt, Takumi remains on his bed, shifting every once in a while as he wallows in his self pity. The day going on without him, he dejectedly sighs, his eyes downcast. Unaware of the exact time, the only marcation is the sun’s descent. Takumi sits up as a knock sounds. Takumi scrambles to fix himself, his hands shooting towards his shirt to yank it down. His eyes nearly bulge as the door begins to open.

“H-hey, wait a minute!” Takumi freezes as Kiran walks in.

“Here you are!” Bustling in, Kiran’s ever jovial expression remains present on her face. “I couldn’t find you anywhere,” Kiran smiles at Takumi, her gaze focused on his face.

Takumi inwardly screams. Kiran right in front of him, he prepares himself for a snide comment on his weight, or laughter or just about any way this’ll go wrong.

Yet, none of his envisioned scenarios come to pass, Takumi eyeing Kiran. “Yeah…” Takumi rubs the back of his neck, his shirt rising up his belly. “I woke up late,” Takumi smiles, staring at the wall behind Kiran instead of her face,

“Are you okay?” Kiran steps forward. She places a hand on Takumi’s shoulder.

Takumi grits his teeth. “Of course I’m not!” Takumi shouts, pushing away Kiran’s hand. “Not when I look like this,” Takumi places both hands on his roll of a stomach, the lard slotting itself into his hands. “I’m fat and-” Takumi grunts, lifting his hands in exasperation.

“So, you haven’t been trying to gain weight?” Kiran innocuously asks, her head slightly cocked to the side.

“Huh?” Broken out of his anger, Takumi stares at Kiran. “You think I did this on purpose?” Takumi nearly jumps as Kiran places a warm hand on his stomach.

“I’ve seen you so often in the mess hall that I figured it was intentional,” Kiran pats Takumi’s stomach. She smiles up at him. “I think you look a lot cuter like this, but if you want to lose the weight, I could go over some training sessions with you tomorrow morning,”

Takumi’s face burns, his cheeks a vibrant hue of red that seems to want to melt his face off. His mind replays Kiran’s words, his entire being focusing on Kiran calling him cute. He glances down at Kiran’s expectant face. His mind pieces the rest of her words, Takumi clearing his throat. “Yeah! Tomorrow sounds great!” He winces from his palpable excitement.

“Great, I’ll see you then,” Kiran gives a small wave before rushing away, her face gleeful from the prospect of spending time with Takumi.

Takumi watches as Kiran walks off, her pace always in a hurry. He closes his door as she turns the last corner of the hallway. Alone again, he presses his back against the wall. Pressing a hand to his racing heart, he takes steady breaths. “Okay,” Mind replaying the prior scene, Takumi mulls over the interaction. “She said I looked cute…” Takumi begins to walk in circles. “She was probably just pitying me,” Takumi glances down at his tummy. He pokes his pale flab, his stomach jiggling in response. “But I still have a date with her tomorrow,” Takumi chokes on his saliva as he catches his mistake. “It’s not a date! Just a training session, but still, there has to be some way to get rid of this,” Takumi sighs as he realizes his answer. “It’s gonna be magic…” Inept in the art of magic, the tomes he could barely decipher are now his last resort. Mentally preparing himself, the already late hour is perfect for his little escapade.

Giving one last tug at his shirt, Takumi grumbles as his thighs rub against one another. Peeking his head out the door, Takumi checks for anyone around. The hallway is completely empty. Takumi picks up a decent pace. Fast enough to show he has somewhere to go, but not fast enough to look like a maniac. Or for his fat to be shaking everywhere. Though it still jiggles from his pace. Takumi hopes his face doesn’t get even redder.  He passes by a few other heroes, none of them thankfully from the World of Fates. Though, he still keeps his gaze averted from them, hoping for zero comments about his extra flab. Another few turns, the seemingly endless hallways are nothing to Takumi’s long time in Askr. The ornate brown doors marking the library’s entrance open easily as Takumi pushes them open. The library is void of any other individual, Takumi the only occupant. Deciding to get to work, he begins by the walls.

Takumi mentally thanks whoever organizes the library. Each shelf neatly organized by subject, Takumi quickly browses the shelves by subject alone. Passing by books on geography, painting, weapons, and many more, each subject divided further based upon the realm, Taumi walks along the shelves lining the wall. His attention shifts as he reaches the back left hand corner. A door remains inconspicuous in between two shelves.

Deciding to enter, he praises his luck as he finally finds a section on magic. The room is much smaller than the main section of the library. A few shelves are placed interspersedly; a small table for two sits perfectly in the middle. Takumi glances at each book's title. Spotting a possible contender, the book titled Limits of the Body, Takumi promptly places it back after reading a few paragraphs, the book on the use of magic for tortue.  Another book titled Free your Form details the use of light and dark magic and their usage in manifesting  incorporeal beings.

“Please let this be the one,” Takumi mutters to himself as he grabs another book, this one titled A Treatise on Molding. Takumi promptly opens the book to the table of contents before he flips over to the back of the book where the spells are listed.

Reading the spells under his breath, it takes Takumi a while to understand each spell. And even then, his lack of magic has him only understanding the mere basics of a spell’s purpose. Takumi taps his finger against the book as he finds the perfect spell. Clearing his throat, he takes a steady breath. Reciting the words as best as he can, Takumi looks down at himself with bated breath. His stomach bubbles for a second, the little mound of fat groaning before it begins to recede. Eyes wide, Takumi lifts up his arm. The flab hanging from his arms begins to recede as well, Takumi stares as the definition returns to his arms, his muscles no longer hidden under a layer of fat. Bringing a hand to his stomach, the onset of abs are back, the flat stomach under his lithe fingers. His hand shifts to his thighs, the wide legs now much trimmer. Takumi hugs the tome, the book pressing up against his slight chest.

However, a thought blossoms in Takumi’s mind. If a spell made him lose all the weight he gained, what’s to say he couldn’t use another spell to gain the muscle he desperately wanted to impress Kiran? With that thought in mind, Takumi opens the book, once more rifling through the pages. The spells somewhat hard to decipher, he struggles a bit before he finds what he needs. A spell to get bigger, Takumi recites the spell with certainty, closing the book with a flourish as he finishes. A warmth begins to bud in his stomach, Takumi looking on with glee.

He nearly falls over as his stomach lurches forward. A gut larger than the extra flab he had before, his shirt tears from the sudden growth. His ass does the same, his flat butt gaining shape as it bulges outward, his pants creaking from the fat. His chin soon grows a double chin. His thighs widen, the prior problem of chafing minor as his legs continue to grow and fatten, the two thighs squishing further against each other. His gut continues to expand; the mass of fat sags ever further to blanker his legs. Lethargic, Takumi uses a heavy arm to open the book. He holds back a choke as his arms grow wider than how his thighs were before all this mess. Takumi flips through the spells as fast as he can, his sausage fingers struggling to leaf through the pages. The sounds of his shredding clothing rings in his ears. A new rip or tear seems to sound out as he goes through every page, Takumi’s eyes scanning for the first spell. Feeling just so damn heavy, Takumi grunts as his legs begin to wobble. Huffing, the pile of lard for cheeks begin to encroach into his peripheral vision. His arms shake as he tries to keep the book lifted. And still he grows, Takumi panicking as he can simply feel the expanse of his body despite not touching it. The sheer weight and space he takes up immense as the last shreds of his clothes fall off, the stuffy air of the library against his skin. He feels how much his fat sags, his titanic gut reaching his knees. He struggles to shift, his thighs unbearably pressed up against each other. His chest sags down on his gut, the two breasts larger than even the numerous well endowed women in the Order.

Finally reaching the page, Takumi pants for air. Simply standing, he feels exhausted. He begins to read the first spell, his still fattening body urging him on. His knees buckling, Takumi falls back. Letting out a shout, the book falls from his grasp. His gigantic ass cushions the fall, the large hills for fat rivaling a two seater. Huffing, Takumi spots the book in front of him. Moreso his stomach than himself, Takumi’s bed for a stomach extending far out as it envelops more and more of the floor. Takumi grunts as he tries to lift up a door crushingly-wide thigh. His thighs alone are larger than his waistline back when he was pudgy. Pathetically moving his arms, even that ends up being a chore for Takumi, his massively fattened arms no longer good for anything. Completely immobile, Takumi whimpers as he feels himself grow even larger.

Unable to do anything, Takumi remains seated as he continues to fatten up. Growing unfathomably wide, he wonders about the sheer amount of fabric that would be necessary just to cover up his tank of a stomach. New rolls continue to form on Takumi’s body as older rolls grow even plumper. Takumi gasps as the sides of his stomach press against bookshelves. His tire for a neck prevents him from turning, Takumi only able to see his growing body overtakes the room. He winces as the bookshelves topple over, his fat simply flowing over the mess. Soon, his arms refuse to budge as well, Takumi only able to wiggle his massively engorged digits. His fat continues its growth, Takumi immobilized by an ocean of his own fat. He shuts his eyes as his fat reaches the edges of the room. Expecting the worst, he waits expectantly for the walls to groan as his fat builds up and presses against all four walls. Nothing happening, he opens his eyes.

The room filled with his own fat, Takumi’s body stops its growth. Panic leaving his body, Takumi lets out a sigh. One problem resolved, his other problem of losing all this weight begins to sink in.

Though the problem sounds nowhere near as bad. Takumi finds the soft, cushiony piles of lard warm. “No, this isn’t happening,” Takumi immediately quiets down, surprised to hear the newfound depth to his voice. Definitely never having a high pitched or squeaky voice, the extra hundreds of pounds of lard seem to make sure no one would ever think that. His voice a bit deeper, Takumi whines as he finds himself enjoying the extra richness to his voice, always a bit too self conscious about how he sounded. Shoving that thought away as well, his face is red as he tries to divert his mind onto something else. They shift onto Kiran, Kiran hugging Takumi’s fat while she- “AARGH!” Stewing in his own lard, Takumi’s thoughts continue to focus on Kiran.

Making her usual rounds patrolling the Order’s base, Kiran stops in her tracks as a thud sounds out. Keeping a brisk pace, she watches her footsteps. The noise sounding from the library, Kiran easily slams open the door despite her small frame. Briedablik raised to summon a hero, Kiran instead finds the library in perfect order. A door in the back of the library creaking, Kiran quickly opens it.

She steps back as some pale gelatinous thing seeps forward. The object squeezes through the doorway, the rest of it still contained inside the room. Kiran presses a finger against it. Her entire finger sinks into the mass. Removing her finger, she presses her whole fist against it, the substance absorbing her hand up to her wrist.

“H-hey! Who’s there?” The strange pale blob responds to her prodding.

The voice sounding familiar, Kiran squints in concentration. The name of the voice’s owner ready to jump out of her mouth, the slight deepness throws her off, the voice an octave or two lowers than-

“Takumi?” Concern replacing any remaining confusion, Kiran crawls on top of the mass of fat. Careful to not step too harshly, she fits under the remaining space between the top of the doorway and Takumi’s lard. Her hands and feet sink into the blob known as Takumi. Hurrying her pace, Kiran shifts all her attention in climbing up. The large plate sized nipples mark Takumi’s breasts, the crease of fat not aiding with a myriad of rolls lining the entirety of Takumi’s body. Takumi’s moobs alone are larger than Kiran’s entire head, the pumped full of lard breast sagging to the side as it curves down Takumi’s bed crushing gut. Two smaller mounds of fat placed a bit further back and above Takumi’s pillows for a chest, Kiran sighs as she makes out Takumi’s face. An exaggeratedly puffed out version of Takumi’s face, his jowls even slightly sag onto his tire for a neck, Takumi’s neck comprised up of rolls just like the rest of his body. His partially visible hair gives it away to Kiran, Kiran devoting to memory Takumi’s long soft locks of hair. “Takumi!” Reaching his face, Kiran grab’s Takumi’s cheeks. She stares at his face, checking for anything and everything. “Takumi, are you okay? Who did this? Why were y-”

“I’m fine,” Takumi grumbles, his cheeks jiggling as he speaks. He doesn’t elaborate, instead preferring to shift his gaze away from Kiran.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah!” Takumi snaps, his voice rising in intensity as he stares at Kiran. He quickly catches his mistake, sighing afterwards. “It’s just…” Takumi sighs a second time.

“It’s just what?” Kiran adjusts herself, shifting a bit back to give Takumi some space. When Takumi refuses to offer any more insight, Kiran speaks up. “Takumi, we’ve been through more stuff than we can remember together. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, I’m always here for you,” Leaning to the side, Kiran has to lie down on Takumi’s fat to reach his hand. Putting a pinky out, she wraps it around Takumi’s sausage of a pinky. “Pinky promise,” Sitting back up, she smiles at Takumi, finished with her piece.

Takumi continues his grumbling. He opens his mouth in random intervals before he clams up. A few minutes of silence passing by, Takumi lets out a short, exasperated groan. “It’s just, I know you were lying about saying I look cute when I was…” Takumi pauses. “When I was stocky, just to make me feel better,”

Kiran nods, allowing Takumi to keep speaking.

“So I decided to use some magic before our training session tomorrow. I managed to lose the weight, but when I tried to add a bit of muscle, this,” Takumi wobbles his arms in a poor imitation of gesturing to his corpulent body. His arms remain glued to his corpulent frame, Takumi unable to lift them.“Well, this happened,”

“Takumi,” Kiran pats the side of his cheek. Her hand is smaller than the surface area of Takumi;s cheek. “ I said what I meant back then. You look great regardless of your size,” Kiran grins, her face growing a flushed red, the same red as Takumi’s face whenever he stares at Kiran when he thinks she isn’t aware of his staring. “But,”

Takumi’s eyes widen, the shred of confidence gained deteriorating by the second. “But…”

“I honestly think you look much better with some weight on you,”

“Err, you already said that last time?” Takumi furrows his brows, his confused expression unfitting with his overly puffed out cherubic face.

