#and I used to collect dried skin scabs

[deepspaceclawstation]

It's been roughly a month (or maybe a few months?) since I've been in a depressive mood and life has lost all shine. I can't decide if this is because of the August-end events, festive season, seasonal depression, increased workload, or a mix of all of these. I'm going to go touch grass for a while and try for some vacation time in December, so I'll not be here here for a while. Sorry if I left any conversations hanging I'll catch up later!

(The tags get weird. Fair warning)

[imagionationstation]

Don’t Talk - 2012TMNT Drabblish

Don’t mind me and my violent experimentation :)

…I don’t know why it helps me hurt other characters if I hurt Donnie first. He’s simply my go-to whumpee every time.

Warnings of blood, implied abuse, and kidnapping.

Oh, and a muzzle.

His little brother is ducked in the very back of the room that barely constitutes a cell, eyes wide with a blinding terror that pierces his heart. The noise that filtered in when the metal door opened had clearly spooking him, but the room is soundless now, an echoing silence that sinks beneath their skin. 

Even though there’s recognition in his gaze, Donnie remains pressed up against the wall, trembling imperceptibly as his older brother takes a cautious step closer. The knife digs further past the indifferent barrier that protects a sensitive heart, and he pauses to collect himself before the pain leads to an anger that could get them all killed. 

Raph wishes that Leo would have come in his stead, but they didn’t know what condition they’d find Donnie in. If he needed to be carried out, they all knew he was the best turtle for the job.

Being a shoulder to cry on?

Not so much. 

He doesn’t know where exactly his brilliant brother’s state of mind is, but the terror remains fixed in place, and he’s bracing himself, waiting for Raph to add to the bruises that litter his body. There are badly healing scratches along his plastron, and his shoulder looks like it was sliced open and left to bleed and scab over. Chains keep him near the back wall, barely allowing enough width for him to stand.

Raph’s sanity flickers as he takes this in, breaths heavy as a bloody red flashes across his vision. 

Donnie whimpers. 

Raph jolts back to the present. He quickly realizes that the recognition is being buried by the terror. He turns his face away to take a minute to collect himself. 

Focus Raphael. Save the anger. Focus.

He turns back.

“Hey, bud.” He says in a tone he’s heard Leo use on occasion, trying to make up for the murderous wrath that Donnie’d no doubt seen consuming him. “It’s me. Raph. Your bro? You know me, right?”

Donnie seems frozen for a long moment, and then he takes a step forward, reaching towards Raph, only for the chains to catch on the wall, preventing him from even lifting his hand halfway. Raph’s getting a full dose of puppy-dog eyes now, and it helps soften the rage. He closes the distance between them, keeping his voice level. “Hey, there, little brother. I’m not going to hurt yah. Just gonna get…” 

Once he’s directly in front of his sadorable brother, he can see the thin marks of dried blood that stain his face like tears. He reaches up, because the next obvious move is to get the muzzle off his intelligent little brother who deserves so much more than to be treated like- like a wild animal.

Then again, no animal deserved to be treated like this.

“Woah!”

He touches the strap, and Donnie jerks away from his hands so fast that his carapace slams into the wall before he crumbles. Tears are streaming now, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, more focused on the fear that commands escape. He scoots as far back as the chains will allow, never taking his gaze off his older brother.

Raph hates seeing his brothers scared, and he feels goosebumps all over when he realizes that Donnie’s scared of him.

Raph crouches, unsure what he’d done. “Don, I only want to-“ 

A halfhearted hiss interrupts his explanation, and Raph realizes that the dried scarlet streams are now fresh, mixing with the tears. The brute wants to leave the cell and demolish everything and everyone in his path, but he remains in place through pure, impossibly mastered willpower. He knows he’s one wrong look away from snapping, but he holds on just the same. 

“Hey. I know it hurts, but you have to let me take it off.”

He reaches again, and Donnie desperately tries to turn his face away, hands kept flat against the wall in an instinctive act of submission. Raph feels the goosebumps crawl as he realizes that he’s acting as if he’s been placed in this position many times before, and he doubts they turned out well.

His concern emerges as a scowl as he practically begs, “You’re making this way harder than it needs to be. It’s me. I’m getting you out of here! Now, just- hold still.”

Donnie’s trembling is visible now, but he doesn’t fight Raph as he touches to the sides of his head that are missing a purple mask, carefully freeing the strap and peeling it off his face. It fits snuggly, and hatred burns in his blood because it could not have been that perfect a fit unless it was intentionally made for him.

There are multiple tiny pricks all over his face, and they bleed faster now that the pressure from the muzzle isn’t preventing their flow. Raph stares for a long moment before he stands up and steps away. With a furious roar, he smashes the spikes into the wall, and several break off, landing at his feet as he pulls out his sai and slices through the leather in several places.

He drops the pieces of muzzle on the ground, and turns back to his younger brother with a new sense of calm.

Donnie’s eyes are impossibly round, but as he looks between Raph and the remains of his torture device, he seems to understand. He opens his mouth to talk, but breaks into a fit of dry coughs instead. Raph drops by his side as he starts choking, wiping away some of the blood that he’s inhaling in his fight to get in air. “It’s okay, Donnie. Just take a minute. Breathe, little brother.”

“Raph.”

It barely counts as a rasp, but Raph hears everything relayed loud and clear. “Yeah, I’m here. Really here. Now, don’t talk. Save your strength.”

Donnie nods once, and Raph waits until his breathing evens out some to ask, “Can you stand?” 

Donnie makes a valiant attempt, but Raph ends up catching him before he faceplants the floor. He whines when their arms touch, and Raph’s eyes narrow as he lowers them down. Donnie clings to him when he goes to push them apart, legs curled closer to himself with his head pressed against his upper plastron. Raph is about to rise from the crouch when he realizes that Donnie is very poorly trying to hide the fact he’s crying. 

Sympathy clogs his throat as Raph dimly notices that he’s probably smearing blood all over him. The thought is ignored, and he wraps his free arm around his scrawny brother in an offering of comfort, staring numbly at the cell wall behind them as his eyes burn. 

He doesn’t know what to say, but he feels like he needs to say something. “Leo and Mike are gonna meet us at the PartyWagon, Don. We’ll get you patched up.”

Donnie doesn’t respond. Raph doesn’t expect him too.

The grip tightens, and Raph tells him that he’s going to be okay. 

He silently notes that they need to go, but he can’t bring himself to move. Donnie’s been going through hell for days. 

He needs a minute. 

He deserves just one minute. 

Raph can’t do much, but he can give him that.

[dweetwise]

a weird one today, but this has been on my mind ever since someone pointed out that felix’s hands are way more scarred than the other survivors.

warning for dermatillomania (compulsive skin picking)

word count: 1280

Felix X Ace: Idle hands

Felix sat by the campfire, watching as the flames cast light and shadow alike onto his palm and the gnarly wound in the middle of it. The Legion’s blade had cut straight through the flesh as Felix had feebly attempted to shield himself from the killer’s murderous frenzy.

Felix ran a finger over the barely dried blood, wanting to pick at the edges of the wound—

He quickly shoved his uninjured hand back into his pocket to suppress the instinct. Relief flooded over him once his fingers found the familiar poker chip inside. He felt the plastic with the pad of his thumb, running along the rounded edge and over small scratches on the flat surface.

His hands had always been one of Felix’s biggest insecurities. Even though he was proud of what he could create with them — the dozens of architectural designs his hands had helped bring to life — they were always in a terrible state.

Ever since he was a child, each time Felix was nervous or even just bored, he would find himself biting his nails or picking at his cuticles. Usually, he didn’t stop until he drew blood, and the sharp sting and crimson droplets always made him ashamed; at least until the wounds started healing and he could pick at the scabs again.

Felix had tried countless creams and even resorted to wearing gloves when his hands had looked too gruesome to meet clients. In the Entity's world, however, there was no luxury of skincare or distractions to keep him occupied outside of trials, and thus the compulsion had only gotten worse.

But the poker chip helped. The interesting texture of the plastic kept his hands busy, and the reminder of what the item meant to him soothed some of his anxiety.

Felix focused on fiddling with the chip in his pocket while observing the survivor campsite. Meg and Nea were chatting by the fire, while Claudette and Quentin were still busy patching up Yui. Claudette had initially helped Felix clean the injury on his hand, but when Yui had staggered back from a trial half-dead after a hatch escape, the botanist had understandably been needed elsewhere.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Ace’s voice managed to startle Felix and he nearly jumped in his seat. Having focused so intently on anything but the urge to pick at his wound, he had missed the gambler's approach entirely.

"Hello,” Felix said, doing his best to collect himself. “I didn't notice you get back.”

"Yeah, I saw you spacing out," Ace replied with a grin, taking a seat next to Felix. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"No, I was just… thinking," Felix said.

His fingers twitched and Felix squeezed the poker chip harder to suppress the rising urge to poke and prod at the injury. He wiped his sweaty palm on his pants, getting a small bit of satisfaction from the way the dried blood scraped against the denim of his jeans.

"Aw, you're hurt!" Ace, unfortunately, noticed. "Let me patch that up real quick."

Ace reached for a med-kit by his feet, the item presumably a spoil from his latest trial. The gambler did always have a knack for finding loot.

"No, that's alright," Felix tried to deflect, dropping his hand to his side to hide the injury.

"Nonsense, let me see," Ace insisted. "Might as well put these bandages to good use."

"It's already healed," Felix said.

To prove his point, Felix extended his hand to show Ace the clean skin and coagulated blood from Claudette’s handiwork.

"Good, then let's make sure it doesn't reopen," Ace said, looking at Felix meaningfully.

Because he knew Felix wouldn't be able to leave the wound alone.

Felix sighed in defeat and obediently held his hand out for Ace, making the gambler smile in approval.

"Wonderful! Nurse Ace will be with you in a second," Ace said with a wink.

The Argentine wiped his generator-oily hands carelessly on his pants before reaching into the med-kit.

Felix waited while Ace rummaged through the small box. He almost wanted to curse his lover’s amazing intuition and people-reading skills; a talent that had no doubt come in handy around many poker tables and was now used against Felix.

But more often than not, that same intuition had worked in Felix’s favor. It was what made Ace approach him in the first place, not to mention it had saved their and their teammates’ lives in countless trials. It was also how Ace knew to give Felix the poker chip when Felix was busy ripping his own skin to shreds, and how he always seemed to ask to hold hands right before Felix started chewing on his nails.

"There we go!" Ace exclaimed, snapping Felix out of his thoughts.

After successfully retrieving a roll of bandages and some butterfly tape from the med-kit, Ace took Felix’s injured hand into his own. He carefully started applying the tape onto Felix's palm across the gash, making sure the flesh would close properly.

"Man, this one's always a nasty wound," Ace chatted away while he worked. "Good thing those brats didn't use a filthy blade, at least."

Felix hummed conversationally in response, focusing on the feel of Ace's touch as he gently cared for Felix.

Felix had never noticed just how big Ace’s hands were, almost fully enveloping his own. The gambler’s skin was blotchy from sun spots and there was a still clear tan line on his ring finger — a memory of a previous life. Even though Ace's skin was rough from years worth of trials, his hands were warm and comforting against Felix's.

“Is something wrong?” Ace asked, apparently noticing Felix’s staring. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

And instead of thanking Ace for his help or telling him how good his touch felt, Felix found himself blurting out “Your hands are big.”

Ace offered a chuckle at the comment and Felix cleared his throat self-consciously.

“Well, you know what they say about guys with big hands,” Ace grinned, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

“Ehm, what?” Felix asked. He felt a flush creeping up his neck as he feebly tried to appear unbothered by the comment.

“Big gloves,” Ace finished with a smirk.

Felix huffed out a quiet laugh through his nose. Being around Ace always seemed to brighten his mood, even when only moments prior he’d been lost in his own head.

"In any case, it's a good idea to patch up after moris," Ace said. "I don't know why, but they always seem to heal much slower than every other beating we take. Here, I still have my scar from that one."

He twisted his hand to show Felix a long, faded scar across his palm. It was indeed more jagged than Felix's, proof that maybe Ace hadn't exactly followed his own advice when it came to caring for injuries.

"I suppose that's true," Felix said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, sweetheart," Ace replied with a smile, getting back to his work.

Ace carefully finished the bandage by tying a small bow and placing a kiss onto Felix's dry knuckles. Felix's gut fluttered with affection; no matter what disgusting state Felix’s hands were in, not once had Ace ever shied away from them.

They ended up sitting together for hours, Ace staying right by Felix's side while sharing stories of trials and their lives before. Felix found himself forgetting all about his wound and the poker chip in favor of intertwining his fingers with Ace's. Rubbing soothing circles over Ace’s knuckles while the gambler excitedly reminisced about adventures from his youth, Felix couldn’t help the content smile settling onto his face.

Maybe his hands weren’t so bad after all.

[unpaidoscorpintern]

I'll tell you my sins (you can sharpen your knife)

pairing: Harry Osborn (Kindred)/Mary Jane Watson; a hint of Harry Osborn (Kindred)/Peter Parker (Spider-man)

rating: 18+

words: 2400

content warning: exhibitionism, voyeurism, creepy crawlies acting like tentacles for a hot minute, teratophilia since Kindred is a demonic entity

summary: Kindred serves Spider-man his just desserts; or, a p0rn parody of The Amazing Spider-Man #55

disclaimer: The following story was written before the publication of The Amazing Spider-Man #73

Memories are for photo albums. They're impressions on the back of our retinas, polaroids developed in the darkest corners of our minds. Turn on the light and they're forever tainted, a splash of color and a smudge of sentiment. You can't trust memories. Scars, on the other hand? Scars never lie.

I've collected more than a few in my time. That’s why my knees never really looked the same after my first bike ride. Dad was there until he wasn't. You see, he thought that letting go of the bike, letting go of his own son, would break me at first, then thicken my skin. But skin never heals back quite the same way, does it, Pete?

"Did you meet any famous dead people in that hellhole you crawled out of, Har? You know, like Dr. Freud?"

"Easy, Tiger." I can hear Mary Jane hissing beside me, towards you, across the table, through cobweb and candlelight. "Play nice."

"I'm done playing, MJ," you spit, through bloody teeth and dried tears. "There's pieces of my brain still splattered on that far wall over there from our earlier game. I'm done playing his fucking games."

Games? There's no playing at the dinner table, kids. Now, where was I?

"You were just about to let her go." You speak up again, desperation drowning out your ire. "Let them all go. It's me you have unfinished business with, or whatever the dead want outta the living."

Jealous, Pete? I must say, it’s a good look for you. But don't you worry, ol' buddy. I'm not done with you yet. Though Mary Jane and I do have something - what did you call it again? Ah, yes. Unfinished business. I'll get back to you as soon as I-

Is that...is that laughter I hear? Hallow and heaving, it still bounces off these old mausoleum walls, echoing in my ears and scrapping at an old scab. An old scar. What's so funny, huh? You mind sharing with the rest of the table?

"You, ol' buddy. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised since you're one of the only people who made me laugh when I wanted nothing more than to slit my own throat, but, still. Is this about what happened back at ESU? Is this about MJ breaking up with you?"

It's about you, Pete. About the choices you made. Every single one - from coming between Mary Jane and me to hiding my father's issues from his son - were all the wrong ones. If you had chosen otherwise, if you had been any less selfish, Gwen - I can see a blond head bobbing, but I'm talking about my Gwen - well, she wouldn’t be-

"Fuck you, Harry!"

Ah, there it is! Anger looks even better on you, Pete!

"You think I haven't spent every day blaming myself for what happened that night? You think I don't go over my own choices over and over again, questioning every decision I ever made to figure out which domino fell first?"

Yet again, there's nothing that doesn't look good on you, Pete. Why don't you try some responsibility for a change?

"Responsibility? You want to talk about responsibility? You're the one who's dangling the life of the woman I love right in front of me-"

Mary Jane opens her mouth, her sweet breath a summer breeze through the still air. "Peter-"

You're boiling, spilling over. Tears and spit, blood and grime, and you still look good. I bet you could even make maggots look good.

"And you want to act like you're better than me? Look at yourself! You are your father's son! Daddy's little fucking monster-"

If I'm a monster, then it's because that's what you made me.

"Harry," Mary Jane jumps out of her seat, following your lead.

You had help, of course. My help. Every other itsy bitsy gets a hand, too. Well, a centipede. They all get to swing in the air one last time before they-

"Harry!"

Dinner's over, Pete. It's time for your just desserts.

"It's m-me you want, Har-"

When you're right, you're right. I want you to confess your sins.

"So let them-AH! Let them go."

Maybe a little knock on the head will jog your memory. How about another? Now? Confess. Confess your sin. The deadliest. Confess.

"Har-"

"He doesn't remember." Mary Jane, I can see your knees barely keeping themselves from bucking. Yet, here you are, standing between the ol' Pumpkin Eater and me. "Whatever it is that he did, whatever sin he has yet to confess to, he doesn't remember."

Oh, don't you worry your pretty little bottom lip! He will remember, if it's the last thing he'll do! I've got tens of legs to crawl all over him and an eternity to spare. Come the end of time, he will repent.

"How many times have you tried torturing a confession out of him? You should know that hurting him won't work."

What're you suggesting? I can hear the tamed tremor in your voice, the slight shudder running down your spine, the booming beating of your heart. Yet, here you are, approaching me, one steady step in front of the other.

"Hurting me, however-"

"MJ-"

Are you hearing this, Pete, or is the blood already leaking out of your ears?

"Hurting me, the woman he loves, that should do it, right?"

"MJ!"

I’ll take that as a yes. You heard everything, but do you understand what it means? Do you, Mary Jane, understand what this all means? Look at them! It’s hard, I know, but look at them! Look at what I’m doing to them! I’m squeezing the life out of them for now, but centipedes can sting, too. Did you know that? They’re venomous. I could fill them with poison, watch them trash about as it clogs their veins! Is this what you want for them? Is this what you want for yourself? I can see it in your eyes - your beautiful eyes - that you can’t stand the sight of them in pain. So, tell me, Mary Jane, what makes you think that I can stand the sight of you in pain?

“Then you haven’t forgotten-”

That night, on the bridge? Mary Jane, how could I forget?

“I was scared out of my mind, but you said something which calmed me down. Those same words gave me the strength to come here. You remember, don’t you, Harry? Harry, you said that you-”

I loved you, Mary Jane. I said that I loved you, that I’d never hurt you. How could you ask this of me? How could you ask me to take you in his place?

“Because you loved him, too. You loved Peter, and I’m willing to bet my life that you still do.”

It’s true, Pete. I loved you, but I got better. I saw you for who you were after closing my eyes for the last time. And I loved MJ, up until a breath ago. Up until she let out that little surprised gasp she let out. Relax, it’s just an earwig. Oh, but what’s that? Is that an earpiece? And was that Dad on the other line?

“Harry, listen-”

You listen, my dearest friend! I said nothing about you being allowed to bring a plus-one, and, even if I had, Norman Osborn is not welcome here! I won’t allow any party crashers and, just to make sure he won’t be sneaking past the guards, I’ll seal us all in!

“Oh, my God!”

There is no god here! With the only entrance having collapsed in on itself, there is no coming in. But there is no getting out either. Good news, Pete! I’ve decided to lay off you for a while! Take a breather, pal, while I take my time with-

“If you touch her, I swear to God-”

Didn’t you hear me the first time? Here, I’ll loosen up my grip on you, so blood can start rushing back to your ears! There we go! And, since you two insist on bringing up God, Mary Jane offered herself as a sacrificial lamb and I intend to take her up on that offer. Oh, where’s all that fire gone, MJ? Was that all just some bluff, an elaborate scheme, one of Dad’s convoluted plans? Come on, you said you couldn’t wait to play the martyr and we both know how good of an actress you are. Even with your knees knocking against each other, even with your fingers, fidgeting as they reach out to me, you’re still a star.

“You said that you loved me. That you’d never hurt me. So, please, Harry, don’t hurt Peter. It hurts me to see him like this.”

