#and is starting to decay his left hand so he usually wears a glove

[moeblob]

Nytis, my loser demon cleric, about to lose it.

[lucifers-horror-harem]

Kinktober Day 28: Quickie with Freddy Krueger

So this one MIIIIGHT have gotten out of hand. Out of hand as in the max words I’ve written for kinktober is around 1k and this one is 2.3k. OOP well I think this one is super hot PLUS i added some other kinks so it’s EXTRA spicy hehehe this one will probably be the longest one besides the prompt for 31 so I hope y’all enjoy <3

Freddy Krueger x AFAB Reader

Extra Warnings: Public sex, dirty talk, orgasm denial, Freddy being a BASTARD MAN

Finals week was fast approaching, and it was even more of a nightmare than the literal demon that was haunting your dreams. Well, he would be if you were actually getting any sleep. From your long nights writing papers and caffeine hindered power naps, you hardly got enough sleep to even see Freddy. But instead of sleeping in, you went to class for fear you would miss something from the lecture.

So there you were, dragging your feet as you hopped up the stairs of the campus building, coffee clutched tightly in your hand as you held the strap of your backpack with the other. If you could make it just through this class, you wouldn’t have another one until after lunch so you might be able to sneak in a nap after that. 

You weaved in and out of the students milling around in the halls and made a beeline for the lecture room. It was a simple Intro to Theater class, just something that would bump you up to a full time student while fulfilling your performance requirement. All it took was reading the textbook, reading whatever play she had assigned you to read, and you could sit back and parse out exactly which information the professor was going to put on the test and what she expected your essays to include. 

Flopping down in your usual seat in the middle of the lecture hall, an aisle seat, you groaned softly and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. One hour was all you had to sit through. You could do it. Flipping the desk up, you set your coffee down and fished through your backpack for your notebook and the playbook for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, setting it next to your coffee.

That coffee would be gone before the professor even started talking. As she droned on about the background of the play itself, you found yourself leaning forward in your seat, hand cupping your chin as you doodled in your notebook to keep yourself occupied. But all that did was lull you into the gentle sound of pen scratching on paper, the students around you scratching and tapping away at their own notes.

With a sharp inhale, you blinked and shook your head. No, you were so close. One more class and that was it. You had powered through way worse before. 

"Hey teach," a sudden, hoarse voice beside you called out over the room, "I don’t care who wrote the goddamn thing, explain why there's no Virginia Woolf in the fucking book if she’s in the title, huh?"

Your head snapped to your left, and the horror which chilled your veins. There sat Freddy Krueger, sitting in the chair beside you with his desk in the upright position, waving the thin book casually in his free hand. He grinned at you, the derision in his expression painfully clear. Seeing him here, sitting in this vast lecture hall surrounded by normal students that were all focused on their work and listening to the professor instead of addressing the literal burn ward victim in the dingy red and green sweater who was jeering at the professor. 

You shook your head harshly, trying to make him disappear and wake up again. But he was still there, still as smug as ever. 

"Freddy," you began calmly, hoping to simply placate him before things got any more sticky. "Please, not here. Just let me get through this class and I swear I'll nap in the backseat of my car-"

Freddy tutted, interrupting you. His gloved hand over where his heart would be if it wasn't black and decayed, he gasped in fake shock. "Are you saying you haven't missed me? Because I've sure missed you." Freddy's grin slowly dropped as he continued. "And I think as much of a cute little bookworm you are, making sure the man of your dreams is satisfied tops your fucking list of priorities above all else." With a flick of his wrist, he flung the book, spinning out of his hand like a Frisbee towards the front of the room, smacking a guy in the back of the head who didn't even flinch at this assault. "Ten points," Freddy hissed with a cheeky grin. 

"First of all, you're not my man," you whispered, afraid that somehow the words would leak out of your mouth in the waking world. From the look of annoyance on his face, you knew you already fucked up but you kept going anyways. "Second of all, we can do this later. That way you can have me for longer, okay?" 

Freddy suddenly lurched forward, his bladed hand pointing underneath your chin and making you raise your head up so he didn't skewer you. His free hand slithered over to your thigh, squeezing you through the sweatpants you decided to wear today because you were too exhausted to get any more dressed up.  

"I don't think you remember who owns you, Princess." The blunt statement made your stomach twist in the way only he could. "Perhaps since nothing is getting taught here anyways, I should take the time to re-educate you." 

His hand crept higher up your thigh, and you were letting him. You were capable of fighting him off more, you had done it before. But something about the hungry look in his eyes as his blade tapped your chin, the way his fingers danced along the inside of your thigh and your hips canted towards him involuntarily, you simply couldn't ignore the way he made you feel. He was your dirty little secret, and he was going to take back what was his.

And then with the blink of an eye he suddenly disappeared. You sat up slightly in your chair, trying your best to not frantically look for where he went. Was this part of the dream? Or were you really drifting in and out of sleep as the professor continued along with her lecture? You noticed how tightly your thighs pressed together, the familiar rush of arousal dampening your panties as your face heated up. God if anyone knew what you were thinking right now-

You were yanked out of your thoughts just as violently as you were pulled towards the floor, the shock barely giving you the chance to cry out. Freddy swiftly had your body pinned beneath him, his gloved hand holding your ankles up and together on his shoulder as he yanked your pants up around your knees so you couldn't squirm. How considerate that he at least didn't shred your pants in the middle of a nap during class. 

"My my, what do we have here?" Your body jolted as Freddy's fingers brushed over your soaked panties, your hands flying to your mouth to hold back whimpers. He snickered as he rubbed his fingers together in front of his face, your slick evident even just from what had soaked through. "Seems like your pretty little cunt remembers me, but there's always room to learn new things." 

With a harsh pulling on your panties to the side to fully expose your lips to him, Freddy pushed himself roughly into you. Gasping, you slapped one of your hands down on the filthy carpet beneath you that desperately needed a once through from the custodial staff. But you didn't care, even as his condescending smirk widened when he took you in, you were enjoying the thrill of the situation far too much. His animalistic growls sent chills through you as he took and used you completely and utterly in public no less. Or as public as dreaming in class could be. The students around you simply kept looking forward, engrossed in the professor's droning voice. Not once did they look over and notice the dream demon that pounded you viciously into the floor. 

Then, nothing. You blinked again, back in your seat. It took everything in your power to not let out an audible whine. You were gushing at this point, and you hoped to god you could maybe tie your hoodie around your waist and maybe make it out of here without a very noticeable wet spot on your pants. 

Then, on the floor again. You gasped as Freddy switched the angle on you, pressing you on your hands and knees in front of him. Using the floor to muffle your whines, you let him push you face first into the floor, the audible sound of your arousal ringing in your ears. He filled you up completely, your walls fluttering around his length. He cackled darkly under his breath as he thrust again, only this time as he did he dipped his body over yours and whispered in your ear, "Something tells you you really needed this, didn’t you, Princess?" When you refused to answer, he laughed. "What's wrong? Are you afraid to speak up? Don't want everyone to know how much of a little slut you are?" 

When your only answer was to press your lips into a thin line, he simply smiled. "No matter. You'll be singing by the time I'm done with you." 

You weren't sure how long you were stuck in this limbo, but it felt like being dragged underwater only to be pulled up for a quick breath before being shoved back down again. One moment you were awake, your thighs trembling, the next moment Freddy had you in another position. He didn't even seem angry at the constant interruptions. It was like a challenge for him to find a new way to overwhelm your senses when you dipped into his realm again. The vertigo you began to feel was nauseating from the constant switch of the hard floor and your comfy chair. All you felt was him, and you clutched him desperately when he wasn't holding your wrists down as he rut into you. You were constantly being brought to the brink of your release only to be ripped back when you woke up. 

Your fingers clutched into his sweater, face buried in the crook of his neck. He knew you were close from the way you clenched around him, and the way you clung to him was proof of that. You were right where he wanted you, and he ran his fingers through your hair sweetly before wrapping them around your curls and wrenching your head back to expose your neck to him. With a low rumble of his voice, the fake saccharine tenor more than noticeable as he cooed, "You're right there, aren't you Princess?" He watched your bottom lip tremble for a moment. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need."

You couldn't take it anymore. "Please Freddy," you softly gasped as you watched his expression for any signs of mercy. He didn't respond for a moment, as if this was a really hard choice for him. Other voices nagged at the back of your mind, but you ignored them. "Freddy don't stop, please!" 

But he did. And when he did, a slow, cruel smile pulled up his lips. Another voice again. You were about to beg Freddy again, but he simply ignored you, and instead hissed through his yellowed teeth, "If you wanted to come then you shouldn't have been a little brat and kept me waiting so goddamn long for you."

"Y/N!"

You blinked, and you were back again. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to get your bearings and figure out what was going on. With horror, you heard the professor call you again, the seating chart clutched in her grip. Seriously, what kind of bullshit was a seating chart in a level 100 intro course in a lecture hall? 

"Since you seem to be rather eager to mumble in my class, perhaps you can speak up and explain to us the meaning of the title?" She smirked. "If you've been paying attention to your readings, of course." Bitch. 

With a deep breath, desperately trying to ignore the faces that were on you, some merely curious at this new turn in the lecture and others snickering openly as they watched you, you began, "Well, even though Albee never explicitly stated it in the play, you're meant to understand that he is trying to make a parallel between Virginia Woolf and her work as an author where she focused on revealing the emotional truths of the characters in her stories." You paused, watching as the professor's face fell. Sitting up in your chair, chin high, you continued, "Furthermore, this altered version of "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf" is then meant to translate to something like "Who is Afraid of Their Inner Truths to be Revealed?" And considering the fact that both couples from the play are painting this false facade of a proper, public image, in reality their lives are in shambles and they're terrified of it being revealed to the rest of the world." 

This time the amused laughter was in your favor, low mumbling rising through the hall until the professor cleared her throat. "Yes, exactly right." You could still see the sour look on her face from here, but you dodged the bullet for now. Inside, you stewed over the fact that you had prided yourself in doing efficient work and staying under the radar in class to prevent being perceived as a know-it-all. Well, you just answered a question when you were in the middle of getting railed in your dreams, so you did better than expected. 

Speaking of the devil, a familiar set of arms wrapped around your chest from behind, Freddy's hot breath tickling your ear as he chuckled. "Good girl," he praised, causing you to suddenly become aware of the state of your panties again. "There's nothing hotter than a smart chick." You scowled as he leaned forward and fully extended his tongue, licking up your cheek as you tried to shake him off. 

With that he was gone, leaving you to be a very horny know-it-all in relative peace.

[uwua3]

friendly neighborhood poltergeist.

🌻👘 rurikawa yuki.

summary: no one likes a dead boy, especially not you

dedication: trans anon ♂ — i listened to this song and thought of you! 

warnings: angst, death, gender roles, ghosts, hate crimes, heartbreak, identity–based discrimination, jealousy/envy, mentions of violence, murder, paranormal/supernatural, spiders

author’s note: in the spirit of halloween month, please accept this scarily haunting song fic of “friendly neighborhood poltergeist”! enjoy~ ☆★ i haven’t written for yuki in so long so i’m so happy! :D i hope you like it as much as i do~ happy october!! 

word count: 2,595

music: friendly neighborhood poltergeist – rory webley

BEEN STARING AT YOU FOR DAYS,

BUT, YOU NEVER SEEM TO LOOK MY WAY

MY “I LOVE YOU’s” IN YOUR ALPHABET SOUP SEEM TO GO TO WASTE

BEEN KEEPING MYSELF AT BAY

NOW EVERYTHING’S GONE PEAR–SHAPED

Yuki remembered the day he was murdered.

It was Halloween 1987. Boys weren’t supposed to wear girly costumes, he knew that very well. Yet, when Yuki put on that dress instead of his normal uniform for boys only, he felt like himself for the first time in his entire life. It was nearing his high school graduation, he would’ve had another year or so until becoming one of St. Flora’s distinguished alumni. before he was killed behind the school building.

When Yuki died, he came back to see none of those boys were ever arrested. His murderers walked free and lived the life he didn’t, all because he wore a dress. Yuki now haunted this world in the very outfit he was dragged to hell in, the fragile fabric still ripped at the hem and stained by the very dirt students still crossed to this day. Forgotten in his small town and buried six feet under, Rurikawa Yuki became a ghost forever.

Why was he still here? There was nothing to live for, it’s not like he could’ve been resurrected back to life. Yuki wanted to move on, instead of walking the halls of the school that hated him. How could he keep staring in the face of teachers who never liked his bow instead of the usual tie? Why was he forced to watch generations of students graduate when he was removed of that opportunity? Yuki was eternally seventeen, forever and always.

All because he wore a dress.

Yuki haunted St. Flora for decades, just for revenge on all of those who let him die, even if it wasn’t their fault. Yuki was dead—until, you.

I GUESS BOYS WITH BEATING HEARTS

BEAT A BOY BURIED IN THE BACKYARD

EVERY TIME I TRY TO MAKE CONTACT

FEELS LIKE A SUPERNATURAL ATTACK

MISINTERPRET THEN YOU REACT

October. Pumpkin vines grew around his orange–laced boots, the autumn sunsets passing through his invisible form. Yuki missed the way candy tasted upon his tongue, how different fall treats were compared to the rest of the year. As Yuki walked past black cats that gathered, he glanced at the apple tree in the center of the school’s courtyard.

As a ghost, cold didn’t mean anything anymore. Students headed home in their coziest knit garments—no boys in dresses, luckily. Yuki sighed, but his breath didn’t solidify into the usual visible sign like it did all those years ago. Instead, cobwebs were spun in the corners of the building, spiders crawling along the walls. Spiders could feel the chilly autumn season, Yuki suddenly became jealous of those eight–legged creatures.

The crunch of falling leaves made Yuki turn slowly, his orange eyes finding you. You wore the St. Flora uniform, and it hadn’t changed from his years of attending. Not paying much mind, Yuki faced the red apples, watching them ripen away from the previously dismal September. As a boy, he used to reach up and grab it with his own gloved hands, the hard surface of the apple foreshadowing a delicious near future. Yuki couldn’t remember the taste of apples, did they taste any different?

“Do you want an apple?”

I GUESS IT’S BACK TO THE ATTIC,

I’M SO DRAMATIC, IT’S SO SAD

BUT, THE LAST TIME I LET SOMEONE INSIDE,

I WAS BURIED ALIVE

Yuki didn’t move, not until he felt a hand land on his shoulder. Letting out a scream, Yuki stumbled back from the first human contact he’s received ever since his death. Before you could say another word, Yuki disappeared out of sight, the memory of a fading boy wearing a purple and orange dress terrifying you to the core. You looked around, your eyes frantically searching for the witch–themed boy that was just in front of you.

Behind the tree, Yuki rested his hand above his chest, wishing he could feel the rapid heartbeat of fear from his past life. The burn of your touch tingled upon his skin, making him almost feel alive. Yuki had never, ever, been seen by someone—especially... touched. He had forgotten how warm living people were; had Yuki always been this cold all this time?

It was almost harvest moon, so you took a few steps back, about to leave. Until, you didn’t. You reached up and grabbed an apple. Putting it gently on the worn cobblestone bench wrapped around the apple tree, you took another glance before departing for good.

Nothing had changed in St. Flora’s courtyard, where Yuki was murdered. Pumpkins decorated the space festively, welcoming in the frights and scares of Halloween town. The cats spoke in an unknown tongue that couldn’t be translated by the human ear, possibly sharing the ancient knowledge witches passed on to their familiars. Spiders continued building their webs that would be destroyed by irresponsible, wreckless students the following early morning. Autumn browned the apple tree’s leaves as they fell like a goodbye, away they went. Except, a single red apple was left for Yuki.

When Yuki sat next to the apple, his skirt spread out across the seat and the witch’s hat upon his head tilted down. Stopping, Yuki shuddered from his own fear, not of the October cold incoming upon his town. Without wasting more time (after all, he’s had decades to do nothing), Yuki wrapped his hand around the apple.

He could feel it. It was hard and the surface wasn’t bruised at all. You picked the perfect apple. Shakingly bringing it to his mouth, Yuki ate something for the first time in years.

Yuki left the core of the apple in the same spot as before. It was the next day when you found it, searching the courtyard again but finding no one. Yuki was sitting right besides you, however, carefully watching your reaction. Something inside compelled him to say anything, and as Yuki was about to thank you, a male voice called for you just at the gates of the school.

You turned around with a smile, the most alive thing in the season of death. You left without another thought of the witch costume out of the corner of your eye, Yuki’s frown etched on his face as he witnessed another student pull you into an one–armed hug. Subconsciously, Yuki raised his hand, ghosting it above the last place you touched him, his shoulder suddenly cold.

Yuki wanted to touch you like that, too. What did that boy do to deserve your life like that? The apple didn’t taste so good, anymore.

HI, I’M YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD POLTERGEIST

NOBODY EVER LOOKS AT ME TWICE

I’M USED TO BEING SEE–THROUGH, BUT IT FEELS SO BAD WHEN IT HAPPENS WITH YOU

WISH YOU’D SEE ME THE WAY I SEE YOU

Yuki didn’t breathe anymore, not since his last breath with dirt suffocating his throat. Sometimes, Yuki looked at his burial with curiousity, strangely wondering how decayed his corpse was. What if, he never died? Was he still alive under all that earth? Most likely not, he didn’t know if he wanted to be anymore.

Yet, seeing you was like a breath of fresh air. Staying in the same seat on the same bench you liked to visit, Yuki used his eternal time to watch you. You, who liked resting your bag on his lap as you read a book, laying your head on the tree trunk with your ungloved fingers holding the binding. You, who sometimes read out loud, as if you were aware there was a dead boy who was slowly falling for you like the autumn leaves. You enjoyed picking up the courtyard cats even if their fur messed up your pristine uniform, talking to them as if they were human.

Yuki liked how you were often alone, as selfish as that sounded. Between classes, you seldom traveled with friends but instead, started hanging by the courtyard more often. Lunch was Yuki’s favorite pastime, because you spent a half hour or so just spending time with him. You would bring random little things, confidently talking to thin air as if it was elementary show & tell all over again.

“Candy?” Yuki said, looking over your shoulder to see you unwrap a piece of unfamiliar candy. It was a brand he didn’t recognize, times were changing, indeed. Expecting to be ignored, Yuki suddenly felt your hot breath on his cheek as you turned your head, seemingly staring straight through him. You couldn’t see Yuki, but you started anyway.

“Is that you?” Silence. You averted your gaze, your eyes meeting Yuki’s for a split second unintentionally. You carried on, but Yuki froze, as if frozen to the spot. Why did your eyes make him pretend there was blood rushing through his veins, as if he wasn’t buried six feet under? Hovering over the surface of his cheeks, Yuki knew he’d be blushing right now if that was possible.

“I knew it. I knew you were here the entire time.” You gratefully admitted, a warm red tint on the tip of your nose. Yuki wished he was the scarf around your neck, to be so close to you and feel your beating pulse. Yet, Yuki didn’t reply. He wasn’t underneath anymore, but it felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was being buried alive all over again. What was this feeling? How did you give and take his life all at once?

After a moment or two of the wind brushing rustling the corn maize just beyond the fence, you flinched at the sound of the bell, telling you to go back to class. Yuki wanted to beg you to stay, you were his first friend in so long. Yuki knew it would’ve been stupid to hold onto you, a ghost couldn’t make contact as well as humans did.

So, he let you go. You stood up, about to leave to your last period before looking over your shoulder, sending a bright smile in Yuki’s general direction.

“I’ll bring you all my favorite candies on Halloween, okay?”

It would be the first Halloween where Yuku celebrated instead of mourning his death.

I’VE BEEN SPELLING MY NAME IN YOUR LEGO BRICKS

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO MAKE IT MORE OBVIOUS

YOU’RE CLOSE ENOUGH TO ALMOST TOUCH

BUT, NOT CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOLD

BEEN TRYNA MAKE MY MOVE

BUT, THAT DUDE KEEPS STEALING YOU

The weeks leading up to Halloween were the days where Yuki felt most alive, even including his life before death. You gave Yuki a purpose to live, making him stay in the courtyard for good as he waited for you impatiently. You two got to know each other more as you figured out ways for Yuki to communicate without words. Even if it was a slight change in the air or a push of a leave or a meow from a cat, you seemingly understood every intention of his. How did you know him so well? Why did he want to share so much?

As you felt inclined to spend more time in St. Flora’s courtyard, you and Yuki grew your relationship during the season of magic, where anything could happen. You began leaving gifts for Yuki as a way to thank him for being your friend, without ever asking to see him. For the first time in his afterlife, Yuki felt safe. As if nothing could ever hurt him, except... him.

You had a friend with teeth as sharp as the monster under your bed and a laughter that howled like a wolves. How could a person like you enjoy a beast like that man? It was Halloween year round with that boy, and Yuki instantly disappeared whenever he looked for you. In his sleazy uniform that harmed St. Flora’s prestigious reputation, that boy would touch you casually like it was nothing. It made Yuki’s fists clench and energy angry, it infuriated every part of him.

Worst part was, you liked it. Yuki could tell without even trying, you didn’t even hide it. You ate up all the attention like it was an apple pie, returning the gesture with an embarrassed flustered expression across your face. You would leave school with him hand in hand, smiling even bigger than you did with Yuki.

