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lovelylogans · 5 years ago

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golden light and black clouds

Always keep mint on your windowsill in August, to ensure that buzzing flies will stay outside, where they belong. Don’t think the summer is over, even when roses droop and turn brown and the stars shift position in the sky. Never presume August is a safe or reliable time of the year. It is the season of reversals, when the birds no longer sing in the morning and the evenings are made up of equal parts golden light and black clouds. The rock-solid and the tenuous can easily exchange places until everything you know can be questioned and put into doubt.

-practical magic, alice hoffman.

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: superstition, food mention, death mention, a bit of anxiety, deceit mention

pairings: polyamlamp (analogical specific)

words: 1,501

notes: so, this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations! today’s prompt is friday the 13th! this also ties into my fic, lavender for luck—you don’t necessarily need to have read it to understand, but it would probably help!

It should not have been necessarily surprising, that his witch boyfriend was superstitious, but this bordered on the absurd.

“Are you sure you’ve got—?” Virgil asks, poking his head into Logan’s bedroom again, his hair messy and tousled and generally untidy.

Virgil’s looked stressed for the whole of the month—he isn’t particularly prone to smiling, but usually, when he does, it’s genuine and soft and sweet. Since they’d all come back to school, he’s been stressed—shoulders hiked up close to his ears, a tightness around his eyes, the bags under his typical eyeshadow growing deeper and darker, and when he smiles, it’s almost like it’s just for their sake. He’s used to Roman doing something similiar to that. Not Virgil.

It still confounds Logan, that a Friday the 13th could really have Virgil that rattled.

“Yes,” Logan says wearily. “I haven’t moved the mint on the sill and I have the lavender oil in the bathroom.”

“Good,” Virgil says, already distracted, “right, good,” and he closes Logan’s door behind him.

Logan returns to annotating his textbook. He’s only read a page more by the time Virgil sticks his head in again.

“And you—you know a lemonade recipe, right?”

“Lemonade?” Logan repeats skeptically, looking up from the textbook.

Virgil looks abruptly embarrassed, before he scuffs his toe along the carpet and mumbles, “Look, just—if someone irritates you tomorrow, don’t—don’t retaliate too excessively, yeah? Just drink lemonade instead.”

“All right,” Logan says. “Sure. I’ll drink lemonade if I get particularly annoyed with someone.”

He must not sound particularly dedicated to the idea, because Virgil glowers at him a little.

“And you have class at noon, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” Virgil says, “that’s cool,” and then he shuffles a little further into the room. “Can I take a look at your ceiling fan?”

“My ceiling fan?” Logan repeats.

“I just want to be sure that it works well,” Virgil says.

“That’s outlined in your family’s mythos?” Logan says.

“Yeah, actually,” Virgil says, and flicks on the ceiling fan. He watches it circle a few times, eyes narrowed, before he flicks it off again. “Can I stand on your bed?”

Logan considers this, before he says, “As long as your shoes are off.”

Virgil wiggles his socked toes at him in answer (purple with cartoonish black cats on them, undoubtedly a gift from Patton) and clambers onto his bed.

That’s the point when turning back to his textbook loses any hope, because Virgil hums thoughtfully, and then Logan’s ceiling fan begins to dissemble itself into his hands.

Logan stares, jaw slightly unhinged, as Virgil seems to investigate each piece, before just—sticking it back on, not with any particular sense of order, but it seems that as long as he puts the pieces back and if he wills it to happen then it would just... happen.

It’s nonsensical. It’s utterly, completely unrealistic.

It’s magic.

Logan’s known Virgil’s magic for months, of course. But when they first came back to the apartment, Virgil was shy about doing magic in front of them, and then they spent a summer parted, but now, Logan supposes, with all the supposed dangers of a Friday the 13th and three more people to look after than he’s used to...

Virgil sneezes once, flicks a finger dismissively in the air, and Logan watches as the dust seems to disintegrate from everywhere in the room—the fan’s inner machinery, which is what seems to have made him sneeze in the first place, the top of the bookshelf, the inside of grates that he can’t reach with a feather duster—and the air immediately smells cleaner, sweeter, like lavender and honey.

“That’s remarkable,” Logan says, before he can help himself. Really, it’s a wonder he’s managed to keep quiet for so long.

“What, cleaning?” Virgil says, but his pink cheeks give away how flustered he is.

“All of it,” Logan says, and squints up at the fan, as if the magic will dispense itself into formulas that will float in the air until he can solve them and figure it all out. “How do you know how to make it work?”

“Well, I’ve repaired a couple over the years, but it’s mostly,” Virgil says, and makes a vague hand gesture. “Intention, I guess? I mean, I have to know my limits, but. Stuff like this, the magic’s mostly wanting.”

“Limits?” Logan repeats.

“Mostly the cliché stuff,” Virgil says absently. “You know, bringing back the dead, love, that kind of thing. It’s pretty individualized, though—apparently Sally’s kid’s resurrected a few sparrows or something, so she might have a necromancy gift. First in the family, we think, but it’s still pretty early to tell.”

“Is there a particular age at which gifts manifest?” Logan said, debating if he wanted to dig out the notebook he’s started to keep about Fae family traditions.

“Eh, not really?” Virgil said. “Apparently mine started showing around the time I started talking, which makes sense, since mine’s communication-based.”

“With cats.”

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “My—“

He hesitates, clears his throat, and says, quieter, “My dad’s gift didn’t show up until late, I think. He was about eleven or twelve.”

Virgil’s never really mentioned his parents, outside of their deaths.

“What was his?” Logan asks, grateful that, for once, his voice seems to have taken the hint and gentled.

“Prophecy,” Virgil says. “Dreams, mostly, but stuff like tarot and tea leaves.” A pause, and then Virgil shakes himself. “Uncle’s showed up way earlier—he was young, too, he can talk with snakes and he’s got a gift with plants.”

“Even with identical twins, there’s variance,” Logan says. “Interesting.”

He wants to ask more—he always does, whenever Virgil mentions something about magic like it’s a common, well-known fact to everyone and Logan doesn’t know it—but he isn’t quite sure how to ask it. He isn’t Patton—he can’t gently approach the subject of Virgil’s dead parents, who have died from the same thing that Virgil fears might take him and Roman and Patton one day.

So he changes the subject back to the other slightly more pressing worry to Virgil. “Are Friday the thirteenths really so dangerous? I mean, this seems like a lot of—precaution.”

“I mean, they’re,” Virgil says, and hesitates even more, before he says, “They’re, I mean. You’re more prone to bad luck and everything, but it’s—it’s the August ones that are—“ He fumbles the end of his sentence. Logan disregards this.

“August is more dangerous, really?” He says. “I’d have assumed—October. Or a solstice month, at least, you’ve mentioned the importance of those.”

It really didn’t seem to fit—the heat of summer, the sunny, bright days. Roman taking them all swimming in the pool, Patton making homemade popsicles and the way they melted over Logan’s fingers, Virgil blowing a breath across the back of Logan’s neck and it moving his body from overheated and sweaty and uncomfortable to cooler and more comfortable and sated in the space of seconds—none of it seemed particularly dangerous.

But then—the stress that Virgil’s so clearly been under, since they all moved back to school.

“My parents died in August,” Virgil says, and Logan closes his mouth. Virgil smiles—tight, humorless. Logan hates it. “Well, around this time, anyway. Whenever the curse takes place, it takes into account the—the continuation of the line, or whatever, but most of the time, it’s...”

“In August,” Logan realizes, quiet—from his own research, even months ago, he can remember the number of deaths of the spouses of Fae.

“Right.”

Logan hesitates, before he reaches out and takes Virgil’s hand. He, certainly, isn’t the most comforting boyfriend of the four of them, but he’ll certainly have to try.

“There’s a vending machine in the astronomy building that sells lemonade,” Logan says, as a peace offering. “I can buy one in the morning. Just to be prepared.”

Virgil smiles, and, for the first time since the calendar changed months, there isn’t quite the same tightness around his eyes. Logan leans close, and kisses his cheek, before he digs out the notebook he’s kept for Fae magic, and heads the paper with FRIDAY THE 13TH.

“You can tell me the things I should do or avoid,” Logan suggests, clicking a pen. “If you’d like.”

Virgil lets out a slow breath, before he starts to speak, like he’s reciting a poem.

“Make certain never to step on one of the crickets that may have taken refuge in a dark corner of your living room, or your luck will change for the worse. Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Crossed knives set out on the dinner table means there’s bound to be a quarrel...”

Logan takes dedicated notes, the whole time. If he’d looked up as he asked his questions of clarification (”this applies to women specifically?”) then he would have seen Virgil smiling softer and fonder, and while he stared at Logan, he wasn’t too anxious at all.

