#and spiral stone steps with the door above them that nobody could reach

[trix1erose]

mostly inspired by my own experiences at british schools in creepy old buildings

edwin would 100% become the school ghost story, but over time it always becomes a haunted bathroom story. i have no idea why, but in my experience the ghost is always in the bathroom. like, sure, my primary school had a weird clock tower above the nursery, but the girls bathroom was the place people said was haunted. yeah, the sixth form had the lavender lady, but the odd room lined wall-to-wall with mirrors and sinks in the boarding house was WAY more haunted than the attic.

people would still tell his story, but it would become botched and i think they would claim he lives in the bathroom instead of the cellar

[theladyofbloodshed]

You're The Closest To Heaven I'll Ever Be - Chapter 24

Splitting the high lord's meeting into two parts

Their delegate arrived beneath the dusky pink skies of the Dawn Court, once he’d inspected the area for a trap. The heat hit Azriel like a slap. On the short walk up the polished, marble stairs leading to the palace, his leathers stuck to his skin.

Whether Nesta intended to or not, she kept close by. Occasionally, her elbow knocked against him as she pinched her skirts to keep from tripping. Twice, she stumbled – not from the skirts, but her gaze was fixed upon the soft clouds tinged by the rosy dawn and gilded with dawn’s light.

‘Look at the palace,’ Azriel murmured.

Nesta turned her face upwards then stopped walking. Her lips parted at the sight of the near-opalescent golden stone. It was littered with balconies and verandas that were linked by bridges. Periwinkle flowers clambered up the many towers.

He couldn’t read the emotion on her face. There was so much to their world that she hadn’t experienced yet. He hoped, one day, Nesta would see it all with him.

An attendant wearing the gold and ruby livery of the court saw them to their rooms which were reached by a spiralling staircase. The too-near edge fell away into warm-coloured rock below with clusters of pale peonies growing between the cracks.

Azriel fell back to be closer to Nesta. She was already trembling from the height without even stepping onto the first one.

‘I’ll be with you,’ he said softly, as the others disappeared from view.

Nesta braced herself with a stiff nod then took the first steps as close as possible to the inside as she could without banging her head on the ones above. With his wings splayed out, just in case, Azriel stayed close by and kept his hand on her spine for support. But she did well. Nesta forced herself on without ever looking over the edge. It was how she approached everything.

‘Your rooms,’ the attendant said, with a deep bow at the waist. ‘As requested, the meeting will be held in the great chamber in fifteen minutes.’

‘And how do we reach it?’ drawled Rhys.

The attendant gestured to the left of the corridor that they were in. ‘It is the first door.’

Fantastic, Azriel thought. They were put there to be spied upon. To get to other rooms, everybody would need to pass theirs. It was a sign that they were not truly welcomed there.

There was little time to gather themselves. Rhys had already used his powers to discover that winter was the only seasonal court in attendance. Day had also arrived, so Helion would no doubt be charming Thesan.

Azriel looked to Nesta. She was pale like the magnitude of her decision to come with them had only just landed. He tried to catch her eye, but she was fussing with her skirts, ensuring they were sleek about her legs. Instead, he sent a shadow to coil around her wrist. She didn’t look at him still, but her thumb brushed against its spiralling body in answer.

The chamber had been arranged so that deep-cushioned oak chairs made a circle in the heart of the room around the shallow, circular reflection pool which was carved into the polished, marble floor. The sun streamed through the open archways, catching the dark water which was laden with pink and gold water lilies. Fish darted beneath, hiding in the shadows. Platters of food had been lain out between the wisteria-twined pillars although nobody had dared touched a bite. The cured meats, pastries and garlands of fruits lay undisturbed with the memory of Amarantha still fresh in everybody’s minds.

‘Welcome,’ greeted Thesan, eyes flitting to them all. ‘Or, since you’ve called this meeting, perhaps you should be doing the welcoming?’

A faint smile touched Rhys’ lips. ‘I may have requested the meeting, Thesan, but you were the one gracious enough to offer up your beautiful residence.’

The other pair came to preen like a pair of peacocks puffing up their feathers. Kallias had barely moved his chin an inch before Mor was squealing loud enough to draw the room’s attention. She flung herself at Viviane. Their conversation was rapid and neither minded as they cut into each other’s speech.

Never one to deny attention, Helion strode over. His entourage matched their own for size – and power. He threw himself into the throng, dominating the conversation with his words.

Azriel simply kept his eyes on Nesta. Kept close. Let shadows twine their hands together.

Then, Helion noticed her. Like a fucking wolf scenting a lamb. His attention lingered on her. It was too long to be considered polite. But Nesta stared right back at him. Unruffled. Unimpressed.

Good.

‘Who is your guest?’

‘She is my sister and our emissary to the human lands,’ said Feyre, stepping back so she could stand at Nesta’s side. ‘And she will tell her story when the others are here.’

‘She is fae.’

‘No shit,’ muttered Viviane.

Thesan angled his head slightly, inspecting Nesta. ‘Who made her?’

Nesta surveyed them all, one by one. He was wrong to think of her as a lamb. Nesta had never been a quivering, meek thing that hid. She stood tall, not a flicker of fear in her eyes as she said, ‘Hybern did.’

‘They threw her in the Cauldron,’ Feyre explained. ‘Along with my other sister, Elain. After the High Priestess Ianthe and Tamlin sold out Prythian and my family to them.’

Helion’s eyes blazed like a forge. ‘That’s a heavy accusation to make – especially of your former lover.’

Feyre took a seat then folded her hands in her lap. ‘It is not an accusation. We were all there. And now we’re going to do something about it.’

***

Despite the tardiness of the remaining courts, the frost did not abate in the room, even as attendants carried platters around the room of food and wine was offered. Only when the Dawn Court delegate began eating did other courts follow suit although Nesta could not. Her stomach churned with worry and adding food to the mix seemed too great a risk. Azriel did not spare her a glance; the focused spy-master had become his shield, but often she felt a shadow twining itself around her ankle beneath her skirt as if that was the most he could offer in comfort without openly revealing their bond. One male who was unable to take her eyes from Nesta was the high lord of the Day Court. Nesta ignored him. He watched her constantly like a hawk. His gaze trailed her fingers when she twisted them in her skirts, her tongue when she traced her lips. The stare was enough to burn, but she refused to acknowledge him. To acknowledge any of them.

When the Summer Court arrived, Nesta thought the atmosphere could not be more tense. Kallias, the Winter Court high lord, had grown even colder. Then, the Autumn Court arrived. Morrigan’s easy smile dried up. Beron was slender-faced and brown haired, his wife stood beside him, glancing briefly to Helion before averting her gaze. His sons sneered at the room; each one wore rich clothing gilded with golden threads or brocade vests. They were by far the most elegantly dressed, Nesta had to admit. 

‘Enough,’ murmured the eldest one, Eris, to bring his younger brothers into line.

With the tension mounting, Thesan cut in. ‘Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.’

Rhysand blinked, slowly. ‘Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.’

‘So you have called us to do what, exactly?’ Helion challenged, bracing his muscled forearms on his gleaming thighs. ‘Raise a unified army?’

‘Among other things. We-’

It was exactly like that night in the cottage when the door had shattered and the freezing cold had roared at them. Like a crack of lightning, as vicious as a spring storm, Tamlin winnowed into the chamber and smiled like a wolf.

Only the soothing stroke of a shadow against her ankle kept Nesta in the room. There had been so many fae in her life since that day, but he – the High Lord of Spring – had left his mark. Elain had been crying in a ball on the floor. Father had not moved from his cradle by the fire, too shocked to speak. And Nesta had tried and tried to put the ruined door back onto its hinges even as the rain blew in because that seemed the only normality after he stole Feyre.

Kallias asked, ‘Why are you here, Tamlin?’

Tamlin’s claw dug into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remained mild. Nesta knew what those claws could do.  ‘I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern—to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge—either her own or her … master’s.’

Strange words, Nesta thought. But, something in them tugged at Nesta’s attention. Feyre had returned for this one. Had sworn she loved him. They’d painted together beneath the sun as Feyre told her everything. But it had been Rhysand who she returned with. What had happened in those weeks beneath the mountain? Nobody ever mentioned them as if to do so was to spill a secret too terrible for the world to know.

‘You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,’ Feyre breathed. ‘You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.’

Tamlin only angled his head at Rhysand. ‘When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?’

Nesta felt herself go still, appalled by his words. Hearts were easily broken things, but to parade such an intimate moment was a low blow. She stared at the male, hate burning in her eyes. Nobody else was smiling except the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A voice as cold as death spoke beside Nesta, ‘Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.’

Azriel’s words settled around the room. She felt a surge of pride that he had been the one to defend her sister. Amongst the high lords who looked upon him with a mixture of wariness and revulsion, it had been Azriel who stepped up for Feyre.

Tamlin only laughed. ‘They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind—after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us … Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain—what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition—and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.’

Rhys let out his own dark laugh as if the words meant nothing. ‘Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.’

The High Lord of Spring looked at Rhysand a moment longer then dismissed him. His gaze went to Kallias. ‘You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.’ He jerked his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane—the few other members of their retinue who had remained silent. ‘You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?’

What had happened, Nesta wondered, to cast such a shadow on Rhysand? What had happened to her sister? She caught the uncomfortable glances passed between delegates, the neutral expressions on Cassian and Morrigan’s faces. Colour botted on Feyre’s cheeks, but she held her chin up in defiance.

It was Rhysand who spoke, breaking the terse silence. ‘I had no involvement in that. None.’

Kallias’s eyes flared like blue flame. ‘You stood beside her throne while the order was given.’

His skin paled. ‘I tried to stop it.’

‘Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,’ Kallias spat. ‘That you tried.’

They bartered more words at Rhysand – ones that Nesta didn’t understand the context of. Whatever had occurred under the mountain had been an awful secret. The reluctance to befriend Rhysand seemed to have valid reasoning though. She watched him scramble for words, to defend and explain actions. Even Feyre jumped to his defence, placing a hand on his arm and saying, ‘I believe you.’

‘Says the woman,’ countered Beron Vanserra, ‘who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead for Amarantha to butcher as well.’

Nesta went cold. She leaned forwards in her chair trying to gage Feyre’s reaction, but her sister had gone pale. Her fingers tightened on Rhysand’s arm.

Clare.

Clare Beddor.

Had Feyre given her friend’s name? Was Feyre the reason the Beddors were murdered?

Her ears were ringing. She could smell the smoke from that morning. Feel the cold ground on her bare feet as she ran through the village to the smouldering ruin. Watched in numb disbelief as bodies were pulled from the wreckage. Only four bodies. A mother. A father. Two younger brothers. No Clare. She remembered Elain pulling a threadbare blanket on her shoulders and guiding her back home before the village could call her a madwoman for going without shoes.