The afternoon before Halloween, the school bell ended your time together as you stood up, waving goodbye to your ghost boy. Yuki’s intuition was twisting his gut, the anxiety making his head spin as he impulsively reached out, his fingers curling around your wrist.

You stopped, feeling a tug holding you back. Your eyes met a green haired, orange eyed boy in a witch’s costume like the first time you both met. You blinked, and he was gone, but you could still imagine his hand and how soft it was on yours.

“You’ll come tomorrow night, right?”

You promised you would, and Yuki let you go, and inkling of suspicion arising in his heart. He trusted you. When that boy yelled your name with a smirk, Yuki closed his eyes to avoid the sight of you smiling back at that monster. He just didn’t trust him, that’s all.

Yuki wondered what types of candy you liked under the full moon tomorrow.

I DON’T KNOW WHY I TRIED

THIS REJECTION GOT ME FEELING COLD AS ICE

I DON’T WANNA DIE TWICE

IT WASN’T VERY FUN THE FIRST TIME

Yuki was ready. Stepping out from behind the apple tree, Yuki could feel himself manifest as a real person, not as a ghost. It had been a long month of practicing and working on this skill he didn’t know he could do before, but Yuki did it. All for you, he wanted to hold you even if it was just once.

The full moon on a Halloween night gave him enough energy to appear as a full apparition, fortunately. In his dress that got him killed, Yuki waited in his usual spot, listening for the crunch of autumn leaves to signal your arrival. Yuki waited, and waited, and waited.

It was midnight when Yuki realized you weren’t coming. You had lied, you broke your promise. A part of him wanted to keep waiting, making up every excuse in the book for your disappearance. But, he knew what happened. You chose that beast over him, you liked boys that were alive. Of course you did, what could a dead boy offer to someone alive?

Was this why Yuki came back as a ghost? To die again?

You ran into the courtyard, slipping past the security in the dead of night, the clock striking three. You were out of breath, dizzy with adrenaline as you carried a basket of candy. Usually, you would feel Yuki’s presence around, but, it was like... he was dead, for good.

You found nothing but a pair of lemon–yellow gloves that belonged to his costume upon the bench. You remembered how many times he insisted you protect your hands more, and tears threatened to fall from your eyes. Why did this feel so much like a goodbye? Was this the end?

He decided to give a gift back after all the ones you brought for him... why? As the pumpkin–shaped bag of candy dropped onto the ground, startling the creatures of October who witnessed you cry, you felt a hand ghost over your cheek. A single warm breath hovered over your lips, then nothing at all.

Rurikawa Yuki died twice.

[changingourdestiny]

Season of the Hunt Finale: A True Hunter

Summary:

It’s finally over. The Celebrant is defeated. Spider no longer has a hold on Crow. The only left question is now what?

Previous Part: Here

Spider let out a small growl as he heard the laughter of the four Guardians outside the lair. He muttered a curse in Eliksni as he sat back in his chair.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Spider’s attention snapped to his left as Marcia decloaked, leaning against a pile of crates that were stacked against the wall. The guards went to raise their spears, but Spider raised a hand, stopping them. “What do you want, Marcia?” Spider growled, “I’m not in the mood for your ‘antics’.”

“I’ll say.” Marcia chuckled, “I just snuck in to see the end result of Paralight’s one-on-one with the Celebrant. Y’know, you always talk about how Drifter and I can’t seem to keep our mouths shut…and yet it was your big mouth that got your ‘little bird’ taken away. “Anything in the lair.” Honestly, how did you think that would end?”

Spider narrowed his eyes at Marcia as she stood up straight, “But if you want me to be honest here…I came here to give you a titbit of advice.”

“And that is…?”

Marcia’s expression turned serious, “Don’t underestimate Rae. She ain’t the same Guardian that walked in here two years ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well first off, she seems to be taking my advice. She’s started making her own rules and is starting to find things out for herself instead of taking the Vanguard’s word for granted. She’s beginning to think for herself. Secondly, and honestly more seriously, she’s got a new trick now.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of Stasis.” Spider replied dismissively.

“Not Stasis.”

Spider seemed intrigued as Marcia continued, “She calls it Darknebula. And from what I can tell, it works in the opposite way to Starlight.”

“Explain.”

“Starlight is triggered by the desire to protect and preserve life. Darknebula works in the opposite way: it’s triggered by the desire to kill and destroy it.” Marcia explained, “Basically, if someone was to, oh I don’t know…maybe anger her to the point of her wanting to completely annihilate them – whether she realises it or not – she becomes a feral killing machine that doesn’t stop until the source of that desire is dead. This is a warning, Spider. If she’s done following the Vanguard’s rules and you push her too far, it’s game over for you. I’ve seen that form first-hand when she was up against Eramis. Now the kell of Salvation is an ice sculpture on Europa.”

Spider just hmphed in response, “If she kills me, she loses her best ally on the Shore.”

Marcia laughed, “Oho, really? I look forward to seeing you try to tell that to a feral, acting-on-instinct Rae who has lost all sense of logic and reasoning. Hell, I’ll be impressed if you get more than a word out!” Marcia began to walk out, “Like I said, just a lil’ bit of advice for ya. Take it if ya want. See ya!”

Spider grumbled as he leaned back in his chair, watching the rogue leave.

“I hate that Hunter…”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been a few weeks since the High Celebrants defeat. Spider had sent an engineer to remove the explosives from Glint’s shell, officially ending his hold on Crow and his Ghost. However, there were still remaining Wrathborns lurking in the Shore and the Dreaming City, so Crow had remained in the lair to aid Paralight in wiping them out. The last of them had finally been wiped out and the cryptoliths had begun to decay without the Celebrant maintaining them. The hunt had finally come to a close.

Crow leaned on his workbench, deep in thought, but was pulled out by his vision suddenly going dark as two hands covered his eyes from behind.

“Guess who!”

“Rae?” Crow guessed with a smirk, “No, wait. It’s Marcia!”

“I don’t smell that bad!”

“Ha! I know it’s you, Blaze.”

Blaze removed her hands from Crow’s eyes and plopped her head on his shoulder, “Yup!” Crow poked Blaze’s forehead, “Bang.”

“Gah! Crow has killed the Celebrant! Curse you, Guardiaaaaans!” Blaze dramatically sunk to the floor while Crow laughed at her performance before motioning to her armour, “New look?”

Blaze’s usual blue and gold armour had been swapped for red and gold armour, a bit similar to her very first set. Her cloak, gloves and skirt looked like fiery feathers with her boots matching the upper half of her armour. “Yeah. I’d been sticking with blue and gold for a while now.” Blaze replied, “Figured I should switch it up a little.”

“It suits you.” Crow smiled. “Thanks.” Blaze grinned, a small blush appearing on her face, as the two leaned against the table with a sigh. “I suppose this is it.” Crow said with a sense of finality, “Time to say goodbye to the Reef. To the only home I've ever known.”

“Yeah…” Blaze sighed, “It’s weird. It’s been three months, but it feels like only a few days ago we met on the moon. Now it’s over.” The two stood in comfortable silence for a moment before Blaze spoke up again, “So what are you going to do now?”

“I’ve given it some thought.” Crow replied, “Osiris actually came by earlier and we talked for a while about my plans for the future. I told him I'd considered exploring somewhere remote, like Venus, but he suggested a different course."

“What’s that?”

Crow held his head up high, “I’m coming to the Tower.”

Blaze’s eyes widened as she stood up straight, “F-for real?”

Crow nodded with a smile, “People may judge the man I was, but I refuse to cower in the shadow of his legacy. I'm a Guardian. I need to act like one. I also talked to Rae about it. She suggested joining a Fireteam and…I’ve decided to join Paralight.”

Blaze’s eyes lit up at this before lunging at Crow, wrapping her arms around him as she let out a squeal of delight. Crow stumbled back a bit before steadying himself, letting out a chuckle as he returned the hug. “That’s great! You won’t regret it, I promise!”

“I know I won’t. I’m still a bit anxious about showing my face in the Tower, but I think I’ll be okay with you and the others.” Crow cupped Blaze’s cheek and gave her a brief kiss before touching his forehead to hers, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Crow.”

 The two pulled away upon hearing footsteps approach the workshop. A moment later, Rae and Adam entered wearing new armour of their own. Rae had cut her hair, so it looked similar to her Kinderguardian hairstyle. She now wore pink, purple and blue robes with the Stasis symbol on the skirt and metal, layered shoulder pads. She also wore a black and white bond that had a spade projection. Adam wore armour that was several shades of white and blue with a white furry collar. “Looks like you’re not the only one with a new look.” Crow noted as the two Guardians entered. “Yeah.” Rae laughed, rubbing the back of her neck, “I figured since I’m the Stasis Vanguard now, I should look like it.”

Crow turned to Adam, “And you?”

“Everyone was getting new looks, and I didn’t want to feel left out.” Adam shrugged. “Suuuure. It TOTALLY isn’t to impress a certain Awoken in the Dreaming City or anything.” Blaze chuckled. “Hardy har.” Adam rolled his eyes. Rae laughed at the two’s banter before turning to Crow, “So, you ready to go?”

“Almost. Osiris wanted to meet me before I arrive.” Crow replied, “Said he had something to give me.”

Rae nodded in understanding, “We’ll meet you in the Tower courtyard then. See you starside, Guardian.”

“See you starside.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do you think Osiris wanted to give Crow?”

Rae stood in the courtyard with her Fireteam and the rest of the Vanguard. “If I had to make a guess…” Ikora gave a small smirk, “A lengthy lecture on the importance of being a Guardian.”

“That tracks!” Rae giggled. “Ikora had to get it from somewhere!” Cayde added, earning a laugh from Blaze. Ikora glared at Cayde and Blaze, who ducked behind Adam for protection from any potential incoming nova bombs.

“Oh helvete nej! I am not being your meat shield!” Adam walked away from the cowering Hunters.

“H-hey! What happened to Titans protecting others?” Cayde stammered.

“Not from angry Ikoras! I doubt even Shaxx would stand in the way of Ikora when she’s angry.”

“VERY TRUE!!” Shaxx yelled from the other side of the courtyard.

As the group continued their banter, Blaze noticed a figure emerge from the hangar entrance walking towards them. There was Crow, now wearing a short black and white cloak with a white crow displayed on it. Under it, his usual black scale-like armour was now white along with matching boots and now wore grey trousers. “How do I look?” Crow asked as he approached Blaze. “Like a true Hunter.” She smiled. Zavala stepped forward, “Welcome to the Tower, Guardian.”

“Thank you. I won’t let you down.” Crow nodded.

“Well before we do anything…” Cayde began, a serious tone to his voice, “There’s one important thing we need to do.”

“True, true.” Blaze agreed. “W-what? What’s wrong?” Crow asked, glancing between the two Hunters with concern.

“…INITIATION!!!” Cayde and Blaze yelled in unison as they both grabbed the arms of a very confused Crow and began leading him towards Tower’s Spicy Ramen. “We better go make sure they don’t cause trouble.” Rae chuckled. “I feel like that’s always a given when it comes to those two.” Ikora replied as she began walking back to her post.

 The rest of the evening was spent at Spicy Ramen, celebrating Crow joining the ranks of the Guardians. Crow still thought the noodles looked like worms but eventually gave in after some peer pressure from Blaze and Cayde and ended up enjoying it. They shared stories of their own embarrassing Kinderguardian moments, from Cayde falling off a cliff moments after his first revival to Paralight getting caught in a Benny Hills-style case with two minotaurs and a flock of harpies on Venus after running out of ammo while their Ghosts continued their scan. They also told stories of their greatest victories such as Adam’s infamous swordfight with Crota after Rae and Blaze were downed. Blaze and Crow joined in by telling them about how they both fended off Savathûn’s forces while trying to restore Hawkmoon. Slowly, Crow felt the anxiety of arriving at the Tower wash away. He knew there would still be Guardians who would hate him for his past self’s mistakes, despite what the Vanguard would say to them. He knew of the possible dangers awaiting him with the Darkness looming throughout the system. He knew of the certain chaos running with this trio of misfits would bring. But right now, he didn’t care. In that moment, he was surrounded by friends – his friends – laughing and sharing stories together. They knew of what his old self did, he could see it in their eyes, yet they still accepted him for who he was now. He knew who he was. And he knew who he would always be.

A Hunter.

A Guardian.

 Crow.

 End of Season of the Hunt.

[unwhithered]

The Clone Wars/Jedi Musketeers prompt fic

@fuzzytale prompted: “ i love you, every part of you. even the parts you don’t like. ” For the Jedi Musketeers boys, whichever combo you like

And I wrote you a whole ass 2k word fic for this prompt & Porthos, on top of the one for Aramis. AND I made it Clone Wars and sad for good measure.

“Any news?” Commander Edee asks, falling in at Porthos’ side as he descends the stairs. Only the roof of the bombed out tower receives enough signal to get a message out, even a local one. Given that what’s left of the roof consists of three durasteel beams and is in direct eye line of enemy snipers, Porthos has banned anyone but himself from venturing above the tenth floor.

Mouth set in a grim line, Porthos shakes his head. “I couldn’t raise any of the other companies, or the ship. I’m sorry.”

“I see.” Edee tucks his bucket under his arm as he pauses to look out a broken window. Below is a sea of green and gray - local Separatists and droids, hunkered down behind their shield generators and awaiting darkness to press the attack once more. Both men know it will be the last attack. Edee’s eyes are golden in the dying light of the twin suns, the scar on his right cheek a canyon of shadow, an entire landscape painted in the grooves and scratches of his black-and-gold armor. The long campaign has left no time for repairing his usually meticulous paint. Force, he looks far too old and weary for someone who feels so young. Grief for a loss that hasn’t even happened yet hits Porthos like a blow to the chest as Edee glances up at him. “It’s not such a bad place to die, is it?”

“No,” Porthos hums, leaning on the opposite side of the window. Ignoring the grind of bone on bone in his chest is becoming steadily harder, his breaths more labored, and he’s silently grateful for the chance to gather himself before descending to join their remaining troops on the 8th floor. “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

Though Edee’s face remains neutral a tidal wave of emotions builds around him in the Force. Porthos lets his eyes slip shut to better see his Commander as he truly is - helpless red rage, guilt spreading like an oil slick between them, grief like the bite of bitter citrus under his tongue, and love. Despite it all, so much love. “I was just starting to believe our lucky streak might hold long enough for you to show me Coruscant, sir.”

Porthos swallows hard. Born and bred for nothing but a war he has no stake in, and Edee still believes in luck. It strikes him again how good this man is, loyal and kind despite his lack of freedom, his constant losses. Porthos wishes he had followed Aramis in refusing to take part in this pointless, brutal affair. He wishes that he could keep his promise to show the 78th the heart of the Republic their brothers are dying to protect. He wishes...but wishes are for children. A Jedi Knight faces reality. Even the reality of his own death.

“C’mere,” he commands, crooking the fingers that still bend. Edee obeys, lurching forward on his probably-broken foot to stand in Porthos’ shadow, just out of sight of any potential snipers. “Close your eyes.”

Porthos ducks to rest his forehead against Edee’s, ignoring the sour scent of their mingled breath and the distant decay of bodies as he breathes deeply. Powdered duracrete scrapes between their brows and the last rays of sunlight retreat to leave them in steadily deeper purple shadows. He tunes it out, tunes it all out, and sinks into a memory of the Coruscant of his youth.

“It’s never dark on Coruscant,” he murmurs, pushing an image of the view from his room in Master Treville’s quarters into Edee’s mind. It’s harder, with a non Force sensitive, but after a year of living side by side in the trenches there’s enough of a bond between them that he manages. The scent of Aramis’ favorite night blooming flowers weaves into the memory, real enough that Edee inhales and doesn’t even smell death on the air.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes.

“That’s nothing.” One after the others, Porthos shares memories that feel a lifetime away. Coruscant from space, a glittering ball of light and life. The sharp taste of adrenaline and exhaust fumes as he weaves through air traffic on an illegally modified swoop bike, Athos and Aramis darting in and out of sight as they race back to the Temple before curfew. A cool breeze off the waterfall in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, Aramis’ laughter bubbling along with the stream they’re laying beside, grass under their fingers and Athos’ thigh warm beneath his cheek. Home.

Edee stumbles back, gasping, as the whine of engines overhead signals the end of the day. As the first bomb lights the night Porthos spots tear tracks carving muddy lines through the dirt and blood on his face.

“Thank you, sir,” Edee says, the last word warped by the speakers as he slams his helmet on. “Oya!”

“Oya.” Porthos grunts, wiping at his own eyes with the back of a filthy glove. “K’oyacyi, Edee, and may the Force be with you.”

Another explosion shakes the already fragile building, raining duracrete around them. Edee salutes informally and turns to take the stairs three at a time, calling back over his shoulder, “Ib’tuur jatne tuur ash’ad kyr’amur.” It’s a good day for someone else to die.

In the half second Porthos takes to send up a prayer to the Force and one last wave of lovegrieflongingI’msorry to the four points of light in the back of his mind, everything explodes in heat and fire and pain.

--------

Porthos wakes, rather unexpectedly given that his last memory is of being blown up. Bacta and ash make an unsettling combination on his tongue, and he finds his mouth too dry to swallow the taste away. The resulting coughing fit forces him into a curled position on his side, one arm reflexively clutching ribs that aren’t broken anymore. 

“Easy,” a familiar voice soothes. “Breathe, Porthos.” 

Something cold presses against his lips and Porthos opens his mouth automatically, lets a steady hand push an ice chip between his lips. The sweet relief of cool, clean water dissolving on his tongue draws a groan from him and chases the lingering coughing fit away. More ice chips follow, fed by a hand that lingers on his cheek in between, until Porthos is conscious enough to recognize the presence beside him as Athos.

“That’s enough,” he grunts, batting Athos’ hand away as reality begins to filter through the haze. Sifting through his memories feels like struggling out from under a heavy blanket, a feeling he recognizes as Force-assisted sleep. He must have Athos to thank for that. It takes him three attempts to sit up, the last time finally accepting Athos’ steadying hands on his shoulders. Only then does he crack his eyes open. There are deep bruises under Athos’ eyes and lines on his face that weren’t there when Porthos last saw him, nearly a year ago now. “Happened?”

“We arrived just in time to watch a tower collapse on you,” Athos replies. Usually the least physically affectionate among them, he can’t seem to stop touching Porthos. Reassuring himself the other man is in fact alive and whole by holding his shoulder, cupping his cheek, threading his fingers through the tangled hair behind Porthos’ ear and rubbing his thumb over the thin skin there. “You’ve been in bacta for two weeks.”

“Edee?” he asks, bracing himself for the answer. “My Commander? My men?”

“I’m sorry, my friend. We found another company sheltered elsewhere in the city, nearly intact, but your flagship was destroyed in orbit, and none of the men in your location survived.” Athos digs in the pocket of his robe, offering a scuffed and cracked object to Porthos. A gauntlet. Edee’s gauntlet, a golden 78 in scratched paint above the knuckles, blood between the finger joints. 

-------

Athos has to step back quickly to avoid being knocked over when Porthos surges to his feet with a wordless snarl. Machines scream as he pulls wires and tubes from his arms and chest - Athos silences them with a wave of his hand before any of the medics come running into their private room. A growing prickle of unease at the back of his neck, something he has learned not to ignore over the years, tells him this is a moment no one else should see.

“What took you so long?” The very air around them shimmers as Porthos rounds on him, the room suddenly too small for his presence. “Where were the reinforcements we asked for weeks ago? We were abandoned! A hundred fifty thousand men in that invasion and you’re tellin’ me a hundred survived.”

Something behind Athos cracks loudly, and across the room trays of instruments crash to the floor. He stands steady and watches as Porthos prowls the space between them without ever closing it entirely. “Your messages never reached the Council or the Senate. My battalion wasn’t sent to rescue you, Porthos - I came because I felt your distress as we were returning to Coruscant.”

“Never reached the…” Porthos’ expression collapses from rage to grief, an unfamiliar hopelessness in his eyes. He wavered, the energy draining from the room, leaving a cold void in its place. “Force, they just left us out there alone. All my men, and no one even knew.”

Just like the flash of knowledge that tells Athos where a blow or a blaster bolt will land a breath before his attacker even moves, Athos steps forward to catch Porthos just before his knees buckle. He’s lighter than Athos remembers, a larger than life figure made small by the endless grind of war, campaign after grueling campaign that wears them all into shadows of their former selves. He goes easily into the nearest chair, Athos folding himself down to kneel at Porthos’ feet.

“No one left to remember them.”

Catching Porthos’ hands before they can cover his face, Athos threads their fingers together and squeezes. “You will remember them.”

“How long until I’m gone, too, and then there’s really no one?” Porthos barks out a painful laugh. “Kriff, how long until all of us are gone? Our whole Order? Aramis was right. We lost this war the second we started fightin’ it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Athos snaps. His jaw flexes and he takes several deep breaths, deliberately softening his voice before he speaks again. Kriff it all, he wishes Aramis was here. He’s always been better at this comforting business. “We made a pact. One for all. I’ll hear no talk of you dying without us.”

Porthos snorts and tries to lean back, stopped by Athos’ unrelenting grip on his hands. “That was a lifetime ago, ‘thos. I don’t even know who the boy who made that pact is anymore. ‘M not him anymore, that’s sure. Force,” he looks to the ceiling, blinking hard, “maybe we shoulda listened to all that attachment talk. ‘Mis left us, you and Constance and d’Ar are all across the galaxy, fighting this war I barely even believe in for Senators who never see the sufferin’. Leading an army that’s no better ‘n slaves. I’m out here on my own and I don’t recognize myself anymore.”