“I mean you look great even now,”

“Oh.” Takumi’s face burns red, the cogs in his brain jamming as they register Kiran’s confession. “OH. I - um,” He winces at his sudden lack of speaking. “I don’t entirely think this is awful?” Takumi counter’s Kiran’s confession with his own before backpedaling. “But just for a while! Being this huge all the time is-”

A small chuckle bubbles in Kiran’s throat, her face grinning to stop the oncoming laughter before she lets loose, uproariously laughing to herself. She places a hand on her sides as her laughing fit continues, Kiran’s laughter devolving into a fit of coughs. “Sorry,” Kiran devolves into giggles for a few seconds. “Sorry,  I’m sorry. I just think you’re great and nothing can change that. So, remember to loosen up a bit once in a while. Cause, you’re special and irreplaceable to me,” Kiran smiles, her eyes crinkling as she stares at Takumi’s puffed out face. Bringing a gloved hand to his face, she pinches his cheeks, her smile as vibrant as ever.

Takumi whimpers at the praise, any sort of bold declarations rare in Hoshido’s culture. He retreats in his own fat, his bundles of necks squishing down as he tries to not turn as red as a fire tome. Flabbergasted, the wind knocked out of him and cognitive thinking destroyed, Takumi shyly looks back at Kiran, unable to do or say anything. Kiran is the first one to break the rather short silence, though Takumi finds the silence lasting longer than Corrin’s silence during her decision on which side to support back during the war.

“Well, you’ve probably been like this long enough, so I’ll go find someone to reverse this,” Kiran gives a second smile at Takumi, ruffling his hair in the process. She pushes herself off Takumi, sliding down his hill for a gut. She hurries off before Takumi can complain at her. Walking through the library, she heads over to the perfect person to ask. Going over to the nearest wing, the mages living closest to the library, Kiran knocks on a door.

“Give me a second,” The voice retorts back. Kiran grins up as Leo opens the door for her. Leo’s hair disheveled and his shirt on backwards, Kiran prefers to not mention his clear ready for bed state. “What is it now?” Leo rubs the bridge of his nose. He closes his door, stepping into the hallway.

“I need help reversing a spell,” Kiran leads the way, Leo walking beside her.

“That’s it?” Leo stifles a yawn with his hand. “It better not be far,”

“It’s in the library. Takumi messed up a spell,”

Leo’s eyes widen at Kiran’s confession. “I guess I’ll help him considering how woefully inept he is,” Any sort of dirt on Takumi the best kind of dirt, Leo savors the possibilities of being able to rub it in Takumi’s face about how he needed his help. “What kind of spell was it?”

“You’ll see,” Kiran remains silent for the rest of the short walk.

Entering the library, Leo squints his eyes as something seeps through one of the doors in the back. Stepping closer, he kicks the object, the object profusely shaking in response.

“Watch it!” The blob responds back.

“That’s Takumi; he messed up a growth spell,”

Leo stares at the mass upon hearing that it’s Takumi. “Maybe I’ll let this blunder aside,” He whispers under his breath. His face red, he clears his throat. “This will be easy,”

Before Leo can cast a spell to counter Takumi’s, Kiran grabs his arm. Pulling him down, she whispers into his ear. “You have to teach me the magic of whatever he did. And also make the fix last awhile,”

“Sure,” Leo responds without any hesitation. The more embarrassment for Takumi, the better. He stumbles back as Kiran hugs him. “Enough with the gratitude,” Ignoring the heat on his face, he begins reciting a spell as Kiran finally lets go. His spell a basic counter to the prior spell used on someone, a blue haze swirls around his fingers. The hue turns darker the further he recites the lines, Leo having memorized the spell. Finishing it, he presses his hand against the soft flesh of Takumi’s overflowing gut. The effects completely unnecessary, Leo grins as Kiran oohs and awes from his added little spectacle. “He should return to normal in a few hours,” Leo flushes as Kiran hugs him again.

“You’re the best, Leo!”

“Yeah, yeah. Now go do whatever it is you plan to do,” Escaping from Kiran’s vice-like grip, Leo heads back to his room.

Alone with Takumi once more, Kiran begins to climb Takumi’s immobile body. The soft warm pudge under her, and with the promise of learning the spell, the edges of Kiran’s eyes crinkle from her smile. No longer in a rush of concern, she savors the small climb. Checking around the room, she nearly loses her jaw upon realizing the sheer extent of  Takumi’s massive state. The room admittedly small, the fact does nothing to lessen the realization of the entire floor being covered by Takumi’s mammoth like body. So filled with his fat, the flab of Takumi’s ass begins to rise up along the wall, his lard propped up by even more lard in its desperation for room. His couch sized thighs do the same, the gargantuan appendages squeezed tight in between the wall and Takumi’s monstrous gut. Reaching Takumi’s face, she perches herself atop his breasts, the two massive jugs the most comfortable seat.

“I already feel the weight going away,” Takumi offers a slight smile, still embarrassed about the whole situation. The upper portion of his fat pressed up against the wall no longer feels as high. Neither does the lard escaping past the door.

“Good. They said that it’ll take a few hours to go away,”

“Oh,” Takumi glances down at himself. “You don’t have to stay just cause you feel bad for me,”

“I meant what I said earlier,” Kiran grabs Takumi’s cheeks. The two piles of fat sit heavily in her hands, her palms overflowing with Takumi’s cheeks.

“I just wanted to make sure,” Takumi continues to avert his gaze from Kiran’s. “At least this isn’t a terrible feeling,” Takumi clamps up at his further admission.

“See, I knew you’d realize how cute you look!” Kiran fusses with Takumi, squishing and pinching his cheeks as Takumi squirms under her touch. “But, first we have to wait out for the spell to be reversed,” Kiran holds on tight as Takumi’s body begins to shake, adeep guttural groan sounding from Takumi’s gut.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Takumi whines, his face pained as his hunger begins to catch up to him.

“I’ll be right back, then. The mess hall should still be open” Inching herself closer, Kiran’s hands sink into Takumi’s expansive lard. The moment passing in an instant, Kiran presses her lips against Takumi’s. Pulling back as quickly as possible, a smile on her giddy face, she deftly climbs back down Takumi’s girth, heading off with an extra spring in her step.

His first ever kiss, Takumi’s mind races as it replays Kiran pecking him on the lips. His bright red face burns even brighter as his mind registers Kiran’s complete eagerness in his size. He fails to register his own extra eagerness as he smacks his lips, already hoping that maybe his size takes a bit longer to go away.

[melon-kiss]

Cold Tea, Pt. 1

I’m not native English, which seems kind of obvious if you read my posts. I’d like you to keep that in mind. I hope your eyes won’t start bleeding at the end. Or in the middle. Or at any point of reading this fic.

Enjoy! or... whatever.

___________

“Hello, Sherlock.”

She finally answered the call, although she tapped the green button with a heavy heart. She put a lot of effort in trying not to sound sad.

“Is this urgent? Because I’m not having a good day.” Her voice sounded gloomy anyway.

When she woke up this morning, she felt a certain heaviness in everything she was doing. The lab seemed strange, she was working like a robot. She might not have a memory palace, but her body definitely had a muscle memory and was able to work with her brain detached.

“Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why”, Sherlock said fast as usual.

No “hello”, no “how are you doing”. Molly was used to his obnoxious behaviour but that day it only worsened her already bad mood. She wasn’t willing to deal with his craziness and arrogance. Not after all the tears she cried once she got back home from work. Not after realising it was another pathetic day of her lonely life. Another day of loving a person that could not care less about her.

You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.

What a bunch of lies. She was useful to him in the best case scenario. She could show him bodies that should not be shown or let him use the lab equipment. She was the necessary leverage in his battle with Moriarty, but this was the only reason he wanted to spend an entire day with her - to thank her. On the rest of the days he was just manipulative as always. She didn’t matter to him in any sort of personal meaning of this word.

Usually, she would become his minion one more time, but that day she wasn’t going to play along.

“Oh, God, is this one of your stupid games?”

“It’s not a... game, I need you to help me”. His voice suddenly softened a bit, leading Molly to confusion.

“Well, I’m not at the lab-“

“It’s not about that”, he interrupted in a strangely nervous tone.

The nervousness got to her as well. The tea she intended to drink was starting to get cold and she resumed the making process to keep her hands busy. She felt it must have been something unusual, even for Sherlock Holmes.

“Well... quickly, then”, she replied, half-consciously cleaning up the kitchen counter.

But he remained silent for another couple of seconds. She started losing her patience.

“Sherlock!”, she rushed him. “What is it? What do you want?”

He finally spoke up.

“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.”

She thought that maybe this time it wouldn’t be that bad of a game. Maybe he just wanted to solve a funny puzzle and needed to hear it from someone else’s lips?

“What words?”, she asked with a little of a smile on her face.

“I love you.”

The bad mood, which was almost gone, got back immediately. So, after all, it was his another mockery. Another way to make her feel stupid and small in the face of the great, brilliant Sherlock Holmes. Her body started trembling a bit and she lost interest in the conversation right away. She took back the phone from her ear and look at the screen, her finger ready to tap the red icon.

“Leave me alone.”

“No, Molly, please, no, don’t hang up! Do not hang up!”

It was the first time Molly heard Sherlock in such desperate tone. What was it all about? No, never mind that. She stopped caring about his reason for this call. She didn’t want to talk to him. Not like that. Not about that. She was fed up with his ignorance of her presence and feelings. Mocking her was where she drew the line.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why making fun of me?”

“Please, I swear, you just have to listen to me.” He made a short stop. “Molly, this is for a case.” His voice was raised and sounded falsely. “It’s... it’s a sort of experiment.”

Ah, yes. Of course. All the people in the world were “an experiment” for Sherlock. And to think that she was the first one to discover the human in him... She was so stupid. So blind.

But even then, even when she felt so betrayed, it didn’t change her feelings.

“I’m not an experiment... Sherlock”, she replied, her voice lowered and eyes got glossy.

“No, I know you’re not an experiment, you’re my friend. We’re friends”, his response was a little bit more silent and softer again. It was the first time he openly admitted that. But nothing beyond that. “But... please. Just say those words for me.”

“Please, don’t do this”, she whispered.

Why would he do that? He’s changed a bit lately. Molly sensed a touch of John Watson in this metamorphosis of his, so... why would he do that? Did he not consult this with John? Did dr Watson approved this? How could he do this to her, knowing all he knew?

“Just.. just... don’t do it.”

Couldn’t he choose someone else? Many people, especially his dedicated fans, could say those words sincerely, if that’s what it all was about. Why did he choose her? Molly had many thoughts flooding her head with contrary opinions but she mostly felt betrayed by Sherlock. More than ever.

“It’s very important. I can’t say why... but I promise you it is.”

The person he thought didn’t matter at all to me, was the one person who mattered the most.

“I can’t, I can’t say that. I can’t say that... to you.”

Her heart started pumping blood a lot faster and heavier than before. She didn’t understand the sick position she was in, she didn’t understand Sherlock’s agenda and didn’t want to have this conversation at all. Yet, she didn’t hang up like he asked. She knew that humiliation was waiting for her. She initiated it with her last sentence.

“Of course you can, why can’t you?”

She almost felt his nervous smile on the other side of the call.

“You know why”. Her voice hardened with anger.

Why was he playing stupid now? After all those years of living in the need of being the smartest person in the room, he suddenly claims he doesn’t know? He didn’t notice? Bullshit.

“No, I don’t know why”, he replied in a desperate, almost mad tone.

She took a short breath and rubbed her nose, getting more and more anxious.

“Of course you know”, she said with a bitter smile.

Because... how could he not? It was kind of obvious he figured it out a long time ago, during a Christmas drinks with the rest of his friends. He spotted his own present in her bag and started angrily deducing that she was going to meet a “serious boyfriend” that night. And the surprise on his face when he read the tag... Not many people could surprise Sherlock, yet she managed to do this a couple of times. But that Christmas she paid for this astonishment with her own embarrassment. He said sorry, which was unusual for him, but... he must have deduced that back then. And see it in every move she made when he was around.

He was silent for a couple of seconds.

“Please, just say it.”

It seemed so easy when he talked about it, but her body was rejecting those words. She couldn’t. The words were stuck in her throat.

“I can’t. Not to you.” She started losing her voice.

“Why?”

What was with him and all those weird questions? Was he testing her patience or nerves? What was it all about?

“Because... because it’s true”. Her voice started breaking. She realised the last word was inaudible. “Because it’s true, Sherlock! It’s... always been... true...”

Tears filled her eyes and she couldn’t control her voice or breathing. The moment she waited for so many years came unexpectedly and in such horrible way. With Sherlock treating her disrespectfully, like an evidence on a crime scene, like a rat during a vivisection. Experimenting on her heart like a cold surgeon.

There was a dead silence for a couple of seconds on the other side of the call.

When he spoke, his voice was very low and surprisingly warm.

“If it’s true, just say it anyway.”

She laughed shortly, with a bitter face. She sighed, letting a bit of her anxiety go.

“You bastard.”

So he did know. He knew and he thought that this was going to be so easy? If it were, she would have told him a long time ago. Didn’t it occur to him that there must be a reason why it’s so difficult for people to tell someone they love them? No, of course not. Why would it? It’s Sherlock, after all. Emotional context and romantic entanglement are for losers. Losers like her, who would take a bullet for him. Like her who helped him take down the most dangerous criminal there has ever been on the London streets, his archenemy. Who, silently, was always there. Who gave up her bedroom so he could have his space.

“Say it anyway”, he insisted, his voice cold and unpleasant.