Her Clare. Clare who carried the burden of her family as much as Nesta did. Clare who had been her friend without money and with it. Clever, quiet Clare who yearned for so much more than life had offered them.

‘Hybern turned my sisters fae after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!’

Nesta felt the attention in the room turn to her, but she was elsewhere. She was in a field with Clare, counting clouds, wishing they were on a boat to the Continent where they could be so much more. Clare’s fingers entwined with hers as they spoke of the boys in the village – the lack of prospects that the village offered. Clare who had seized her by the cheeks and kissed her squarely on the mouth one day within an orchard, leaving them both in fits of giggles. She had been Nesta’s only friend. Her Clare.

The shadow on her ankle pulled tight, sensing her distress. Nesta did not hear the argument raging around her between the High Lord of Spring and her sister. Her sister had murdered Clare Beddor.

[andshedoesitagain]

How can you stare into the double of a dead man, without seeing a ghost?

George Weasley x Reader      Words - 1,178

Warnings - Angst, Grief, Fred’s death, Hurt, Comfort

Plot - Even when the war is over, there are many inner battles to be fought, especially when grief settles so heavy over everyone’s minds. 

The sky had exploded into colour, sparks flying through the air with such pointed precision you couldn’t help but inhale with a hiss, your breath sharply caught between your teeth. No matter how many times you blinked, the blur that hazed your vision became no clearer, caused by the dust that gently cascaded from the roof above you, or confusion caused tears that you hadn’t even noticed were building, you couldn’t tell.

You had become disoriented not long after the chaos had erupted throughout the school, having been hit by a rogue spell and left knocked out for an amount of time you hadn’t quite figured out yet, and while waking up in the midst of a war was startling enough, what had caught you off guard the most was how alone you were in the hallway; you could hear and see the mess of war just outside behind the windows that lined the narrow room, but not another soul was to be seen alongside you.  

Standing up, you tried to ignore the unwilling tremble of your legs, and screaming fear that gnawed at your head, instead clambering towards the doors that stood forebodingly at the end of the hall, trying not sway any more than you already were.

Hesitantly you pushed them open, met with many familiar faces of former teachers and peers, some paler than others.  

Twisting at the delicate gold band on your ring finger, your head screamed one name, George. You needed to find George, you had left him and Fred at the beginning to go help Harry, much to George’s dismay, who could only look at you with pleading eyes, a look that now felt permanently burned into the back of your eyelids.  

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” You whispered, staring up at him, your face held softly in between George’s palms.  

“You better be.” Eyes now glassy, the taller man pressed his lips to the top of your head, “I still have to marry you,” he mumbled as he pulled back, causing a tearful chuckle to bubble from your throat, as you leaned up to kiss him, trying not to let out a sob held tightly in your chest.  

“C’mon lovebirds, we have a war to win,” a voice from behind the pair of you caused you to both look over, Fred stood, arms crossed, his expression very much matching your own, fear hidden behind feigned hope.  

Glancing back to George, you pulled him down to kiss his forehead, before turning away and throwing yourself into Freds arms, holding him tight before pulling back, hands lightly placed on his shoulders, “don’t do anything dumb, and don’t let my fiancée do anything dumber,” you smiled through the frown that tried to stretch over your face.  

Ruffling your hair, Fred nodded, “same goes to you, dummy.” Pulling him into your arms once again, you took a deep breath.

Footsteps echoing as you walked, your eyes ran over the room, that had been set up as a makeshift infirmary, and the many faces surrounding. Some sat sobbing into lifeless bodies, while others were left to sit and stare into empty space, eyes completely vacant, hope abandoned. It caused a chill to course through your body, as you hugged your arms closer, trying to remember to breathe as you walked.  

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face when you caught sight of a familiar group of red heads, your found family all gathered into one place.  

Running over, your pulse quickened, excitement tossing around in your stomach, although as quick as it appeared, that excitement fizzled out in a matter of seconds.  

Molly was hunched over, pained cries passing her lips, as Arthur tried desperately to keep her on her feet. From over her shoulder, you could see George bent over on his knees, clutching desperately at his twin, Fred’s face drained of any colour and life that it once held.  

Even as you tried to move forward, you couldn’t, your feet firmly stuck to the floor, eyes wide and lips pursed closed. Arthur, glanced back, catching your own gaze, he shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks.  

Looking to the floor, you finally closed your eyes, placing a hand over your mouth, as a nauseous wave hit you so suddenly, you swear you could’ve fainted right there.  

Pulling your feet from the ground, you took a few more shaky steps towards George, kneeling down by his side, trying not to look at who he held so dearly in his arms. His sobs rang out through the eerily silent room, and you couldn’t help but let your own slip out.  

You had spent your entire childhood, arms linked with the twins, having met them the first day, of your first year at Hogwarts, and even when you and George’s childhood friendship slowly turned into something more, and right down to your engagement, you weren’t any less close with his brother, you could whole-heartedly say Fred was your best friend, although now that was, was spiralling around in your head.

Time passed, in what felt like hours, and eventually Arthur and Ron gently guided Fred out of Georges arms, to have him laid flat on the floor. George then crouched into your arms, the usually taller man, now small and fragile in your embrace, you cried together for as long as you could before you both were pulled from your grievance, back into the ongoing war.  

The day after the war had ended was quiet, you had all piled into the burrow, everyone dotted around the house as they tried to deal with the day before. Molly hadn’t stopped cleaning and organising, cooking meals for anyone who looked even remotely hungry, although you had caught her a few times slipping into the bathroom, the tap running louder than need, followed by aching whimpers, every time she looked out of the front window, and caught sight of George, her eyes followed him for longer than anybody else, confusion pulled into the lines on her face.

Arthur on the other hand, had been sat in the living room, with most of the others, just staring blankly. While he listened to everybody else trying to make conversation, he had kept silent himself, even when you had passed a cup of tea, he had looked up to you for just a second, a pained smile sent your way, before he took a sip, and his faraway look returned.  

Ginny and Harry sat at the kitchen table, hand in hand, both offering to help Mrs Weasley multiple times, only to be shot swiftly down, instead just going back to talking quietly, Ginny seemingly catching herself every time she went to mention Fred, physically shaking her head, as if to filter the words from her mind.  

You hadn’t even seen Ron since you had all returned home, he had walked upstairs, and crawled into bed almost immediately, and only came down for dinner before slouching back up to his room, Hermione had followed him, and when you had peeked your head in, you saw her sat in the bed, as Ron’s head was rested on her chest, between her gentle shushing and strokes of his hair, she sent you a soft eyed smile.  

Bill and Fleur had stayed firmly put in the living room, the blonde having napped most of the day, her head rested in the crook of her husband's shoulder, her hands wrapped tightly around the man's arm, squeezing a little too hard for it to be passed off as just a habit of sleep. Bill could only send concerned glances over to his father every time he tried to ask something, or even observe his father's inventions lined around the living room, to only be met with silence, after a while he seemed to have given up, instead dozing off alongside Fleur, his face contorted in anguish even as he slept.  

Shrugging on your jacket, you slowly pulled back the front door. George hadn’t yet entered the house, even as everybody else breathed out sighs of relief, as they finally arrived home, George had sat on the front step, claiming he was just taking a minute to catch his breath, and yet he still hadn’t crossed the welcome mat, even hours later.  

The warm mug in your hands, soothed the cold nip that spread across your fingers, as you sat down beside the tall man, looking up at him in attempt to read his expression, which was nothing short of empty. “I got you this,” you whispered, trying to pass him the mug.  

His hands trembled as he reached over, unable to meet your eyes, as he looked into the drink, whispering back, “thanks, love.”  

It wasn’t yet the time to talk, so instead you just sat there, staring off into the hills beside the love of your life, hearing porcelain clicked against stone, you didn’t look over as George’s hand slowly intertwined with yours, the fragile notion, causing a lump in your throat.  

Night had fallen quicker than anybody would’ve liked, childhood fears of the dark brought back with an even greater weight, one that nobody could shake off as easy. Pair by pair, everyone broke off into their rooms, George had shaken his head when you had tried to guide him to his bedroom, and you understood instantly.  

Instead, you both had settled into the couch in the living room, wrapped up in too many blankets to count, yet still you couldn’t deny the chill in the air, like Fred not being there had suddenly set the atmosphere off balance, and everything just now felt cold and vacant.  

Laying there, the lighting dim, you couldn’t help but pour over Georges face, you could understand what everybody else was thinking, how can you stare into the double of a dead man, without seeing a ghost?  

You knew George thought it too, hence why he had taken so much liberty to avoid any room with mirror, even opting to brush his teeth in the kitchen, and even you, who had spent so much time seeing how different the twins were, to the point where you could tell them apart with your eyes closed, couldn’t deny how strange it was.

Snapped out of your daze, George placed his hand on your face, “you’re not looking at me, are you?” His voice was toneless, and yet dripping with ache.  

“I am looking at you, George.” Even though you understood what he meant, you could never place Fred’s face over his own, such subtle differences pulling them completely separate. Eyes softening, you placed your hand over his own, “I’m always looking at you.”

//I took a little hiatus, so I’m sorry for not posting in a while, but I had an idea for this one, and got totally wrapped up in it, and so I’m going to try to get more out soon, I’m interested in doing a part two to this, which would be more about the Weasley family all healing, so let me know what you think :) //

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 4

din/reader

i put our favourite idiots through the absolute wringer in this one and i refuse to apologise. it’s nECESSARY i swear.

MASTERLIST

word count: 3.4k

warnings: swears, graphic violence and injury, some naughty thoughts from our favourite buckethead so for that reason 18+ no babies thanks

The distant, rhythmic clanging echoes off of the stone staircase as he descends into the tunnels. 

They’re empty, devoid of the usual flurrying activity, save for the guards that stand tall either side of the entryway. He doesn’t ask where everyone is, he doesn’t need to, the noise is enough to know where he’s going. Winding tunnel after winding tunnel, Din comes to a sharp stop after rounding a corner.

Armoured bodies spill out of the entrance to the forge, kids in and out of helmets clamouring to watch the action in the gaps between their buirs’ legs. He remembers being that small, trying desperately to see what was going on during gatherings. But he’d never seen anything quite like this.

Din shoulders his way through the crowd, watching out for the little ones under his feet, towards where Paz stands a head above everybody else. A pale, willowy man sits hunched over on his knees in the centre of the forge beside a set of armour carefully laid out on a bench. Is he a thief? The Armourer stands tall above him, ceremonial furs wrapped around her shoulders in place of the shorter, more practical ones. There’s so much sound, so many angry bodies packed into the small space, he can’t decipher exactly what it is they’re all doing there. 

“What is this?” He nudges Paz, unable to take his eyes off of the man on the ground. 