“I recognize you,” Athos replies, quiet but fierce as he kisses Porthos’ scarred knuckles, then the palm he opens to cup Athos’ bearded cheek. “This war has changed us all, it’s true, but I recognize you. Porthos du Vallon, Jedi Knight. My friend.” Looking up at Porthos’ disbelieving face, he searches desperately for the right thing to say. Remembers something he and Porthos had told Aramis once, and Aramis and Porthos had told Athos in turn. “Whatever this war has changed in you, I still love you, every part of you. Even the parts you don’t like. Even the parts you don’t recognize anymore. That will have to be enough.

[themissingmarvel]

Kind Regards, Detective [Part 2]

(I apologize for the delay. I supposed an apocalyptic world often delays ones creative sense for a piece like this. I’m excited to show you folks where this is going, though as usual I worry that people won’t like the sequel the way they liked the first. If you want to be tagged in this, please let me know. I don’t have a tag list of yet. So I’m happy to start. Anyway. Catch Up:   [Part 1]

Pairing: Detective Loki (David) x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language, description of death, murder (it’s a crime series what do you want honestly)

+++

The Dover and Birch case had been rough on David, years ago. For a number of reasons, though not the least of which was the fact that he had almost watched a child die. Conyers didn’t really have a lot of deaths, but he’d worked elsewhere. He’d seen bodies. And Y/N had seen bodies, too. But she was never on the front lines.

It was still cold in Pennsylvania and the snow hadn’t disappeared yet, covering the dead earth below. Both were wearing jackets, Y/N’s not nearly as warm as she had hoped. It didn’t matter. Not with what was inside.

The old, small white church with peeling paint and crooked doors had been taped off, a forensic team already taking pictures and dusting for prints. Y/N had an idea that they’d come up empty. 

“How long has the church been shut down for?” She looked over at the taller man who was blinking more than a few times, aware of the tic he’d carried with him since the belt that got used in the boys’ home decades ago. Some things you carried with you, he’d learned. Some scars were worn under clothing and others you couldn’t shy from. They betrayed you.

David took a deep breath, inhaling the cold air that reminded him briefly of the burn of smoking a cigarette. He wanted one right now. The burn would feel nice compared to this. “A year or so. Closed down once the larger parishes popped up. Conyers isn’t exactly a place that attracts a lot of heavily religious types, and small towns can’t afford to keep up places like this.” 

Religion had always been touchy for Detective Loki. He grew up with it forced down his throat but had found God of his own accord. It was painful what lay inside the building, however, no matter what you believed.

Both stepped inside the church that felt more like an icebox than anything. A coffin, perhaps. Death was palpable. It was in the air.

Looking around, Y/N thought for a moment she was having another one of her nightmares. She could feel this one, though. In her bones. On her skin. And what she saw was something she knew she’d never ever get over. As much as he would hate to admit it, or perhaps he’d do so readily, David knew he’d never get the image from his head. Knowing that this scarred you meant you were still human. 

There were little numbers taped to each of the bodies the forensic team had already covered, twelve in total, sitting straight in each pew, alone, standing up straight. It was slow motion as Y/N walked down the aisle, black rose petals lining the floor, her feet hitting a few, the soft petals crumpling beneath her. Each body was staring straight ahead, perhaps at the front, though nothing was there. Nothing except for a note that David knew deep inside was for him.

Y/N was quiet as she held back her trembles, trying to look stern and focused rather than terrified. Her cases had been fairly straightforward so far. Perhaps a few victims, or following crime patterns. She didn’t commonly work with serial killers, and found herself working instead with a variety of criminal patterns. But when she had been tasked with serials, she was often the one who caught the little things. She had a complete success rate. What an odd thing to be proud of, she’d once thought, eating dinner alone.

Looking around, she tried to focus on facts. They were dressed well, formal, even. They had their hands folded in their laps, staring ahead. There were ligature marks on the wrists, but she had known that. 

Taking a breath, it was suddenly caught in her throat, her eyes fluttering for a moment as she took it all in. All twelve bodies. More than they had accounted for. Ones they must have missed. Somewhere. Two missing persons they’d find, they were sure. Maybe from an overworked police station that hadn’t thought to log the missing persons. All lives taken. All formally placed with care and consideration, with aisles decorated in those taunting black rose petals. She closed her eyes tightly, those Y/E/C eyes unable to take anymore.

A soft hand was suddenly on the small of her back, pressure to the touch as she heard his voice, deep though soft, “Do you need to go back outside?” David’s voice was kind, now. Perhaps he felt what she did. That same terror, sadness, overwhelming sense of loss and helplessness that left a person rattled to their core. He wanted outside as damned badly.

But instead she swallowed hard, inhaling sharply and straightening her back, “None of them have their wedding bands on, Detective. He set this up like a goddamn wedding, and none of them are wearing their wedding rings,” she looked over at him, finding a way to process the information so she could actually be helpful for once, and not losing her goddamn mind about this entirely terrifying scene.

Detective Loki had been focused as well, trying to keep himself grounded. He had felt off about the whole thing and the air felt… wrong. It was hard to explain. But when he looked over and saw that same confident woman suddenly rattled, he knew it wasn’t just him. If this… shrink, or whatever, was trying to stomach this, he felt at least a little better that he could barely do the same. He didn’t like the idea that she was struggling, however. He didn’t like it because it meant that this was bigger than any of them thought, because she was supposed to be the smart, focused one here but also… also because he hated the idea of seeing her like this.

Her words, after he’d found himself touching her without even thinking about it, startled him a bit. It was true. Every single one, all married, were missing their bands, “Why take their wedding rings? Why prop them in a church and pose it like a wedding?” He was looking over at Y/N, aware that maybe her being here wasn’t such a bad idea. This wasn’t just some abductor or psycho. This was a true sociopath. 

Y/N could only shrug, shaking her head as she found herself more grounded the more she focused on the case clinically, “It’s not religiously themed, despite the church. The church is a prop, really. They’re posed. This is a wedding without a bride and groom, though. It doesn’t make sense,” her face turned quizzical. She was puzzled.

A man, looking to be mid-thirties, approached the two, “You need to see this. It gets worse.”

Y/N wasn’t sure that was possible, but as the two followed the officer into the basement of the church, it was clear why.

Looking around felt like being in the Twilight Zone for a moment. There were cots lined up, pictures above each that, from what Y/N knew of the case, were the significant others of the individuals. Each cot was set up to look fairly… well, comfortable, strangely. They were organized closely, but up against the center wall was a large, flat screen television. The TV itself must have cost upwards of five or six hundred dollars, which felt like a strange thing to leave behind. Below was a blu-ray player, stacked with movies. But they weren’t just any movies.

David had made his way towards the cots, curious at the state they were in, which was immaculate. Spare clothes were folded by each, though zip ties on the floor backed up his theory that they’d been bound. Of course they had to be. But Y/N had crouched by the movies, picking them up individually, white latex gloves on her hands as she examined them. Love Actually, Titanic, The Notebook, Pretty Woman, When Harry Met Sally. Her face contorted into confusion, whispering to herself, “They were watching movies… love movies.” 

Straightening her posture as she stood, examining the room that echoed something sinister she didn’t quite like but understood, she shook her head, “I was wrong. They were alive. I mean, those bodies out there were barely decayed and that’s nothing to do with the temperature. There’s clothing, movies… Jesus, they’ve been kept alive down here?” 

The detective’s startling blue eyes turned to the woman who looked like she was staring at a train barreling down at her. He knew that she was aware of something else. Something more.

From there both individuals spent no more than an hour examining the place. There wasn’t much to see. Nothing of real forensic use. The prints, Y/N suspected, would all belong to those who’d been held captive. Same with fibers and hair. Anything found would be contaminated. Maybe that was the point. 

Both drove back to the precinct, separate cars, quiet as the place became silent when they entered. Silent still as they walked into the conference room and closed the door. Silent as the world paused, the town aware that they were once again the target of something terrifying. So much more than before.

Hours had passed with the two staring at pictures and information printed and handed to them. Hours spent sitting silently, so engrossed in their work they didn’t notice the precinct had begun to empty out, the area that housed detectives and other administration becoming dark as the other end of the station, where the night shift cops were, remained alive. Away from them. 

Both were startled, suddenly, by the young woman’s phone going off, a soft twinkle alarm waking her from her senses, “Ah, fuck! Shit…” she muttered to herself, grabbing the alarmingly large iPhone from inside her black messenger bag, glancing at it. A reminder, one she had set, for times like this. It wasn’t uncommon for her to become so engrossed she lost track of the time. 

David glanced over, also woken from his work coma, “Everything all right?” He looked at her, a looking like he’d been woken from a trance.

Glancing at her phone, able to see the screen, he held back a grin, though the ghost of one danced on his lips, “Hamburger?” He could see the alarm name and the words in bright white, making him curious.

Looking at him, confused, she realized that of course he wasn’t a mind reader. Instead she chuckled, “Oh, yeah. I have a tendency to get focused, and if I focus, I don’t eat. And by the time I’m hungry, I’m sick… so I set the alarm for 8:30pm, not too late, but enough to jar me to eat something. And I figured ‘hamburger’ was pretty obvious. Pizza always seemed so cliche, you know?”

Despite his better judgment David smiled, “Hamburger. That what you gonna go get?” He eyed her, curious now about what she’d do. He knew himself well enough to know he’d be here another few hours before driving home to sneak some sleep in, get up early, and down a few cups of whatever his neighbor Elisa had left for him. A nice woman, older, had taken a liking to David. She took care of him, in a way. One of those ways was buying the man coffee to brew so he wasn’t stuck with that instant crap he’d drink otherwise.

Shrugging, she began to stand, wincing as she realized how stiff she’d been, tucking some files and pictures away into the bag with her laptop she hadn’t even opened yet, “Probably. I saw a Burger King a few miles from the hotel. I mean… it’s no five-star but it’ll do for now,” she forced a smile on her face, trying to focus on something other than the case. On Detective Loki. On his face. On his small little tattoos decorated like freckles on his skin. The way pieces of his hair had fallen to frame his face, his eyes, icy blue, looking fierce and strong as though nothing could waver him. 

For a moment it was quiet, David wondering if maybe he should offer to take her to the Chinese place he liked, but he reconsidered. She was still a Fed, and this was still a case. A disturbing case. He guessed they both kind of wanted to think of something else. Be somewhere else. But David couldn’t do that, and Y/N had to. She knew that sitting in a small precinct would only heighten her anxiety. She had to be somewhere contained with actual food in her system.

A moment longer than both were comfortable with passed before David took a breath, “Nothing five-star in this town, Agent Y/L/N, or the next few towns for that matter. Enjoy dinner. And uh… be safe.”

Softly smiling she nodded her tired head, “Of course, Detective.”

He was going to correct her, at that moment. He had considered letting her know that ‘David’ was fine, or even that most called him ‘Loki’ around here. And she had considered the same. Letting him know that Y/N was fine, and ‘Agent’ was what she told people when she wanted to get something done and people weren’t listening. But that moment passed in an instant, leaving Y/N to walk out the door, bag around her shoulder.

It felt eerie, walking to her car and loading her things in, the rental she was provided with so foreign, but she was used to foreign. And as she plugged her phone in, the one filled with pictures she’d taken on her own, with notes and screenshots, she tried to get the face of the detective out of her brain. And it wasn’t that she didn’t like the idea of Detective Loki. She did. She really did. But she didn’t like that he was existing there alongside the case. 

A long time ago she had learned to make a mental box. A locker. And in each locker she would put information, separate them from each other. It helped keep things clear. She could put Detective Loki’s face, his attempt at hiding a smile, his small tics and blue eyes, his focus and hardened exterior… she could put it away. And for now, in the locker she needed, the one that was black and filled with something she didn’t want to even name, would be the case. And that… that would be her focus.

If not? She knew she was in trouble.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

The better to taste you with, sweetheart

(Hayffie trick-or-treat 🧡 🔥 NSFW. Sexual content. Thanks @chocolateshipcookieblog for the prompt. This fic is a bit all over the place, but so is Halloween, so I just went with what came up. District 12 started feeling a little like Stars Hollow, so I kind of embraced that too. Now I can’t look at a lollipop without picturing it in Effie’s mouth, and I’m not complaining 🍭. Writing this was fun and touching.)

***

A fire burned in a wood stove in the corner of the Hob where people gathered for the town hall meeting. The large brick building held the chill of early autumn. Effie shivered, regretting her decision to wear only a sweater rather than a coat. She huddled close to Peeta. Sae’s granddaughter held Effie’s hand in a childlike way, swinging her arm periodically. Effie didn’t mind the connection with the unusual woman who was her neighbor now. That evening she appreciated the warmth of her hand.

“I told ‘em they were buildin’ this place too big,” Greasy Sae said matter-of-factly, not caring if the mayor or anyone in particular heard her or not. “A body gets cold in here no matter the size of the crowd.”

“Sure beats the heat in summer,” a man behind them said.

Effie peered over her shoulder and recognized him as one of the spice traders. “Spice” was a term used loosely in 12 to refer to dried roots, stems, bulbs, barks, and herbs, including tabacco and cannabis.

“Summer gets real hot.” He glanced at Effie from her forehead to her shoulders, then his eyes shot back up without gazing further. It was a look she knew well now. In 12, no one in his right mind stared wantonly at Haymitch’s girl, at least not openly, even when they were drunk or stoned.

The town hall had drawn a decent size crowd. More folks started showing up at those meetings once the council stopped hosting them every month and switched to quarterly. The people of each district had representatives and a governor, but those positions dealt with broad political issues, leaving local issues to be facilitated by a mayor and a town council.

It was Effie’s first autumn since letting go of her apartment in the Capitol, and Peeta was a dear to be joining her that night since she hadn’t wanted to go alone. She figured the only way she’d stop feeling like an outsider in 12 was to walk the line awhile between being present and being nonintrusive. She had a lifetime of experience walking lines much finer and more perilous than that one, so the task suited her.

The Hob filled with the fragrance of coffee brewing. People in attendance sipped mugs of it and devoured the muffins Peeta brought, baked with fruit from pawpaw trees. Katniss had encountered a grove of them in the woods. The fruit dropped in late summer and early fall, and Katniss gathered up what she found after hunts.

The mayor called the meeting to order and proceeded with the usual agenda: reconstruction updates, old business, new business, and so on. Effie was fairly bored until some new business sparked her interest.

“Since last year’s revival of All Hallows’ Eve was well received,” the mayor said, “The council invites all to attend this year’s festivities which will be held on the last night of October. We’ll have a bonfire again at the meadow’s edge to honor the departed. In the first two hours after sunset, everyone is encouraged to participate in the ancient tradition of guising.”

“Guising?” Effie murmured the question to Peeta.

He whispered back, “Dressing up in costume — mostly creatures from old stories. And going door to door after dark for treats — sweet foods, coins for children, liquor for adults.”

Costumes, sweets, money, alcohol... that sounded to Effie like regular living in the old days of the Capitol. But this tradition, one night each year under the cover of darkness, was something unique. In the Capitol they’d only celebrated national holidays.

The mayor continued, “Spread the word... anyone planning to offer treats, please remember to light a lantern or a candle on your doorstep in order to avoid the — confusion — we had last year.”

“Confusion?” Effie quietly asked Peeta again.

“Pranks on people who were home but not answering their doors: knocking late into the night, tossing a few eggs at windows, minor mischief.”

Effie could guess who probably refused to answer his door. This year that was going to change if she had anything to say about it, which of course she did.

***

On the last evening in October, Haymitch slouched on the sofa in front of a fire with his feet propped up on the coffee table. The flames burned low, but he felt too lazy to add another log. He reached instead for his glass of whiskey.

He could already hear people gathering near the meadow. Bonfire, music, dancing... traditions to honor the dead. Folks were saying that a long time ago All Hallows’ Eve was celebrated as some “sacred” night when the “veil between worlds” is thin and the dead are close. Katniss had a few memories of her father telling *ghost* stories that his mother used to sing about. The old lady had been a strange one for sure. To Haymitch it all seemed like load of horse shit since “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever.

“Traditions” for Haymitch had always meant the ones that happened under Snow’s control. Reaping Day had been the big “holiday.” Work paused and citizens dressed up. Those were government orders. Eventually people shamed their neighbors who didn’t stop working and didn’t wear nice clothes. They no longer needed government to do the punishing about not following traditions because people did it to each other. Families whose children didn’t get reaped celebrated quietly, behind closed doors, reserving special food for the occasion if they could afford to do so. *Holiday traditions* didn’t sit well with Haymitch.

“Manners!” Effie scolded as she approached from the kitchen and saw his bare feet on the coffee table.

“Loosen your corset. There’s a coaster right here.” He said it without looking at her.

Not wanting to start an argument just then, she bit her tongue as she moved toward the fireplace. “I’m not wearing a corset tonight.”

His peripheral vision caught a flash of red, and he turned to watch her. She wore a velvet cloak buttoned down the front. She pulled off a long satin glove before grabbing a log to throw on the fire.

His eyes passed over her from head to toe then back up again. “What’s this?” he asked, with a smile on his face.

She slipped her glove back on and confronted him with her hands on her hips. The hood of her cloak was pulled up, and her hair peeked from beneath, framing her face in blonde curls. Her makeup was light, apart from her lipstick which was as crimson as blood.

“My costume, for guising.”

His expression was a mix of intrigue, amusement, and irritation.

“I told you weeks ago that we’re going, and I mean it! Posy’s already on her way over here. I’m paying that girl a small fortune to hand out cookies and quarters and whiskey, so Hazelle doesn’t have to wash dried egg off YOUR window panes tomorrow like Peeta said she had to do last year.”

“Whiskey?! I didn’t agree to give out liquor to freeloaders.”

“Everyone is doing it. You’ll be receiving as much as you’re giving away.” Effie sat beside him on the couch, crossing her legs so the cloak parted near the fur-lined hem where she’d left a couple of buttons unfastened. Above knee-high boots, her thighs were covered in lace stockings.

“You’ll be wearing that?” His mouth watered for treats other than food and drink.

“All evening.”

He reached out to her thigh, but she smacked his hand before he could touch her.

“What the hell!” He sat up straight, aroused by the sting of the slap as much as by her appearance.

“You get to touch me when we’re out of the house, not before!”

“That’s extortion.”

“That’s PATIENCE... and holiday spirit!” She softened the blow by adding, “...I’ll be touching you too — if you want.”

Yeah, I want. “No corset? Hmmm. So what are you wearing under that cloak?”

“You’ll see tonight — after we visit everyone, and we’re home.”

“That’s more extortion!”

“That’s more patience.”

“And what am I supposed to wear?”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. With me dressed like this, they’re not going to be looking at you.”

***

Twilight was fading, and the last trace of blue drained from the sky. Effie had never seen more stars than she did when looking up from the clearings of 12. She slipped a flat round disk of hard candy from a wax paper sleeve and held it up by its wooden stick.

“Shine the lantern on it,” she directed, “I want to see the color.”

The lantern swung casually at Haymitch’s side. He didn’t lift it up. “Why’d you insist on us bringing this thing when we could each be using a flashlight? Or better yet, sitting at home where there’s electricity. Or lying in bed pretending we’re not home.”

“If we’re in bed, then people coming to the door are going to know we’re home. I wouldn’t be quiet, and you’d wind up smothering me with a pillow.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Too dark to find it.”

“What’s too dark — the night or you?”

“Both.”

She stopped walking, and he followed suit. With him it was always easier to catch flies with honey. She slid the basket of gathered treats over her wrist. It was growing heavy with pastries, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and confections like taffy from the sweet shop in the Hob.

She reached above the zipper of his coat and stroked the hollow between his collarbones. “I like the darkness in you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere when I’m freezing my ass off.” Her fingertips were warm, red satin against his throat. The gloves stretched from her hands to her elbows. When she’d pulled them on earlier that evening, he wanted her to touch him right then.

“Let’s see...” She moved her hand away. When he was about to protest, she nestled her body against his and slipped her gloved fingers beneath his coat, into the back waistband of his pants. “Your ass is still here, and it’s not frozen.”

She teased his flesh without grasping, drawing him out with her, not home for sex. He felt the difference. If he wanted something now other than this “guising” nonsense, then he’d need to do some coaxing of his own.

He encircled her waist with one arm and murmured against her temple. “Why do you need a lantern when you can just taste the thing?”

With her hand in his pants, her mind started spinning things she wanted to taste. The heels of her boots brought her mouth up close to his. He smelled like the wool hat and sweater he’d dug out from the cedar chest, the ale they’d been given at the previous house, and bites of chocolate.

“What ‘thing’ would I be tasting?”

“That lollipop ...unless you have something else in mind.”

Even as she clenched the thin wooden dowel, she’d forgotten it. “A lick would be good...” She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth. “...But maybe I’ll need to suck on it awhile.”

Reluctantly she slipped out from the warmth of him and pulled away, transferring the basket of treats back to her hand.

He lifted the lantern, otherwise it would have been too dark to watch her suck on that stick of candy, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss that.