#my post #text #my fic #sanders sides spooky month #lfl #lavender for luck

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darkhymns-fic · 5 years ago

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Magic Swordsman, Expert Tailor

Lloyd has to come to terms with Kratos being his father... Luckily the detailed cloak he was wearing made this a lot easier to deal with.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Lloyd Irving, Kratos Aurion, Colette Brunel, Dirk Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: Inspired by @moldy-mold‘s cursed/blessed art. Forgive me...just wanted to make something silly and it’s been so long since I tried writing Kratos. Also since this takes place during the Kratos route, certain deaths can’t be avoided whoops.

---

“Lloyd,” came a voice that lingered in the air. It made him turn.

“Did…Did someone just call my name?” Lloyd asked no one. He had been so distracted by the falling snow outside his window that the voice had made him jump. He felt a little embarrassed about it… but also that voice was very familiar.

So with little time to spare, he left the inn room, walked down the halls and out into the balcony where the stars hovered bright in the sky. Sound felt muted in Flanoir, so hearing that voice so clearly had caught his attention and curiosity.

No one was outside however.

“Huh. Guess I was just hearing things…” Also, it was really cold outside. He hadn’t brought a cloak with him or anything…

“Lloyd.”

He turned, already expectant to find him, and he did. The first he saw was Noishe, his great ears flicking with each snowflake that fell over his green fur, his tail wagging with excitement. Then next to him was Kratos… looking… kind of similar?

Wait… what was he wearing?

“I apologize for calling you out here, but I deemed it was probably the best time.”

Kratos was wearing a cloak, one that was a mixture of light and dark green. That wouldn’t have been so weird if the color hadn’t been arranged in patterns that were exactly like Noishe’s fur. And as if to make sure Lloyd wasn’t imagining things, the hood of Kratos’ cloak was shaped like a certain dog’s head… complete with long, fringed ears, the tuft of dark green fur at the top, and even buttons that served as the eyes and snout…

“Uh,” Lloyd said – it was the only thing he could say.

Kratos seemed to understand his son’s speechlessness. He pulled at the collar of his hood, looking away and giving a small cough. “The snow in Flanoir can be cumbersome. My own clothes are not sufficient enough for it. Speaking of, are you not cold yourself?”

“Uh,” Lloyd repeated, staring at that hood. How did he get it… so detailed? The question finally registered. “Oh! Um, I’m not really cold. This jacket’s good enough! It’s all well-insulated and stuff!” At least that was what his dad would say…

It was so damn weird seeing Kratos look at him with the usual serious expression while basically wearing a cloak version of Noishe’ face. He had never seen Kratos wear this before? Had he always had it?

…Could he get the same kind of cloak if he asked?

Kratos walked up to the balcony next to Lloyd, and started to talk about his reasons for staying with Cruxis, how he knew Lloyd to be his son, and even, with obvious pain in his voice, related the death of Lloyd’s mother. But through all of that, Lloyd still could not take his gaze away from the hood of that cloak.

He got the ears perfect. Did Kratos make this? At times, he had to switch from looking at Kratos to Noishe, who was still standing in the snow, tail wagging and panting, despite it being cold.

“…And then, I killed her,” Kratos said, closing his eyes as he relived the terrible memory of slaying his past love. “After that, I fought off Kvar and his men, but couldn’t find you. I thought there was no way you could still be alive.”

“…Huh? Oh, y-yeah, that’s great,” Lloyd said off-handedly. It was way too hard to pay attention to anything that he was saying right now. “Hey, uh, could I like… how do you have that?”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Like, do you sew or something? You even got the eyes right!” He was pointing straight at Kratos’ head, before realizing he was talking kind of loudly.

That and Kratos was staring at him – still wearing that cloak.

He lowered his hand. “Er, sorry.” Then scratched the back of his head. “It’s uh, kind of cool, I was trying to say.”

He saw a hint of red in Kratos’ cheeks – probably from the cold. The man looked away for a moment. “I’ve lived for over four millennia – much longer than any human should live for – and I’ve learned a few trade skills along the way. It helped pass the time, so to speak.” He cleared his throat again. “So I learned tailoring, and I seemed to have enough of a talent for it. It was something I learned slightly during my thespian days.”

“Your wha?” Lloyd was gonna ask him about that because it was really confusing him… but he shook his head, still pretty impressed at Kratos’ skills. Kind of a coincidence to have another dad that could also make stuff! Dirk could do a little tailoring too but not on this level…

“Thank you for liking my work, Lloyd,” Kratos said then. Was that pride in his voice?

“Oh! Yeah, you’re welcome! I want one of those now!” Man, how cool would it be to get a cloak like that to match with Noishe? But he realized he was acting kind of excited for what should have been a very serious conversation. He rubbed his hair, dispelling away any stray snowflakes from it. “Heh, just being silly.”

Kratos smiled at his son, looking probably more happy than he ever did. It was kinda strange, especially with the Noishe-cloak on him…but Lloyd was finally starting to understand the man who had been his mentor, and now father.

“It is no trouble at all, Lloyd.”

---

After their conversation, Lloyd had gone back to his room at the inn, a little tired, and actually pretty cold. He had a feeling his jacket wasn’t supposed to be that insulated, more meant for chilly nights back home and not a snowstorm. So with a sneeze, he waved goodbye to Kratos and instantly collapsed on his bed.

When he woke up the next morning, he found a letter enclosed with a pendant – one that housed pictures of Kratos… and his mom, along with himself as a baby. He stared at the important item in silence, feeling so moved that Kratos would give something this valuable to him.

Then his eye caught the sight of something else to the right of him that was on a chair… something green.

"Whoa..." Lloyd breathed as he instantly went over to grab the Noishe-cloak in his hands. Did Kratos actually make more than one of these?!

Lloyd worried it might be too big, but when he put it on, fitting the hood just over his head, he found that it was the perfect size for him. But how? That was when he saw another letter placed beside the cloak, and quickly went over to read it.

Lloyd,

I must confess to you that I had worn this style of clothing on what you could say was a hunch. This design I had made while living with your mother. I would wear this while letting you ride on my shoulders and you always seemed to enjoy it. You were particularly fond of the ears and kept pulling at them. It put my stitching skills to the test so that they should no longer be prone to tearing. I made one for your mother as well, but it was unfortunately lost on the night of her death.

I also once started working on a similar cloak for you when you were young. I have adjusted it accordingly to fit you as you are now. Please accept this.

Sincerely,

Kratos

After reading the letter, and carefully putting the hood to fit better over his head, Lloyd had only one thing to say.

“Man, this is the coolest thing ever!”

And of course, right after getting it, he had to show it off to everyone as he made it down to breakfast. Sure, it made people wonder just where he got it from… but he couldn’t just hide this away! Also it was still kinda cold in Flanoir!

“Lloyd! That looks so cute on you!” Colette was saying, starry-eyed, hands clasped as she looked over the cloak. “Did you make that yourself?”

“Well… I’ll tell you later!” he said quickly as Genis stared suspiciously. “And this makes me look cool, not cute!” He politely corrected her on that, hands on his hips, chest swelling with pride as the wind tugged at his Noishe-cloak’s ears.

“Oh okay! Yeah it does look cool on you!” Colette was hopping on her toes. “I wish I had one too…”

Hm, maybe Kratos could make one for Colette? But he’d have to find him again… “You can borrow this one later if you want!”

“Bud, that looks awful,” Zelos was saying, his tone a little harder than usual. “Where’d you even get something like that?”

“It’s not awful! It’s really cool!” He stood proud, the wind pulling at his cloak dramatically, or so he thought it must have.

Presea was tugging at the hem, looking at it curiously. “There are no paw pads,” she simply stated, then turned away.

“I think paw pads would be weird on this,” Lloyd tried to explain. Noishe came up from behind to bump his large head against his back, whining slightly, but tail wagging at rapid speed. “Yeah, you also think it’s cool, don’t you, Noishe?”

And though he would never admit this out loud ever… sometimes, he thought Kratos could be really cool too…

---

In the Tower of Salvation, Zelos laid in a puddle of his own blood as Lloyd knelt to his level. He was panting after the fight, having long ago let go of his swords. “Zelos…”

“Hurry and get to Colette,” Zelos was struggling to say. “You don’t have long… Heh, neither do I, I guess…”

“Come on, don’t talk like that!”

Zelos faced Lloyd again, at the friends that surrounded him… then glared sharply. “You really had to keep wearing that during our fight, didn’t you?”

Lloyd blinked, absentmindedly tugging at one of the ears that flopped against his face. “Well, you didn’t give me time to take it off! And Colette liked me wearing it earlier…”

“Uh huh…”

“Also, it really matches well with my jacket, doesn’t it? It’s not even that heavy! Were you wanting one too?”