It was her turn. Her turn to play a game. To let him taste his own medicine. And... to hear it. At least once.

“You say it”, she demanded with confidence. “Go on. You say it first.”

“What?” He was clearly confused and nervous.

Apparently, he wasn’t that good in games if he wasn’t the game host. In logic games he might have been the best man of Earth, but if there were emotions included... he was lost. Helpless.

“Say it”, she repeated in a cold voice, the same one he used on her couple of seconds ago. “Say it like you mean it.”

For about fifteen seconds he didn’t say a single word. Molly pulled her phone closer to her ear, placed her second hand on the one holding the telephone and closed her eyes with a pain wrinkling her face. She didn’t want to miss a single sound if he was about to speak again.

“I...”, he started hesitatingly. “I love you.”

She felt the pain flooding her chest. It sounded so insincere. She kept imagining that this was real. She was picturing herself in a nice place with him, both of them smiling, his eyes filled with affection. She wanted so badly for those words to be real.

But she couldn’t make a sound.

And then, unexpectedly, he spoke again. Softly, silently.

“I love you.”

The pain couldn’t let go of her. She was rubbing her hand and pressing the phone against her face, trying to imagine the texture of the skin on his palms, the softness of his arms, the warmth of his body. His voice was still ringing in her head, not giving her any sort of relief.

“Molly?”

She took the phone from her ear and brought it closer to her lips. Her heart was beating so fast she could feel her entire body pulsing with it.

“Molly, please!” He sounded very desperate.

Back to the reality. Sherlock was still waiting for her response. She was rubbing her lower lip with her finger, gaining the courage. Now or never, Molly Hooper. Eventually, she took a deep breath.

“I love you.”

All she heard was a sound of a relief sigh. After that, he just unceremoniously hung up.

[adrrianraines]

metamorphosis

genre: romance book: bloodbound pairings: adrian raines x mc song inspiration: breath of life—florence and the machine

disclaimer: this has been playing on my mind for so long lmao. third time i wrote something for bb mc and adrian. enjoy!

AMIDST THE WARMEST OF HUGS you could ever receive, the happiest of laughter and the excitement and awe of your return, something tugged your gut, the familiar sinking feeling irrevocable. Familiar faces swarmed as they congratulated you but something was clearly lacking among the crowd.

Though it is not something.

But someone.

“Welcome back,” Kamilah Sayeed came forward and enveloped you to a brief yet warm contact. “You’re… truly something else.”

You gave her a half-hearted smile, eyes unable to focus. The renewed strength residing deep within you still so new to control and so hard to suppress. You had no clear recollection of what exactly happened after the confrontation, your mind only flashing faint after-images of Adrian.

“Adrian... Where is he?” The words came out like a croak, throat still hoarse and dry from the few hours you’ve spent inside the enclosed dark space.

The three of them looked at each other, unable to answer you immediately. Lily only grunted as Jax looked at you with pity in his eyes. Kamilah cleared her throat as she placed a hand on your shoulder, gaze strong and hard as steel.

“I told him to take a rest for a bit.” She answered. But you knew it wasn’t the case. There was something else there.

“What do you mean?” You tried not to sound suspicious as you swallowed deeply, the burning sensation on your mouth starting to make itself known. Kamilah quirked a brow as she motioned Lily to pick up something from behind you.

On your left, Lily handed you a goblet filled to the brim with red liquid. The glow in your eyes going intense each moment that passed without you touching the material at hand. You stared at it, compelled to take a swig, attracted to the sweet smell inside. But you narrowed your eyes and shot a glare at Kamilah’s way only for her to look at you bemusedly.

“What is it? Drink. You’re in the middle of transition.” She motioned the goblet by your side, hanging in the air at Lily’s hand.

“I’m supposed to be dead.” You whispered, memories of what happened flooding through your mind like a raging wildfire. “What... what happened to me?”

You gazed at the faces of your friends, each of them had their mouth tightly shut. Not less than 24 hours ago you were resolute in saving your friends, the love of your life and going down as a mortal. It was agonizing to begin with the realization that you’re beneath all these godlike creatures but you were more than happy to be of help even with how fragile you are compared to them.

Fear and panic started to rise up your system with each moment of silence that passed. You knew, of course, what was happening. You saw it happen to Lily. You just needed confirmation. You just needed to make sure.

Lily looked at you with sadness while Jax shook his head as if to tell you not to argue any longer. Kamilah heaved a tired sigh as she grabbed the chalice in Lily’s hand and thrust it to your direction.

“Drink it, and I assure then that we’ll talk later.” Kamilah insisted, a growing slight look of worry flashed on her deep brown irises. “Please.”

You bit back the urge to devour the slosh of red liquid on the goblet as you rolled your hands to a fisted fury. “I’m dead… I’m supposed to be dead. Why am I still here?”

Slowly, memories flashed in your head, replaying the last thing you could remember before closing your eyes. The familiar throb of pain tingling in your chest. You winced at the sensation of being stabbed over and over again.

You remember staking Gaius and being stabbed in return You remember blots of red in your chest as blood spilled out of your mouth when you stumbled You remember falling to ground as Adrian caught you in between his arms, his face stricken with tears, voice a broken record of plead, regret and hurt And then darkness.

“Where is Adrian?” You repeated once again, surprised by how firm your voice sounded. You turned a gaze towards Lily who shamefully averted her eyes away from you, as if she couldn’t bear to look at you this moment. There was a look of regret in her eyes.

You turned to look at Jax who, for the millionth time, heaved a sigh. He was noticeably bare, with only a black shirt and denim pants in his physique. No leather jacket nor his sword anywhere in his possession. Another bang of memory raked your mind and the material that stabbed you became apparent. You winced again at the familiar feeling of pain.

It was Jax’s sword. For a moment, you looked forlorn as you were reminded by this and the fact that his sword was nowhere in sight only heightened the broken feeling you had. Not only for you bu alsot for him.

Jax cleared his throat as he took a tentative step towards you, arms crossed over his chest. “We don’t know. He… hasn’t come back since putting you inside that coffin.”

Your lips trembled as you slowly sank lower, your knees giving in on you. You stumbled forward as Kamilah made a work of quickly catching you, the chalice tripping over and staining your already bloodied clothes.

“Oh shit,” Lily cursed as she frantically picked up the item and fumbled on her pockets for a handkerchief. She was able to produce a small, checkered purple handkerchief and gave it to you. You turned a weak look at her as you accepted the cloth.

“Lil,” You called and immediately noticed how her eyes were visibly wet with tears. She was trying hard to bite back a sob, her brows furrowing in concentration. You reached out and touched the edge of her eyes and offered a small smile. “Your eyeliner’s all messed up.”

With a choked laughter, she pulled you in for a hug, now unable to fully stop herself from crying. “Godamnit, you had us all worried there.”

You returned the gesture by patting her shoulder gently as she squeezed you harder.

Jax squatted in front of you, his hard gaze leveling yours. “…I’m happy to see you well. Believe me.” His voice sounded very repentant, eyes cast with shadows far different from before.

“Jax…” You trailed off, as you gently let go of Lily and focused on him. He looked tired. The bags under his eyes darker than before. You motioned to grab his hand and lightly squeeze it as he returned the  gesture.

“You’re really something else, aren’t ya?” His smooth voice humored as he tore his gaze from your connected hands. He pulled you in an unexpected embrace. You can feel his very sincere emotions as you let him hold you like that for a while. The worry, the edge, the sadness, the guilt, the regret… as well as the joy and relief could be felt within his arms. You hugged him back weakly as you let out the first chuckle after being confined in the darkness for what felt like an eternity.

“Now,” Kamilah intercepted. Jax let you go as he moved to stand up. You felt Lily guide you to stand up as Kamilah dragged you up by the hand.

“Now what?” Lily asked.

“Now, what happens to me?” You questioned, ignoring the sweet scent of blood still wet on your clothes.

“Now… you transition.” Kamilah stated. “I’m sure… you’re fairly aware of it.”

You paused, gaze blank as you looked at her. The mad pounding of your heart and the unbelievable thirst raging your insides, fighting one another. You struggled to keep your composure as you swallowed hard. Bullets of sweat formed around your forehead as you took a small moment to swallow and absorb whatever you were hearing.

“Just like that?” Your voice came out tiny, trembling and unsure.

“Just like that.” Kamilah repeated your words with finality but the look on her face told you she wasn’t happy about anything that’s happening.

“Just like that...” And it all sank in. “Then I’m dead... Just like that...”

You stumbled forward, everything weighing down in an instant. Your head felt light as you choked back a small sob from coming out. Everything was overwhelming. Everything was sudden. Everything felt heavy and burdened you to the core.

“This is not what we wanted to happen…” Kamilah cooed sadly as she supported you by the shoulder. “But trust me when what we all wanted was to save you.”

Breathe. You ordered yourself as you tried to calm down. Breathe, you idiot!

You gasped as you clutched her arms, your head slowly resting on her shoulders.

“I… I’m not human anymore?” You weren’t so sure about why you needed to confirm that. When you woke up earlier you already felt something was different. But a part of you couldn’t quite grasp the concept of it all. “I’m supposed to be dead. I’m…”

“Sshh… We’re here…” Kamilah pulled you in an embrace as she gently patted your head. The familiar feeling of being stabbed by the unknown without any anchor was choking you. The familiar sensation of having to deal with this change alone was scary.

And to top it all, the person you wanted to see when you wake up was nowhere to be found.

“Who… who turned me?” You whispered against her embrace. You felt Kamilah stiffen at the question as she slowly released you from her hold. She scanned your face and held your gaze.

“Adrian.” The moment his name rolled off her lips, you let out a soft gasp. “The blood in the chalice was his. It’s supposed to aid your transition… to keep you from becoming feral.”

As if something ignited in your system, you felt uncontrollable emotions in your chest.

Surprise? Gratefulness? Frustration? Disappointment? Anger? Definitely all those.

“Adrian…” You repeated his name under gritted teeth as you felt your blood boil, worry and fury consuming you. The strength residing within you was desperately trying to get out. “Then why is he not here?”

“I told you, he-” And as if on cue, you pushed Kamilah out of your way, thought lost in focus, strength catching her off guard. She stumbled against the railing of the staircase as you moved impeccably fast, leaving all three of your friends behind. You can hear Jax and Lily desperately calling out your name from behind.

Adrian.

You navigated the familiar corridors of Raines Corp.’s basement archives. You stopped abruptly in front of the elevator. But when you heard a group of frantic footsteps behind you, you took a turn and headed to the emergency staircase, leaving all of them behind.

Adrian.

Within only a few minutes, you’ve covered enough flights of stairs to completely leave all of them behind. You didn’t care if you looked like shit. You went on barefoot, clothes stained with unimaginable amounts of blood. Your blood and Adrian’s blood when it got spilled out of the chalice earlier.

Adrian.

Morbid thoughts haunted you like wild dogs. He was not there since he dropped you off the sarcophagus after dying. You woke up and didn’t see him. He hasn’t come back.

Adrian hasn’t come back.

You shook your head as you swallowed hard, the lump on your throat gaining in on you as you moved fast, desperate. A few moments and you’ve finally reached the top most floor, to where his office was located. You were welcomed with a dimmed area, the empty reception desk - your desk - still looked the same like it was before all went to hell in New York City.

You moved silently, bare foot touching the cold marbled floors. You shivered at the contact but continued. The throbbing in your head growing madly every second that passed by. You haven’t drank anything at all. The spot in your chest where the wound was located still hurting. You clutched it tightly as you slowly walked towards his double doors.

You pushed it open to be welcomed with absolute darkness. You fumbled over the side, looking for the switch. Something moved against the dark that alarmed you. You jumped in surprise as you heard a smooth, deep baritone commanding, “Lights: On.”

When the room started to be illuminated, you gasped, heart pounding madly against your chest. Adrian looked equally surprised as you are. He stood there, mouth gaping, eyes wide in confusion and shock.

“Adrian…” You were the first to recover as you took tentative steps towards him, taking all of him in sight. He was wearing only his white undershirt, slacks still covered by dirt and grime. His hair was a mess and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I…” His voice called out to you, a soft whisper of awe and wonder. He was still yet to recover from surprise when you came barreling against him, knocking him down the carpeted floor. Tears flowed down your cheeks uncontrollably as you buried your face against his chest.

“I thought you were gone…” You whispered, voice in clear agony. Desperate and mad at the same time.

“I… I’m sorry…” He choked out as he moved to envelope your frame in his arms while you lay on top of him. “I… went to make sure… that Gaius will never return.”

You can feel the warmth of his embrace as you savored the touch you’ve longed for earlier. But then, when you were about to say something, you coughed and choked out blood. His eyes widened with alarm and flabbergasting abruptness as he moved to straighten you up. You continued to cough badly, the taste of metal taking over. You locked eyes with him for a moment before you felt your consciousness slowly fading, the familiar pang of extreme pain radiating in your system.

You looked down and watched at how fresh batch of blood appeared and the familiar sword of Jax piercing you to the hilt. Your gaze slowly traveled to Adrian who looked aghast at the scene unfolding before him.

He screamed your name in unbelievable agony before you fell limply in his arms.

Then Adrian woke up.

“What’s wrong?” Kamilah’s voice echoed around the empty room filled with brick walls as she slowly sauntered towards Adrian, offering him a bottled water. “Drink, brother.”

Adrian gasped in air as he ran a hand on his face. Unable to shake the foreboding feeling of doom in his physique. He sat up straight and grabbed the bottle from Kamilah before glancing a look at his watch.

“I had… a nightmare.” He said, unsure now to be wary or ignore the dream. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath before calming himself down.

Kamilah moved to sit down beside him as she tilted her head to the sarcophagus just a few inches away from where they were. “Lily and Jax are asleep. You should get some rest.”