“He has dishonoured the creed.”

Din offers nothing in return, hoping his confused silence is mistaken for acceptance. A thousand possibilities run through his mind at breakneck speed. There are so many rules, so many afterthoughts and double meanings, he knows the newly-sworn kids struggle to remember everything from time to time. But this is a grown man, an adult who sits so shamefully in the centre of their most sacred setting. Did he kill a vod? Did he intentionally harm the ade? Did he question the Armourer? Paz, unsurprisingly, senses the question that hangs in the air between them.

“He removed his helmet, vod.”

No. 

No.

But how would- how would anybody know? How would something like that ever get back to the covert? Din doesn’t ask. He only nods, and returns his gaze to the man in the circle, while he silently prays to every deity he can think of. 

The crowd around him gets louder, hurling insults and clanging their arms together in anger. Din understands the gravity of what this man has done, what he has done, but there has to be a reason. Surely, there’s an explanation. A loophole, somewhere. Their secrecy is their survival and their survival is their strength, but at what cost? The cost of your touch, of you? The cost of knowing and being known so intimately isn’t something he’d known he’d be so unwilling to pay back when he swore the creed. Din Djarin would be a lesser man had he not shed his helmet and armour for you, he is as sure of that as his creed. The creed he has broken, more than once. What would become of him, if anybody here found out? 

The Armourer moves, worn metal of her tools colliding like a thunderclap, and the covert falls silent.

“Cork Gyll, you have been charged with the gravest of crimes against the creed: the removal of your helmet.”

Din can’t help but flinch as Cork does when the crowd roars again, anger and betrayal cracking in the air. He doesn’t know Cork, but his spiraling thoughts are way ahead of the game. Filling his mind with images of himself in Cork’s place, stripped of his armour and everything he knows himself to be. The taunting of his covert, of his family, echoing in his ears as though it’s meant for him. Din feels sick.

Memories of every time he’s shed his helmet for you. Every time he’s pressed his lips to yours, to every inch of you he could find purchase on. Is that why it always felt so good? An almost religious experience, the permission you give him to touch you is one he holds in the highest regard. Nothing comes close. But is that why? The thrill of breaking the code he’s lived by for a lifetime? No, he knows that’s not it. He knows it’s you that makes him feel that way, more than any rule breaking. He hates the warmth that spreads through him at the phantom taste of you on his tongue. 

“Do you deny?” The Armourer speaks again, and the noise ceases.

“No, Alor.” Cork does not raise his eyes from the dust in front of him. 

Anger replaces Din’s fear. At himself, at his creed, at the galaxy for being so cruel as to hold you just out of reach and deny him the only real, tangible connection he’s had since he was taken in by these people. He craves you, and everything you are, but you’re not allowed. Part of him feels like a petulant child, one of the ade denied a sweet before dinnertime. How could he be so stupid? So reckless? He should be caught. He should be exiled. He deserves it, he deserves nothing but loneliness. 

“Is there reason that you should not be stripped of your armour and exiled?”

“No, Alor.”

“You will be Dar’manda. This is the way.”

“This is the way.” The words echo in chorus around the forge, as they always do. It doesn’t escape Din’s notice that Cork remains silent in the centre, head hanging low.

The clanging from before begins again, in unison this time. The younger warriors follow the elders’ lead, rhythmically hitting their vambraces together until the sound reverberates through the ground. It’s loud enough that nobody notices that Din’s own wrists barely make contact. The Armourer lifts the tray of shed armour over the forge in front of Cork, the sparks of the flames reflect harshly in the gold of her helmet. The condemned man still does not raise his eyes from the dirt.

Paz and another heavy infantry soldier step out of the crowd to haul Cork to his feet, and people start to dissipate. The show’s over, now all that remains is to serve his sentence. A life in exile. Dar’manda. Din doesn’t stick around long enough to find out what they do with him next.

He goes straight to his room, unaware of the path he treads. He can’t remember in all his time as a Mando seeing somebody actually get exiled, actually be stripped of the creed and sent away. He was half sure it was just a story told to get the ade to take the creed seriously. The guilt only digs it’s cold claws into his heart once he’s alone. 

Door secure, Din all but rips the helmet off of his head. Breathe, in and out. Just like you taught him. Oh, you. Your face swimming in his memory only makes his guilt grip tighter, twisting itself in his guts until he can’t remember what he feels like without it. You’re a traitor, Djarin. He can’t tell if the grotesque voice in his head is talking about the creed or the way he’s treated you. He’s not sure it matters. Because even after all this, after everything he’s just seen, he thinks about where you might be. Whatever you’re up to, he only hopes you’re safe.

“Oh, fuck.”

Shara’s too far into the armoury to hear you call out when the guards descend. 

Only a handful of them, faces all concealed by crude looking helmets, but they waste no time in splitting up to take you on. Three of them against you, they’re not the best odds you’ve ever faced. Then again, they’re definitely not the worst. You take a moment, let them try to predict your first move, until one of them gets impatient. He swings for your legs with the long barrel of his blaster, which you evade with so much ease you’re almost embarrassed for the guy. It’s less of a fight and more of a standoff. You’re cornered at the end of this dark hallway, nowhere to go. The sounds of Shara struggling against her own adversaries echo off the metal walls, and you strike. 

You hit the middle guard square in the chest, splintering the weak armour, and you take the momentary panic from the others to make a break for it over his body. You don’t get far. Shara’s pained cry from the armoury stills your heart in your chest at the same moment that a stun bolt digs in between your shoulders, voltage way too high for something as delicate as human flesh. You’re out before you even hit the floor.

Your legs aren’t working like they should, muscles still jerking as the electricity works its way out of your system. A pair of guards unshackle you from the post and you hit the floor before they can catch you. Of all the ways they’ve hurt you, it’s the boss’s cackle at your weakness that makes you cringe. You’d held out for so long, stayed quiet for what feels like days, until they pulled out whatever it was that turned your blood to lightning. You’re dragged up out of the dust and back down the narrow hallway to the cell. It’s too dark in there to even see an inch in front of your face. But at least you can hear Shara through the wall.

“We’re getting out, I know it.” She’s optimistic, you’ll give her that. But you know that if you do ever make it out, it’ll be on your own. The Rebellion just doesn’t have the numbers to spare on a rescue mission for a couple of pilots who got a little too big for their boots.

“Well I’m not dying until I beat your track time, so we better.”

Shara laughs from the cell beside yours, loud and familiar, if maybe a little forced. It’s easier to join in her amusement when you don’t focus on the blood dripping down under your collar.

It’s a suspiciously easy bounty, something he’d normally pass up on. But there’d been an odd tug in his chest at the low-level puck and Din had negotiated it into his assignments from the Guild before he even really knew what he’d done. Some wannabe crime lord on a planet he didn’t care to learn the name of had set a bounty on an ex-guard, wanted him hand delivered. A deserter, he’d called him. Din pretended like that didn’t tug at his chest too. 

He finds the man, oddly enough, digging up vegetables in a garden. Presumably it’s the quarry’s family home, nestled between the trees on a riverbank, and something about the way the man regards him feels extremely final. He doesn’t run, he doesn’t plead or try to fight, he simply places the bundle of freshly harvested vegetables on the doorstep and walks slowly back up the path. The bounty doesn’t say a word as his wrists are bound, nor as they start the trek through the wood towards the gang’s base. 

A helmeted guard meets them at the doorway, gesturing into the dark hall, and Din only hesitates for a moment before nudging the quarry ahead of him. They barely make it into the main meeting room when a blaster shot hits the bounty right between the eyes. He crumples where he stands, Din has enough control not to flinch in surprise, and the man holding the smoking blaster splits a slimey grin. The boss, then. He points at the body, talking pointedly to his guards about loyalty and vows. It’s enough to leave a bad taste in Din’s mouth. He catches the pouch of credits thrown his way, and is ready to leave this whole mess behind him when the boss turns his attention onto the hunter.

“You have to stay for the show, Mando.”

“Show?” Was that not enough of a show?

“We found a couple of rats digging around in our armoury a few days ago, thought we’d have a little fun before they meet the same fate as our dear deserter.”

He leads Din to a small room with staggered seating above a lit area like a crude stage, clearly made for a larger audience than the six of them. There’s a single post in the middle with a woman in a dirty orange flight suit cuffed to it, blood on her face. An interrogation droid, he suppresses a shudder, is zapping her every few seconds to keep her from blacking out.

“We had the bantha-prod on the other one yesterday. Oh, the screaming.” 

Unable to take his eyes off of the woman, he can’t stop himself seeing you in her place. He doesn’t even think before he’s unloaded a plasma cartridge into the boss and the four remaining guards. Din swings his pulse rifle around his body, aiming carefully, and disintegrates the droid before it can shock the woman again.

“Get your friend and get gone.” Din huffs out as he swipes the keys off of the boss and jumps down into the pit to unshackle the pilot. Her legs give out underneath her, dropping like dead weight, and for a second he’s not sure she’ll get back up. But she does, gritting her teeth the whole way. 

“You think we were planning on sticking around?” She’s shaky, a little out of it for a moment before she steels herself and looks him in the eyes. Right in the eyes. It’s the same determination and strength Din always sees in you, and he knows she’ll be okay. 

He leaves before the little voice in his head, the one that sounds like you, makes him do something stupid. Like stay and help the pilots, offer to take them back to their base, get sucked into a war he doesn’t have the cause to care about. Aside from one, glaringly obvious, you-shaped reason.

Shara wastes no time in ducking down the hall to the cells and getting to you. Her fingers shake when she flips through the chain to find the right chip, but the tension leaves her a little once the door slides back to reveal you curled in a dank corner. The light is harsh, after who knows how many hours sitting in complete darkness, and you’re only vaguely aware of her telling you somebody killed your captors. 

“-Swooped in like a fucking knight in shining armour,” Shara laughs as she fumbles with the key to your binders, “It was crazy.”

She’s pulling you out of the cell and down the hall before you can really get your feet under you, knocking elbows and knees against the walls of the narrow space. But the logic of a pilot, a scrapper pilot, kicks in once you’ve adjusted to the movement.

“Dead guys don’t need guns, right? Might as well get what we came for.”

It takes Shara a moment to realise what you’re saying, but then she’s dragging you after her along the dim corridor. The wrong way. You have to tug on her hand to get her to slow, to point her in what you know is the right way to the armoury. You’re not sure exactly how you can be so certain, just that you know. You’ve always had a better sense of direction than her so she, at least, takes you at your word and barely stumbles in her haste. 

There’s no welcoming party waiting on the landing pad for you, only a very tired looking command officer and a couple of medics, and the floodlights threaten to blind you as you and Shara lean on each other down the loading ramp. Tired, you’re both so tired.