I do love you, and I won’t hurt you. But I don’t love him and made no such promises to him. You did make a promise to me as well, remember? If you recall my love, then you recall me hurting myself with it. And you said it yourself, Mary Jane: he loves you. So you’re going to keep your promise, and you’re going to hurt him. You chose him last time. So, this time, you’re going to choose-

“You.”

“If you fucking touch her-”

She’s the one touching me, ol’ buddy. Yes, her hands are hesitant as they clasp my coat, but she’s all over me. Oh, Mary Jane, is that the perfume I bought for you while we were dating? Did you get a whiff of it, Pete? You probably did! You probably smelt it on one of the shirts you borrowed from me. I shared everything with you, but you just had to have her, too, didn’t you?

“MJ, what are you doing? MJ?”

What are you doing, MJ? You’re driving him mad! Jealousy looks just as good on him as my Armani shirts! He’s thrashing as if poisoned by the pain of seeing us together. I think I’ll loosen up my hold so that he can lift his head and see what you’re doing to me. You’re struggling with the buttons, every last inch of you shivering, but there’s nothing waiting for you beneath. I’m nothing like I used to be. You, on the other hand, are just as beautiful as I remember. I’d rather see what you’re hiding underneath.

“What are you waiting for?” Are you seeing this? Pete, are you seeing this? She’s kissing me! It’s my maggot-infested, bandage-covered jaw - and she’s kissing it! Look at her, Pete! “Undress me.”

“No, no, no-”

If you feel a pair of legs, or ten, crawling up your own, it’s only because I’m holding you close. If you feel a chill run down your spine, it’s only because I’m squeezing you tight. And if you feel a chill running down your spine -well, that’s a multi-legged friend tearing down your dress.

“NO!”

Did you see that, Pete? That almost looked like a pleasant shiver running through her. She almost looked like she enjoyed the cold-blooded embrace. Do you like it, Mary Jane? Do you like it when I touch you like this? Well, I guess you always had a thing for creepy crawlers. I am sorry about the dress. Black looks good on you, but it looks better on this white mausoleum floor. Do you like it when I touch you like this, scraping at that sensitive spot at the back of your head with my crooked claws, wrapping myself around your thighs with tens and tens of little legs, around your middle, squeezing down on your hips?

“Yes.”

Did you hear that-

“MJ, why? Why? Why?”

Did you hear that, MJ?

“W-what?” The heat of your breath hit my senses, what was once my nose, and you smell like freshly brewed coffee. Oh, you taste like life, Mary Jane, and it is sweet. The sweat beading at your forehead - do you mind if I have a taste? And the ones that spilled over, on the side of your face? “Harry.” My tongue is cold, I know. My embrace, the crawlers caressing you across your chest, they’re just as cold. Holding you is like catching a sunbeam: warm and bright. “Harry, aren’t you going to k-kiss me?” I hope you are hearing all of this, Pete, because I see your eyes burning through me, and I feel your body tensing up. Her body is just as tense, nerves knotted tightly from all this teasing. Is there any wonder why she needs my tongue in her mouth right now? She needs something inside her.

“Stop!”

It’s working, Mary Jane! He’s gone half-insane! As for the other half - what do you say? I don’t taste all that bad, do I? If I do, then you are the best actress of your generation! Pete, get over here! Stop struggling against the centipedes or they will have no choice but to stick something inside you, too! And, trust me, this is not the pleasant kind of penetration! Now stand up! Open your eyes and look into hers. Do you see that? Do you see those blown-up pupils? She wants this, and, judging by what’s jutting out of your onesie down there, I say you’re enjoying this, too.

“STOP!”

Well, Mary Jane, it turns out that shame is the shade that suits our Peter the best! He can barely contain his blush - or his erection, but that’s a skintight suit right there - watching snip away your lingerie with my long, sharp claws so wantonly. Seeing you savor every stroke of my tongue across your gooseflesh, past your perked up nipples and the valley of your breasts, and your newfound fetish for feeling creepy crawlers’ caress. He’d rather keep his eyes closed than witnessing any of this. So, what do you think? Is he ready to confess yet?

“Confess? Confess to what? Being sick to my stomach? Feeling disgusted with myself?”

"Tiger," Mary Jane moaned while pawing at my patchy coat, pushing her chest forward into my face. "I never knew...I never knew you liked watching.”

“Goddamn it, MJ!”

The scar from back when you stabbed in the back is a scab I can't help but claw at. The look on your face though? The way your cheeks burn with shame and your eyes are blown in excitement? Well, that's the ointment I needed, Pete.

"Goddamn it, Harry!"

God isn't here, Pete. It's just me. Confess to me. Confess. Confess.

"Playtime's over, kids!"

Did you hear that? Did any of you hear that? Is that-

"Norman?"

"Osborn?"

"That’s right! Daddy's home!"

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 4

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 |

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild)

Word count: 6K

Warnings: Explicit Smut, dark themes, male/female masturbation, bodily fluids, mentions of sexual encounters, dirty words, sexual threats. It’s August, he’s the baddest of bad boys!

A/N: Soooooo this chapter was fun to write, I hope you guys like it :)! Thanks @agniavateira for being my editor and my emotional support! 

Title: Memento Mori

Funny, he’s never seen someone drown in icy water before. With her injury and massive blood loss, the struggle doesn’t last longer than a minute. This is beyond her natural survival instincts, gradually her muscles give up, running stiff as the blood in her veins chills.

August stares with rapt. Not once did the Valkyrie scream for help, or even begged him to save her.

Truth be told, it kinda pisses him off as much as he finds it admirable.

‘Such a strong-willed girl. Would be a shame to rid the world of her so soon.’

“Whatever,” he mutters and carefully steps toward the crack in the ice. His hands hoist the body up before she sinks below the surface. With water in her lungs and her muscles rigid, she’s impossibly heavier.

A red path of blood tarnishes the ice as he drags her body toward the edge of the lake. There is no urgency in his behaviour, relaxed he kneels to stare at the lifeless woman and wonders if in her hubris this is how she believed this day will end.

Her skin is pale blue, lips dark purple. Drained out of wit and life, those delicate Scandinavian features look like something out of a fairytale and he muses whether a kiss will wake her up.

It won’t make any difference to the world if she’s dead or alive, it certainly won’t make any to August Walker.

His digits stroke her frozen cheek, sensing the skin is stretched over the hardened muscles. He tilts her head up and presses at the hollows of her cheeks to force her lips open. For some reason, he thinks of a different dead girl, though they are nothing alike.

Planting his mouth over hers, he breathes oxygen into her lungs. Her chest rises, filling with the air he breathes into her. He repeats the process four times and then begins compressing her heart, watching her corpse lie peacefully on the snow.

Never in his years of service had he needed to perform CPR on another person. It’s not as melodramatic as shown in the bullshit movies he’s seen; no one’s shouting “C’mon girl! Breathe!!!” and hits her chest in despair. The owls and bats that chant between the large trees and the wolves howling at the moon from a distance couldn’t care less if Ingvild, whatever her-last-name-is lives or dies.

On the contrary, they’ll be thrilled to eat her eyes out.

He pauses on his attempt to resuscitate her and watches as no change appears in her face. His hands rest in the air, hovering above her for less than a second, considering if to give her another chance. He leans to capture her mouth again when Ingvild suddenly twitches, gagging as water seeps through her mouth and nose like some decorative fountain.

August observes quietly. Her eyes are shut, her body is only reacting instinctively, coughing out the water in her lungs. He nudges her to the side, draining the water out until she stops coughing and lays unconscious on the ground.

He moves his ear closer, listening to her soft breaths. He wonders how long will she survive in such a condition, suffering from hypothermia and massive blood loss. Letting her drown might have been a favour, he might have just granted her a cruller death.

Blackness surrounds her, chaining her to the ground. An excruciating pain blossoms in her lungs, as if someone placed a massive weight that smothers her while her throat and her nose sear with pain. The rest of her body feels numb, someone might as well leave her limbless.

The image in front of her appears blurry as she attempts to open her eyes and hang on to the tendrils of reality, uncertain when and where she is and what happened at all. Was life just a dream?

Or was it a nightmare?

‘Liam?’

No voice is produced from her lips, she is not even sure they’re moving.

The face that greets her is certainly not Liam. It’s the man who granted her this agonizing death. He looks at her with silent curiosity, not saying a word as her glassy eyes become more and more vibrant.

Her hands suddenly reach to his throat, clutching him with all the energy left in her traumatized body. As battered as she is, he still has to use force to peel her claws off of him. She struggles, grunting and hissing, her nails leave bleeding scratches over his cheek.

“Remember you are only alive for as long as I permit it.” August speaks to her calmly, impressed by her stubborn will to kill him even when she’s hanging by the last thread of her pathetic life.

The struggle takes no longer than a few seconds as her eyes roll back and she falls to the ground, unconscious again.

August collects her in his arms and rises, carrying her through the woods. “Better this way, princess,” he whispers to the sleeping beauty in his arms. The temperature of the water has slowed the bleeding, causing the blood vessels to clot and reduce the pace of her heartbeat. It benefits in keeping her alive, but it’s also slowly killing her.

He returns to the bed and breakfast to be greeted by the receptionist who stares at him, baffled.

“Too much to drink,” he explains, offering her a charming smile as he continues marching toward his room with the unconscious girl in his arms.

~*~

“Fucking mess,” he mutters as he enters the room and shuts the door behind him with his leg. That stab wound may be bleeding slower now, he hasn’t ruptured any viable organs. However, the gash in her flesh is large and still needs to be dressed.

He drags her to the bath and puts her on her feet, letting her limp body lean onto his while he unzips her suit and boots, stripping her to her undergarments. A crescent-like slit gushes blood at the side of her abdomen.

August places her in the empty bathtub before grabbing the first aid kit he bought at the hunters’ shop. Being a wanted man now, he had to be prepared for everything.

It was nearly him tonight that needed that first aid kit.

The scent of alcohol fills the room as he pours it onto her open wound. He waits for a response from her, maybe a twitch from the excruciating pain, yet Ingvild is so far gone she doesn’t react whatsoever. His finger presses to the tendon in her neck, only to make sure he is not taking care of a dead girl.

A faint pulse is there; her heart still beats. Yet her body is as cold as ice, and he knows that if he won’t take care of her soon her systems will begin to shut down one organ after the other. He sews her wound shut quickly, making unfashionable stitches across the wound.

“Sorry love, no more bikini for you.” he mocks the sleeping girl. “Although porn sites must be filled with scar-porn, so you’re good.”

After stitching her up and dressing the wound, he carries her back to the bedroom and lays her on the bed. Her skin is shivering, frozen and pale as death itself. She has hypothermia and needs to have her body temperature stabilized before every one of her major organs will go into failure.

“Not how I pictured us getting into bed naked,” August jokes without humour while beginning to peel off his clothes until he is completely bare. He towers over her trembling form and watches how helpless she appears. His hands run down her spine, reaching to find the hooks of her bra. It takes no effort to unclasp the flimsy soaked fabric and discard it on the floor. Next, he coldly and methodically slips her underwear off.

He takes no pleasure in stripping an unconscious woman who can’t defend herself or struggle, yet he cannot resist observing what’s laid right in front of his eyes.

The sight is indeed pleasing.

‘Hate me later, princess. I am just a man.’

August climbs onto the bed and lies in front of her. He pulls her toward the warmth of his body until her forehead is pressed against his chest and every inch of her skin is covered by his own. With a clenched jaw, he holds her close.

In his arms she trembles, teeth chattering, while her heartbeat is feeble and can be hardly felt against his chest.

He thinks of nothing while holding the cold, half-dead girl against him.

Nothing at all.

Not the memory of another dead girl.

~*~

Ingvild scratches a scab on her knee, watching the other girls as they play without her. They stick their tongue at her and call her a freak. She doesn’t cry, only sniffles gently while her small fingers pry at the itchy skin.

“Ingvild,” Sister Marja walks toward her, making a sour face as she sees the girl. She never liked her either. “Someone is here to pick you up, finally.”

Little Ingvild jumps from the dirty log she is sitting on, brushing her skirt and arranging her braided pigtails before joining Sister Marja. ‘That uptight crone, all she needs is a good fuck.’

The sister hurries toward the orphanage while Ingvild runs after to keep up. Her heels echo on the floor through the arched hallway of the facility.

A man waits for them in the office of the Mother Superior, Yet another crone who looks like she never had a good fuck. But there is a smile on her face, making her loose skin become all creases and wrinkles like a dried rotten potato.

Ingvild looks at the man who stands with his hands behind his back. His hair is black with few threads of silver. She is uncertain if he is smiling or not; the expression on his face is of a person who’s trying to appear pleasant but in a very contained way.

“Ingvild, this is Liam.” Mother Superior speaks in her terrible heavy smoker voice. “He is your new adoptive father.”

~*~

Warm light strokes her face, forcing her eyes to blink open slowly. A basic function that suddenly feels oddly painful. Her eyelids are too heavy as if she never opened her eyes before in her life. The scenery around her is still too vague; she doesn’t recognize the room at all, wondering if she is in another dream.

A word in her own language blurts out of her mouth as she tries to sit up, accompanied by a small groan. Everything feels out of place as if her limbs have been misplaced and her internal organs exploded inside her body. Pain begins to course through her body, starting with the muscle of her right forearm which now feels extremely strained.

“Ah…” she grunts out, tugging at her arm which is in an odd position.. But for some reason, her arm won’t budge. It’s tied to the bedpost above her head by a tight rope.

‘This is hilarious. Like watching a dog wake up from anaesthesia.’

“Hva?” she asks in her mother’s tongue. “What?”

She gives the bind a few good moments of struggling before giving up. It’s when the heavy blanket that covers her slightly descends from her chest. She realizes she’s been completely stripped of her clothes.

Panicked, she hugs the cover to her chest with her free hand. Her eyes were looking around with slight anxiety while she continues to pull her right hand in an attempt to free herself.

The scent of coffee tickles at her nose, alerting her that she is not alone.

August appears in front of her with a red cup of coffee in his hand. He wears that familiar arrogant look with a hint of a smile, so vicious and cold it makes her feel she wasn’t only stripped off her clothes but of her skin and muscles as well.

Would have been better if I was stripped and bound to the devil’s bed.

He takes the wooden chair, dragging it on the floor which makes her cringe at the screeching sound. Fragments of the night before begin to fill the gaps in her memory. She tied him to this chair.

Placing it in front of her, he sits down, legs spread widely with confidence she can only describe to herself as irritating as fuck.

She hugs the cover tightly to her chest, her legs curling toward her torso to shelter herself which suddenly inflicts an excruciating pain in her lower abdomen making her moan involuntarily . Peeking beneath the thick blanket, she finds the large bandage on her torso, stained with a few drops of brownish-red blood.

“Good morning, love, we’ve had quite the night.”

More shards of memory begin to cut through her mind. Like remembering an event that happened so long ago, it almost feels like a dream. Her mind fights to make sense, to grasp at the fuller image. She recalls gasping through the woods at night with weak limbs and a hand full of blood. Then a shot that ripped through the night. Bats were flying everywhere and then her body was cold for some reason.

No, she was freezing.

Like a videotape that’s cut off and glitches in the middle, her memory stops there. Making her stare at the Scandinavian pattern on the blanket as if she will find any answers there.

“Who is Liam?” August asks, taking a long sip from his coffee. There is much amusement in seeing her cowering before him looking so helpless right now. Stripped, unarmed, and bound to his bed after he took her life and gave it back.

He licks his lips at her which only makes the alarmed look on her face become more distinguished.

“You’ve undressed me?” she asks, finding out her voice is aching and hoarse, as if something seared her throat. “And tied me to the bed?”

August’s teeth are exposed to her as his smile widens. She makes a note of two sharp fangs, it makes him look like a vampire. “Perceptive, aren’t we? Wasn’t for any personal interest, you were in hypothermia.”

He gives a small pause, his eyes travelling across her covered body, unable to deny how nice it was to wake up with a naked woman in his arms. “Not that I didn’t enjoy having your tits pressed to me for an entire night.”

Even as lost as she is, she can’t help but roll her eyes at him and groan with hatred.

‘If anyone in Icarus hears of this, I’m done for.’

Was the stinging pain in her chest failure or sepsis? Either way, it stung. This was far from how she imagined this mission going along. Ending up as a captive of psychotic target, tied to his bed as a future sex slave or heaven knows what.

‘How the fuck did I end up here? Like this? Why?’

August watches as she frowns with deep concentration, forcefully trying to evoke some memory of all the lost hours from last night. He wonders if she knows he killed her. He’d very much like to remind her of that, of how she was at his mercy and the only reason she’s alive right now is because he allowed it.

‘And still she tried to kill me right after I gave her back her life. What a woman.’

“Who is Liam? And please don’t make me ask again, given the poor situation you’re at right now, princess.”

More echoes begin to float in her mind. It’s the look of superiority on his face, the piercing gaze that threatens to cut right through her.

“You tried to kill me!”

“No. I have killed you,” he corrects her.

“You were dead for at least 5 or 7 minutes.”

She stares at him completely bemused, her eyes seeking answers on the lines of his chiselled face. There is no remorse, no care, no mercy in it. She doesn’t even bother to look for affection, whatever that looks like. He is as cold as Helheim.

“But you saved me. Why?”

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face straining as he remembers that idiotic idea he had last night, that mistake that’s now lying naked on his bed. For a man who plans ahead, he hasn’t thought this one through, not even for a second.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, I only need you for intel. One wrong move and I’d be glad to put you back to the bottom of that lake.”

“You know who sent me, CIA, Erica Sloane.” She shrugs, staring at him oddly.

He leans forward in his chair looking deeper into her eyes, trying to invoke fear in her. Yet she remains stoic, only her eyes glaring at him like two icicles.

“How did you know I was here? Who else knows?”

“I’m a good tracker,” she answers, doing her best attempt to shrug her shoulders with one hand latched above her head. “And you are not as smart as you think you are, August Walker.”

August offers her a dangerous stare, crossing his arms around the wooden backseat while his feet push from the ground to lean closer to her. He doesn’t like to be challenged, especially not by silly little girls.

“Why is that?”

A small smile spreads on her face. “From all the vehicles you could have taken, you stole my bike.”

A hiss of disbelief leaves his nose but the answer doesn’t please him. He leans back on his chair until it lands forcefully on the ground, making a loud thud through the moderate silence in the room. His hand reaches toward her, grabbing her jaw and cupping it crudely.

“No, how did you know I was in Norway?”

She clenches her jaw, trying to escape his touch but his grip becomes firmer, his fingertips painting red marks on her sickly pale skin. “Answer me.”

“I didn’t-”

“Bullshit.” he challenges her, now closer to her face than she would have ever wanted. His hot breath is a breeze on her skin. Her natural instinct to learn details kicks in, forcing her to pay attention to every freckle s on his nose, his bottom lip, and the lines and small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

‘So much anger’, she analyzes. He is not even furious yet it seems he keeps so much bottled up.

‘Does he ever get tired?’

“I didn’t know,” she finally answers, both sincerity and scorn in her voice. Then, a small provoking smirk appears on her lips. “It was destiny that brought you to me.”

He snorts, shaking his head at her with disbelief, recalling their little flirtatious run-in 2 days ago. His eyes observe her while a smug smirk spreads across his face. He allows his gaze to travel further down her neck and her chest, attempting to peer beneath the blanket to get a reminder of what was pressed to his body the night before.

“Telling you the truth, August Walker, would have killed you then in the ladies room,” she provokes, aware of the fact that he’s staring at her chest even though she keeps it covered.

“Oh?” he returns his gaze back to her, a single finger now takes a hold of her chin, tilting her head up violently. “How would you have done that? I’m intrigued.”

Ingvild licks her lips, drawing attention to her mouth. It’s seduction that she offers but with that same cold, now vicious smile.

“Slicing your throat, while you’re were washing your stupid hair below the tap. I’d then shove a tampon up your ass and send a photo to everyone in Icarus and to Sloane so they can have a good laugh.”

