#after having bastards and doing whatever it took to keep her lies intact

[dirtytransmasc]

no one spoke for or protected Rhaenyra from the court like Alicent. Alicent protected her claim until she made herself a threat to her children, and even then showed her the most mercy and care out of anyone. sometimes Alicent did more to protect her than Rhaenyra did herself, and most certainly more than anyone had ever tried to do for her.

[ill-skillsgard]

Faust x Faith - No Looking Back

Warning: 18+ smut, public sex, violence, blood, arson, implied death, mentions of non-consensual touching (nothing explicit and no r-words used,) mentions of stalking, unconsciousness, anti-religious themes, strong language.

Note: Hey, hey. I’ve wanted to write this for a while, but haven’t had much time. This isn’t based on any requests—just something I feel needs to happen to move the universe along. After this, I’ll be basing future FxF stuff off drabble requests instead of going story-heavy for a bit. Likes, comments and reblogs are suuuper ‘ppreciated!

Summary: - Not based on Lords of Chaos. I use Faust!Valter’s likeness only as inspiration - 3.6K words -

Faust makes good on his word to protect Faith, taking drastic measures to assure her assailant never bothers her again.

Read more Faust x Faith here [x]

Thin raindrops pattered the man's leather jacket as he walked through the streets with his hood drawn up and his eyes low. For two days, the drizzle persisted and melted the black snowbanks into slush. Though the dismal atmosphere kept most inside, Sven had good reason to travel across town on foot. The promise of a girl's company waited at the end of his route, and he put off his regular nightly routine of masturbating to fetish porn for—what he hoped was—the real thing.

He glanced at his cracked phone screen every few minutes to check in with her, making sure she hadn't changed her mind, that she was serious. From the earnestness of her messages and the speed at which she replied to his questions, he determined she meant what she said about wanting to meet. Finally, his luck was turning. He’d show that miserable bastard Faust who was the better man.

- What abt ur bf? Lol

- What about him? Not here, is he?

- Thought u were a good girl.

- Haha, not really. Are you close?

- Ya. Y r we meeting at this random place?

- I need you to promise you won't tell a soul. If you can prove that to me, maybe we can keep meeting up.

- Lol ok. I PROMISE I won't say a word😉

- Thank you. Hurry, please. It's cold out!

- Be there in 5. I'll let u wear my jacket altho idk might not need it😉

- Hehe omgosh. You're making me blush.

- I'll make u do way more then blush baby. Just wait.

Sven lengthened his strides and turned the corner onto a hill leading toward the industrial area of town. Down the slope, he walked past several warehouses and legions of trucks parked inside barbed-wire fencing. It was a peculiar site to meet up, but his rendezvous insisted on a place nobody would think to look.

Betting his night would take an erotic turn, Sven popped a piece of gum in his mouth and chewed away the cigarette taste. He was seconds away from the spot she chose to meet, and his chest constricted with excitement. His boots crunched over gravel and garbage as he walked down a narrow alley between two faceless buildings. There was an open lot at the end of the lane, where he assumed she was waiting. As he made his way through the dimly lit alley, he whistled to make his presence known. The shrill tune reverberated off an overflowing dumpster to his left, and as he stepped to clear the reeking trash receptacle, something hard and blunt swung out at eye-level and flattened him to the ground.

Dazed and blinded from the sudden strike, he tried moving his mouth, but only a bubble of blood popped from his lips. A piercing stream of sound filled his ears as the edges of his vision turned dark. A large black figure came into view above, haloed by the soggy grey sky in the deepening veil. The featureless shadow chuckled deeply before a heavy boot's tread put out his lights.

~*~

Several hours passed before Sven's eyelids shuddered. By then, his assailant had had plenty of time to tie him to a wooden chair and organize his instruments of punishment. A headache blistered through the man's skull, throbbing in his eye sockets until he gained enough consciousness to open them. When he saw the person who had knocked him out, his throat closed and the gasp ripping through came out high-pitched.

"Faust... Please... Don't—" Sven hiccoughed. "Don't do this. I'm sorry. I'm SORRY!"

Faust, who had been facing the doorway at the end of a long red runner, turned toward Sven, holding a hammer's handle in one hand while cradling the head in the other. A malicious smirk peeked out from a curtain of black hair. He took a step forward, the clomp of his leather boots echoing through the church. Each step made a menacing sound that bit down on Sven's nerves and rattled his sensitive skull.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you hate me, but please, don't hurt me. I swear I'll never talk to her again!"

Faust approached, flashing the obsidian hammerhead. He tossed the tool in his grip and stuck his hand into his pocket, producing several five-inch nails.

"No! God, no, please! Faust! Don't do this!"

The black-haired giant stopped to admire the curve of the hammer’s prongs. Sven looked around the empty church and saw a jerrycan taking up space in a nearby pew. He immediately started struggling against the jute rope binding his wrists and ankles to the chair as Faust drew nearer, smile uncoiling.

"I already gave you the chance to never talk to her again. Remember?"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

"Sorry means fuck all to me. You should know that. The only reason you left the campsite with your dick intact is because of the witnesses," Faust said, then spun around with his arms out, showcasing their solitude. "Now, it's just you and me."

"Please don't," Sven muttered through swollen lips. "Fuck, I'll do anything!"

"There's nothing you can do. Nothing a sorry sack of human waste can provide this world to make me change my mind."

"SHE LIED!"

Faust jingled the nails in his jacket, reminding Sven who held the weapon.

"Whatever she told you... It's not true! I was at the party, but I didn't do anything to her!" Sven's voice cracked.

"Oh... So you didn't follow her into my bedroom?"

"No! I talked to her for a minute, and that's all. That's all, I swear, Faust. Don't kill me."

The stomp of boots neared the altar where Sven struggled in the chair. He twisted to loosen the rope and slipped one hand out. Faust grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the arm of the chair, readying a nail between his lips as he gripped the hammer. Sven let out a scream, stifled instantly by the hammerhead. Faust wedged the metal between his teeth and hissed.

"Shut the fuck up, or I'll use this to smash your teeth out like a goddamn window. Understand me?"

Sven nodded and quaked as Faust placed the tip of the nail against the soft, flat part of his forearm.

"Stay still. If I fuck up and hit the Radial or Ulnar artery... You could bleed out before I'm done. Gotta get it right between the bones." Faust slapped the pale skin to reveal blue veins. He pressed the nail’s tip in place and rose the hammer above his head, bringing it down and stopping short of the head as Sven shrieked.

Faust cackled. "Jesus Christ, dude. Did you really think I was gonna nail you to a chair?"

Sven groaned, relieved and moist with cold sweat. "Faust, I'm serious. Please, man. You gotta believe me."

His dark laughter continued, bouncing off the high ceilings, the wooden pews and polished floors. As Sven let out his own nervous chuckle, Faust brought the hammer down in one swift pull, then slapped his hand over Sven's gaping mouth to stifle the screams. Howling, Sven rattled his head back and forth as a searing bolt of pain tore through his right arm, crackling in his shoulder where it burned and burned.

Faust tore his phone out of his back pocket and brought up a video, slamming the screen into Sven's face. The video of him grabbing Faith in his room while he was states away watching the live feed from the camera he'd set up on the desk.

"I knew these little cameras would come in handy. See? I know what you did, you stupid fuck. And you know what else? I would have just beat the shit out of you had I not stopped by your place before our little meeting."

Sven whined, tears pouring from his eyes in steady streams.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. I went into your room... Saw some interesting things on your computer. At first, I thought it was just standard fucking creep shit. Snuff porn, torture... Teen girls. None of that surprised me... Until I dug around and found your little stalker file buried in your folders. You didn't even encrypt it. How fucking stupid are you?"

"I'm sorry," Sven shook.

"Why are you apologizing to me?"

"I'm sorry for touching her. I should have left her alone."

"What'd you think was gonna happen? That she wouldn't tell me? Or that I wouldn't believe her? And now I know you've been following Faith around, taking pictures of her, you fucking predator. And what about those other women, huh? You sorry about them, too?"

"Yes! I'm sorry. I know I have problems! I'm trying to get help. Please, Faust. If you let me go, I promise I'll do it. I'll get better. I haven’t hurt anyone!"

Faust shook his head slowly, grunting in refusal. "No. I meant what I said when I told you I'd crucify you if you went near Faith again. I'm doing the world a favour."

Sven hung his head and bled from the grievous wound pinning him to the chair, shuddering weakly from his injuries. Faust would never relent. He'd witnessed the drummer's cold disdain, the malignant hatred living inside that made him turn to the dark with open arms. Faust wasn't an actor. He pledged himself to the darkness with unyielding conviction, never one to take such things lightly. This realization depleted Sven's will to reason with the man.

Faust gripped another thick nail and drove it through Sven's left arm, smiling as blood dripped from the wood onto the church altar. The violent yelps filled Faust with morbid delight as he pressed the bloodied hammer under his victim's chin and raised his face.

"You're gonna die tonight, Sven."

"What makes you better than me? You'll be a murderer," Sven stuttered. "You hurt people, too."

"You and I are not the same. Don't ever compare yourself to me. You're a coward, and I warned you. Tread on what's mine, and I'll destroy you. That's what I said."

"All this over a girl? Are you fucking crazy!?"

Faust stooped to one knee, looking up at Sven as though the insult had cut him. Faust's brows arched, bottom lip jutting outward as he studied Sven, who closed his eyes. Then, Faust rose to his feet, leather stretching from the motion. Faust tapped his chin, smiled, and leaned over to whisper, "yes... Totally fucking crazy."

With a powerful kick to the chest, Faust sent the chair and Sven toppling backward. He then unzipped his pants, pulled out his manhood and giggled as he emptied his bladder on the weeping man. While Sven cried and moaned, Faust closed his zipper, whistling merrily. He left Sven on his back and snatched the jerrycan from the pew, taking slow, calculated steps while twisting off the cap and dousing the altar in gasoline.

As the gas trickled, Sven's desperation mounted. He could not flail, so he screamed. Faust gently reminded him what he'd do to Sven's teeth if he carried on shouting. The pinned man blubbered and begged, but Faust ignored his pleas. Inside his head, all Faust heard was the sound of flames rushing into a circle around Sven, crackling over the carpet and up the old church's wooden beams. By the time the roof caught fire, Faust had planned on being long gone.

"Please, Faust... You'll regret this! I know you're a serious person, but this is too far. You won't be able to live with yourself!"

"Wrong. I couldn't live with myself knowing I let a vulture like you walk this planet freely." Faust poured a trail down the floor runner, far away from the altar. He tossed the can aside and looked up at the Catholic saints' stained-glass portrayals and Jesus at the center of it all, staring down with sad eyes. Faust took a book of matches from his pocket and ripped one from the bunch, running its tip across the ignitor strip until a small flame burst to life. Faust flicked the match to the ground without a second thought, and the flame ate up the gasoline trail swiftly. The church was illuminated, and the colourful glass windows came to life. Faust raised his eyes to the forlorn Jesus and leered while the fire spread.

He did not stay to admire his work or revel in the cries of a man burning alive. Faust fled before the fire consumed the church, not once looking back or wondering if his victim had somehow escaped. He trudged through puddles of slush, hair swinging in the wind, white shadows of breath leaving his mouth.

It was time to get back to finish the tour. But he had one more stop to make.

~*~

Faith left the mall after helping close the book store. She received small smiles and nods from the mall staff as they locked doors and unfolded security gates. Some of the people she had spoken to before, and some she had only seen in passing. Though she returned their pleasantries, inside Faith was fretting. She tried not to worry about her boyfriend or ask where he was under strict orders to go about her day as usual.

She stepped into the evening air as the sun sank, taking the blue from the sky along for the descent. Wisps of white cloud stretched across the pink and violet above. Faith took in a deep breath and walked to the bus stop situated between a movie theatre and a dollar store. She popped her earbuds in and turned on a song that reminded her of Faust; one he wouldn’t like. His music taste had no room for the upbeat indie rock she enjoyed. Still, she smiled when the lyrics reminded her of him.

The scent of cigarette smoke caught her attention, and she looked around, finding no culprit. She wondered where the smell came from if nobody was around but soon forgot when the city bus appeared in the distance. It had to make a long trek around the parking lot before it pulled up at the movie theatre. Faith readied her bus card to scan as another cloud of smoke enveloped her senses.

Faith whirled around, and there he was, all black and leather, white teeth clutching the filter of a cigarette. Faust smiled, his words bolting from his mouth as she clamped her arms around him and crushed her face into his chest. The leather and musk brought tears to her eyes. She ripped out her earbuds and tried not to weep.

He hushed her, lifted her off the ground and retreated into the shadowed alley between the theatre and the store. By the time the bus pulled up, Faust had pressed her against the brick wall behind the building.

"Faust. Oh my gosh, where have you been? I was so worried," Faith gasped.

"Sh, don't ask questions, baby." Faust smothered her mouth, holding her thighs around his waist.

"Mm—I love you. Oh my God. I can’t believe you’re here! I love you so freaking much."

"I know you do," Faust breathed against her lips. "I love you, too, babe."

"Tell me where you've been!"

Faust shook his head and kissed her neck instead. She raked her fingers through his hair, knocking his hood down so she could see him unobstructed.

"Told you... Don't ask... Mmkay?... Stop asking... Just let me... Mm—fuck!"

Faith pulled his pelvis inward with her thighs, rubbing against his crotch and the heavy bullet belt wrapped around his hips. In their cloud of lust, Faust pushed his black jeans down just enough to free his erection.

"Fuck, I love your little skirts. Makes it so easy," Faust murmured.

The thought of Faust showing up disquieted her, but his lips on her skin and his desire thwarted these anxieties for a while. She set aside her questions, happy to have him in her arms again and overcome by arousal. When he stretched her panties aside and pushed into her, they both froze in expressions of excruciating ecstasy. Faust tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Faith clutched his shoulders, already writhing from the intense fulfillment between her legs.

Just as she thought Faust might drop her, he bent his knees and hoisted her higher up on the wall. In his arms, she weighed close to nothing. She missed feeling tiny against him.

"Miss my cock?" He growled in her ear.

"Yes, baby. Oh my gosh, of course, I missed it. I missed my big man."

"Yeah? Fuck, I miss my little pussy," Faust breathed. "Mm, show me those gorgeous tits."

Faith unbuttoned her work polo and stretched the collar down around her breasts for Faust to bury his face. Though there wasn't an abundance of flesh to lose himself in, Faust shivered from the first taste of her nipples. With muted groans of pleasure, he rammed into her until Faith could no longer contain her cries, unaccustomed to his girth. Faust absorbed her whimpers with his mouth, coaxing her tongue until she only hummed.

He felt ferocious from the last twenty-four hours. If he could make Faith scream without drawing attention, Faust would have slammed her into the wall and fucked her until she shredded her vocal cords. He had to keep a low profile. Even visiting Faith was a considerable risk, but one he relished taking as she clamped her thighs and rutted against him.

He supported her ass in both hands and shifted off the wall to fuck her standing up. While he took her this way, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered, whispering, "yes, fuck my pussy hard, big boy. Oh, I love that big cock inside me."

Faust unhooked and held her out so he could watch her breasts jiggle with every bounce. "You still taking your birth control? I'm gonna fucking bust so hard inside you, baby."