“Where do we go from here?” Adrian’s eyes locked gazes with Kamilah as she offered him a sympathetic one.

“We figure it out. One circumstance at a time.”

Adrian let out a sigh as he leaned against the wall, his body spent with worry and exhaustion. “A few more hours, then.”

“Yeah. A few more hours.”

[macbetha]

Preview of SouRin Supernatural AU: IKIGAI “Chapter 3″ feat. NatsuNao

Given that Rin’s monarchy of a family resides underground in the sewers, there aren’t many places in the subterranean castle in which natural light thrives. Nao found this part of the sewers like he was drawn to it, and when Natsuya realized that Nao could feel warmth, it devastated him. Nao is old; he tastes and feels more than other vampires do because even immortality has a timestamp, and the more his body recalls human sensation, the less time he has on this earth as a walking corpse. Rin’s gaze sweeps the conservatory, which has the splendor of romantic catacombs rather than bleak sewers. The ground is patterned in diamond-shaped cobblestone; the walls are towering and lead up to a street gait above. He listens to heels clacking across the sidewalks overhead, smells asphalt and the reek of pollution that grows fouler as the years tick by. Listening to pedestrians converse is like going to the library, though their stories are rarely interesting; most commonly, Rin hears work complains or dull gossip. Sunlight streams down in roaming pillars like spotlights and Rin tenses each time the light creeps a bit too close – he is superstitious to a fault. Though he is paranoid about being in daylight, Rin can admit that the conservatory is enchanting with its palette of greys and greenery – there’s stone benches with a curtain of vines framing them and a fountain that holds no water but is still charming as it is guarded by a circle of statuses toads. There’s some fruit trees and tropical plants which are saturated with magic; Rin’s favorites are a fat gourd slumped with fatigue, but if you dare to pry it open, the plant will swallow you to cage you in its belly until suffocation takes you. He also has a particular admiration for a Venus Fly Trap that stands taller than Rin with fangs just as sharp. He enjoys the smell of this air – this sundew doesn’t conjure up any specific memories, but perhaps that’s why he’s so charmed with the place. After walking this planet for five-hundred years, there aren’t many new or different things to smell, and the conservatory holds its own atmosphere of eerie tranquility, much like Nao himself. Nao sorts through a table of voodoo lilies and basil, the herbalism of spells. His robes are white like a biblical rose, his eyes moonlit with blindness. Nao smirks, “You’re bobbing your ankle something fierce.” Rin looks down at his ankle and stops. Nao chuckles and gestures to the side, calling, “Gloom, come help me with this, would you?” A dark mass comes from beneath the table and stirs into the light; the fox is bigger than her natural counterpart and far more ethereal with her fog-grey pelt and beady, red eyes. She slinks up to Nao and grabs a basket with her teeth, holding it up for her master to drop few plant trimmings inside. Gloom takes them over to the monstrous fridge in the corner, which is built like an industrial safe, and Nao walks over to Rin. He easily remembers the path to the bench in the familiar space, and he sits down while settling his robes. His motions are ginger – weak. Rin used to stare at him whenever they were in close proximity or standing across the room. Nao’s bangs cover the scar gouging across his forehead, clawing through his eyes and down to hook under his jaw – Rin always feels a dull spike of sympathetic pain at the sight of him. He often wonders just how powerful the werewolf must have been to leave a vampire blind and doomed to wear such scars. Nao doesn’t talk about it and Natsuya won’t let anyone ask. But since Natsuya isn’t here – “How long has it been since you saw a werewolf?” Rin asks. The elder vampire lifts his brows in humored surprise. “I haven’t seen much of anything in millennia, child.” “Forgive me,” he rushes, face burning with mortification, but Nao waves him off with amusement. Nao crosses his legs with a faint wince, the halter chains of his cape glittering like black stones underwater. “What’s brought forth such a question in your mind?” Nao sounds curious rather than offended, though a knowing look creeps over his features. “Have you gone and enamored yourself with some trouble or do you intended to seek it out?” “It’s just a question.” “It’s never just a question, Rin.” He relaxes with leisure posture as he drinks in the sunshine. Nao props his head on a hand, absently coming through his silken hair. “If you gain no knowledge from my time residing amongst you royals, trust that no question ever comes without a motive.”

Rin works his hands between his knees, flustering. “You’ve taught me more than just that,” he grumbles. Nao’s smile is endeared in a backhanded sort of way. “You learn what you want to.” He tucks his hands together so that his long sleeves close over them. “Werewolves and vampires are two sides of the same coin; lycanthropic metamorphosis is a disease at the base of it all, much like vampirism.” Defensiveness works through him. “Pray tell.” Nao considers. “Well, we both started out as humans – vampirism began as a reanimating disease that possessed corpses; the sickness originated in the bloodstream of the deceased. Back in my day, if you’ll humor me –” Rin cuts a brief smirk. “— The phenomenon of the lycans spread like rabies because it’s simply a mutated strain of the sickness. Lycanthropic metamorphosis is a disease much like vampirism, though their contagion originated from wolves and mutates their genomes with that of wolves.” Rin says, “Shouldn’t werewolves be easy to fight, then? If they are nothing more than animals.” “Werewolves are unpredictable fighters; the only form of knowledge you can bring to such a fight is that if a werewolf gets ahold of you, it’s all over.” Sympathy runs through Rin’s chest. “I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to resurface grim memories.” Nao surprises him by chuckling, though it is a tired sound. “Bitterness if no way to live, I made my peace with my circumstances many moons ago.” His voice grows quiet with thoughtfulness. “I never once felt anger toward that wolf despite that I was supposed to, perhaps. Both vampires and werewolves are lost to the ideal that we are mortal enemies – how interesting it would be if we both as a species realized that concept was glamorized by the authors that depicted us as fantasy.” He turns one of his rings, a band of fool’s gold that won’t char him. “Kind of poetic that silver harms both vampires and werewolves, don’t you think?”

“We’re nothing alike,” Rin scowls. Nao’s smile is slow and pitying at the blind lash of resentment. “Werewolves might heavily rely on their instincts, yes, but they are not mindless – more importantly, they are not heartless. If you harm a single one, their pack will not rest until your insides flow.” He lifts his brows. “They love one another and it shows in the way they fight.” “I want to kill one,” Rin says, squaring his shoulders. Nao rolls his eyes in grand exasperation. “Trophy hunting is not exactly the appropriate way to blend into modern society.” “I don’t care. I’m going to do it.” “Then I’m assuming by your enthusiasm that you’ve never killed one before?” Rin curls into himself and Nao smirks like he knows. “No,” Rin mumbles, looking away. “I’ve fought them in brief squabbles but father always orders me to flee before it can get fun.” “You mean dangerous.” Rin pouts. “Father’s killed pack alphas before; it’s not fair that I don’t have a wolf’s head mounted above my bed when Gou’s got dozens of them all over the castle.” “Gou is more talented as a warrior than you are.” Nao’s expression doesn’t change even though Rin’s agitation is tangible. Gloom hops onto the elder vampire’s lap and he pets her tail in dragging strokes. “Gou takes orders well; you, on the other hand, storm into battle just like Natsuya.” He shakes his head with a playful tut. “You bored fools.” Rin laughs before his ears prick at the sound of the doors groaning apart. Natsuya strides in, his curls disheveled and his gait sluggish since it’s daytime and most vampires in the castle are sleeping at this hour. Evening is nearing; Natsuya must have just awoken, since his night tunic is stuffed into his trousers and he’s still adjusting his leather suspenders. Natsuya clambers down the stairs with a metallic echo and his posture straightens when he notices Nao. Natsuya rushes to kneel before his mate, hands fretting over him. “What the devil are you doing up here alone?” “Rin’s right here,” Nao smiles, letting himself be petted. “Or have you gone as blind as I am?” Natsuya gives him a flat look. “Your cynical humor is hardly appropriate.” He adjusts Nao’s robes tighter around his middle, knotting the sash again and brushing out the wrinkles. “Imagine my horror when I woke up only to realize that you had vanished.” He rises and goes over to the hulking fridge; the door hisses open and Natsuya takes out an ornate pitcher before fetching a gauntlet from under the table. He bows the pitcher and blood oozes into the cup – Rin thinks it smells like O positive. Natsuya calls, “Would you like any, Rin?” “No thanks.” He’s a glutton for Type A through and through. Natsuya hands the gauntlet to Nao before pointing a finger at Gloom to address the fox. “You and I discussed this, I told you to wake me up the instant Nao is discomforted.” She tries to nip his fingers and Natsuya yanks his hand back with an offended pout. “I apologize for worrying you,” Nao says before taking a deep swallow from his gauntlet. His dainty fingers rearrange his husband’s mess of curls. “I’ve been asleep for a week; you knew that I was bound to wake up eventually.” Natsuya is hardly quelled. He stands behind Nao to rub his shoulders in gentle circles, pulling his hair into his fist to massage his neck. His throat is blotched in little plums from where Natsuya’s drank from him. “I wish you would not have exerted yourself with the climb up here.” “You’re more than welcome to carry me back to bed when I’m ready,” Nao smiles. That won’t be long, Rin thinks – nowadays, Nao can barely stay awake for a few hours before falling into a disturbingly long slumber. To reassure him, Nao traces the mating scar on Natsuya’s wrist – it’s a crescent bite in the shape of Nao’s teeth. His sleeve rolls down to reveal his mating scar from Natsuya, and that bite is deeper. Natsuya’s fangs probably drove in with a fit of passion, earnest in the pain he gave because it would bind them for eternity. The mark Nao left on Natsuya’s wrist is clean and precise, perfectly aligned on the inside of Natsuya’s forearm. Natsuya regards Rin, canting his hip as he crosses his arms. His motions are far more spry than Nao’s; from the whispers of gossip that travel through the vampire court, Rin’s heard that Natsuya is ancient but he’s a few centuries younger than Nao. He’s got a while before he loses his vigor – the wicked glint in his eye says as much. “Rumor ‘round the castle is that you’re going on a little hunt tonight.” He lifts his chin. “I want in.”

Rin bristles. “Who –” He groans when he realizes. “Goddamn you, Haru.”

“It was wise of Haru to inform me of your plan,” Natsuya says, eyes half-lidded with a lazy sort of confidence. “You’ve never took on a werewolf by yourself.”

“A werewolf has never faced me alone,” Rin counters with excitement brewing in his chest.

Natsuya rolls the heel of his boot back and forth in a subtle taunt. “So, your darling plan was to charge into this supposed uprising, throw yourself on the back of the nearest rabid thing and slice its throat in one fell swoop?”

“Sounds like something you would do,” Nao drones into his gauntlet as he gives his husband a pointed look of amusement.

[prodigalasshole]

Einmana & Ottisser

So this is a work in progress based off of this prompt that hopefully I’ll finish someday.

“Oh, yes, the place has been empty for years, decades actually, ever since the late seventies,” explained a woman with a bright, cheery voice and too-wide smile. “According to our files, the couple who previously lived here just up and left with no explanation and without selling. Never heard from them again, but they had bought it outright, husband had made quite a bit of money in the cassette industry according to the family. We just heard from their son, after the wife died, rest her soul, they found the deed to this house among her old belongings. Husband apparently passed years ago, so they came to us to sell the place. Said they had no interest in it, which is a shame really, you can see how lovely it is.”

The woman was rambling, but her companion, a thin, rather mousy man in his early thirties, didn’t seem to mind. He smiled gently as he took in the dimly lit interior of the house; she was right, it was quite a charming place.

“There are two bedrooms, as well as a converted attic room, so it should have enough space for your family Mr. Dowels. You said your mother might come to be living with you, correct?”

“Mother-in-law, technically speaking.”

“Oh, I thought you and your wife were separated?”

“We are. She’s dead.”

The woman’s smile immediately fell as she half raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“It’s alright, most people don’t,”  Mr. Dowels reassured her, his gentle smile tinged with sadness. Turning to look up the stairs he asked, “Might I see the attic room you mentioned?”

“Of course, right this way.”

Neither of them noticed the shape in the darkened corner of the kitchen that shuddered at the mention of the attic and fled to the basement once they were out of sight.

“Is there some sort of problem with the jamb?” he asked, looking at the dozens of holes surrounding the entrance to the attic room.

“Not at all, when we sent a contractor over for an inspection he found this door nailed shut, you can see the nails he removed just inside here.”

As promised, a pile of large wrought-iron nails sat in the corner near the entrance to the room. The nails, however, were not what caught Mr. Dowels’ eye. Instead he stared at, and slowly walked toward, the large, old, covered crib that made up the only furnishing in the spacious room. Reaching it, he peered inside; empty. A sigh filled with relief passed his lips and he turned to his companion.

Despite her too-wide smile, the look of discomfort was clear in her face. “We’re not exactly sure what the story behind all this is. We asked the son of the couple who owned the house, but he said he had no idea about any of it and asked rather insistently not to be bothered with anything more concerning the property until it was sold. There aren’t any public records of any infant deaths that would fit with the previous owners, so there wasn’t any need to push the issue.”

Mr. Dowels nodded slowly, and looked around the rest of the barren room. It was the size of the entire top of the house, with two windows at the ends. Something about the window nearest him caught his eye; it had the same sized hole in the frame as the door jamb. “So they nailed the windows shut along with the door,” he said quietly.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing, just thinking about how I would get Margaret’s things up here,” turning to face her, he again smiled and said, “Well I think you were right, this house does seem like it would suit us just fine. What can you tell me about the school district it’s in though?”

“It’s excellent, one of the best ranked in the state. In fact, the elementary school this property is zoned for was just recognized by a congressional panel as one of the top-performing in the nation.”