She opened her mouth slowly and met the lollipop with her tongue, then lingered a moment before drawing the candy inside. She pursed her lips around the stick, and her cheeks sucked in. Her tongue moved side to side awhile, savoring the flavor. When she pulled the stick out, her lips were still puckered. The candy followed, glistening in the lantern light.

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s okay to blink now,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “So how does it taste?”

“Find out for yourself.”

She held out the lollipop, but he didn’t take it. Instead he wrapped his hand, gloved in leather, around her satin-clad one. He tugged her toward him, and tasted her. She was sticky sweet, like white sugar sprinkled over warm berries.

The kiss sent the sweetness coursing through her. Her breath came out in a rush over his tongue. He felt it everywhere.

“Damn, Effie. Let’s go home. I wanna take off your cloak. I can hardly feel anything with these gloves on.”

He was tempting, but she steeled herself against temptation. “Not yet. We haven’t been to the mayor’s house or the bonfire.”

“The bonfire? Shit. You didn’t say anything about that.”

“It was implied.”

In the lantern light, she watched him scowl.

“Implied...” she leaned in again and murmured against his neck, “...Like the sex we’ll be having later. I didn’t say anything about doing that either, but you know we will.”

“Fine. ...While I’m waiting, feel free to keep sucking on that candy.”

Effie slid the basket over her wrist again, laced her fingers with his, and enticed him with the lollipop between her lips as they strolled on.

***

“Ah, what do you know! It’s Haymitch Abernathy, out on All Hallows’ Eve. Effie, you’ve accomplished a miracle.” The mayor poured them each a cupful of brandy.

“This is WONDERFUL, Taylor. It’s the council that’s accomplished a miracle.” Effie sipped the drink. The ability to make small talk with anyone was a long rehearsed part of her skill set.

“You are dazzling in red. Why don’t you wear that color more often?”

“I save it for special occasions.”

“Haymitch, who are you supposed to be? ...The woodcutter?”

“I’m pretending to be a nice guy.” He downed the brandy in a single gulp.

“Ah, a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Well, ‘nice guy’ looks much better on you than the *grumpy old man* costume you wore last year.”

“Very funny...”

Effie half-expected the words to be followed by a snide “sweetheart.”

The mayor dropped a brown paper package tied with blue ribbon into Effie’s basket of treats. “Fudge. From the sweet shop. After last year’s pumpkin explosion, I’ve sworn off baking.”

“When I visit Peeta or Sae’s kitchens, they make me sit on a stool and drink coffee.”

“That’s not a bad deal.”

“I agree.”

The mayor glanced around, then whispered, “Truth be told, I overcooked the pumpkin intentionally, figuring I’d be spared future requests for baked goods. But the explosion was a surprise.”

“My lips are sealed.” Effie finished her drink, and they handed the glasses back to the mayor.

“I’m heading to the bonfire. How about you two?”

“We were just about to—“ Effie started, but Haymitch interrupted with his hand on her back.

“—make another stop. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

***

“What other stop?” she asked when they were walking on the road again.

He slid his hand up her back and grasped the nape of her neck, caressing her through the velvet. “I didn’t get all *dressed up* tonight to spend time with the mayor. I wanna be with you.”

She wrapped her arm around him and hooked her thumb on his waistband. “I want to be with you too. It’s almost too bad there are people crawling all over town tonight.“

“Come here.” He lead her around the side of the Hob.

“I am NOT making out with you behind the dumpster!”

“Keep going. I know what you like and what you don’t.”

The back of the building was steeped in shadow. There were a couple of pallets stacked high with wood for the stoves. He lead her along the narrow passage between them to a spot sheltered under the eaves.

He took the basket from her hands and set it on the ground along with the flickering lantern. She smiled as she backed up against the brick wall. “Do you bring all the girls here?”

“Just you... Red.” He pulled off his gloves and dropped them beside the basket. “I’m done waiting to touch you.”

He held her hips and pulled her lightly against him. One hand shifted to the small of her back. The other brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. The crimson color lingered elsewhere now, on the rims of unwashed liquor glasses and a discarded lollipop stick. Her lips parted, naked and soft.

“I want this mouth on me.”

“Where, honey?” She was already inching down the zipper of his coat.

“You choose.”

She snuggled against his sweater. His body was warm and hard, and she immediately wanted more than what she felt was accessible in the shadow of the Hob.

Her hands touched him first before her mouth. Satin fingertips traced around his coat collar, pushing it low. She sucked the tendons on the side of his neck, up to his jaw and back. Then she bit down.

He flinched, groaning in a mix of pain and pleasure. He gripped her wrists, holding her against him rather than pushing her away. “Is that how you want to play this?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled against his neck, kissing gently now. “I’m making some marks. Everybody in this town is treating me like I’m *yours*. If that’s how it’s going to be, they should know you’re mine too.”

“I haven’t been telling ‘em anything.”

“They know it just the same.” She plucked kisses like a rope around his throat, then bit him on the other side.

He let it all happen, anticipating the sensations, and flinching again. He nudged her against the wall, letting her feel what she was doing to his body. “You know, I can get you off right here,” he said.

The same force that spent a decade pulling her to 12 was tugging at her now. Everything inside her melted like that lollipop in a mouthful of hot brandy. The temptation was too much. “We have to be quick. Anyone might find us.”

“So what? If they see you fucking me, that’ll offer ‘em more clarity about us than you biting up my neck.”

“Haymitch, there are children!”

“So we’ll keep our clothes on and stay quiet... mostly. No kids are gonna be scarred — not even you, sweetheart.” He toyed with the top button of her cloak.

“How do YOU want to play this?” she asked.

“I wanna see you.” He unhooked the buttons, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, waiting to take in the sight of her all at once, whatever it might be.

After the last button was unfastened, she didn’t wait for him to open her cloak. She did it herself.

Damn... She’d been walking all over town wearing nothing under that thing except a white neglige and a thong. Both were made of some sheer fabric that hid little to nothing of her. The thin silk straps around her hips matched the ones over her shoulders.

“Effie...” He wanted her. Every bit of her. And he knew the thing that people had been thinking was true. She had him. Nothing was changing that, unless he drank himself to death, or she left him — whichever came first. Later, when more blood was flowing to his brain, he might be afraid of that awareness. But for now he was hers.

“Surprise.” She beamed. “You better come closer, or I’m going to be the one freezing my ass off.”

His arms went around her within the cloak, and he crushed her against him, taking in the sensations of her with his hands and mouth.

Her palms skimmed up his back under his shirt. “Closer...” she urged.

“You first.”

She’d spent a long portion of her life in gloves. Her fingers were nearly as dexterous within fabric as they were bare. She opened his pants and pulled his dick into her hands, working him between her palm and fingers. He thought about letting her make him come like that. But he wanted to be inside her.

His hands were warm when they slipped into her thong, bracketing her with fingers in her folds and spiraling just above. When he touched her, everything quickened. She stroked him with insistence and moved against his hands with rapid cadence.

Far too much noise was coming from her throat. “Where’s that pillow so I can smother you?” he teased.

“Just fuck me,” she pleaded, “Now before we’re arrested.”

He untangled his hands from her thong. She lifted one of her legs, and he hiked it up in the crook of his elbow, flattening his palm against the wall. The heels of her boots brought her up to a perfect height to fuck like this. She slid her thong to the side, and he dipped within her — plunging, stirring. She met his thrusts with her own.

He clutched her waist and pressed her against the bricks, commanding stillness. “Don’t move your hips.”

“What!” she huffed, “Fuck you, Haymitch! I’m so close.”

“PATIENCE,” he teased with her inflection in his voice, “Wait for it, and it’ll be better. You know I’m right.”

She knew.

He was close too. She was all satin and velvet inside and out. Her breasts brushed against his sweater. It was so much.

She was crying out, and “Shhh” was accomplishing nothing. He covered her mouth with his palm. His pinky pressed against her nostrils. She could breathe, but barely. They’d played this game before. Adrenaline surged through her body as she came undone. She clung to his neck as her thighs shook. Her whimpers passed through the closed slits between his fingers. Her eyes were wild in shadow, never leaving his.

“I know, honey. I’m right here... Oh, fuck. I know... Goddamn it... Effie...” He heard her name several times as he climaxed. He must have been the one saying it, since his hand was still covering her mouth.

When he let go of her, she sucked in the night air, still clutching his neck. She was high. So high like this.

“Are you okay?” He panted.

She caught her breath. “The mayor, Greasy Sae, the damn spice trader, they’re all right... I’m yours. I just am. It’s like breathing. Even when it’s hard to do, I’m still yours.” — It was the closest she would come to a declaration of love.

Her words moved through him like the music he heard in the distance. He was chuckling, not knowing exactly why. Release mostly. The lantern flickered near their feet. The hood of her cloak had slipped back, and her curls were stretching into wisps, fatigued like his body. She was so beautiful.

“I’m pretty sure my neck is bleeding now, so apparently that makes me yours too.”

“Oh...” Oxytocin was working its magic, and she filled with empathy. She pushed the coat off his shoulders so she could see. Her teeth marks were there, but no blood was dripping. She slapped his chest. “You’ll live.”

They pulled apart far enough to put themselves back into a semblance of order: readjusting, covering, zipping, and buttoning up. Then he held her until she was warm enough to move out again into the night.

***

They returned to the road, rather than cutting through the meadow. Yeah, “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever, but Haymitch still didn’t want to be walking across a mass grave, no matter how thick the grasses were growing, no matter that flowers would pop up in spring.

Effie felt the energy of the evening diffusing. Sparks from the bonfire floated away on the breeze with red maple leaves. Haymitch carried her basket in the crook of his elbow where her leg had been settled a short while before. In that same hand he held the lantern. Both of her arms wrapped around his free one, the way he held her sometimes in sleep.

That night, children who had never known the Games wore their blankets around their shoulders to be heroes or over their heads to be ghosts. They cuddled their blankets in their arms as they grew tired and snuggled against their parents, or whoever they had left to love them. Effie’s Nana had held her like that, once upon a time. Many years passed before she experienced again that quality of feeling.

She squeezed Haymitch’s arm tighter, and her eyes filled with tears. If someone had asked her all the reasons why, she couldn’t have told them. Some emotions are too layered to translate into words on cards. They’re unexplainable to an audience of even one.

She paused. “Let’s go home.”

“No bonfire?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay. Ain’t nothing there that you and I don’t already have right here.” — It was the closest he would come to a declaration of love.

Whether they were taking the path of pins or the path of needles was irrelevant. The thing they had — the one that drew him out and filled her up —was always leading them the same place.

“Let’s stop first at the kids’ porch.” Effie added, “Peeta told me he was dressing up in Katniss’s hunting jacket, and he was going to try to wrangle her into wearing one of his aprons.”

“That I’d like to see... But don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat of yours, and there’s no way I’m letting you borrow this cloak.”

“The mayor did say I look dazzling in red,” he joked.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the mayor. ...I’ll let you wear my lipstick.”

“Only if you kiss it onto me then kiss it right off again.”

Some *traditions* might not be so bad after all.

[alchemist-shizun]

Darkness falls in time

Read on Ao3!

Word Count: 2,699

Characters: Deceit, Remus (minorly) and a new boy. (Ophis is Deceit’s pet snake gifted by the other sides)

Pairing(s): Either none or open to interpretation

Warning(s): Major character death, suicide, self-harm implication, one mention of knife, relapse, sort of panic attack, poisoning, blood mentions, pet death.

Summary: Deceit was failing and he wasn’t able to admit it to himself. What the others weren’t aware of was that it wasn’t entirely his fault.

A/N: OH BOY Y'ALL this idea came from this post my dear friend Lance made, and I thought why not make a sequel to “As soon as the curtain is raised”? You don’t really have to read the other one to understand this one, just know that Deceit went too far with trying to be accepted and all the rest of the sides ultimately noticed and helped him. Please be mindful of the heavy topics of this fic and stay safe. Hope you enjoy! Is this my take on the orange side who knows maybe not oops

✾

❝ Close your eyes, scoop the wind, dissolve yourself, ring the bells.

No matter how many times the thunder hits, I will go beyond the darkness while singing. ❞

Relapsing.

Worsening. Deteriorating. Degenerating. Sickening. Weakening.

Failing.

Deceit was failing and he wasn’t able to admit it to himself, let alone the others.

Erosion, a natural, gradual and undetectable disaster now applied to all the improvement he had reached in such a long time.

Useless steps forward against an enormous jump meters back, as if startled by his own progress.

His fingers trailed over his left cheek, barely brushing the uneven path his scales left; normally when he did that, Ophis would appear between his hands in all his grace, reminding him how blindingly charming snake skin looked with his bright yellow pigment.

Were he able to move in that particular moment, he would’ve checked on him.

Instead, his eyes seemed to widen from the perpetual frowning gaze and fixate on the rug.

Just like one of those alluring energies that pulled you towards an unknown destination, Deceit was unconsciously being dragged back into the dark pit of his own tragic fall.

Urgings of all kinds piled up on top of each other, resulting in nothing but chaos as he moved his eyes regretfully to his hands.

Held up at chest level, he could barely make out the outline of those trembling sunny gloves that he would have been able to rip apart into shreds at any given moment.

It wasn’t himself. It was that again. Testing and trying him so that could seek delight in his decadence.

Deceit parted his lips and focused all of his strength in his throat, forcing out any sound that could have made sense.

Which didn’t happen immediately.

Instead, a choking sensation pervaded his body and he forgot how to breathe altogether.

Not even gasping for air, he waited until he was so devoid of oxygen that he sucked in a short breath in a tick.

« Rem, » he knew Remus was on the other end of the couch, busying himself with whichever object he had previously created.

« Dee? » the duke had been eyeing him from that exact spot for a good minute by then, preparing for an eventual need of assistance.

That was the case, indeed.

Remus studied his friend’s complexion: his focus completely on himself, the realization that he was not going to steady himself without help. Deceit kept staring at his hands, the unstoppable visible shaking setting dread in his insides, all while hunched over himself.

He watched him meet his eyes with a careful movement of his head.

« Stop me. »

That was the cue.

Stop me, or I won’t be able alone. Stop me, or I will rip off the skin from my face again. Stop me, or I will scream until my voice is soar and I will hate myself.

Stop me.

Or I will regret it.

Dark Creativity moved, impossibly cautious as he laced his fingers around Deceit’s wrists in a loose lock.

Frantic heartbeats coming from the trembling side were all that separated them.

Remus drew ghost lines on the other’s arm, so to give him some sense of grounding reality; he pulled both to each other’s feet, beginning their journey towards their usual destination during severe episodes of relapse: the Imagination.

Roman and Remus had found their hangout place to be an effective solution, as futile as it could sound.

Despite it being the literal embodiment of unreality, it helped Deceit visualize his damaging memories and destroy them altogether.

Once they left the room, a young petite snake shifted ever so slightly in his aquarium: Ophis was used to being a comfort pet for the troubled side, but was always kept aside when the most urgent relapsing struck.

It was crystal clear already that Deceit hadn’t been doing well.

Ophis was there so he reminded himself of a daily routine, so he would feed him and check on him constantly and set himself back on track with his tasks.

Yet, in the last few weeks the days in which Deceit would forget to give the tiny pet his food would increase, he would carry through the hours without allowing himself a break to pet him for a while, sinking deeper in his melancholy state instead.

If only Roman had also given Ophis the ability to notify them when things were going downhill.

Even if he had been able to, he wouldn’t have probably had enough strength to do it: it wasn’t like none other than Deceit cared about him, but lately events had been so shaky and everyone was rushing to get Deceit to calm down, ending up with innocently failing to remember Ophis would get ill.

And getting ill he did.

The worst case scenario: he represented the deterioration his owner’s mind was being subjugated to.

Which meant ultimately that was only little time left before the inevitable.

Because of that, that destroyer of psyche.

In another side of the Mindscape, Remus was still leading his friend toward a worn-looking door he crossed everyday; he’d recall memories here and there, making sure Deceit was focused on the present reality.

« Go on, then, » once inside the Imagination, they stopped in the middle of nothingness. « Relinquish it all. »

Deceit hadn’t found it difficult the first time he tried to bend the landscape to his will, it seemed his willpower to recall disastrous events outweighed Remus’s own creative flow.

He had his eyes closed out of habit, preparing himself to the blight he’d caused.

« Uh … why is it all dark? » the duke called at his side, looking around himself for any of his usual ferocious creatures.

A reminded that was still there.

« Please no, leave me alone. » Deceit muttered under his breath, looking towards the sky in defeat.

« What are- Do you want me to leave? »

He looked at his friend, who had misunderstood who his interlocutor was.

And nodded.

Facing that alone it was, then.

Remus raised an eyebrow, unconvinced and hesitant as he headed for the door.

« Just shout something lewd when you need me. »

Deceit let himself chuckle. « As per usual, will do. »

Then Remus left.

Then he started running.

Ophis watched as the duke made his entrance with no trophy: doom hovered upon them as the snake remembered that everytime Deceit was left alone in the Imagination, his condition would unfathomably worsen.

« He said I had to leave. » he mused whilst pacing towards the pet. « It’s not like I don’t trust him, but this whole ordeal is kinda suspicious. »

Ophis watched with half-lidded eyes as Dark Creativity brushed part of his skin.

« But what do you know? » he shrugged. « I don’t think there’s anything dangerous in the complete nothingness anyway. »

The snake was barely able to keep staring at the bright green and pitch black of his clothing.

« This little guy seems sleepy, huh? » Remus took a step back from the aquarium.

« I’ll leave you be, too. »

Deceit had started running.

In the deepness of the obscurity left by his mind’s amalgamation of perceiving and memories, now become the reality around him, he slowed only once a moonlit spot sparkled between what appeared to be leafless trees blackened by trauma.

He halted to look around himself multiple times.

« What do you want?! » the desperate called out at the sky, hands curled into fists as his arms were slightly raised. « Just tell me what you want and leave me alone, please! »

Low chuckling came thundering like an ancient deity upon preying a hopeless faithful mortal.

Deceit shook his head, holding it between his hands only to glance back at the dark clouds descending before him.

An anthropomorphic figure he recognized all too well distinguished itself from its smokey frame, two arms crossed over a chest, a finger tapping eagerly.

An open-mouthed mischievous grin embellished the ever-changing shape of that face.

Two eyes opened and a pair of orange, almost golden irises pierced through Deceit, as bright as the incandescent steel of a soon-to-be weapon.

His feet touched the ground, sizzling the grass until it disintegrated in grey ashen particles, becoming one with the trail of obsidian mist left behind every single inch of his outline.

He looked like he was about to fade away at any given moment.

Deceit had already been wearing a worn expression by the time he approached, leaving the air heavy around them, as if a bubble of destruction had just encaged them.

The figure widened its smile.

« Get out. » the side muttered, finding breathing an overbearing task all of a sudden. « Why are you finding this so funny? Just- get over yourself! »

He stepped forward until only a few inches separated them, chuckling again as fingers acuminated like a knife cupped Deceit’s face, cutting his cheeks with evanescent fog.

« Oh, angel, you know I can’t simply do that, »

« Don’t call me that. » the side lowered his eyebrows, squinting.

« There’s no fun in waiting around … Why not just strike at once every now and then? » a fabricated pitiful gaze met disgust. « You know how I am, after all. Who I am. »

« I’m tired of playing your idiotic games, » Deceit leaned in with venom on his tongue as he sputtered out his name. « Decay. »

Decay made a sound in the back of his throat. « And yet you seem to still fall for them. How peculiar. » he let his arms fall to his side, eyes lingering on the other’s face as the black vapour left his cheeks gradually. « Why? » taking a step backward, his voice grew louder. « Can you not resist me, angel? » a lopsided smile framed his last word.

« You know exactly the reason why. You’re doing dirty work you’re not supposed to out of spite. » Deceit referenced in his mind the countless times his conditions had kept decreasing to a point of no return, especially when he had started picking at his scales, months prior.

And Decay knew that.

Because he had been the cause of it all along.

« You know, sometimes I don’t understand. » as he paced around the side, anything he touched dissolved into the void of non-existence. « You’ve been rejected, and I was, too. »

That had happened a long time earlier.

Decay had strived for so long to become a side, but never succeeded as his sole purpose served as a mean of deterioration of Thomas’s mind. His actions had been purely destructive and they had to keep him at bay to protect the entirety of the Mindscape and Thomas’s brain itself.

His was one of those overwhelming powers not even he could control, or rather, he didn’t want to control them; destruction was something that needed to be slow and progressive, while Decay was not one for patience at all.

They made him let off steam by keeping him in the Imagination and having the two Creativities deal with him, letting him damage catastrophically anything they built.

Remus was the best at keeping up with him, but there were times in which both he and Roman came back from their encounter absolutely devastated, pushed over their limit.

It was then that Thomas was the most stressed out, so they all teamed up to make sure they would get some rest and a break.

But Decay would eventually come back, eager to unleash his energy even stronger than before, getting worse by the days.

None of them would have been able to stand a chance against him in the long run.

And now, tired of the monotone fights with Roman and Remus, he decided to strike his blow on Deceit, making only him pay for the grudges he held against all of the sides.

« So I wonder … » he stopped to rest an arm on Deceit’s shoulder, who believed for a moment it would fall right through him.

He felt his clothes almost burning, Decay’s eyes stabbing the side of his face, pleading to be taken into consideration.

« Why are you still in my way? »

Deceit bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the self-destructive urges such closeness with the other caused; were he to move, he would have fallen to his knees.