‘My phone, shit.��

The mobile device is traceable, if Liam hasn’t heard from her in a few days he could find her. But now August has it, with the rest of the stuff he confiscated from her. She looks around, trying to find where he placed her items.

August interrupts her inspection, his hand wrapping around her sore throat with a menacing gaze. “Don’t give me any ideas, princess. I’m not the one tied up and naked here.”

“I need to go to the girls’ room,”

She ignores his threat, remaining calm despite the hand that can easily snap her neck.

He looks at her dumbfounded, clenching his jaw once more. “What?”

“I need to go…”

“I heard you.” he frowns, letting go of her throat forcefully and then shoving the chair back, making it screech against the wooden floor while pacing the room, irritated.

‘Great, now I’m a fucking babysitter?’

He begins to regret ever saving her pathetic little life. What is there to gain anyway? A guy named Liam? Whoever that is to her. She mumbled that name in her dreams when her body was struggling to fight for survival.

August finds the bathrobe in the shower room and throws it on the bed next to her, before hovering above her chest to cut her bindings with the same knife he used to stab her last night.

She tries to remain as relaxed and brave as she can, wanting him to think she is not intimidated by him and what she believes to be his empty threats. But every time he makes sudden movements. the intimidation shows in her beautiful grey eyes. Her body flinches and squirms helplessly.

If only she knew how aroused it made him, she’d be terrified.

“Try anything and I’ll unstitch you and let you bleed to death.”

Her wrist burns, the narrow rope has chafed her skin so badly there are deep purple marks on her flesh. She rubs it gently, trying to soothe the pain before grabbing the white cotton robe and staring at August with hatred.

He stares back at her while playing with the knife between his large hands. He slides a finger carefully on the edge of the sharp blade, making a harsh statement. No, he is not going to turn around.

Rolling her eyes she hides beneath the cover, pulling the bathrobe beneath and wearing it quickly, the relief of having something other than a blanket covering her feels almost astonishing.

At last, she throws the heavy blanket away and kicks her legs out of bed while wearing his oversized bathrobe. August remains silent, his eyes fixed upon her while the knife is pressed between his teeth.

Trying anything like killing him or escaping is far from realistic as she finds her legs hardly able to hold her own weight. The hardwood floor beneath her feet feels soft and mushy, if someone would have told her she’s stepping onto marshmallows she might have believed them.

She only manages to make two feeble steps before black spots appear in her sight and she falls forward with a pained grunt. She never makes it to the ground. Odd, she hasn’t noticed how big and strong he is when wrestling him on the floor. It seems that August has doubled in size.

“Who was it that didn’t love you, August?” she provokes coldly, grunting as she tries to lift her torso from his elbow. “Was it your mother? Or your dad?”

Silence and indifference is his answer to her query, with only a muscle that twitches in his cheek. He observes quietly as her hands grasp his biceps desperately and pathetically, trying to stabilize herself. It must make her hate him even more right now, to need him as much as she does.

He recalls how much he hated himself when he needed someone.

“Both then…” she answers, slightly panting.

“Did anyone ever loved you at all? Ingvild?” he taunts her back while helping her get to the toilet. He notices how her eyes look around while they move through the room, looking for her things, no doubt. She is smart, he’ll give her that, she is cunning and calculated even in her weakest moment.

But he’ll always be a step ahead.

“More than they loved you, I am sure.”

He lets her into the small room and shuts the door, leaning against it and patiently waits with his arms crossed. The sudden silence and her short absence begin to cloud his thoughts. It’s almost as if he’s dreaming awake, seeing her again, her hair falling from her decaying scalp like leaves falling from a tree.

‘Not more than you.’

The crude vibration of his phone snaps him back into reality. A message from one of the apostles, stating nothing but a location and an hour. He smirks to himself, glad to be soon away from this freezing hell. Now the question left is, what he should do with the little problem he created for himself?

Snap her little neck? Strangle her to death? Make it intimate, she deserves as much. He can already see his body hovering on top of hers, his hands wrapped around her, tight like a lover’s embrace. The robe opens as she struggles, exposing much of her naked flesh.

The thought makes him hum with delight but once again he is interrupted. This time it’s by her face that stares at him, blank of emotion, with eyes like two empty crystals. She leans against the door frame, her face tilted up to meet his gaze. “I need to shower. I smell like you.”

He wonders at all why he should fulfil her request. She’s a prisoner, not a guest, and far from being someone, he’d care for. His eyes run up and down her body and finally at the cold unreadable expression on her face.

“Whatever.”

The bathroom is rather large, surrounded by cream-coloured marble tiles that adorn both the walls and the flooring. There is a large, fancy bathtub in the middle of the room, one that is made to look old and classy with golden taps. An additional shower is placed at the other side of the room, surrounded by a thin wall of glass.

The bath looks so tempting, her eyes fixate upon it, fantasizing about slipping into a warm bubble bath with one of those pink and purple bath bombs.

August notices her fascination and snorts, edging her toward the shower instead. “You should’ve taken my offer back then, princess. Be thankful that I am allowing you the luxury of showering at all.”

For all, he cares she can die of infection, who knows what bacteria these lake water she bled into had.

“I’d take the shower over-sharing anything with you,” she spits back, her hand grasping the golden handle of the glass door. August remains facing, leaning against the marble tile with ease while sucking on his bottom lip with anticipation.

“Aren’t you going to at least turn away?” she asks naively, crooking her eyebrow up, bewildered by the large man who’s standing there with sheer confidence on his face, not bothering to give her an inch of privacy.

“No,” he smirks cockily, licking that small freckle on his lips. “You tried to kill me, I don’t trust you. But don’t worry, won’t be anything I haven’t seen before, princess.” he shrugs and tilts his head. His eyes gesture at the robe as he awaits for her to slip it off her body.

Ingvild chews the inside of her cheek with the fury that courses through her veins. He seeks to humiliate her even more, to show her again how little power she has.

But men are fools, a woman has more power over a man, especially when she is naked. She doesn’t mind what he sees and if he likes it or not anyway. Also, nervousness is not in her spectrum of emotions.

The white cotton robe falls off her body, landing at her feet with a soft thud. There she is standing completely bare before the man who tried to murdered her and who for some sick, twisted, megalomaniac reason nurtured her back to life.

Unlike last night, he has the freedom to linger on what stands in his sight. Milky white skin, stretched taut over an apt figure. Athletic; formed by years of whatever combat training she has endured. There are no scars on her body save for the new one he gave her which is hidden behind gauze. The thought of letting her survive just so she can curse him every time she sees the hideous crescent scar is quite the temptation.

He further inspects her body, imagining cupping her small breasts in his large hands, they will not fill his palms completely, but it will suffice. He was always more into women’s behind and the rounded shape of her tight ass is indeed pleasing.

“As I said, nothing I haven’t seen before,” he speaks out, letting his gaze travel back to meet her face again.

She hisses through her nose, rolling her eyes as she walks inside the translucent room and turns the stream of the water to wash over her body.

The heat of the water immediately makes her groan loudly with pleasure; it echoes through the entire room. Her body is far more battered than she even realized, it feels as almost as if she is being redeemed, baptized, or whatever other religious allegories she could think of.

She leans against the wall for support with both her palms flat against the surface. Her back arches and she lets her head tilt back with her eyes tightly shut. The damp hair sticks to her spine, while she lets the droplets of water slide between her perky breasts and down her torso.

Sweet moans escape between her lips with every second, accompanying the water that soothe her aching muscles.

August can feel the fabric of his trousers tightening as blood stirs through the veins of his cock. She squirms beneath the stream, moving so sensually while making these “fuck me” noises all too clear. It’s meant to tease and provoke him. He is tempted to march in there and fuck the living hell out of her.

Fucking her to death, now that one I haven’t tried before.

“Enjoying the show?” she asks, turning to face him while the water trickles down her back. She can see the hardness in his groin, growing larger and larger with every second she stands there wet and naked.

“I am, actually,” he answers, not bothering to hide his desire.

She turns to face the shower tap, one hand plastered to the wall while the other leisurely runs down her chest. Smooth and slick, she allows it to circle her breast, making sure August can see how her finger brushes the hardening peachy nipple before descending along her flat torso.

His breath becomes rigid, his eyes furiously focusing on how she praises her own body. Her lids are half-hooded, hazy with lust and her mouth is reddening and slight swelling as she bites into her plush lips with delight. He dares, taking a step closer, allowing himself to have a better view of the show.

It is for him after all, is it not?

Tender and slow like honey, she lets her fingers creep between her thighs. In her mind, she fancies larger hands taking control over her body. A man’s hands, hands that are rough and callous, counter to how she is built, yet they caress her gently, working their way up between her inner thighs and spreading her open.

A feverish moan escapes her tightened lips as her fingers rub against her clit. She opens her eyes with her head thrown to the side. Giving August a lustful stare, cruel and full of snide she begins working herself with sensual strokes. She can feel her own wetness, thick and oily against her delicate fingers.

August’s nostrils flare, the bulge in his groin now enormous and aching for release.

Does she think she is torturing him? Does she even know men?

He inches closer toward the shower, close enough until so his hand can touch the glass which is now covered with tiny droplets of water and a thin layer of steam. His hand falls toward the zipper of his trousers, letting it sink before reaching out to pull his erect cock.

There is a smitten look upon her face, and an unpleasant chill runs through her spine as if she is intimidated by the sheer sight of him. Obviously, he is very much aware of how impossibly large he is. She gathers he is used to the look she is giving him, knowing exactly what’s going through her mind.

“Why are you stopping then, princess?” he asks with a cocky smile, his large hand wraps around the base of his hard cock, immediately beginning to stroke while eliciting deep, low groans.

Ingvild finds it surprisingly arousing, unable to help herself but stare at how his fingers engulf the fleshy shaft, feeling herself throb at the sight of the thick bulging veins and the ridges that run across his erection. When she started this little game it was in order to abuse him. But now, there is a certain desperation in her spiteful urge.

Looking at him as if driven to insanity, she lets her fingers massage her mound with increasing force, hard yet slow while her thumb traces the engorged nub. With every intent to let him see what he cannot take, she leans against the wall and parts her legs wide for him, letting him see her pink cunt and how her fingers play and tease while her other hand moves to squeeze her breast.

Her mind escapes into fantasies again, to urge the tingling sensation that burns between her thighs. Betrayed by lust, it’s him that she sees, holding her down as he did the night before, only that instead of trying to kill her he tears off her panties and splits her flesh open with his enormous cock.

The yelp that escapes her mouth is barely human, the image triggering something dark and unfamiliar and despite its wrongness now all she can think of is him.

August, on the other hand, is anything but inclined to indulge this. Pumping his cock urgently, he imagines pounding the little valkyrie against the wall, his grunts so low and loud he is certain the neighbours renting the room nearby can hear.

‘Have you ever fucked an undead girl? Imagine how sweet that wet little cunt must be after coming back to life… milking around you as if you are her saviour, your cock a gift sent from heaven…’

‘Or hell.’

Leaning his forehead against the glass, his breath leaves a veil of steam against the surface while he glances at Ingvild climbing toward her climax.

“Fuck!” She shudders, trying to fight the burning image of him in her mind, but these forbidden fantasies continue to assail her; all the different ways he could take her, exploit and humiliate her. How his body would feel atop of hers while he holds her down and hammer her into the floor.

Her battle wanes, heat spills between her legs as she falls into dark euphoria.

Seeing her arch against the tiles, naked and showered by ecstasy, his control finally snaps. August slams a hand against the glass, spourting white ribbons of cum all over the surface.

‘Oh to see her die and then burst with life…’

They stand in front of one another, both with heaving chests and frowning faces.

Finally, she turns the stream off and opens the glass door while August tucks himself back in. Apparent sweat covers his forehead while his chest is still heaving. She crouches to grab the robe, wearing it again while moving next to him with a teasing look on her face.

Although her legs feel feeble, the adrenaline made the blood kickstart her body again, her heart pumping with excitement as life returned to her system. She pushes past August scornfully, letting him follow her as she walks out of the bathroom.

He grabs her elbow, shooting her a warning glare. “Where do you think you are going?”

She tries to fight him but his grip is fierce and she is too weak.

“You are still a prisoner here,” he warns her and begins to lead her back to the bedroom and toward the bed while grabbing more rope on the way. He notices once again how she desperately seeks her personal belongings, gun, and phone.

“Don’t bother, angel, it’s all in the bottom of the lake.”   

______________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible or August Walker

[nocluewhatsupg]

Well, can i request some fluff with Asa after a hard night full of chasing and cutting? Thank you very much, i do enjoy how you think about slashers, and will be looking forward to seeing you in my dashboard :]

he never rests because those loan sharks don’t either.

In his ears the old pipes rattle and groan. The arteries connecting his personal hell together, making it a living breathing machine. In the air, a thick scent he couldn’t put his finger on. The slick smell of blood was strongest, the fluid clung and dried to his sleeves and torso. There was little shimmer on the crimson, the room far too dark to properly see anything.

Asa didn’t need to see. He understood everything he needed from inference, and at the moment, the touch of his hand. A midnight rubber glove lingered on a solid oak table. The table he sat at was truly a work from god, and when he picked it up at an antique store, he though he’d struck gold. In the first few months, he would trace his finger over the intricate design carved carefully and charred to create a black and sleek finish. Now, his fingers were busy elsewhere. 

His arms burned with exhaustion. They rested with the knowledge that a new, possible curiosity could be added to his Collection. Somewhere much colder, much deeper into the hotel, a trunk rattled with fight from a living victim, and heaved with their desperate sobs. The victim’s nails would scratch and claw alongside the pre-existing tears from those before them. Maybe they would chip a nail, and Asa could complete a recent project of his, a mannequin hand he’d covered with the shattered, bloody nails he’d torn straight from his victim’s fingers.

Behind him, a girl whimpered, a rattling sound with the slightest note to differ it from breathing. Normally, it didn’t mind him, but a noise from her meant something was wrong. On the wall hung a girl, her wrists and ankles nailed to the wall crudely. Her face was covered in layers and layers of black duct tape, so much that it was beginning to look like a mound rather than a head. In any other way, she would strangle. Asa was too kind to leave her to suffocate, pulling in sticky lungfulls of acidic tape for last dying wheezes. Instead, he had inserted a small, clear plastic tube right in the middle of her fair neck. Blood gurgled around it, scabbing to hold it in place as she desperately tried to suck in oxygen. Skin around the modification grew clammy and carried an unnaturally yellow tinge. Her fingers lethargic twisted around, similar to a cockroach dying on the floor, futilely attempting to reach the gift he’d given her and pull it out from inside her. The girl had cried out to him one day, and he’d decided he wanted to hear no more. On any other day, Asa would calmly stride to her, raise two hands to what he assumed was her head, and yank her neck until it rested at an uncanny angle. Not today, for he had something far more important to focus on.

Y/n shuffled. Their hair, forcibly grown long from months of neglect, draped over his thighs. Asa took a deep inhale, and gently inched the hand nestled in their hair, around their skull, tighter. He felt their hands wrap around the hems of his pants, and he grew drunk on the feeling of complete control he held in the moment. Y/n laying their head in his lap was the breakthrough he’d been waiting for. An experience to him more fulfilling thsn the thrill of murder, was a thrill he didn’t understand. The thrill of being loved. Asa kept his eyes focused on the room ahead of him, flicking over the glass containers of morbid art. There was no reason to look down, when he could feel their warm body curled against his. In an attempt to replicate the bubbling feeling inside him, Asa began to gingerly dig his nails into their scalp, listening as Y/n sighed contently at the touch. He could have them laying their head on his upper thigh forever.

Forever came too soon as an eletronic chime rang through the otherwise silent air. Asa found himself pulled from the numbing warmth to stare down at whatever tore him away. Anger that had sparked at the distraction diffused as he realized it was an alarm he’d set a good thirty minutes earlier. He sighed, and cancelled the annoying noise as he raised the clock closer to inspect. As he does, an uncapped needle rolled off the table, clattering to the floor. The thin, metal tip was still wet. Without ever removing his other hand from Y/n’s head, he slammed the clock face down, a tense expression growing back on his face.

Y/n would be waking up soon. He needed to use a larger dose next time.

[chelsfic]

Unseemly Desire, or Nandor's Season of Self-Discovery - Nandor x Guillermo Fanfic

Sequel to I Fell into Fantasy | WWDITS Masterlist

Summary: In which Nandor tries to convince everyone, including himself, that he does not have any unseemly feelings for his familiar. 

A/N: I couldn't decide on a serious title or a goof title, so I went with both. Thanks so much to Spiff from the Nandermo server for helping me workshop this idea. After I wrote "I Fell into Fantasy" I just kept thinking about how Nandor would spin into denial and the angst that would ensue. Then I woke up this morning with the idea of an axe throwing competition?? And now we're here?

Oh, yeah....this is a multi-chapter fic *flops around the floor helplessly*

Warnings/Tags: Angst, mutual pining, Eventual smut, Blood drinking, Toxic Masculinity in the Ottoman Empire, Repressing feelings, Axe throwing...the usual

---

Nandor wakes to the sound of his familiar quietly shuffling about the crypt, no doubt lighting the dozens of candles that line the room. The vampire shifts inside his coffin, frowning at the sticky feel of dried seed on the inside of his trousers. He’d gone to bed that morning with a powerful desire still coursing through his veins along with Guillermo’s sweet, virgin blood. The mere memory of last night’s feeding is enough to stir him once more and he growls, driving the heel of his palm against his crotch to stifle his reaction.

“Master? Are you alright?” Guillermo’s voice is sweet and tentative.

“I’m fine! Why would you ask such a thing?” he snaps irritably, then in a softer voice, “Is it safe to open my coffin now, Guillermo?”

In answer Guillermo cracks the lid, easily lifting the solid weight after years of practice. His master sits up quickly, tugging at the bottom of his loose nightshirt in an effort to cover the obvious stain on the front of his pants. 

“Good evening, master,” Guillermo greets with his usual respectful subservience. 

Good. Perhaps he won’t have to work too hard at reestablishing the boundaries he’d so savagely torn down the night before. It’s imperative that Nandor reminds his familiar of his place within the household and, especially, within their...relationship. His reaction to drinking Guillermo’s blood was shameful and he does not want his familiar getting any high ideas about a romance with his master. 

He knows--how could he not?--of Guillermo’s inappropriate attraction to him. He hears the way the human’s heartbeat races whenever they are physically close. He sees the secret grins on Guillermo’s lips when Nandor does anything the least bit kind. But a romantic relationship between a vampire and a familiar? Yeeck! It’s just not done. Of course, he considered the sex slave option when this unnatural lust first manifested. Other vampires make such arrangements with their familiars. But Guillermo would want more. He would want snuggles and romance and caring and...maybe even a break from his chores?! And the idea of using Guillermo for sex, while appealing, also causes him to feel a burning, stabby pain in his chest that he can’t identify.

No, it is better that he keep things strictly professional. A master and his servant. Nothing more.

Nandor finally steels himself to look up at his familiar, keeping his face a cold, forbidding mask.  And then he sees the massive bruise on Guillermo’s neck.

It’s an angry, deep purple that extends from his jaw down the side of his neck and beneath the collar of his fuzzy sweater. Two scabbed puncture wounds sit in the center of the damage, like demon eyes looking back at Nandor accusingly. He sucks in a breath and involuntarily reaches out to brush his fingers against the wounded skin. Guillermo flinches away from the touch with a pained mew.

“It’s just...tender, master,” Guillermo explains, almost apologetically. 

Nandor can’t think straight. His eyes, liquid and deep, full of some unnameable emotion, focus on the damage he’s caused. How many dead bodies has he tossed aside without a qualm? How many bruises and bites and broken bones has he caused? But he’s never seen the results on someone he--

“I...Guillermo,” he whispers, finally locking eyes with his human and bringing his hand up to cup his cheek, “I did not mean to be causing permanent damage…”

Guillermo gasps softly at his master’s touch. He leans into it, silently thrilling when Nandor doesn’t immediately draw his hand away.