“They’re in the cargo hold.” You manage between breaths, nodding your head towards the netting keeping the liberated armoury in place. The officer releases you to the medics at the same moment Shara loses consciousness and falls dead weight against your shoulder. The adrenaline starts to wear off as they catch her before she can hit the ground, you don’t argue when they sit you on the trolley beside her. 

“What did they hit you with, Lieutenant?” A doctor you don’t recognise is in your face before you even register that you’re in the medbay. 

“Forgive me if I was a little too preoccupied to ask.” 

It hurts. The torn material of your flight suit is matted into your wounds, and you feel every little pull right down to your bones when she moves to lead you up and off of the trolley towards an empty bed. Even the lightest touch of her fingers around the singed edges threatens a wave of nausea. You bite it back with a grimace. If standing is this agonising, you really don’t want to find out what heaving feels like. 

“Bantha-prod, looks like. Nasty burns.”

Another pair of hands guides you to lean forwards and brace your arms on the bed, and you try to remember to keep breathing while the doctor begins peeling your charred flight suit out of the half-healed burns on your back. More scars. Spots dance in your vision, blurring the world around you, and you lock your jaw up so tight to keep from screaming that you swear you crack a tooth. Even through this, this pain that seems to lick at every inch of your body, your only thought is that you want him. There’s a sharp scratch on your neck and a low groan that you think might have come from you, before the pain finally pulls you under. 

Din finds no solace in the dusty tunnels of the covert, not the way he normally does. The image of Cork kneeling in the forge, enduring insults and anger and the loss of his creed without so much as a whimper. The quarry, walking from his family’s home to his death with no complaint. He’s not sure he could be that strong, that unaffected, if his treachery ever comes to light. He wonders what you would look like in the orange flight suit of rebel pilots. Maybe you knew the ones he freed, maybe he’d unknowingly saved a friend of yours. It might be the only honourable action he’s taken for years. 

His lingering thought, as he finds his way to his quarters and collapses on the bed in a pile of armour and exhaustion, is how much more comfortable he is when you’re tucked into his side. Where you should be, he’s sure of it. 

You plague his dreams that night, just like every night. Din sees nothing but your eyes, hears nothing but your laugh, feels nothing but your smile against his skin. He dreams about being somewhere far away with you, the way he wishes he could be. No rebels or creeds or empires, just you and him lying somewhere in soft grass watching clouds roll by. You’re wearing that old red sweater he took off of you the first night he touched you, and his armour is nowhere to be seen. He likes it that way. He can feel the warmth of you beside him like this.

But the pink-streaked sky morphs and suddenly he’s encompassed in darkness, the feeling of you surrounding him. He’s not afraid, not like when other dreams fade to black before he wakes. He knows you in this darkness, he knows himself. The sounds you make when you’re together in the dark, the heat of your mouth on him, sliding his cock past your lips. He wants this, you, for as long as you’ll let him have it. Everything you are, the smiles, the jokes, the sex, the exhaustion. The fire you get in your eyes stokes the one in his, he’s not sure who he would be without it. He could love you, one day, if that’s what you wanted. If he’s what you want. But nothing lasts, the Armourer’s voice breaks through your heady moans to condemn him as Dar’manda and you’re gone. Just like that. 

Din wakes with a start. Hard in his flight suit and an even worse ache in his back. He can never see you again, a decision that leaves a pain so deep in his bones far worse than a wet dream or falling asleep in his armour ever could.

The comm buzzes late one night, weeks later. 

“I’ve got a job on Akiva, if you’re anywhere near there.” 

He leaves it unanswered.

TAGLIST (lmk if you want on or off the list):

@brothersdrxke​ @remmysbounty​ @aq-vetina​ @1800-fight-me​ @mandos-co​ @kesskirata​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @firstofficerwiggles​ @keeper0fthestars​ @wille-zarr​ @rebloogggs​ @plants-are-better-than-humans @schreibsuchtis (tag machine broke again)

[daydreambouquet]

Zack never survived the Nibel Reactor and therefore couldn't rescue Cloud from Hojo's clutches. From this single point of divergence, the story unfolds.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” - Cid Highwind

Preview of Chapter 23 - The Ancient Temple

“That must be it,” Cid says as he circles the Wutai carrier above a strip of tropic islands. Azure waters shimmer against sandy white shorelines, and rocky beaches press beneath thick jungle canopies.

Despite the otherwise clear weather, dense fog covers an island in the archipelago. Poking above the obscured tree line is the tip of a jet-black temple whose composition alters from glossy to matte with each strike of sunlight.

“Well, that’s...ominous,” Aerith says, leaning against the window.

Cloud couldn’t agree more. The hues of sky near the temple’s apex are sour yellow, and flocks of parrots spiral to avoid its vicinity.

“Can we get on the ground now?” Yuffie moans from the cabin. She’s curled on the floor to stymie her motion sickness while Barret paces and periodically curses Cait Sith.

“I knew that mother-fucker was up to no good,” Barret kept saying, but now that the temple is close, he stands beside Tifa near the pilot’s chair. “That don’t look like something the Cetra could build.”

It’s true. The angle of the crux is perfect. The material has a deep smooth luster that shifts dark colors and mirrors its surroundings like a window into a shadowed world. The Cetra are an ancient race, presumably without the tools or capabilities for such precision. But more importantly, this place does not appear welcoming. And weren’t the Cetra benevolent custodians of the Planet?

Tifa’s arm brushes against Cloud as she points at a clearing near the edge of the fog.

“There, look,” she says.

A Shinra helicopter sits motionless and vacant. Its windows carry a sheen of translucent dust.

“The hell? That it? No troops?” Barret asks.

It’s strange. There should be more Shinra officials or patrolling Turks. But aside from the scurrying lizards, there are little signs of life.

Nanaki stretches and lifts his nose to peer out. Vincent crosses his arms, watching without comment.

“Shinra knows we are coming,” Nanaki says.

Yet maybe not. They have the keystone, so perhaps they’ve already plundered whatever treasure lay within, though judging by the look on Aerith’s face this seems unlikely. She’s concentrating hard as if deciphering a masterful puzzle.

Tifa smiles over at Cloud. He hasn’t spoken to her about last night, but it doesn’t feel necessary. Nothing between her is uncomfortable. Affections turned tangible, and neither has regrets. He likes that he can trust this sensation. It seems the only unquestionable piece of him.

Cid lands the carrier next to the Shinra chopper because there is nowhere else in the temple’s vicinity, and Aerith asks him to get as close as possible.

When he cuts the engines and slides open the doors, a cacophony of jungle noises and hot muggy air assaults them. Giant insects buzz by, and curious predators slink in the outskirts of their arrival. The Shinra chopper rests inert with one door open, interior console blinking on standby as if the pilot had been in an extreme hurry.

The wall of fog is ahead, and beyond that, the temple rises.

The group hesitates. Yuffie swats at a fat mosquito. Nanaki tilts his head at the screen of mist.

“Is it...safe?” Tifa asks, but of course, nobody knows.

Cloud steps into the fog. Immediately, he’s cut off into another world of compact, quiet forest. The distant chirp of birds is behind him, and the sun is blotted out.

“It’s fine,” he reports, inhaling the odorless mist. “Just fog. Must be a weird weather phenomenon.”

There’s nothing alive in the jungle on this side of the border. The trees are frozen in full bloom, but no wind rustles the foliage. The shades of green seem muted and timeless. Cloud touches the leaves from a vine growing around a tree, and the particles turn to dust in his fingers.

The others enter behind him until the fog encompasses them all. Aerith leads the way forward. The peak of the temple somehow seems more prominent now and dominates the skies.

They follow her in silence, though Cloud insists on taking point in case of Shinra ambush. But as they venture forward, that possibility seems far remote. There is nothing and no one around. The temperature drops as they weave through the jungle in the shadow of the temple. Their boots crunch over dry leaves and brittle vines.

The base of the temple appears like a sudden sheet of milky glass. There are no markings in its facade nor windows or entry of any kind. The mist creates a low ceiling, the illusion of suffocation. As the others wander on, following the structure’s perimeter, Cloud finds himself caught in the intrigue of his reflection. Whenever he glances away, it distends and reintegrates, shimmers and dissolves. Then when he looks again, right at it, the doppelganger disappears and only his own pale blues stare back. He does this double-take four, then five times before a shout calls his attention.

Tifa yells from a distance. The entire party has moved on, and he rushes through the fog along the temple wall, ignoring the sensation of something at his heels.

He finds Aerith equally enthralled nearby. She stands alone, pressing a hand against the temple.

“Did you hear Tifa?” he asks because she’s acting as though she has not. She’s captivated, and his presence startles her.

“I...I can hear something else,” she says. He gets close and listens. Ahead, he hears the commotion of their friends but no urgent cries. No nearby fauna. He hears nothing else.

“The Ancients?” he guesses.

“I don’t know,” Aerith says. “There are many of them.”

Tifa shouts again, and this time it’s in dismay. Alarm. She calls everyone over. Aerith and Cloud move together, and a gap in the mist opens up.

Tifa kneels near a Turk lying on the ground. Red soaks the white shirt beneath the black jacket from a deep slash. He bubbles blood from his lips.

“Tseng!” Aerith runs to his side. “Oh no. No, this can’t be!”

Barret, Cid, and Vincent stand apart, unhelpful, as Tseng sputters a painful-sounding cough. Yuffie and Nanaki are staring at the droplets of blood leading into a narrow archway in the temple. A pattern as if shaken from a long, slender sword. A masamune.

And the entrance, a pyramidal door, beckons into utter black.

Inserted into an indent below is the meteorite. The keystone. Dio’s collector item, unlocking a thousand secrets. Cloud cannot look away.

“Help him!” Aerith says. “Cloud, give me your Restore.”

He pulls his eyes to the suffering Turk. Tseng’s long black hair hangs over a desperate dirt-streaked face. But Tseng is the enemy and a victim of Sephiroth. The General must’ve been here, sought the keystone, and taken it. Which means he’s just ahead. Inside the temple.

“We were wrong...” Tseng whispers. His hands tremble. “It’s not...the Promised Land he’s...”

Aerith soothes him. When the others don’t help her, she explains, “He was always kind to me. The Turks have followed me all my life, but that doesn’t mean any of them deserve to die. Don’t you see?” Her pleading eyes go to Cloud.

He waits, expecting her to whisk a healing breeze out of thin air, but she doesn’t. Maybe she can’t, or maybe Tseng’s wounds aren’t that severe. Sephiroth would’ve killed him if he’d wanted to. But whatever lay ahead was more appealing than Tseng’s death. The Turk wasn’t worth the time.

Cloud steps over Tseng’s body and approaches the entrance. Nanaki and Yuffie stand aside, but he pauses at the gaping void. Cold air coils from the other side, wraps around his forearms. Someone says his name. He thinks it’s Aerith.