"Yeah. Yeah, baby, do it. Fill my pussy, please. I want your cum."

Her dirty talk and sweet sobs for his cock pushed him over the edge. He cradled her head as he pushed her against the wall and throbbed between her legs until empty. Faust pulled out and immediately turned her around and bent her over to watch globs of fresh cum dripping from her wet slit. He used one finger to push some of it back inside and had her suck off the rest. Afterward, he pulled up his pants and compressed her against the wall, one hand over her mouth while the other worked her clit in gentle circles. Faust didn't stop until she squealed and shuddered against him, muffled in his jacket and writhing from the manual orgasm.

When Faith calmed down, he released her and stepped away, pulling a cigarette from the squished pack in his jacket pocket. The lighter's flame created an orange halo around his face and promptly died. He smoked like nothing had happened while she fixed her skirt, buttoned her polo and zipped up her coat.

Faith smiled up at her lover, the night blotting out most of his features.

"I'm so glad you're home," she said.

"Not for long," Faust exhaled.

Her heart quivered. "Wait, what?"

"I gotta go back."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"What? No! But... You just got back," said Faith.

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket speaking for him. The evening matured, consuming the details of her hurt expression until the streetlamps along the road came to life.

"Why did you come here?"

Faust took one last long haul off his cigarette and flicked it down the alleyway. "Listen to me, Faith... You need to quit asking questions. I'm serious. The more questions you ask, the worse it'll be. And you and I did not see each other tonight. As far as you know, I'm on tour. Understand?"

"Yes," Faith said to appease him.

"I want to stay, trust me. But I can't. You know why. All the answers you want, you already have. Don't keep bugging, don't mention it ever again."

"I want to go with you," she whispered.

"No. You stay. Go to your classes, go to work, go visit your parents. Everything normal. And I don't want you moping around either. You put on that pretty smile, and you pretend for me. I'll call you in a couple of weeks before the last show and arrange a way for you to get there."

"What do you mean you’ll call in couple of weeks?" Faith whined. “What about goodnights?”

"I don't have a phone anymore."

"Why—? Oh, um... Okay. I understand."

Faust gathered the girl up in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Good girl. I love you, and I miss you."

"I love you, too."

He tipped her face up and sensed tears forming in her eyes. Faust shook his head. "No crying. We'll see each other very soon. Just a couple more weeks."

"I know," she sighed.

"I love you more than anything, Faith. Now, go catch your bus. Should be here in a few minutes."

"But what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'm on tour. I'm not even here," he explained.

Faust kissed her again, smoothed his hands over her shoulders and turned her to face the bus stop. He urged her along. "No looking back. Hop on the bus and go do your schoolwork."

"Okay," she said, determined to make him proud. Faith walked out of the shadows and into the lamplight hovering over the depot. Across the lot, the city bus pulled in, and though she longed to turn around to see Faust watching over her, she kept her eyes forward and waited. When the bus pulled up, and the doors drew back, she stepped onto the platform and smiled at the driver as she scanned her pass. Faith took a seat in the back and put in her earbuds. She searched through a list of bands and selected the only one whose logo was illegible. As she pressed play, she listened to the immediate assault of the drums, their constant and violent beat. Faith smiled—warm in her chest and between her legs.

[darkesttimelinestuff]

7,713 words

Mature

Men make houses. Women build homes. –Proverb.  

Come come, come out tonight. Come come, come out tonight. –Sherry, The Four Seasons  

***

Oh, Halloween. How it coaxes all from their shells, a come-hither seduction of ghouls and their admirers. Whether one chooses to be a witch or a princess, a criminal or a cowboy – to paint their face and knock on doors, to drink until they are but pumpkins, mouths filled with their pumpkin guts – it is all done under the otherworldly spell of the undead, the souls that ascend from their place in the basement to play marionette games with the dolls who inhabit the first floor.

Fox Mulder has, over the years, made an exceptional doll. Spock, then Captain Kirk, then Spock again. Several years of him doing nothing but sitting alone and staring out the window, ignoring the pull of a fairy costume resting in a trunk in the attic. Even then he had been a prime target; Halloween souls feed on elation, but will take misery in a pinch. His misery tasted sweet like a tootsie pop. The saints love tootsie pops, all the waiting and the work. The sinners prefer Reeses.

There were others when the memories began to fade. Han Solo. Han Solo. Paul Stanley from KISS, though his first girlfriend ended up wearing most of the makeup. Han Solo. Doctor John Watson, although years later he would grit his teeth and mutter I should have been Holmes. Serpico at a Hoover party, the last one he went to. No one got it. Then Han Solo every year he chose to celebrate after, and by then he finally had Princess Leia at his side.

The halloween of 2016, he slips into his finest costume yet.

Fox Mulder. Hopeless romantic.

On one arm, he carries a bag that is filled with good wine, cheap wine glasses, and assorted fruits, cheeses, and fancy chocolate. He has convinced his partner that the actual contents are a P.K.E. meter (a psychokinetic energy meter, for those who have not seen the documentary Ghostbusters), a thermographic camera, an audio recorder, sage, a lighter, his gun.

On the other arm, or underneath it, is his partner. Who is unsure about such open gestures of affection while they are technically on the clock, even after all the years of steaming up their steakouts, but is not stopping him, and is possibly even snuggling back as the October chill descends.

“This is not a love story, Scully,” he warns, pulling her closer as they follow the long, winding pathway up their destination. Her body heat is his favorite temperature, even when it’s ice cold. “It is a story of lies, obsession, betrayal, and murder.”

“I think I’ve heard this one.” She bumps his arm with her shoulder and smiles up at him, her lips wine deep under the bright moon.

Their shoes are silent on the stone and disappear under the layers of fog that curl and cozy around them like amorous smoke. He tugs her closer still, filling his nose with the woodsy scent of her shampoo.

“The early 1960s, Scully. Free love was just a storm a’brewin in the air, and sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll were waiting on the doorsteps  of American counterculture, waiting to be invited in. Doo-wop was still a prominent feature on family radio stations. The Beatles had yet to write their own songs, and Paul McCartney wouldn’t smoke his first joint until 1964. It was a wholesome time, Scully. You would’ve loved it.”

“I loved Rubber Soul,” she argues.

He rubs her shoulder. “But it wasn’t all sock hops and sweet Jackie Kennedy. We were fighting a war with Russia, a war of discovery, and losing to the success of Sputnik. The U.S. invaded Cuba, got their asses kicked, and were the laughing stock of the world. In the veins of America, in the buses and lunch counters, the streets and in the schools, thrummed the blood of a movement. The Civil Rights movement. The early 1960s was a time of immense change.”

They were getting closer and closer to the scene where it all took place: a sprawling, overly-windowed ranch style home, its angular roof sloping into flatlands. In the quiet darkness, the cars and the rest of the world all celebrating miles behind them, the house appears white, almost bleached. But when the sun comes out it will reveal its truth: baby pink painted wood.

“And situated in all of this madness, this time between tumult and revolution, hatred and love, was a woman named Sherry Battersea.” She hmm’s. That means Mulder, I love your stories. Keep going.

He does.

They arrive at the front door – solid mahogany, undistressed. The steps leading up to the porch are made from brick, unhassled by the years of disuse. With the moon hanging overhead, vines creeping onto the roof, and the glare of (assumed) white bathed in midnight blue and the shadows of trees rustling above, it looks absolutely– “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mulder whispers, moving his hand to Scully’s waist.

Precisely.

***

It’s all a bunch of phooey, if you ask him.

Didn’t expect that, did you?

He spent weeks finding the right place. The runner ups were all either too far away, too haunted, or not haunted enough. He wanted something with history, something still alive in the hearts of believers – but nothing verifiable, and nothing with a real reputation.

He wanted a pretty lie. Most ghost stories, he will begrudgingly admit, are indeed pretty lies.

He found the Battersea house on a subreddit dedicated to paranormal encounters, and this one hadn’t even managed to get twenty upvotes. He was number twenty. The Battersea home is in Virginia, which heavily swayed his opinion in its favor, and from the pictures posted the years of abandonment had not left it dangerous, which put it above two other options off his list. Making love to Scully while the roof collapses over their heads is a fantasy he put to rest many moons ago, about the time he realized they could just do it on a bed.

They roam the house with their flashlights, Mulder’s low voice playing in her ear as he finishes his story. “Sherry’s husband returned from war, but he never returned to her. She made this home for him and he wouldn’t even grant her the decency of staying the night.”

The biggest draw of the place had been its pristine condition. No graffiti stains the wood-paneled walls; the rooms were all intact. The interior design is a certified blast from the past, from the richly carpeted floors and textured rugs to the lucite furniture, pops of neon that splash under their flashlights. It is colorfully but rather tastefully decorated. It reminds him a bit of a movie set, which is another place he has been thoroughly laid by this woman.

As they move through the house, however, he realizes with mild disappointment the utter lack of haunting thrill. Nothing shifts in the night to give them pause. No dirt or dust to brush away, no holes in the walls or rot in the furniture. It doesn’t even smell old. It all feels more like a vacation home, some sort of themed romantic getaway, and they’re wading behind the scenes with the power turned off.

It’s not what he planned, but he’ll take it.

“Miss Battersea was a fashionable lady, keeping up with the times faster than they could come to her. She had a leopard skin pill-box hat before Jackie O had a leopard skin pill-box hat, and was dead by the time Bob Dylan could think to write a song about it.” Oh, that long, mid-century sectional couch. It might be white or a gawdy turquoise color. Whatever it is, he’s going to have her there. “She was a smart woman, too. The head of all of her many bookclubs. All of the books you see in here are hers.” His runs his beam over behind the couch, where the entire back wall is lined with books, and they move along. “And there are more in the den.

“She did everything she could to make her husband love her. She danced to his favorite records. She cooked for him and did his laundry. She cut her skirt an inch shorter with each passing trend.” They stand side by side, halted in the kitchen doorway. He turns his head and lets his eyes dip into her blouse. “I’ve been very appreciative of your new work wardrobe, by the the way.”

“Mulder,” she chastises, pulling her shirt down for better access. He laughs loudly at that, places his hand on the small of her back and leads her through the kitchen.

“She was driving herself crazy, trying to make him love her the way she loved him. And oh, did she love him, her sweet Maximus Battersea.” More wood paneling, and modular, pastel appliances that appear as if they haven’t aged a day since their prime. In the middle is a solid island with a geometric vase of dead flowers. This is where he’ll lay out all the food. Should’ve gotten flowers, he mopes to himself, but remembers that Scully doesn’t have a lot of patience for them. “They were high school sweethearts, and when he was 18 he was drafted off in the Korean War.

“Something was wrong when he came back. He got a job at some juicing plant working the machines, but showed a savvy for bossing people around that made itself known to the owners. He moved up quickly to supervisor and then warden. He and his little wife then bought this house, and Sherry made it her life’s work to take good care of it. Not a speck of dirt to be found.” Even to this day. They both marvel at the cleanliness.  “Dishes were done as soon as they were used. Food was on the table for when he got home, still hot enough to serve. But he never got home to her at night. He would spend his nights at the bar, and then he became a favored customer at the Grand Major Hotel.”

“Oooooh. I would’ve killed the bastard,” Scully whistles, opening up a cabinet and standing on her tiptoes to peer in. He steps in behind her and lifts her up, chuckling when she screams and elbows him in the chest.

“Hmm, I know you would,” he mumbles in her ear, smacking a little kiss underneath it. All the glassware in the cabinet, chipless and clean as a whistle, clinks and jingles while she moves her hand through it. “You’re a jealous monster. So was Sherry Battersea.”

He’s making some of this shit up. He doesn’t know if she liked to read or if she was all that beautiful a woman, but the details make the story. “I’m not jealous,” Scully snorts, and he bites her neck as punishment for her blatant lie while dropping her back on her feet.

He wonders, as he pins her against the counter, if she’s caught on to his plans. He sets the flashlight down in front of her and snakes his arms around her from behind. “One night, he did come back to this big old house. But he was with someone else.”

“Oh, I would’ve killed him,” she repeats, tilting her head to get his lips on her neck. His nose brushes her cheek and he grins; she definitely knows. “I would’ve killed her.”

“And that’s what she did,” he says, kneading her hips. “They were on the couch, still mostly in their clothes. She snuck up from behind, and with all the power of her rage, she pushed one of her many bookcases right on top of them, crushing them to death.”

“I would’ve waited until they were naked. More humiliating.”

“Jealous. Monster.” Mulder says fondly, breaking away to grab her arm. “Now they say that Sherry Battersea remains in this house, long after she was convicted and put to death. She gave her life to building a home. It’s fitting that she give it her death as well.”

“And that’s what we’re here to investigate?” She says, narrowing her eyes.

“We’re here to say hi to old Sherry,” Mulder lies, urging her along. Neither of them are scared, despite of their previous history with ghosts. He’s not sure if Scully even remembers. That house had not been a pretty lie. It had only been filled with ugly truths.

On their way up the stairs, pausing at each creak even though the foundation is craftful and sturdy, a tune plays in his head. “Sherry… Sherry baby…” he sings, letting his voice go comically high. It’s too loud in the quiet house surrounded by nothing, and Scully turns around to slap a palm over his mouth.

“That’s a bad Frankie Valli impression,” she says, arching her eyebrow. “Want me to make it better?”

He kisses her palm. She takes it away and continues her charge up the stairs. When she’s far away enough, he finishes the line in his ghastly falsetto, voice cracking.

“Sherry, won’t you come out tonight?”

Come come, come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

***

In the den on the other side of the house, a lightbulb flickers. The glow it casts under the lampshade is a soft, pinky red, the color of a deep blush. The winds caress the house with the sigh of a new lover. There is a soft scritching noise, a click of a record sliding into place. Static, and then…

Sherry, Sherry baby! Sherry, Sherry baby!

***

“I was listening to particle physicist Brian Cox on the radio the other day, talking with Neil deGrasse Tyson,” Scully says, sipping coffee from her thermos. She shivers a little in her suede jacket and Mulder regrets not finding somewhere a little warmer. Temperatures are at an all time high this fall in Virginia, but it’s still uncomfortable. He plans on warming her up anyway. “He’s a Professor at the University of Manchester and works on the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. You’ve probably listened to him before on a podcast. He tackles a lot of different concepts in science fiction. Frankenstein, for instance.”

“Corpse reanimation is my favorite,” Mulder says. “I know a lot about it.” She pets his hair and hands him her mug. He drinks from it gratefully. Another thing to regret. He hadn’t brought his own mug.

“Specifically, he was saying that ghosts could not exist because of what the collider tells us. You know what it does. It essentially uses a network of very complex, high-powered magnets – the largest, most expensive machine in the world – that are continuously switched on and off to send particles flying at almost the speed of light. The purpose of it is to find out what everything is made if. The particles collide and emit smaller particles, which we can observe, along with their interactions with other particles.”

“We used it to discover the Higgs Boson particle, which tells us how particles get their mass. The God Particle. It was a discovery over half a century in the making.”

“Mostly, yes. The argument was that if ghosts were real, they would emit particles that should be detectable in the Large Hadron Collider, and those particles would be able interact with the particles that make us up.”