“Permanent? No, master, it’s just a bruise. It will fade eventually,” Guillermo assures him, but Nandor still looks skeptical.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and Guillermo brims with happiness at his master’s concern.

“Only a little bit, Na--master,” Guillermo stumbles, nearly breaking the carefully established protocol between them. 

Nandor notes the mistake and snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned by holy water. He clambers out of the coffin without Guillermo’s assistance. They go through the motions of dressing. Nandor bends down so that Guillermo can get his shirt on over his head, steps into his trousers and boots, and sits quietly while Guillermo arranges his hair. All the while a single word cycles through his head.

Fuck!

---

Guillermo is practically buzzing with energy despite last night’s blood loss. Every time he moves he feels a delicious tug on his wound and the memories of his master’s touch come flying back to the surface of his mind. He doesn’t even care that Nandor dismissed him so abruptly after getting dressed. Nor does he care that he gave him a seemingly random and unnecessary order before fleeing the crypt in his bat form. Guillermo sits on the floor surrounded by his master’s extensive blade collection, carefully cleaning and polishing each one with a giant, goofy grin on his face.

---

“Well, well, well...doing the flight of shame, Nandor?” Laszlo chuckles at his own joke as Nandor drops out of his bat form into a chair in the fancy room. 

“Very good joke, darling! Because he’s finally given the sex to Gizmo!” Nadja crows.

The couple are sitting together in the loveseat. Laszlo is bent over Nadja’s hand, painting her nails and heedlessly dripping lacquer all over the upholstery as he does so.

Nandor’s face blanches in alarm and he cries, “What the shit are you two talking about!? I have not been doing sex with Guillermo! Yuck! Unspeakable! Why would that even occur to you?”

“Me thinks he doth protest too much, eh, darling?” Laszlo remarks to another shriek of laughter from his wife.

Nandor jerks to his feet, bristling and defensive, but before he can think of a reply Laszlo continues, “Well if you weren’t having sex then what the blazes were you doing to the chap to cause those tantalizing moans?”

With this Laszlo launches into a cartoonish impression of the desperate cries and moans that Guillermo made as Nandor drank from him. Nadja claps her hands in delight and joins in the fun. The pair of perverts are soon screeching and twitching in exaggerated, obscene mockery of his familiar.

“Enough!” Nandor roars, stomping his foot petulantly. “Stop speaking of my familiar this way! It’s highly inappropriate!”

“So, you’re saying you didn’t roger your little rotten soldier last night?” Laszlo arches a brow, snorting under his breath derisively. 

Nandor stares back at him in confusion, “What the fuck--?! No! Certainly not. Very...disgusting to even say such a thing. Gross!”

Laszlo glances to Nadja with a sly smirk as he speaks, “Then you wouldn’t mind if my good lady wife and I extended an invitation to the fellow to join us in a ménage à threesome?”

Nandor takes to the air, eyes glowing with rage as he hisses wildly at Laszlo.

“Hey dudes, what’s all the fuss about?” Colin Robinson, drawn by the pulsing waves of drama emanating from the room, appears in the doorway.

Nandor drops back onto his feet and whines, “Laszlo is making unsavory claims about my familiar and I won’t have it!”

“Nandor’s being a snake dick because he’s horny for his familiar and won’t admit it!” Nadja counters. 

Nandor’s mouth snaps shut at that. Nadja’s words have struck true and Nandor feels a shiver of panic at the thought of his shameful secret being known throughout the household. He must convince them they’re mistaken...but how? 

He’s still too enraged to think straight and rather than address Nadja’s words he simply bellows, “Satisfaction! I will have satisfaction against these two perverts!”

Colin grins, his eyes lighting with hungry delight, “How about a contest of some sort? Whoever wins is right. Of course, you should choose a neutral activity. Something in which you’re all equally matched. A checkers tournament? Scrabble, maybe…”

“A contest! Yes!” Nandor interrupts with an excited grin. “A challenge of strength and accuracy! Guillermo! Bring me my axes for throwing! My throwing axes!”

Nadja rolls her eyes and looks about to argue when Laszlo stops her with a hand on her arm.

“I say, good idea, Nandor. We’ll compete in a game of throwing axes. But to prove that you really are telling the truth and you don’t harbor secret, moist fantasies about your little familiar, we’ll make it more interesting. Whoever gets their axe closest to Gizmo without skewering the little guy wins!”

Nandor deflates, “That’s not...I don’t…”

Guillermo enters carefully holding a bundle of wickedly sharp axes. The blades shine in the candlelight and contrast against the soft, muted colors of his sweater. Nandor imagines one of those blades sinking into his familiar’s soft flesh and he shivers. 

Laszlo looks as if he’s already won the little game he’s playing and Nandor clenches his fists, forcing levity into his voice as he announces, “Everyone in the garden! We are going to have a little game!”

---

Guillermo can’t decide if he’s more livid or terrified. He’s standing up against the fence, shivering despite his hat and coat, and desperately trying to hold still as his master casually tests the weight of the axe in his hand. Nadja and Laszlo look on, each carrying axes of their own, and Colin Robinson looks positively frenzied as he feeds off the tension in the air.

“Master, why are we doing this, again?” Guillermo wishes his voice didn’t have such a marked tremor in it.

“I am defending your honor, Guillermo. Now be very, very still,” Nandor launches the axe without any further warning. 

Guillermo shrieks and he feels the air to the right of his head part as the blade sinks into the wood of the fence an inch away from his face. He turns to stare at the quivering handle with wide, horrified eyes.

“There!” Nandor announces with a smug smile. “No one could beat such a throw! Contest over, I win. Guillermo, attend me--”

Nandor is already starting to stride back to the house but Guillermo barely has a chance to let out a relieved sigh when Laszlo steps up wielding his own weapon. 

“Not so fast, Gizmo! I’ll have my turn, thank you!” his voice lilts up dramatically as he raises the axe, screwing one eye shut and taking aim.

Nandor whirls, eyes wide with panic as he urgently hisses, “Be still, Guillermo!”

Guillermo shuts his eyes, whimpering as he awaits his fate. One second Laszlo is letting out a manful bellow as the axe leaves his fingers and the next second Guillermo is hissing in pain as the blade cuts into his cheek. His eyes flash open in shock and he brings his hand up to cup his face. Blood pours from the shallow wound. The pain is a sharp, burning intensity that brings tears stinging to his eyes.

“Ha!” Nandor gloats. “You’ve lost! Your blade touched...him.”

Laszlo swears under his breath but Nandor has lost his steam as the reality of his words hits him. He steps forward, involuntarily reaching for his wounded familiar. Then he catches the knowing look on Laszlo’s face and he stops himself, straightening his spine and raising his head in a show of haughty indifference that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“My turn!” Nadja trills, flipping her axe from hand to hand with a little skip in her step. 

“Master… please!” Guillermo begs. There are tears leaking from his eyes now. Whatever fucking insult Nandor thinks they made against him isn’t worth this!

“Yes, Nandor, the boy has a point. My lady wife is known for many...eclectic skills, but her aim isn’t one of them. We could put a stop to this if you’d care to admit we’re right about your shameful little secret…”

“Never!” Nandor shouts, looking like a giant, angry toddler.

Guillermo’s head spins, “What? What is he talking about, master?”

Nandor turns to his familiar, injecting authority into his voice as he commands, “Guillermo, tell Nadja and Laszlo that we were not doing sex together last night!”

“E-excuse me!?” Guillermo sputters, feeling a heated blush creep up his neck.

Nandor lets out a frustrated growl and his lips curl in revulsion as he shouts, “Tell them that I did not have disgusting, unnatural sex with a...a...human servant! I order you!”

The hand he’s kept clutched over the bleeding wound on his cheek falls limp at his side. Guillermo looks from his master’s cold, detached expression to Nadja and Laszlo’s expectantly curious faces and he sighs in resignation even as another tiny piece of his heart chips and falls away.

“...He didn’t,” he says in a small voice and then, more loudly, “We did not have sex.”

Laszlo looks unconvinced and Nadja just looks annoyed.

“This is getting very boring and I still have not had my turn to throw the axe! Here I go!”

She flings the blade through the air with barely a glance in Guillermo’s direction. It wobbles in the air, toppling end over end as it cuts a deadly path that Nandor immediately sees will end in his familiar’s gut. Guillermo has barely enough time to flinch but Nandor moves with supernatural speed, dashing in front of his human and plucking the axe from the air before it can hurt him.

“Nadja!” Nandor admonishes in an affronted tone. “That was very careless of you! You could have seriously injured my Gui--my familiar! I’m very annoyed with you both!”

Guillermo trembles from behind Nandor, clinging to the fabric of his cape for comfort despite the anger, hurt and resentment that still broils just beneath the surface of his emotions. He’ll deal with all that once his legs resolidify.

Laszlo waves away the near-catastrophe with a flick of his wrist and holds out his arm for Nadja as he comments, “I think we have our answer, darling…”

Nandor’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he watches the other vampires stroll away with smug satisfaction on their faces.

Fucking shit!

---

“Guillermo…” Nandor pauses on his way up the step stool, he squeezes his familiar’s hand in his. “About tonight…”

He’s going to apologize for putting me in danger...for saying those things… Guillermo looks up at him with hopeful expectation in his eyes.

“I hope you are not getting strange notions in your little human brain because of what Laszlo said. It was very wrong of him to make such a sickening claim,” Nandor’s voice is pure condescension.

Guillermo is silent for a beat, swallowing against the lump of emotion in his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly before looking his master in the eye and lying, “Of course not, master.”

Nandor nods in satisfaction and he swings down into his coffin. But he tastes the edge of human sadness beginning to taint the air of the room and he frowns. Hadn’t this whole mess started because he was trying to get rid of the sad human smell? He is caught in one of those hog day loops!

Nandor hesitates, scowling as he chooses his words, “But… I am sorry about the axes. It wasn’t my idea. And… and… I would have been really sad if you had died, because you’re...special to me, Guillermo.”

Nandor lets the words hang in the air for a moment, watching the start of a smile curling his familiar’s lips before shaking his head and waving a hand in front of Guillermo’s face in a flourish, “You will forget about that last thing I just said.”

[loganisanobody]

There’s Pain in the Dark but Healing in the Light

Sanders Sides gift exchange present for @serpent-face-and-flowering-heart - I hope you like it and it’s not too dark... Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!!~

@sanderssidesgiftxchange

Tags #graphic depictions of self harm #suicidal thoughts #swearing

Let me know if there’s anything else that needs to be tagged!

Janus shivered as he pushed on through the snow. By now, he could hardly think, much less remember why he was out here. But, something told him to keep going, instead of sinking back into the warmth of the Mindscape, and he couldn't pull thoughts together to make out what it was or even to counter it. So he trudged through the snow, pulling his capelet taut over his back in an attempt to keep warm.

But then, he thought he heard something through the howling wind.

No, there's nothing else out here. Just me.

He trudged on.

Again, a sound seemed to try to push its way through the snow, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

He looked around. Was that a light behind him?

The wind blew snowflakes and his hair into his eyes, and he turned to face forward again.

No, there couldn’t be anything. He wasn’t sure why he was so certain of this, so certain he couldn’t be found or followed.

And then he jumped as something big and red pulled up beside him.

"Janus!"

He squinted up through the falling snow to see who had called his name.

"Janus, what are you doing here?" Roman, he finally recognized, jumped down from the driver's seat of the covered sleigh and made his way in a few quick steps to Janus, grabbing him by the arms as he looked him over.

"Come on, let's get you inside." He pulled Janus toward the sleigh. Janus had no thought of resisting, only the warmth of Roman's hands, the concern on Roman's face…

He stumbled into the sleigh, falling into the seat, and Roman climbed in behind him. As soon as he shut the door, the sleigh took off again, and Janus realized in passing thought that the sleigh had no horse.

"Janus, you really scared m—us. What were you thinking?" Roman was grabbing blankets from the opposite seat and piling them on Janus, who huddled in the corner of the sleigh, still shivering. Janus blinked slowly at the prince, his muddled, frozen brain trying to piece together what he was saying.

Roman piled the last blanket on him, then nodded, satisfied. He then picked up one side of the blankets, and scooted in next to Janus, to which Janus squeaked in… surprise? Disagreement? Alarm? Not even Janus knew.

"No, no. You've made your choice, walking out in the snow, now I'm taking the reins. You are going to get warm, and you're going to sleep, and I am going to watch over you until I am sure you are one hundred percent okay. Or more than one hundred percent, though Logan might yell at me for saying so."

Janus stared at him. He was still unable to process what Roman said, though whether from the cold or from his own jumbled feelings, he couldn't tell.

They sat in silence for a moment, as Janus soaked in Roman's heat. Then his eyelids began to droop, and he finally drifted off.

*****

Janus woke up feeling very warm indeed. It was wonderful. He sighed and shifted under the covers. He wanted to stay like this forever.

Then he felt something brush hair off his face, and his brow furrowed. He slowly blinked his eyes open.

He froze.

Roman was sitting on the bed next to him, in a room he didn't recognize. A fire crackled merrily from somewhere behind him.

He shot up to a sitting position, then regretted it as pain shot through his head.

"Janus?" Roman's voice came softly.

"Good morning, Roman," Janus said stiffly, rubbing one of his temples with a gloved hand. "Thank you for the ride and your hospitality. I must get going." He threw the blankets off, preparing to get off the side of the bed opposite Roman, but a hand caught his. 

He turned back halfway, not willing to look at Roman.

"Janus, please don't leave. Please, tell me why you were out there. To be out in the snow, especially for you, that's…"

Janus flinched at the unspoken word. He pulled his hand away from Roman's. "I haven't done it before."

Roman looked down. "We know… I don't know what deal you had with Remus to use the Imagination like that, but it has to stop, please."

"You can tell me what to do!" Janus snapped, finally looking at Roman. Big mistake. His heart broke as he took in wet, puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He looked away. "I'm fine."

"I know that's a lie, Janus," Roman said softly. "Please, tell me what's going on. Let me at least know why."

Janus was quiet for a minute. "Why do you care?" he finally whispered, almost a statement as much as a question.

"Because I love you, Janus."

Janus looked up at Roman, who wore a sad smile.

"I love you. I love your scales and your wit and your knowledge. I love that you enjoy theater and books. I love your honesty," he let out a breathy laugh. "I know you're Deceit but really, once you learn how you speak, you're so honest and caring and passionate and every time you speak I fall in love with you all over again." 

Roman looked at Janus again, smiling even wider. "I love you, Janus!" His smile fell, and he looked away. "And it took you almost… for me to tell you."

Janus didn't speak for a long time. He stared at Roman, going over every inch of what Roman said, trying to find the lie. There was no possible way it wasn’t… but he couldn't find one. Roman had believed every word, and that must mean…

Roman looked up when he heard sniffling. Tears were rolling down Janus' face. "Oh, Janus!" Roman reached to the side table to grab some tissues, which he handed to Janus. Janus nodded in thanks, but didn't say anything.

They were quiet for a while as they collected themselves.

Then Janus let out a shaky breath. 

"I… I'm not a… bad side," he said haltingly, staring at the crumpled tissues in his hand. "I… Thomas needs me. You… you all like me." He broke into tears again at this, still thinking about Roman's confession.

Roman reached forward and pulled Janus closer, meeting his lips, softly at first, as if asking if this was okay. When Janus returned the kiss, he pressed harder, pulling at the front of Janus’ shirt. He kissed Janus until both their tears had dried, and they pulled away with breathy laughs, leaning against each other's foreheads.

"You are not a bad side," Roman said softly. "Thomas does need you, and you know that I love you. Remus is your best friend, and he would never forgive you if you took that away. Logan and Patton enjoy your wit and advice almost as much as I do. And Virgil… well, Virgil has his own issues. But that doesn't make you any less worthy of love."

Janus closed his eyes.

This must be a dream, a hallucination as he died from the cold. Maybe this time he had taken it too far…

Then he felt something brush against his cheek, and again, and again.

Roman was kissing him. On his scales.

Janus let out a sob.

Roman wrapped his arms around him and tucked his face into his neck as Janus cried.

Janus hadn't wanted to leave the warmth of the bed when he woke, but now, he'd trade a warm bed any day, for this.

— — —

Virgil stared at the line on his arm, which was growing little droplets as he watched. The deep red, the tiny beads, the stinging pain, pushed away the throbbing thoughts in his head, just for a moment. A moment of peace.

And then the thoughts came roaring back. You're not good enough. You just hurt them. They hate you. You're evil. Just end it. End it all. Right now. END IT.

He swiped the blade across his skin and took a breath, watching the drops of blood form and start to trickle down.

He heard the doorknob click and he yanked his sleeve up and tossed the razor blade behind the toilet.

"Virgil?" Patton peeked around the door.

Virgil didn't look up. He concentrated on holding himself stiff so he didn't shake under Patton's gaze. He'd been found out, Patton would know everything, he was so stupid.

He didn't see Patton's knowing, sympathetic look. But he did hear him step into the bathroom and feel him sit down next to him.

He was confused when Patton didn't say anything. He heard a soft shuffling and glanced out of the corner of his eye.

Patton was taking off his bracelets one by one.

Virgil watched, puzzled, until Patton, having taken off all the bracelets, rested his hand palm up on Virgil's knee. Then Virgil stared, stared at the little scabbed-over lines just below Patton's wrist.

Barely realizing what he was doing, he reached out and gingerly brushed his fingers over the cuts. Patton shivered and gave a breathy laugh, and Virgil pulled back. He looked up at Patton, questions in his eyes.

"You're not alone," Patton said quietly. "I understand. And I'm here for you, if you want me to be."

Tears filled Virgil's eyes, and he wiped them away with his sleeve. He looked down at Patton's hand, which was still on his knee. He hesitated, then slid his own hand into Patton's.

Patton's fingers curled around Virgil's hand, and Patton leaned his head against Virgil's shoulder.

Virgil took a deep breath.

And for a moment, the tumbling thoughts were pushed away again.

— — —

Logan walked down the hall of the Others' common and stopped at Remus's door. He paused for a moment to listen. He couldn't hear anything, which was very odd for Remus. Though, Logan thought, he might yet be in the Imagination. Logan hadn't checked there yet.

He slowly opened the door and looked inside.

Remus was sitting, quivering, on the bed, facing the wall.

"Remus?" Logan made his way over to the bed. "Remus, are you okay?"

Remus didn't respond right away, but then suddenly burst out: "Babies falling out of trees! Fuck, fuck, damn it all! Babies!" His shoulders sagged and he put his face in his hands.

Ah, Logan thought, sitting next to Remus and putting a hand on his back. "Remus, what were you doing?"

Remus shook his head, then his shoulders shook.

Oh. He was crying.

"Oh, Remus," Logan whispered, gathering Remus in a hug.

"Why can't I be—Fuck Fuck Babies—" Remus let out another sob. "Why can't I be normal?!" He threw his head back, before relaxing again.

Logan held him for a while, letting Remus's crying die down before speaking gently, "Remus, why do you want to be 'normal'?"

Remus pulled away slowly. "S-so you and Thomas and the others w-will like me…" he hiccupped. He started hitting his head with the heel of his hand. Logan waited out the tic—though he hated to see Remus get hurt, he knew it was no good to try to stop him.

"Remus, if I've ever given you reason to believe I don't love you absolutely and completely, tics and all, then there has been a failing on my part, not yours."

Remus looked almost warily up at him, searching his face.

"I love you, moonbeam," Logan continued softly, giving Remus a small smile. "And not in spite of your tics. You are a wonderful person. You bring me to a wild side of life I could never have imagined would be so amazing. You stimulate—"

"A boiling beetroot!"

"—Me in every possible way. You are everything to me. And if I've ever made you feel less than that, I'm a bad boyfriend."

Remus wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. "You're not a bad boyfriend," he mumbled.

"And the others?"

"Fuck! Babies!"

Logan continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "They just have their own issues to deal with, in reaction to your tics. Virgil? Scared by loud noises. That's not your fault. It's not his either. It's just something he has—"

Remus's back straightened, and he nearly fell backward.