Behind him, he sees her kneeling with blood on her dress. Tifa crosses her arms, and Barret gives Cloud a wary look. Cid paces, and Vincent cranes his neck to survey the temple’s peak. Aerith won’t leave Tseng’s side.

Cloud pops the Restore from his sword and tosses it to Aerith. Then he crosses the threshold.

An immediate cool disseminates like static across his skin. The world behind fades away. He hears Aerith activate the Restore, but the swirl of green light doesn’t reach him. The void pulls him forward, and the darkness shifts like a tangible being, becoming darker and lighter as if creatures were moving in its depths. The hallway is longer than it seems, extending beyond the visible footprint of the temple.

Then a rush hits him. It isn’t a physical sensation, but he knows he is falling. On impulse, he curls, shielding his head, yet his feet never leave the ground. The surroundings come up instead of him going down.

A harsh light flares, and in an instant he is outside, overlooking a vast complex of labyrinthine structures: staircases and archways, open-air walkways that loop into corners and angles of confusing geometry. Everything is pale stone and unadorned. The ledge where he stands is crumbled and worn, leading into a stairway that seems undisturbed for eons. The sky is a malachite haze.

[writinginthedarkwood]

Kistune! Todoroki Part 2.

 A sequel to my most popular post! Part one is here -> https://writinginthedarkwood.tumblr.com/post/188178949954/kitsune-todoroki-a-mischievous-encounter (I have no clue how to make my links small someone send help plz lmao)

Warnings: nsfw. I know what you sinners want.

“Good morning Master Shoto.” The air smelled very crisp and clean like it does everyday. I took a deep breath as my feet padded gently across the stone floor towards the meditating yokai. I brought the tray of tea to the flat rock in front of him and set it down. The porcelain clattered just a bit against the wooden tray, I began our morning routine by pouring him his cup first, and then mine.

Shoto took a deep breath, his ear twitching a bit to the sound of the birds crying above us, large twisted looking things with beady eyes. “We have a few black birds visiting our shrine today Master Shoto.” I smiled a bit, speaking quietly. Shoto loved to hear the sounds of the morning, nothing more relaxing to him then the sunshine slowly heating up the day while all of the forests creatures woke up. Shoto opened one eye, his face twisting suspiciously as he looked around. “Crows... never really liked them much.” He spit out just above a whisper. The large birds cawed loudly, their screeches much louder than the singing birds we usually hear. Shoto sighed and uncrossed his legs, pulling himself up to stand and look at the roof of our home. “Did you need something?” He asked sternly. “Or did you come all this way to ruin my morning and ruin my morning alone?”

The big black birds flapped their wings, rushing off of the roof and into the air, spiraling around Shoto. Midnight black feathers fell off of the birds into a pile at Shoto’s feet. The birds flew away in a perfect “V” formation.

Shoto picked one of the feathers off of the ground and twirled it in his finger for a moment. “How strange...” I said under my breath. The feather changed shape with an electric “pop” Shoto dropped it quickly, a yellow tinted piece of paper floated gently to the ground. I quickly picked it up for him, handing him the paper to read it over.

“Ah, it seems that I’ve been invited to a wedding, my love.” Shoto folded the paper in half and handed it to me. “Would you please put this somewhere for safe keeping?” I nodded my head yes and kissed his cheek.

Shoto didn’t explicitly state that I COULDN’T read the letter for myself... but he didn’t exactly offer for me the chance... I tossed the idea around in my head for just a moment before quickly unfolding the paper.

It was letters I didn’t understand at all. I’ve been quite proud of my reading comprehension skills, I can even speak some languages in the West but... I’ve never seen characters quite like this before.

I pouted and put the paper in kitchen where I could easily find it.

All afternoon I followed Shoto as he walked the grounds. We spend a lot of our day’s gardening together. Shoto doesn’t think it’s safe for me to spend time outside of our home without him. I haven’t noticed many differences these past few weeks from the village, the weather is the same, the animals are the same, the sun rises and sets at a normal time... yet I can tell I’m somewhere different than before.

Something in the air is different, like I’m somehow walking a dream.

“Look now darling!” Shoto called to me. I turned to look over my shoulder. I was sitting crouched by our collection of orchids. Shoto proudly pointed above his head to the branches of our persimmon tree. “It’s fruiting.” He can be so stoic at times, his face often showing little emotion. I smiled brightly at the beaming kitsune. “Could I try one Master Shoto?” I wiped the dirt off of my hands onto my apron. I walked to him and he cupped my face gently. His thumb brushed over my cheek. “You have dirt on you, silly human.” His angelic face smirked at me, his mysterious eyes staring at me with all of the love in his heart. Without breaking eye contact, he stuck his palm out, a persimmon falling perfectly into his hand. He studied the fruit before taking a bite out of it. I reached for the treat to take a bite myself and he pulled the fruit away. “This one is for me! You’ll have to get your own little-” I snatched the persimmon out of his hand, interrupting him and quickly taking a huge bite. “Why you-” He chased me around the tree, grabbing at my yukata and laughing his deep raspy laugh. I dodged his grasp and giggled as I ran from him through our flowers and herbs. “You can’t catch me!” I called out, my bare feet carrying me quickly through the weaving pathway.

“Oh can’t I?” Shoto popped in front of me, his form appearing in a blink of the eye. I gasped and collided with his chest, knocking us both over. The persimmon rolled into the mud, as we both laughed. His chest rumbled with me on top of him, I laid my head on his shoulder and kissed his neck between fits of giggles.

We settled a bit and his eyes lingered over my mouth. Without a thought we connected, our lips brushing together softly.

The sound of loud branches cracking broke our kiss. My head snapped up and Shoto rolled me gently off of his chest and onto the ground. He looked around, his face cold as he listened for movement. His ears moved with the sound of the wind, his eyes didn’t leave the tree line.

He sniffed the air and placed an arm over my chest. “Go inside and sit by the shrine.” His voice was steady, completely focused. “Wh-what is it Shoto?”

A low throat growl slipped past his lips as he commanded me. “Now.”

I sprinted inside of our home and threw our bedroom door open. The fountain trickled happily with the bonzai tree’s roots pulsing as it drank up the crystal clear water. I sat on the ground and scooted close to the stone, not exactly sure how close I’m supposed to sit. I let my back touch the fountain and I waited in eerie silence.

It was only a few moments before I heard Shoto call my name. He opened the sliding paper door.

With him was a strange looking man. He wore dark clothes, and had wild yellow hair. He had huge black wings folded against his back, and his smile was wide and oddly, not kind.

I stood and bowed to the guest, nobody has come to visit us before. “This is my servant, Y/N. Would you like her to make us some tea, Kaminari?” The man stepped further inside of the room, his eyes wandering around to the ceiling, the floor, the shrine, and finally back to me.

“Kind of a quaint place you have here Todoroki. Didn’t your style used to be more... grand?” He talked to Shoto without breaking his gaze from me. I shifted uncomfortably and looked to Shoto for some type of guidance. His eyes were locked onto the back of this mans head. “The name is Kaminari! I’m the leader of a Tengu clan that’s settled in the Western world...” He tilted his head as he looked me over. “A little birdy told me Shoto had taken a human mate...” He chuckled a bit. “I didn’t believe that could be true... I mean humans aren’t really his style...”

“I already told you Kaminari, she’s my servant. We made a deal.” Kaminari laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. Shoto tensed up, but didn’t move. “See I found myself a gorgeous human girl of my own, I bought her from some scuzz bag in this dinky town I’m running.” He clicked his tongue. “Of course I had to invite my old buddy to see this bachelor finally get off the market! I thought for a minute maybe you were copying me, but sense she’s just a servant...” He put another hand on my other shoulder, giving me a light shake. I didn’t dare move. “How much do you want for her? My clan mates are really jealous, they had no clue humans could make good mates.” He put to fingers on my chin and pinched. “She’s pretty cute, Sero would be more than happy to mate with this one.” I swallowed hard, my body trembled as his thumbs hooked onto my shoulder blade, a strange sensation rippling over my skin. It felt like the air after  a lightning storm, but on my body.

“Sorry, she’s not for sale.” Shoto crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh come on, a lady of such high quality shouldn’t be limited to working her whole life.” He grabbed a strand of my hair and twirled it in his fingers. “What was the price you paid to be indebted to such a monster little dove? Whatever it is I’ll pay it.”

My voice caught in my throat and I looked down at the floor. “P-please don’t call Master Shoto a monster...” I didn’t dare look him in the face. His breath was cold against the back of my neck. “And why not? He has you locked in this shabby little shack, tilling his gardens and pouring him tea? My clan is very wealthy, my brother would treat you well, give you beautiful little half breed children.”

The sound of something sharp whistled through the air, the tengu was torn away from me and slammed against the wall. Kaminari laughed, he ripped an icicle out of his jacket that had him pinned to the wood. He tossed it to the ground with a smile. Something burned in Shoto’s eyes, his finger was pointed at the tengu, ice forming around his wrist.

“Enough is enough, Kaminari.” Shoto hissed through clenched teeth.

I rushed to Shoto and hid behind him, touching his back and hiding part of my face behind his long hair. “Just a servant then, huh kitsune?” He held his hands in the air with a smug smile. “You don’t have to lie to your old pal. I won’t tell your little secret, but uh, I’ll let you know.” He shook his shoulders and his wings expanded, a harsh breeze rushing across the room with a spray of feathers. “I’m not the only one that’s caught scent of your little...” He thought for a moment. “Well, whatever you two are. If you were planning on making things official... I’d do it soon.” He straightened out his coat and winked at the two of us before disappearing in a gust of black feathers.

We ate dinner in relative silence. Shoto could see I had a million questions racing in my mind, the tension in the air was thick enough to cut it with the knife he was using to cut our meat. “The rabbit you caught came out delicious. Do you like these spices with it Shoto?” He nodded a bit, looking over my head at the wall. After the tengu left, Shoto spent the rest of the day meditating on the roof. I prepared dinner and sang to myself, trying to keep busy when I’m itching to push him for explanations.

I don’t feel like a servant, I love to make his meals and tea. I love keeping our clothes clean, the shrine beautiful and our plants happy.

We dance at night time to the sounds of singing crickets. They chirp unnatural melodies, sounding more like violins than any bug I’ve heard. No I don’t feel like a servant at all, I love my life with him.

I love him.