Mulder’s silent for a moment, thinking. “What if the LHC isn’t powerful enough to detect those particles?”

“Mulder.” She licks her lips and angles her body towards him on the couch, looking into his eyes. Incredulity is still her best look. “This machine has been able to reconstruct temperatures and states of matter that only existed a microsecond after the birth of the universe, before it changed states. It is a very powerful machine.”

“But it still hasn’t answered everything,” he points out, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we still know nothing about dark matter. And dark matter is called dark matter because we know nothing about dark matter, only that it could explain why galaxies might contain less mass than what we’ve calculated.” He nods at her, taking another sip. “Maybe all that extra mass is a bunch of ghosts. Bet you never thought of that.”

“Mmm. Your souls in the starlight.” He scoots closer to her, slowly sliding his arm behind her on the back of the couch. When he leans forward, she says, “Mulder, maybe we should split up.”

“What?” He says, not pulling back. There’s enough light coming in from the windows that he can see her clearly, her noble profile shadowed and unshadowed as he moves towards her. He smells her perfume… and pine sol. “Now why would we do that? Last time we split up during a case like this you shot me.”

“I didn’t shoot you. You shot me.” So she does remember. She’s still talking when his lips are close enough to brush hers. “But how are we gonna catch this ghost sitting down?”

“Well, we don’t have to be sitting down.” He kisses her, a chaste, sweet little thing. He pulls back an inch and kisses her again. And again. And again. “We can.” Kiss. “Stop sitting.” Kiss. “Anytime you want.”

“Mulder.” Kiss. “Where’s the ghost?” Kiss. “Where’s Sherry?” Kiss. She’s folding under his body weight, falling back into the remarkably undusty cushions. She cups his jaw in her small hands and kisses him for real, chasing the flicker of his tongue with her own. She stretches one leg behind him, lets the other fall off the couch.

He groans and shifts so that he’s nestled between her thighs. There is – so much he loves about kissing Scully. In a lot of ways he’s learning her all over again after the time they’ve spent apart. Her face is thinner, he can trace her bones with his fingers, but not that sickly thin it had been the day she walked out. Her hair got its shine back. She tastes like a day at the office, her coffee and Cliff bars and the Burt’s Bees lipstick she wears during the cold weather.

But. Kiss. Her hands are bunched up in his shirt, very much like she’s prepared to rip it off of him. But this is is going too fast. Kiss. He forces himself to break away, taking his hand out from under her blouse.

Trying to control her breathing, pupils dilated, she lifts her chin and licks his lips. “So you want me to shoot you this time around?”

He laughs and moves off of her, giving her space her to sit back up and fix her wrinkled clothing. He winces and struggles to rearrange his wayward dick. Men’s pants are so tight now. He misses the freedom of the 90s.

“I uh. So here’s,” he pauses, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Here’s the thing. There is no ghost.”

She blinks slowly. He wants to move a lock of silky red hair out of her eye, but keeps his hands to himself as she thinks things through. “You brought me to an abandoned house to… what? Make out with me?”

“Well, no. I mean yes. But I have…” All these years and this stuff still makes him tongue tied. “Libations. And… mood music.”

She raises her eyebrows, but her eyes are softer. “The Monster Mash?”

“The Prince version, yeah.” He leers at her. “It was a graveyard smash.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, letting her head fall back on the cushions.

“Think about it. The way I see it, Halloween is our holiday, right? Mr. and Mrs. Spooky.”

“No one ever called me Mrs. Spooky.”

“I did. All the time.”

She smiles. “I guess it beats the time you set me on fire for Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t want to kill the adrenaline here,” he says, partially damning himself for ruining it so early. He lost a good amount of blood to that kiss. “There could absolutely be a ghost here. I’m just saying this isn’t my most reliably sourced case.”

“Are any of them?” She sighs, but she reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Go grab us some libations and make me forget this conversation.”

He ducks down to kiss her cheek. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking his bag of goodies to the kitchen, he pulls out the wooden cutting board he brought along to serve everything  and all of the bags of pre-cut cheese, crackers, fruit and meat. He hums while he works. Hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm hm. Hm. And it starts over, the notes twanging loudly in his mind. It is almost as if he could hear it being played through the walls – he feels it from the outside, rather than in his head. He blames it on his massive erection. He takes out the wine glasses and fills them up high enough to placate Scully and make his mother roll in her grave. Vineyard folk are serious about their wine.

He gets a good look at the kitchen as he works, transported back into a time he doesn’t know very well. The cottages on the Vineyard never kept up with any particular trend, opting instead for the timelessness of colonial whitewash and brown trim. They changed out maids and nannies like they’d change the air filters, and neither Teena nor Bill put effort into upkeep. Neither cared much for fidelity either he grimaces, and immediately feels bad for doing so.

If there is any truth to the tale, he aches for people like Sherry who gave their all and never knew when to take it back. He gets it. Sometimes you fixate on people. He had been a victim of it more than once, and now he’s the one waiting for the one he loves most to come back home.

He grabs the cutting board and the wine glasses, balancing them carefully, anchoring the stopped bottle in his armpit. The second bottle of wine and the dessert he’ll save for later are left on the counter. He hums his way back to the living room, his woman still sprawled out on the couch, waiting for him, and he forgets about Sherry.

Behind him, in the kitchen, there’s a flutter in the cabinets, sounds of gently moving ceramic. A pleasant, almost feminine noise, like tinkering laughter. Then there’s the pop of a cork.

The bottle moves, sliding to the end of the island. Then it rises into the air, bobbing up and down as if being carried by invisible hands.

Over the sink, the bottle upends. The glug-glug-glug of sweet red flows into the pipes. Just one glass’s worth.

The air is warmer, somehow.

Like a full body flush.

***

He sweeps her over the creaking floorboards, her cheek pressed to his chest. The cold has left them. His phone sits on the sleek, white coffee table, and his Elvis tunes play, his Dylan, some acoustic hits. She nuzzles in closer and hums along to Roberta Flack, Sinatra, that Cher song they both like so much.

“Why don’t you believe in the ghost, Mulder?” She murmurs, a little sad.

“I don’t know that I’m against the idea of her existing,” he says into her hair, closing his eyes. They turn. Sometimes he dips her, sometimes he spins her, but they spend most of the time just like this: as close as possible, eyes closed, careful not to bump into any of the furniture. “I just need more proof these days.”

“Well,” she says. “I’ll believe for the both of us then.”

He lifts his chin from her head, surprised. He pushes her away to search her face. “You believe in Sherry?”

“You had me with that dark matter point,” she shrugs. “If souls… did exist, they would most likely exist as a form of matter we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Dana Scully, but you are tipsy,” he chuckles, pulling her back to him. “If you believe, I believe. Sherry Battersea is alive and with us.”

“Why’d you bring us here if you didn’t think it was haunted?”

He thinks about this, rubbing his hands up and down her back. “We’ve got a long way to go, don’t we Scully?” She looks up at him, cocking her head. “You haven’t…. Moved back yet.” His thumbs caress her waist. “Into our home.”

Her face falls. “Mulder–” she tries to step away, but he holds onto her, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Scully. Scully, I’m not mad. I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.” He presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, smoothing his hand down the length of her hair. She closes her eyes. “But I thought maybe… if I could recreate… not an exact replica of the good old days, because we were always getting our asses kicked, but something tonally similar, it might help. Show you that I appreciate you and that… I miss you, and that I’m so fucking grateful that…”

She saves him by wrapping her arms around his neck and bringing him in for a slow, mind-melting kiss.

There are none of the cobwebs that decorated all those places in their youth, not like he’d been hoping. The shadows that float across the room are all accounted for. There is no fear. It is not quite like the old days, but he remembers this: holding her hips as they move above him in the dark, the rise and fall of her upturned breasts, the underside of her chin when she tosses her head back and gasps. She rides him into the couch, the sweltering sheath of her body spreading warmth from his cock to the tips of his fingers and toes. He watches her face in the shadows again, how her expressions undulate in the moonlight. She still keeps her apartment, but she’s come back to him in every way that matters.

In the kitchen, a bottle breaks. A tray of dark chocolates hits the wall at full speed.

“Did you hear that?” Scully breathes, furrowing her brow but not stopping, refusing to stop their decades-old rhythm. His hands slip around to grip her rear and he shakes his head. Wind rattles the windows, a howling, devastated screech that neither Mulder nor Scully can relate to.

***

“…Mulder,” Scully frowns, her nude form wrapped up in a fleece blanket he’d brought in from the car. She sits on the floor in front of the middle bookcase, running her fingers over the titles. “You said this place was abandoned, right?”

He’s dozing on the couch, KO’d from sex and the little bit of wine they’d had. “Mmm,” he rubs his cheek and yawns. “Yep. No one lives here.”

“I just find it odd that a place that’s been abandoned for so long shows so few signs of disrepair. In fact…” she runs her hand over the books again. “This place is cleaner than my own. You’re absolutely sure no one lives here?”

“It’s condemned,” he says. “Government says it’s no longer fit to live in.”

“That’s… weird.” She pulls out an old pulp romance novel and flips through the pages. “It seems perfectly habitable.”

“It might have something to do with the plumbing. There are all sorts of strange, outdated Virginia laws that classify a place as livable –” he’s cut off by a sharp yelp and a thud. He sits straight up and peers over the couch. “Scully?”

“I’m okay,” she groans, massaging the back of her head. “A book fell and hit me from the top shelf. But it hit me hard. Jesus, it feels like I got pelted with it.”

He climbs over the back of the couch to join her on the floor, and she laughs when he pecks and pats the top of her head.

“I have just the thing to make it better,” he says, standing back up.

“Again? So fast?” She sounds impressed. Excited. He shoots her a look.

“I was offering more wine, Scully. But ouch.” Her cackling follows him into the kitchen.

The sight that greets him freezes him cold. That extra wine bottle rests in a million shiny pieces, and what was once a glaringly yellow wall bleeds dark red with the wine streaking down to the sideboards. “Scully?” he calls out hoarsely, approaching the scene with caution.

“Shit!” she screams. His stomach drops with fear and he darts back out into the living room to find her huddled under hundreds of fallen books. “What the hell?”

“Scully!” He drops to his knees beside her, throwing book after book off to the side and clutching her face in his hands. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“Not bad, but I’m beginning to see why this place might be condemned. The bookshelf just rattled and all the books fell off. Maybe there’s something wrong with the foundation.” He helps her out of the pile and they both move away, far back from the shelf.

“Rattled?” he asks, alarmed. “Like it was being shaken?”

“I thought it might be coming from the walls,” she posits, but that doesn’t sit right with him. Anxiety begins to gnaw his stomach into pits.

“You don’t think,” he starts and stops, biting his lip. He wants to put his clothes back on. The chill is coming back. “You don’t think that…”

“Think what, Mulder?”

“That… something was trying to push the bookshelf? On purpose?”

She looks at him, startled. “What? Like a ghost?” He nods his head, shrugging, and she angrily clutches the blanket around herself, turning her back to him to pick up her clothes. “You just told me you didn’t believe there were any ghosts here.”

“You just told me you did,” he argues, following his own garment trail.

“Mulder,” she whines, pulling on her bra. “I don’t actually – I was just…”

“You were lying?” He asks, pausing with his shirt over his head. The hurt catches him off guard.

“I wasn’t lying, I just… I’m so…” she sighs, doing up her fly and buttoning up her shirt. “I never know how you’re feeling these days, and…” she doesn’t finish. He nods slowly, a hot wave of dejection flooding his cheeks. There are traces of ancient anger he wants to pull from, that’s the easier path, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“I never needed you to lie to me, Scully, and I certainly never asked you to,” he says roughly. He turns away from her to pull on his underwear, jeans, and jacket. He ignores her attempts at  apologies and walks in long strides to the kitchen. “Come look at this,” he calls to her flatly.

Just when he thinks he’s pushed past the resentment of her leaving and the guilt at having made her leave, all of the other feelings are brought to the forefront. The shame. The fragility. He’s spent the last several months trying to prove to her that he can make it on his own – that his need for her doesn’t stem from an inability to function without her, but the irrefutable fact that they work so much better together – and the whole time she’s been… what?

Seeing him as a fucking child? Wearing kid-gloves in all of her interactions with him, holding back her opinions in fear of setting him off? Oh, Jesus. Is this why she won’t move back? She thinks he’s not ready?

“Here.” Side by side, they stand in front of the stain on the wall, mindful of the smushed chocolates and shards of glass.

“Maybe they fell?” Scully guesses weakly, at least having the decency to look contrite.

“They fell? At fifty miles an hour?” Maybe there is some anger he can pull from. “Unlikely. Didn’t you tell me you felt like that book had been pelted at you?”

“Yes but Mulder that could be anything. You said yourself the house was condemned.”

“Yeah, but–” he bends down to inspect the chocolate on the floor,  picking one crushed morsel up to show her. “This looks… this looks like it’s been stepped on, crushed by something. What kind of foundational issue would cause that?”

She looks at it and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Let’s split up,” Mulder says. “Take the top floor. I’ll take the bottom. It’s what we came here for anyway, right?” And he leaves her alone in the kitchen.

***

The den drastically departs from the design ideal of the rest of the house. Under his flashlight he spots leather rock chairs, worn and overstuffed, plain walnut bookshelves and orange shag carpets. He looks through the books and the desk drawers, searching for anything personal. Photos, journals, receipts kept, anything that might give him any insight into Sherry Battersea and the lonely, lonely house she kept. No luck.

There is a large stack of records sitting next to a hefty Champion record player, dressed in supple red leatherette. He flips through them. The Big Bopper. Fats Domino.  The Lennon Sisters. More and more of the same ilk – an Elvis Christmas LP he’s pretty sure is the real deal, and which he shamefully considers sliding under his coat. He then inspects the player itself, lifts the arm to see the stack of singles underneath it. He lets the arm fall back into place.

It begins to play.

He yelps, stumbling backwards and collapsing onto the rock chair as the music plays loudly enough to fill the house.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sherry! Sherry baby!

Mulder clutches for the back of the chair and watches in terrified fascination as the entire den comes to life. The lamp flicks on and casts the room in its soft pink light, turning brown into different shades of red. Warmth trickles in from the air vent and all in his body he feels the electric hum of a machine coming to life. He knows instantly that means every other room in the house must be waking up in the same way. Scully he thinks, attempting to jump to his feet.

He’s knocked back on his ass. “What the–” he tries again, and the shag rug slithers out from underneath the desk, coming at him like a cautious snake.

Sherry! Sherry baby! Sheeeeeeeeeeeeerry bay-ay-by! Sherry, can you come out tonight?

“Scullllllaaaay!” He shouts, but he’s no match against The Four Seasons bleating from the – not from the record machine, but from  – everywhere, what –

Why - don’t - you - come out? Come out! To my twist party! Where the bright moon shines!

The rug does just that, rises up, twists back and forth like wringing water out from a cloth. Still moving slowly it comes up to his feet, and he brings his legs up and hugs his knees close to his body, expelling an embarrassing squeak that would give Frankie Valli a run for his money. The rug continues its ascent, sliding up his legs, like – like a caress - gentle – warm – not like a rug, but like –

Like a human.