"—to get used to around you. Patton and Roman? You know they love you, they just have to unlearn their black-and-white upbringing. And Janus? Well, he's your best friend, isn't he? Do you think he would be if he didn't like you?"

Remus sniffled. "What about Thomas?"

"What about Thomas?"

Remus looked up, surprised.

"Okay, I don't know how Thomas feels about you, that's true. I think it says a lot, though, that he's trying to understand you. He wants to love you—"

"A beetroot! Babies!"

"—just as every person wants to love all of themself. Will he do that perfectly? Probably not, at least not for now. Just like Patton and Roman, he's learning the—"

Remus started hitting his head again.

"—shades of gray that make up reality, that make up you, and me, and everyone. And if it turns out he doesn't like you?" Logan shrugged. "Then so what? No one is perfect, and no one loves all of themself. And as for you, no one needs to be loved, or liked, by everyone. You, I think, need to start—"

Remus bit down on his chew-pendant.

"—by loving yourself, and the right people will join in."

Remus was quiet for a moment, tracing patterns in his sheets. "What… what if… I don't love myself?"

Logan smiled gently. "Then lean on my love until you do." He leaned in and pushed his lips against Remus's, kissing him fiercely, until Remus suddenly threw his head back. Logan didn't miss a beat, and instead of kissing Remus's lips, he kissed along his neck, down to his shoulder. Once Remus had relaxed from the tic, he started giggling.

Logan pulled away, smiling. "Let's go join the movie date, shall we?"

— — —

"This is Halloween, this is Halloween…"

Logan sat with Remus' head in his lap, brushing his fingers through Remus' hair. Remus made a few noises and threw his head back from time to time, but Logan just smiled at his boyfriend and his jokes about the movie.

On the other side of the couch, Patton and Virgil sat next to each other, and Patton snuck his hand into Virgil's and leaned his head on Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil tried to stop his heart from racing, tried to hide the hitch in his breath, but slowly, he curled his hand around Patton's.

Roman and Janus sat, legs outstretched, on the floor. Janus had his head on Roman's shoulder, and he had his eyes closed, though Roman could hear him humming along to the movie with his new boyfriend.

"La la la lalala lalala whee…"

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-five- a taste of freedom

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

THE ACHE IN her back does not dissipate with the rise of the morning sun. Lesya sits up and the weight across her chest slides down to rest across her thighs. A soft groan of protest leaves Deimos’ lips when she shifts again —stretching the broken skin on her back and arm. 

Matted locks of dark brown hair hide his face, but Lesya knows he is at ease. Sleep had always been one of the few times when the horrors of the world faded —especially if they were together. Lesya settles back down next to him and brushes aside the hair in front of his eyes. The stubble on his cheek tickles her lips when she presses them just beneath the scar under his eye. 

“You’re still here,” he mumbles —voice still rough with sleep— and she nods. Deimos had expected her to sail on the morning tide as she had in Korinth. He rolls onto his side, dark eyes following the curve of her lips. She’s radiant in the morning light, but he cannot stop himself from focusing on the scab at her temple and the linen dressings covering her middle. Deimos has yet to feel guilty regarding the lives he’d taken and destroyed, but seeing her like this because of him eats away at his heart. Lesya moves closer and trails her fingertips along his chest, around to the long scar on his side, and then the brand at the base of his ribs. “Lesya,” he breathes, catching her wrist when she starts to pull back. 

She can see the remorse in his tawny-gold eyes. “Don’t,” she utters, shaking her head, “I’ve had worse than this, you know that.” A clean-cut could not compare to when her back had been torn open or when they took her womb. It would heal with time. Her words aren’t enough to offer solace. “Alexios.” Deimos’ eyes dart up to meet her own at the whisper of his true name and he releases her wrist from the gentle cage of his rough fingers. Lesya leans toward him —can feel his warm breath against her lips and cheek— but rapping on the bedchamber door stays the both of them. 

One of Hermippos’ frightened slaves stands trembling on the other side, pointing toward the courtyard and the soldiers who demand to speak with Deimos. He nods, dismissing the messenger, and turns to collect his chiton from the floor. Lesya rises, finishing the last of the buttons on his left shoulder before picking her stained chiton and shrugging it on overhead —neither bother with armor, though when Deimos retrieves his sword, Lesya takes one of her daggers and follows behind him. 

Two guardians await in the courtyard, garbed in the dark steel armor of the Cult, though the masked helms are discarded. “Great champion,” one of the guardians says and both dip their head down in genuflection. These had been the cowards to escape his sister’s blade after killing a child in the Odeon of Perikles. Deimos’ stern gaze is enough to make them tremble, but it is the sight of Enyo that makes both of them step back. “Kleon–” one begins, carrying the new leader’s orders, but is cut off when Deimos seizes him by the throat. 

“She was a child!” Deimos shouts, tightening his fingers around the guardian’s throat before twisting —tossing him into the altar at the heart of the villa. “Does it bring you pride to have slaughtered a little girl?” Phoibe. Lesya had only briefly encountered the girl in Korinth, but Kassandra always spoke fondly about the orphaned girl on Kephallonia. She looks between Deimos the guardians, feeling her heart sink. She was never meant to die. 

The man twists, using the altar as leverage to stand again. “She was sniffing around at Anastasios’,” he defends —better to tie up loose ends rather than have them pop up again at inconvenient times.  

Deimos steps forward. “Only cowards kill children,” he hisses, thrusting the blade of the Damoklean sword through the guardian’s chest, punching through armor, flesh, and bone. Lazily, he pulls the sword back and glances over his shoulder —seeing Lesya move toward the second guardian, her dagger clasped tightly in her hand. The guardian crumples, blood leaking onto Hermippos’ white stone floor and the second cult guardian steps back, trembling. Deimos flicks the blood from his sword onto the stone and watches as Lesya closes in —jerking her arm in a tight slash. The guardian’s hands go to his throat to stifle the blood sluicing and gurgling out. He stands for only a few more unsteady moments before collapsing in a heap. Dike, let justice be done. 

WATER SLOSHES ONTO the smooth floor of the washroom. Deimos brushes the damp copper hair away from Lesya’s back and shifts in the stone bath, reaching for a linen rag to wash away the old ointment and what dried blood he had missed. Draping the rag over the side of the stub, Deimos seizes her waist, drawing her flush against his chest —a rough hand slips around to her stomach. Lesya hums softly, content and leans her head on his shoulder. He turns his head, lips ghosting over her temple. Moments like this are what they both had missed the most —moments to be vulnerable and tender, to be more than a weapon. 

“I need to find Kassandra,” Lesya mutters. I need to find my brother. The longer she remains with him the harder leaving will be, though —the more it will break her mending heart. But she had promised to help Kassandra find her mother and bring about the downfall of the Cult. She cannot do either from Athens, especially in the midst of a plague. 

“Lesya,” Deimos breathes, nuzzling her neck. “Stay,” he echoes what she had asked of him on Keos. One day. The Cult has no need of him for now. Perikles is dead and Kleon rules Athens —just as they wanted. For the first time since he had helped her escape, they could be with one another

She turns —water lapping at the tub’s smooth sides— and cups his face in her hands. “I can’t, Alexios.” It pains her to say it, but the timing isn’t right. One day we’ll be together. 

“I know,” he says, voice soft. “Where do you need to go?”

“Naxos,” she answers —thumb running across the scar on his cheek. “Come with me,” Lesya pleads, they could make this journey together. Deimos catches her wrist and pulls it to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to the center of her palm. She sighs when he leans forward, brushing his lips against hers. The sigh turns into a soft gasp when he rises from the tepid water —carrying her to the bedchamber.  

Deimos kneels behind her on the mattress, fingers following the deep scars on her back. He recalls the day it happened and the rage he’d felt finding her lying in a pool of bloody water in the Phokis’ villa. The scars are soon covered as he winds a fresh strip of linen around her middle. “We can leave now,” he tells her. Lesya nods, reaching for the indigo chiton laying before her —a replacement for her bloody and threadbare one. 

They move quietly through the streets —passing wains filled with the dead waiting to be carted outside of the city walls and small piles of bodies that have been set alight. Scores of Athenians have joined the ranks of the dead in a single night. The gods have forsaken Athens.  

As she and Deimos near the port, Lesya can feel her heart sink as she thinks of her brother. He’d been wroth, and aggrieved by the death of Kalanthe and learning his own sister had murdered their father. Lesya is certain the Ippalkimon would have departed to return to Keos, but she spots the gilded siren figurehead crowned with winter stars. Tundareos paces the deck —he’d done so since he returned to the ship at the edge of dark and saw the Adrestia departing without his sister. Kassandra told him she could not be found, and she could not tarry when her mother’s life was in danger. 

Deimos presses his hand against the curve of her back —she looks up at him, laurel eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Wait here,” Lesya tells him and he nods, watching as she moves up the gangplank nigh fading into the mist. Several of the deckhands pause their routines as she steps onto the trireme, a veil covers her head, but they know who the copper hair belongs to. Whispers sweep over the deck and Tryphena stops her captain, motioning toward Lesya. 

Tundareos turns on heel, marching towards his sister, and stops before her. Lesya lowers her gaze, unable to meet his as she murmurs his name. The silence seems to drag on for an eternity and the longer it lasts the further her heart sinks. Without saying anything, he surges forward and engulfs her in his arms. He had been scared of losing her too. “You’re okay,” he breathes —relieved— stepping back and resting both his hands on her shoulders, “I was so worried.” Tundareos frowns when he notices the linen bandage wrapped around her upper arm. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, the guilt in his gut coming back, “I should have never spoken to you like that. You’re my sister and I love you.”

Lesya smiles, covering one of his hands with her own. “There’s someone you need to meet,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. Tundareos nods, feeling that he already knows who it will be. Nigh everyone aboard the Ippalkimon trembles with fear upon Deimos’ arrival. Even pirates heard tales of the violent exploits of Deimos and Enyo —only fools would not fear a demigod. He stops behind Lesya, looking her brother in the eye. “Deimos,” her lips kink when she says his name, and Tundareos sees how they look at one another —fools in love, willing to do anything for each other, “this is my brother, Tundareos.” 

Her brother nods in greeting and Deimos reciprocates the gesture, never having been one for words. Tryphena calls Lesya over to discuss their heading as the Adrestia had left port in haste. Both Tundareos and Deimos take a moment to size one another up, they are roughly the same height, though Deimos is broader. Tundareos clasps onto his arm in camaraderie, but steps closer to the Cult’s champion —his friendly demeanor fading. “Demigod or not,” he hisses in a hushed voice, “if you hurt her, I will kill you.” Deimos says nothing, glancing to where Lesya stands, almost smiling and then Tundareos knows —he loves her. 

Guided by the light of the moon and stars, the Ippalkimon pulls away from port for Naxos. If the sea favors the voyage, it should take no longer than three days to reach the Kyklades. Deimos settles next to Lesya at the stern of the ship —neither of them had ever become accustomed to sailing— but the waves slowly rocking the ship isn’t unpleasant. She turns into him, draping her legs over his, and leans her head against his chest. Deimos locks his arms around her waist and sighs at the taste of freedom for them both. One day we’ll be more than weapons, we’ll be Lesya and Alexios, he thinks, hiding his smile in her cooper hair. 

@wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze

[friendlylocalwhumper]

interviews

colby | colby released | desmond and kip | desmond and kip released | sonia | sonia released | major | major meets nona | state of affairs 1

Interview 1: Remy

“What’s your name?”

Long black curls frame an elegant face. Kind eyes are shadowed by thick eyebrows and circles underneath from exhaustion. Bruising spans across the cheekbone catching the light from offscreen, blue and green and yellow. He cradles his left elbow like a single wrong twitch will get him writhing in pain.

“Remy,” He whispers to the person behind the camera.

“Remy. What happened to you?”

His eyes flick to something the camera isn’t pointed at. His fingers flex slightly with nerves. “I… got caught sneaking in someplace.”

“Why were you sneaking?”

The shirt that he’s wearing, heather grey and wrinkled, has blood on it. There’s a smear of brown by his nose: dried blood. Remy lifts his good arm, leaving the injured one alone, to tuck his nose into the crook of his elbow and inhale. It appears to calm him down.

“Is there something special about that shirt, Remy?”

He glances up and nods, talking into his sleeve, speaking above a whisper now but it makes no difference, his voice is muffled. “Yeah. It’s… I borrowed it. I was sneaking in, to see… his parents wouldn’t approve. They were never going to. A warlock, a boy… I just wanted to see him. Not even do anything. We’ve only kissed.”

“I’m not judging you, Remy.”

Nervous tapping fingers still. He offers a jerking nod. “I know. It’s just… this is all I have, his shirt. My shirt. He gave it to me, said it’s mine now. It still smells like him. It won’t forever. And I won’t see him again. I promised I’d keep coming back, even if it wasn’t safe for me. As long as it was safe for him.” Remy falls silent, haunted. “...He said it was safe.”

The interviewer allows him a moment to collect himself. Then, they ask, “Was he wrong?”

Tanned fingers scratch idly at a scabbed-over cut on his cheek. “...He was really wrong. I got… we got caught. I never used magic in that house, I swear. Never even talked about it. I just wanted to be with him. His brother came in. Tried to kill me.”

“What exactly happened? What made you think he was trying to kill you, not just scare you off?”

Remy snorts. “Grabbed me by the neck, tried to shove me out the window I climbed in. I almost fell. M-... my… the guy I was with, he defended me. Got into it with his brother so I could run. I tried to grab my shirt off the floor, but I got his instead. He might be dead. He might hate me.” Remy is staring at the floor, shoulder scrunched up to his cheek like the pressure can replace a warm hand cupped there in support.

“What happened to your arm?”

A twinge of pain rolls through the limb as Remy’s reminded of it. “Oh. The brother, he pulled on it. Messed something up, inside, I think. I don’t know any healers.”

“And what’s it mean for a magic user, if you can’t find a healer?”

Dark lips angled into a frown, Remy looks into the camera for the first time. “You find a place to hole up and you hope it heals on its own.”

“No hospitals means you’ve gotta make do with what you can find. Can you always find supplies when you need them?”

He snorts, eyes back on the interviewer. “Barely ever. Mostly you can find the basic stuff, or trade for it. Wrappings, uh, rubbing alcohol, bandaids. But the painkillers, the suture kits, the, uh, splints and slings, that stuff is impossible to get. I’ve seen…” Curls ranging from pitch black to a deep warm mahogany, depending on how much light they catch, get thrown dense and wild as he shakes his head. “That’s dark stuff, though.”

“Go on. Just the truth, that’s all I’m looking for. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Remy scrunches up his nose, itching at the blood clinging to the skin there. “Um. Yeah, okay. I was saying… I’ve seen people die from not being able to get bandages, using hoodies and stuff instead. Infection. Seen kids… there’s just, a lot of bad stuff happening, that doesn’t have to happen, just ‘cause we can’t get what we need.”

“So your arm? What are you going to do about it?”

With his good shoulder, he shrugs. “I don’t know. Get drunk and find someone to shove at it until it pops back into place, I guess. Or just try not to move it, for a couple weeks, and hope it’ll fix itself. Even if I do find a healer, I don’t have anything to trade. So, um… I guess I’m kind of screwed.”

The interviewer doesn’t answer. Remy’s eyes find the camera again, brown twinkling with the same light that illuminates the colors of pain at his cheek. The image freezes, the video finished playing, lingering on the face of the warlock who was resigned to pain and little hope of finding any help, even from his own kind.

Interview 2: Nona

The video starts with a blur of movement. Brown carpet that’s been crushed into a grimy, stale, solid mass. Stained walls, a torn beanbag chair, limp hands with split knuckles.

“Tell me about the safehouse.”

The witch tips her head, eyes narrowed. The camera is aimed at her, and she looks like she wants to fight it. “Why.”

“Because it matters. You matter. Someone, someday, is gonna ask how we survived. You’re part of the answer.”

The interviewer’s explanation doesn’t flatter her. Lilac hair goes flying as the witch tosses her head back, clearing the straight strands from her face.

“I’m Nona,” She starts, mouth hanging open on the last vowel. She tests the camera’s patience for a handful of seconds before continuing. “I’m a witch. I run this safehouse. It’s a grimy shithole but ask anyone who comes through, they know I’m in charge.”

“So I’ve heard. Does it matter, that they know?”

“That I’m in charge? Fuck yeah. You’ve gotta make it clear. No one’s in charge, anyone can throw their jacked-up muscle around, then people are getting the shit beat out of them all over power struggles. One guy wants the living room to himself, the other’s decided he rules the kitchen and if you want food, you gotta pay an entry fee. Stresses everyone out. Gets people more hurt than they already are. That’s why I kick people out, lay down a couple rules, show my face every now and then.”

“You’ve got to remind everyone that there’s someone keeping the place running.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. It doesn’t work, otherwise. And they could take over anytime. I think about it all the time. But they know I keep the fridge stocked. They know I forgive shitty mistakes and let the worst ones come back when they’ve been fucked up by cops, or something. I found this place and I built it up myself. Boarded up the windows, got the electricity going, sewed up the shitty cushions so you can sit down without fluff shooting out of the seams. And you know how long it took me?”

“No. How long?”

“One motherfucking day. I did it in one day. You know why I busted my ass for sixteen hours?”

“Why?”

“Because if I didn’t finish, if I didn’t get a lock on that front door to keep the dumbest non-magic criminal fucks out, I wouldn’t have a place to sleep that night. I put the lock in last, because if I couldn’t manage the rest in time, I didn’t deserve to fucking sleep. I wanted to make this a place that people could sleep, at least. And I did it. People know that. Ask me why they don’t do it themselves, make a new place, get to be in charge.”

“Why?”

“Because they hurt. They’ve been sleeping on floors, and getting beat up, and they’ve been walking in shoes that don’t fit them. Because they’re angry, and paranoid, and tired all the time, and they can’t pick a lock without their hands shaking, so they sure as shit can’t fix up a whole house. And they’re so focused on fighting each other, watching their own back, making sure their stuff isn’t stolen, that they can’t stop to pick up a project and see it through.”

“Are all magic users like that?”

“Mmh…” Nona taps her chin. “Most of them. It’s the easier way to be. You get stuck in a loop of getting hurt, running, hiding, going out again to get something you need, and getting hurt again. It’s hard to get out of that. The only ones who can really try to do more are, like, witches who get tired of the loop. The guys, they don’t get out of it as much. But we don’t live long, anyway, so it’s not like anybody gets much of a chance to change through the years. There’s no plans, just trying to live through the day to get to sleep again.”

Nona cracks her knuckles and stretches, lounging in the beanbag chair a moment before sitting upright again and scuffing the heel of her boot against the floor.

“Does anyone ever challenge you? Try to take over?”

The witch nods, hair falling forward over her shoulders to brush her cheeks. “Sometimes. I knock ‘em on their ass with magic, though, so they never get far.”

“Get far?”

“They never do much. I don’t let ‘em.”

“Never do much? What is it they try to do?”

Eyes dark with makeup glint with anger. “They try shit. You’re not stupid. This talk’s over.”

“What do they-”

“You get that camera out of my face,” Nona growls, knocking it off whatever held it, sending the picture flying with blurry smeared colors, “Or I’ll-”

The audio cuts off, and the video stops on a blur of brown and grey, the chaos of escalating fury falling into silence.

Interview 3: Lux

“Okay.” The camera shifts, settles, shifts again. Someone breathes heavily from beyond its line of sight. “Okay. It’s safe here. Can you talk? We got away. Can you talk now?”

The camera turns, finally set up securely against some steady surface, to focus on a shaking warlock with a hand pressed to his stomach. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“Ye-eah, I can - th-this is important, you said?”

The interviewer gasps a few more harsh breaths. It sounds like they’ve been running hard, and can only now catch their breath. “Yes. Yes, it’s important. Tell me - tell the story of what, just happened.”