“…Bud…”

“You kept staring at it before! Is that what this was all about?” He looked expectantly at Zelos who now decided to not answer at all this time. “Hey! Zelos!”

“Uh, Lloyd?” Genis said, standing next to Lloyd. “I think he just died.”

“…Oh…”

---

In Torent Forest, the group came upon Kratos who was seated on the ground, looking deep in thought, clasping a bright red sword between his hands. He looked as somber as ever, and it set the air with a tension that Lloyd could feel all around him.

Raine sighed, saying in a whisper to an equally frowning Regal. “Is he really wearing it too?”

“For old time’s sake,” Kratos said, hearing the whisper clearly with his attuned hearing. He got up to his feet, the cloak shifting in the breeze, along with the long ears. “I see you had a similar idea, Lloyd.”

“Well, yeah! Why wouldn’t I?” Lloyd was saying, shocked that Kratos thought he would be any different! He turned back to his group that was full of confused faces. “Everyone, leave this to me.”

“You’re going to fight alone?” Kratos asked, face half hidden in his hood, the sun catching the beady eyes of the cloak.

“Lloyd won’t lose!” called out Colette, eyes bright now that she got to see two of the coveted Noishe-cloaks! “Especially not when he’s wearing something so cute…”

Lloyd had long ago came to terms that at least to Colette, the cloak looked cute on him, but he still stood tall, as cool as he felt! “And while I’m wearing this, I’m gonna show you just how much I’ve improved since last time!”

Kratos said nothing at first, merely readied his sword, eyes narrowed. “I’m not gonna hold back this time.”

Lloyd readied his own weapons, his expression also serious and tense. “I know… I won’t either.”

Genis groaned. “Guys, are you not worried that you’ll tear these up during your fight? I thought these were important for some reason!”

“But we have to!” Lloyd turned to his friend, looking more sure of this than anything.

Kratos nodded once more. “Please respect our choices.”

Raine facepalmed. “They are so goddamn similar it’s giving me a headache. How did I not see it before? It’s so obvious.”

Colette clapped her hands excitedly at now seeing two of the cloaks in action. “You got this, Lloyd!”

Noishe, who happened to be beside her, barked at seeing the familiar attire, while whining at the upcoming fight.

Few of the others could bear to watch…

---

At Dirk’s home, Lloyd carried the weight of his new sword set; one of the deepest azure, the other a bright crimson. A gift from each of his fathers.

“I’m sorry for putting everything on you,” Kratos said, feeling small as he stood next to the dwarf named Dirk. But Lloyd looked at each of them proudly.

“I have great dads. One made a ring for his son using the lost arts, and another risked his life to protect his son in secrecy.” Lloyd closed his eyes somberly as he thought on his words, then opened them with brightness. “That and now I not only have two cool swords by both my dads, but also two outfits! I’m so lucky!”

As he was, of course, wearing his usual red outfit – originally made by Dirk, numerous buttons and all – with the Noishe-cloak right on top of it.

Dirk looked at Lloyd with amusement, then shook his head with soft laughter. Kratos had long put away his own cloak (Dirk had offered to wash it with the next load of laundry), but he was sure Kratos probably wished he could wear it right now. “Yeah. You’ve got great parents!”

Now with two swords and two treasured outfits, Lloyd truly felt he was twice as strong as before!

---

And yet, after everything, it had been time to say goodbye. Lloyd looked to the sky where he had sent Kratos off for a long time before he headed back home, wondering on his decisions before he could finally settle with it.

“Are ya alright, Lloyd?”

Taking a deep breath as he turned around, leaving the grave of his mother to face Dirk, he smiled. Colette was standing next to him, with a similar look of concern on her face. face.“ I’m fine now.”

“I’m glad Kratos got to leave you a present in the end,” Colette commented, referring to the cloak he still wore. There was also the sword, Flamberge…. But she was totally talking about the cloak. He didn’t mind. It really was so cool!

“Heh, yeah! Me too.” Fixing the clasp to be a bit tighter, he stopped in mid-action. “Oh, I forgot some other stuff in my room. I’ll be right back and then we can go!”

“Okay!” Colette said cheerfully, while Dirk shook his head with a gruff smile. Lloyd went off in a flash of red and green through the door and up the stairs. He even felt faster with this cloak on! Well, Noishe was as fast as the wind, after all… maybe some of Noishe really was in this cloak.

When he went into his room, seeing the pack he had missed bringing back downstairs, it was then he saw something else – something that was placed on his bed.

Something that was a familiar green.

“No way…” Eyes shining, he reached for it to confirm it was real. And sure enough, it was another Noishe-cloak, just as well-made as the one he wore! But he could tell right away that it was a bit shorter? Not by much, but…

He saw a letter on the bed too, which he went immediately to read.

Lloyd,

I will have most likely left to Derris-Kharlan by now. But I wanted to finish making this for your partner during your journey in gathering the Exspheres. I’ve seen Colette stare at your cloak… Forgive me for assuming, but I had wanted to present this as a surprise.

Take care of each other. And don’t die before I do, my son.

Sincerely,

Kratos

Lloyd held both letter and cloak in hand, already imagining a certain familiar blonde-headed figure within the hood. She always seemed to love the ears specifically, and they had just the right amount of fringes on it – just like the real thing.

Hearing Noishe’s bark travel up the stairs, he was reminded he needed to hurry. He had the perfect reason to do so now.

“Colette! Look what I got!” he was already shouting, rushing back down the stairs, excited to see Colette’s happy smile on her face.

And as they both traveled down the road later on, donned in flowing patterns of green as Noishe followed along behind them, Lloyd couldn’t help but think, Kratos really can be cool sometimes…

#tales of symphonia #kratos aurion #lloyd irving #colette brunel #tales of #fanfiction #one shot #im gonna get these cloaks for my colloyd plushies and they're going to look amazing

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fanahannah · 2 years ago

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A Mind Unraveled

I had never experienced a psychotic episode before. No one told me Vyvanse could cause them. I was already in the thralls of it before I or my partner could do anything about it. Lots of inventing new “math”. Sleep became secondary. That time is all a haze to me at this point, almost a year later. I’ll skip most of it, and save it for a later date. I will talk about how I was treated because of it. We’re going to start on February 2nd, groundhog’s day.

I’m wearing a crop top, and sweats that a friend and neighbor gave me. She convinced me to put on pants and begged me to stay inside while she went to work. I couldn’t listen. I walked outside in the snow with no shoes on. I flagged down a car and begged them to take me to the hospital. A short time later, I was in the back of a squad car, surrounded by at least a dozen police officers. I admitted to taking substances which I hadn’t, and I was arrested without confirmation of my story. They would believe me, when I was making absolutely no sense as long as it fit their beliefs. Only drugs could cause this. I couldn’t explain that the drugs I were on was prescribed by a doctor. Public intoxication was my charge. They took me to the police station, a large toddler sitting in their backseat. I tried desperately to take the hat from the front seat because I really wanted to wear it. It was resting on the barrel of the officer’s gun.

The officer trying to book me had the same tattoo as me. He tried to make small talk, and all I could do was say “I’m going to pee my pants now. I’m sorry.” I tried to sleep in wet pants until I was transferred to county jail. I was placed in a cold room and tried to sleep on the cold floor. It was a room filled with telephones and I tried to figure out how to call home. A guard came by and angrily replaced the phones on the receivers without really acknowledging my existence.

They attempted to book me several times. I wasn’t hostile, but I also wasn’t cooperative. I was in the mindset of three year old. I would wander off as they were trying to pry information out of me. I thought they were aliens and I had been abducted. If I could be polite and just not give them information, they would let me go. They tried at least 3 times to get my information. Then they would send me back to my cell, 120. All concrete. All cold. The last time, I took interest in the plexiglass sneeze guard at the central desk. I poked it with my finger to test the simulation I was trapped in. A guard bellows “Don’t touch that”. I found a flaw in the game. I have to exploit it. I touch it again.

I’m slammed against the wall. My hands are forced behind my back. I’m attempted to shove my hands through what they call the “bean door” a little slot in the giant metal door. It doesn’t work. I’m shoved in the cell. I’m bodyslammed to the floor. Here comes another guard. I later learned it was his 3rd day on the job. He seemed energetic and scared. They desperately want me to go on my back. I do not want that. I don’t want to suffocate in the prone position. I can’t vocalize that in my psychotic state. They try and try. They have two sets of cuffs on me, but still no budging. I start to laugh. It’s still a game. I’m fighting off two full grown men with ease. I feel no pain. I feel no contempt. No anger. I feel like I’m doing the right thing, self preservation. The man who body slammed me starts saying “I’m going to tase you” over and over again. He unhoslters, and unloads his stun gun into my leg. No effect. He does it again. And again. And again. I don’t budge. He has this look of immense fear on his face. He goes for my stomach as the rookie tries to get a better position in front of me instead of beside me. I lurch forward as taser meets just below my belly button, and my face lands into the shoulder of the rookie. I feel the electricity for the first time, but in my mouth as I tase the rookie with my open maw. They seem pleased with this. “You’re gonna get it now, you were just here for a misdemeanor and now that’s a felony. You’re in it now. You drew blood. That’s it for you. It’s over.” The blood was from my ankles and wrists from being repeatedly slammed onto the concrete and having cuffs tightened over and over again. The evidence photos don’t even show teeth marks. They back off of me since they got what they wanted, and I go limp. The lights are bright. I close my eyes while laying on my back looking up at the fluorescents. Even with eyes closed it is blindingly bright. They leave me alone for a while still cuffed.