“Why don’t we star gaze tonight? I think I saw a shooting star the other night and I want to see another.” I just about cleared my plate of the rest of the rice. I sipped my water, eyeing Shoto to see if he had anything to add to the conversation. Shoto laid his head on his hand and winced in pain. He groaned and took a jagged breath. “Shoto love? Are you alright?” I reached to touch his hand and he pulled away. Shoto’s eye’s burned bright red, glowing from behind his finger tips. I recoiled, not in fear but in shock. He stood quickly from our meal and headed for the door. “Shoto!” I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow at him. “Please tell me what’s going on.” He stumbled a bit in the doorway, shaking his head and shivering. “It’s nothing.” His eyes were normal. He opened the door and the night air crept in, giving me a bit of a chill. “I’ll be back in a little bit.” He shut the door behind him with a slam. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, why the sudden attitude? I cleared out our dinner bowls and scraped them clean. I guess with all of the chores done and the sudden alone time, I could take a bath and wash off today’s strange aura. I grabbed my favorite soap scented with lavender and a clean cloth towel off of the drying line.

Our bath house is built over a natural hot spring, the hot water is surrounded by smooth stone. The simple wooden walls connect at a point on the ceiling, leaving a small round hole for the moon to shine through.

The soap ran across my skin and lathered. I hummed to myself, I scrunched my hair over the edge of the water into a bucket, letting the suds reach deep to my skull. I hate to get too much soap in the spring, but it always seems to find a way to filter out.

I finished washing my hair and laid my head against the rock and closed my eyes, just letting the cool texture create a contrast that eased some of the tension I carried in my neck today.

The door slid open, the walls shaking a bit as the flimsy wood clashed against the wall. I didn’t open my eyes, if Shoto would like to continue throwing a tantrum, that was his choice. I tried not to smile, I don’t want him to know how happy I am he caught me in such an intimate moment. “Hello Master.” I said through a straight mouth.

“Get out of the water.” His voice sounded hollow, like he was in several places at once. The tone low and incredibly raspy. I opened one eye and peered at him.

My jaw dropped and I gasped. “Shoto...?” His eyes were burning with a furious light, his beautiful kimono was gone, naked with his member completely alert. He had a strange new addition to his body, he had a tail. No, several tails floating behind him like they were blowing in the wind. His jagged and sharp teeth bit down onto his lip, drawing a bit of golden blood. He was over to me in a second, pulling me out of the water and pressing me against the stone. My breath caught in my chest, his lips smashing down on top of mine. His teeth knocked against mine, his tongue jamming into my mouth. I pressed both of my hands onto his shoulders and pushed, gasping for air. “What has gotten into you?” Shoto let out a low animalistic growl. His chest was heaving, his breath very shallow like he wasn’t getting any air. “Listen I-” He traced his hands up the side of my body, his fingers drinking up all of the details of my skin. I closed my eyes, his touch making me practically purr. “I need you... I’m going to take you right now.” He pulled my hips to sit center underneath of him, adjusting me so that he could put himself between my legs. “Master...” My eyes rolled into the back of my head as he positioned his tip to fit between my clenched walls. He massaged the area for just a second before stuffing his cock right into me. He wasted no time working up a pace. He thrust into me with wild fever, holding my hips pinned down against the floor. His thumbs dug into my flesh, sure to leave little marks tomorrow. I couldn’t control the sounds leaving my mouth, little moans slipping out. He bit down on my neck, not slowing down his pace at all. I cried out, his teeth sharp and drawing a bit of blood. “Shh, shh love.” He groaned in my ear. “You need a mark from me...” He kissed over the tender spot on my neck. “Sh-shoto.. hng~” I gripped onto his back, my heat pooled onto him. The sound of him slipping into me was loud and slick, he slowed just a bit, every inch of him filling my hole. My sensitivity was building, the pressure built in my core. “Do you like taking my cock Y/N?” He nipped at my ear lobe. “Y-yes Master.” He stopped thrusting, holding his cock deep inside of me but completely still. “I can’t let any other creature have you.” He held my face, kissing along my jaw line between words. “I don’t want anyone else Master...” He smiled against my skin, pulling out of me suddenly. The pressure inside of me halted, my stomach rolled as my body begged to have a climax. Shoto pulled me off of the stone and flipped me to my knees. He bent my body forward, my face pressed against the rock. He grabbed both of my hands and held them behind my back, his strength keeping me suspended in the air just off of the ground. His hips bucked into me, bouncing me against him over and over again with a hypnotic pattern. I can’t do anything but cry out, repeating his name over and over again as my body burned. The sounds he was making were absolutely primal, he growled viciously, fucking me with every bit of his strength. I screamed, my walls clenching around him as my body rocked with pleasure. His breath hitched, his body tensed up, his hands wrapping tighter around my wrists. “Your pleasure is milking me-” He pressed himself against me as hard as he could.

Ropes of cum spilled out of him and against my cervix. He came with enough volume that the virile fluid spilled out and onto my thighs. He took a moment to take a deep breath before pressing me flat against the stone, letting my arms go. His chest pressed against my back, his breath tickled the back of my neck. “I’m not finished with you yet. You’ll be taking my load until dawn breaks.”

I studied the interesting mark in the glass mirror. The morning light shown through the window. It didn’t look like a normal bite mark, it resembled more of a tattoo. Where the teeth marks should have been were actually dots in the pattern of a blue orchid. “My mark looks beautiful on you.” Shoto sat behind me holding my waist with his strong arms. “What does it mean?” I rested my head on him, letting his wandering hands soothe me. “It means that you are my mate.” He hesitated for a moment, admiring it on me before finishing his thought. “I go through reproductive cycles. There will be nights like last night where I...” He almost looked embarrassed, but if you didn’t know him as well as I you would never notice. “I just feel the urge to breed.”

I let out a giggle and he frowned. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Of course not. It feels good to be wanted that badly.” My body felt very sore. It’s hard to keep up with the stamina of such a ravenous beast. “I think seeing that tengu touch you unlocked a side of me I have been repressing for a long time now.” He kissed my cheek. “I love you Shoto. I’m happy to be your... mate.” I giggled and he squeezed me tighter. “I love you my little human, and I will until the sun dies.”

Have you read Tengu Kaminari’s story? It’s tagged under # inthewoods yokai if you haven’t :)

Please consider donating to my Ko Fi account. The link is in my bio. I love you, my requests are open!

[carnalpleasure]

part 3!!! with lots of fluff as promised💕 i’ve been thinking about these two all day and they both needed a lil lovin ok .. this is like soft!richard af but i promise hes still angy >:(

The night after..

The warlocks’ plan had played out perfectly. The two boys arrived back at Hawthorne just after midnight. It was a moonless night and the stars were drowned out by thick black storm clouds. The black marble sculpture that housed the secret entrance to the school was rendered practically invisible against the pitch black sky. It was the perfect cover for them to arrive unseen.

Ariel wanted to make sure absolutely no one found out Richard was there, not even the other students. Nobody outside of the Wizard Council and Michael were to have any contact with him until they could properly assess the boy’s powers. Though Richard was still convinced he didn’t have any powers after witnessing all the things Michael was capable of. Now that was something he could call extraordinary. His own gift had always been nothing but a curse to him.

“This is it,” Michael announced proudly as they crossed the field. The large spiral statue becoming more visible to them with each step. Richard thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He didn’t know what he was seeing. “This is what?” he asked, looking back at the blonde with a look of annoyed confusion. He struggled to keep his temper, he was too exhausted from the long trip.

Michael guided him through the spiraling path down to the hidden entrance that was buried within the walls of the sculpture. With a flick of his wrist the door appeared and slid aside, revealing a long dimly lit stone corridor. Richard could feel the anxiety creeping in. He’d never admitted it to anyone before but he was overwhelmingly claustrophobic. It wasn’t being in a tight space that scared him, it was the idea of being trapped in a place.. especially a dark, windowless place like this.. when the “darklings” start to come for him.

Michael sensed his hesitation and quickly turned back to Richard. He looked beyond nervous, like he was on the verge of panicking. “What? Too dark?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “Cause I can light another fi-” The dark haired boy shook his head, trying hard to swallow his fear so he didn’t look like a coward in front of the warlock he was now beginning to..admire.

“Is it.. because it’s underground?” Michael prodded, not just out of curiosity but real concern for him. His eyes searching the boys face for a sign, a reaction, a blink... any little clue to tell him what to do.

Richard stayed still and quiet, he couldn’t even hear the other’s voice anymore, everything around him started to blur and fade. He felt scared, he felt like he was back at the clinic. At bedtime, the nurses would come around to all the rooms and turn all the lights out.. and he knew that meant that in a moment he’d be lying all alone in the dark. It was the only time he ever felt helpless or vulnerable.

Just then he felt the shock of someone grabbing his hand and immediately the flashback fell away. He looked down at his hand, his eyes beginning to readjust as Michael interlocked their fingers. And within seconds Richard felt grounded, secure even. He stared down at their hands for a minute before looking up to meet Michael’s eyes, completely at a loss for words. (Not that he ever really knew what to say anyway.) But this feeling of.. safety, was it? This feeling was new to him.

“Trust me,” Michael spoke with such conviction, it was becoming intoxicating to the shy brunette. “They can’t get to you in here. You’re under the protection of the future Supreme, you know,” he said with a confident smile and a reassuring grip. The feeling of Michael’s palm in his was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth right now, he was sure of that.

Richard had no idea what that even meant, all he knew was this boy hadn’t let him down yet. That was enough. “Fuck it,” he breathed out, grasping Michael’s hand tighter and stepping through the door together. The entrance slid shut behind them, completely sealing itself off. The loud sound startled Richard and he nearly jumped into the other’s arms.

Michael made sure to keep Richard close to his side after that as they crept quietly through the halls of the school. His dorm was on the second level, at the end of yet another long, intimidating hallway. One of the biggest rooms in the whole school and it was all his. Up until now, he was the only student at Hawthorne with his own room.. being the High Chancellor’s “Boy Wonder” did have its perks. But after spending a day with Richard, he was really warming up to the whole roommate thing..

They finally made it to the end of the hall, the door opening telepathically. When they were both safely inside, Michael locked the heavy arched door and sealed it with a spell to ensure that nothing and no one would be allowed to enter without his express permission. Taking extra precautions to make sure no spirit of any kind could get through to Richard, the boy he had not only been instructed to retrieve, but to guard and protect.

Richard set his sketchbook and his iPod on the desk. That was his only property now.. the only pieces of his life he had left. He looked around the room slowly taking it all in. He’d never seen any place like it, not even in the movies. His eyes scanned the rows and rows of books that lined the wall above and around the bed. The... one bed. Wait.

His eyes shot over to Michael who was still lingering in the doorway, content in watching the boy get acquainted with his new room. But his content quickly turned to concern again when he saw the peculiar look come across Richard’s face. “Oh no, don’t worry. I’ve already made arrangements for your own bed, it arrives tomorrow... If it’s a problem, I’ll be just as comfortable down here,” he said, motioning to a little bed of blankets he had laid out the day before on the floor across from his mattress.