Blue eyes flick up to the camera, then the off-screen interviewer, then back to the camera. “Um. O-okay. I can… I can, talk about it, just, hnn - I-I, what’re you gonna use this for? What can I… is it safe, to t-talk about…? Anything?”

“Lux.”

“Mnh?”

“We already talked about this.”

A shudder runs through him, a wince twisting his features. “Oh. S-sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that I explained all that, like, twenty minutes ago. Do you have trouble with your memory?”

Tense shoulders tilt inward. “I th-thought, thought you wanted to hear ‘bout, what happened.”

“I do. I also want to hear about you. Why can’t you remember things?”

His breaths, jagged and quick from running, too, don’t even out. “...What happens if I don’t want to talk?”

It’s silent for a moment. He looks like he’s prepared to get hit.

“That would be disappointing. But I’d leave you alone. I don’t interrogate people, I just try to collect their stories. You don’t have to do anything, Lux.”

An uncertain hum slips out of him and he lifts his head from where it fell, his body uncurling from the defensive position it settled into. “Really?”

“Really. Can I ask you something?”

A shoulder scrunches up toward a dirt-streaked cheek in a half-shrug.

“Did you really think I would hurt you, if you didn’t want to talk?”

There’s no audible guilt in the interviewer’s voice, but sadness flickers across the warlock’s face. “Oh, it’s - it’s okay. You didn’t do anything, to, to scare me. I don’t think. It’s just… I’m just like that.”

“Why are you like that?”

The fingers of his free hand twist a loose thread of his ripped sleeve. Lux stares at the floor.

“Lux?”

“Hmm? So-orry. Um. What did you ask?”

“Why are you like that? Why do you get scared? I’ve done a lot of these interviews, and most people are angry, or tired, or sarcastic. Most don’t let it show that they’re scared. You seem very open about it.”

It’s hard to tell, in the poor lighting of the video recorded at the first snatched moment after some escape from danger, but Lux is paling from his wound. He glances down at it, curls hanging. When he looks back up, he blinks, searching for words to answer with. “Um, I… got made that way. I was, I was… do you know who the Hunter is?”

“The Hunter? He made you open? I thought he killed everyone he took. Did he kill someone you knew?”

“Mnh - uh - ye-eah, but - that was just part of it. He-e, he used to kill, everyone. Mostly. Then he… he took me. I was there, he had me, for… for a year.”

“A year? How did you survive a year with the Hunter?”

“He… I don’t know. He just liked me. It was a l-lot, a lot of pain. And… mind magic.”

Lux glances up, as he mentions the taboo magic, and cringes. He must’ve seen a reaction in the interviewer.

“So your time with him wore you down, took way your defenses. He… did that, to you, and now… what is your mind like now?”

Sweat beads across the warlock’s brow. He doesn’t ask for the interview to stop. “It’s, it’s a mess. It’s just all mixed up, and I forget things, and… everything is hard. M-my… my magic, ‘specially, it, it doesn’t like to work anymore.”

“Do you think that was part of his tactics? He kills a lot of magic users, it seems like he’s trying to cripple the community. Did he mix you up so that your magic wouldn’t work, so you wouldn’t be a threat?”

His frown draws lines into his face. “No. He just, he just liked it. Scaring me. Changing me. It’s not about… he doesn’t do it for, like, society. Going after magic users, it’s just because they’re already hurting, no one cares about us. We’re just easy to target. He’s not like the feds.”

“You sound like you know him pretty well.”

Lux takes a breath, holds it, then nods. His head is heavy on his shoulders. “Better tha-an anyone, I guess.”

“Better than Quinn Mae?”

He blinks. “Quinn - you mean, Quinn, who, who let the Hunter take them, to try and… make a difference?”

“Yes. They sacrificed themself to learn about the Hunter. And it seems that they were successful. But do you know more about him than they do, even after that mission?”

Emotion gets Lux fidgeting. “Th-they - they did a good job. I think they probably learned really important stuff. It wasn’t… I don’t think it was a good idea, but I, I’m proud of them, for trying. I just - I was there for so long. I know more than the facts, I know how he feels about stuff. The Hunter loves, loved me, I… was close to him, for a long time. And I, I haven’t been much help, even though I know all that. Just knowing about him doesn’t make him that much easier to take on. It, um - it actually makes him angrier.”

“Angry enough to start torturing his way through every witch and warlock alive?”

“That’s - you’re out of line.” The assertion is quick and anxious. “It’s not Quinn’s fault. It’s no one’s fault. The Hunter likes to hurt people, he likes to punish people for being brave. Quinn did the, the bravest thing in the world, and that - it just, I guess it set him off. But it’s not their fault.”

“Sounds like cause and effect, Lux.”

“No. I - if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, he - he wanted me back, he wanted to hurt me, and I said no. I said no to him. He’s punishing me.”

“How did you say no? Did he ask? Why didn’t he just take you anyway?”

The trembling has gotten worse in Lux again, and it jars his hand against his wound, adding tension to the way he sits. “He-e, he called me. On my phone. I said no. I said - he could take me, but I wouldn’t make it easy. I wa-as trying to be b-brave. I was - healing. But… but I guess, he’s been frustrated, and, and I… set him off. I don’t know. He’s hurting so many people, and I’m trying to, to find them all, to make sure they don’t die, to help them process it all. I know what it feels like.”

“So you’re trying to help with the spree, on this end, after they get hurt.”

“Ye-eah. Trying.”

“There’s no way you can save them before they get hurt? You can’t stop him?”

The warlock’s brows twitch. “I-I… no. I’ve thought about it. I’ve… I tried to offer myself up, instead. He loves me, I thought maybe he just wanted me to, to break, to take their place… but he doesn’t want me. He said, said maybe some other time. He just wants to… he’s having fun.”

“I see. Alright, Lux. I’m sorry for bringing up a painful topic. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. It’s not your fault. I try not to step in with how I feel, but I wanted to say that. It’s not your fault.”

Lux’s head is dipped down, leaden with guilt. “Yeah, well… you don’t know him like I do.”

[ffxiv-ariavitali]

III: Confession

On the topic of family: Aria Vitali and Edmont de Fortemps (featuring Artoirel and Emmanellain de Fortemps)

1563 words

AO3 ver.

[Shadowbringers spoilers below]

❅ ❅ ❅

Lord Edmont de Fortemps watched as Aria smiled happily as she brought the teacup to her lips. The taste of chamomile and rose petals skimmed their tongues, the scent of potpourri bathing them in herbal remedies—to which the lord knew that this combination was her favorite—basking them in a refined sort of indulgence and relaxation. On her plate was an array of pastries, a sweets tower often found in High House tea parties standing in the center of the table while the lord was content with scones and lemon bread.

It had been a while since the woman had returned home, had returned to Ishgard. He had heard news passed from her brother, who obtained his tidbits from the Scions themselves. Whatever she had experienced in this new land called 'the First' clearly had its toll on her. As a father, Edmont was able to pick up on the differences rather quick: the dark circles under her eyes, the scabs of dried over cuts left over on exposed skin and the slight twitchiness she was displaying among some of the tells he knew that she wasn't aware of showing.

However, the lord had more tact than to ask. His home was her solace, a place that she can escape to that bars the entrance of those looking to manipulate her, looking to use her name and status for their own gain. He knew the game Ishgardian nobles were wont to play despite knowing that they should be grateful to the Warrior of Light for freeing them of years of battle with the Dravanians. For sparing them the fate of being razed to the ground by Nidhogg and his brood. He won't suffer for it and all within his estate is painfully aware; after all, they bear the same sentiments as the heads of house.

"Father, is aught amiss?"

Lord Edmont blinked, pulled from his reverie by the woman calling out to him. He offered a repentant smile and inclined his head.

"Mine apologies, my dear, 'tis the old age preventing me from hearing clearly. Would you do this old man a favor of repeating what you last said?"

Aria laughed at the comment, a bird-like, melodious sound, in response.

"If you were of old age, then you would not be moving as spritely as you were when you had greeted me early in the morn. I only mean to say that I had learned of a variant of herb that may aid in your arthritis while in Novrandt. When I next visit, I will harvest some and see what I can do about concocting an herbal remedy."

There she goes again, the lord thought. Caring about others and not for herself.

Edmont's smile widened and he nodded in understanding.

"You are kind overmuch, my dear. You need not go out of your way to procure the ingredients. As you said, I am still a 'spritely' man."

At this, the pair burst into cheerful chuckles and the lord saw the way that the man- and maidservants standing in wait near the wall smiled in kind. The warmth of the Warrior, the happiness of their lord together in one place and one time was a sight for sore eyes. 

The truth is more complicated; the lord being privy to them whispering and collecting news on Aria's affairs, worrying for her as if she was truly a trueborn daughter of House Fortemps. It was a shame that House Lukos, the true blood family of the Vitali children, had originally denied their lineage for the children's mother had conceived them with a lowborn with no status, no money, no honor. It was only after Aria had made a name of herself after slaying Nidhogg in which they tried to claim them as their own, even forcefully at times. They truly didn't know such treasures if it hit them in the-

Edmont took a sip of his tea, pushing the thoughts to the furthest corner of his mind. It was well and good that Stryder, Aria's elder brother, had decided to accept the position of House Lukos' next head of house. It was interesting to learn his decision of keeping the 'Vitali' surname, but he confided that it was because neither he nor his sister wished to forget their roots and where they came from. 

Moreover, the notion of allowing Aria to remain with the Fortemps family was a statement in itself: 'I care not for what you do to me, but I will never allow you to touch my sister with your greedy hands' is the words that was said. At least, according to Echoes, Aria's attendant. Thus was she here, thus has she made this manor her home for most of her days. That is, until the day a certain lord commander clad in blue decides to take her for his wife.

"Father, there is something I must confess," Aria began.

With the way that the woman had gently placed her tea cup down, the way her eyes suddenly went serious, it was something that had been swirling about her mind and heart for a while. So, Edmont did the same and sat upright just a bit more as a silent indication that he was paying attention. He saw that she appreciated notion as she smiled just a bit despite her hesitation before she finally spoke.

"You know, Father, I do not have many regrets in life. I try my best to live as if every moment is my last considering the nature of the work I am doing."

Indeed. There are many souls worrying for your safety every day.

"But, you know, Father... The day that I realized that I was dying, that I realized that the primordial Light was close to consuming all of me, there were a few things that I learned that I regretted."

At this, Edmont's eyes widened in slight surprise, his jaw going slack to which Aria had smiled sympathetically albeit wistfully.

"The first was not telling Haurchefant how much he meant to me. For allowing the fear of being hurt to consume me to the point that I was no longer afforded the chance. When I think about it, I am sure he knew and I am sure he felt the same way. There was too many things going on, after all...!"

Aria chuckled softly to herself, nervously, but Edmont didn't begrudge her for it. He knew from the first the sentiments they had for each other even when they were still figuring it out for themselves. She had gone through so much and she yet pushed on. He could never hate her for it. In fact, it made him love her even more.

"My other regret, though, Father... was not telling you how much you mean to me."

Edmont could only stare at the woman, a whirlpool of emotions swirling within his chest. He saw the manner to which her amethyst eyes glazed with unshed tears, her lips remaining stretched so she would be able to finish her confessions to him before she, herself, fell apart.

"Losing Mother when we were young really tore Stryder and I apart. When I lost my biological father hereafter, I could not help but blame myself. 'If only I was wiser. If only I had reached out to others for help earlier.' I know that he passed from an incurable disease and I truly regret not loving him more.

Yet, I am grateful. For if it was not for his last wish to have us bear witness to Ishgard and its splendors, I would not have become an Adventurer. I would not have met Haurchefant or seen the land that they hailed from. I am sure my mother and father are happy where they are and they would forgive me for such arrogance in saying this... Lord Edmont, I am proud to call you 'Father'. A father that had taken me in his home when I had no where else to go, that has loved and guided me on my path and has wiped my tears when I have cried despite not being his own."

It was at this that Aria couldn't help, but spill the tears she tried desperately to hold back. She sniffled, hiccuped and it brought to life the paternal instincts within him. So much so that he couldn't help but shedding tears of his own.

"Wh-When I thought that I would not be able to tell you th-this, I was heartbroken," she said inbetween her sobs. "So I...I wanted to tell you immediately."

Edmont stood to his feet, circling the table and took the woman into his embrace, patting the back of her head gently. He allowed her to openly weep against his clothing, offering sweet hushes and words of reassurance, and when both Artoirel and Emmanellain had crossed the hall and peeked into the room to see what was happening, he could only give them a reassuring expression.

"Is everything alright, old girl?" Emmanellain asked, ever so tactless.

Edmont nodded. "Indeed. Just a little sentimental, your sister is."

Artoirel smiled helplessly. "Ah, so it seems."

When they approached, Edmont reached out and pulled the two into his embrace, as well. He was blessed to have such children, one who loves him and whom he loves in earnest.

He will confess this to all of Ishgard if need be.

[fairie-gothmother]

In The Shadow of Starlight, Part 2: Negotiating With Gods

Read Part 1: The Fall

Octavia took a deep breath outside the door, steadying herself in preparation for what Lilith asked her to do. How did she get into these situations? A week ago, she was in her room, sipping on a Moxx-tail and watching a Lord of Skags stream on the EchoNet. Today, she was interrogating the cult leading, pseudo-siren monstrosity known as the God King. Lieutenant Cramer wasn’t making things any easier. He was ready to go. She stumbled when Cramer clapped her on the back a bit too forcefully.

“Enough waiting around. Chin up, kid,” he said. Shouldering his gun and wasting no more time, Cramer kicked the door open. “Look alive, rat boy!”

Troy sat with his head resting on a small table at the center of the dimly lit holding cell. The walls and floor were made of concrete. The only entrances were two heavily reinforced steel doors. The door at the front of the room was the one they had entered. The other one was at the back beside a wide mirror that took up the majority of the wall.

Troy lifted his head. “Aw, that’s adorable. They employ senior citizens here. At ease, Pops. The Corporate Wars ended a while ago,” he said.

Octavia braced herself while giving Cramer a sideways glance.

“Wipe that pedophile smile off your face, boy! I have gray pubes older and wiser than you!” Cramer yelled, his face nearly turning purple.

Troy sneered at him, slowly rising from his chair and standing at his full height. He towered over Cramer in an intimidating display. The sporadically sparking remains of his damaged cybernetic arm dangled from his shoulder. The red light of his siren marks cast eerie highlights across the angled features of his face. 

Octavia stayed close to the door, unsure how this would play out.

Cramer was unimpressed and got right down to business. The dude had nerves of steel. “Commander Lilith has ordered the removal of that smoking fire hazard you’ve been dragging behind your sorry ass. Ellie will be doing the honors. You are expected to behave yourself.”

“And if I don’t behave?” Troy challenged.

Ellie entered the room right on cue. “Then yer gonna make this a lot harder than it needs ta be.” Octavia had met Ellie a few times before. She was a squat, stout woman wearing overalls, every pocket filled with tools and gadgets. “Let’s just git through this. I don’t wanna be here any more than you do.”

Troy put his hand over his chest feigning a broken heart. “Hey, that hurts my feelings.”

Ellie ignored him and flipped her welding mask down over her face with a nod of her head, plasma cutter in hand. Troy got the message and sat down. Loose cybernetic parts dangled from the back of his neck. He winced when Ellie reattached them into the bleeding ports of his spinal implant. The mechanical arm barely hung onto his right side by chucks of charred metal and wires. Ellie removed the arm with little effort. When she reached to do the same with the shoulder brace, Troy grabbed her arm with his remaining flesh hand before she was able to touch it.

“Leave it,” Troy said through clenched teeth.

Ellie yanked her arm from his grip. “Suit yerself. I’m gonna fix the hinges on yer jaw modification. The higher-ups are comin’ and I don’t want ya droolin’ all over the place. Open up.”

Troy slurped and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. His modified jaw split open at the chin revealing rows of pointed fangs. He leaned closer to Ellie, flicking his long tongue. Dear god, Octavia thought. She forced herself to look away.

Ellie was in no mood to put up with any shit. “I could smother you under one tit, string bean! Now back off ‘fore I decide ta weld yer monster mouth shut.”

Unable to articulate, Troy growled in response but did as he was told. Ellie finished the touch ups in a matter of minutes. Without a word, she gathered her tools and stood. Troy snapped his jaws back in place and ran his fingers along the newly repaired hinges.

After finishing her job, Ellie walked over to stand by Octavia. She leaned close to Octavia’s ear and said, “That guy’s creepier than slow dancin’ with a hot corpse. Watch yerself.”

Octavia’s throat felt like sandpaper. She approached carrying her medical bag in what she hoped looked like a confident stride. Never in her worst nightmare did she think she’d meet the Calypso in person. He was thin and monstrously tall. His usual bulky, fur trimmed coat was missing which left his upper body completely exposed apart from the black collars around his neck. Lithe muscle slid beneath tanned, bruised skin. Radiant red siren marks coiled in looping patterns around his left arm and across the left side of his face. Icy blue eyes pierced through deep shadowed sockets with traces of black eye makeup smudged underneath.

“Like what you see?” Troy asked.

Octavia snapped out of her stare. Remembering her bedside manner, she extended her right hand to Troy. “Hello, Troy. My name is Octavia.” Troy raised an eyebrow at the gesture. Octavia quickly recoiled realizing that Troy didn’t have a right hand to shake with. “Right, sorry,” she said.

“Jesus. First the redneck mechanic, now an incompetent doctor.”

Octavia took offense to that, momentarily forgetting her nerves. “While I’m legally obligated to say I’m not technically a doctor, I am a highly qualified herbalist.” Octavia set her bag on the table. After putting on a pair of gloves, she pulled the stopper from a vial. “This is gonna sting.” She hesitated before touching him. Cautiously, she applied ointment to a laceration across Troy’s collarbone.

“Perfect. A witch doctor. Even better,” he said sarcastically. He hissed in pain. “The hell is that? It reeks.”

Octavia continued the application. “Scab root reduction. It’s a plant based antiseptic. It burns like hell and stinks just as bad, but it does the job.”

“Sorry I asked.”

Dried blood flaked from his skin as she applied more ointment to a lesion on his human shoulder. Uneasiness writhed in her stomach as her hands passed over the glowing red tattoos that adorned the limb. She expected them to feel warm to the touch, but they felt exactly like the rest of his skin.

The wounds were deep. She carefully cleaned and stitched them, working until she was satisfied that he was safe from infection. Much better, she thought, feeling pleased with herself. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the condition of the metal brace on his right shoulder. It bent inward in such a way that it likely put an uncomfortable amount of pressure on whatever tissues were underneath.

“I’d like to see the extent of the damage under your…” Octavia slipped the tips of her fingers beneath the shoulder brace. 

Troy lunged forward and shoved her into the wall in one fluid motion. Her head bounced off the concrete causing her vision to blur. His forearm held her across the chest, his body flush against her, pinning her against the wall. Cramer reacted immediately and aimed his gun at Troy from across the room.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Troy’s threat was delivered in a hot whisper inches above her face. His lips curled back in a snarl revealing gold capped fangs on his canine teeth. The stench of blood on him was sickening. She couldn’t move, completely at his mercy.

“Stand down!” Cramer yelled, still aiming a Jakob’s shotgun at the side of Troy’s head.

There was a tremble in Troy’s grip. Octavia noticed he was using his weight rather than his strength to hold her in place. He drew sharp breaths while his lungs struggled with the effort. Despite his incredible endurance, he was still weak.

“Rat boy, if you think for one moment that I won’t put a hole in that greasy head and watch your tiny brain drain out, you’ve got another thing coming! I said stand down!” Cramer repeated.

Troy’s enraged expression contorted into a playful smirk as he released Octavia and backed away. He raised two fingers to his brow in a mock salute to Cramer.

Octavia pressed a hand to her chest both to calm her pounding heart and to recover from just having the wind knocked out of her. Ellie rushed to her side to put a comforting arm around her. “You okay? He’s all bark ‘n no bite the way he’s in. He’s just tryin’ ta intimidate us.”

Octavia nodded. “It’s working.”