He seemed to contemplate this while gazing out of the window towards the only neighboring house. He then nodded decisively and said with a confident smile, “Ms. Andrews, I do believe I’ll take it.”

Down in the basement isn’t much better than up in the attic, Einmana thought, but at least I chose to be here. She sat next to the water heater, chewing at her nails absentmindedly. It had been four months since the smiling lady and thin man had first come into her house, and since then the man had decided to move in and bring a little girl and old woman with him. Since then she had hidden, remaining in the basement and scurrying through the walls with her lithe body.

Einmana had lived alone in this house her entire life, and no one had ever come in for this long before. Over the years it seemed that children made it a routine to come around in the yard wearing costumes in the fall, but that was only one night out of the year. But to suddenly have three people living in her house… it was almost more than she could handle.

She had been afraid of people, and the outside world, ever since the day he tied her up and left her in the attic. Papa, stop! Papa it hurts! Einmana had begged him. She didn’t know what was happening or why; it had been the middle of the night, and she had been asleep in her crib in the attic when he had done it.

Don’t call me that, you aren’t my daughter, you aren’t even human.

Mama! Mama help! Mama!

Stop that! Don’t you think you’ve caused her enough pain?

Mama! Mama help me! MAMA!

Stop!

He had hit her after that, and everything went black. When she woke up she was in her crib, and she thought it was just a dream until she tried to move and yelped with pain from the rough rope binding her arms behind her back and her ankles together. Then she cried. She cried until she fell asleep again, waking only to cry more. Weeks had passed as she lay there helpless, afraid, confused, and alone.

During that time her body changed. Einmana later hypothesized that this had occurred because whatever type of creature she in fact was, if she was not human, was designed to survive just about anything. She discovered, one day, after her sobbing had subsided into small sniffles as she drifted towards sleep, that her arms and fingers had become long enough that she could maneuver to pick at the ropes that bound her wrists. What was more, her nails were long and sharp, and able to cut the fibers. She had snapped awake at that, and for the first time since the night her father bound her she felt something besides despair as she worked to free herself. It took her a whole day, but when she finally escaped the knots binding her arms she cried again with the relief and pain of movement. She had then attacked the rope around her ankles, and making quick work of it rushed to stand.

She had fallen immediately, limbs atrophied from a month of confinement and body weak from hunger and thirst, both of which suddenly hit her now that she wasn’t consumed by her grief. Einmana had struggled to the door that led down the narrow stairs to the rest of the house, but although the door was unlocked it wouldn’t open. Panicked, she went as fast as her body would allow her to the window by the door. It too refused to open. Unlike the door, she could see why; a large, evil looking black nail kept it shut. She reached to the nail to try to pull it out, but as soon as her fingers touched the metal it felt as if her hand erupted in flame. She had screamed and fell to the floor, clutching her hand and sucking her fingers. When she pulled them from her mouth, she saw that they were blistered where she had touched the nail, and a cruel red rash spread out  from the blisters and nearly covered her entire hand.

Mama, she had wept, lying on the floor cradling her injured hand, Mama please help me. Mama… Mama please… Mama… Mama…

She had spent two years in that room, two years until she had managed to peel up the floor in the corner enough that her small body, which had continued its metamorphosis and become extremely thin and flexible, fit into that empty space. She had crawled like a spider, making her way into the wall and down, down, down until she reached the cool darkness and unfinished walls of the basement. She had tumbled out, and laughed until she cried with joy. She had run up the stairs and into her house, then stopped short.

It was empty. She had never believed that it would be empty, despite the gnawing silence that had existed beneath her attic prison. She had never fully accepted that the parents she loved with her whole being could reject her so completely. She had kept up hope despite it all. But now, as she forced herself to search, at first slowly, then with growing desperation, through her house, she had to face the reality of her situation. The furniture was all gone. Dust covered everything. Windows were closed up and curtains drawn. They were gone. And they had been gone for a long, long time. As this realization sunk in, Einmana did the only thing she could think of. She crawled back up to her attic room, folded her thin, elongated limbs into her crib, and cried.

I was only three years old when they left. Einmana thought as she bit through another claw-like nail. It had been been forty-one years since the last night she saw her father, yet her memories were clear as ever. She remembered everything, from the first night she had been brought to her parents. There had been another little baby who looked just like her in the crib, but the one who had carried her into the room took that child when they left Einmana. At first her parents hadn’t noticed; babies are mostly all the same, after all. She remembered how her mother used to look at her and hold her, as if she would never let her go. She remembered the surprised laugh that her father let out when she first started walking. She remembered when they had loved her.

But as she had aged, she had changed. Her skin became ashen, and her eyes faded from blue to dull grey. Her hair transformed from silken, golden waves to a coarse, dark mat. And her mother looked upon her less and less with adoration and more with horror and fear, while her father’s eyes contained hurt anger and hatred.

Still, she had loved them. She had loved them when they moved her crib into the attic from her pretty room down the hall from theirs, she had loved them as they argued more and more about her, she had loved them as her mother downed pills and bourbon and ignored her each day, and she loved them as her father yelled at her and smacked her for no reason. She had loved them because they were her parents, until the day they weren’t.

So she had hidden, alone, for four decades in her empty house. She changed her name in her head to what the one who had left her here had called her all those years ago, in place of the name her parents had called her. She left the windows covered, and she only ventured out when her hunger drove her to steal vegetables and fruits from the neighbors’ garden in the summer and fall.

She hid because of her reflection. When she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she did not look like her mother, or the women in the magazines that had been left in a box in the basement. Her eyes had become a darker grey, and her skin looked like the cement blocks  of the basement walls. Her arms and legs were extended, and the bones of her body were prominent. Her nose seemed to have disappeared, leaving only two nostrils above her cracked, thin lips. Behind her lips were teeth that were sharp and large, not flat, small pearls.

She did not look like humans, and when she remembered how her parents had left her, tied in her room and presumably for dead, when she had first started to change, she was filled with terror at how strangers would treat her now. They would kill me as soon as look at me.

Which is why the new residents of her house presented such a problem. She didn’t know why they were suddenly here after all this time, but it didn’t seem like they were going to leave any time soon. And when she heard the way the man and old woman treated the young girl as she crawled through the walls, it made her blood boil with jealousy and rage. They praised and doted on her constantly, and showered her with love and affection. What right do these people have to come into my home and torment me with what life denied me? Why are they allowed to force me into hiding from not just the outside, but inside of my home?

It was because of these feelings of jealousy and anger that Einmana hatched a plan to torment the people who had moved into her house, starting with the one she saw as the crux of her pain: the little girl.

“Daddy, there’s a monster under my bed.”

[dumbledearme]

chapter eight

~~ read Metamorphosis here ~~

The rest of the party was a blur until the moment when the girls were called for the draw. Effie stood at the end of the line, next to Enobaria who flashed her teeth in a threatening way. Plutarch went to the middle of the hall with the others sponsors where a small urn had been placed. Effie glanced around but didn’t see Snow anywhere.

The mentors were called one by one, starting with Messalla Paylor. Under the eyes of everyone in the hall, she went to the urn, reached in and took out a small paper she read aloud: "Red Passion." There was a round of applause, and then the whole process was repeated.

Thirza got Fuchsia. Beetee Latier got Amber to Properzia. Gia's mentor got Slate Gray. For Antonietta was Jade. Judith got the Orange and Hypatia got the Green Asparagus. Aphra lucked out with Violet and Artemisia with Indigo. Cressida got Turquoise. Enobaria the Effervescent Yellow. And then Plutarch walked over there, slithering like a fairy-tale prince, and he was so handsome that some girls actually sighed.

"Pure White," he read on the paper he had taken. Plutarch looked up and stared at Effie. His gaze was so intense that she felt herself blushing. What was he seeing?

All the girls were cheered for and then sent to bed. They needed to rest and prepare for the next day.

"We couldn’t have gotten a better color," Plutarch said on the way up the stairs. "It's going to be perfect. You're going to be perfect."

"White isn’t the best color," Fulvia argued. "She's already so pale, she's going to look like a corpse."

"No," he said. "She’s going to look like an angel." Adding to the effect, he took Effie's hand and gave it a kiss. Then he said goodbye and went back to the party.

"Is that a good idea?" Effie asked Fulvia who shook her head.

"Nothing that fool ever does is a good idea. And somehow... it always works out. If there's anyone who can drink all night and feel perfect the next morning, that’s him. Now go take a shower and go to bed, Miss Trinket. We need you in perfect condition tomorrow. The boys are waiting to help you.”

When Effie returned to the room, Pollux and Castor were indeed waiting for her. They had gotten her a nightgown. She went to change in the bathroom from where she informed them she would only shower in the morning. Pollux helped Effie remove her makeup while Castor brushed her hair. She was tucked in like a child, Pollux massaging her pillow, Castor covering her with a blanket. Effie was immediately transported to the days when she used to do this for her little sister.

The longing was too hard to bare. It was as if Effie was able to survive during the day because she had things to do, but at night, lying in that comfortable bed, she was reminded that Ingrid wasn’t being treated with the same luxuries. What would she be doing right now? Would she be safe? Please, let her be safe!

"Good night, Miss Trinket," said Castor, and he and his brother left. Effie sank into the mattress, her eyes closed, her breathing heavy, trying to control herself as much as possible, trying not to cry.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. Effie ignored it, thinking she had imagined it, but they knocked again. Effie got up and opened the door.

"What up, girl?" said Gia holding a thermos. Antonietta was beside her holding three mugs. The were in their pajamas. "Hot chocolate," Gia explained. "Trust me, you've never tasted anything like it."

Effie let them in. "Is it okay you two being here?" she asked.

"Of course!" Gia exclaimed. "No one will ever know. Relax." She and Antonietta threw themselves on the bed and Gia proceeded to pour the chocolate in the mugs.

Antonietta seemed a bit uncomfortable. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you at lunch," she said. "I was nervous because everybody loved you. You know, it's a lot of pressure."

Effie was glad to see that she seemed genuine in her apology. "It was nothing," she said, sitting on the bed with them.

"Wow," said Gia. "Did you see the way she forgave you? Like it was no biggie? That's why she's going to win."

"What? No!" said Effie, who found impossible to know who would win a contest that hadn’t even started yet.

"You believe in your chances, don’t you?" Antonietta asked. "You must find it possible, since you came here. And certainly you’ve received a lot of positive attention."

"So did Lavinia." Effie didn’t want to be the center of that conversation. If they had to talk about someone, couldn’t it be someone who wasn’t there? "And everyone’s still likes her."

Gia raised an eyebrow. "You haven’t spent much time with other girls, have you?"

"I have a little sister."

Gia shook her head. "Doesn’t count. Look, Twelve, what all girls want most in life is for the girl next to them to fall on her face. It's true," she insisted when Antonietta laughed. "And girls always know how to reach their goals. The secret is to know what their opponents' weaknesses are. You, Twelve, feel bad for getting the evil look from your enemies, so that's obviously what they're all going to do from now on. And you, Etta, who doesn’t talk much, they will use words against you. And Lavinia, who is perfect from every angle... Well, everyone wants to be friends with her for now, because if you are on her side she will not destroy you, and as a plus, you’ll appear in all the photos. Is that simple.”

Effie gaped. She didn’t know girls could be so... Machiavellian.

"What will you do?" Etta asked Gia. "To get rid of them?" Her tone was playful, but Effie detected a real interest underneath it.

Gia took a sip of hot chocolate. "Treat them like insects until they realize that's what they are." All three laughed at that. "No, but seriously, just ignore them. I know a girl who gets so angry when she's ignored that she starts to throw things around. It’s hilarious.”

Effie thought that was great advice, the kind of thing Ingrid would have said with her mere ten years of age. Again, trying not to give in to her own misery, Effie focused on the hot drink that immediately lifted her spirits.

"Did you see the President?" Etta asked. "He didn’t dance with anyone. Actually I think he was barely there at all. I saw him once and then he disappeared."

"Yeah," agreed Gia. "He's a bit unfriendly. I was disappointed. I wouldn’t have voted for him if I knew I wouldn’t even get a hello, dog. By the way,” she exclaimed, rising, “you heard the color I got? Gray! What the hell am I going to do with gray? It's the worst color there is!"

"I like gray," Etta said.

"So, trade with me, jade. Goddamn it, blue is more me, you know... Or red! Can you imagine what I could do with red?"

Etta turned to Effie. "Did you like your color, Effie?"

Effie shrugged. Gia grimaced. "You really don’t talk much, do you?" She sighed. "You are definitely going to win."

When Effie began to protest, the two girls laughed at her. A few minutes after the chocolate was gone, Gia and Antonietta got up to leave.

"Good luck for tomorrow," Effie wished them, from the bottom of her heart. If that contest was as important to them as it was to Effie, they deserved, at least, some good luck. The girls said it back to her then headed up the empty corridor. Effie went back to bed feeling much better.

Maybe girls weren’t so bad after all.

She woke when Pollux gently opened the curtains allowing the morning light to come into the room through the large window. Effie wasn’t ready to get up yet — it had taken her a long time to fall asleep and she was still tired, but she decided she shouldn’t argue. She had already denied a bath last night.

The bathtub was prepared with hot water and the brothers stayed in the room waiting. Half an hour later, Effie came out clean, smelling and wearing a super soft robe. Castor dried her hair and tidied them up in an elaborate hairstyle. Pollux continued his work as a makeup artist.

Plutarch arrived a little late, but he seemed energetic and showed no sign of having slept little. Effie wondered what his secret was, for her eyes were still swollen from crying. They brought two boxes: one with the white dress that Effie would wear during the first stage of the contest and another with a simpler dress for the interview that would happen after breakfast.