Time passed, they uncuffed me, and I curl up in the corner of the room. I stay there for hours. The food they shoved through the door sits motionless. I think they’re trying to trap me with it. I don’t eat for a few days. I repeat nonsensical words over and over because I think It creates a force field protecting me. I try and create a transportation whistle from my hair and some foam from the metal door. It worked through whistling, and I whistled so hard and so loud. I felt the first taste of freedom since going in. It doesn’t last.

The lights never turn off. I’m still in the underwear I pissed myself in days ago. I sleep on the floor, wrapped up in tattered scratchy blankets with an eye slit always watching the door. Around day 3 or 4, they start bringing me some kind of antipsychotic. I start to come out of my psychosis, and I feel sore. I feel broken. I’m in a haze. I finally get to talk to my family. They sound depressed and disappointed. My partner sounds so happy that I’m alive and guilty that he couldn’t help me. I finally get a plastic bed that they call a boat. I’m promised new underwear, but it never comes. I’m given a pencil and an envelope that I unravel to write what happened to me. I’m also given a bible. I read the Samuel chapters and learn that David was in a gay relationship with a man named Johnathan. Two days before I’m scheduled to be bonded out, I get a shower at midnight. Time doesn’t mean anything to me at this point. I leave my underwear on to have them be at least a little bit washed. I don’t really wash because I’m convinced it’s a gas chamber that they’re going to use to kill me with. The sounds outside of my cell sound like people laughing and loading guns over and over again. I’ve slept in 2 or 3 hour increments for almost a week. The lights never went off except for the last night that I’m there. No one would tell me the time, and they would close my viewing door to prevent me from being able to see the clock. I had to learn the guards names to ask them what time it was. Other people on the ward would scream all night incoherently.

My first moments out of the jail, I hug my dad for what most likely will be the last time. He hasn’t spoken to me since I transitioned. My partner took me home, and I sang all the way home at the top of my lungs. I tickled my son while he was sitting in his car seat because his laughter was immediately a healing sound to hear. I feel disheveled and broken, but I escaped and made it out alive. We crest a hill while driving and I can see for literal miles. The open blue sky is foreign. It’s completely breathtaking, and not in a good way. I felt like all the air was being sucked out of my lungs. I cried and cried and cried. I did my hormone injection and showered for real. I start to feel some semblance of normalcy. I lay in my california king bed with my partner, my dog, and we watch TV.

The normalcy fades in the coming weeks, and I have to start dealing with the trauma that I suffered. I had nerve damage in my thumbs from the cuffs. I had bruises from the walls and floor I was slammed into. I had burns on my legs and stomach that had to heal. The part that has taken the longest to heal is my mind. I was agoraphobic for months. I had to stop watching my favorite shows because I had been convinced they were killing me through some government white light death ray. I still can’t watch some of them because it’s too triggering.

I’ve come so far from that time. I feel alive. I’m reminded of the events that took place every time I go to my probation visits. I can never fully distance myself from those memories and experiences. I’m still not okay, but I’m getting there. All the misgendering and dehumanization almost made me detransition. I’m so glad I didn’t. I feel more comfortable in my skin now than ever before. The reminders of that time are cold and sting. One day, enough time will have passed and I’ll have progressed far enough that I won’t have to feel the pain of those things. They’ll be distant. I’ll still be here. I love myself. I was tested to my breaking point, and I made it out.

#psychosis #county jail

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writingismyhappytime · 8 years ago

Text

Good Little Witch (Part 6)

Angelo Parente x reader

Warnings: Language, smut, gore, torture, mention of human trafficking, extreme violence

A/N: let me know if any of the Italian is off! I’m not very good with foreign language, I just try. So if any is off, in any of the fics, please let me know so that I can fix it! Thanks!

"Theoretically, I suppose it would work," you say, absently stirring your tea as you sit at the desk, watching Angelo pace back and forth. "I mean, the transference of energy is universal, between all creatures. All the witch is doing while performing the spell is giving some of her life force and transferring it to one of the Mikaelsons. She's doubling the energy they have already, which is slowing down their aging significantly." There's a lot more to it that you're not explaining, but Angelo doesn't need to know all the secrets.

"So if possible, you could use someone else's life force for the spell and not your own."

"in theory, but I've never heard of it done that way. The ritual is pretty Hardcore."

Angelo can imagine.

"Why are you asking, anyway?" You ask, sipping your tea to see if it's cool enough, your bare feet propped on the edge of Angelo's desk like it's your own as you lounge in his throne; you kind of like how elegantly dramatic it is, and it sure as hell makes a statement.

"I was just curious."

"most people are curious about less complicated things."

"like you wanting to Google if people sneeze in their sleep?"

"I just wanted to know!"

"And what did you learn?"

"that people don't. We should be more prone to it because our nose closes up more or whatever but we don't because the neurons or something aren't sending signals to the brain to do it."

Angelo sighs.

You're so weird.

"Hey, knowledge is power, demon! What's demon in Italian?"

"Demone."

"Wow, so different. Dey-mon-ay." You attempt to say the word, but you've never had much luck at foreign languages, not unless they involved spell work.

Angelo chuckles at your attempt, leaning over the lift his slim phone off the desk as it rings. He sighs before answering it.

"What?"

"Can I come over?"

"since when do you ask?"

"since you have a scary witch who tried to kill me."

"That was your own fault, I warned you to stay away from her."

"I didn't know she was psycho! Yeesh. So can I come over?" Horror demands huffily. "I need your help."

"Why don't you ask Christopher? I don't have time for you, I'm in the middle of annihilating an entire bloodline."

"You do that every Saturday. And because he's off on one of his angry tangents again, where he's 'sick of us' and 'it's not his place to raise or watch over us'. Him and Father must have fought again."

Great.

Christopher does that every few centuries when one of his brothers pinches his last nerve, and it's usually months before he's calm enough to deal with.

"Fine."

"Great! I'll see you in a few minutes!'

Angelo frowns as he tosses his phone down, turning to you where you sip your tea, using his laptop like it's your own; he hopes you don't mess any of his documents up.

"Horror, the one whose throat you nearly ripped out, will be here soon. Avoid trying to kill him this time."

"Is maiming still an option?" You snort.

"Yes. Just not killing, I don't need that again."

"Again?"

Angelo waves it off, sensing his brother the moment he steps through the portal. You glance up as well with a sour expression, dropping your feet and sitting up straighter. You frown, closing out of the card game you've been playing, curling your legs under you, your bare feet growing cold.

Angelo chuckles.

A small white flag on a stick waves back and forth in the doorway, and after a moment Horror pops his head inside, wary.

"Tell her she can't hurt me."

"She knows she can't kill you, Richard."

"I said hurt!"

"I won't hurt you unless you piss me off again," you mutter into your tea cup.

Horror frowns, but he'll take it

He trots into the room, tossing his makeshift flag onto the desk as he looks at Angelo, his hands going to his slim hips.

Horror isn't that tall, he has long black hair like Angelos, but otherwise you don't see any familial features; it's hard to believe they're siblings

"Someone stole my drugs!"

Angelo frowns. "What?"

"My drugs! Someone stole them!"

"You're going to need to be more specific."

Horror scowls. "I had thirty thousand dollars worth of product shipped through the tunnels from Mexico --- I change them up constantly just like Ghost did. I even took extra precautions, but someone stole every bit of it! They killed all my men and took everything!"

"No survivors?"

"None! I don't know how to track who took them or anything. What am I supposed to do? Ghost always took care of stuff like this!" Horror sounds so helpless, you almost feel bad for him. He was apparently the youngest until a few years ago, and in his actions and whiny temperament you can believe it. He seems to think he's entitled, which he'd learned otherwise the hard way with you.

"Alright, well don't panic. It's not like thirty grand is that much in the long run. Sit down." Angelo waves his hand, and Horror does, looking hopeful Angelo could help him; Horror doesn't get along well with Ryan or Joshua, the two brothers between him and Ghost. They ignore him, more focused on living their own lives, rarely separated from the other. Ghost is the one who usually deals with Horror or helps him when something goes wrong, but he is suddenly focused elsewhere, leaving poor little Horror with no one.