After collecting herself, Octavia took a seat across from Troy, who had reverted back to being aloof with his feet propped up on the table. He looked at her expectantly. This dramatic change in demeanor was unsettling. He was ticking time bomb begging for an excuse to explode.

Octavia cleared her throat. “I think it’s safe to assume that anyone else that found you in your condition today would’ve killed you on the spot.”

“Yeah, woulda been the smart thing to do. Which is why I can’t help but wonder why you chucklenuts didn’t,” Troy prompted.

“Lilith sees potential to make something of this circumstance, crazy as that sounds.” Octavia paused, wanting to choose her next words carefully. Her voice softened. “You’ve hurt a lot of people, Troy. This could be your shot at redemption.”

Troy snickered. “Redemption? Yeah, no thanks. The only thing I’m after now is revenge.”

“You’re not the least bit interested? People are calling you a monster.”

“So what? You get in a God’s way, you get smited… smitten… smote? Whatever. Point is, fear turns out to be the perfect motivator. So if keeping the masses motivated makes me a monster, let them think what they want.” Troy nonchalantly rested his hand behind his head.

“That doesn’t bother you? Even if you’re not leading the Children of the Vault anymore?”

“Like I said, let them think what they want.” After a moment, Troy sighed heavily. He glanced at the mirror that ran across the length of the back wall and rolled his eyes. “I get why you Crimson Traitors see me as a monster. Tyreen and I attacking your commander and all. Before you decide to torture me or whatever you plan to do, let me just point out that I spoke up and stopped Tyreen from dusting your precious Firehawk.”

Octavia hesitated. She never knew exactly what happened the day Tyreen stole Lilith’s powers. If that was true- “Why would you do that?”