« Our circumstances differ for one detail: the only reason why I’ve been “rejected”, as you put it, is because of a misunderstanding between me and Thomas, which I will resolve in due time. »

« Yeah, that’s it. » Decay’s fingers dug in his skin. « Is that the line you learnt by heart to appease yourself? » it felt like Deceit’s own venom had started circulating in his thoughts instead of his blood. « Is that what you tell yourself everytime a hint of doubt crosses your mind? » the pitiful tone came back.

Decay chuckled and placed a hand on Deceit’s left cheek. « Oh, angel, » he carefully moved his head so the other looked at him. « It doesn’t work like that against me. »

All Deceit wanted was to push him away, yet he hurt all over, so all he could fathom to do was comply to that tedious monologue and refrain from punching that delicate face that was way too impending on himself.

« You of all people should know that lying isn’t necessary in this situation. So why do you keep trying? »

« Can we skip this futile blabber and get to the point already? »

« How long has it been since you started trying to convince yourself you might make it? »

Deceit shuddered. « Shut up. »

« They accepted Remus before they even considered you. »

« Shut up. » he curled his hands into fists at his sides. « I’m not falling for your trap again. »

« Oh, are you sure about that, angel? » Decay stepped aside to stare him down: he was met with a trembling body, as shaky as a winter’s leaf, eyes about to spill some tears and mind on the verge of a serious breakdown.

Decay was surprised he had endured his presence that long.

Two different coloured irises bored into intensely orange ones, between fear, determination and the will to wreak havoc.

« Yes, » Deceit turned, finally faced him, and focused his strength on lifting one of his arms to grip at Decay’s shoulder. He remembered they were in the Imagination, which permitted him to bend it to his own will, too.

« Want to know why? »

At once, Decay’s misty presence became a perfectly distinguishable body and, as he was too busy being astonished and looking at his solid self, Deceit opened the button on one of his gloves and brought his wrist to his teeth the moment Decay’s glance fell back on the side’s face.

Ophis felt it.

He knew when Deceit dipped his teeth in his veins and let the venom pour and infect his blood, he knew when Deceit squeezed his eyes shut like it was all an ineffable nightmare.

He knew when they were both about to die.

So Ophis let himself rest in his lonely aquarium, while Remus was sharing his doubts with Roman in the other living room, unknowing.

« Because, »

Decay’s disbelief didn’t falter as Deceit reached him, his feet slithering on the disintegrated grass.

The side portrayed a tight lipped sad smile, but with a hint of triumph.

« I’m taking you down with me. »

Deceit pulled Decay’s arm to his mouth, stabbing his skin open with his canines and crushing Decay’s own degeneration with the most catastrophic poison.

Black and purple painted their veins: wide eyes accused the snake-faced side, the same eyes that stared down at their owner’s newly acquainted body fading away into the wind the same way he had dissolved the grass around him before.

And when those same two eyes disappeared the way they came to be, for the last time, Deceit allowed himself to rest.

He fell to the ground and slipped into eternal slumber.

[stillness-in-green]

Shigaraki Birthday Week, Day 7: free day

Learning control, and the lack of it.  (Spoiler-free except for Shigaraki’s real name.)  

Content Warning: No death or violence, but does contain calculated child neglect and All For One being supportive about exactly the kinds of things you’d expect him to be supportive about.  

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

Sensei takes the gloves away in stages.  

“Let’s try for an hour today,” he says as he gently pulls the bulky fabric off of Tenko’s hands.  “I’ve brought you some toys to practice with.”

Tenko reflexively curls his fingers into fists and jams them up under his armpits when he feels the air pricking at his bared skin.  Sensei chuckles, running one hand through his hair—it’s going pale now, black fading to white, like the longer he stays with Sensei the more he starts to look like him, a lizard changing its skin to take the color of its surroundings.  

“You may be a bit old for these, but they’re a good size for your hands right now.”  Setting the gloves to the side, Sensei next holds up a pail and tips it out onto the floor. Brightly colored blocks tumble into a loose pile, big clunky wooden things.  “Come.  We’ll try and build something.”  

Tenko ends up decaying as many of the blocks as he’s able to stack on each other, his itch getting worse every time, until, weeping in frustration, he kicks over the rudimentary tower and destroys every block left within reach.  

Sensei smiles through the whole thing.  

———–      

“Let’s try to do lunch with no gloves today.  I brought finger food!”

It’s all Western-style things.  Chicken nuggets are easy; so are french fries.  The hamburger is messy, but it’s enough layers that, to his surprise, it doesn’t decay even when he accidentally touches it with all five fingers.  As long as he keeps his thumb on the bottom bun and his fingers on the top, the whole thing stays together.  Sensei hums thoughtfully at the discovery.  

Tenko manages to keep his cup intact until almost the end, but the hamburger made him lazy, and they end up with soda all over the table.  

———–      

The first time Sensei has him try to sleep through the night with no gloves, he tries everything he can think of when he gets into bed.  He curls his hands into fists, tucks them under his nightshirt, curls into as tight a ball under the blankets as he can.  

He wakes up shivering—nightshirt gone, pillow gone, blankets gone.  The bed is full of ash, and then throw-up, and Sensei finds him in the morning curled up in one corner of the room, wide awake and too tired to even tremble.  

He doesn’t get new bed things until the end of the week, and he’s starting to figure out the pattern.

———–  

The blocks turn into action figures; the finger food gives way to chopstick lessons; the blankets—well, Tomura just has to figure out about the blankets.  He has nightmares, is the problem, and he tosses and turns in his sleep so much that it doesn’t matter what position he arranges himself in to start, somehow he always wakes up with less than he went to bed with.  

Sensei tells him about lucid dreaming and brings him a journal.  He writes about the bloody fragments of his dreams, and the longer he does it, the more he can remember of them, random strangers reaching out to him, buildings collapsing, animal sounds hounding him in dark alleys.  

He’s standing in the middle of a supermarket, lights so bright he can’t see anyone above the waist. He spots Sensei’s shoes, polished black with short, neat laces, and follows them through the store, shading his eyes.  After walking for a long time, turning down aisles and dodging shopping carts and the odd large dog, one of Sensei’s hands touches his back, the other gesturing him forward.  He looks up and finds himself standing in front of a mirror.  A scared little boy, hands still tucked at his sides, looks back at him.  

“Go on,” Sensei urges. “Pick one.”  

There’s a whole row of mirrors, he realizes, and he takes a few faltering steps, looking into them like windows.  His reflections all look the same to him, though.

The realization comes quiet, simple words that arrive in his mind like snowflakes falling on the sidewalk and melting.  

I’m dreaming.  

The boys in the mirrors all swing around to look at him, but it’s too late; he wakes up with his hands still tucked at his sides, his breathing fallen still, a cold nausea sitting in his stomach.  

Lucid dreaming works, but he doesn’t like remembering his dreams—and sometimes even knowing they are dreams, he doesn’t wake up, and the dreams turn ugly, violent and full of pain as he curls in on himself, thinking, Don’t reach out, don’t reach out, don’t reach out.  It’s easier to just stay awake until he passes out.  

Sensei says, “You’re your own master, Tomura, or you will be one day.  It’s your choice to make.”  

He keeps Tomura’s dream journal, though.

———–      

Changing clothes is a pain, especially anything with buttons.  He gravitates to simple black pullovers because they’re easier to get into and stains don’t show up.  Wearing the same black shirt for days leaves him grimy and annoyed, but less grimy and annoyed than wearing a white shirt with a food stain on it or decaying a fresh shirt when he tries to pull it over his head.  

He decays the clothes he doesn’t like.  Sensei will buy him more.  Eventually.

———–      

“There’s going to be a typhoon coming in tomorrow,” Sensei announces casually, setting a huge stack of books and magazines down on the table.  “It won’t be safe to go outside for a few days, so I’ve brought you some reading material.”

It’s a lot of stuff—a big dictionary, thin school workbooks, storybooks, manga, hardcover textbooks, glossy news magazines.

“Are you going to stay?” Tomura asks, fitfully pushing the gifts around the table.

“Why, are you afraid of thunder?”  Sensei laughs at the look Tomura gives him and sits down on the couch.  “No, I have some things to take care of.  I’ll come back if they put out an evacuation order.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Evacuation means to remove all people from an area.  Like if there’s a villain attack.”

Tomura absorbs that as he pulls a book out of the pile and climbs up onto the couch with it.  

“Science, today?” Sensei shifts around, letting Tomura squirm over into his lap.  “When I was your age, I liked the comic books.”

“I don’t like them,” Tomura says bluntly.  “The heroes always win.”  

Sensei chuckles, propping one arm up on the back of the couch and resting his cheek in his hand. “I’ll see if I can find you some stories for older people, then.  Or you could start reading history books—in history, strong people win.”  

Tomura makes a sound of vague agreement, flipping the science book open.  It’s got a lot of pictures and big colorful text, but it’s about space and planets, things that feel so big he doesn’t have to worry about them one way or the other.  Sensei reads over his shoulder, still smiling.  

“…Do people have to evacuate for you?” Tomura asks eventually.  

“I try not to be so showy, usually,” Sensei answers without hesitation.  “But it’s happened before.”

Tomura curls up a little tighter.  “…Will they have to evacuate for me?”

“Would that bother you?”

Tomura shakes his head. He squeezes his lips together tight; the old scar there throbs and he reaches up to rub at it with the back of his hand.  He thinks about it, walking into a town and all the people in it running out the other side, police lights flashing and heroes waving them along.  An empty city left behind, all his to explore and he can go anywhere he wants, with no one to shove him around and yell, or walk towards him and then back away as soon as they get too close. 

“No,” he says at last. “I wish they’d do it now.”  

Sensei hums fondly in his throat, ruffling Tomura’s hair.  

“Keep working at it, Tomura, and one day they will.”

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

I understand the impulse to soften Shigaraki’s awful backstory via paternal Kurogiri as much as possible, but it is categorically not an impulse I share.  I desperately want canon-compliant fic about AFO and Tomura in their earliest days together (given the timeframes involved and what we’ve seen on the page, I’m pretty certain it’s at least a year before Kurogiri comes into Tomura’s life, and it could be much more than that).  I can never find much, though, so I figured for free day I’d be the change I want to see in the world and write it myself.  

[rhetoricalrogue]

31 Days of Wayhaven, Day 23

Prompt: Decay Rating: G Words: 1,496 Characters: Cameron Buchanan, Nate Sewell Summary: Two research specialists in their natural habitat comparing technology. Note: Takes place a few months or so before Book 1.  Special appearance of @asaucyginger‘s Fiona just because.

For the @31daysofwayhaven event.

The Facility Archives was a vast expanse of knowledge.  It may not have the aesthetics of a well-stocked library, but the colder metal shelving held large amounts of books and the long tables were excellent for spreading out.  The cooler temperatures maintained the integrity of older books, but it did mean that sweaters were a necessity.

It was a good thing that Cam had plenty of thick, woolen sweaters to choose from when he decided to go on a research dive.

The table he had set himself up at was also occupied by one of his favorite fellow researchers.  Nate Sewell was a longtime friend of his and the two of them often bounced ideas off the other when it came to different avenues of searching.  The man was pleasant to be around and was an ideal research partner: even sprawled out, his books and notes were always kept neatly to his side of the table and he didn’t distract with unnecessary conversation.  

Cam’s thoughts went to Unit Zulu.  He wasn’t entirely sure if Agent Fiona even counted as a Research Specialist, he’d seen her moves in the training room and thought she was better suited as a Combat Specialist instead, but she was not keen on keeping her material or herself to one side of the table.  She had a fixation with his hair, her fingers always finding ways to play with the thick brown strands, and she tended to lapse into a sultry Irish brogue.  It was close enough to the Scots-Gaelic he spoke for him to know that she always gave him an open invitation to her bed, but he’d always politely declined.  Fellow agent or not, she was Fae and it never was a good idea to be impolite to the Gentry, even when they were your co-workers.  There were some things that you just didn’t want to bring HR into if you could help it.

“What are you looking for today?” Nate asked, the nib of his pen scratching faintly against the notebook he’d brought with him.  It was a leatherbound book, the pages thick and cream colored, which told Cam it was probably expensive.  It made the beaten up pocket sized black and white speckled composition book he kept most of his immediate notes on and the blue ballpoint pen with the missing cap look sad in comparison.

Cam looked up from his laptop.  There’s where he kept the bulk of his notes, his notepad only for when he was at the stacks and he didn’t want a thought to escape between where he was and his makeshift study headquarters.  He and technology worked virtually seamlessly together: he mostly had Nicky to thank for that, seeing as his friend was always on the cutting edge of any new thing.  He snorted: Nicky had been one of those people who had camped out for over two days to get the latest iPhone one time.  He’d been furious when he came back, phone triumphantly held in his hand, to find that the rest of his team was already updating their contact lists on the very same model.  He hadn’t known that the Agency had already scored the upgraded phones and had one set aside for him to use.

“Just some random things, mostly about bog spirits in Florida and Louisiana.  I’m trying to see if there’s any connection between them and the ones over the water in other countries.”

“Interesting, I know there’s a book over on the fourth row, over in that section,” Nate pointed over to a section of bookshelves to the left of their table and squinted, as if attempting to recall the exact position from memory.  “Possibly the second shelf, maybe the third.  Green cover, so I’d wear gloves in case it possibly starts to leach arsenic.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.  I’m still in the note-making stages of research, but I thought it would be best to start here, to let the books inspire me.”

Nate smiled and went back to his reading.  A curious look told him that he was looking at human physiology and something about genetic mutation.  “Working on that bloodwork case?” Cam asked.

He nodded.  “It’s just so strange.  I have no idea what a vampire would want with a human holding a mutation to their blood.”  He ran his hand through his hair.  “The last victim had enough blood left in their body for the science team to extract and sample, but I thought that maybe doing some of my own research would come up with an angle outside of the box, so to speak.”

Cam started to type.  Luckily, the Agency spared no expense and the internet was incredibly fast, even so far underground as they were.  “You may want to try looking at some non-supernatural reports.  If you want, I can work up a list of papers that have been done on the study of genetics and how certain mutations affect how organisms interact with their environment.” 

“Oh!  I hadn’t thought of that route.”  Nate scratched at his chin.  “It would make sense, seeing that beings evolve to overcome difficulties in their environment...hmm.”  Nate made a few notes in his notebook.  “Thank you for the idea, Cameron, but I wouldn’t want to drag you away from your own work.”

Cam grinned.  “Actually, this is mostly an excuse to hunker down.  Nicky decided that it would be a good idea to have a…” he searched for a word.  “Fling with one of the admin secretaries and it turned messy.  Like hunt him down and make him suffer messy.”

Nate winced.  “It’s a good thing that he can’t technically die,” he joked.

“Yeah.  I think she’d be happy killing him and then calling it even when he wakes back up, but still.”  Cam shook his head.  “I really wish he would pick his dalliances better, especially when it comes to supernatural women.”  Part of Cam had a thought that Nicky chose the people he slept with on purpose, hoping that one of them would finally kill him for good and that he’d be able to rest in peace.  He wasn’t immune to the fact that Nicky put himself into danger the most out of everyone in the team and had a fatalistic viewpoint when it came to death and dying.  It was a morose thought, and one that he’d brought up to his friend before.  Over the years, he learned that it was best if he left the subject alone.

“But back to your research,” he said, shaking his head and pulling out his phone.  “Give me a few and I can send the list to you.  A couple are behind paywalls, but I’ve got yearly subscriptions to a few places and a few connections to get behind the ones I don’t, so just let me know which ones interest you.”

Nate looked up from his book and smiled.  “Thank you, I really appreciate the help.”  He gave a glance towards Cam’s laptop.  “You know, I prefer more…”

Cam grinned as he typed.  “Archaic?”

Nate rolled his eyes.  “Personal methods of research, but I do have to admit, having information at your fingertips like this does cut down on time.”

“I could show you how to do this, you know.  I’m pretty sure IT has a spare laptop they can assign you.”

He shuddered.  “No, I have one, it’s…” he took a breath.  “Let’s just say that technology and I don’t mix.”

Nicky’s words came to mind.  Those of us who resist change are bound to decay with time, my friend.  Besides, it’s fun to look back and see all the changes we’ve adapted to over the years, no?  Cam wisely kept those comments to himself.  “Well, the offer still stands.  If you ever need something looked up quickly, just let me know.”  He jumped as his phone began to vibrate at the table.  Picking it up, he saw that Winona had texted him.

Nicky’s dead again. Help me collect his dumb, horny ass from Hallway D-4.  He owes me a drink when he wakes up from having his head thrown down the hall.  Ew.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” he sighed, putting his laptop away in the bag he’d brought with him.  Luckily he hadn’t gotten around to pulling books out yet, but he slid his notebook back in its usual spot in his back jean pocket and the pen in an unused pocket of his laptop bag.  “Hopefully Helen will call things even now that she got her hands on Nicky and we can get back to business.”

“Good luck.  Give my sympathies to the cleaning staff.”

Cam waved as he left, shouldering his bag and wondering about how big a mess someone could make of a dead man without a working circulatory system.

Then he sighed.  As Nicky’s Commanding Agent, this was going to be one hell of an accident report he was going to have to write up.

[dadzawa-adopt-dabi]

meet cute pt2 (everybody knows)

Shigaraki does end up texting the number Natsou gave him, a lot more often than he expected to. It isn’t a good idea, he knows. However it does prove handy when Shigaraki needs to get into the library or when he needs to know how deep a cut has to be before you need stitches. So he uses the excuse that Natsou is useful and keeps texting him.

Even when Natsou continues to flirt with him and starts giving him the nickname of ‘cutie’. It caused him to blush every time. Natsou hadn’t gotten tired of watching him get flustered yet.

“Hey Nat can you come grab a book for me? I can’t reach it and I haven't seen a stool or anything around”  Shig asks.

He gets up from his textbooks and comes over.Instead of following where Shigaraki was pointing though he wraps his hands around Shigaraki’s waist and lifts him up.

“This work cutie?”

Shigarakis stomach swoops pleasantly, shit Natsou was strong. He lets his brain take a few minutes to reboot. 

What was he after again? Was Natsou even struggling to hold him up as he tried to repair his brain? 

“Really? I've told you I have a destructive quirk, what if I had used it on you?” He fakes some annoyance while he grabs the title he had been looking at. 

“You wear gloves all the time just so you don’t accidentally destroy something with a quirk you've lived with for 16 years. I highly doubt you’d ever use your quirk on me without meaning to” he reasons.

“Put me down” Shigaraki demands and holds on tightly to Natsou’s well muscled arms until his feet are safely on the ground again. Just because Natsou might drop him and no other reason.

“Maybe I just wanted to hold you for a bit? Besides, your face is even cuter when you're flustered Shig.” Natsou smirks.

“You really need to get your damn eyes checked.”  Shig sasses as he heads back to the tables.

“I’m pretty sure I can see just fine.” Natsou shoots back as follows him.

They study in relative silence for a few more hours until Natsou starts to pack up. It’s a little earlier than he normally does and Shigaraki glances up in confusion.

“Want to get some coffee? I know a cafe nearby that's 24 hours and you're here later than I am every night. I refuse to believe you can do that without caffeine.” Natsou asked as he shoved the last notebook into his messenger bag.

“You just want an excuse to take me out,'' Shigaraki grumbled.But he smiled while doing so. He was sweet and seemed to mean all the compliments he kept throwing Shigs way. If Natsou ever actually asked him out on a date he would go. Man is way out of his league and Shig knows it, he probably was just joking. He started packing up anyways, he has to be up in a few hours for LoV business.

“So that’s a yes?” Natsou grins and adjusts his bag a little on his shoulder.

“Wait, you're serious? You're actually asking me out?”

“Wait, you thought I was joking about finding you attractive?”

“Yes? Not in like a bad way I guess, but I didn't think you would seriously want to take me out either?” Shigaraki winced his own self doubt in his voice. He sure as fuck didn’t sound like the leader of the most dangerous villians in japan right now.

“Well, I wasn't. I'm serious. Would you like to go on a date and come get some coffee with me Shig?” Natsou smiled and held out his hand.

“You know what? Why the hell not. I’d love to Natsou.” Shig shoved his notebook into his own backpack.

“You seem to care about your roommates a lot? What’s the story there?” Natsou asked as they left the library and started walking to the cafe.

“I'll tell you what the story is if you tell what the story is with you studying your ass off in a library by yourself every night is” Shigaraki said hoping Natsou wouldn’t actually answer and drop the subject. He has no idea how to explain the league to anyone not in it. How close they are and what they've gone through.

“My dad is an ass hat who only thinks about quirks and power. He’s wealthy but wont help me out, so I've got to keep my grades up for a free ride scholarship.”Natsou didn't look at shigaraki as he spoke in a calm voice.

“Quirks aren't everything and I think you're doing more for society as is than anyone else is right now, heros are glorified cops. On a power trip. The general public’s reaction to them makes it so much worse. No one helps out their community anymore.” Shigaraki didn’t sound as crazy as he once would have. Tearing down society would only create more situations like what the league members had come from.

“My roommates and I are very close to answer your question. We’ve all had a rough time and some bad luck. So we tend to look out for each other.”

“How’s your friend with the villainous quirk doing? Or is there a better term I can use for that? Quirks don't make a person so it feels wrong to call her a villain based on that? I have to admit i don't have many friends and don't know what most people with quirks like that call them.”