Mulder kicks his legs out with as much force as he can muster and the rug drops to the floor with a muffled poof. Then he’s leaping out of the chair and throwing open the door, giggling crazily when – he swears he feels it – something invisible tugs at his shirt, at his pant legs and hands.

He runs out out of the den into the open hallway like a scene straight out A Hard Day’s Night, and it’s just as he suspected. All the lights are on, and the Battersea house is thrown into full technicolor, much more vivid than he could have imagined. The lucite chairs are the brightest reds and blues he’s ever seen on furniture in his life, the sofa and the tables and the cleanest, starkest white. The light from the bulbous chandelier sparkles and spins. That pine sol scent – and then something else – Shalimar? – the alien-looking Philco television set on its tall thin stand, some old Gunsmoke episode. Then the channels flip and flip and it’s the Twilight Zone, and he’s being shoved by the air over to the couch. “Scully!” He yells again, laughing, merrily going along with the phantom guide. How is this for proof of a spirit world? This has got to be the single strongest case for the existence of poltergeists ever experienced. “Scully! Come here!”

“Mulder!” Scully screeches, straight from the gut.

Three gunshots go off.

His laughter corks in his throat, his heart drops to his stomach. Mulder races into the kitchen, faster than the grip that vies for him. The wine has been scrubbed from the walls, the glass swept from the floor. Something delicious simmers on the stove, and as he darts past the island he notices a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice pouring into a metal mixer. No body performs the action. They float in the air and the liquid comes out in steady, even streams.

That’s his drink. He shudders and hops up the stairs, taking two at a time. Scully’s voice has died out but he can still hear it pounding in his head, along with the never ceasing with your red dress on! Mmm you look so fine! and his ragged breath. “Scully!” He yells again, throwing open every door as he comes to it. The towels in the bathroom, the shower curtain, all rip themselves from their places and slither and slide after him, licking at his ankles and tripping him up. Gold and copper tubes of lipstick chase behind him, leaving behind perfect lip imprints on the walls.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Scully bound and gagged to the four poster bed, screaming into the pillowcase stuffed in mouth. “Scully,” he hisses, falling to his knees in front of her, pulling out the gag and deftly untying the knots around her ankles and wrists.

“That crazy–” she coughs and struggles underneath him, making it impossible to get her unbound. “That crazy bitch –” “Stop moving–” but she won’t, she’s writhing and wrestling until he has to cover her with his weight, yelling at her all the way. “Crazy fucking bitch!” She screams. When she’s free from her ties she shoves Mulder off of her and hops to her feet, tearing through the bedroom like a hurricane. “Where the fuck did she put my gun–”

“She took your gun?” Mulder panics, ripping through the room with her. “Scully, did you–” he sees it, three bullet holes in the corner of the ceiling. “Did you shoot the house, Scully?”

“You bet I fucking shot the house!” She screams. “Aha!” She pulls out the gun from the nightstand, cocks it, and tries to run out of the room.

“Scully,” Mulder grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her to him, ignoring her struggling. “Scully, I’m thinking this is an extremely malevolent, extremely powerful poltergeist. You cannot shootpoltergeists–”

She whips around, turning on him and backing him into the wall. “Malevolent? Did she drag you by your hair into the bedroom and tie you to a bed, Mulder? You look suspiciously unharassed.”

He licks his lips and stutters. “Uh, no. That has not been – that has not been my experience.” She raises both eyebrows and crosses her arm, waiting for him to continue. He rushes on. “I think Sherry’s still here, trying to take care of her husband.”

Scully steps back, eyes widening in shock. Her mouth opens and closes. Slowly, quietly, she asks, “Are you saying… the… poltergeist… is trying to seduce you?”

“And kill my mistress? Yeah,” he huffs a laugh and wraps his arms around her stunned and silent frame, letting his body relax against hers for just a minute. He’s getting too old for this kind of exertion. “Oh, god. You scared the shit out of me, Scully.”

“Sorry to cause so much stress, Mr. Battersea,” she grumbles, burying her nose in his neck. He nuzzles her hair and she lifts her head, slotting their lips together in a sweet, relief-filled kiss. If she’ll forgive him his affair with the carpet, he’ll forgive her everything. She pulls back, shaking her hair out of her face and straightening out her shoulders. “Now how do we get rid of this thing? What’s all in that bag you brought?”

He freezes. Shit.

“Mulder, no,” she says, horrified.

***

They slink down the stairs, Scully first, gun first, just in case. The breath of the house is soft, deceivingly calm. The music has been shut off. No objects float in the kitchen, the stove is turned off. Nothing tries to pull Mulder out of his clothes, or Scully into a closet.

“I think our little display back there pissed her off,” Mulder says grimly, staying close behind Scully.

“You’re my husband,” she bites out, straightening her shooter’s stance. “I kiss you whenever I want.”

They pause before entering the living room, looking at each other.

“That’s where it all happened,” Mulder whispers, nodding his head at the door. “If we go out there…”

“Should we just make a run for it then?” Scully asks, biting her lip. He bites his lip, too, and they meet each other’s eyes. He nods slowly.

They take off, pounding their feet against the hardwood and running as fast as they can, Mulder’s hands barely grazing Scully’s shoulders, but they never stood a chance. Floorboards are snatched almost from under their feet; chairs and tables go hurtling through the air. They drop down, Mulder curling his body over hers and shielding his head when bronze ornaments chuck themselves off of their stands, decorative mirrors drop to the floor, sending their shards flying.

From every molecule of the house, Frankie Valli’s falsetto warps into a deep, unsettling baritone.

Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight. Come come. Come out tonight.

“Say a prayer, Scully,” Mulder groans, wincing when a piece of glass whizzes past his head and scrapes up the back of his hands. She begins to frantically mutter one under her breath, but it’s useless. The storm doesn’t stop.

“Sherry,” Mulder tries. “Sherry!” He says louder. The music ends, but the the violence doesn’t. “Sherry, I know you were hurt!”

A woosh of a sigh is expelled from all the air vents. Objectiles drop straight to the floor. Mulder takes a deep breath and rolls off of Scully, who chokes and coughs into her arm.

He keeps going, not exactly sure what he’s saying. “Your husband was a selfish man who didn’t treat you the way you deserved. You loved him. You gave him everything. You cleaned up every mess, you paid every bill, you did everything he asked of you and it still wasn’t enough.” He swallows, pressing his bleeding hand to his stomach. “He still wouldn’t come home to you.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sherry. People who love you don’t do that to you. People who love you know that you aren’t perfect and come home to you anyway.”

The house is so quiet it is almost as if his soft, soothing voice has lulled it to sleep, and for a moment he thinks it has. Water drips from the air vents, from the windows, single, silent tears of condensation.

Crumpled next to him, Scully is sniffing. He glances at her, worried, but she’s smiling through her tears, sliding her hand through debri and dust to wrap around his. He smiles back, surprised to discover that he’s crying, too.

But she’s suddenly yanked away, screaming as those invisible hands drag her by her ankles and toss her onto the couch. “Scully!” Mulder yells, getting up to run toward her.

He’s tripped by an orange shag carpet.

“It’s not you, Sherry, it’s me,” he whimpers, frantically wriggling as the carpet begins to roll up with him inside of it. He groans and drags himself across the floor with his hands, carpet and all. The Philco set buzzes past him in the air and he shouts. “Watch out, Scully!”

He doesn’t see where it lands, but it the sound it make is a sickening smack, a bludgeoning soundtrack. “Scully?” No response. “Scully?”

He groans, dragging himself with agonizing slowness until he’s at the couch. Propping himself up his arms, his legs still wrapped in the rug, his mouth waters in fear and his stomach tightens at the sight of her, pale and silent, with one patch of bloody red hair staining her temple.

He checks her pulse, is relieved to find it faint, but still there. He kicks and pounds inside his trap until it’s beaten slack and stupid, and lifts himself onto the couch.

“Scully?” He lightly touches the spot where she’s hurt and she jerks her head and groans. “Oh, thank god.”

“Take me to dinner next time,” she winces, feeling the wound for herself and hissing out when she brushes the most tender part. She sits up, he pulls her hair away to give her better access. “I probably need to go to the hospital for this.”

“Well let’s try and get you there, partner.” One hand on her back, the other on her shoulder, he tries to help her up, but is interrupted with the sound of… “Scully. Scully, shit.”

“What?”

“Scully, the bookca–” SLAM.

***

She hauls him out of the dead and empty house, panting with the exertion and the throbbing pain in her head.

“I think–I think she went back to sleep,” Mulder yaps manically. “I think that put her to sleep. Reenacting the – the crime.” “We’re not dead, Mulder,” she grunts. Another foot down the driveway. “I just wish we were dead.”

“I think we better call an ambulance, Scully,” he says, resigned. “I don’t think either of us can drive.”

They call the ambulance and wait. Scully plops down beside him, wincing as the morning sun reflects off the ugly pink wood and cuts into her blurry vision. “This sucks, Mulder,” she sighs, squeezing her fists into her eyes.

“God, I know. This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“How are you going to help me move with two broken ankles?” She sighs again, shaking her head. “I’ll have to hire somebody now.”

He beams at her.

***

All the spirits rejoice and return to their graves for their year long sleep.

***

Girl, you make me lose my mind!

[justjessame]

The Deal Chapter 10

What can be said when you finally break? Not a whole lot, honestly.

I broke. Killing Sofia, taking that responsibility from Dad, broke some tiny part of innocence I had left. I passed out and it took me all night and part of the next day to get through the trauma of killing the undead version of a little girl that Carl had been so hopeful would be rescued. Killing her, knowing that Carl would lose what sparks of faith he had left, it ripped me apart.

When I came to, Daryl was watching over me in our tent. His anger at my silence about the barn filled with walkers had passed. His worry was evident, apparently I had been talking while I was unconscious. He said I begged to die. To leave the horrors of our new reality behind. I begged for an end, for something to replace the terror we all lived in.

“Jessi, ya can’t,” he started, when he told me what I’d been moaning for, “ya can’t leave me alone here. Ya can’t.” He pulled me into his arms, as though holding me together would keep me sane. The pleading voice, the fear shined clearly in his eyes. And I nearly fell apart again.

“It was just bad dreams, Daryl,” I whispered, letting him hold on to me for dear life. “Just bad dreams, long overdue.” I pulled back so I could frame his face with my hands. “I’m right here, I’ll always be right here.”

Dad had apparently followed Hershel to a bar in town, with Glenn in tow. They’d brought back more than booze, or the smell of it anyway. A prisoner/hostage, named Randall. He was injured and our resident vet turned survivor doctor helped him heal. Of course there was dissent about what to do about the man. Two guesses who lead the charge for getting rid of him permanently, versus who lead the charge to release him once healed far away and leave him to fend for himself?

Of course the plan went to shit. Why wouldn’t it? This was the new normal wasn’t it? That you make plans and the world works against you to make sure that it all turns to crap. Shane and Dad tried, apparently, my dad’s way. Neither would go into too many details about what happened, but they both looked like shit when they got back. And Randall was still with them, so another issue.

While they were off on their field trip that made both of them look like they’d gone ten rounds with each other, Hershel’s youngest daughter, Beth tried to kill herself. First she’d gone comatose (who could blame her, I did too for a bit?), then apparently Andrea got the brilliant idea to give her the choice. Thank God, according to Lori that Beth changed her mind, and it wasn’t too fucking late. Lori told me that Andrea made some snarky comments about her and Shane, but I couldn’t focus on that backbiting crap. I was still trying to decide how I felt about being alive in this horror show.

Daryl offered to get information out of Randall. I couldn’t look at him when he returned. I couldn’t stand to think what he might have done to get any intel out of the man, not when he was wiping his hands of the blood. I focused on the living room rug. I focused on anything other than the voting going on around me about a HUMAN’S life.

Carl, my baby brother, actually told Dad that he should kill Randall. My heart broke when Dad looked at me with the terror I knew was clear on my face. My baby brother wasn’t just losing his faith, he was losing his humanity. I sat down on the sofa in Hershel’s house and missed the rest of the conversation. Had I sounded like that when I told Daryl that Andrea wasn’t going to survive? Had I been that cold, thinking it was pragmatic? What was going to happen to all of us if that became our mindset?

Dale, a humanist if I’ve ever seen one, voted against. I didn’t vote, I wasn’t listening. I stood up and walked out of the living room. I walked out of the house. I walked to the porch swing and sat down. I felt so mechanical. Like every movement since waking was just mimicry of what I’d usually do, but that I couldn’t feel myself do it. I sat on the porch, ignoring the rest of the group, their voices, their vote. I had to sit it out.

When Dale was killed the next day, by a walker who somehow found our new safe place, I knew that the world would lose to the walkers. That if a man like Dale, kind and human couldn’t make it, then what would the rest of us have to offer the gods that set this fucking plague loose on us? His funeral was a blur. So was Carol trying to let me know she didn’t blame me for ending the thing that her daughter had become. That Sofia had been dead far before I shot that arrow into her head. That I’d done what needed to be done. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

I barely noticed when Randall escaped. I hardly took note that Shane was the one who warned them. Not until Dad and Daryl stood before me telling me they were going to look for him did I pay the least bit of attention to what was going on around me. I was still lost in that same fog that I’d woken up to. Even when I laid down with Daryl at night, nothing seemed the same. When Dad and Daryl told me that with Glenn and Shane they’d go find Randall something sparked. A chill. A familiar chill rolled through me, but I couldn’t focus on it.

“Don’t.” I whispered, as they both stared at me. “Just don’t. Please.” I couldn’t say more, I couldn’t tell them why, but I knew that when they walked away, even more would change and I didn’t know if we would survive it.

DAYS AFTER SHANE’S DEATH, THE WALKER ATTACK AT GREENE FARM

Dad finally told us what Dr. Jenner had warned him about before blowing the entire damn CDC building sky high. He’d waited. Some would argue he waited too damn long, but he’d waited until things were at their absolute worst. The attack, after Carl was forced to put a bullet in Shane’s head, the rush from the farm, the side of a freeway, that’s when he finally had to tell us. Had to because Carl asked the question no one knew we had to ask. How had Shane turned when he hadn’t been bitten? Daryl had a similar question, because Randall had turned as well, and as far as he and Glenn had seen, there wasn’t a bite on him either.

And so, when things couldn’t seem bleaker, Dad proved they could. Now we knew. People didn’t have to be bitten to become a walking nightmare. They just had to die with their brain intact. I looked around the group and suddenly realized that it was even worse, we’d lost more people. Andrea, even if I thought it would happen didn’t mean I reveled in it, was gone. Patricia and Jimmy, gone. I blinked back tears. Enough, Jessi, I scolded myself as I watched the others become angry with Dad. Angry with his lack of warning. Enough.

“Enough.” I said, loud enough to be heard, not loud enough to get us attacked again. “Just stop. Stop being pissed. Stop being angry with Dad. Stop.” I looked up and realized that it had been days since anyone heard me speak. “Does this really change our situation? Knowing that we can all become whatever the hell those beasts are, does it change anyone’s urge to survive?” They all watched me. “I can’t do this. I can’t listen to the anger, and irritation at ONE more fucking thing we can’t change.”

Daryl slipped behind me to hold me. Offering what comfort he could. “She’s right. Don’t matter. We still gotta stay alive.”