Downstairs, Effie sat in an armchair to wait for the other girls who were gradually arriving. All of them wore simple dresses but with flaming colors, had their hair well-ornamented and their faces were well-made. The last to arrive was Thirza, who made the other girls wait a good forty minutes for her.

After eating, the twelve participants were taken to a room with a stage where, one at a time, they would be interviewed by Caesar Flickerman. Plutarch and Fulvia were already there, and quickly pulled Effie aside to give her some more last minute advice.

"The interview is worth 30% of your final score," Fulvia said seriously. "You have to do well. This is where the public will decide whether or not they like you."

"Keep your hands on your lap and your knees always together," Plutarch advised. "Head up, Effie. And remember to smile."

Each of the questions Caesar asked was more ridiculous than the last.

What is the importance of the Metamorphosis to our society?

"Metamorphosis helps give opportunities to women, revealing their striking personalities, talents and potentials, and gives them the right to serve the people," Lavinia replied showing her perfect teeth.

"Metamorphosis is a celebration of what is beautiful," Thirza said. "It unites the districts in honor of the beauty God has granted us."

"The Metamorphosis generates awareness of the different ethical and social problems that need our attention, making the candidates into pawns to the alienated public," was Cressida's answer.

Who is the most influential person in your life?

"My mother," said Antonietta. "She is exactly what I want to be in the future: gentle, compassionate, a true epitome of a mother. She is an inspiration and a blessing not only to me, but to everyone who lives in her company."

If you won the Metamorphosis, what would you do with the prize?

"I would use it to open my own business, thus helping my district to have more jobs," Artemisia replied.

If you could live again, from scratch, what part of your life would you change?

"None," laughed Gia. "What makes me who I am are the things that I went through and change any part of it would automatically make me a completely different person."

What would be your best contribution to Panem?

"I would join humanitarian parties, participate in charity missions, give support seminars to others and open doors to contests such as the Metamorphosis, thereby bringing confidence and self-esteem to women who wish to have a professional future," said Properzia.

How would you describe your personality?

"I'm a very simple person," Judith smiled. "I’m happy with what God has given me. I’m an optimist and I come from a large family of loving people."

What is your philosophy in life?

"Remain faithful to my morals despite the insistence of the immoral values ​​that prevail in our society. Respect and earn the respect of others, be friends with all and be loved by God," said Hypatia.

What is the essence of winning the Metamorphosis?

"It’s that the people of the Capitol and of the districts reflect on the person who best qualifies to represent our Country," said Aphra.

What is the main environmental problem we have at the moment?

"Definitely the kind of pollution that progress and technology brings us," said Enobaria, aggressively. "The waste. Year after year, is a perennial problem in all districts where large amounts of water are wasted by those who have no common sense."

If you could do anything, what would it be?

Effie had to think hard about that. All the other girls answered their questions promptly, but the way they spoke was so forced and rehearsed that Effie didn’t believe anything they were saying. (With the exception of Judith, of course.) But that was a serious question and none of the other girls had brought real problems to the surface.

If you could do anything, what would it be?

From the stage, she looked up at the mezzanine from where Snow was watching. He had that same expression of mildly interested he had wore last night. Someone had to make him see, to make him understand and fix the country he'd sworn to protect.

If you could do anything, what would it be?

"Let no one else in this world go hungry or be in any other kind of necessity," she decided, keeping her eyes on the president. "While we here are drowning in the luxuries of the Capitol, there are thousands of people in District 12, and in many others, who’ll have nowhere to sleep tonight, who won’t know what to say to their children when they ask for more food. We have not only been separated by districts. We have also forgotten that we’re all together and if we don’t stay like that, the world will become colder and hollower. All I ask for is one word —understanding. That, even with all conflicts between districts, we can remember, for just one night, that we’re all one family and that we need to help each other." Effie, now excited, stood up. "Look at your neighbor and don’t expect him to come and ask for help. Offer him whatever you have to spare. Forget for one moment the word I. This is us. We are the problem, but we’re also the solution."

And then Effie smiled to the crowd, as Plutarch had instructed her to do, and the effect was immediate.

[nyxtales]

Metamorphosis

This is a collection of events from an idea I had a while ago.  The story is called Akran Saga, after the Arabic word for “scorpion.”  It’s a bit long, so bear with me.  I hope it’s a satisfactory after a very long hiatus.  I’m trying to get my life together, and it’s taking a good bit of effort. 

He knew that something was different when he woke up with the sides of his face sore as all hell.  But that wasn’t his main concern—a concert was today, and it was going to be his death if he didn’t show up and play.

And yet, the feeling of having acid running through his veins should have counted as a good reason to stay home.

“Dammit,” he mutters, sliding on his clothes and keeping the following string of curses very muted.  If his parents hear, they’ll tan his hide.

Of course, something had to go wrong the one day, the one day he was hoping the cosmos would actually have a heart.  

Then again, it probably has a very cold heart. He thinks he should be a bit more specific the next time he asks for a miracle after getting reamed by his parents for not playing perfectly.  

“Seriously, I got scouted—shouldn’t they be happy with that?” he growls into a pillow.  The pillow is currently taking heavy punishment—his limbs hurt like hell, but it’s the pain in his face that he wants to stop.  

But, as always, the cosmos have a lot of fun torturing him.  Or so he thinks.  Anything to make light of this increasingly painful situation.  It’s only when the pain comes to a head, and he can’t help but scream into the pillow as it does, that it finally ceases.  And after suffering so long in agony, he can finally fade into a blissful oblivion.  

When he’s at school the next day, however, he realizes that the fact he hadn’t had any nightmares should have warned him that the cosmos weren’t finished screwing with him quite yet.

“What the…eyes?” he squeaks, and yes, it’s a squeak.  He’s surprised he can talk, because he really wants to just crawl in a hole and die, his throat hurts so bad.  Carefully, hopefully, warily he looks into his reflection in the boy’s bathroom, going pale as a sheet when his fears are confirmed.

He really has eyes.  One, two, three…there are eight of them, each in sets of two.  The newly grown three sets cascade down the side of his face, the bottom-most set somewhere in the middle of his cheekbones.

That isn’t the best part either.  

All of them, all of them, are cat-like, the ovoid pupils dilating in time with his rising panic.  Being able to see so well hurt, and he just curled in one of the stalls with his eyes closed, hoping to whoever heard that no one else would find out about that.  

Then again, if someone did, maybe they could help, starting with something to numb his gums.

This time, the new changes appear during the middle of class.  Thankfully, no one really noticed, but then again, it’s Halloween—of course people are wearing flamboyant costumes.  So what, he’s a teenaged vampire.  It’s nothing new.

Still, the fangs in his mouth are.  And they hurt like hell.  For the rest of the day, and a few more afterward, he avoided speaking when at all possible.  It wasn’t till the pain in his mouth went away that he realized he had claws.

And that time, someone did take notice.  

His best friend, Gabriel, happened to comment that his nails were really long on a sudden impulse on their way to orchestra.  Out of instinct, he came up with a lie, saying that it was an experiment.

Gabriel agreed, dropping the subject and continuing on about a really cute girl he saw at the bookstore—he’s a bookworm.  He laughs along with him, secretly panicking as he takes a mental tally of everything about him that’s just plain wrong.

Then his mind gives him an image of what his parents will do if they notice anything.  

He shudders, saying that it’s suddenly really chilly.

Gabriel doesn’t say anything, but it’s hot outside.

When the changes come this time, he’s prepared and not prepared.

He’s prepared, because he’s figured out that there are signs when his body is changing—now, what’s changing, he’s not got a clue.  Namely, he’s extremely tired, and everything that is him aches.

He isn’t prepared, however, for exactly how badly everything hurts or the feeling of having something scraping his insides as it writhes within him.  Actually, he realizes, it’s more than one thing.  

If he wasn’t trying so hard not to scream, he’d probably be laughing hysterically.

Yet he stays silent, holding his sides and pressing his back against the wall as best he can, trying to apply counter-pressure to that space on his lower back that is agony.  His hands are wrapped around him, pressing against whatever is cutting him from inside.  A very rational part of his mind that’s high off pain notes he shouldn’t push what’s cutting him from the inside back inside, but its instinct that dictates his actions now.

Then skin breaks, and he screams with voice of a dying creature, because that’s honestly what it feels like.

“…What the hell--?” Gabriel exclaims as he bursts through the door, stopping as he sees him curled on the ground.  His blood is pooling under him, and he’s pretty sure everything else he’s tried to hide up till now is visible.

But that doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that he’s somewhere safe, and wherever that is, it’s not here.  He (somehow) gets to his feet, desperate to flee when Gabriel intercepts his frankly pathetic attempt to escape, wrapping his strong arms around the struggling boy.

Whatever he is, he’s not a boy.  He knows that much.  But that is all he knows.

“Shh, darkling,” Gabriel murmurs, sitting him down.  He doesn’t move; the logical and rational part of his brain shut down.  Instead its instinct that drives him.  “I wondered if you’d started…looks like I should have paid attention.”

He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a garbled sound that leans more towards a growl.  Gabriel turns around, musing interrupted.  

“You can still understand me, right?” Gabriel asks him, watching as he slowly nods.  “That’s good,” he says with a grin.  “Have you slept any?”

At the shake of his head, Gabriel grabs his hand (claw) and leads him to one of the empty bedrooms.  It takes a few moments to pull out blankets and comforters, but once they’re out, he makes a bee-line for them.  But Gabriel grabs him and yanks him backwards.

“Not like that you’re not—go take a bath,” Gabriel instructs him, glaring when he growls.  Then friendly hazel eyes become wild yellow-gold, and its then that he does as he’s told.  

There’s another shriek when he gets to the bathroom.  Gabriel sighs, already aware of why, and carefully pries the door open.  He’s backed into a corner as far as he can, hyper-ventilating and reeking of being feral.  

“Hey, it’s okay,” Gabriel says softly, slowly approaching the terrified boy.  He shakes his head, refusing to move.  The newly grown appendages lash out at him in response, sharp claws flexing dangerously.  For a newly awakened Dark One, he’s pretty deadly.

“Ciaran.”

It’s that one word, those few syllables that snap him out of it.  He, Ciaran, looks at him, his eyes revealing his panic.

And it’s at that moment that Gabriel feels sorrow for the boy, the one so obviously not what he tries to be.  Because he knows once the boy realizes what he actually is, it’s going to take a miracle to bring him around.

“You’re covered in blood,” Gabriel points out, squelching the almost spoken comment to look in a mirror.  He’s pretty sure that’s what’s got him like this.

“I…I know, it’s…it’s mine,” Ciaran manages, his voice much deeper and darker than before.  Gabriel indicates the bathtub, to which Ciaran manages a weak grin.  “Y-yeah, good idea.”

“I’ll get you a change of clothes,” Gabriel tells him, disappearing downstairs and out the door.  It’s then, and only then, that Ciaran allows himself the tears he’s tried so hard to hide for so very long.  

Because now, now there is no doubt.  There is no other explanation.  

“What am I..?” he whimpers brokenly, letting the water wash away the blood and hide the tears.  After an hour or so of letting water soothe his aching muscles, he finally cleans off, stepping out of the shower tentatively.  

There’s a change of clothes, like promised, and a brief note.

Once dressed, he follows the instructions there, and is surprised to find Gabriel waiting for him on the roof, perched there with a somber expression as he stares at the starry sky.  It’s almost as if he lamenting something.

“What happening to you is supposed to,” Gabriel says suddenly, looking at him.  Ciaran doesn’t say anything, though the way his eyes look away while he struggles with the things under his shirt.

“How long…how long have you known?” Ciaran finally asks, meeting his gaze.  His own is a mix of trepidation and the yearning to know.

“Since Halloween, when you suddenly ‘decided’ to be a teen vampire,” Gabriel answered wryly.  Ciaran couldn’t help but grin weakly, sinking to his feet.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Who’d believe me?” he said bitterly, pushing himself back up to standing—now it was his legs.  Was there no relief?  “I’m growing extra arms, claws, fangs, eyes, and a tail.  My parents will murder me.���

“That’s not an excuse now,” Gabriel says simply, walking over to him.  Ciaran looks over his shoulder, making a sound of surprise when his legs give way.  “Go to sleep—you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“When will it end?” Ciaran queries suddenly, turning to face him.  Gabriel shakes his head, expression sympathetic.  

“I don’t know,” he tells him, helping him up. “Whenever you’ve grown up.”

Somehow, that one phrase comforts Ciaran more than anything else.

With Gabriel as an ally, it got a bit better.

However, the day his wings finally revealed themselves is also the day he learned that he had a dark streak that made even Gabriel wary.

It started with his parents actually being familial and wanting him to stay over that weekend.  He was happy—they were actually in a good mood, so maybe they could actually do stuff as a family.

That was a very big mistake.

The moment the weekend hit, he was barraged with verbal assaults like they were air.  While it didn’t really affect him (that he was going to actually admit), it was the physical assaults that caused him trouble.

Ciaran honestly wanted to crawl in the bed and stay there.  And he would have, too, had not his father came in and threatened to beat him blue if he didn’t get out of the bed.  While it wasn’t much of a threat—he was currently getting cut and burnt from the inside out—he wasn’t that much of a masochist.

What gave him up was when they did a ritual of drinking from an old chalice the family had as an heirloom, something they’d done as a “rite of purification and unity.”  

He didn’t really care about the reasoning behind it; he was just happy for the one time they could be together and not trying to tear him apart.

All hell broke loose, however, when he started gagging after it was his turn to sip. The cup hadn’t even left his hands before he dropped it, hands going to his throat as it burned in agony.

“Have you lost your mind?” his mother hissed as he gagged, shaking his head in response.  It hurt, it hurt like nothing had before, but he couldn’t give the pain a voice.  