Troy shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

~~~

Lilith & Maya were listening in on the conversation behind the two way mirror from the connected observation room. It was obvious to Lilith that her siren companion was uncomfortable after this sociopath had subtly told them he knew they were watching. Maya shifted her weight from side to side, arms crossed, nervously drumming her fingers.

“I really don’t like this, Lilith.”

“I’m not sure what to make of it either. If Troy is telling the truth about wanting revenge on Tyreen, he could help turn the tables in our favor. On the other hand, if this is all a trick and he’s still with the COV, it’d be bad news for all of us.”

Maya threw her hands up in frustration. “That’s exactly why we shouldn’t be taking any chances. There are a lot of people that we keep safe, including the ones inside that room. What would have happened to Octavia if Troy was at his full strength?” Of course she already knew what would’ve happened. “The Calypsos took your powers without a shred of mercy.”

Lilith interrupted, “That’s not entirely true. I’m standing here with you, aren’t I? Tyreen had me by the throat, drained my powers, and was ready to finish me off. But Troy stopped her. He said they were in a hurry to leave. I don’t know if I’d call that mercy, but it may not exactly be malice. I want to test where his loyalties lie. We convince him to cooperate, then we can decide how to use him.”

Maya huffed and resumed staring daggers through the two way mirror, her siren marks pulsing in reaction.

What a strange turn of events. Not in a million years did Lilith foresee a situation like this. One of the Calypso twins was in her custody seeking revenge on the other. It was too good to be true. She expected Troy to jump at the first chance to coordinate with the Raiders, but he refused. If he was trying to infiltrate, that would have been his way in. Did Tyreen really cast him out? What was the catch here? Lilith was determined to find out. Enough of this quiet observation. She opened the door, and entered the holding room.

Troy’s gaze instantly locked onto Lilith when she entered. His cold eyes followed her all the way up to the table at which he and Octavia sat. Though her composure didn’t falter, the contempt in his look made Lilith’s skin crawl.

Lilith put a hand on her hip. “Let’s assume what you’re telling us is true. You got denounced, and Tyreen made an example out of you. Surely some of your devoted followers would’ve wanted to help you out.”

“Some tried. There weren’t enough of them to cause a mutiny or anything.”

Octavia chimed in, “So there were others thrown out, too?”

“Maybe,” Troy said. “If there were, they must’ve been poofed somewhere else. I was alone when I got beamed out. It’s more likely that Tyreen ate them all.”

At last, Lilith asked the question everyone was dying to know the answer to. “Troy, why did Tyreen kick you out of the Children of the Vault?”

“It’s a family matter. Kinda personal. I’m sure you understand.”

“We just want to make sense of your situation,” Octavia pleaded.

Troy looked back and forth between the two women a few times, then scrunched up his face. “Are you actually going for the good cop-bad cop routine?”

Octavia suggested, “We could both try bad cop.”

Lilith could tell this wouldn’t go anywhere. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets. As you already know, the Crimson Raiders are pursuing Tyreen and the COV. As much as I hate to admit it, we could use each other’s help. You know the ins and outs of their entire operation. We’d like to offer you the chance to coordinate with us.”

The expression on Troy’s face was hard to read. “You do know who I am, right? Calypso twin, God King, ex-Holy Father of the Children of the Vault? After everything I’ve done, why would you want to offer me anything?”

“Don’t take it the wrong way. You’re still at the top of the shit list,” said Lilith.

Octavia cut in. “Embarrassingly, we don’t have much on the COV. We’re outnumbered and our intel is outdated. What have you got to lose? You know the saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ You get your revenge, we stop Tyreen from leeching the entire galaxy. Win-win.”

Troy was silent, those cold eyes narrowing skeptically. Losing patience, Lilith added, “Or Cramer could keep you company while you rot in a max security prison cell.”

Cramer still stood at attention at the front of the room. When the Calypso looked at him, a vein throbbed in Cramer’s neck and he shouted, “What are you lookin’ at, cock snot?”

“Pff! Screw that. If it gets me out this hellhole, then I’m in,” Troy said. He looked to Octavia. “I guess your good cop strategy worked after all.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Phew! I apologize if this one felt a little long winded. I crammed in lots of exposition, some backstory, and foreshadowing. Thanks for sticking with it. Part 3 will be much more exciting, I promise. In all its bloody, chaotic glory. 

Feel free to ask questions or just let me know if you like the story. I am fueled by feedback.

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

Scarlett and the Professor

[continued from]

Two weeks, she had muttered to herself, fluffing her hair to loosen her fresh curls a bit, while inspecting her reflection in the mirror, and deciding she could go without the under eye concealer today.  Scarlett had gotten better sleep last night than she had in several days.  She supposed it was because she now felt more angry than sad, and was slowly moving towards acceptance–and surely that had to be a good thing. 

Nearly two weeks had gone by since their salacious interlude on the beach, and Hennessy remained well under her skin, even though he had not once acknowledged what had happened between them, since then.  She had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, but had found herself alone when the rays of the new day’s sun had warmed her skin enough to awaken her.  Scarlett had hoped for better–it was her nature–but hadn’t been surprised, given his.

And so she had dusted herself off, pulled herself together (grateful that at least she had put her knickers back on before falling asleep–for what if some early morning beach lover had come upon her exposed that way?), gathered her things, and made her way home, concentrating solely on every step that brought her closer to her Vespa, and then on every mile that she traveled back to her flat.  By the time she got there, her muscles had announced a bounty of aches incurred in her exertions of the night before, so that she ran a hot bath and soaked herself until the water went tepid, then dried herself and brushed her teeth and curled up in bed, to sleep until mid-afternoon. 

In the bath, she had finally allowed herself to review the many hours and many ways that Hennessy had schooled her, used her, satisfied her, through the night.  And as hurt as she felt having found herself abandoned, Scarlett couldn’t rue a single moment they had shared; when she closed her eyes and just calmed her breathing, she fancied she could feel anew his hungry, sinful touch, and the way his mouth had savored every bit of her.  The taste of his tongue tangling with hers, and the flavor of his spend filling her mouth and throat.  She hadn’t needed coaxing that second time; she’d felt to soft for him, so in awe of how masterfully he had played her body, that she had wanted…had needed…to satisfy Hennessy in some manner approaching that which he had visited upon her.  His deliberate, debauched and lingering play with her had taught her enough to enable her to draw out his pleasure more profoundly; his gritty moans as she took him long and deep, his howled curses when he came down her throat mercilessly, the testament that she had pleased her teacher well.  

The following Monday morning, she had worn her gauziest, off-the-shoulder dress and the pale pink gloss that had adorned her lips on Saturday night-–meant to remind him of how he had coveted them–-knowing he could not miss her seated in her usual place, in the front row of his classroom.  Scarlett hadn’t expected him to fawn over her, not in front of her classmates.  She had only wanted some small acknowledgement of the intimacies that had shared, with the hope that Hennessy would soon propose another meeting for them off-campus.  Yet he had not even looked at her, not when she crossed her legs to show them at greater advantage, or when dropped her pen as he stood closeby, and then looked up to him just after she bent low to retrieve it.  By the end of class, she was so confused and dismayed that she didn’t even note the scraping of the chairs around her as other students rose and headed for the door.

When she finally realized that class was over, she gathered her things to leave, too tongue tied to say a single word.  But with her hand poised to pull the door open, Scarlett turned back for just a moment, daring to see of Hennessy was watching her.  There he stood, as bold as a fresh coat of red paint, his gaze unyielding as his eyes flared just slightly enough to acknowledge her catching him out.  He barely lifted his chin, but she knew damn well that that was him dismissing her.  And in that way, she felt entirely dismissed, as though he found no value in the sins they’d shared, and she was just another of the many whose names and faces he likely forgot as he moved on to his next conquest.  

Scarlett was shaking hard, filled with a well of emotions she knew must wait to be sorted through until she was fully alone.  Head bowed, she headed straight back to her flat, not a bit concerned about cutting her afternoon class–-and she managed to hold herself in check until she banged shut her door behind her.  Only then did Scarlett give into the hot tears that were her reward for foolishly trusting a cad, and for naively hoping their delicious rendezvous had had touched him enough to keep him wanting her.

At least by that point, she could feel grateful and relieved that he hadn’t taken her in full on the beach.  Hennessy had touched her into repeated orgasms, and then later had lowered his head between her thighs, using his beautiful lips and talented tongue upon her secret flesh, so that Scarlett had thought he was readying her for the penetration to come.  She had been prepared for that, having decided some time ago that she wanted him to be her first.  Instead, he had dwelt there, exploring her beyond any way she ever imagined a man would–and eventually she had lost all reason, undulating in waves of almost unendurable pleasure, so that once he had finished with her, she’d been so weak and worn that all she could do was cling to him and slip quietly into satisfied sleep.  At the time, Hennessy had seemed amused by her fragility, even cradling her close as lovers do, but now Scarlett wondered if that failure was the reason he appeared to have rejected her now.  Was it simply that she had lacked the endurance and maturity to see the ultimate act through?  

Each class after that had been much the same.  No signal from Professor Hennessy that she was anything more than his student.  No indication that he retained any interest, let alone desire, to continue the ‘lessons’ he had promised her.  There were several times he had addressed her in a purely academic context, calling her ‘Miss Campbell’, in the very same way he called upon his other female students.  And a handful of times he referred to her as ‘Miss Scarlett’.  That appellation never failed to leave her unnerved, for it seemed a tease, as Hennessy stood near enough for his cologne to invade her senses, his voice become a disdainful, velvet caress that slowly peeled away the fresh scab on her wounded pride.  

Scarlett had done her utmost to keep her mind occupied, throwing herself into all of her course work, often working out more rigorously that usual, and doing everything she could not to dwell upon her foolish undoing.  But for the first few days, in the quiet of her flat–especially at mealtimes and bedtime–she grieved her bright hopes denied; her appetite grown scant, her pillows wet with the tears that ushered her into fitful sleep.  She loathed the red rimmed, puffy eyes that betrayed her inner turmoil, and hid behind blue-tinted sunglasses in public whenever possible.

A few days more, and she grew angry, calling herself the worst fool in the world to have placed any faith in Hennessy’s promises, berating her own naivete–and bemoaning the ridiculous fact that she still wanted him.  Still longed for his attention and his touch.  And on the nights she would wake from dreams that relived that moon bright night enough to make her ache with renewed need, she would pound her pillow in frustration to have her body betray her so.  There were times Scarlett felt so desperate and aroused by those dreams that she was weak enough to seek the comfort of fantasies; and having learned his lessons well, she would touch herself, imagining it was Hennessy delivering again his wicked ministrations.  At least on those nights, she slept soundly afterwards.  

Disconcertingly, her old nightmares of being stalked by monstrous creaatures from the oceans depths or of being swallowed by the deep, dark sea, began to plague her again, no doubt stirred to life by the disquiet in her heart.  As miserable as they left her feeling, they provided the positive effect of making Scarlett turn the anger she had been directing at herself, towards the man who had abused her emotions so.  Though it was a bitter pill to swallow, she found some strength in this, in calling him the bigger fool and deciding it was his loss to exile her from his life this way.  

Thus empowered, she had begun to hold herself aloof in class, no longer intent on seeking his attention, concentrating instead on taking copious notes, never eager to be called upon, even when she knew the answers.  Scarlett also managed to make herself ignore those moments when the dashing professor would pass by her close enough to brush fleetingly against the material of her skirt or blouse.  Indeed, not wishing to give him the satisfaction that he still affected her, she now schooled herself not to react in the least.

That remained the case as the clock ticked down the last ten minutes of today’s session, while the Professor collected sheets of a pop quiz he had just administered.  Having directed that all papers be handed forward to the first student in his row, he hovered over Scarlett as he took the pile from her.  As usual, she kept her eyes lowered--until his fingers brushed against hers while she handed the  tests over.  Brushed and then lingered, as he intoned in his detached, precise, and utterly professsorial tone, “Miss Campbell, I require you to remain after class a while.” 

Fully unprepared for the electric shock of his skin on hers, let alone for so sudden a command from the man who still bedeviled her dreams despite her honest wish that he did not, she dared her eyes up to his--to discover him watching her with that familiar, now unnerving, hunger in his compelling eyes.  She blinked up at him, read his stern but somehow bemused expression, and answered, ‘Yes, Sir...”  Though she felt the color rise in her cheeks, Scarlett believed it was more from the banked anger she still felt, than from her thrwarted desire, or even her typical embarrassment of being singled out.

She remained seated as the classroom emptied, chewing her lip and tapping her pen nervously.  Before class had commenced, she had haphazardly doodled storm clouds in the margin of her notebook, and now she wondered if it was some premonition of a tempest brewing.  Well then, she resolved, perhaps this time such a storm will be mine--and equal to his!  

Scarlett only looked up again when she heard the lock on the door click shut, and then watched in amazement as Hennessy crossed to the windows and lowered the blinds 2/3 of the way, allowing enough of an opening for the fresh, comforting scent of the ocean to continue to saturate the air.  He turned to her, taking his time as he rolled up his shirt sleeves, and finally spoke.  “Do you think me a cruel man, Scarlett?”

There was a softness in his voice she had never anticipated hearing again--so that against her will, it took her back to their night, and those moments of surprising gentleness he had shown her amidst the hunger and the passion.  Moments she had come to think of as the eye of the storm, and which she still treasured, beyond any hope of going there again.  Scarlett lowered her lashes to hide the threat of sudden tears which his unexpected softness had prompted.  She must only show strength to him now, not her childish weakness...

“It’s alright to say ‘yes’, my dear.  I know full well what I am.” Scarlett could feel him drawing closer, but she couldn’t bear to watcch him, for all the progress she had thought she’d made had vanished when he spoke her name that way.  “I can be a very, very cruel man when the spirit strikes me.  And I think you know that now, too...don’t you?”

She remained mute, trying her best to blink away those damned weakling tears, and bent her head further, hoping the fall of her hair would hide them.

“I’ve been quite cruel to you,” he t’sked, and she saw his shiny black wingtips standing near her feet, “Letting you languish this way...waiting...wondering...dare I say, wishing for more...after what passed between us on the beach.”

Scarlett would only shake her head ‘no’, refusing to give him this victory as well.  

“But I have been watching you, you know.  Wondering if you would break.”  His rich, smooth baritone, even the aristicratic inflections of his British accent, worked a soothing magic she wished she could deny.  “I saw how you carried your hurt, sweet Scarlett.  And I’m pleased to say, I’ve seen you assert a strength I wasn’t sure you possessed.  I must admit, coupled with your other charms...”  he left that word linger between them, his full meaning become crystal clear, “...it’s delectably appealing.”  Hennessy allowed her a moment to answer, though she did not.  “Ahhhh...I can imagine how you must’ve cursed my name,” he chuckled.

At that, she did dare a quick glance at him, finding he was rather less amused than he sounded, before she lowered her lashes--and unafraid now that he’d seen how he had hurt her, Scarlett  swiped at the stubborn tears that had fallen against her will.

He tutted, and then bent near to gently tilt her chin up, “Please look at me, little lamb--even your very righteous tears are much too charming for this old fiend to resist...”

Scarlett meant to look defiant, hoped he would see her in that way.  Whatever it was he saw, it seemed to please him, and he dropped into a crouch beside her.  Her heart was hammering as hard as when she had knelt in his shadow, wondering how to begin the act he had desired of her.  How intently he was studying her now!  Making her feel certain that he already divined her most secret thoughts and feelings.

“Aren’t you just the loveliest little lamb of them all?”  He traced his thumb across her lips.  “Strong and soft all at once.  And trembling for me too...” 

“Please,” she whispered, while he cupped her face in his strong, sure hands, “Please don’t tease me so.  That’s not...that’s not playing fair...”

His coming kiss was a foregone conclusion, but he paused with his mouth a soft breath from hers, “Darling, you know that I rarely play fair...but if you want to turn away, now is the time to do so.”  He nudged her lips a bit with his, and Scarlett answered with a helpless little whimper.  “Otherwise, I’m taking that...and the ripeness of your pretty lips...as the acquiescence which I’m sure you want to give.” 

Scarlett drew a deep sigh, melting for him in exactly the way she had sworn she never would, and let herself drown in the fathomless depths of his irresistible, inexorable kiss...

(to be continued)

tagging:  @ben-c-group-therapy​ @strangelock221b​ @tsukuyomi011​ @splunge4me2art​ @letterstosherlock​ @humanbornarchangel​ @thehiddenlawyer​ @emilyinnj4real​ @aeterna-auroral-avenger​ @adragonscloset

[zabrak-show]

Blood of the Sith

Chapter 3

Summary: Kudra meets a strange male zabrak (who could it be lmao)

Read chapter 1 here

Read chapter 2 here

Kudra slowly opened her dried tear encrusted eyes to see the wretched cave wall. Her hand was shooting with intense pain from the lava burns, but it took an immediate back seat to the memory of losing L0. She turned over with the idea of going back to sleep, but suddenly felt someone’s presence in the cave with her. She bolted up to a seated position and sternly asked,

“Who’s there? What are you doing here?” She could make out a figure near the door to the cave, but couldn’t see anything besides a deep red skin tone and black tattoos on their face.

Perhaps a Zabrak.

The rest of the figure was shrouded in a black cape and the darkness of the cave. Finally, a deep raspy voice responded to her,

“Why are you here?” the stranger demanded. She could feel a presence in her mind attempting to needle it’s way to the truth and she fought it out by focusing on L0’s death.

“My droid and I crash landed here after we got caught in an electrical storm. My ship’s gone and my droid’s dead. So I’m not really sure what I’m doing here other than experiencing hell.” Kudra said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, so very sad for you.” the stranger responded attempting to eat away at her already pathetic remnants with mockery.

“Yes, well I don’t expect you want to help me, so I’d prefer you just leave me to die instead of mocking my pain.” She looked into the stranger’s bright yellow eyes and the feeling in her head sharpened like someone had cracked it open to steal its contents slowly extracting the threads of her memories and snagging on itself on it’s way out. She focused again on L0 until that drawing out pain subsided.

“Who are you?” the stranger further demanded.

“I’m Kudra Deschain. I’m a pilot and mechanic. I was sent here by my boss on Coruscant to do some work for someone at the mining collective.” She never told anyone about the cargo unless she was certain it was the point of contact.

“I see,” the stranger stepped towards her, “I can take you somewhere safer than this.” Kudra felt an immense weight lifted off her, followed by an immediate sense of skepticism.

He’s never even told me who he is.

“Why should I trust you, I don’t even know you.” The words spat out from her like venom.

“It looks to me,” he said, menacingly calm, “You don’t exactly have a lot of options.” He spoke quietly, but with more aggression than most could convey with yelling. He turned and started heading out of the cave.

“Well, how do I know I can trust you?” she asked as she rushed to get up and follow him out of the cave. He turned his head back to face her,

“You don’t.” He walked out of the cave. Kudra sighed and grabbed her stuff to follow him.

This is completely crazy. But what else can I do?

Kudra was hungry, filthy, weary, and injured. Maybe this stranger was her key to getting home.

“Hey wait up stranger!” she yelled after him. He had already advanced far ahead of her and her weakened body felt like it could only move in slow motion. He made no acknowledgement of her request unless it was to walk even faster. She panted and ran ahead trying to close the gap between them. She fell down several times and caught her injured hand on a jagged rock at last causing it to gush with blood. She was furious now and in tears.

“DON’T SAY YOU WILL HELP SOMEONE IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO YOU BARVE.” she screamed ahead at him. She picked herself up and shook off the dirt and soot. She looked up and gasped as his yellow eyes and red and black face snarling at hers only inches away.

“I owe you nothing. Keep up or crawl back to a cave. It does not affect me.” the words oozed like the lava pits around her, melting away any sort of nice feeling this planet or the zabrak could ever have. She glared at him through her goggles knowing it was probably impossible for him to tell she was shooting daggers at him in her mind. She let the anger wash over anyway and it felt good for once, like she could keep going.

He made a low hmph sound and turned to keep walking. She kept up much better this time. Neither of them spoke. Kudra looked forward to being away from this angry zabrak. Every step filled her with more anger at this situation. The planet was the worst thing to happen to her. She was so engulfed in her thoughts and anger that she didn’t notice the zabrak had suddenly come to a stop in front of her and she ran completely into the back of him with her full body weight. He stood sturdy and unmoving from the jolt of her accidental shove. She couldn’t help but notice his build was not that much bigger than her own, but was solid muscle and a rush of butterflies entered her stomach.

Ew, no. You’re just lonely.

“We’re here.” he moved forward and she looked around at the abandoned looking mining colony. He opened the heavy door and she went into the darkness, uncertain if this was going to be the stupidest thing she’d ever done. Maybe this would be the new Crix Harend story. Her heart broke as she remembered L0 would never be around to make fun of her for that again. She could already feel the cool air and the darkness didn’t phase her until the zabrak closed the heavy door behind her with a loud thump and there was no light. He grabbed her with a gloved hand and led her through the darkness until finally she saw some light ahead.

“Can you see now?” he asked. The anger in his voice was no longer dominant.

“Yes. Thank you.” She tore her arm away from his grasp and rubbed her skin where he had held onto her so firmly. They entered a living space. The walls were a discolored yellow/orange color and there was dust and soot covering everything. She scanned around the room, it felt like the highest class hotel after what she’d been through. An actual bed, towels, clothes, and best yet, food and water. She’d been through hell and here she was in heaven. The ridiculousness was too much and she burst out laughing at the absurdity of her own thoughts. She laughed so hard she gasped and tears ran down her face as she hugged a pile of towels and linens. The zabrak looked at her with concerned confusion, his arms crossed and head cocked at an angle. She caught his look and it made her laugh even harder.

This is it. I have finally officially lost it.

Finally she caught her breath and smiled at him, “ This is so great. Thank you for bringing me here. I wouldn’t have found this without you.”

“I know you wouldn’t have.” he said, sounding annoyed. She remembered his gruffness and rolled her eyes at him while heading for the bathroom to shower and change.

The shower was dingy and quite honestly, one of the grossest she’d ever had to use. That didn’t change the fact that it gave her the best and longest shower of her life. It felt like she had been stuck on this planet for years, growing layer after layer of soot and dirt as she watched it rinse off her body. The clothes left behind by whoever was here before were nothing fancy. A loose dark gray tunic, black pants and a black belt to cinch the waist. Her hair was knotted even after the long wash, so she tied it back and looked in the mirror. Her face was reddened and scratched up pretty bad. A deep scab started at her hairline by her temple to the corner of her eye with a dark purple bruise surrounding it.

“You look like hell!” she said, winking at herself in the mirror. She wrapped her burned up and bleeding hand with some scrap linens. She made herself some food from the rations and looked around for the zabrak. He wasn’t in sight and she was not adventurous enough to explore out in the pitch dark for him. Oh well if he left. At least she was safer here.

Next chapter

[experimcnts-archived]

HAPPY  BIRTHDAY  TO  MYFANWY   @masterstrange  !  <3  HOPE  YOU  HAVE   A  LOVELY  DAY  AND  I  HOPE  THAT  YOU  ENJOY  MY  ATTEMPT  AT  A  DRABBLE! 

TW: drug & alcohol use

It’s  a  hot  day  in  Malibu,  the  sun  was  high  in  the  sky,  no  clouds,  not  even  the  smallest  of  breezes.  But  Tony  stood  there,  shivering,  huddled  up  in  an  old,  oversized  hoodie.  The  material  was  still  soft,  if  a  bit  washed  out,  but  Tony’s  arms  were  itching,  right  under  the  bruised  skin,  an  itch  he  couldn’t  scratch  away  even  if  he  sank  his  nails  into  the  flesh  until  it  bled.  

 It’s  his  second  time  going  to  rehab  —  Tony  wondered  whether  he’d  see  the  old  residents  of  it,  addicts  like  him,  whom  he  turned  into  somewhat  friends.  Maybe  there  will  be  someone  with  new,  but  not  fresh  faces,  all  wide  eyed  and  wishing  for  freedom,  hoping  for  a  fix.  Trying  to  fight  against  that  desire,  just  like  him.  Although,  this  time  he  was  the  one  to  state  that  he  needs  to  go,  he  needs  to  clean  himself  up.  

 It  was  after  waking  up  on  the  bathroom  floor,  just  this  morning,  his  sick  dried  on  his  lips,  silk  shirt,  the  toilet  and  tiled  floor.  A  nearly  empty  bottle  of  Black  Label,  forearms  blossoming  blue  and  violet  from  all  the  shooting  up  he  had  done  for  an  over  two  weeks.  He  had  earned  his  first  doctorate,  the  occasion  called  for  some  celebration.  As  well  as  mourning  over  the  nasty  fight  he  had  with  Stephen.

 “ Will  you  come  visit  me? ”  They’ve  been  standing  on  the  curb  of  the  sidewalk  for  twenty  minutes,  and  only  now  had  Tony  decided  to  speak  up,  when  he  could  see  Happy’s  black  car  turning  into  the  street.  Glassy  eyes  seek  out  ones  of  swirling  blues  and  greens,  the  flecks  of  gold  as  always  drawing  him  in.  Tony  could  drown  in  those  eyes,  he  did  so  dozens  of  times  in  the  past.  What  happened  to  them,  to  him  and  Stephen?  They  used  to  be  crazy  in  love,  glued  by  the  hip.  Now  there  were  only  exams,  due  dates,  and  his  late  father’s  company.  Tony’s  imagine  had  to  be  upheld  and  maintain.  He’s  not  allowed  to  love  another  man.  But  he’s  allowed  to  strut  around  with  women  to  thousands  of  parties,  pretend  to  have  flings  with  them.  

 No  wonder  they  had  so  many  rows;  Tony  would  start  them  too  if  he’d  have  to  see  the  papers  showing  Stephen  chasing  skirts  week  in  and  week  out.  

 Stephen  gives  him  a  smile,  it’s  a  bit  sad,  a  bit  understanding.  Mostly  concerned.  Happy  stops  the  car  by  them,  goes  around  it  and  opens  the  passenger’s  seat,  no  words  or  greetings  exchanged.  The  sun  was  shining  high  in  the  sky  yet  to  them  all  this  day  felt  rather  dreary  and  very  sad.  “ Once  a  week,  like  the  last  time. ”  It  was  not  an  intentional  bite  by  any  means,  yet  Tony  winces  at  it  nonetheless.  

 But  then  the  shorter  man  is  wrapped  in  a  tight  hug,  and  it’s  the  first  step  to  recovery.  From  drugs,  from  the  mess  of  their  relationship.  Tony’s  determined  to  fix  it  all,  and  he  knows  that  the  place  to  start  was  always  with  his  own  faults  and  imperfections.  The  warmth  Stephen’s  body  was  emitting  felt  like  a  balm  to  his  bruised  soul.  Damn  it  all.  Tony  was  coming  off  a  high,  there  was  a  dull  pain  in  his  bones  that  he  knew  will  only  increase  over  the  next  few  days.  A  vile  trip  awaits  for  him,  a  purification  of  his  systems,  detox  from  meth,  his  drug  of  choice.  And  he  couldn’t  even  give  a  proper  goodbye  to  his  boyfriend.  

 “ I’ll  call  you  daily,  though.  So  you  better  squeeze  in  some  time  for  me  between  all  your  studying  and  shit,  okay? ”  A  weak  attempt  at  a  joke,  Tony  could  see  the  shift  in  Stephen’s  face,  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  into  a  frown,  the  furrow  to  his  brow.    But  before  he  could  argue,  Tony  raised  his  hand  up,  silencing  him  and  shaking  his  head,  “ I’m  just  kidding,  lover.  I  know  that  you  have  exams  right  now. ”  

 Happy  clears  his  throat,  which  draws  Tony’s  attention,  the  sound  louder  in  his  ears  than  it  should’ve  been.  Right,  onto  it  then.  “ I’ll  miss  you, ”  Stephen  says,  the  words  so  tired  and  so  soft  he  almost  misses  them.  Damn  it  all  to  hell,  Tony  thinks  and  reaches  up,  stealing  a  kiss  from  his  lips,  for  the  long  road  ahead.  

 “ I’ll  miss  you  too.  I  love  you. ”  It’s  a  reminder,  for  Stephen,  for  himself,  for  the  world.  Just  because  he  can’t  be  with  Stephen  out  in  the  open  for  now,  doesn’t  mean  that  he’ll  be  fine  with  hiding  their  relationship  forever.  As  soon  as  he  gets  the  company  free  from  Obadiah’s  clutches,  as  soon  as  he  loses  the  shackles  of  his  control,  he’ll  come  out  to  the  world.  Should  Stephen  want  it,  there’s  always  his  career  to  consider  too,  after  all.  

 Tony  hears  a  resounding,  “ I  love  you,  too, ”  and  he  smiles  bright  despite  how  he  felt,  huddling  himself  deeper  into  Stephen’s  hoodie.  A  few  steps,  a  second  of  unsteady  shuffling  and  he  slumps  into  the  back  seat  of  the  limo,  darkened  windows  shielding  him  from  the  outer  world.  There  Tony’s  smile  drops,  lower  lip  rolling  back  into  his  mouth.  Tongue  continuously  licks  back  and  forth  over  the  dry,  scabbed  flesh,  collecting  every  last,  fresh  taste  of  whiskey.  

 If  only  he  could  be  able  to  convince  Stephen  to  go  to  rehab  with  him.  But  how  could  he?  After  all,  Stephen  didn’t  have  an  addiction;  he  only  had  a  problem  of  night  terrors,  and  the  only  solution  he  could  apparently  find  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  bottle.  

[aparticularbandit]

five times + anticipation

She can’t run her hand over the wound in her thigh where it hurts the way she would like.  There are doctors surrounding her and a policeman across from her and they haven’t even handcuffed her to anything the way that they really should, not that she’s complaining.  Her eyes close until she feels the shudder of the ambulance as it runs over the fake speed bumps rigged to alert her to their presence.

She does not count aloud because she doesn’t want to let them in on the secret, but she mouths the words because she knows that’s what Luisa would want. None of them are buckled or strapped into place.  They think they’re safe.  It’s a warning, the mouthing of the words, for them to pay attention so that something disastrous doesn’t happen to them.  She said she wouldn’t kill anyone anymore.  It’s their own fault if they die here.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One—

It has been months since she has heard anything from Luisa at all.  She paces in her cell – back, forth, back, forth – and she bites at her nails like she’s someone other than herself, like she’s normal.  The backs of her knuckles are covered in a mottled collection of bruises and scabs. She’s all blue and black and purple and yellow and green marred with freckles that might as well be dried blood. When she doesn’t bite her nails, she picks at the scabs.  The pain grounds her.

She’s not worried.  Her stomach is tied into knots, but she’s not worried.  She doesn’t know what that would even feel like.

All she knows is that something is wrong.

A good escape plan can take a while to set up and even longer to pull off and she’d put the full weight of that on Luisa, who had never needed to plan anything like that before.  She hadn’t needed to plan it.  She had a plan.  She only needed to get the money.  And she’d been…she’d been doing well on that front, she’d been trying, and then she’d disappeared.

Luisa never just disappeared.

No, she did disappear.  She disappeared when she was on a bender. But she shouldn’t be on a bender, she’d been sober for years, she hadn’t had anything to drink since she’d been trying to date Susanna (and she’d been failing to fall for her again, failing to let her live her own, separate life), so she wouldn’t be on a bender.  She wouldn’t.

Which meant that something was wrong.  Something was very wrong.  She knew it with as much certainty as she knew that her love for Luisa was the purest thing she’d ever felt.  It was worth everything to her.  That’s why she was here, wasn’t it?  Hadn’t she sacrificed everything?

Her eyes move to the phone.  She’s allowed a call out every now and again, now that they think she’s stuck here. They listen in, but there are things she can say to disguise what’s being said.

Luisa told her not to kill anyone, and she hasn’t.  She’s put all of that behind her.  But she still has contacts – men and women whose faces she’s changed, who still owe her – people who are still afraid of Sin Rostro, regardless of where she is and how she got there.  She can still pull strings while she’s in here. She can still—

She needs to make a phone call.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the one in prison.”

“Luisa.  You are in the Marbella.  I’m actually here.  Do you understand what you’re—”

She hates the hiss of her voice, the frustration, but her knuckles are raw and bloody and her eye is beginning to swell (the swelling will go down eventually and there will be nothing but black and blue and purple left behind) and she’s thankful that she isn’t missing a few teeth from the fights she can’t avoid on this side of the bars.  Her stomach curls in on itself.

“I’m sorry.”  The words follow as soon as she begins to hear the stress in Luisa’s voice.  She shakes her head, runs her finger through the strands of red hair that have pulled themselves out of her ponytail, and she winces.  Her head aches.  She hasn’t been eating enough.  She hasn’t been hungry.  She hasn’t been a lot of things.  She wasn’t supposed to be here at all. “I love you, Luisa,” she says, the words caught in her throat, soft even though she knows they’ll be heard by people she doesn’t want to hear them, but she knows the woman on the other end needs to hear it.  They’ve never been easy words to say, but when she herself is unable to be present to communicate her love in other ways, words are all she has.  “Get me out, and we can be together, and you won’t have to feel like you’re in prison anymore.”

And I won’t be in prison anymore.

There’s silence on the other end.  No, not silence, she can hear background noises, background communications, someone is coming.

“I have to go.  I love you.”

It always sounds better when Luisa says it.  Luisa’s better at saying it.

She hangs up the phone and her stomach clenches again on what feels like nothing and she looks at a jail room empty of friends and with people all glaring daggers at her.

It’s easy to lie about having a prison girlfriend who she imagines is Luisa when she’s growing bone thin just from being here.

Luisa.  How much longer?

Her eyes close.

This isn’t the first time she’s found herself in this unpleasant shade of orange, but it’s the first time she knows it will stick.  Not for lack of planning.  She has an escape route in place for this very occasion, and she can pull the trigger from it even here.  She told Luisa how she could trigger it, but if she’d only given herself one route, then she hadn’t thought very well, had she?

This was always a possibility.

Rafael, finding a way to get under Luisa’s skin, lying to her, and Rose finding herself here as a result.  The question is where Luisa’s loyalty would lie.  She expects the answer won’t be her – not for lack of love, because she knows Luisa loves her, but because she has a blind spot where her brother is concerned. Luisa has always chosen Rafael. She’s always seen him as a baby bird who needs protecting.  Rose, she’d rather break his neck, but that’s neither here nor there.

The fact that they have yet to let her out means that they have something hefty with which to hold her here.

Which means Luisa’s talked.

She expected that, too.

Even if she didn’t kill Scott.  Whatever his name is.  Was.

They’ll let Luisa talk to her before they let her out.  At this point, that’s all she’s waiting on.  That final conversation before she’s shut away until she gets out.

She’ll get out.  It’s not a question of if, it’s a question of when.

She can think about that later.

Where is Luisa?

Luisa can’t see them.

She can – they’re right outside the corners of her eyes, trying to hide behind the greenery that Rafael has added around the Marbella because he wants it to look fancier than Emilio ever tried to do.  Some green, yes; this much, no. He is ruining this hotel.

Not that Rose cares.  She’s never really cared about the Marbella.

She cares a little bit more about the police that are waiting on them.

There’s time to leave.  She can see them.  She can turn around and leave right now, and they won’t be able to do anything about it. Her hand tightens on Luisa’s.  “Babe.”

Luisa pauses and turns to face her, brow furrowing.  “What’s wrong?”  Her eyes narrow.  “This isn’t that the police are watching me thing again, is it?  We’re fine. You’re fine.  We’ve done this a million times before, and—”

She leans forward, closing Luisa’s lips with a soft kiss.  She cups her cheek with one hand, her ring – Luisa says they’re garish, but they aren’t, thank you very much – cold against her lover’s skin.  When they part, she gives her hand a gentle squeeze.  “Can’t I want to kiss my girlfriend?”

Luisa softens, and she mentally memorizes the moment, the expression. She holds it as close as she can. Luisa brushes a hand along her face and leans forward to give her another kiss. “Thank you.”  Then she scampers off.

Her throat tightens.

The figures on the edges of her vision begin to converge—

Her breath catches in her throat.

She knows she looks horrible in the oppressive orange of the past year. 15 months, 27 days, 13 hours, 5 minutes, 23 seconds.  Okay, she hasn’t been that specific.  She’s guessing on those last three.  It doesn’t matter.  All of this is over.  All of it.

And here – Luisa – waiting on her.  She looks different, but they’ve been apart for so long, of course she would.

Rose relaxes.

“We’re free, babe. We’re—”

Luisa pulls off her face.

She waits in the back of the ambulance.

She mouths the numbers so that the others can take shelter if they are paying attention.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

She takes a deep breath.

The air always tastes salty here.  It’s her apartment – a little too close to the beach for her liking, but she has to get used to it if she wants to travel with a hotel owner who has most of his hotels next to the ocean.  The air will always taste like this, and she will always feel a little cold when the spray hits her skin.

Tomorrow she will meet his children and the long game that she has already started will begin in more earnest.  For now, she is free.

She pulls on the edge of her dress – one that some people will call red when in reality it is really pink.  Purple and red stones highlight the edge of one of her breasts.  She is beautiful.  This is an objective fact.  The dress, the curve of her hair, the fingernail polish – all of it only enhances the natural beauty she already has.

The perfume is the last of it, and she sprays the strawberry lavender mixture at her neck.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two—

Something catches in her throat.

She feels like she can’t breathe.

Something is wrong.

She lets go of the rubber ball at the end of her spray, her hands clenching the edges of her vanity, and she takes a deep breath.  She looks at herself in the mirror, and her eyes are red. They sting, burning, even though there’s no way she got perfume in them. It hurts.

It goes away in a few minutes.  Her chest releases its tight clench on her heart.

Whatever’s wrong, it’s passed.

Weird.

She reaches over and spritzes herself one last time with the perfume.

One.

Her eyes glance outside, where the sun has already set and the sky has grown dark and covered with stars.  There will be fireworks later.  She straightens her dress again before grabbing her matching clutch and leaving her apartment.  Her heels click loud on the sidewalk.

It’s the fourth of July.

Time to party.

ao3 link here.