Normally he would never have gone to Angelo for anything, but he's desperate.

Christopher is off the deep end, he can't get ahold of their father, and Ghost is off prancing in China with his pet.

Horror needs help and Angelo is the last option he has.

He explains the trade routes, how no one knows about them until the day before, who he hires and how he even sends his dogs down to assist on major shipments, even some of Ghosts since he isn't using them. He explains how this has never happened before, everyone was literally torn to shreds and he couldn't locate any unfamiliar scents, they'd covered their tracks too well.

"Sounds like a professional hit," you comment, slowly opening a pack of crackers just to be obnoxious. "I mean, someone who knows what you are and took your stuff just to be an asshole."

"Yes." Angelo frowns. "Who have you pissed off lately?"

"I don't think I have." Horror frowns.

"That's all that you do, Richard."

"Don't call me that," Horror looks irritated. "You know I don't like it."

"It's your name."

"My human name --- I don't want to go by that!"

Angelo rolls his eyes, not in the mood.

"Okay, hold on." You say, frowning. "You get your drugs sent through Mexico, right? the tunnels or whatever like you see on TV?"

"Yes."

"And where were your people killed?"

"Right in the middle."

"Torn to shreds? What do you mean there were no scents?"

"I went personally. There's no scent at all! I can smell all the workers, but nothing else. They even hurt one of my dogs!" Horror looks genuinely upset. "I had to fix his leg!"

"Sounds like an inside job then."

"Why do you say that?"

"You couldn't smell any strange scents? Obviously it was one of the workers who turned on everyone else. If they were a shifter, they wouldn't smell any different while as a human, it's only when they call upon the Change that you can smell the difference. sounds to me your shifter changed and killed everyone, then stole your shipment." You shrug, biting into another orange cracker. "Duh."

Horrors face falls. "I hate Shifters! You can never tell with them! But why now?"

Angelo shifts a little uncomfortably. "You remember how some of my product went missing a little while ago? One of the females came from the German shifter family Lange. I might have started a debacle with them."

"Angelo!" Horrors irritated. "that shouldn't affect me at all!"

"Well, apparently they're involving the entire family, if it was them --- the time frame just fits, considering I mailed them the head of one of their former members."

Horror groans, leaning back in his chair. "What the hell, man!?"

"Oh, don't act like you haven't caused the rest of us grief with your escapades," Angelo snaps in annoyance. "I'll have them all killed off soon enough and your business will go back to normal."

"How soon is soon!?"

"You know I don't like time frames."

"Because you're slow as fuck! Angelo, this isn't fair! I'm not bringing in the money like Ghost did, this is all I got!"

"You don't even know it was the shifters," you interject, sensing Angelos brewing anger like it's your own; that's a little weird. "It could be anyone, it's just coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences." Angelo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Horrors face falls.

You frown, reaching did your tea.

"Do you have any of the body parts left?"

"Huh?" both demons stare at you.

"Any of the body parts --- specifically a head with some eyes remaining ? They'll need to be in good condition."

"Uh, why?"

"There's a tea I can make," you sigh. "I just need the eyes of one of your workers --- there has to be two, and they both have to be from the same person for it to work. And they can't be rotten or anything."

Horror purses his lips. "There's probably still some left."

"Then get them. I'll make the tea and I'll see who it was."

"Um... Alright. But why are you helping me?" Horrors wary. "What do you want in return?"

You can't like him after he hit you and you went all psychopath on him. He knows he wouldn't want to be in the room with you if Angelo wasn't there.

"Just call it curiosity. I want to see who it was," you shrug. "Can you get them or not?"

"Give me fifteen minutes." Horror pops to his feet. "I'll be right back."

Angelo gives it a moment, then. "What are you doing?"

"Helping your brother."

"You hate my brother."

"I feel bad for trying to kill him."

"Don't. We've all tried."

"Angelo!"

~~~~~

"So how does this tea work?" Horror asks, sitting at the counter in the large, rarely used kitchen. Angelo is leaning beside him, looking bored as you make your tea.

"Well, I make tea," you say, waiting for the kettle to warn on the stove. "And I drop the eyeballs in it and drink."

"Really? That's it? No cracks of lightning or thunder?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." Horror looks disappointed. "I was hoping to see you cut the head off a chicken and draw symbols in its blood."

"Ew." You curl your nose. "No way! I mean, sure some spells require a sacrifice or whatever, but generally it's a lot more simple then you think."

"We'll that's boring."

You sigh, lifting up your mug with the tea bag hanging out of it.

He says that but he's not the one having to drink tea with eyeballs in it. You've done this a few times before when you'd had to kill those coming after you, making the spell where you press against their eyes pointless. Witches are crafty, though, so you're not surprised they'd come up with ways around even death.

You're just glad you didn't have to get the eyeballs out yourself; that's the part you hate.

Spoons are more versatile then one would think.

Also Google.

You pour the hot water into your tea, pressing a spoon against the tea bag so more flavor flows out. You give it a moment, then reach for the zip lock bag, opening it and shaking it so the round, white spheres roll gently into the cup.

You're so glad he didn't leave the cords on them, those make you sick.

You ignore the bouncing spheres, instead reaching for some pepper; for some reason it always helps with the flavor.

Both demons watch you curiously, Horrors head tilted as if he was being taught a new lesson. He shifts uncomfortably when you prick your finger, letting your blood roll down and drop into your tea.

You find it funny that everyone is so against blood witches, yet so many spells require the blood of the caster --- how is it any different?

You sigh, popping your finger in your mouth as you stir the tea, the words you need to speak rising into your mind as if you'd just read them off the page.

"the dead cannot speak, but your eyes tell plenty. Let me see your last few moments." You murmur, your voice laced thickly with the hum of magic, making both demons skin crawl --- if you'd done magic before Horror had approached you he seriously would have gone in the other direction, you're freaky as fuck with shifting hair and glowing red eyes.

You're almost as scary as Angelo when he's mad.

And Angelo once destroyed an entire island with a temper tantrum!

You grimace before you raise the cup to your lips, sipping. You're glad the eyes don't brush against your lips as you begin to completely drain the tea, that grosses you out. You shudder as you sit your tea cup down, making a face as you wait for the spell to take hold.

So.

Nasty.

Ugh.

Angelo props his chin on his hand, seeing your nose curl as your tea cup clatters against its plate. He gives it a moment, watching your burgundy eyes glaze; he finds it interesting your eyes turn different shades of red depending on the spell you perform.

He casually rises as your eyes go completely vacant, making his way to stand behind you for when you inevitably come out of it and swoon on him again. You stand there, weaving back and forth slightly as you're lost in your trance.

"How long does she look like that?" Horror asks, still sitting with no intention of moving.

"until the spell is finished. You should see her when she plunges her thumbs into the eyes instead."

"doesn't sound like my kind of Saturday morning." Horror chuckles, shaking his head. "have you heard from Christopher?"

"No. He's on hiatus. You know he does this every couple centuries, has a little bitch fit. He'll come out of it in a few years. "

Horror pouts. "I don't want to wait a few years! I hate it when he does that!"

"He didn't do it until he had to raise your sorry carcass."

"hey, I didn't choose to be born here!"

"of that I'm perfectly aware. But that's an argument you should take up with Father."

Horror scoffs. "Like he cares. I haven't seen him since I was born."

Unfortunately, Angelo doesn't doubt that.

"Father has never been especially doting, Richard. He does what he wishes and he doesn't actually care about the rest of us, that's the way it's always been. He has less of a heart then all of us combined."

"You take after him a lot then."

"You don't want to piss me off when I'm helping you."

"You're not helping me, she is."

"With my permission."

"I don't think she cares about your permission, Angelo."

Funny, Angelo didn't either.

He frowns, glancing at you when you still. He takes a step closer, preparing to catch you as you start to come out of your trance. It takes a moment, but then you're taking a dizzy step back, colliding against his chest and leaning wholly. His arms wrap around your waist supportively, seeing your disoriented expression.

Now where did he put the crackers?

Horror watches curiously as Angelo oh so carefully helps you sit, your legs trembling with your weight. He walks over to one of the cabinets, finding you some orange crackers and opening the pack for you and he glides back to your side, offering one to you.

You take it after a moment, raising it slowly to your lips, your eyes starting to focus a little more as you munch.

Much better.

"So what did you see?" Angelo asks, leaning across from you.

"definitely shifters." You mumble, shuddering. "lots of blood and gore --- they just... Massacred everyone. They were covered in blood by the time they were done."

"What about my shipment? Did they take it?" Horror demands, and you nod.

"Yes. They smelled of your workers blood, that's why.... No strange scents." Your eyes are vacant again. "They took everything and drove off. Some of them... Still... Alive."

You feel sick.

You'd had to watch men be torn apart, watch their blood spew from their throats as the shifters mercilessly attacked --- and to think, they'd been friends with some of the people! Did they not have hearts!? Was it truly necessary to kill all of them? They didn't have to kill them in such a brutal manner, they could have made it quick, but instead they chose to act like the animals they turn in too.

You can't stomach the images swimming through your memory, and you quickly dart for the trashcan, emptying all the tea from your stomach. Angelo watches you for a moment before he frowns, stepping forward to gather your beautiful red lockes up and around his hand, allowing you to be sick without the worry of it getting in your hair.

Horror watches Angelos attentive actions, amused. He's never seen his brother baby anyone so, it's entirely out of character.yet Angelo is always at your side, as if he knows what you need and he's prepared to give it to you.

How curious.

Horrors eyes draw down your neck, and he straightens as he sees the dark bruising along it, healing yet looking old.

He's immensely pleased to realize Angelo had claimed you, that he'd been able to tame you enough to get his venom in your system, have some control over you. For you to be such a powerful witch and fall prey to a demon --- there's such a sense of delicious satisfaction in that, especially since you were such a bitch.

Horror wants to cackle, and he can't help the smirk on his lips.

So Angelo controls you after all, it's just so... Pleasing.

It must be nice to have a powerful witch as a pet.

Horror wants to get himself one, although he's not going to try to bite you like he did his other brothers pet. Ghost had spun his head around three times and it had taken his bones forever to heal back right, even with Christopher helping him!

Plus then he'd gutted Angelo for it.

So no one wants to mess with ghosts pets anymore.

Horror learned his lesson, and he doesn't want a repeat with Angelo; the older brother is much meaner then Ghost.

Or at least he used to be.

Angelo is murmuring to you in soft Italian as he gently lifts you into his arms, letting you curl up against his chest as he gallantly carries you from the room.

Funny.

Angelo hates Italians so vehemently, yet he clings to his old language, using outdated words and phrases. Horror figures it's because Italians remind him of being human, of his old family and how hard it was for him to adjust to being a demon, or at least that's what Christopher told him of it.

Angelo took centuries to accept his affinity for pain, that he caused massive amounts of grief for their father, who at the time was more prone to visit his offspring.

Horror hopes Angelo made their father wish to never have a son again.

He sighs, growing bored as he waits for his older brother to return, absently playing with the empty fruit bowl on the counter. Demons cannot consume human food, it turns acrid on their tongues; they can only feed one way, and that means it's necessary for them to have humans around to get their fix.

Is angelo still keeping his play things in the dungeon, or has he gone solely to you? Eventually he'll grow tired of your taste and seek elsewhere, everyone always does.

Too much of a favorite food quickly gets old.

Horror is guilty of it just as anyone else, although he's never been so enraptured with a human as his brothers are becoming.

Losers.

Who let's a human have that much power?

It's like they lost their minds!

Nothing is worth being attached to a human, they're only good for a few things;

Spread legs being one of them.

He glances over as Angelo walks back into the room.

"So it was shifters," Horror says, and his brother nods.

"Yes. Appears so."

"this is lame. What about my money?" Horror whines, dropping his face into his hands. "I'm not good at this stuff like Ghost is!"

"Don't be such a baby, I'll get you your damned money," Angelo grumbles, standing across from him, the marbled counter separating them. "But I want your help in killing these shifters."

"How so? You're not going to get me killed are you?"

"Not intentionally."

Horror sighs; that's the best he would get, he guesses, and he does want a little revenge.

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm compiling a list of all the shifters known to be connected to the Lange family, and some humans who pretend at being immortal as well. I'm going to start taking them all out one by one, force them to retreat to the safety of one place, and then I'm going to massacre them all. You want in?"

"Do I get to taste them first if I want?"

"You can do whatever you want with them so long as you cut off their heads and send them to me with a nice little name tag. I want to make sure the Lange's get every single one."

Horror grins; this could be fun.

"What happens when we've killed them all?"

"We pillage their riches."

"I'm so in," Horror nods, his brain already whirring with possibilities. "Send me the list of names as soon as possible and I'll have my dogs working on it. do you want them sent here if they're living or...?"

"If they're human, last name Mikaelson, send them here, yes. Maimed if necessary, just make sure they're alive. You can do as you wish with the shifters."

"awesome!" Horror pops to his feet in excitement. "We haven't had a good hunt in ages!"

"Not since your first birthday party," Angelo chuckles, remembering how fun the eighteen hundreds had been. "I would involve the others but they wouldn't be interested."

"Ah, don't bother with them! We'll handle this quite fine," Horror shakes his head. "This will be more fun!"

Angelo smirks.

Yes, yes it will.