“The fact that you're asking is everything she could ask for. Just call it a quirk. She actually likes her quirk; it's everyone else that's the problem.” the fact that Toga is a villain didn’t really matter. So was he and yet he was out on a date with a pre med student who was way out of his league.

“We’re here, I think you're going to like this place.” Natsou brings them to a stop outside a small cafe.

“You brought me to a cat cafe?” he whispers. There’s a black cat about a year or so old that’s walking back and forth along the window. When Shigaraki makes eye contact it puts it paw up against the window and paws at the glass separating them. He can faintly hear the purr through the glass.

“If there’s one thing cuter than cats it's a cutie holding a cat” Natsou squeezed his hand in his.

“I still can’t believe you think I'm cute?” It was just a little unbelievable to shig, that someone so attractive looking and smart in a field where he could truly help others would take an interest in him.

“You're very cute Shig, like how you hide behind your hair when you're flustered and how you blush when I give you compliments, what made me want to ask you out is that you care so much about your friends. you sneak out every night into a library and study as hard as a premed student.” he states seriously and when Shigaraki goes to hide his face behind his hair again he grabs his chin gently, so he can look him in the eyes.

“I-Okay. You know I find you attractive too right?” 

“I hope so! You're finally on a date with me!” Natsou jokes and holds open the door for him.

The cafe is split in two parts inside. One half has the cats and some chairs and toys set up among the cat trees and beds.The other half of the cafe is covered in plants. Every table has at least 2 and the door has some sort of exoctic and colorful vine growing all around it. If Shigaraki didn't know better he would say it moved when they came in. There's no cheerful bell to announce them coming in but the barista behind the counter seems to hear the door open anyways and greets them without looking up from wiping down the counter.

“Hello, I'll be with you in just one moment.” 

Shigaraki froze, he had forgotten that he was a nation wide known villain and that he would be recognized if he did something as simple as go to a cat cafe.

Shigaraki stood awkwardly next to Natsou and looked at the menu. He had no idea what a purrachino was or a meowchiato but the cats next to the images looked adorable. He ended up ordering a random drink. Hoping the red head wouldn’t look up the entire time he was there.

Natsou ordered tea and brought out his wallet. 

“Your total comes to - Oh i know you.” The redhead who’s name tag read kurama stared at Shigaraki in shock.

He couldn’t believe he had forgotten, That his roommates and himself were all wanted villains. Very famous wanted villains. He winced and started trying to wiggle out of one glove while the other stayed in Natsou’s hand. He would probably have to decay kurama and fight his way out to avoid being arrested.

“Hello , it’s nice to see you again.” he tried to play off like he knew the barista. Maybe buy himself a few seconds and get the damn glove off. He was going to miss the quiet evenings with Natsou.

Kuruma looked down at his hand linked in Natsou’s and his attempts to get out of his glove.

“It’s okay! Um we didn’t get along in school but everybody gets a new lease on life or something right?” kurama smiled at them and set about taking the money from Natsou. Acting like nothing was wrong and even throwing Shigaraki a lifeline to get himself out of the situation.

“I hadn’t thought I would see anyone from umm school.” He mutters and as hard as it is for him to not look at the floor he holds eye contact with kurama.

“I won’t tolerate the same kind of trouble you got up to in school in my cafe but you're welcome here anytime you want some coffee and a quiet place to bring your friend” kurama smiled and placed the hot drink’s down down.

“Can we go see the cats?” Shigaraki asked to change the subject. Not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth but also really wanting to pet the cats pacing alongside the window in the other room.

“Hmm no one else should be coming in for a couple hours and although we usually lock them away at night i can make an exception for you two.”He grabs a set of keys off the wall and lets them in. 

“Don’t pick them up but we can see if they will sit in our laps when we sit down.” Natsou waves his fingers at a giant orange cat that was beelining for him.

“Do you  come here often? That one seems to know you.” Shigaraki sat in a nearby chair and the cat black cat from before crawled into his lap. He stroked the fur baby and he tried to find the name off one of the sheets on the wall. The sheets on the wall had their pictures names and information about how to adopt them.

“I do, I would take this big guy home but my dorm doesn't allow cats. The guy you're holding is called spade. He doesn't usually warm up to people.” Natsou said and watched as two more cats came and curled up around Shigaraki. Another cat came and curled up in between them an older tortoise shell named turtle. A tiny white one started dragging a wand toy over.

Natsou smirked and took out his phone. His boyfriend was being buried in cats and it was too cute to not become his background.

Shigaraki sipped at his coffee and stroked the cats around him. He hadn't been sure what it was when he ordered it but it tasted heavenly. A mix of coffee, chocolate and something that made it slightly spicy with whip cream. 

“I took a picture of you for my background. Is that okay?''

“Only if you don’t show anyone else” He had already gotten lucky with the barista recognizing him and not calling a hero or freaking out.

“Aww are you embarrassed? you look so cute here!” he teased and Shig tried to turn his face away before Natsou could see him blush.

“A little” he admitted and started playing with the toy the cat had dragged over to him.

“At what? Me taking pictures? Me taking pictures of you or me talking pictures of you playing with the cats?”  he gently prodded.

“Both I guess?”

“Look at how cute you look Shig” Natsou showed him the photo he had just taken.

The photo showed Shigaraki differently than he was used to seeing himself. He looks normal for once. In jeans and a regular shirt instead of dirty sweats. Hair cleaned, brushed and bangs pulled back on top of his head with a hair tie stolen off Magne. He actually looks decent if you ignore the scars on his neck or face.

“Yeah I'm okay with it I guess, you know you're kinda a sap. Calling me a cutie all the time and paying for me. You're even taking pictures of our first date and setting me as your background.” he smiled.

“I mean it when I say I like you Shig and if we get the chance to let this go somewhere I really want to be able to look back on our first date”

“A sap. You're a complete sap.”

‘Says the guy buried in cats- hey charlie! You've betrayed me.” the orange cat that had been getting attention from Natsou moved on to Shigaraki and started rubbing up against him. The tiny white cat that had been playing had exhausted herself and already joined the black one in his lap.

“I'm being buried in cats Nat! Help!” Shigaraki, honest to god giggled. They stayed for about a half hour and then had to leave. Their time was up.Shigaraki had a team to lead , although he told Natsou he had to work, and Natsou had to go to class. 

Kurama stopped them on their way out the door.

“A few years ago I needed a fresh start and I got one, if you are working towards the same thing I'm happy to help Shigaraki san.”He gave Shigaraki a fern with purple flowers.

“A gift , it will help you on your way to a fresh start” he smiled and wrote out a short list of instructions while they waited.

“Thank you kurama san.” Shigaraki says and checks his gloves before he takes the potted plant. It shivers twice when he takes it and then is still.

Natsou smirks at Kurama and nudges Shigaraki's shoulder.

“He gave me a plant too the first time I came in. They seem to be hard to kill. No matter how often I forget to water it, it always bounces back to life.” He smiled and grabbed a knitted hat from a box.

“If I got you a cat ear hat would you wear it?” 

“Give it here and we’ll see” Shigaraki snatched the bright blue blob of fabric and immediately put it on. Once it was on he quickly pulled out his phone and took a selfie with Natsou. Natsou was looking at Shig and had one arm around his shoulder. You could practically see the hearts in his eyes as he looked at Shig. 

“Now I have a new background too” he put his phone away and went to put the knitted hat back in the box Natsou had gotten it from.

“You can keep the hat’ kurama started shutting off lights as he shooed the two of them out.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and it's too late for you to argue with me.  I have to close up shop so i'm afraid i have to kick you two love birds out.”

“We’re going kurama, thank you for everything.” Natsou grabbed Shigaraki’s hand and pulled them out of the cafe.

“I guess we have to go our separate ways now” Shigaraki pulled the cat hat back on. 

“Yeah i guess so,but um you have my- can i kiss you Shig?” Natsou blurted out.

“Please” Shig met Natsou halfway. Leaning up to meet Natsou’s lips. It was sweet and chaste and everything he wanted a first kiss to be. Soft and pliant and with someone he really liked being with.

“Call me?” Natsou leaned down for another kiss.

“We got stuff to do Nat, I’ll call you later tonight.” Shigaraki pulled himself away from Natsou and started his long walk home.

@night-owl-1234 after a long wait i have a update!

[lunarapocolypse]

Shigaraki Week: Day 3

Sorry if this is bad, I didn’t have much inspiration today

Party?/Split/Tainted

@shigarakiweek

Tenko, no, Tomura writhed around in his bed, pulling at the artist gloves that seem to caress his hands. He doesn’t like them. He doesn’t like them at all. He supposes one would expect that, since he’s never had to wear them before. He’d been training himself on finger dexterity but until he mastered sleeping with curled fists he wouldn’t be able to sleep without his gloves. Oh how he loathes them.

He gets up to check the time. 3:00 AM. Three hours from the time he was supposed to wake up. Sensei said 6 hours was a good amount of time to sleep for the eleven year old, not too little so it wouldn’t damage his brain cells much, but enough to train him to not need rest as much. Tomura didn’t really like it considering that he woke up in the middle of that time anyways, but he’d go along with it for now. When he became king he could make his own sleep schedule and not have to listen to Sensei’s words all the time. Not that he minded too much. Sensei was kind to him, Tomura just preferred to go at his own pace. 

He sighed, getting up. There was no point trying to fall back asleep, he was far too awake. Might as well get an early start. He rolled out of bed, not bothering to turn on the light as he went over to the computer monitor. He’d eat later, since he didn’t have to wake up until later might as well play games to pass the time. Games were the only joy he had throughout the day. 

Three hours passed by quickly, he groaned as he logged out. He wondered if Sensei would notice if he took a day off today. He didn’t feel like doing anything, and Sensei wasn’t home at the moment. He had left a few weeks ago, something with All Might. Whatever.

“Happy birthday Shigaraki Tomura.” Says a monotonous voice from behind the bar counter. Tomura opens the fridge, getting out orange juice.

“That’s today?” He asked, pouring himself a cup.

“April 4th, you’re turning 12 today. You don’t remember?” Tomura shrugs at that.

“Haven’t been keeping track.” If Kurogiri could frown through that mist he would be.

“I’m getting concerned for you, Shigaraki Tomura. You should be more aware of your surroundings.” Tomura rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. What’s so special about a birthday anyways? It’s just the day I was born.” he complained, rolling his eyes. Kurogiri’s worry only increased. He could remember a five year old boy smiling excitedly as his master gave him a cake. The change of Tomura Shigaraki was necessary in order to defeat All Might, but sometimes the mist felt like his master pushed the boy too far.

“Is Sensei still gone?” Tomura asks, as usual. Kurogiri only nods. 

“Tch.” Tomura sighed, walking away.

“But he plans to be back back by this evening.” That halted the boy.

“Huh?”

“He wants to be there for your birthday, so he’ll come by this evening.” 

“I...I see.” Tomura mumbles. A wave of relief coms over both of them as Tomura lets a small smile slip. Kurogiri knew he missed the man, no matter how much he tried not to show it. 

“Whatever, I’m going. Sensei left me some work.” He mumbled, walking away. “See ya Kurogiri.”

“Until later, Shigaraki Tomura.”

Kurogiri sighed as he wiped the bar counter. All For One was planning on fighting All Might of all people, did he expect to be done in time to celebrate Shigaraki Tomura’s birthday with him? That would be possible, but it would cause a problem if he got hurt too badly. He just hoped his master kept his word.

Tomura hummed lightly, finishing the tasks Sensei sent him. It was nothing much, just tests that would help with building his IQ as well as giving him logical skills. Apparently his brain was developing so he needed to do a lot of these. He wasn’t really sure but he didn’t question it. Sensei had his reasons, and Tomura trusted him. He had always trusted Sensei, he was the only one who truly cared. He let another smile slip knowing he’d be back in the evening. He couldn’t wait to see him again, it had been so long.

“Argh...another headache…” He groaned. He’d get headaches often, it always felt like he was forgetting something important. But he couldn’t remember what. Perhaps it was his childhood? He couldn’t remember it but that was okay for now. He’d remember it someday, Sensei said he would. Until then he had to wear his family. His family would help him feel the anger he needed.

He wondered if there was ever a time where he wasn’t this angry, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. So what if there was a time like that? It couldn’t have been any better than right now. Right now he had Sensei, and he was set to become the king of his own world in the future. Who needed a time without anger if that was the case? 

But the idea of it often slipped into his mind. And some days, he was in the mood to entertain it. 

Perhaps there was a time when he wasn’t so angry. When he wasn’t so damaged, so tainted. So cracked and broken. Perhaps there was a time when he was happy and laughed like any should. Perhaps there was a time when he wasn’t so stressed, when he was okay. Perhaps there was even a time where he idolised heroes!

The him of that time would be so foolish. 

“Kurogiri?” He asks, after a while.

“Yes, Shigaraki Tomura?”

“When is Sensei coming back? It’s 5:01, that’s the official start of evening.” Kurogiri chuckled.

“Patience. If evening has only just begun, he’ll come by later.”

“You seem doubtful.” Tomura pointed out. Kurogiri heaved a sigh.

“...I’m worried he might not make it in time.” Tomura laughed at that.

“Of course he will! He said so, right?”

“He did…”

“Then it should be fine.”

“I suppose it will.”

Shigaraki Tomura’s faith in his master was both admirable and unnerving. It was supposed to be that way, but Kurogiri couldn’t help but think this was a little too much. He went back to cleaning glasses, trying not to care. He wasn’t supposed to care.

-----------------------------

“Kurogiri, it’s 6:00.”

“He’ll come, don't worry. You said it would, right?”

“Yeah.”

Tomura sighed, glancing out of the window. The sun was shining brightly on his eyes, making it hard to see. Annoyance bubbled inside of him. What was taking him so long? He sighed again, making sure to be as loud as possible so Kurogiri wouldn’t forget he was there. He often did that because he was so quiet. He stared at the clock once again and let the minutes pass him by.

---------------------------------

“7:00. Where is he?”

“Patience Shigaraki Tomura, he’ll come.”

Tomura could only hope he would. His patience was wearing thin as well as his hope. He could vaguely remember a time something like this happened, like a deja vu. Interesting. Was it a memory of the past? Perhaps it was. If so, then this wouldn’t turn out the same way as it did then. Tomura knew he was different now, better now. Sensei said he was. So he’d believe it.

--------------------------------------------

“9:00. Is he coming?”

“....”

Tomura flicked a piece of crumpled paper Kurogiri’s way after hearing the lack of response. The mist man seemed to just sigh and pay no mind.

-----------------------------------------

11:45. 11:45 and Sensei wasn’t back yet. Tomura scratched at his neck.

“He said he’d come he said he’d come he said he’d come he said he’d come…”

There were still 15 minutes left, right? He’d come by then, right?

“Shigaraki Tomura.” He looked up to see Kurogiri staring down at him.

“Yes.”

“Your Sensei has contacted me. He deeply apologizes, but it seems he won’t be able to make it today. Or come home for the next few months.” Tomura’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“He got into an accident. I am not aware of the details, but he was barely alive. Doctor Ujiko is helping him, but until then he cannot return home to you.”

“....I see. I’ll be in my room then.” With an awkward shuffle, he walked back, a dejected slump in his posture. He didn’t even throw his switch at the wall, or decay part of the floor like he would when he were angry. Rather than angry he seemed saddened.

“Shigaraki Tomura.” The boy turned back with a vicious glare.

“What?”

“...There’s still fifteen minutes left. Would you like to blow out the candles?”

“Huh? Candles?” Kurogiri warped a small cake to the area, Tomura stared incredulously at it.

“I made this earlier, we were supposed to cut it with Sensei. He can’t be here, but the two of us can celebrate at the least. And when Sensei comes back, you can tell him about it.”

“...You made this?”

“Yes?”

Tomura scuffled over, still black faced.

“Thank you.” He mouthed. Kurogiri smiled through the mist.

“Anytime, Shigaraki Tomura.”

Perhaps Sensei wasn’t the only one that cared. And as he blew out the candles Kurogiri had lit, Tomura let out a dark chuckle. Some party. But it was okay. 

Shigaraki Tomura may have been tainted, may have been the opposite of what Tenko was, but that was okay. 

He wasn’t angry at the moment.

[ziracona]

Signifying Nothing (ILM prequel: opening snippet)

.

.

There was an awful stench in the air, a kind of rot that wasn’t easy to recognize. A little like the smell of a dead mouse left for too long under a house, or a discarded deer carcass. It wasn’t either of those things though. It was something much worse. ‘Putrid’ wasn’t a word naturally occurring in anyone’s internal dialogue, but for once it would have been. The smell was overwhelming, and it was coming from everything.

A scuffed black shoe that used to shine with its polish set down on a few small shards of broken glass and the quiet crack made the wearer pause.

The shoes belonged to a man, fairly average in height but with a light build, dark skin, and darker hair that fell into his face. Even stained as it was from hard wear, his white lab coat stood out against the grimy grey and brown walls covered in blood spatter and soot stains and something orange and rotting.

The man stepped further into the room, carefully stepping over the larger chunks of glass and torn metal and rubble that littered the floor. He reached the center of the room and made a slow circle, taking everything in.

Anyone watching would have been able to tell two things at a glance. One, that the man was being cautious and two, that he wasn’t being as cautious as he should have been. He stood out against his surroundings as much as the lab coat did, scanning the walls and leftover carnage more like a tourist at an art gallery than a tattered man in a ransacked laboratory.

Floor to ceiling, the lab around him looked like the aftermath of a horror film. Most of the tables had been flipped, some broken, and writings and beakers and broken glass littered the floor. The room’s one window was busted halfway up and a ragged panel of glass still half-hung in the pane, like a waiting guillotine. Both doors had been torn from the walls. One had fallen into the doorway; the other was in shreds around the room, solid oak torn apart like tissue paper. One small chunk of it still hung from a hinge where it had been broken through, and long, deep scratches ran up it. A large, menacing chandelier hung from its chain in the center of the room weakly, likely to go at any moment. The other lamps were on the ground, and there were still scorch marks around a particularly large one showing where it had caught fire to the research materials around it. Even some of the walls were in pieces, laying rubble around the room amidst tables and test tubes. More noticeable than the state of the room itself was the blood. It was everywhere, reds and browns of various ages flung across the walls and the floor and the implements scattered among the debris, but no bodies. There was an overwhelming smell of corpses, and no corpse.

The man kept walking. He stopped by a pool of ink which had a book floating in it. He knelt, almost reverently, and touched the cover with a finger. There were many things a book could recover from. Soaking in a pile of ink was not one of them.

He stood then, using his forearm to push his hair out of his eyes, and took a small pair of glasses out of his pocked and put them on, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the magnification.

Everything around him was still. A crime scene the day after, a battlefield after even the medics and grave diggers had gone.

The man with glasses took a large messenger bag off of his shoulder and set it on a table. He opened it and rummaged around inside for a few seconds, then froze. Something behind him in the far corner of the room had moved.

Ever so slowly, the man turned to look, eyes unblinking, fixed on where he’d caught movement.

There was nothing.

Very quietly, the man took a syringe out of the bag and readied it like a knife. Slowly, he walked towards the corner of the room. If he’d been careful before, now he was being meticulous. A large broken piece of metal, sharp and jagged on the end that had snapped when it was torn from a lamp and laying a few feet away caught his eye, and he stooped to pick it up.

Still cautious in his approach, the man’s footsteps on the stone floor were the only sound as he got close to the pile of rubble he’d seen movement by, jagged hunk of metal at his side and syringe at the ready in his left hand, and then in one quick, practiced motion the man moved beside the wall to see behind the chunks of stone. He immediately gagged and stumbled back, trying to fight the intense urge to vomit. He failed. The man turned to the side, leaning on a still upright lab table for support and wretched until his body was just dry-heaving. It took him almost twenty seconds to stop. Finally, the man managed to weakly push himself back upright, using one forearm to push his curly hair out of his face, and with his other shaking hand he took a little cloth out of his pocked and used it to wipe his mouth.

It hadn’t just been the sight—he was used to seeing things most people couldn’t begin to imagine. It had been the smell, up close and all at once. It had caught him off guard. Face resigned and exhausted, the bags under his eyes appearing even deeper and his face more gaunt than when he first entered thee room, the man took a breath and went to look at the body again.

Gods have mercy on us all, he thought absently. He didn’t mean it. At this point, that thought was more like a sick joke than anything, but it had become automatic.

The man walked over and knelt down to get a better look at the corpses. He hadn’t even realized at first that there were two of them. The smell that came from the oozing, pussy, decaying mass of mutilated flesh and growths that covered the scarred victims was almost unbearable on a physical level, and he had to keep his forearm over his mouth and nose, trying to filter out some of the smell.

One of the bodies was smaller than him and shrunken. It had cuts all over its still form which oozed an orange substance he was all too familiar with—that disgusting puss secreted by the spirit whose world they were trapped in. He’d seen the nectar before many times. Once every year, when it purged. It was the only genuinely reliable marker that existed to keep track of the passage of time. God, did they use just the raw materials? And so much of it. What is this? It smells like the usual rot, but burned. The thought was a little more olfactorily descriptive than he meant, and his body tried to gag again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up. Steeling himself, the man put his syringe in a breast coat pocket, pulled a hard-worn pair of rubber gloves from a back pocket, and pulled them on. From his messenger bag, he took out an empty vial. Leaning over the smaller body, he scraped some of the puss from one of its arms and closed it in his little glass jar, inspecting the sample carefully before placing it in his sack. He shifted then, and used the blunt end of his broken piece of metal to poke at the figure a little, moving one of the arms which covered its chest to get a better look at its torso. Absently, his free hand reached into a pocket and took out a clunky old pocket recorder, marked simply by the initial “C” and hit record.