“There’s a place for us,” Dad said, taking heart in my strength and conviction. “I wasn’t sure Jenner was right. Not until I killed Shane.” I noticed that Lori wasn’t looking at him and I knew that he’d told her before us. “Carl had to put him down.” The group grew quiet.

“Rick has honor,” Daryl’s voice shocked all of us. “I know he ain’t lying because I tracked Randall. He wasn’t bit. And Shane’s story didn’t match what we found.” My hands linked with his where he’d wrapped his arms around me.

Maggie speaks up to try to get Glenn to leave, that the rest of us aren’t for them. Hershel shushed her.

“I killed my best friend for you people, for Christ’s sake.” Dad nearly roared. I watched my baby brother bury his head in Lori’s shoulder. “Maybe you all are better off without me. I say there’s a place for us, but maybe it is another pipe dream.” I notice that no one seems to be leaving. “No takers? If you’re staying, this isn’t a democracy anymore.” He turned to walk away, and I pulled out of Daryl’s arms and rushed after him.

“Daddy?” I whispered once we’d gotten far enough away from the others. He turned and opened his arms. I rushed forward and let him wrap me up like he had from the moment I breathed air for the first time. “Thank you.”

“He was dangerous, baby, he was.” Dad breathed into my hair. “Lori knows it, but I’m not sure she’s gonna forgive it.” He sighed. “The others? They need to understand-”

I nodded against his chest. “I know.” I breathed in deeply, even through the sweat and blood, he still smelled like my daddy. “I know, I’ll try to help you as best I can. And I think Daryl will too.”

“Sure will,” Daryl’s voice spoke quietly from behind me. “I meant it, Rick, ya got honor. Bastard lied about too damn much.” He stayed a distance from us, letting me and Dad comfort one another for a moment. “Gonna be hard, gotta find somewhere before winter, and definitely before your next little one comes.”

“I’ve got the two of you,” Dad answered, releasing me and smiling at Daryl. “Should be a hellava help.”

[jarienn972]

Curse of Undoings - part three

This third installment isn't as heavy on the whump, although we do still have Killian in chains. There's a huge clue given here about the Black Fairy's plans and we learn that Killian isn't the only one who still has his real memories. Might he have an ally out there?

Tagging @killian-whump @hookaroo @castielamigos for the update

From the beginning: Part 1  Part 2  Also on AO3 and FF.net

With no way to know if it was day or night, Killian had no inclination of how much time had passed. He was aware that he'd blacked out from the pain at least once, but for how long? He knew he couldn't actually sleep as it was impossible to find any comfortable position, which was likely part of the planned torture. Laying on his back wasn't feasible with his skin ripped open and still seeping blood - and probably pus by now. His ribs ached if he tried to lay on his side and laying on his stomach was nearly as agonizing as being on his back when the heavy chain dragged across the raw flesh. Oh yes, this all had to have been the intent, furthering his agony. His throat was dry and scratchy as though he'd swallowed an entire desert but there was no relief in sight. He'd finally resigned himself to sitting upright, knees drawn up and tucked under his chin to give his aching head a place to rest.

He nearly jumped at the sound of the steel door being unlocked, squinting as it was pulled open, not even bothering to disguise his fear of what would await him next. A feminine form appeared in the doorway, but this was not Emma. This time, his unwelcome visitor was Fiona, the Black Fairy herself, attired in a sharp, tailored black pantsuit that in all appearances, was likely purloined from Regina's closet. Her hair was coiffed into a tight, businesslike bun and had Killian been able to speak, he would have asked her if she were here to gloat. She seemed to sense the question anyway, responding with a mocking grin.

"Well, aren't you just a pathetic sight, Captain?" she chuckled as she took a step inside the cell, careful not to get to close to any chains that might scuff her patent leather heels as she held her hands clasped demurely behind her back. "I see Emma did quite a number on you already and I'm sure there will be so much more to come. Such vitriol there…" She paused to have a laugh at the early results of her ministrations. "Oh, I know you'd love to tell me that your True Love will win out, but I wouldn't be so confident of that if I were you. I may have outdone myself with the amount of loathing I instilled in your lovely bride…"

Killian shifted positions, straining against his multiple restraints while growling angrily at the mastermind of this curse.

"Oh, don't bother wasting your energy, Jones," Fiona quipped as she wrapped the manicured fingers of her right hand around the chain tethering his collar and yanked down on it, forcing his head back so he'd have to look directly up at her. "This is so much fun! And as soon as Emma kills you and severs your bond of True Love, I win." She drew her left hand from behind her back and revealed the object she'd been hiding from view – a snow globe containing a tiny castle amidst a forest scene. "You see, all of your fairytale friends are imprisoned here and as soon as Emma acts on all of that hatred towards you, they all vanish. Everything gets undone and then, it becomes my story to re-write as I see fit. All it takes is for Emma to put an end to her True Love and everything is mine...

"Considering the beating she's already given you and your present predicament, it would seem that the memories I implanted in her of you killing her family are proving quite effective. She sees you only as a cold-blooded killer and it will only be a matter of time until she acts on all of her festering anger and hatred. Do try to make yourself comfortable until then, Captain, but I seriously doubt you'll be here much longer."

Fiona released her grip on the chain, allowing it to strike the open sores on his back intentionally as she cackled, exited the cell and locked the door behind her, the echo of the heavy door slamming resonating through his entire body. It did get him thinking about what she'd said though – she needed to destroy True Love to seal her victory. It explained why he'd been kept here in Storybrooke to be the fodder of his suddenly homicidal wife who viewed him only as a murderer. Emma believed her family to have been slaughtered by him yet in truth, they were trapped inside an enchanted snow globe, not unlike the way Jasmine's kingdom of Agrabah had been placed in stasis for centuries when she'd run off to the Land of Untold Stories.

Would there be any way he could get through to Emma? Convince her that he was really her loving husband, not the criminal she believed him to be? Certainly, parts of the fallacy were based in truth, but he'd put that man behind him to make himself worthy of her. His Emma was still in there somewhere, concealed behind all of the Black Fairy's lies. He just had to find a way to reach her before she unwittingly destroyed everything she loved.

Having taken out some of her frustrations on her prisoner, Emma decided to return to the Sheriff station to relax a bit before round two, entering the squad room with a satisfied smile turning up the corners of her lips. While Hook hadn't provided her anything in the way of actual information regarding her parents' murders, she'd enjoyed taking out ten years of aggravations on him. She'd return later to interrogate her prisoner further but at the moment, she had a few other things to attend to, the first of which was locating a clean shirt. She dug into the stash of emergency clothing she kept in her bottom desk drawer after discovering that a splattering of Hook's blood was staining her shirt. Eh, it was a small price to pay to look into a killer's eyes and punish him for his crimes. She didn't think much more of it as she unbuttoned the baby blue blouse and slipped it off, momentarily crouching in her office clad only in a camisole until she found a deep wine hued sweater that she pulled over her head, kicking the drawer closed with her toe as she stood back up.

Had her real memories been intact, she would have realized that the garment she'd just donned was one Killian had given her. He'd enlisted Henry's assistance to acquire it for her after he'd seen her admiring it in a magazine advertisement. The fabric still bore traces of both her perfume and a hint of his cologne from one of their last rendezvous in her office, but now, her cursed self barely recognized the scent. It was just another sweater to her, but it certainly held some familiarity to another person who'd retained his memories, not that anyone was believing him.

"Henry? What are you doing here?" Emma asked as she turned to spot her teenage son lurking in a corner of the squad room.

"I was looking all over for you, Mom," Henry replied. "You didn't come home last night…"

"Sorry, but you know yesterday was a hard day for me… I slept at the old loft…"

"Your wedding day was a hard day?" Henry asked, confused by her odd response. He'd known people were missing from the town, but until now, he wasn't sure what else the curse may have done.

"Wedding? Henry, did you forget to take your meds again? You know quite well that yesterday was the tenth anniversary of your grandparents being murdered…"

"Mom, Grandma and Grandpa aren't dead, I'm sure of it. They're just missing from the curse, you know, like half the town?"

"Okay, kid, now I know for sure that you didn't take your pills this morning. You're having delusions of curses and fairytales again, aren't you?"

"They're not delusions, Mom. You know it's all real…" Henry argued, worried that now that he'd located one of his mothers that he might have even bigger concerns. "It's all here in the book, for now, at least."

"Ugh, Henry, I swear I'm going to take that book away if you keep getting so caught up in fairytales! They're fiction. Happy endings don't exist in the real world, although at least now that I've found Jones, I can finally put one awful chapter behind me - as soon as he's sufficiently punished for what he did."

"You found Killian?" Henry asked both excitedly and a bit timidly.

"Killian? We're calling murderers by their first names now?"

"Murderer? Mom, what are you talking about?"

"Seriously, Henry, you know damned well what I'm talking about! Killian Jones – the vile bastard who massacred your grandparents a decade ago – we finally captured him and he's locked away where he can't hurt anyone ever again."

"Mom, no… That's not true. That's just what the Black Fairy wants you to believe. This is her curse. She wants you to forget the real Killian – to forget that you love him…"

"I think it's time I made you another psychiatric appointment. These fantasies of yours are getting a lot worse. Love him? You must be growing more insane… Look, right now, I want you do go home and take your meds, mister. That's an order. If I find out you didn't, I'll have to force you to take them and you know I don't like to do that…"

"Okay, mom," he conceded defeat. Whatever the Black Fairy had implanted into his mother's head was a lot stronger than he'd imagined. She believed that her True Love had murdered her parents and he could hear the bloodlust for revenge in her voice. "I'll see you at home later," he said as he backed out of the station, his mind swirling with thoughts of where she might have Killian locked away. If he could locate his stepfather, maybe the two of them together could break the curse and foil Fiona's plan, whatever it might be.

Henry scampered out of the Sheriff station, but he didn't exactly go straight home as he'd promised. He headed first to the town park, climbing to the top of the play castle where he'd always liked to come when he needed to think. He tossed his backpack onto the floor as he leaned his back into the slatted wood wall, getting a little more comfortable before opening the pack to retrieve his precious storybook – his family's legacy. Placing the book on the floor of the play castle, he opened it to the center, disturbed to see that even more of the image was deteriorating, portions of it missing. He flipped through several more pages that were also gradually fading away.

Was that what this curse was all about? Undoing all of the stories? Erasing all of the lessons learned? He knew that his grandparents and his other mother were missing, but he didn't think for a moment that they were dead. Half of Storybrooke had gone missing overnight, probably swept away to another realm, but he needed to know why. What was Fiona up to? Why did she need Emma to harbor such hatred toward Killian? No way he could head home just yet. He needed too many answers.

[gattius-starfrost]

Magistry and Nobility

Syrielle strolls down the stairs, holding a stack of parchments in her her hands, she walks over and gives Gattius a big hug, "Hey, Dork! Feeling any better?"

Gattius crushes up two small white pills, and pours them into a glass of water-- wait, that's water, right? He downs it like a shot, too quick to tell. But if his face is any indication... that's some strong water!

Syrielle 's ears lower, "I take it not good?"

[Gattius]: --Hm? Oh, uh... getting there.

Gattius shrugs, as he turns. He looks very tired...

Syrielle doesn't buy it. She looks quite worried, actually, "You really should be seeing a mentalist at this point. This is going to start affecting you on the field."

Gattius huffs. "I'll be -fine-." he retorts, shortly. "I have it under control. Between medicine and naps here and there, it's nothing to worry about.”

Syrielle waves the parchment in front of his face, chuckling, "You're so tired, you forgot to tell me about this, you Dork!"

[Gattius]: About wha--

[Syrielle]: Joke's on the old man! You get his money no matter how much he didn't want it to happen. Ha!

Syrielle 's ears perk back up, "This is perfect! It's exactly what we need right now! Between this and the money mom and dad left me, this will put the Starfrost name up to nobility status!"

Gattius quickly snatches up the parchments, with a deep frown! "--Hmph! Not a chance!" he snaps, crumpling the parchments in his hand behind his back. "I didn't tell you because we're not taking a single copper from that son of a bitch!"

[Syrielle]: WHAT!?

[Gattius]: What, you -want- his dirty money? Light only knows what he did to get it!

Syrielle frowns, reaching out the grab the parchments back, "Of course I want the money! Do you know how much GOOD we could do with it?! You just want to let it sit and do nothing?! Are you serious?!"

Gattius scoffs! "Am -I- serious? Are -YOU- serious?! His fortune was made on lies and manipulation! You want to profit from that, like some greedy Venture Company goblin?" he frowns deeper, as if it were possible, leaning back to keep the parchments out of reach.

[Gattius]: Not a chance! End of discussion!

Syrielle bristles at that, her ears standing on end, "WHAT did you just call me?! You're doing EXACTLY what that bastard wants by not taking it! What better way to spit on the old man's grave than to take his damn money and use it to do good things!"

[Syrielle]: Now hand those over! We're taking the money!

[Gattius]: Oh ho ho, I think -not-! I'm burning these, like I should've last week! We're not owing anything we have to that bastard! Least of all, "nobility" status! Which, by the way, since -when- do you care about nobility status?

[Syrielle]: Don't you fucking DARE burn those papers! I'm serious! We earned that money fair and square for what he put us through! And I've been thinking about it the past couple of months. It would help out your clinic AND up my chances do boost my rating when I join the Magistry. Now hand them over!

Gattius blinks once... twice! "... Huh, maybe I -do- need to see a mentalist, because I could've sworn you just said you were joining the Magistry!"

Syrielle takes his moment of shock to jump of and snatch the papers back, "You heard right! It's the best way to go for me. Trust me."

Gattius is at a loss for words! The parchments are snatched, as he just stares, bewildered, at Syrielle! "That's-- I-- WHAT!?"

[Gattius]: This is that bastard Everblaze's idea, isn't it?

[Syrielle]: No! ...Well... yes... he gave me the idea but it's -MY- decision. I've taken time to think it over.

[Gattius]: Well... think again! Syrie, the Magistry is -scum-! Politicians, only out for themselves! For building their own little estates and empires!

Syrielle straightens out the parchment and tucks it away safely in one of her robe's hidden pockets.

[Syrielle]: Not all Magisters, Gatto!

[Gattius]: Name -one-.

Gattius crosses his arms, expectantly.

[Syrielle]: Me

[Gattius]: You're not a Magister!

[Syrielle]: Yet.

[Syrielle]: Gatto, think about this.

[Syrielle]: You're sleep deprived, I know. But REALLY think it through!

Gattius huffs again, nostrils flared in frustration. "I'm thinking, alright. I'm thinking -YOU- ought to see a mentalist! That damned Magister Everblaze has gotten in your head! This is EXACTLY what I knew would happen if you took him on as a mentor!"

[Gattius]: Thinking about summoning demons around the house now, too? Light, Syrie, that's not you! The Magistry's a hive of scum and villainy! They'll eat you alive!

[Gattius]: The Magistry's the kind of crowd my father wanted in on! And you want to use his filthy inheritance to get there? You sure -I'm- doing exactly what he wants by -not- taking it?