~~~~~

You go through Angelos paperwork, bored. You stand at his desk, curiously reading his contracts, how many people he's worked with over the years. He's very meticulous, everything dated and printed, filed where it's supposed to be. You wonder if he goes back and looks at his old contracts, laughs about them or how his business with them ended.

You know not all of them made off well like expected.

You glance up as you hear him call your name, but you don't answer, too interested in what you're reading. He'll find you eventually anyway. You sit down in his chair, holding one hefty contract in your hand. It's thick, almost a book in itself, but it's printed in ancient Greek from the looks of the strange words.

What the hell?

How long has Angelo ----?

What's that?

You tense, your head turning as you sense someone new enter the dungeons from the exit you've never even seen. You pause, but it's impossible for you to sense whether the hounds are there or not --- they're not a creature of earth, they go beyond even your powers.

You suppose if left to run amok, hellhounds would be dangerous adversaries. At least they were being controlled.

You let the contract drop to the desk as you rise, hurrying to the door.

How familiar...

You creep forward, and pause behind a crate, your fingers curling around the edge as you peep around.

Your blood runs cold at the sight of him, and you shrink back instinctively, making sure you're well hidden behind the crate, your eyes just barely visible.

Guiric.

The first grandson of Ailfrid Mikaelson is being dragged between two hulking hellhounds, thrashing and bellowing at their deaf ears, demanding them to let him go. Didn't they know who he is!? How dare they!

You cringe, listening to his deep voice echo off the damp stone walls, the hellhounds turning down a hallway you've never noticed dragging the Mikaelson deeper into the dungeons.

You jump with an eep when you feel something touch your shoulder, and you whirl around, your heart thundering. Angelo blinks at you in surprise, his hand hovering.

"What is it?" He asks, glancing where he can still hear the angry shouts. "Did you see the Mikaelson Horror sent over? He caught him in Germany."

You nod, your voice stuck in your throat. You swallow, trying to calm yourself down.

"What's wrong?" Angelo sounds concerned, and his hand slips beneath your chin, tilting it up so he can see your eyes. "What's upset you?"

You clear your throat, knowing you shouldn't be so afraid of that man, but it's something your mother had ingrained in you since you could walk; you see that man, you run and you hide until you're sure he's gone.

And you always had.

"That's --- that's Guiric." You finally say, Angelo's fingers caressing your cheek, oddly comforting. "He's the first grandson of Ailfrid."

"So sending his head back will be extra satisfying."

"Yeah --- I, I guess."

"Why do you fear him?" Angelo asks, able to taste it; it's clinging to your skin, you're shifty and your eyes haven't strayed from the doorway, as if you expect the Mikaelson to appear at any moment. "He cannot harm you."

"I --- maybe it's habit." You mumble, exhaling heavily. "My mother taught me and my sisters to run and hide any moment we saw that man, that he was too fond of... children."

The words are acrid on your tongue, and you shudder, crossing your arms tightly. Angelos eyes darken.

"Did he ever find you?"

You know what he means. "No, he never did. Mother protected us well. But I hate to think what he did to the rest of my family, to other children. He can't leave this place, Angelo, not still breathing."

'I never intended him too, bella mia. Now come," Angelo twines his fingers with yours, raising your knuckles to his soft lips. "Let's go pay this human a visit, shall we?"

You reluctantly allow Angelo to pull you forward, your stomach dropping at the thought of having to face the Mikaelson. You can't help but fear him, you know hes possibly even more cruel then the demon caressing your hand. You've never known of Guiric to have a wife or woman of interest, and he's never brought any children to the compound of his own.

Your eyes flick around, seeing the farther you walk down the hallway, the less and less modern it looks, until it's no question you're entering a medieval dungeon, complete with barren torches lighting the walls.

Angelo pauses by some of them, snapping his fingers a few time, almost like running a match over something to light it. After a few moments, fire blooms on his fingertips, lighting up the once deep darkness. You blink in surprise, watching as he lights the torches as he passes.

"You can summon fire?" You're startled, you hadn't expected that. What other powers did he have??