“Multiple injection marks,” he said to the recorder, eyes fixed on the corpse as he tried to get a better angle on it, “all up and down the ribcage, as if whoever did this was attempting to get it into the bone marrow itself. The subject is young—thirties at the oldest. I don’t recognize the body.”

Gentle as he was going, his metal rod accidentally took off a chunk of flesh the size of a napkin, peeling back and sloughing off the side to reveal mucus and bone and clotted blood, thick with orange lumps. The man gagged again and took a deep breath to steel himself.

“The smell is worse than normal,” he continued, clearing his throat to try and bite back the urge to gag, “Could be due to the natural composition of the body, combined with heavy injections. Decay level of the tissue is low, maybe a week at most, but the chemicals seem to have altered body chemistry heavily, greatly lowering the integrity of the skin. That, or it’s been here a long time and the serum did the opposite,” he added as an afterthought. “Unlikely, though.”

He moved a little, crouch-walking to save time, and leaned over the body again at a new angle. “There are skin lacerations around the subject’s wrists and neck. Not deep, but pre-mort…” Shackles, he realized, glancing instinctively to look for the objects. Had it broken free and been killed? There was no wound he had seen that would have caused death, but he’d only just started. As he looked down, he realized that one of the ankles was still cuffed to a heavy chain embedded in the wall. “It was shackles,” he continued, remembering the recorder, “one is still connecting the subject to the wall. The others seem to have been removed.” He clicked the recorder off, then after a second held the record button down again. “Something has completely trashed my lab, but left the bodies. No recent signs of a presence here either. Everything is at least half a week old, going by blood. Maybe five days. But before that, somebody got very, very busy with my research notes.” He released the button.

I wasn’t gone from the lab that long was I? A few months? What the hell happened here? The man looked at the small, shriveled corpse beneath his feet. Female. About my age, weren’t you? Who were you before this? How long did it take for them to kill you?

He had only given the larger figure a casual glance so far. It was slumped against the wall, half-sitting. He turned his attention to it now, clicking the recorder back on.

“The second body I’ve found is larger and more deformed. There are no puss sacs or growths like seem to have killed the first subject, but the chemical seems to have been altered on this one to include organic compounds from the area. There are sharp vines coming out of its shoulders and arms, covering its head, with large growths above its skull. It looks almost like a stag.” The man clicked the recorder off again and got closer, looking the body in front of him up and down. It was like a tree had overgrown a person, seeping into their body, symbiosis. There were little dark slits on the thing’s head where eyes would have been, and horns made of rotting wood rested above its expressionless face. A huge chunk was missing from its chest, leaving what was left of its ribcage bare and exposing the remaining organs inside. He raised the recorder again and continued his analysis. “Exposed chest wound, including major bone damage to the ribcage which leaves the heart partially exposed. Possibly—”

Again, the man had the impression that something had moved, and he froze. –There it was again!

He squinted, leaning in closer to the figure in front of them. It had come from inside the thing’s chest. Insects, rats? Why the hell—there aren’t naturally occurring animals here, so why would a…

His eyes were only a few inches from the corpse’s chest when he saw it for real, as clear as the vines digging into the thing’s lungs. The exposed heart beat.

In an explosion of movement, the monster’s arm swung out and caught him in the chest, throwing him backwards into the pile of rubble behind him with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

He didn’t even have time to connect the pain in the back of his shoulder and down his arm with the blood dripping onto his fingers before it was on him, lunging for his throat, and the man scrambled backwards, toppling over the pile of rubble blindly as the thing crawled after him, roaring like a beast.

“Oh fucking shit!” the man yelled, his brain’s first attempt to give him a rational response or solution to the situation. He crawled backwards, trying to move faster than the thing was crawling towards him, which was physically impossible. It lunged at him and he rolled out of the way, leaving a smear of blood as he crawled beneath a table and came up stumbling to his feet on the opposite side of it.

In the half-second of safety the metal table offered he got a good look at the monster in its entirety. Horns included, the thing towered over him by a good two feet, head tilted and gold-orange puss dripping from its cuts and wounds and mouth and eyes. If you could call them eyes—they were something anyway, a flickering white-blue light coming from where there had been nothing but darks slits on its face for eyes before, and the lights stayed trained on him as it moved impossibly fast and flung the metal table between them across the room in one swift motion. He could hear the table crashing into a wall as the beast leapt for him, its arm catching hold of his hair and taking a handful as the man tore himself free and threw himself to the ground underneath its arms and past its legs, twisting as he hit the ground, snatching at the syringe in his breast coat pocket and digging its needle into the popliteal artery at the back of the monster’s knee, driving his thumb against the plunger, and emptying the container of pentobarbital into the monster’s leg. It spun with him, just as fast, and swung at him again, its hand catching him in the cheek and sending him skidding along the floor backwards into the same pile of rubble he’d been bashed against before.

Without hesitation, the horned beast came at him with a fury, but it stumbled, and the man rolled out of the way and watched it crash into the rocks it had knocked him against moments before. It shook its head like it was trying to clear it and took another step towards him, and then a much slower, more shaky step, and began to sway. It tried to grab a nearby gurney for support and it fell, taking the stretcher with it as it collapsed onto its side

The man sat were he’d rolled, breathing hard, arms still poised to help him crawl backwards quickly if he had to, eyes fixed on the monster in front of him.

It twitched and made an agonized sound and tried to pull itself back up and failed, and tried again, and again its shoulders gave out. It turned its head towards him and he saw a shudder run down its whole body, and the lights beneath the slits on its face flickering. The golden-orange liquid drained from it more slowly now, as the beast excruciatingly dug its fingers into the stone floor and tried to crawl towards the fallen gurney.

The man got to his feet shakily and blinked in surprise at the blood dripping down his arm. Choosing to ignore the wound for now in favor of more present danger, though, he turned his attention back to the creature on the floor and realized for the first time that this second test subject had been shackled too—was still shackled. Its left leg was connected to the wall by a long tether which had almost reached its length. As he watched, the beast dragged itself over to the fallen stretcher and tried again and again to pull itself up from its prone position. With each attempt he could see it getting weaker as the drug took hold.

Noticing his piece of torn lamp pole from before laying by the rock heap where he’d lost it when he took the first hit, the man in the lab coat walked over and reclaimed his weapon, then crossed purposefully to the creature on the floor.

As he neared it, he could see from the slow, ragged rise and fall of its chest and the slow flickering on and off of the lights that seemed to be its eyes that it was fighting to stay awake. As he got close to it, it swung a hand weakly at him twice before its strength gave out and the arm dropped to the ground.

After waiting a few seconds to make sure the drug had worked its way deep enough into the thing’s system, the man knelt by the monster and leveled his piece of metal. He saw it move its shoulder, trying to will an arm up to defend itself from him, but the drug had set in in earnest now and it had seconds before it was dead to the world completely. He looked from its throat to its exposed heart, trying to decide how to deal with the thing. After a second, he decided on the heart and the man placed one hand on its chest to steady his aim, and then he raised his jagged piece of metal over its exposed heart and it made a sound almost like a whimper.

He hesitated then, looking down at the thing beneath him. The lights behind the slits of its wooden face were fading out, but its chest still rose and fell. He knew it was looking at him as it lost consciousness, and he felt it shudder under the hand he had on its chest. Its breath was coming in quick and shallow, even with the sedative seeping through its veins, and he realized suddenly that it was scared of him and scared to die.

The lights behind its eye slits went out and the creature’s head lulled to the side as it lost consciousness and the man raised his makeshift weapon again. Then he stopped.

Instead, he moved his hand to the thing’s face and felt the rough wooden surface. There was a crack over the left side, which spiderwebbed out from near its ear. Gingerly, the man followed the crack down the monster’s cheekbone to a place where a small chunk about the size of a fingernail had broken off the wood. He let his fingertip rest on the spot, and felt the sticky-warm of fresh blood, and the rough-soft of damaged human skin beneath the wood.

He let the chunk of metal fall from his hand then and collapsed back onto the floor and sat there, staring at the thing in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye the bright red button on his tape recorder caught his eye. It had landed by an overturned table about fifteen feet away, miraculously intact. For some reason the sight reassured him, and the adrenaline drained from his system as he calmed down and it left him exhausted. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and took a deep breath, thinking hard.

After a second, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, crossed to the recorder and slumped to the ground beside it, leaning his back leaning against the pile of rubble like it was an easy chair. He picked the dented machine up and pressed record.

“Okay. Well. The big one wasn’t dead. It attacked me, but I was able to inject it with a high dose of pentobarbital. Nice to know some things still work on creatures under effects of the serum,” he said, then released the record button to take a shaky breath, eyes on the unconscious monster about ten feet away. He hit record again. “Unsure how to proceed now. I have to do something fast. It’s still breathing, and I don’t think the OD is going to kill it,” he paused, watching the thing’s heart beating weakly in its open chest cavity. “But uh,” he continued half-automatically after a second, “I think it might be salvageable. Yeah. Yeah, I might have to see what I can do. It, uh…” He ran his fingers through the curly hair that hung in his face. “When it couldn’t defend itself anymore, that thing looked…it acted an awful lot like a regular human being. It, uh…” He looked at the thing’s slumped form. It seemed so much less tall now, less imposing. The yellowed ichor that had been pumped into its veins was slowly dripping from where its ears should have been, leaking down its collarbone and seeping past vines into its chest. “Yeah, I might have to see what I can find out.”

The man released the button and set down the recorder, then he slowly slid the rest of the way down the rock until he was laying on his back on the ground. He put his hands over his face and groaned. “Fuuuuck.”

[emeraldinthesky]

STRANGE TRAILS - Chapter 1 - Through the Pines

A/N: I've been rewatching Twin Peaks and couldn't help but fall in love - again - with our valiant agent. This story will contain dialogue from the series. You can also follow this story here.

SUMMARY: Agent Cooper does expect his colleague, Albert to arrive in Twin Peaks to assist him in the investigation of Laura Palmer's death. He also hopes that Rosenfield will bring along a certain forensic pathologist of his team, who's special, not just for the FBI, but Cooper himself.

’Sheriff, this is Lucy.’ Cooper and Harry got alerted from the radio as they were inspecting the bloodsoaked towel in front of them. ’Is Agent Cooper with you?’ ’Yes, he is.’ The sheriff replied. ’Are Albert and his team here, Lucy?’ The man in the suit inquired knowingly as if he could see through the wall or read the mind of the naive receptionist. ’Yes, he is. They are.’ The dumbfounded phrases came through the digital terrain. ’We’re on our way.’ The agent assured her confidently, and they headed out to the hallway, but not before Coop alerted his new friend about the forensic leader's peculiar nature. That being, that he's the best at the corp, but also, an asshole to interact with.

They stepped out of the conference room, and just across, at the entrance, there they were: three tall, suited men, two of which kept on their aviator sunglasses even inside. As Cooper spotted a young woman along the three tall men, his eyes lit up and an affectionate smile spread his face. Her light blonde hair cascaded onto her shoulders, and her brown eyes resembled the shade of a perfectly brewed, hot espresso. She was dressed casually, with the widely recognized navy blue FBI jacket zipped down in the heated building. This broke the pattern of the group, although only meant that she was one - or the one - to drive up here. 'Agent Cooper.' She nodded to him. 'Miss Davis.' He returned the greeting. ’What the hell kind of a two-bit operation they’re running out at this treehouse, Cooper?’ The tall man in the middle interrupted their small banter. ’Albert, this is Sheriff Truman.’ The agent introduced them to each other without batting an eye at the comment the other man-made, but Albert remained similarly oblivious to his words. ’I have seen some slip shop blackwater burgs, but this place takes the cake.’ The girl Coop addressed as Miss Davis rolled her eyes and shot an apologetic glance at Lucy – so the agent knew his forensic colleague wasn’t acting up to par since they entered the station. While Albert continued his heated monologue, Davis turned to Cooper, and after a suggestive look at the man next to her, she crossed her eyes and the agent couldn’t suppress a chuckle. ’What are you waiting for, Christmas? We’ve got work to do, dammit. They’re putting this girl in the ground tomorrow, and we’ve wasted half the day traveling here to the middle of nowhere. ’Well, Albert, I suggest you and your team should get started.’ Cooper agreed with a fazed expression, after elevating his gaze from the woman. ’I’ll have one of my men escort you over to the morgue.’ The sheriff included, although he was noticeably not pleased with the manners demonstrated by the lead investigator of the forensic team. ’That’d be fine.’ He nodded. ’Results from a local pathologist’s report.’ The black-haired man handed them the files, and Albert took a brief read into the report. ’Welcome to amateur hour.’ Rosenfield scoffed. ’Looks like an all-nighter, boys.’ He shut the files close in a theatrical fashion and was just about to leave, when Harry grabbed his shoulder: ’Albert. Got a minute?’ They separated a few feet away from the group and the sheriff had a close heart-to-heart with the scientist. In the meantime, Coop exploited this opportunity to turn his attention to the blonde. ’So, Vicky, how do you like Twin Peaks?’ ’I threw this manchild out of my car halfway here and now I'mma spend the night with him. I’d say I’m in for a treat.’ She retorted, and it was the first time her Texan accent made an appearance. Although it grew weaker over the years, her tonation haven't lost its melodic aspect. ’And how are you, Agent Cooper?’ ’Never been better.’ A wide smile spread the man’s face, but Rosenfield abruptly left the police station and that meant the end of their small exchange. ’See ya, Dale.’ She waved to them and went after her team.

’So, what did you tell Albert?’ Cooper inquired from the curly-haired man when the other returned to his side. ’That he’ll be looking for his teeth if he keeps up with that attitude.’ Harry explained, still tensed and annoyed by the encounter. The agent gave him an appreciative nod. 'And you two, how long has it been?' The sheriff cocked an eyebrow at his partner. 'How can you tell?' Cooper asked, although his voice was fainter than usual. 'Body language.' The man grinned widely. 'Sheriff, I have to give it to you, it was a keen observation.' The special agent turned to his new friend, now much more like himself. 'Three years ago when she began working at the FBI, we had a brief affair. It was a negative influence on our professional sphere so we've put an end to it shortly after. We've been friends ever since.' 'Seems like both of you have more than friendship in mind.' Harry noted suggestively. 'She's the brightest investigator on the forensic team. And one of the youngest to make to the FBI.' Cooper continued with proud amazement. He used a similar tone to describe her as he did with Rosenfield, but a certain gentleness mixed into his expression. He meant every word, but they also meant something else. 'How old is she?' '27 this October. Already promised her a nice cup of coffee for that day.' The agent responded as they retreated to their task in the conference room.

Rosenfield wasn't exactly short in supply when it came to snarky comments about the town, and surely practiced them during the city seeing route it took to arrive to the morgue - at least, that was Victoria's speculation when she closed her car with the key, only to hear his boss make vicious remarks about the building and the weather. A tall, long-haired man with earrings emerged from the police car and nodded them to follow him inside. 'Look, the Chief wants us to follow. Maybe he'll whip out a calumet.' Albert scoffed as the woman rejoined them. A loud sigh escaped the blonde woman's lips as the men shared a chuckle. She had been working closely with Albert for 3 years now; being his assistant meant she was placed wherever he was, and she was unable to leave his side. It also meant that she grew almost immune to his unsavory personal notes and not-so-charming attitude, but Twin Peaks brought the worst out of him. She haven't seen him so sour since that time in Alaska, where the small hospital doubled as a lab and a morgue, and the heating system bailed on them, because, well, something went haywire and nobody cared enough to fix it. The policeman handed them off to a diener, to lead them to the corpse they traveled to examine. She expected from the report, that the only forensic scientist in the area was the senior physician; it was a remarkable accomplishment from the supposedly old man, but filled with inaccuracies, misinterpretations, and missing data. And just as she speculated - the evidence has been fumbled around with, greasy police-fingerprints all over, and she could have sworn to recognize Cooper's thumb on one of them. She had seen it enough times to tell. In his defense, he did get better at wearing gloves after she made him sit through an evaluation. These were the moments she understood how Albert became such a sullen character; when they don't respect your work enough to put a glove on after munching down chocolate-glazed donuts, you begin to consider to incriminate the police officer who doesn't understand the idea of scene contamination. Shit, maybe she was becoming like him. Vicky pulled her long hair into a bun, and she curved her labcoat on herself. She fished around in its pockets for her gold-rimmed glasses. Maybe that's the reason why, but Cooper's delightful manners sparked a slight warmth in her chest. Oh, who she was kidding - it was a bonfire that could burn down witches. Yet, it was so nice to have a friendly, intentive chit-chat, one that wasn't ornamented with decay, bowel containments, or the unsatisfaction with anything lower of standards than Harvard or the Bureau laboratories. Even hovering over a 7-day old corpse couldn't wash away that utter contentment, especially since Rosenfield and the boys focused their attention on the work to be done. Jeremy, their chemist and ballistic expert took the necessary samples, and so did Chris, their biologist and DNA-specialist, to retreat to their own corner. Victoria was left with her boss to further inspect the body and occasionally furthering certain pieces to the rest of the investigators. After years, it was still unnerving to phantom that this body lying lifelessly on their autopsy table, was not long ago was a young girl, just beginning her journey of unforeseeable and puzzling crossroads. It was nauseating for some, but for Vicky, it was fascinating. Opening up the skin to fold it over, marveling at the mechanism behind it and making the dead talk again. Piecing the information together and searching for answers and clues were invigorating for her; and the gruesome nature made it all the more exciting. 'Would you still like to work in a run-down PD like this?' Rosenfield asked her out of the blue. They were opening the Palmer girl's abdomen, rummaging around emotionlessly in the cold insides. 'You know, Albert, just because certain departments are not as well-financed, or the people working in them aren't as privileged as we are, it doesn't mean their work is any less meaningful.' She passed him an instrument then continued to secure the opening with metal clips. 'No. It just means it's worse.' He said with a cynical smirk and cut the stomach open. Another thing she mastered during their work together - sort out the constructive criticism, and let the remarks go; only this time, Albert was considerably more offensive than usual.

She knew it would be a long night.

[bysombreseas]

The Dusk Patrol - Chapter One Excerpt

Authour’s Note: 

The first two thousand words or so of my WIP, a little scene where our protagonists are introduced and roles are established. Hope you all enjoy!

Taglist: @aurisadventure , @adayforducks , @danielleslayer , @wordsofpaintandsmoke , @smudged-glasses-writing

Episode 1 – Nightwalkers

It was only when the sun fell that Hope City lit up. Neon flames danced to the pounding chorus that spilled from club doorways and underground raves. The orderly suits of the business sector gave way to brightly dressed youths and drunken partygoers. Beer and blood and drugs beckoned from every doorway, while on the street a thousand honking taxis fought to push through endless gridlock.

There was a lot of crime in Hope City. Beyond the dazzling wealth of its tourist sector lay ramshackle neighborhoods and creeping decay. Hope was two cities, really; one was for the tourists, and the other, much poorer and far more violent, for its permanent residents.

It was in this second city that Dusk Patrol cadet Wren Nichang found herself, her police trainee badge flashing white every time she passed beneath a streetlight. The wind had started to pick up, ruffling her bob cut and sending a chill across her bare arms. It got cold quick at night, even in the summer.

Her mentor tonight was Brian Okave, six foot five and built like a steamroller. The Faith’s golden halo hung around his neck, though Wren couldn’t imagine him as the kind of man who prayed. Everything else about his uniform was standard Dusk Patrol; one Gaea L56 sidearm, one crackling walkie-talkie, a UV-capable flashlight and two clips of hollow-point bullets. Okave was one of the best mentors on the force and Wren was hoping she’d be assigned to shadow him for her training period. It was hard to tell if Okave reciprocated the feeling. There was a veneer of calm about him that rarely broke, even when he raised his voice.

“Nichang. Situational assessment.”

They were in a quieter part of town, the buildings ramshackle and the streetlights few and far between. It wasn’t a place that outsiders visited often, a hidden slum just blocks from one of the city’s biggest concert halls. “There are no cars in sight,” Wren said, squinting as she peered into the darkness. “Fence behind us isn’t short enough to jump. The houses across the street are too close together for there to be alleyways. There’s only one person in the immediate area, leaning against that streetlight. I assume that’s our contact.”

“Good eyes,” said Okave. “Professional assessment. Keep your guard up nonetheless. This is a bad part of town and some nightwalkers are very good at hiding.”

The wind picked up, a soft howling that competed with the distant city noises for attention. As they crossed the street, Wren folded her arms and wished she’d remembered to bring her jacket. “Sir?” she ventured. “Shouldn’t we be wearing plainclothes?”

“We should, yes.”

“Then why–”

“Department rules, Nichang. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“Oh.” Wren frowned. Suspense was never a good thing. “Have you known her for long?

“Several months. I met Anderson on a case. She was mugged on her way home, broke the poor bastard’s arm in three places. I brought up a murder I was working on and she gave me a name. Been my contact ever since.” There was a note of pride in Okave’s voice.