Syrielle narrows her eyes, "You're father just wanted money and fame. -I- want what's best for Quel'Thalas! For our people! Isn't that what the Guard is about! Someone's got to play to political game to better the city! Wouldn't you rather have SOMEONE in there that you trust?! Come on, Gatto! This will guarantee I get to stay in the city, with you and Tannis! Would you rather I stay with the Sunreavers and end up getting called out to Silithus or Zandalar?!"

[Syrielle]: Because that's EXACTLY what's going to happen if I stay with them! You realize that, right?!

[Gattius]: Hmph! Safer still than diving head-first into the swamp of politics! At least your ethics and morals have a chance to stay intact on the frontlines! Someone else can play that game in the Spire - I'd rather it not be my wife!

[Syrielle]: So you don't trust me to be able to hold my own in the Magistry. Is that what you're saying?!

[Gattius]: Honestly? I would hope you couldn't hold your own there! The alternative would mean you're just as corruptible and selfish as the rest of them!

[Gattius]: That's the only way you could make it in that crowd, Syrie!

Gattius shakes his head, scoffing again. "How long have you been thinking about this? And when were you going to tell me about it? After they inducted you into their little club?"

Syrielle 's ear wilt, "I'm telling you about it NOW, now that I've had time to consider all of my options, uninfluenced. And of course -before- I joined. Fuck, Gatto! I'm not that inconsiderate! Why can't you understand?! I DON'T want to get shipped out away from you and Tannis! Especially after all this! The Alliance at our border?! I wasn't here to help mom and dad! I couldn't bare being away and not being able to help you and Tannis, too!"

Gattius shakes his head. "You make it sound like joining the Magistry's the only way you can stay!"

[Syrielle]: Isn't it?!

[Gattius]: No! You can just fucking stay, you know! You don't have to be a Sunreaver, either!

[Syrielle]: And do what, exactly? Sit around and play housewife?!

[Syrielle]: Is that what you want me to do? Sit around at home and pop babies out?

[Gattius]: Of course not! All I'm saying is you don't have to sell your soul to the Magistry to stay in Quel'Thalas! A citizen's life wouldn't be so bad! You could open up your own magic shop, or be a librarian, or whatever you want!

[Syrielle]: What I WANT is to join the Magistry and prove to you that I can do it WITHOUT selling my soul!

[Syrielle]: Don't you get it?! That's my stepping stone for becoming an Archmage!

Gattius frowns. "And if you're wrong? What'll you become then?"

[Syrielle]: If I'm wrong then I simply leave the Magistry and do what you said. Become a regular citizen and open up a magic school or something.

[Syrielle]: But guess what? A magic school owned by an actual -archmage- would do a hell of a lot better. Who do you think will promote me to Archmage in Quel’Thalas, hm? I'll give you a hint. It starts with an 'M'.

Syrielle crosses her arms over her chest, staring him down.

Gattius opens his mouth to speak, but... nothing comes up. He brings his hand to his face, and lets out a deep sigh.

[Syrielle]: Just... take a week or so to think about it, okay? I'm not jumping into this right away, okay?

[Gattius]: Sounds like you've already made up your mind. Without me.

[Syrielle]: Gatto...

Syrielle reaches out to take his hands, "I want to do this WITH you. Please..."

Gattius's ears wilt, as he turns back to the counter. He pours himself another glass of - yep, it was totally whiskey. "If you're set on being a Magistrix, fine. Go be a Magistrix. If you need to suddenly be a noble to get there, be a noble."

[Gattius]: And if you need my father's blood-stained inheritance to get that... fine. Go collect it.

[Gattius]: If you wanted to do this -with- me, Syrielle, this wouldn't be the first time I'm hearing about it.

Gattius drinks the whiskey rather quickly. He turns back to Syrielle, with a disappointed look. "I'm taking a nap. Letting you know now, so it's not a huge shocking revelation later, aye?"

[Gattius]: Light help me if I ever sprung something like that on you...

Syrielle 's ears wilt completely as he uses her full name, she opens her mouth to speak but just shuts it again. She shakes her head, eyes filling with tears."

Gattius steps past Syrielle on his way upstairs, without another word.

[hysterialevi]

Lotus pt. 6 (Batjokes)

Author’s note: This one took a while to write down since I had so many different ideas for it, but I hope you like what I came up with. Again, many thanks for your guys’ support, and please enjoy :)

From Avesta’s POV

CITY HALL - THE NEXT MORNING

Patiently waiting by as civilians gathered for the emergency address, Tiffany and I stood off to the side, making sure everything was in order while the guards got into position. Men, women, and children all flooded the plaza in front of City Hall, and the entrances had been blocked by both GCPD and Agency vehicles, as well as security gates.

So far, there was no sign of Joker or any of his men, and this “Lazarus” hadn’t shown up yet either. The janitor who was attacked by him was still in shock, and I doubted he’d be returning to work anytime soon, but otherwise, no one else seemed to be hurt. At least, not physically.

The optimistic side of me hoped that today would go by peacefully, and that we would get this speech done without any problems, but deep down...I knew a storm was coming. Whenever Gotham’s criminals saw an opportunity, they always seized it -- and this address was a huge opening. I just prayed that if something did happen, the Agency and GCPD would be enough to fight off these bastards. 

Battling with trained agents and police officers was one thing, but going after innocent civilians who were powerless to defend themselves...we couldn’t allow that to happen. These people deserved peace, and we were going to give it to them.

“...Hey,” I heard Tiffany say, breaking my trance-like state. She was peering at me with concern. “Are you okay, Iman? You look a bit...down.”

Gazing at the floor, I softly cleared my throat.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good,” I lied. “I just...I just can’t help but feel sort of guilty for what happened to Bruce. Letting him die in such a horrible way.”

She raised a brow, confused. “What do you mean? Why would his death be your fault?”

My eyes travelled to my pistol, bringing me back to the day we found Bruce at Wayne Enterprises.

“When we rescued Bruce from Wayne Tower a few days ago,” I told her, “he was...he was broken. He had just watched all his colleagues die, and one of his closest friends betrayed him. It certainly didn’t help matters when I informed him about his Lotus infection. All of this happening at once...it must’ve made Bruce desperate. He wanted a way out. He...” I trailed off, hesitant to continue. Tiffany put a hand on my shoulder, rubbing it in a comforting way.

“...Go on,” she urged. “It’s okay. You should talk about it now, rather than lashing out later.”

I took a deep breath, deciding not to hold back anymore.

“...He asked me to shoot him.”

Tiffany’s eyes sprung open. “What? Oh...I-I’m sorry. I assume you didn’t do it?”

“...No,” I confirmed. “I thought it was for the best. I thought that...I don’t know, I thought maybe there would be a chance we could save him. But I should’ve known better. There is no ‘rescuing’ when it comes to Lotus, is there? The virus kills its victims, no matter what. In the end, the Agency only made Bruce’s suffering worse, and he died as a lab rat. None of that would’ve happened to him if it weren’t for me. I may not be guilty for his death, but I am guilty for the fact that he lived long enough to ask for it.”

Tiffany was silent for a moment, a bit surprised at the confession.

“...You can’t blame yourself for Bruce’s suffering, Iman. You didn’t lock him in a lab and cut him up with a scalpel. The doctors did that. Whatever pain he experienced before his death is their fault. Not yours. You just did what you thought was right. No one can blame you for that. And besides, I have my own part to play in Bruce’s struggles.”

I was taken aback. “What are you talking about? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Tiffany reached into her jacket and pulled out a golden pocket-watch, gripping it tight.

“...this used to belong to Alfred,” she explained, flipping the lid open. “Before he left, he asked me to pass it onto Bruce as a goodbye gift...but I never got the chance. I tried to give it to him when he was being held in the cell, but the doctors refused to let me in. Instead, Bruce probably died believing Alfred no longer cared for him, and it’s all because of me.”

I frowned, bringing my attention back to the crowd of civilians. “I suppose everyone failed Bruce in some way, didn’t we? Otherwise, he wouldn’t be where he is now. But all we can do is atone for it. We have to keep Gotham safe from Lotus and the Joker. We can’t let Bruce die in vain.”

Tiffany nodded in agreement, slipping the watch back into her pocket. “I hear that.”

“Agent Avesta!” Waller’s voice suddenly called out from a distance, bellowing over everyone else’s like a megaphone. I turned towards the source, only to see the woman herself beckoning me.

“I also hear the Director trying to get your attention.” Tiffany added.

“Noted,” I replied. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna see what she wants.”

“That would be wise.”

Taking my leave, I casually walked over to Waller and tried my best to look professional in hopes of hiding my true feelings. I was already on thin ice with the director ever since our discussion in the morgue, and I didn’t want to anger her further.

“Ma’am,” I greeted. “Is everything all right?”

The way she glowered at me said “no.” 

Waller crossed her arms in a strict fashion and circled around me for a bit, pushing her glasses up her nose. 

“...Where’s Bruce’s body, Avesta?” She asked. It was more of a demand than a question.

I paused, thrown off-guard by the assumption. What was she talking about?

“...I’m...I’m afraid I don’t follow.” I answered.

The director was unconvinced. “Oh, please, agent. Do you seriously expect me to believe that a corpse rose from the dead, nearly killed one of our employees, and broke free without any of our people catching him? Gotham’s a bizarre place, I’ll give you that, but it ain’t that bizarre. The only logical explanation here is that someone stole Bruce’s body -- and I don’t wanna point fingers -- but you did express your disapproval about keeping him here just a few days ago, did you not?”

I put a hand over my chest, slightly offended at the accusation. “You think I took his body?”

“If not you, then who else?”

“I-I don’t know...did the janitor mention seeing anyone?”

Waller shook her head. “No. Even now, Jacob swears up and down that Bruce just crawled out of his cold chamber and attacked him, but I don’t buy a word of it. It’s far more plausible that someone would sneak in and remove Bruce’s body from the lab. For what purpose, I don’t know, but all I care about right now is finding the damn thing, and something tells me you’re a good place to start.”

I stumbled over my words, thinking of what to say. “Director, I assure you I had nothing to do with the disappearance of Bruce’s body. I know it seems unlikely, but...what if the janitor’s telling the truth? Maybe Bruce was never dead in the first place.”

“Our top doctors and scientists were working on him. They know a dead man when they see one.”

I persisted. “But what if the Lotus virus--”

“Enough,” Waller interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re hiding from me, Avesta, but I want that body back and intact. Do I make myself clear?”

Slouching my shoulders in defeat, I gave up for now, seeing as how it was obvious the director wouldn’t change her mind. I gave her a firm nod.

“...yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Waller straightened her suit, walking off, “I have a city to address.”

Shoving past me, Waller made her way to the podium at the front of the grand stage as the crowd settled down, adjusting the numerous microphones so that everyone could hear her properly. By now, an army of civilians, journalists, policemen, and agents had flooded the plaza, and the constant light of camera flashes reflected off of the director’s glasses. I decided to lay low for the moment and took my place in the background, waiting for the speech to begin.

I didn’t know what that whole business about Bruce’s body was, but it made me uneasy that it was actually gone. At first, I thought that maybe the attacker was just someone who looked like Bruce, and the janitor may have mistaken him for the billionaire -- but with the vanishing of the corpse and Jacob’s claims about him coming back to life...it made me wonder. Did he really return from the dead? Was he even dead to begin with? Countless questions overwhelmed my head, and I didn’t know what to make of the situation, but I pushed them aside for now. At the moment, my only job was to keep these people safe, and I intended on doing just that.

From John’s POV

“Are the bombs in place?” I asked Willy through a rainbow-decorated walkie-talkie as Harley and I waited in the car. “The speech is almost starting.”

“We’re still planting the last few,” he replied. “We just have to take out the guards around the area.”

I groaned. “Well, hurry it up! Waller ain’t waiting forever! And neither is Batman...” falling silent for a second, I quickly changed the subject. “Whatever -- just get the job done! Waller needs to die, and we need to find that serum. Fast.”

“On it, Mr. Johnny!”

Harley rolled her eyes, resting her feet on the dash. “Mr. Johnny?’ Really, Pud?”

I set the walkie-talkie down and drove us to a closer observation point, making sure to stay out of sight.

“Let the man have his fun,” I defended Willy. “Things have been dry lately anyways.”

“Eh, true enough,” Harley winked at me, hugging her sledgehammer, “but today we’ll have loads of fun. Ain’t that right, sweetie?”

I winked back, giggling sinisterly. “You can be sure of that, babe. Heads are gonna roll.”

She leaned over and pecked a kiss on my cheek. “I like the way you think.”

I deviously rubbed my hands together, turning on a small TV installed in the car. “All right, let’s see how Waller’s speech is doing. After all, every show needs a good introduction. We’ll let the civilians get niiice and comfortable before blowing anything up. Make them think they’re safe and sound when all of a sudden...BAM! Now that’s gonna be a climax!”

Pressing the power button, the devil lady herself instantly appeared on-screen, barking utter nonsense as usual while the audience keenly listened. Everything appeared to be moving smoothly thus far, and none of the security guards seemed panicked. Good, good. That meant they weren’t aware of my presence. Things were going according to plan.

“--Citizens of Gotham,” Waller began, resting her hands on the podium, “I know these past few weeks have been extremely difficult -- and our lives have been full of nothing but death, chaos, and tragedy. But I assure you, that will all soon come to an end. The Agency has been working tirelessly to find a solid cure for the Lotus virus, and we are this close to succeeding. We’ve done our research, we’ve conducted tests, and I promise you, we are making progress. But that’s not all I came here to talk about.”

Waller straightened her posture, linking her arms behind her back.

“The Joker.”

I clapped happily and pointed at the screen, laughing out of joy. “That’s me, that’s me!”

“By now, I’m sure this is a name all of you are familiar with. He has threatened our safety, killed our loved ones, and shaken the very foundation on which this city was built upon.”

I frowned. “...that’s a bit harsh.”

“However, despite all these struggles,” the director continued, “I must ask you not to panic. Not only will that give the Joker more opportunities to attack us, it will also make us stronger against him. The Joker’s been getting sloppy lately, and both the GCPD and the Agency are closing in on him -- along with any of his associates. We will do everything within our power to ensure Joker is put behind bars, and that he stays there.”

Groups of people in the crowd could be seen nodding with approval and gathering inspiration from Waller’s speech, while others didn’t look so sure about the claims. Those people were the smart ones.

“And speaking of maniacs loose on the streets,” a disgusted look plastered itself on Waller’s face, “I am well aware of these rumors that have been circling around about a certain ‘Lazarus.’ Well, I can assure you, they are just that. Rumors. Neither the Agency nor the GCPD have encountered anyone who fits such a description, and this ‘Lazarus’ is certainly not Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne has officially been declared dead, and that will forever be his status, I’m afraid.”

Out of nowhere, an unknown male voice suddenly joined the scene, followed by the clicking of a gun.

“...are you so sure about that, director?”

From Waller’s POV

Freezing mid-action, I glanced over my shoulder to see just who the hell had interrupted my speech, only to come across the most peculiar looking man...along with a gun aimed at my head.

The man was wearing a suit that actually blended in rather well with the Agents’, and there was a black bandana tied around bottom half of his face. Despite the coverage though, I could still see patches of scarred skin surrounding his right eye, and the organ itself had been mildly blinded, making it a hazy-blue color. 