"It's hell fire, it's one of the first abilities all demons get after their birthday," Angelo lights all the torches along the way so you'll be able to see, the walls slowly narrowing, becoming uneven, damp stone the longer you walk. You hunch your shoulders despite you still have some space, water splashing beneath your feet; it's running down the walls in some places, and you grimace at the smell that hits your nose the closer you get to your destination.

"You couldn't have some air freshners down here? Maybe an Airwick?" You grumble, cupping your hand over your nose. Angelo chuckles, shaking his head.

"It would take away from the ambiance if my dungeon smelled of crisp autumn apples."

True.

Still.

It smells just like you'd expected a dungeon too.

Yuck.

You're relieved when you finally leave the narrowing hallway, glancing around. You can tell the room you entered is large, but it's shrouded in darkness, it's impossible to see anything. You can see the room in front of you quite clearly, hear the venom laced threats echoing out of it. The cell bars are open against the wall, and as you near you can see the Mikaelson quite clearly.

He's strapped into a thick wooden chair, iron cuffs running across all his wrists and ankles, even his throat, making it impossible for him to move. You frown as you get a glimpse of the room, seeing some really inventive torture decides hanging neatly on the walls, some very modern and some probably invented by a very creative pain demon.

You release Angelos hand, deciding to hover outside the door instead of enter the room, and Angelo doesn't question you.

He grins as he sees the human look at him, wrenching against his iron bonds.

"Hello, Guiric. Fancy meeting you in a place like this."

"Demon!" the Mikaelson spits, gritting his teeth. "What's this about!?"

"I thought it was obvious. I'm going to torture you brutally, remove some of your extremities," Angelo counts on his fingers, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Bleed you a little, maybe donate some of those immortal bones of yours to those who really need them --- and finally chop off your head and send it back to good old grandpappy." He chuckles, bracing his hands on either side of the sturdy chair. "does any of that sound fun?"

You can see the blood drain from the humans face, his skin whitening like you've never seen it before. Angelos grin grows viciously, he's practically purring at the fear rolling off his prisoner.

You look down, your red hair falling on either side of your face as you find yourself hiding behind the wall. Really, you know you have nothing to fear, and yet --- sometimes it's just hard to let go. You hear Guiric gasp, and you glance back inside the room, seeing Angelo had his jaw, sharp nails digging into his cheeks.

Is it bad you get the smallest pleasure from watching the Mikaelson be so afraid for once?

He can't hurt your family anymore, or anyone else for that matter, Angelo is going to make sure of it.

Angelo...

You sigh, and then take a step forward, stepping into the doorway, your hand clenching around the wall. Angelo glances over his shoulder, a smirk on his lips.

"didn't want to miss the show?" He asks lightly, releasing the Mikaelson to offer his warm hand to you, his cheeks rosy with just the mild pain he'd inflicted. You take his hand quickly, a sick feeling in your stomach as Guiric Mikaelson looks at you, his eyes running down your body.

Angelo twitches, a scowl on his lips seconds before the back of his hand sends the Mikaelsons head snapping back so hard you hear something crack.

"Look at her again and you'll never be able to see through those eyes," Angelo promises darkly. You flush, tightening your hold on his hand as you step closer to him.

Guiric huffs, and spits, blood leaving his lips and splattering against the already stained floor.

"So she's what this is about," he rasps, rolling his head back, blood running down his cheek where Angelos rings had caught the flesh. He eyes you through the eye that isn't beginning to swell. "You're that witch, aren't you? The one who ran away? You got everyone in an uproar over you."

You're aware.

"Don't worry, demon, she's too old for me," the Mikaelson grunts, attempting to shift in the chair. "though she was a pretty little child, she and all her sisters."

Your nails dig into Angelo's hand at the comment, and he gives you a comforting squeeze.

"Are you not at all concerned about what I'm about to do to you?" the demon asks, a little disappointed he's not getting more fear.

"Why should I be? I'm immortal, remember? No matter what you do to me, I can't die." the man smirks.

You snort, your eyes narrowing as you cross your arms. "the spell doesn't make you invincible, just immune. Even you'll die if you lose your head, everyone does."

"We'll see about that, bitch."

You suppose so.

"Yknow, I might not have got to spend any time with you, but I did like that youngest sister of yours," he continues, your eyes cutting to his face. "What's her name? Aisa? Aisling? Ah, doesn't matter. We got to know each other ---."

He chokes.

You can't help it, it doesn't happen intentionally --- you just lose your temper. One moment he's spewing those awful words, the next he's spewing his own blood, choking on it as it rushes out of his body --- out his eyes, his nose, his ears --- anywhere it can.

Your jaw is clenched, and the hatred in your eyes makes them burn with color, your nails slicing through the skin of your arm in anger.

Angelo gives it a moment, tickled at the sight before him, but he wants to have his fun too.

"Don't kill him yet, streghetta mia. I still have plans."

You grind your teeth, your red eyes furious. Slowly, you relent, just as you know he's about to pass out. The Mikaelson sucks in deep breaths as he gasps, blood covering the front of his clothes and the floor around him as he jerks and shudders, shaking.

"You fucking bitch," he gasps weakly, his body still jerking from the trauma. "You think my family won't get you, huh? Your father didn't protect you from us, what makes you think this demon will!?"

"Funny, I find more loyalty from him then I ever did my family," you mutter, clenching your arms around yourself.

Angelo is mildly touched.

Guiric laughs bitterly, his dark hair clinging to his damp skin, brown eyes finding yours.

"that man doesn't even know if you're his or not. We all fucked your mother just as much as he did --- hell, none of you probably belong to him ---!"

Angelos hand is suddenly clenching around the Mikaelsons jaw, forcing it wide as his nails dig into the wagging tongue, drawing a yelp as he pulls it out nice and long.

"You might want to leave," Angelo tells you over his shoulder, "it's going to get messy from here on out."

You frown. "I think I'll stay."

You don't want to miss hearing the Mikaelsons screams. ~~~~~~

You moan, your back hitting the wall over and over as Angelos plows into you, his hips grinding against yours. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and all you can do is cling to his slick skin as he fucks you, his hands digging into your ass. Your arms are wrapped tightly around his neck, your breasts brushing his chest at every hard thrust.

"You were amazing," he breathes, bouncing his hips back into yours, each thrust deeper and harder, that throbbing in your stomach growing at a quick pace.

He kisses you, his tongue parting your lips and overtaking yours as he cups your breast, flicking your nipple, your body shuddering, so turned on it hurts. You're so wet, so hot and wanton for him, your body accepts his easily, your walls hugging his cock, clenching and drawing him deeper.

Your hands roam his shoulders, wanting to feel every muscle react to your touch. He's so strong, so fucking amazing --- fuck!

The twisting, wild heat in your stomach is suddenly overwhelming, and you cry out against his lips as you cum, his nails digging into your ass. He presses you up against the stone wall roughly, his lips on your throat, nibbling and biting, thrusting through your orgasm relentlessly, only managing to escalate it further.

He finally shifts, staggering back a few steps and turning, your back bouncing off his red bedsheets as he drops you, crawling over you again, his eyes pure black --- the lack of white doesn't bother you anymore, you find it hot, and you reach for him.

Your lips cling to his, legs spreading for him once more. His hand presses down against your stomach as he pushes onto you again, your skin still red, small marks forming on your breasts from his teeth. You want it rough, you want it to hurt, and Angelo is making sure you get what you want.

Your wrists are pinned above you, and his teeth are on your throat, digging into your soft skin until you're crying out, back arching off the bed. Angelo groans at your taste, pressing harder into you, greedily drinking of your blood as it races onto his waiting tongue. Your toes curl, and it's like heat prickles across your skin in waves.

You're going to cum again, you can feel it.

Angelo runs his tongue along the wound, purring as he feels his skin tingle, your magic spreading through his cool body, his eyes flaring with your power. You're moaning beneath him so shamelessly, enjoying every punishing thrust and flex of his hands on your wrists.

You're so perfect.

Angelo kisses you, letting you taste your own blood on his tongue, moaning himself.

You're hardly squeamish at all! The way you'd helped him torture that Mikaelson, the way you'd helped him peel the flesh from the bones --- Angelo could have taken you right there in the pools of blood. No one has ever tortured with him, gained pleasure from it before.

It's like --- you're perfect for him.

"You stunning, beautiful creature," he breathes, closing his eyes as your legs wind around his waist, urging him to fuck you harder, your red lips parted in pleasure.

You moan as his lips catch your sensitive breast, suckling hard, teeth tugging on your nipple. He's so rough and unforgiving with you, the rough smack of his hand on your skin makes your blood pressure go supernova. You're already shaking beneath him again,you can't help it.

You'd shamefully enjoyed yourself downstairs.