“No, he has finally admitted to what he really is,” his father answered for her, getting up and walking over to the bookshelf.  The sword that rests there is the other heirloom, one well-kept and tended to.  

Ciaran knows it’s sharp, mainly from having to clean it so often.

“N-no…what…are you…talking about?” Ciaran rasped, trying to speak past the burning agony of his throat.  “What do you..?”

“Ciaran, you are not human, and you never will be,” his father said simply.  “What you are is a demon, born from the darkest depths of hell.  Not only are you a demon, you are the one your kind has prophesied to end all life.  And for that, you shall die.”

“But..!  I haven’t even..!” Ciaran exclaimed, spitting up blood as his throat rebelled against use.  His father still approached, holding the blade at the ready the entire while.  

Neither of them had any mercy for him.

The moment his father raises his blade is when Ciaran finally realizes that he means to kill him.  

He doesn’t want to die.  He doesn’t want to kill them, either—they’re his parents, the ones that gave him a home five years ago. But he doesn’t want to die, and that takes priority.

Ciaran moves, his instincts taking over as his mind is overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.  His father frowns, only for his face to become placid as he’s hit in the back with what could only be a whip.  

“Die, demon,” she hisses, eyes blazing with righteous fury.  Ciaran makes a sound akin to a yelp of terror, backing away from both of them before taking off downstairs.

They give chase, but he knows the house better than they.  He waits till they’ve run around a corner before ducking into one of the laundry chutes, groaning as his back complains about being slammed into the wall who knows how many times.  It’s joined by whatever is scraping—and burning—the insides of his back.  Weakly, he stumbles out, only to hiss as he’s almost hit dead-on by the burst of light that shoots by his face.

“Stop fighting us,” his father tells him, sounding as if he’s pleading. “Do you really wish to destroy the world?”

“I’m not going to do that!” Ciaran cries in return, ignoring the blood in his mouth.  His fangs have slid, too, as well as his tail.  

“Look at yourself—you are no human.  You do not deserve to live,” his mother points out, nose scrunched up and eyes narrowed.  “No human has fangs or a tail.”

“Let me kill you, Ciaran,” his father begs, eyes focused onto him.  “You will save the world by doing this final deed.”

“I don’t want to die!” Ciaran screams, narrowly missing the blade.  It does, however, leave a considerable gash on his chest.  He hisses as eyes open—it begins to dawn on him that he’ll have to fight his parents if he wants to get out alive.

“You will die, whether you wish to or not,” his mother countered.  “You have the option to choose if it means something or no.”

He let loose a wild cry, baring his fangs.  He’s a lot of things, but willing to die like is not one of them.  His father shakes his head, something in his eyes dying behind that light there.

“Once a demon, always a demon,” he mutters, attacking the boy.  Ciaran hisses, his claws defending him from most of the damage as he seeks an opening.  It isn’t working—if anything, he’s the one with openings—but it doesn’t stop him from trying.  

The wounds covering his body are leaking blood, his blood.  He knows this, but can do nothing about them.  He doesn’t know how to fight—

“Ciaran!”

“…Gabriel?” Ciaran murmurs in surprise, hissing when they begin to circle him quickly.  Gabriel dives into the fray, unleashing a spinning attack with his blades that makes them back away.

“The boy is under my care,” Gabriel says calmly, looking at his father.  “Do you really want to force my hand?”

“So you’ve taken him under your wings, O Fallen One?” his father asks, shaking his head in disappointment as Gabriel replies, “I have.”  “Why can you not see the Light?  He will destroy this world, and all that lives in it.”

“That only can happen because of treating him as you have,” Gabriel said shortly, causing his father to narrow his eyes.  “He is not evil.  He needs not die.”

“Any born of Shadow must die, Gabriel,” his father says firmly.  “This is the same reason why you have been banished from your place as the throne holder!”

“A false angel banished from the false throne of a false god,” Gabriel replies.  “Everything is false.  We are not angels—we are men and women, gifted with our strengths to help others, not play Creator!”

“We are not creating, we are purifying the world as intended—“

“By who, Michael?” Gabriel hissed.  Ciaran listened to their arguments, but couldn’t understand what was happening.  All he knew was that everything hurt, and it wouldn’t be long before something changed.

“Do not waste words on a Fallen Angel,” his mother hissed, drawing their attention in her direction.  “Take action.”

Gabriel’s eyes widened at the gaping hole that was in Ciaran’s chest, and Ciaran did, too.  There was a hole in his chest, a hole.  It was easily the size of both his fists.  Ciaran looked at his mother in shocked horror before collapsing.

“See?  It is done,” she purrs in victory, clicking her tongue when she has to wrap Gabriel in her whip.  “Did you really think we would let him live, Gabriel?  Why do you, an Angel, care so much for the demons?”

“He isn’t a demon.  You are,” Gabriel intoned coldly, breaking free of the whip and launching his assault.  The couple worked in sync to hold off the enraged Gabriel, whose twin blades sang as they cut through the air.  

All the while, Ciaran lie there, eyes staring into nothing, dying.

I’m…going to die.

That’s right.

But I don’t want to, not like this.

Of course not.  But you’re too weak to live, anyway.  

I’m not weak!

Sure you aren’t—that’s why you couldn’t keep yourself alive, much less your parents.

My parents?  I don’t even—

Remember them, I know.  How do you think those memories got sealed?  Poor little Ciaran couldn’t handle his parents dying, so he forgot about it.

I don’t want to die.

And?  You’re dying now.  Well, if you use me, you won’t.  But I get to have you if you aren’t strong enough to.

Go to hell.

After you.

Neither of the fighters were expecting his corpse to sit up and glare at them.  When the wounds closed before their eyes, they started to get worried.  The moment his eyes opened, and they were all ovoid as well as amber, it was time to panic.

“What in Heaven’s name..?” Gabriel murmured, watching in shock.  

“This is why we must kill him,” his father said simply, knocking the fallen Angel back as he swooped to deal the finishing blow—pure white, feathery wings gently scooped the air before propelling him forward.

Those white, feathery wings were met with black, leathery wings.

“Who says I’m going to let you?” Ciaran asked, smirking.  His eyes were looking in different directions—a two pair on his father, a pair on his mother, and a pair on Gabriel.  “Aw, what’s with the face?  You wanted to kill me, didn’t you?  Come on.”

“What..? Who are you?” his father asked, features actually revealing deep confusion and…pain?  “You are not Ciaran.”

“Really, now?” he continued on, laughing when he got wrapped by his mother’s whip.  “Did you ever know me?  Nice trick with the whip, by the way.  My turn!”

The smile on Ciaran’s face became absolutely disturbing as he looked at his mother.  Whatever passed in that gaze when her eyes met his had to have terrified her, because she dropped the whip.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ciaran hissed, grabbing her—How the hell did he move that fast? Gabriel thought—with his claws and wrapping his arms around her.  “Do you have any idea how much I loved you guys?  Still do, but that’s nothing compared to how much I want you two to hurt.”

“What are you—you’re a demon!  Demons can’t love!” his mother shrieked, squirming in his grasp.  He chuckled, hiding his face in her hair.

“Of course not,” Ciaran agreed quietly.  “Goodbye, Mama.”

She gasped in pain, falling completely still as he let her go.  The moment he did, she fell to the ground, twitching slightly before going still as only those dead can.

“What did you do to her?” his father exclaimed, wings flapping softly in irritation.  Ciaran looked at him, that disturbing smile on his face.

“She’s out of the way for a while,” Ciaran answered, shrugging when the man spluttered in rage.  “That whip is annoying.”

“How dare you, you—“ his father roared, charging at the boy once more.  His blade met Ciaran’s claws, which had folded over him to protect him from that blow.

“Demon?” Ciaran finished, raising an eyebrow.  “What else did you think I was?  Your son?  Could have fooled me.”

“Die!” the man exclaimed, surprised when he was thrown backward.  Ciaran flapped his wings, hovering above ground for a few moments.

“I won’t let you kill me,” Ciaran told him, grinning.  Gabriel started, realizing that he was escaping.  “Thanks for the save, Gabriel.”

“Ciaran!  Wait!“ Gabriel exclaimed, running after him.  He stopped when the boy disappeared out of sight, turning to face the broken angel.  “What have you done, Michael?”

“He will die,” Michael said softly, finally looking up at him with black eyes.  “As will you, for aiding him.”

Gabriel didn’t bother replying, instead running after the boy.  He didn’t have to go far—Ciaran had the strongest scent of concentrated darkness he’d ever felt.

He did however, question his choice of hiding—on top of the highest building—and voiced that.

“Why not?” Ciaran replied, glancing at him over his shoulder.  “You might want to check your wounds—there’s one that’ll kill you on your throat.”

“No, it—huh, you are right,” Gabriel muttered in agreement, healing it with a soft light.  He came up to Ciaran—well, he tried to.  There wasn’t much he could do when face with claws dripping…something.

“Poison,” Ciaran explained, withdrawing them.  “What do you want, Gabriel?”

“How are you alive?” Gabriel asked, going straight to the point.  “I saw her tear a hole through you.  And who are you?  Ciaran never speaks like this.”

“…I really like how everyone thinks they know him,” Ciaran, rather, the not-Ciaran commented, getting to his feet.  “You’re not wrong, though.  You’re not right, either.”

“What do you mean?” Gabriel asked, making sure he didn’t come off as threatening—the ground was melting where his Ciaran’s poison hit it.  Ciaran looked at him.

“Exactly that.  Pry it out of the boy,” he replied, looking away.  “But you’re not like the usual Angel crew.  Why is that?”

“…Touche,” Gabriel admitted, grinning sheepishly as Ciaran gave him a pointed look.  “But still…is he really a darkling, or is it your influence?”

“Can’t you tell, Angel boy?” he asked, smirking when Gabriel gave him a blasé look.  “Both.  He is a darkling, but I’ve…enhanced him a bit.”

“Enhanced?” Gabriel exclaimed, falling silent when one of Ciaran’s claws rose up threateningly.  

“Let me make one thing very clear to you,” the not-Ciaran said, grinning in that disturbing way. It was like he was leering.  “I don’t really care for any of you.  The only one I care about is him, and that’s because he’s mine by a binding contract.”

“You realize that if I die, he’s going to be that much worse, right?” Gabriel countered. That leer widened.

“Works just fine for me,” he replied.  “Either way, I win.”

“Why did you bond with him?  You know that he doesn’t have the heart to do anything your kind is infamous for,” Gabriel prodded.

“What we are infamous for is not our doing,” the being replied, golden eyes flashing red.  “And it would behoove you to watch your tongue.  You may not have it for long.”

“Why him, then?” Gabriel asked.  The creature’s eyes gave him a hard look before looking away.  A grin lit his face, but it wasn’t one that reached his eyes.

“Are you sure you want that answer?”

Gabriel fell quiet, not entirely sure he wanted to know that.  The not-Ciaran turned back to face him, sighing.

“I’ll admit I’m not really interested in killing—too much trouble,” it told him, gaze trailing the clouds.  “But I do want this one to survive.  So, I’ll cut you a deal: help him, and let him join your cause—in return, I won’t destroy this place.”

“You were never going to,” Gabriel said matter-of-factly.  “Otherwise, you would have actually killed his mother.”

“With what I’ve seen of your kind, I don’t think you want that risk.”

“True.  I’ll take your deal,” Gabriel answered.  “With one condition—you have to help him. I know nothing of his type of darkling.”

“Of course. I won’t let him share that fate.”

“What fate?”

“The fate of his family.”

“What—“

“Ask him.  Don’t expect an answer, though.”

“Is there—“

“Yes, there’s a reason, and no, I’m not telling you now,” Ciaran told him, golden eyes focused on him.  “So, you’ve met.”

“How do you know…him?” Gabriel asked.  Ciaran gave him a cold smile.

“Are you sure you want that answer?”

Gabriel could have sworn one of the boy’s eyes were red.

The alternate personality of Ciaran has a name.

Ciaran says it’s Adrian, which Gabriel finds highly ironic—both of their names mean “dark one.”

But now that he knows something else lives within Ciaran, it explains a lot of his friend’s strange behavior.  For example, Ciaran usually spaces out. A lot.  Or his absolute obsession with music—there’s a reason the boy plays violin so well.  There’s also his strange habit of keeping wherever he stays utterly dark.

Gabriel knows these strange quirks of Ciaran because Ciaran now lives with him. It’s been a month, and he’s learned that the boy has a lot more secrets than he knew about.  Several of them, Ciaran is aware of, but many he doesn’t.  Adrian won’t tell either of them those.

One of the one’s Ciaran didn’t know about was that he was a darkling.  That’s still a lesson Gabriel has yet to teach him, mainly because he doesn’t know how Ciaran will respond.  The boy reminds him of a famous lake—the surface was always calm, but a monster lurked underneath.

There are moments he sees that monster.

And that monster is not Adrian.

Gabriel worries, because he thinks that his parents worry was a valid one—he wouldn’t put it past Ciaran to destroy the world.  

Sometimes, he talks with Adrian.  He’s explained that there are days where Ciaran is completely inaccessible, even to him.  It’s on those days that Adrian takes over, but he won’t leave the house.  

Whenever Adrian takes over, Ciaran’s darkling traits are visible, and impossible to hide.  

Gabriel wonders about that, too.

Adrian is actually a pretty decent person, although his sense of humor is, for lack of a better word, screwy.  Gabriel has been at the receiving end of it on many occasions, and the only thing he can say is worse is Ciaran’s sense of humor.  Thankfully, the quiet boy typically doesn’t prank.

When he does, though, Gabriel meditates after getting out of it—but not before scaring Ciaran silly.