Even with all the marring however, it was impossible for me to not recognize the fierce gaze that practically bore into my skull. It was the same gaze that haunted me ever since the incident at Wayne Enterprises, and the same one that pierced through the lab’s window. Who was this man? Was that...was that who I thought it was?

Before I could ask myself anymore questions though, a few of the other agents cautiously approached the man in hopes of subduing him, only to be shot directly in the forehead with a series of sharp bangs as their blood sprayed onto the floor. 

And as if that wasn’t enough, an electronic blast violently erupted throughout the plaza, shutting down all the security gates as well as deactivating the Agents’ pistols, causing the audience to scream in fear once they realized they were trapped. I tried to order my remaining agents to put down the culprit, but was forced to stop when he pulled out a detonator, making sure everyone could see it.

“Anyone moves a single muscle,” he roared, “and I will blow this place to hell...where it belongs.”

Tiffany let out a shaky breath in the background, paralyzed in place as she watched the scene. I supposed I wasn’t the only one who recognized him. 

“...B-Bruce?” She whimpered, sounding heartbroken. “Is that y-you...?”

His attention flicked over to her, and a wicked twinkle of delight glinted in his gaze.

“Didn’t think you’d be so surprised to see me, Tiffany. Especially after Jacob gave you quite the warning. But that’s the Agency for you, isn’t it? Refusing to listen to what it doesn’t believe. Looks like you should’ve heeded my advice.” 

Bruce took a few steps in my direction, holding me in place with his gun. “Psh, look at you. Tending to the sheep, convincing them you’re their shepherd. Do these people realize you’re also the wolf preying on them at night? Picking from their herd, choosing whose wool to strip? Funny, how you don’t mention that. I bet Bruce Wayne would have a word or two to say about it.”

I grimaced at him, almost growling my next words. “...so you’re Lazarus.”

“A name given to me by your people,” Bruce replied. “Even now, the Agency continues to create me. Everything I do, everything I am -- it’s because of you, Waller, and I hope you understand that. Though, it does make me wonder...where do we go from here? How does this road come to an end? I mean, we all know its destination...don’t we?”

I waved a strict hand. “Enough, Lazarus. Surrender now, or my people will shoot you where you stand.”

Bruce obviously wasn’t shaken by the threat, and continued his little game.

“Be careful, Waller,” he warned. “Your courage makes you vulnerable...but so does your fear. How is it that polar opposites could give you the exact same result?” 

Bruce prowled towards me in a calm manner, still holding me at gunpoint. 

“That’s how the universe toys with us, you see. It tricks us into believing we can divert our paths, and it laughs at us when we try. After all, there’s no crueler method to torture a man than giving him the illusion of choice. But you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Director? Why don’t you tell these people what you really did to Bruce Wayne? Tell them how he truly died.”

I could see the audience watching us with a newfound interest, but I refused to give in and kept my mouth shut. Bruce stormed to me, planting the gun’s barrel directly against my temple as he leaned uncomfortably close to my face.

“TELL THEM!” He hissed, his tone dripping with venom.

“I will not,” I said sternly. “You think you can just march onto the stage and order me around because you’ve got a gun? The Agency has dealt with people like you before, and it will continue to deal with people like you. You’re nothing special. Just another common criminal trying to become king when you’re only a rat in the gutter.

Bruce chuckled, almost sounding genuinely pleased.

“A common criminal, eh? Tell me, Director, how many common criminals do you know of...that can say they’ve killed the Batman?”

A unanimous gasp emitted from the crowd, and people immediately starting turning to each other, murmuring out of disbelief.

“--Batman’s dead?”

“--That’s impossible, you can’t kill Batman...”

“--Holy shit, what are we gonna do?”

My eyes widened at the claim, and I looked at Bruce with bewilderment. He actually went there. 

“What are you--”

“--Where else do you think Batman’s been these past few days?” He taunted, enjoying himself far too much. “Why else do you think that, whenever the GCPD fires up the Bat Signal, he never answers anymore? It’s because he’s dead, Waller, and you better get used to it.” Bruce held up the detonator, announcing his final words.

“I’m only giving you once chance, Director. This road will lead to death’s doorstep no matter what, but I’m giving you a choice on how to venture it. Take your Agency and leave Gotham for good. Otherwise...this city will belong to me by the end of the week, and today’s events will pale in comparison to the future.”

I gritted my teeth. “You can’t be serious!”

He chuckled. “Oh, but I am.”

Activating the detonator, colossal clouds of the Lotus virus suddenly burst into the air with a ground-shaking boom and spread like wildfire, painting the sky yellow as it infected all of City Hall. Drones soared through the sky and ejected paralytic bolts, shooting down people who were trying to escape as they pushed and shoved each other aside, desperately running for their lives.

“Gas masks ON!” I yelled at my agents. “Get these civilians to safety, NOW!”

Civilians immediately began scrambling all over the place, bolting blindly through the thick fog and falling to their knees as they suffocated on the virus, coughing to death within seconds. Only this time, they didn’t actually die. Instead, their bodies twitched and mutated into disgusting creatures, growths developing around their heads as the insanity took affect instantly, causing them to viciously attack others nearby. It was hell on Earth.

Parents were carrying their children away from the terror and wailing for help, pointlessly covering their kids’ mouths as they were forced to face the inevitable. People banged their hands on the walls of police cars as they evacuated the square, screaming at the drivers to let them in and climbing on top. Meanwhile, those who didn’t manage to escape were tackled to the ground by the mutated victims and ripped to shreds, screaming in agony during their final moments. 

It was like something out of a nightmare, and I was powerless to wake up.

I turned to Bruce with a look of terror amidst all the havoc, trembling inside out at the scene. 

“...What...what have you done?”

Pulling down his bandana, Lazarus revealed an inhumane, twisted smile that had been hiding underneath the fabric as it continued to stretch wider, fueled by the shrieks of panic that could be heard throughout the plaza. 

He sauntered off, vanishing within the mist like a phantom escaping daylight.

“Why, Director...I’m just finishing what you started.”

From John’s POV

“What the hell?!” I exclaimed at the screen. “Was that...was that Bruce?! What’s he doing here? I thought he was dead! You mean...he’s not?” I cackled excitedly, jumping out of delight.

“You say that like it’s good news.” Harley retorted.

I strapped on my gas mask and snatched a pistol, slamming the car’s door open. 

“It is! Hehe! It means the enemy of my dreams is back! Only, he’s doing it all wrong...! I’m supposed to be the villain. Not him! Wait here, hon. I’m gonna have a word with this ‘Lazarus.” I took out my walkie-talkie, giving orders to my men.

“Forget the bombs!” I said. “Looks like Lazarus took care of that for us. Just go after Waller, and bring her to me alive! I want to personally put a bullet in her brain. Got it?”

“Right away!”

Shutting the door behind me, I fought through the virus’ thick fog and gunned down agents and cops alike, shooting my way to Bruce who had grappled onto a rooftop, slithering away like a snake. Well, even if Batman was gone, he certainly hadn’t given up his old toys.

Using my own grappling gun, I latched onto the roof’s edge and hurled myself up, chasing after the man as I called out his name.

“Brucie!” I waved a hand, sprinting towards him. “Buddy! Where do you think you’re going?”

He halted in his tracks at the sound of my voice and steadily turned around to see who it was, but didn’t stay long enough to greet me. Instead, just before I could reach him, Bruce set off one of his damned smoke pellets and clouded my vision, leading me to lose sight of him. I coughed at the stench for a few moments, waving the puffs away as I tried to relocate Bruce, but to no avail.

Why was he being so evasive? Usually, the man was so eager when it came to pursuing me, but now, it felt like he was shutting me out. Was this because of what I did at Wayne Enterprises? Was he holding a grudge against me for killing Regina? It would make sense...but even then, Batman always confronted his problems face-to-face. It was so unlike him to just...run. 

But then again, he wasn’t Batman anymore, was he? The Agency had morphed and twisted Bruce into something far more dangerous than he could’ve ever imagined, and his insanity was only going to drive him closer towards the edge.

As much as I loved Bruce’s fire...this wasn’t how I wanted things to happen. I was supposed to be the villain of his dreams, and he was supposed to be the caped vigilante who saved the day. I was his light...outside of Arkham. Why was he trying to snuff me out? What did Waller do to him? What did I do to him?

Roaming towards the rooftop’s border, I viewed the beautiful aftermath of Lazarus’ attack below, revelling in the turmoil that now stained the air. Police sirens echoed with emptiness in the distance, survivors of the assault were sobbing uncontrollably, my men were wreaking havoc, and countless, deformed corpses littered the streets surrounding City Hall. It was mayhem like none I’d ever seen, and I absolutely loved it. 

I didn’t know what Bruce was like now, or who this ‘Lazarus’ was, but I couldn’t deny that I was hooked onto his new, malicious nature. Watching him parade on stage like that, injecting fear into those around him...it made my heart soar with excitement, and I found myself howling with laughter at the madness ensuing in the plaza below.

“You can run all you want, Lazarus,” I shouted to the sky as if he could hear me, “but we will meet again! I promise you that! The stitch...ain’t broken yet! HAHAHA!”

[onceuponaprime]

23. Last kiss - Cor & Drautos

Thank you for giving me an excuse to make this one shot i was planning even worse here ya go~

Got a little long so im just gonna throw a link to ao3  and hope the read more worksas my allergies take me to hell

Insomnia was bathed in light, and it seemed like a taunt, the way the city glowed in the darkness.

“Bring us down before the gate. Best not risk the ship until we know what to expect in the city.”

“That was the plan,” The mercenary woman replied from beside him. “You heard the man, boys. Take us down.”

“You got it, Lady A,” said the pilot, and the ship hummed a new tune as it began it's decent.

“So,” Aranea began, stepping away from the pilot’s seat and making her way to the center of the small ship. “What’s the plan, Mister Immortal?” His brow twitched in irritation at the nickname, and he followed her slowly, unused to having a ship beneath his feet.

“We scout, bit by bit. I doubt we’ll be able to get close to the citadel, but we need to at least take a bridge. Hopefully we pave a path for His Majesty’s return.”

“Our primary goal is to access a library,” Monica added, tapping the notepad on her lap.

“And hope you find something on Chancellor freakshow?” Cor nodded and Aranea shrugged, leaning against the wall of the ship with a casualness that felt misplaced. Like they weren’t about to drop into the ruins of Insomnia in the dead of their new eternal night. In all truth Cor still wasn’t sure what to think of the woman. Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis had vouched for her fiercely, and he owed her for their safe return, but trust was something he hadn’t yet reached.

They landed then, cutting off any further conversation as the ship settled on the ground. Monica took a moment to find her balance as she stood up from where she’d settled herself on the floor during the flight from Lestallum. She looked a little green, but the motion sickness would wear off soon, and she waved off his concerned look.

“Well at least he’s keeping the lights on,” Aranea said once the disembarked. The street lights at the West Gate flickered in response.

“Keep your guard up, those aren’t strong enough to ward off daemons,” he replied, scanning the dark, hand instinctively coming to rest on the hilt of his blade.

“Might not keep out daemons, but I’ve got a feeling that might keep out unwanted guests.” Aranea’s tone turned suddenly serious, and Cor turned his attention up to where she was pointing. An armored figure was strung up above the gate, arms extended and held by what might have been chains. Maybe a warning or an example, Cor wasn’t sure, Ardyn Izunia’s twisted methods were beyond him. In the dark it was hard to make much out, but some parts of the metal shone in the light, just enough for him to make out the almost familiar shape, preserved by whatever dark magic their foe was so fond of using.

"Is that-"

"General Glauca,” Aranea finished for him, squinting up at the figure through the gloom. “Yep.” Poor guy.”

“Did you know him?” Monica asked and Aranea shrugged.

“Not really, only met him once. Quiet for the most part, a bit dramatic, but not as bad as I thought he'd be. Better than the rest of the Empire’s lackeys at least. Well except for me and these two of course.” Cor huffed and somehow managed to keep his eyes from rolling, and wondered if the woman was ever serious. Doubtful, he decided, given what he’d seen. Still, it was cruel to be left in such a way.

“Get him down,” Cor said. “No one deserves that, not even someone like him.” Then he turned his attention to scanning the area around them, watching out for any terrors lurking in the dark, only half listening to what was going on behind him.

“You got it,” Aranea replied and Cor could hear her leap into the air and land on top of the wall with an easy grace. “Oh, yikes.”

“Is he still alive?” Monica called up to her in response.

“I hope not, that would suck.” Was all Aranea said before she fell silent. “Alright boys, I’m gonna need you to brace and catch.”

“Right!”

“Got it!”

“Bombs away!” The second chain broke louder than the first, and the ring of chains was quickly followed by a hard thump as what was left of General Glauca hit the men below. A muffled argument broke out, Cor wasn’t eavesdropping enough to understand, but the sudden horrified gasp quickly snapped his attention back around to his companions. Monica staggered back toward him, a hand over her mouth.

“Monica what is it?” She only shook her head, turning away from him like the question hurt.

Concerned he reached the body, the men who caught having retreated a fair distance after Monica’s outburst. Half the helmet had been broken away and the face beneath it made his blood run cold because he knew it. Knew it all too well. Titus Drautos looked pained in the peace of death, whatever battle corroded the armor had taken a greater toll. As Cor knelt beside him he noticed more, but he could hardly process what his eyes were telling him, violently rejecting what it meant.

“What kind of cruel trick is this?”

“No tricks here I assure you.” Cor was back on his feet in an instant, sword drawn and ready in his hand as he shot Ardyn Izunia an icy glare. To his right Aranea was poised and ready for a fight, and to his right Monica cocked her gun.

“What did you do to him?” Cor demanded, anger burning through him. Ardyn chuckled.

“Nothing he didn’t ask for,” he replied with a sinister grin and made his way further into the light.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Aranea voiced Cor’s thought before he could speak it himself and so he simply waited for the answers he was desperate for.

“Years ago Nifleheim took a quaint little village by the sea. I met a boy there and gave him an opportunity, serve the Empire and his home would be spared and oh how eager he was for that bargain when next we met. Killing the king was just an added bonus for both of us. You see, Captain Drautos was against you all along. Almost poetic, isn’t it?” It had to be lies, he wanted it so desperately to be lies. Something in him knew it was the truth, and it made it all the worse. Betrayal stung worse than he ever imagined, but the pure rage boiling forth eclipsed it by far.

“You bastard!” Cor lunged, sword singing as it slashed through suddenly empty air.

“Please there’s no need for that, Marshal,” and the way Ardyn rolled the title off his tongue made it sound like a mockery. “Truth be told I was saving him for dear old Noct, but I’m starting to think this is so much better.”

“You’ll pay for this!” And Cor lashed out again, catching the former chancellor in the middle and. There was silence and for a moment all Cor could hear was his huffing breath and the blood roaring in his ears as his anger dulled to something he could once again control. Ardyn returned soon enough, his expression one of mild irritation.

“I did wonder why you were spared, quite the tragedy,” he said close to Cor’s ear. “But there is only one immortal in this world, Marshal, and I am getting quite sick of sharing my title.” Then he snapped, and before Cor could strike again he was gone.