The dark pleasure you'd gotten for hurting that man, for making him feel the pain he deserved --- it had done something to you. He'd tortured and raped your family for generations, and what he'd probably done to the others in the world --- he'd deserved worse then what even Angelo had done to him.

You'd had no idea the human tongue was actually so long.

You wrench one arm from Angelos slipping grasp, your hand curling around the nape of his neck, kissing him.

He'd made sure the Mikaelson would never breathe again, had made sure he felt everything --- his screams still echo in your ears.

But Angelo had stopped him, forever. He'd done what no one else had ever attempted, and the swell of warmth in your chest has nothing to do with sex. The way you kiss him changes, and you pull harshly on his thick black mane, wanting more.

He keeps muttering in Italian, saying words you can't understand over and over against your lips, his hands running down your body over and over. He can't stop touching you, pleasuring you, giving you whatever you want.

He'll do anything for you.

"You're so stunning," he whispers, kissing your neck as he draws your thighs beneath his arms, his nails digging into the skin behind your knees as he holds your legs wider, your eyes rolling back at the new angle as he fucks you down into the bed. "beautiful, amazing, strong ---."

You cry out, your back arching again as you cum suddenly, the angle already too much for you. Your nails rip through the sheets, and Angelo groans as the tingle of your magic rushes across his skin like a wave, causing his body to become the warmest it's been in centuries.

He can't explain the hot feeling burning through his chest for you, it's never been there before. It's hot and twisting, almost all consuming as his lips find yours again, his hand between you, rubbing your clit and forcing your body to move again.

He's in awe of you.

It's like you're the most breathtaking woman he's ever seen, you hold the moon in your hands.

He's completely yours if you want him, if you stay with him.

He doesn't want to let you go when it's over, he wants to keep you forever, spend his existence with you. You don't scorn him because of what he is, what he has to do to others. He'd sensed your immense satisfaction at the man's demise, how pleased you'd been --- no one else has ever...

"Voglio passare il resto della mia vita con te," he breathes, feathering your face in soft kisses, your chest moving heavily beneath his, your body trembling from the pleasure he's giving it. He's determined to keep you up for the rest of the night, pleasure you relentlessly until you can't move --- he'll do this for days if it's what you want.

You moan as you feel him pull out of you, your arms thrown across your eyes, chest heaving beneath his lips as he kisses down to your stomach, nuzzling the skin above your navel.

His hands run teasingly across the inside of your thighs, and your eyes open in denial as you feel his lips at your soaked entrance.

"Angelo," you manage, tilting your face down, "I can't ---."

"I'm going to pleasure you all night," he says, kissing your clit, your thighs jerking. "You're going to cum so many times you lose count."

His tongue runs across the throbbing bud, swirling and leaving a wet trail down to your slit, your soft sigh of acquiescence your only response.

Angelo let's his tongue glide through your sweet juices, coating his tongue in their flavor. He buries his face between your thighs, pressing his hand heavily against your stomach to hold your squirming hips still, feeling you jerk when he touches your painfully sensitive clit. You're still so wet, your body responding to his every touch as he forces your thighs over his shoulders.

He can feel your muscles shaking with exhaustion, but he's not going to stop any time soon. He's going to pleasure you more then anyone ever has before, make this a night you can never forget --- he wants a permanent place in your thoughts, where you always have to think of him, remember him.

As if he doesn't already have that.

Your fingers tangle in his black hair, nails raking his scalp as you helplessly hold him there, feeling the shocks of pleasure wind their way into your stomach again. He's so good with his tongue, he just keeps swirling it inside of you, lapping at your body until it's tightly coiled again. You know hes pleased he can do this to you, make you feel so helpless and powerless, but you don't mind anymore.

It feels too good!

"Fuck!" You cry, gasping as your hips jerk, your voice cracking as you start to shake. You're trying to hold back, but it's only making it worse and he's so relentless between your folds. You're soaking his tongue, giving him plenty to taste. His fingers are lightly stroking your slit as his mouth finally moves to your clit, causing your body to flinch, trying to curl.

His nails press into your hips, holding them down as he suckles your clit, two fingers finally slipping inside your hot, throbbing cunt. You whine, Angelo glancing up to see your face.

Your head is tilted back, eyes squeezed shut as he fingers you, your chest heaving erratically. His hand snakes up, cupping your breast, stroking as he easily finishes you off, your hoarse cry music to his ears. You cum against his lips, and his tongue eagerly laps at your given ecstasy, groaning.

You make his body feel amazing, and when you're in pleasured bliss, your magic burns his system, making him feel unbelievably warm, humanly so. The experience is indescribable, the euphoria --- Angelo can't begin to compare it to anything else.

He sighs in contentment as you go limp in his grasp, still shaking. He gives your slit one last lick before his head rises, smirking.

"How many is that?" He asks softly, bracing himself over your revered form, his hard cock rubbing against your inner thigh.

You merely moan in response, your hands on your face as you try to recover your sanity.

"Don't give out on me now, Red," he murmurs, curling your torso against his, snuggling into you. "How many was that?"

"Th.... Three....." You think.

"Mhm, you haven't lost count yet," he purrs. "Guess we'll have to keep going."

"Angelo ---!" You already feel like jello!

He ignores you, his lips catching your whimper as his cock pushes between your puffy folds, thrusting deep inside of you once again. He's not going to stop, not until one of you collapses first.

You deserve all the pleasure in the world.

And he's going to give it to you.

~~~~~~

There's an angry bellow from inside the study walls, and Marcos winces as he hears something smash against the wall. He knows Ailfrid received another package, probably another one of his family members. Mikaelsons have been slowly trailing into the compound the past week, taking their time and obviously not thinking the threat truly worth their time.

Ailfrids anger would change that.

Marcos gives it a moment, listening to the sound of shattering glass. The two men guarding the door are looking uneasy, shifting their weight from foot to foot. They've never heard Ailfrid lose his temper before, the man is always calm and collected.

Something bad has happened.

Who's head was in that box?

Marcos purses his lips, thinking about the demon he'd glimpsed in the alley. The witch had obviously taken up residence with him, perhaps even become lovers with him to get her way. She was using the creature of hell to do her bidding, to destroy the family that has tormented her own for generations.

Smart girl.

He frowns when he suddenly hears silence from the study, and sighs, deciding it's time to see what's the matter. Marcos has been friends with Ailfrid since the eighteen hundreds when he took over the security for the family's compound. He and Ailfrid are close, hence his immortality as well, one of the few outside of the family to ever get it.

He walks forward cautiously, opening the creaking study door and letting light spill into the dark room.

"Ailfrid." He sighs, seeing the older man on his knees in the center of the now destroyed study, holding the box in his shaking hands.

Marcos shuts the door behind him, stepping through the broken glass and debris before kneeling beside his ancient friend.

His hand closes around the older man's shoulder, glancing into rhe box.

Guiric.

Well, no real loss there.

Marcos had never liked him, although his tongue tied in a bow around his skull was a little over the top.

But that's demons for you.

"My grandson," Ailfrid finally says, his eyes suspiciously bright where he kneels. "Guiric."

Marcos just squeezes his shoulder, not knowing what to say.

"I'll get that demon," Ailfrid whispers, shaking with a deep hatred. "I'll get him and I'll take away everything he ever loved."

Well, that's good and all but....

"the witch is the problem, Ailfrid." Marcos murmurs. "She's taken the demon as a lover, she controls them. Eliminate her and he goes away."

"That's what I've been trying to do!" Ailfrid hisses, rising to his feet slowly. "For a decade!"

"Perhaps we are not doing it correctly," Marcos says coolly, frowning as Ailfrid shoves the box at him. Marcos grimaces, then reaches for the lid, not wanting to have to look anymore.

"And how else should we do it?" Ailfrid growls, looking around his study.

"We don't want the wrath of the demon," Marcos is thoughtful as he sits the box down carefully. "Or his brethren. However, I doubt his brothers or father want a war either. Perhaps we appeal to one of them. Maybe they will take out the witch for us."

"That's a long shot, Marcos."

"But it's one we haven't tried. Who among that clan would not want a blood witch interfering in their matters?"

Ailfrid mulls it over, slowly retreating to his chair, old bones aching after his tantrum.

"the father, perhaps." He grunts. "the eldest brother runs an international swindling business based out of Egypt."

"I will start with them, then." Marcos bows his head respectively, his mind already working out the possibilities. He hopes they want rid of you as much as he does.

If not, he's not quite sure what they're going to do.

You've really got them against the wall this time.

Marcos frowns as he leaves the study, motioning to his men to remain at their stations as he leaves the grand house with purpose, heading for his own home.

When he gets his hands on you, he's going to make you regret ever causing so much trouble for him and the Mikaelsons.

And he's not going to be gentle.

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