Ciaran still isn’t comfortable with being a darkling, and that’s only worsened by the fact that his body is rapidly changing.  One day he woke up to having a second set of fangs in his mouth; another, spikes going down his back; there was an incident with the bed being melted; but the kicker was the exoskeleton.

Neither Adrian nor Gabriel were prepared for the utter breakdown that happened.  Gabriel was forced to tie Ciaran down.

The fact that he didn’t calm down till he was tied down was worrying.

When Gabriel kept prodding Adrian for answers—because Ciaran was impossible to get answers out of—the answer he got chilled him to the bone.

“Do you have any idea what his life had to be like for a demon to contract him out of pity?”

Later, when they’d switched again and Ciaran was currently playing a game—he’d bought if after working for a month—Gabriel merely watched him, trying to imagine what that could have been like.

Because, really, if his life had been so horrible, how could he keep smiling like that?

Apparently, the wings came up because of Adrian—Ciaran didn’t have his own yet.

“Yet,” is the key word.  Gabriel was currently driving as fast as he could get away with while making sure Ciaran didn’t destroy anything important (like the door).  In the back seat, Ciaran is curled tightly, his claws buried in his arms.

For some strange reason, Ciaran didn’t want to mess up Gabriel’s car, although the man has made it clear he’s not worried about the damn car of all things.  

Gabriel wonders, not for the first time, what his life has been like.

He is glad, though, that Ciaran managed to keep his other “claws” retracted.  Gabriel doesn’t know what to call the things, and Adrian never bothered to think about it.  They’re long, and a lot like spider’s legs—without the hair—with how long they are.  What makes it really scary is that each ends in a pointed tip, almost like spears, that can ooze a poison so potent even Gabriel kept clear of them.  When he wants, he can walk on them, but Ciaran prefers to let them hang behind him—it looks like he has wings, but Gabriel has learned better.

They make the boy dangerous when sparring, because he’s learning how to use them.  Gabriel has no doubt that the boy will be his equal in a few weeks’ time.  Each of them are equivalent to the sword his adopted father had used on him, and can double as a shield.

“Gabriel..!”

The hissed warning speeds him on, but Ciaran makes a strange sound that prompts Gabriel to turn around.

He’s never actually been one to curse, but at that moment, it seems fitting.

“Unless…you’d like to deal with a rabid darkling in a car,” Adrian warns him, his—their?—voices taking on that double tone, as if someone was echoing his words.  “You should…hurry.”

“Rabid?  Why the hell is he rabid?  Scratch that, why is he changing now, of all times?”

“If I knew this would happen, I wouldn’t have let him walk out the damn door.”

“Why, Adrian?”

“He shouldn’t have…wait…Son of a lich.”

Gabriel had to wonder if things could get any worse than they were.  Darklings were creatures born of darkness—most of their abilities were as such.  One of Ciaran’s strength evolving was like having a fission reactor go off.

“What’s wrong now?”

“It’s the anniversary of their deaths…”

“Will you explain instead of giving me cryptic sentences?”

“He’s already crazy, Gabriel.  You know as well as I he should have demonstrated these traits a while back,” Adrian started, gasping.  “Dammit, kid, hold on..!  He won’t start getting his true strength until ten years after his parents have died—that’s just how his kind works.  It’s been ten years.”

“Are you…what’s that mean for us?”

“I hope our place is sturdy, because he’s actually pretty damn strong for a brat.”

Hearing that from Adrian was both a compliment and death sentence.  

“…Something tells me I’m going to be needing that hidden fortune…”

“Maybe, maybe not.  That girl he knows—what’s her name? Kiara?—yeah, tell her to come over.”

“Adrian, you know we can’t let her get hurt because of him.”

“What, just because she’s a human?  She’s the one thing that keeps the boy as functioning as he is!  He’ll focus on protecting her rather than destroying everything in sight!”

“Why would he want to destroy everything?”

“…He’s been through too much, and it made him snap.  And by snap, I mean he’s psycho.  She was there through all of it.  You’ll have to ask her, because asking him is easily the stupidest idea you will ever have.  And likely the last one.”

“The last…you mean he’ll kill me?”

“If he’s nice about it, yes.”

“That’s not comforting, Adrian.”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“A miracle.  We’re here. Can you get him to the house?”

“Angel boy, you have five minutes to pull a lockdown.”

They moved quickly.

“Why five?”

“That’s how long you have till he breaks my hold.”

“Oh, hell.”

“Scratch that.  The monster is out.”

“What—“

“Get away!  Now!”

Gabriel took off, eyes wide when he glances over his shoulder.  Ciaran’s eyes are gold, but the pupils are ovoid, and barely even visible.  It doesn’t take too long for Gabriel to start moving.  Who wants to die by poison?

He pulls out his phone, dialing Kiara’s number at high speed while leading the berserk child around.  

“Hey, Gabriel.  What’s up?”

“A lot.  Can you come over—crap!—now?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ve got nothing to do.  Do I need to bring anything?”

“No, not at all. Wear your running shoes, though.”

“That sounds bad.  What’s happening?”

“The monster has come out.”

“Be there in five.”

“Thank you.”

Gabriel quickly shoved the phone into his pocket, running to the other side of the room while Ciaran yanked claws out of the wall.  His eyes were pitch-black now, and his fangs were fully extended.  Strange veins pulsed along his skin, even underneath the exoskeleton.  In fact, the exoskeleton was covering his entire body.  He looked a lot like a giant scorpion, except his head, which reminded him of dragons.

“Ciaran!  Stop it!  Stop attacking!”

Gabriel was very glad Kiara was fearless, because only she could stand face-to-face with Ciaran when he was like that and live.

Ciaran turned to face her, claws falling limp behind him.  She grinned, completely unfazed by how creepy his smile looked when he copied her.  Gabriel didn’t get what was going on, but he wasn’t about to open his mouth and get targeted again.

“Why are you acting like that?  You know Gabriel isn’t going to hurt you.”

Ciaran hissed as his claws raised threateningly.

“That’s no excuse.  He only wants to help.  He can’t do that if you keep trying to kill him.”

Ciaran growled this time, clutching his head.  She caressed his face, drawing his attention back to her.

“You’re growing up again, aren’t you?  It’s not going to be like last time, Ciaran, promise.  Gabriel wants to make sure you’re okay, just like me.”

Ciaran shook his head, claws wrapping around him.  She pulled one away, and then the others when she was sure he wasn’t hurt by the motion.  He stood there, looking at her and then at Gabriel in confusion.

“No one is going to hurt you.  Remember your promise?  If no one attacks you, you can’t attack them.”

Ciaran tried speaking, except that what came out was a growl instead of speech.  He kept on anyway, gesticulating as he spoke.  Kiara understood him, though.  She waited till he was done before wrapping him in a hug, and letting him go.

“Yes, I know—you’ve told me, remember?  But you can’t destroy the world, okay?  What about people like Ms. Lena or that kind old man?  They’d die, too.  How about this—any time you want to destroy the world, I’ll sing for you, all right?  That way, you can think about something else.”

Ciaran was quiet for a moment, but then spoke furiously for a few moments.

“Ciaran, you are not killing anyone on my watch.  Have the dreams really gotten that bad?”

He growled helplessly, nodding his head.

“Well, then, we’ll be doing a lot of duets, won’t we?  I know you’re evil.  You don’t have to be, you know.  And if you really were evil, then why haven’t you done any of those bad things?”

Ciaran growled softly, wrapping his claws around her for a few moments.

“…I’m honored, Ciaran…the choice is yours—follow up on what you were born to do, or protect what you were born to destroy.  Just because you’re born to be the ultimate evil doesn’t mean you have to be.”

He shook his head, smiling weakly.  Then he looked to Gabriel, and smiled.  His claws spread open, only to close and fold behind him.

“Gabriel, he says he’s sorry for trying to kill you,” Kiara told him, grinning when Ciaran nodded emphatically.  “I’m supposed to explain real fast.  So, here goes: Ciaran was born so he’d be the next ultimate evil.  Since his father died, and he was the ultimate evil at the time, it’s passed down to him.  He doesn’t act on it…usually.  But when he sheds his skin, it overwhelms him, because that’s when his power grows.  It’s evil by nature—that’s why he doesn’t like using his abilities.  After a certain point, he will become evil.  He wants you to kill him when that happens.”

“Are you out of your mind, you little fool?” Gabriel exclaimed, startling Ciaran.  “I will not kill you.  I will not.  Your power is evil, yes?  Then master it.  Do not let it control you—control it.”

Ciaran blinked, then nodded as tears streaming down his face.  He wiped them away quickly, expression reddening in embarrassment.  Then he gasps, growling as he gets away from them.  Gabriel moves to stop him, but Kiara holds him back, shaking her head.

“He’s shedding. Watch.”

The exoskeleton covers his body entirely, but it’s fragile-looking, brittle.  Ciaran makes a strangled growling sound as he hunches his back, as if spreading wings that do not exist.  His shirt falls to the floor, torn by the spikes that have ripped through it and the tail that cuts him repeatedly.  His claws have retracted, and his hands—which are claws in the sense of the word—are unbelievably stiff.  He hunches his back again, falling onto all fours, as something actually begins to push against his skin, raising it as it does so.  Ciaran is breathing heavily as that happens, the sound of him panting giving way to a loud cry as the thing in his back actually tears through the exoskeleton.  That’s not all that tears through, either.  An entirely different body tears its way free of the now former form of Ciaran.  

This form looks more streamlined, more…deadly. It’s a lot like watching a wolf suddenly tear its way free of a cub’s body.

It burns the brittle shell with some sort of black fire before turning to face Gabriel and Kiara.  She moves first, running up to it and giving it a warm hug.

“Ciaran, you made it!” she cheers.  He nods, claws wrapping around her in a form of greeting.  “What do you mean, I’m short?”

“Because you are,” Gabriel quipped, grinning when she glared at him. He gave Ciaran a congratulatory pat on the back.  “Welcome, Ciaran.  Glad you made it.”

“Thank you.”

“I have to ask, what is it like?”

“What do you mean?”

Gabriel was still adjusting to how Ciaran had changed.  With his shedding, the boy had become more confident and out-spoken, though he still preferred not speaking unless necessary.

He had, however, discovered that Ciaran really did have an evil side to him that he kept under control.  Adrian admitted that of the two, Ciaran was really the stronger—he got away with most of what he did by experience.

There were physical changes as well—his hair had gone from dark brown to a bright black.  While Ciaran had been a skinny boy, he was now actually built, though that was more likely due to how much he’d been training over the months.  He was also taller.

“I understand that you are a child of evil, but how do you ignore that?” Gabriel clarified.

Ciaran gave him a strange smile.

“I don’t,” he explained.  “It’s more…I acknowledge it, but I don’t act on it.  Like right now.  You’re my best friend, but I want nothing more than to see how red your blood is.  It’d be very pretty, I think.  Or Kiara—she’s gorgeous, and I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought of thoroughly enjoying her.  But I choose not to, because you’re my friend, and because she’s very dear to me.  Doing those things is wrong.  So I don’t.”

“Are there not times you cannot not do that?” Gabriel queried.  

“There have been,” Ciaran admitted.  “But my mother always told me that if I did something wrong, there would come a time someone I cared for would be severely hurt, even die, because of doing the wrong thing.  So…I do what my real mother would have done at times like that.  Incidents like when I attacked you are more because I’m scared of you more than anything else—Angels killed my parents.  There’s rage, too.”

“You truly have my respect,” Gabriel said softly, processing what he’d said.  “But I will admit, even when you are overwhelmed by your darkness, I do not sense evil.  Yes, you are cruel at times, but not evil.  Maybe you are not the evil you think you are.”

“Ha ha, I hope so, Gabriel,” Ciaran commented with a wry smile.  “Maybe I can find a different outlet.  I can’t kill anything, but surely there’s a use for that ability?”

“You know what a darkling is, yes?” Gabriel asked, grinning when Ciaran gave him a blasé look.  “There are rogues, and those rogues plague human society.  I typically hunt them, but it would be very welcome to have a partner.  You could work alongside me—it’d be a good venue for you to train outside of sparring.”

“Now that,” and here Ciaran’s smile became twisted, “is a fun idea.”

“But there are rules, Ciaran,” Gabriel warned him, already aware of what he’d unleashed.  “There will be no blood play.  Torture is not allowed.  And if you get out of hand during the fight, I’ll ban you from the next week’s hunts.  You can kill, but be merciful about it.”

“Fine, fine,” Ciaran agreed, refusing to have his parade dampened.  “But…what of the evil targets?”

“As in..?”

“Rapists, abusers, child molesters…their ilk. Do I have to be merciful to them as well?” Ciaran asked, his eyes hard.  “Just because I am evil does not mean I do not have rules.  Children are off limits.  Women can be killed, but no more.  Torture is a means to an end, an art form.”

“Strange…care to explain?” Gabriel prodded, inwardly shuddering at the smile on Ciaran’s face.

“A child is a gem,” Ciaran said simply.  “Their innocence is a thing to be respected and cherished—the same for women.  I was a child once.  I wish no child to suffer what I have, and will not inflict it upon them.  Women…it was a woman that protected me.  It is a woman that has refused and defeated me, time and time again, with nothing more than a smile.  It was a woman that saved me.  They can be evil—moreso than I ever could—but they are to be respected.”

“It sounds to me, Ciaran, that you are not as evil as you think you are,” Gabriel told him. “True evil does not care for such things as rules—they do what they want how they want, regardless of the consequences.  I believe you are the epitome of pure darkness, Ciaran.”

“Be that as that may,” Ciaran continued, that disturbing smile on his face, “I warn you now: any that are evil—and I know because that is what I was raised with—will suffer for what they have done.”

“…So be it,” Gabriel agreed. “Maybe then people will realize that there is most definitely a consequence for their actions.”