“No...” Richard blurted out, embarrassingly fast. But the thought of sleeping alone in this place terrified him to his core. His face turned serious as he shook his head. “No, I.. I’d rather not sleep alone.” he said it so softly, as if was afraid someone might hear him. Michael just nodded understandingly. He’d had his fair share of nightmares while living at the Murder House. He knew how it felt to lie awake in bed all night, too afraid to let yourself fall asleep because you don’t know who might be around. “I get it,” he smiled reassuringly, “I have bad dreams too.”

He walked over to his closet and opened up the dresser drawers, rummaging around until he found a set of warm black plaid pajamas. He tossed them to Richard before picking out some sweats and a tshirt for himself to wear. The two boys changed quietly, both pretending not to look at each other. Both secretly trying to sneak a peak at the other.

Richard was way more self conscious than Michael and he dreaded the thought of this magical, mysterious boy seeing him with his shirt off. Michael on the other hand, would’ve liked nothing more than to sit back and watch the brunette boy strip down slowly for him... he shook the image from his mind. It was out of the question. At least, tonight it was.

Michael pulled back the covers and fluffed up the pillows before turning to look up at Richard, “Come on, get in.” he nodded towards the bed, holding back the covers as the other boy slid into bed, and then pulling them back up over him. He walked around to the other side then, climbing into bed carefully, suddenly very aware of the close proximity of their bodies beneath the sheets. He laid on his back with one arm behind his head, his face turned towards the brunette boy in his bed.

Richard rolled onto his side then so he was lying face to face with Michael. Neither of them said a word for a while, just silently studied each others faces in the dim glow of the candles. Enjoying the quiet together. Finding comfort in each others presence.

They both had an extremely long day and were worn out from all the traveling. Michael waited until Richard had fallen asleep before extinguishing all the candles and letting the room go dark. But once he did, the sleepy brunette boy immediately shifted in his sleep, reaching out to grab onto Michael and pull him closer. Grabbing onto his shirt and tugging at it, grumpy little whimpers escaping as he struggled to get close enough.

Michael, who was still very much awake, couldn’t help but melt as the sleeping boy nestled himself in his arms, obviously in need of some comfort. He was more than happy to oblige, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him in closer. Richard unconsciously shifted closer too, lying his cheek against Michael’s shoulder. Their faces just inches apart..

Just when he was falling asleep too, he heard the faintest voice whisper his name. “Mmmichael?...”

He peaked his eyes open to look down at the brunette boy who now had his leg up over him and his arm stretched out across his chest, absolutely invading Michael’s space in the cutest way possible. “Hmm?” he replied lazily, his fingers softly scratching up and down Richard’s back.

“Dont um... let em get me.. mkay?” his sleepy voice drifted in and out.

“Shh, never.” he whispered back, giving him a tight little squeeze.

“And Michael?..” he couldn’t even get that last word out without yawning through it. But somehow that just made Michael’s heart melt even more. He laughed softly, “yesss?” he whispered back.

“I’m..” he yawned again, “I’m not gonna need that other bed... tomorrow...” and with that said, he fell right back to sleep, knowing he had finally found someone to keep him safe. And for the first time, Michael felt needed. And he fell asleep knowing he had finally found someone to love.

taglist: @sexwon131 @jimmason @whatcodysaid @theneverendinghunger @iloveallofyou👀

[ahatintimepieces]

Maybe something with tardigrade song or the moss ,by Cosmo sheldrake? All his songs are pretty whimsical

Many feelings right now, post-writing, and 1) Never heard this music before this morning and now The Moss is forever embroidered into my being, 2) This got way outta hand and finally 3) THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS I surely hope I captured the whimsy at least a little! Please enjoy!

“Legend has it that the moss grows on the north side of the trees,” Hattie reminded herself as she looked out at the columns of frosted stone, perched on top a giant, frozen wishing well. Or maybe just a well. It was too frozen to tell if golden wishes fell into this well. And it was too frozen to see if there was moss on the crystalline trees.

“Well, legend has it when the rain comes down, all the worms come up to breathe,” a squeaky voice of a dozing, floating raccoon bequeathed.

Hattie looked up, spotting the crown pon on the cap of the raccoon clinging to its pillow. The rift was overrun by these sleeping fellows who whispered in their dreams of fables and things.

“Well, legend has it when the sunbeams come, all the plants, they eat them with their leaves.” Hattie readied herself and leapt forward. The stone column cracked beneath her and began to sink. With a jolt of fear, she immediately jumped to the next one, flying beneath the raccoon who dropped to squash her. She wacked it with her umbrella and pilfered the pon before jumping to a cluster of cold leaves before the stone column crumbled beneath her.

The raccoon fell with the stone and Hattie panted, before catching the shine of the parchment below.

Careful, she descended the stairs of slippery leaves. Her boots scuffed the icy blue branches before she stooped down and gathered the page that was one piece of one puzzle of a forest of spirits and souls and sleepy spiders and dwellers. Swiftly, she tucked the page away and ascended the stairs and stone.

Paying pons in exchange for escaping the ice and moss-less trees, Hattie jumped into the pipe and dropped into a new level, finding shadows trapped in glass vessels.

“Well, legend has it that the world spins round on an axis of 23 degrees,” Hattie breathed. She examined the scene before her with confusion and barely jumped back before an inky-black octopus with waving tentacles emitted a ring of combustion.

“But have you heard the story of the rabbit in the moon?” A smaller shadow asked in a raspy voice as she incapacitated the octopuses and raccoons. “Or the cow that hopped the planets while straddling a spoon?”

Hattie shoved the crown pons into her pocket as the other smaller shadow chimed in, its form looking like a carnivorous plant in one moment before wavering into the form of a dragon with a pointed beak just as its twin.

“Or she, who leapt up mountains while whistling up a tune and swapped her songs with swallows while riding on a broom?” The dragon bloom cooed.

Hattie shook her head, the movement causing her to spy a space in the wall with an opened door. She wandered over to find wooden planks leading down into the center of the structure perched in a murky moor. She jumped down and came to a dark room sparse save for a handful of shelves stacked with books. Another parchment puzzle piece shone but its shine was swallowed by the surrounding shadowy nook. She swiped the storybook page and retreated from the dark, jumping up the steps with calculated arcs.

Before she could reach the final pipe opening with hissing smoke, the middle shadow shaped like a sea serpent with spiraling tail and spiked shadows and short snout spoke.

“Well, we can all learn things, both many and a-few from that old hunched-up woman who lived inside a shoe,” the shadow whispered with a scarlet star blinking where its eyes usually sat black as tar.

Hattie paused, waiting for further explanation but the serpent seemed as petrified as a mask, the shadows shifting behind the curved glass. She dove through the final pipe and came to a raft, adrift in a sea of murky mist with distant trees shivering as if caught in a draft.

Focusing on her task to reclaim her time pieces, she cracked open the violet rift and it shattered along creases with collective whispers of the subconscious forest, asking if she could learn something from the puzzle pieces. Or…

Or the girl that sang by day and by night she ate tear soup,

Or the man who drank too much and he got the brewers’ droop?

The whispers begged her to understand, but the hatted child grabbed her hourglass and disappeared before knowledge could land.

Hattie returned to the forest and gingerly tucked the time piece away. Curious, she took out the pages of the storybook crafted by memories in the rift and went about her day.

Following the cobblestone path, she scanned the title page with a claw mark through a broken heart. A gaggle of subconites trotted over to her, following and asking if she wanted to join them in their game of sharing stories and art. One lifted his mitten hand to his chest, his light glowing as he pressed.

“Come listen, all ye fair maids, to how the moral goes,” he declared dramatically as Hattie mostly ignored him to scan the next page of a prince and a princess holding hands with hearts round their golden crowns, looking proper and prim.

“Nobody knew and nobody knows,” another subconite chimed in while the next chapter showed the princess in her crown meet the children in town covered with masks and hoods standing in rows.

Hattie glanced towards the hooded figures around her, dread welling up as they casually continued their recounting of characters.

“How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes, or how the Dong came to own a luminous nose,” the first subconite said while they walked. Meanwhile, the princess saw her prince’s palm clasped with a maiden of strawberry-rose locks.

“Or how the Jumblies went to sea in a sieve that they rowed,” a quiet third subconite sounded like they were smiling as Hattie stared, wide-eyed at the page of the princess’ heart shattering and her tears freezing, all framed by her golden hair.

“And came to shore by the Chankly Bore where the Bong-trees grow.” The girl with the rose-colored braid held up her hand, revealing a coin that might have once fell into a well made for wishing while the prince turned to see his princess fleeing.

“Where the Jabberwocky’s small green tentacles do flow, and the Quangle Wangle plays in the rain and the snow,” a noose dripping blue called from above in a haunting tone, causing the subconites to scatter with child-like screams and leaving Hattie alone.

Hattie stopped walking, steps faltering. Shadow tentacles rose around the green-garbed princess in droves while the prince tried to reach out, desperate to dismiss the princess’ doubt.

Pondering the woods, Hattie trembled, finding the story too terrible to continue. The shadow dragon blooms, the sleeping raccoons, the subconites and the cold, endless night that clung with the clefted moon. The young pilot charted stars, not stories withstanding; how was she to make sense of this pictured misunderstanding?

As if hearing her distress, a shadow appeared with a clasped claws and Cheshire grin. He twisted around her, wondering what was causing the child such chagrin.

Pressing the storybook to her chest, concealing the tale, she appeased, “Legend has it that the moss grows on the north side of the trees.” But nothing grew in the phantom forest. Crinkling her nose, she continued her pleas, “Well, legend has it when the rain comes down, all the worms come up to breathe.”

But the shadow reminded her for breath the dead have no need.

“Well, legend has it when the sunbeams come—”

There was no need in the forest of spirits for the light of the sun.

“—all the plants, they eat them with their leaves…” Hattie trailed off in grief. In a final plea, she said, “Well, legend has it that the world spins round on an axis of 23 degrees.”

The soul Snatcher widened his smile and began to beguile her scientific theses.

“But have you heard the story of the rabbit in the moon?” He dove into the trees and puppeted shadows in a haphazard cartoon. The rabbit looked more like a man sewing cow plushies in a crescent room. “Or the cow that hopped the planets while straddling a spoon?”

Snatcher popped out of the trees and snatched Hattie’s hat, disappearing up in the leaves and forcing her to pursue with grappling hook threaded through the noose.

“Or she, who leapt up mountains, while whistling up a tune,” Snatcher continued, twirling her hat on his finger in an animated loop. “And swapped her songs with swallows while riding on a broom.” He winked, tossing her hat back and summoning her contract to remind her of her tasks.

Hattie furrowed her brows and held out the storybook with memories cruel and true.