“Leonis, we have a problem!” Aranea pulled his attention back to the scene behind him and what he saw made him taste bile.

Purple swirled around Glauca’s armored form as he rose from both the ground and the dead, the sickly black of the Scourge creeping over the places where the armor was still intact.

“No more,” he groaned in a voice that sounded nothing like the one Cor knew. Aranea recovered from the shock first, lashing out with her spear as Glauca lashed out with a gauntlet that was quickly becoming twisted and sharp. Pulling himself together, Cor threw himself into the ensuing fray.

“Fight it,” he begged as he crossed his blade with that rapidly transforming arm.

“I don’t think he can,” Aranea snapped, narrowly jumping over a low swipe and twisting herself in the air to counter with a jab of her lance. She was right, Cor knew she was, but knowing didn’t make it any easier, and despite the stakes of the fight Cor found himself holding back. So he kept speaking, almost pleading, and Aranea kept cursing as they battled for their lives, keeping Glauca occupied and away from the others.

Perhaps it was their frantic attempt at distraction that drew Glauca’s attention away, or maybe it was his own words. Whatever it was Cor watched that single eye, surrounded by sickly black, move away from them and towards Monica, standing back with Biggs and Wedge, unable to do anything but watch the scene unfold. Glauca parried his attack, knocking Aranea back with the force, and lurched toward the group with an uncanny speed. Cor was faster. Before Glauca could strike he was there, thrusting his blade into the place where the blackened armor seemed weak across his chest. Everything stopped, and Cor watched in abject horror as the darkness began to melt away, revealing the man beneath.

“Cor?” Titus gasped, voice his own once more before he fell back, and Cor followed.

Kotetsu had struck true, and Cor felt the long blade enter the ground where it had pierced through the armored back it was buried in. Cor landed on his knees, harsh against the cracked pavement, almost cradled against a side he’d once known so intimately. He was going into shock. Quick breath and shaking limbs. A weak hand reached up towards his face and Cor caught it and brought it to his cheek, pressing against it, rough metal against soft skin. Grounding himself with the touch. Titus wanted to speak, a thousand words trapped in his eye, warm grey clearing from the taint of the Scourge in his final moments.

“Glad it was you,” he breathed out, hoarse and quiet. It didn’t make much sense to Cor, but he knew there was a meaning behind it deeper than he could fathom.

“Save your strength, Titus,” Cor insisted like it would somehow make a difference.

With his free hand he smoothed back the dying man’s hair. Titus shuddered against the soothing touch, eye fluttering like he was fighting to keep it open. Wordlessly his mouth moved, whatever final words he had lost with his failing strength. So Cor kissed him, trying to convey everything through that familiar touch. Titus reciprocated, weak but sure, cold lips pressing against his, and something passed between them that Cor couldn’t ever hope to name. It was awkward, the right side of his face scraping against the edge of the partially crumbled helm. Despite the discomfort he kept close, like the gentle connection of their mouths could stave off the inevitable. But it couldn't. Soon Titus exhaled, a soft puff of air tickling Cor’s face, and then he went slack beneath him.

Cor pulled away slowly, vision blurred just so as he watched the man dissolve, flaking away in bright sparks as the astrals claimed him at last. There was a cruel beauty to it, but Cor knew that at least in the end, Titus had known peace. His lips tasted like salt and ash and countless questions that would never be answered. The one thing he had now was closure, which settled the pieces of his broken heart into something that was almost whole.

When Aranea suggested they head back to Hammerhead Cor didn’t protest. The trip back was silent and Cor was so lost in his own thoughts he would not have noticed speaking anyway. Monica’s hand against his pulled him back to the present, and he looked down as she laced their fingers and squeezed with all the comfort she could offer. For now that was enough. It had to be.

[pennswoodsman]

*pouring diesel on the ground, then striking a match on my teeth*

So, a few days ago on Facebook, a friend of Seamus’s who was at the all hallows eve party where we met Ringo, put up a picture of that infamous night. I said something scathing about him. The man asked for context.  Oh MAN was I glad he asked that. I put up my Tumblr account for ALL to read. Scarlet’s best friend, Juniper has read it (Hey June). Possibly even her mother and sister.  God…I hope they did.  I was convinced to not take it upon myself to tell interested parties of my story. But you BET YOUR ASS I’d seize the opportunity to tell interested parties if requested.  So…I got my wish.  Operation Scorched earth AKA Death to Ringo has come to fruition. Now, her friends and possibly her family know.  Ringo will NEVER be able to talk/con his way out of this *cue the melodramatic sinister laugh* I got a PM from Scarlet asking again for me to not air her dirty laundry.  I stood my ground this time. This is my dirty laundry too. I’m done not seeing any results. That bastard tried to DESTROY my family.  And he did it for FUN. Scarlet, in so many words, told me to stop trying to insert myself into her marriage. Here’s there thing about that. To say that fucking bastard inserted HIMSELF into MY marriage would be understatement of the year.

                Alba showed me a new thing he wrote to drive home that point. She forwarded me his response to the list I had previously written about (it was forwarded from an email account I didn’t even know existed up until 2 days ago. She created it to hide it from me.  More secrets from the summer coming to light). Reminder…the list was made as a way to show her I was listening to her. I took her grievances seriously and was working on each and every one. I knew I was a pretty bad husband before and I am dedicated to turning it around. Even though its obvious, the dickhole comments from Ringo are the ones in the parentheses. Here it is:

-In the evening, turn off all devices and television shows. (you have already failed miserably at this. INSERT COIN)  Sit and enjoy each other’s company. You don’t have a lot of time together. Make it special (this sentence lacks a full stop, giving the impression you fell asleep or saw a bird, or perhaps both)

-At least once a month (god I love meaningless timetabling) , do something special for her. (erm, you don't understand what she finds special) Make her feel important. (and you don't know how to do that either) Flowers, a card, arrange a baby sitter and take her out…wear something nice when you do. (...why would you NOT make a point of being presentable on a fucking date? Oh there's so a story behind this. Did you show up somewhere in your PJs once or something?) Show her you love her. She needs to know you do…just saying it isn’t enough (there are children who grasp this. You do understand that. Children.)

-Praise her for things other than the fact that she’s hot. (Duh.) She’s a great mother, (you have a vague sense that this is a good thing to say, but you really don't understand it.) she’s funny, she’s clever, (these two are related. Her sense of humour goes a thousand miles over your head and you don't really appreciate her smarts, you just have a nagging feeling that you should mention them sometimes) she’s loving, she has so much empathy for others.  She really does want other people to be happy and succeed. (She really does! Really really! This has to be an alien concept to you or you wouldn't be mentioning it. Consider this - someone who does not want other people to be happy and to succeed is a fucking nutcase.)

-Go out of your way to take at least half of the house chores. (Before you go dividing by two - are you even aware of how many there are?) Always clean up after yourself. She’s your wife, not your mother…your mother didn’t want to do those things for you either. (Yet you let her. It did not occur to you to not let her. And it doesn't now.)

-When she has anxiety (pro tip: if she's awake, she has anxiety), don’t just clam up and say nothing (NO. THIS MIGHT HELP SOMETIMES, NIMROD). Really listen to her (So wait, "not clamming up" and "listening" are the same activity? You cannot listen without blathering? Jesus wept.) She needs you to understand how to help.  You need to be her reliable ally through the tough times, just like you need her to be your ally during your tough times. (Yes, you two are the only two people on the planet. You have to hermetically seal yourselves in each other's pockets. This is super healthy. Under no circumstances are you to confide in anyone else or have any other friends or allies. Sure. That's what she wants. You fucking idiot.)

-Defend her when someone says something that offends her. (You're on the lookout for this, aren't you. And you totally want a cookie each and every time, even if you have absolute no understanding of the situation. "I defended you!" - grow up. She can defend herself.) Even if you personally didn’t think what was said was a big deal. (Pro tip: if she's offended by something that you didn't think was a big deal, THAT MEANS YOU ARE A DICK.) It’s not about you or your feelings. It’s about her and her feelings. (You really went full emo teenager bashing those two out, didn't you. Going for that single tear running down her cheek. Spoiler: it didn't work.) You love her. You defend her and her position. (Defending it is only worth bothering with if you UNDERSTAND AND RESPECT it. Which you don't. Because you never have. Because you can't. Because you're not interested.)

-If she is mad at you, don’t get defensive right away. (Asking yourself not to do this is like Lassie asking herself not to bark. Just comical.) You had a bad habit of dismissing greivences and look where it got you. (HAD? You do this DAILY. This shit is tattooed on your frontal lobe, you neanderthal. HAD?!) Don’t make the same mistake. Listen. Don’t take it as nagging all the time. (Translation: you think it's nagging, but you're being cornered into changing your mind about it even if you don't get it.) She just wants you to be a better husband, a better father and better man. You want those things too. It’s the only way to grow as a couple. (That's absolutely lovely, but have you noticed she doesn't want to be the other part of that couple? At all? No?)

-Don’t pressure for sex. Let it happen naturally. (Sex doesn't happen "naturally" just because. Are you an amoeba?) Relax. It doesn’t always have to be physcial. (No idea what to make of this. "It"?) Try to be a better lover… let her do what she likes first. (These two sentences contradict each other so hard. Let her get her normal shit out of the way FIRST, then you can wade in with your creepfest. Sure, that's better!) Do what ever it takes to make her satisfied.  It’s not just about you. You want her to enjoy intimacy just as much as you do. Look forward to it. (You're in a *constant state* of looking forward to it. You need to put that shit in park, mate.) Make her smile at the mere thought of it. (This is the shittiest, shadiest, creepiest, most lecherous sentence in this entire mess. You don't 'make' a woman do anything, you cretin.) You have to make major changes to your approach and learn to last longer than just a minute or two. (May I suggest a therapeutic castration followed by some time in a monastery?)

-The boys look at you as a role model. (ON PAPER)  Be the best role model you can. (You are. It's rubbish.) You want them to be even keeled, not blow up with anger if they can’t get something fixed in 2 minutes. You want them to love music, reading, nature, adventure, learning, exploring. (This is a complete annotated list of the only things you have any interest in, isn't it. Music means stoner bullshit, reading means reading about stoner bullshit, and "nature, adventure, learning, exploring" all involve looking at a tree. I'm right, aren't I.) You want them to treat women with respect and love. They see the way you treat their mother. You want them to see genuine love and respect in action. (Guessing you lit one up round about now.) Friendship. (Yup.)

-Respect how the other feels. ("The other"? We've gone into phenomenology now?) Don’t dismiss the other’s feelings about something if they are uncomfortable with something they do. (She has a name and a gender, you know. Of course you're trying to turn this into 'rules for you both'. No dice.) No lies. No snooping. (Interesting that you put lies first. She knows you snooped. Why was that?) Always be honest and straight forward about everything.  Always. Neither of you should feel like a consolation prize for someone they really wanted but couldn’t have. (And under no circumstances must you consider the reasons *why* you "couldn't" "have" that other person. Ever!) True love, honest love, the kind that makes you giddy and fulfilled. Makes you know you can rely on the other no matter what life throws at you. (You were definitely giddy and fulfilled in some way when you bashed this nonsense out.)

-Trust her. (Sure. You don't know what the fucking word means. You don't trust anybody!) You know in your heart that she wants whats best for all of us. (I sincerely doubt you are giving her credit for knowing better than you, so I say you are making a wild, insane assumption that her idea of "what's best for all of us" matches yours) You might have been hurt, but you already know that your goal is to keep your marriage intact. (Right, fuck anyone else's goal - or even giving your own goal more than half a second's thought!) There is no relationship to salvage if there is no trust. (Holmes! A clue!) That’s not a good life for you, her or the boys. It would be a bad lesson for them. They need to see and feel trust between mommy and daddy. (You're right, Watson.)   

-give her space. (More than two feet, numb nuts.) When you first became a couple, you both acknowledged your need for personal space.  She needs it now more than ever. Whatever she needs, give it to her. (TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY. OFFER NOT AVAILABLE IN ALL LOCATIONS.) How ever long it takes, allow it. No need for a timeline. This is a major work in progress and you don’t want to rush it. ("it" being this stupid time-machine reconciliation possibility you're hallucinating, right?) You usually do try to move things along, ('move things along' = 'forget about things ASAP') but this is really not a thing you want to do this for.  Both of you need to heal, and work on yourselves simulatanious (this is not a word) to working on your marriage. Keep talking.  Keep learning more.  Always tell the truth. Always say how you feel even if it might hurt the other at first. (Um, this is turning into an attempt at trying to create a framework to justify acting like an asshole all the time, isn't it?) Just remember honesty is the best and only real way to communicate. You can work it out if you keep it open and calm. (fine, but "calm" does not exist in your stupid dojo does it, Eben-san?) You’re both adults. (She REALLY isn't the one who needs reminding)

-Don’t put pressure on her for answers. (You fail to realise this means "don't ask her any questions", as you are incapable of separating these two things) You need to relax and remember that it’s one day at a time. You want her to see you as a rock. Her man.  A beacon on which she can always rely on. (I simply adore relying on beacons) Not a cause of anxiety…but one who relieves it. (Oh my sweet summer child....)

For the record, when I read this list to our marriage councilor, she loved it so much she asked if she could keep it to show as an example to other couples how to make an effort to turn their marriage around. So, take that for what it's worth. Plus, some of these aren't as relevant anymore. The "don't pressure her for answers" was written because at the time she would tell me I was "putting pressure" on her by asking her questions about her deceit and lies. It's pretty fucking rich that Ringo's sarcastic dickwad response to this is "stop asking questions, duh"...essentially "quit trying to stop me from controlling your wife and destroying your family". Once his creepy ass spell was broken, she fully acknowledged I had every right to question her actions and not take it for a second.

The other one that was not as relevant once we reconciled was the giving each other space. This was another one she claimed at the time she needed from me (strange when her main issue with me as a husband was not paying attention to her enough) but all that really was, was her conflicting feelings of Ringo trying to control her by relentlessly contacting her every waking minute (barely an exaggeration, btw) telling her that he loves her and all I'm doing is trying to come between THEM. So, my persuit in winning my own wife back was inconvenient to both him and her. (And yes...I know Ringo would say "Winning your wife back?! She's not a prize to be won, you cretin/Neanderthal/bernie-bot/*insert pretentious or childish name here*" forever with the false feminist indignation he knows they want to hear...despite the fact he was totally sabotaging my marriage and family like it was a prize to be won.)

 When I first read this message I was angry. I hate that fucking bastard so much. The more I read it.  The more I laughed at it. The IRONY of so many of his busts were too funny to ignore. Telling me that only a nutcase would want someone to not be happy and successful?? Ummm…talk about outing yourself as a nutcase. And all the criticisms about ME being a bad husband? HE’S lying to HIS wife about EVERYTHING and CHEATING on her… while her father is sick in hospital… not to mention IGNORING her all day, every day to talk to Alba every waking minute. His criticisms of my interests made me laugh too.  Yea…I know Alba sent it to him specifically to be mocked (when I first busted her sending to him, she told me she “just wanted his opinion”.  I of course didn’t buy that for a second. I knew why she sent it to him), but she is in a much different frame of mind now. His creepy spell is thoroughly broken and now and she is still dedicated to healing...and learning how this could happened.