Wren nodded, unsure what to make of that. “With all due respect, sir, I didn’t realize the Dusk Patrol kept informants. None of my previous mentors had any.” Wren left out that her previous mentors hadn’t been too interested in casework. The mentors only got one night with each cadet before putting down names for permanent assignment, and most spent that time getting to know the trainees instead of doing actual policing. Wren–who couldn’t hold a conversation if it was glued to her hands–had spent the last two weeks red-faced and mumbling as each mentor’s initial enthusiasm faded into awkward silence.

“We don’t,” Okave replied to Wren’s query. “This is a special case.”

The figure waved at their approach. A girl, around a year younger than Wren, maybe eighteen. She wore an oversized sweater with the hood pulled up, torn jeans, and fingerless gloves. Her shoes were cheap knockoffs with a brand name like Noke or Jordens. Her face was drawn and pale, feral almost, her short brown hair so ragged and messy Wren was sure that she’d cut it herself with a dull knife and no mirror.

“Brian,” the girl said. Her voice was low. “Who’s the Asian chick?”

“Don’t call me that,” Wren scowled. She was an addict of some sort, that much was certain. Probably wearing the sweater to hide the marks in her arms–though from needles or teeth it was impossible to say. It wasn’t unheard of for people to give themselves up as blood banks, even if feeding was illegal outside of approved centres. Then again there’s the other possibility. She’s one of them.

“Sure thing cutie,” said the girl, with a smile. “I’m Anderson. Ann for short. Brian you didn’t answer my question.”

“Her name is Wren. She’s my shadow for the evening.”

“That’s cool, that’s cool. What am I here for? And I know you’re gonna say ‘the murder of course’ but which one? Cops gunned down three nightwalkers on Cinder Street–”

“Official statement is they drew first.”

“Cross that off. There’re some dead people in a hotel. I think it was a murder-suicide, but I don’t know much. Heard it was gruesome–blood and wax everywhere. Pretty spooky.”

“We want to know about this man.” Okave drew a rumpled photograph from his pants pocket and passed it to the girl. She looked it over, pursing her lips. “Try to remember, would you? I’m sure it can be worth your while.”

Wren watched the interaction from behind Okave. Dusk Patrol was weird in that way; for some things you had complete autonomy and others none. It was probably a rule somewhere you had to wear uniforms when talking to informants. Something about ‘maintaining a position of authority’. They were big on that stuff, pride before practicality.

The autonomy though. Only in the Dusk Patrol could you park your squad car two blocks away, walk to some crap-sack neighborhood and offer a lowlife a bribe without calling any of it in. Then again, when every case was an assault or murder, the criminals were monstrous nightwalkers and officer mortality rates were high enough that a sizeable part of the budget went to paying off life insurance, for most the perks weren’t worth the risk.

“I think I’ve seen him before.” The girl’s voice grew in confidence with each syllable. “Yeah, he was at Iris last Saturday. Bought a drink or two.”

“Iris?” Wren asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s a nightwalker club.” Anderson smiled, a big smile, large enough to show incisors. “I am a vampire.”

Wren stared and Okave sighed and Anderson’s wide smile grew wider.

“Let’s get back on topic here,” said Okave. “We know the guy was at Iris. I wouldn’t be here talking to you if we didn’t know that–”

“I work drinks,” Anderson explained to Wren.

“–so clearly I’m looking for more. Who was he? What did he do? Where did he go?”

“Why does it matter?”

Okave sighed again, running a dark hand over his forehead. “Because he’s been dead two days. We found his body in a dumpster on Queens. Throat slashed, drained dry. He had no wallet, no ID, and we’re waiting on forensics to match his prints. Autopsy came back yesterday; shows he wasn’t a nightwalker.”

“And then you started caring.” Anderson’s voice took on an edge. And that’s why we don’t have informants, Wren thought. To say the relationship between nightwalkers and the Dusk Patrol was poor would have been the understatement of the century. They hate us.

“I just do my job,” Okave said flatly. “The case came on my desk yesterday. A witness placed the guy somewhere in Iris’s vicinity, so I figured I’d talk to you.”

“Well I don’t know his name,” said Anderson. “But I know what he was.”

“That’s a start.”

Anderson scratched the back of her neck. If she felt threatened by the two officers she did not show it. My first vampire, Wren thought. Not entirely true, as she had seen other nightwalkers during training. Behind cells, though, or in interrogation rooms. Anderson was out in the wild. She was different than what Wren had expected. Cocky and rude, but not entirely unfriendly. How does it come so easily to her, that confidence? I wish I had that.

“He was a familiar,” Anderson was saying. “Your shadow know what I’m talking about?”

Okave looked to Wren, who was still staring. “Well?”

“Oh. Uh, they’re humans that want to be nightwalkers, right? Vampires usually.”

“It’s like a fetish,” Anderson chuckled. “He came up to the counter and asked for a beer. I think it was an excuse to make small talk; you should have seen his face when I told him my age. He asked my name, but I already knew where this was going. I told him I wasn’t interested in that sort of arrangement.”

“Blood for money?” Wren asked.

“Providence no, it’s blood for love. It’s blood so maybe a vampire might take you into their home, or even illegally turn you if you’re lucky.”

“I see.” Wren fought to keep her face blank. The thought of willingly letting a vampire drink her blood was a repulsive one, but she didn’t want to offend Anderson. “Does it happen often?”

This time it was Okave who answered. “Rarely, and rarer still the authorities don’t find out. There’s always the danger of ending up with an abusive vampire, or a pathological liar that just wants you for blood. That said, not that all vampires are manipulative, nor are nightwalkers in general–”

“Aw shut up,” Anderson interrupted. “Always with that PC bullshit. Anyways, I told the guy I wasn’t interested, and he left. To be honest I’m not too surprised he’s dead; dude was naïve, nervous. Probably his first time out.”

“Did you see him with anyone?” Okave asked, but the vampire just shrugged.

“Come on, Brian, it’s a busy place. It’s hard to make out faces in a crowd.”

Okave stuck a hand in his pants pocket and came out with a few bills. He let the glow from the streetlight catch on them. “How about these faces?”

Anderson snatched the money. She was almost a head smaller than Okave, her thin form dwarfed in his shadow. “Yeah, I recognize them. I remember your dead man too. Saw him leave with a woman, some ‘crat.”

“You have a name?”

Anderson shook her head. “No, she’s new, but I know the guy she was drinking with. His name is Tim Gossel.”

Gossel, she explained, had been turned legally at a government center when he was eighteen, one of the last before they got shut down. He was a college student and, Anderson added, a ‘hippy’. Wants to ban silver bullets and reopen turning centres. Thinks the Dusk Patrol and the Faith are evil. To Wren he sounded much worse than a hippy; he was a radical with dangerous views. No doubt he thought nightwalker criminals were all good people as well, victims of culture and circumstance and societal pressures.

At least she doesn’t think much of him either, Wren mused. The contempt in Anderson’s voice was palpable. “I didn’t think he was violent,” the vampire was saying. “Though I bet he’d take a swing at me if he knew I talk to you guys.”

It occurred to Wren just how risky Anderson’s actions were. People like Gossel were rife in Hope; no doubt they would consider speaking to the police some form of betrayal. “Does that worry you?” she asked, feeling a note of concern for the slouching girl.

“Fuck no I’d kick his scrawny ass,” Anderson laughed. “Kid’s three, I’m a hundred– Wren, are you alright? Your eyes just got real fuckin’ large again.”

“She’s fine,” Okave said. “If you don’t have anything else, I think we’re done here.”

“Fine by me.” Anderson straightened, adjusting her hood. “Nice to meet you, Wren. See you around sometime.”

Wren managed a quiet ‘bye’ as the girl walked past them, out of the streetlight and into the shadows. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. She’s a vampire. The Dusk Patrol is supposed to kill her kind, and werewolves, and demons, and ghouls, and any kind of nightwalker that makes trouble. But she doesn’t care, no, she’s our friend. And she’s a hundred, plus what, the seventeen, eighteen years she was human? Did she call me cute?

Providence, she did. That’s so cool.

[spookilyfingergunsoutofexistence]

How do you measure power?

Chapter 2 of ?

Read on ao3 here

Prologue next chapter

This is the first chapter.

Enjoy

Tw: mentions of death, violence, blood, crime, mentions of cheating, Mentions of malnutrition, terrorist attack, mentions of bombing, coma

~~~~

“Sam! Hurry up. Visiting hours are nearly over.” Virgil was pacing the kitchen waiting for his girlfriend Samantha. She’d been at the hospital at the time of the attack. What had been at first reported as a chemical spill was soon reported for what it truly was, a terrorist attack. A bomb that contained a highly toxic, radioactive substance had been let off in the west wing of the hospital. Samantha worked on the east ring with Patton. The explosion alone killed over eighteen victims and within hours the highly radioactive substance had caused high amounts of radiation poisoning. Death spread throughout the hospital like the common cold. Months had passed since the attack and people were still under quarantine. Many like Patton who had been deemed to be in a coma had died and almost everyone in a half a mile radius of the hospital had high levels of radiation inside them; most fatal amounts but some were lucky. No one in that entire hospital walked out ok and yet here Samantha was- burn scars on her face from the explosion but only a low level of radiation. Virgil didn’t question it. He just felt lucky she was ok. Right now though he was just excited to see his best friend for the first time in months. Sure, he was anxious about the gas masks and hazmat suits and inspections he would have to go through to see Patton and he couldn’t even imagine what he was going to say to Logan. Logan had always been the quiet type and they had never really got along or talked much but they both shared an appreciation for space. Logan had visited since the day he heard about the explosion. He had gone every day since. He couldn’t even touch his husband without wearing gloves or having some sort of material between them. Logan had been forced to wear a suit and a gas mask for all these months. Not only that but he had to wear a radiation monitor which would beep obnoxiously when he had to leave. They wouldn’t let him leave the building without first washing himself down in their on-site cleaning station and taking some mandatory pill that apparently lowered any form of radiation poisoning. To Virgil the whole procedure sounded insane. By the time you’d got in or out your loved one could be dead.

Samantha walked downstairs and fondly rolled her eyes as she watched Virgil pacing the hall. She gently placed her hands on his shoulders and stopped him from pacing, “Virgil.. Breathe.. Breath with me storm cloud. Did you take your meds?” Virgil nodded and slowly breathed along with her feeling himself slowly become calmer. He built up his courage as he walked out of the door and on to the quiet streets of his small town. Virgil had grown up in this lively, little town. It had always been a colourful place full of cheery people and an uplifting atmosphere. To an outsider it didn’t have much to offer but to Virgil it was his safe place. Everyone was so friendly and in this place you knew everyone. Nothing ever changed. That’s why the attack had affected Virgil so much. It was like his entire world had changed. This lovely town that he adored with his entire being was now a place of tragedy, death and despair. No one left their homes anymore. Streets were filled with an eerie silence. Streets full of colour and joy, once filled with people and innocent young minds playing around in warm bustling markets and parks. Store fronts packed with flowers of bright orange and red hues now lay decayed. It was as though someone had painted over the town with dark greys and dull browns. A dismal, depressing atmosphere had taken over what had once been paradise. Virgil felt tense just walking down his street; a street he had walked thousands of times. The gloom was equivalent of a large boulder resting on each residents’ shoulders. Virgil had always been a sore thumb among the town. His whole aesthetic was based around darkness and edge but even he despised the inky black fog that now engulfed his town in darkness. In hard times most tight knit towns in fairy tales and stories are said to band together and ‘rebuild’ but this clearly wasn’t the case. People cared more about living themselves then risking their lives to help others and so the people of this town had locked themselves indoors. After the attack, many places of work had closed as a safety regulation for both the customers and staff causing many people to be out of work and lose money. People in the town had started to go hungry and many resorted to crime. Crime rates were at an all time high and now there was reports of superhuman robberies. It was truly a time of terror.

Virgil walked quickly, practically dragging Samantha along with him. His eyes frantically searched the streets in case of danger. He would be useless if any danger would befall them but if push came to shove and he was in a fight or flight situation at least he could run. Damn he was a fast runner.

“C’mon Sammy..” his voice was hushed, “If we go quickly we might not run into any trouble.” The pair hurried down the long, winding road towards the hospital in town centre. Sam looked ready to fight anyone who even looked at her funny. She had her fists clenched as she raced just behind Virgil and her eyes squinted, searching the shadows for any sign of life. Virgil would be lying if he said he was focused on the streets. He was more worried about the woman he had firmly clasped in his grip. They had been through a rough patch lately over the past months of the attack. Samantha had a habit of lying little and often- Virgil usually let it slide but he’d just been so paranoid lately and when Sam would spend her nights away from home and only return late at night it made him anxious. What was she up to? Was she off running some crime circle or maybe she was cheating on him? Maybe she didn’t love him anymore and had found somebody else. It would explain how she managed to survive the attack; maybe she never was even there at the hospital that day. He wouldn’t put it past Samantha to have lied but he couldn’t bare confrontation without having solid evidence. Part of him hoped he would never have to confront her, he loved Sam and he wanted her to be real with him. Maybe he’d forgi- No. He couldn’t forgive that but he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe she was just lucky.

One bad turn. It took one bad turn before they were faced with bats and knives. All thoughts of Sam cheating flew from Virgil’s mind as he froze in the face of danger. Panic bubbled inside of him like a volcano ready to erupt but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His basic instincts were stripped away as he just stood there gaping as though he was a fish. The men looked blood thirsty and cold. Much different to the fishermen they had once been. Virgil had been well acquainted with most of the men. He knew their names, their wives’ names and the names of all their children. He could tell you where each lived and had babysitted for many of them before. Whatever former relationship he shared with each of these men was clearly gone now as they all cornered the young couple. “Richard.. Buddy. How are the kids?” Sammy asked. She sounded calm- threatening almost. The man clearly flinched from the question, but the group got closer still. Persistent. Virgil felt like he was in the lion’s den. Perhaps he was already trapped within the lion’s jaws, his head ready to be snapped off at any second. If he reached Patton it would be a miracle. He could feel the breath hitting his face. The repugnant smell of fish encased him. This was not how he imagined death. He had imagined it to be slow and graceful. He had imagined it to be a welcomed experience once he had reached old age and was married to Sammy and had kids. Death was nothing like that. Cold metal burned his skin. The blade pressed against his sensitive neck drawing a fresh line of crimson blood. His eyes stung with unshed tears as he stared into the eyes of old friends. This surely couldn’t be how he died…

“Stop you fiends!” A loud, obnoxious voice yelled. A booming sound that send shivers down Virgil’s spine. The men all froze- not in horror but as though on command. Their angered faces turned blank and robotic. They all fell back into line as though they were military men and just stood there. “Go home and leave these people be!” The voice demanded. The men oddly left without argument. A man with neatly styled brown hair and caramel skin walked out from the shadows and towards the couple. He was wearing a dark brown oversized sweater and a warm smile. His faded blue jeans looked out of character for that of a super hero. He clearly was just some guy but to Virgil he was a hero. “Roman O’Connell?!” Virgil shrieked. Just his luck that he was saved by the guy he has spent the entirety of high school crushing over. Hard. Virgil had been an anxious bisexual mess all his life and of course that sexy budding author had managed to write himself back into Virgil’s life somehow. “I thought you moved to New York to try and get onto Broadway.” Roman chuckled at this. It was a low sound that bounced against the walls and brought a small smile to the young emo’s face. “Yeah. I moved for a bit, but I changed my mind. My first book took off and I decided I was better off at home. Who knew that weeks after I moved back the world would come crashing down on this small place?” Virgil nodded in agreement. He met eyes with his old friend. Roman had grown so much. He looked so much more mature and at peace. He’d always been an over-confident clown but now he had an air of responsibility around him. “So you’re playing superhero now O’Connell.” Sam commented. Her eyebrow was raised so high Virgil thought it might fly off her face. Roman looked shocked at first but he quickly recovered. “Why of course!” he exclaimed, “You know I can’t bear to leave a gorgeous damsel such as yourself fall victim to such a brutal attack, dear Samantha.” Virgil groaned at Roman’s theatrics. That was the man he knew. The man who flirted and hid behind walls. The man that constantly walked the line between fiction and non-fiction.

“But how did you do that? Those folks looked like zombies. Are you one of those superhumans?” The three fell silent at the question. Roman looked awkwardly between the two. The answer to the question was obvious and yet held such a level of secrecy. It wasn’t normal. “W-Why yes.. I am. The radiation… It changed me. It’s like writing a story. Everything I narrate comes true within reason. Pretty cool right?”

“Cure Patton.”

“What?” Roman and Sam both looked at Virgil shocked. “Bring all the people who died from the attack back. Bring Patton out of his coma. Narrate it. Just say, ‘Patton woke up and all the people who died were saved.’ If you’re some big hero now you should save them.” Roman stared at Virgil with soft, heartbroken eyes. He wanted to help those who were in pain more then anything, He knew Patton- he would love to help him and to bring back those who were dead, but the feat was just…. Impossible. It was beyond his reach. “Virgil my powers don’t work like that. I’m sorry. Truly, I am but I cannot just wish people back to life. I cannot perform the impossible.” Virgil sighed. He was asking the world from somebody he hadn’t seen in so long. It was unfair. They all stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence for a while until Sam spoke up, “Well Roman, it has been lovely seeing you but I’m afraid it’s time we go. Visiting times are almost over.” Roman nodded and Virgil went to say his goodbyes to his old friend before being quickly rushed away by Samantha off towards the hospital. Virgil sent Roman an apologetic look as he was dragged away which was met with a small smile. That stupid smile that made Virgil’s knees weak and his heart pound against his rip cage. He knew it was wrong to like Roman whilst he was with Sam, but he couldn’t help it. It was only a harmless crush and it was clearly obvious due to Sammy’s reaction. He let his thoughts whisk him away as they raced along the barren streets towards ‘Sunnyside hospital’. An ironic name for a place so dull and full of sadness, especially since the sunshine in a lot of the towns day to day life was currently laying half dead on a hospital bed. Virgil just wished he could do something to help his friend. He just wanted to see him. To be there for Logan. God, he couldn’t imagine how much this all hurt Logan. Patton and Logan were like the sun and the moon- one was bright and warm, making everyone’s days better and the other was mysterious and beautiful. They both worked together in making the Earth brighter and without one their would be complete darkness and despair.

“Virgil.. We’re nearly there. We’d be there faster if you’d hurry up.” Sam urged as she dragged him down the street. Virgil hurried behind letting his mind settle as his soul focus became the hospital. The building was in ruins since the explosion. The west wing looked like a post war zone. It was destroyed, rubble crumbling to the floor and overgrown plants growing into the walls. The building reeked of decay. The east ring wasn’t any prettier. Broken walls were covered by white sheets that blew in the wind. The entrance to the hospital had become a quarantine zone in which you would go through the prior mentioned process before visiting any family. The hospital had only been open to close family for the first couple months but now it was the first day in which friends could visit. Virgil sprinted the rest of the way to the entrance. The adrenaline finally catching up with him. He had to go see his friend right now. They both entered the hospital and went through the long, tedious process. Finally, after being suited up and ready they were walked down the halls towards where Patton was being kept. The hospital was full of agony. As Virgil walked he could hear the howls of patients in pain and the cries of family members in utter anguish. A pool of dread sat in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe he didn’t want to see his friend like this. Patton had always been the strong one. The guy that had been there for him when Virgil was at his lowest or was feeling his most anxious. Seeing Patton hurt felt like the curtain call. He didn’t want to think about a reality in which Patton was dead. It was silly right? Everybody dies but Virgil just couldn’t imagine a world without his best friend.

They reached the door. E34. His hand rested on the door handle. He knew his hand was shaking, the door handle rattled under his grip. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Click.

The door opened to a dimly lit room. Logan sat asleep on a chair beside Patton’s bed. Their hands clasped together. Patton’s was unmoving whilst Logan’s was gripping Patton’s limply. Both men looked broken. Logan’s black hair was long and greasy- a complete change to his usual buzzcut style. It flopped over his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t washed himself or eaten for days. His glasses were askew on his face and his shirt was dirty as though he hadn’t left in a long time. Virgil tried to avoid looking at his friend. The man’s curly blond hair had grown since he’d last seen him. It covered his eyes. His round glasses sat on the desk covered in a thin layer of dust. His normally red, freckle-filled cheeks were drained of all colour. He was unnaturally pale and sickly. His pink lips were as pale as his skin and he looked thinner then usual. Virgil found himself looking away from them both, gripping Samantha’s hand tightly who let out a sob once laying eyes on the couple. He ran his eyes over Patton’s limp body once more. He was still in his nurses’ uniform. He looked so at peace- as though he was ready to go. He watched his hand that Logan held intensely. The hand twitched slightly and as though by a miracle they intertwined. Despite the crazy, despite the blood shed and crime. Despite every odd fighting against it love had found a way. Love had wo-

A shrill scream erupted from Patton’s lips as though he were still in that explosion. The sound shook Logan awake. The sound thundered against the walls with ear piercing intensity and was laced with pure terror. As quickly as the hand was intertwined it was ripped away. Patton sat up quickly. His eyes that were once a deep ocean blue were now a pure white. Even the pupil was colourless. Virgil stared on in horror as his friend frantically looked around the room. Scanning every surface with his eyes.

“Patton! Patton! My love it’s ok. You’re safe I’m right here. You’re fi-“

“I’m dead.”

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