“Well, we can all learn things, both many and a-few,” she repeated the morals whispered in the rift as she mused, “from that old hunched-up woman who lived inside a shoe.” She turned the page to reveal the final clue, “Or the girl that sang by day and by night she ate tear soup.”

The phantom froze and the girl gripped the page, both staring at the shadow depicted in his cage. Crown discarded; tears pooled in the eyes of the prince fooled into thinking love over sorrow could rule.

Hattie turned to the ending, the final picture that explained the strictures of the woman in the manor.

Petrified by the page, the phantom swallowed thickly as he added bitterly, explaining the story of jealousy’s cold coup, “Or the man who drank too much and he got the brewer’s droop.”

“Snatcher.” Hattie reached out but the ghost of the prince fled in one fell swoop.

[calamity-callie]

Wiztober Day 6: Point of No Return

Edited by @spiralcompendium

Drip… drip…. drip… 

Sestiva awoke to the familiar sound of water leaking through her bedroom roof and into the bucket at the foot of her bed. It was another dark, rainy morning in Nowhere Village, not that that was anything out of the ordinary. She rubbed her eyes groggily as the fog of sleep faded from her mind, then with a start, jumped up out of bed. “Today is the big day!” she thought to herself as she excitedly began throwing on her old hand-me-down clothes.  She ran over to her desk drawer and opened it, then lifted the cover to the secret compartment she had fashioned to reveal her prize - an old rusted ring with six mystical looking keys. It had been approximately a week since she found them, half buried behind a bush in the Aeriel Shores Jungle, and while it took some time for her to build up the resolve to use them, she knew that today was the day that an adventure of a lifetime would begin... or so she hoped. 

Excited, Sestiva bounded down the stairs, grabbed a boiled egg off the table and stuffed it in her mouth, and was about to run out the door when her mom called out to her in a warm voice, “Sweetie, where are you going? Out to explore again?”

“Yep!” she replied. “I think I’m about to find something really big!”

“That’s so exciting! Here, I packed a lunch for you, I know how you forget to eat when you go out all day sometimes.”

“Thanks mom, see ya later!” Sestiva yelled excitedly as she ran out the door.

“Be back home for dinner!” came the reply behind her as she left.

The villagers tended to stay away from the mysterious wooden door outside their enclosure, but Sestiva had been long fascinated by it. The legends said that it was a gateway to other worlds, but only one who was proficient in magic and had the right key could make use of it. Sestiva had never cast any spells or shown signs of being magical, but she decided to give it a shot anyway. She stood in front of its stone frame, rummaging through the keys, pondering her options aloud, “Hmmm, we’ve got this wooden black and white one, this one with a bone on it… That’s the one!” Confidently, she took the dull metallic key with an ivory bone on the end and inserted it into the lock. She turned it, felt a light click as the door opened, and suddenly found herself staring into a world totally alien to her. She stepped through, and as she cleared the threshold, the door latched behind her.

Sestiva found herself in a building far larger and more extravagant than anything she had ever seen in her life. She stopped dead, and looked up and around, dumbstruck by the high ceilings, the stained glass windows, and even the soft rug beneath her feet. Awestruck, she didn’t even hear the voice calling out to her at first.

“Excuse me… Ahem, excuse me young lady… Young miss? Excuse me....”

She startled a little bit upon finally hearing him. With a surprised “Oh!” she turned and saw a young soldier in full military getup. On his chest was a sewn on nametag. “Kinchley,” she read aloud.

“Yes, yes, thank you for your attention. Just came through the spiral door, did we? Very well, very well, I’ll need to see your papers then you’re free to go.”

“Papers? What papers?” Sestiva stood there confused. What was all this about papers? She hadn’t anticipated anything like this.

“Hmmm yes, for a wizard to enter Marleybone they must either have a Marleybonian magic permit, or a Magician’s Visa. If you don’t have either I’m afraid I’ll have to turn you away… Hey! Where’re you off to?!”

Before Kinchley could even turn around, Sestiva was already on her way out the door. As she stepped out into the cool, nighttime air of Regent’s Square, she was immediately struck by the smells, the noise, the sights, and all the hallmarks of a bustling city. Her first instinct was to stop and stare in awe, but she knew she had to get away before that pesky dog caught her, so she picked a direction and ran, hoping to get lost in the crowds. 

After running for a short while, Sestiva stopped and looked around. There was no sign of Kinchley, and nobody around seemed to pay her any mind. She sighed in relief, and walked over to the nearby fountain to sit down. She pulled out her packed lunch to eat, when Kinchley’s words suddenly registered. “Wizard? That can’t be right, I’m not a wizard. But why did he call me one?” She pondered these thoughts over her sandwich, but they soon faded away as she began to take in all the sights around her.

She watched the denizens of the city stroll by, the ladies in their fancy hats and dresses; the men in their tailored suits; the short, fat police dogs in their crisp uniforms who looked like they’d never even seen a criminal. She gazed upwards towards the city skyline to watch in awe as the windows in the tall buildings flickered off and on, as silhouettes went about their evening behind the pulled blinds. As she got up to wander the streets and alleys of the square the smells from the snack carts lined along the road began to waft by, overwhelming her nose with strange scents and spices she couldn’t even begin to name. Strange self propelled wheeled machines were puttering around on the roads, expelling fumes and making sounds she had never heard before. She had never seen anything like them and vowed to one day take one apart and find out how it works. Up in the sky, great green balloons glided across the blanket of stars as people travelled around the city above her as well. Sestiva had never felt so awestruck, so overwhelmed with joy at the sheer amount of life surrounding her.

BOOONNNNNG BOOONNNNNNG

The loud sound from Big Ben brought Sestiva back to reality. She turned to look at the large clock and stared in horror upon seeing nearly four hours had passed. She had wanted to explore more than just one of these worlds before returning home after all, and she only had two hours left until dinnertime! She pulled out the ring of keys and began sifting through them again. There was a key that was severely cold to touch and a key decorated with what appeared to be a very fat cow, but the one that caught her attention was a shiny key with what looked like a coat of arms decorating it. She got the key ready, then began to head back to Wolfminster Abbey.

As she neared the building, she heard a voice shout above the din “Hey, it's that girl! She doesn’t ‘ave a permit! Get her!” 

“Well, time to go,” she said to herself, clutching the key tighter as she began to run for the door. Looking back, she saw Kinchley following in pursuit, backed up by at least five police dogs. As fast as she could run though, they were slowly gaining on her. As she approached the door she held out the key, and upon reaching it, slid it smoothly into the lock, and in one frantic motion, turned it in the hole, crossed the threshold, and slammed the door behind her.

After taking a few moments to catch her breath, Sestiva found herself in the middle of an open field, atop a small hill. She looked around to find four large stone archways, surrounding the hill entirely. It was nighttime here as well, but contrary to Marleybone’s bustling nightlife, it was dead quiet here, almost unsettlingly so. She began to take a few cautious steps down the hill towards one of the tents set up around the base.

A chilly wind began to pick up as she reached the cloth dwelling. There was no sound or movement coming from inside the tent, so she gingerly began to open one side of the doorway and peered in. It was too dark to see much, but a glint of metal from the moon’s reflection caught her eye - hanging on the far wall was an impressive, yet intimidating, array of swords and all manner of medieval weaponry. She hastily closed the tent and wandered away.

She soon found herself near the mouth of a cave, in a clearing slightly separated from the rest of the field. Curiously, Sestiva noticed 8 stones in the middle of the clearing, perfectly arranged in a circle. As she walked closer to the ring, the wind began to pick up even more, and she began to hear what sounded like chattering from deep in the cave. A chill of fear ran down her spine, but her curiosity had gotten the best of her. She knelt down and touched one of the stones. It was smooth and cool to the touch.

At that moment, the chattering began drawing closer. Sestiva froze, suddenly terrified of whatever might make its way out of the cave. On her left she saw a short bush, and immediately ran in that direction, diving right into the midst of the small plant. The branches cut her as she squatted within the foliage, peering out at the cave mouth. A small, gray creature wearing some sort of black hood scrambled out first. It couldn’t have been more than two feet tall, but it had the face of an old man, and a spear three times its size. It wandered a few feet out of the cave, sniffed the air, then gestured towards the cave mouth, chattering. Suddenly, more and more of the strange creatures began pouring out - first two, then four more, then another ten… it seemed almost endless. Sestiva stayed as still as she possibly could, waiting and praying they didn’t notice her.

Eventually the flood of creatures subsided as the last few stragglers crept out. Terrified, she began searching through the keys, trying to find one that would take her back home. She had had quite enough adventure for the day, and it was past dinnertime! She knew her mom would be so worried if she was late. As the chattering noises faded off into the distance, she, having no idea which key led where, chose the black and white key and headed straight for the door. Luckily, none of the creatures remained in the clearing. She turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped through.

It was also nighttime in this new world. Unlike the last one though, the air was unbearably hot and humid. Sestiva saw a tent nearby, in the shade of the gigantic tree taking up the center of the area. She approached the tent with hopes of asking whoever lived there for help getting home, but as she drew close, strange things began to manifest. Green flashes of light emanated from the interior, as well as a smell of brimstone. She stopped her approach. Already terrified from the small creatures, her guard was all the way up. Soon, an unearthly shriek came from inside the tent, as a deep voice began chanting. Now fearing for her life, she bolted for the door, grabbed the first key she saw, and ran through.

Heart pounding with fear, Sestiva slammed the door behind her. She tried to stop to catch her breath and calm down when a voice came. “Halt! Halt I say! Do not come any closer! Don’t you know it's past curfew? All who are within the walls of Glorious Walruskberg must be inside, or be thrown in the Basstille! And yes, that includes you, young missy!” She began to plead with the strange looking officer, desperate for any help getting home

“Please, please sir I’ve been looking for my way back home, can you help? Please I don’t know how to get home!”

The reply was quick and curt. “Nope, can’t help. Guards, we’ve got one breaking curfew!”

Sestiva didn’t know what a Basstille was but knew it didn’t sound like something she wanted to be thrown into. With her terror increasing ever further, she grabbed the next key on the ring, turned around, and before the penguin could get another word in, she had disappeared through the door.

Sestiva now found herself in the middle of a peaceful indoor garden. A lady approached the clearly terrified girl and began to soothingly speak, “Oh dear, you poor little thing! It’s okay, you can rest here, I’ll make you some tea and we’ll see what we can’t do...” 

“No! No no no I can’t! I need to get home! I want my mommy!” Sestiva burst into tears, the frustration and fear was just too much to handle. Despite the cow’s offer of kindness, she instinctively grabbed the final key on the ring; the one with a marble on the end containing a full model of the spiral within. She forced it into the door as hard as she could, turned it, and sobbed, “There’s no more keys on the ring, this has to be the right one!” as she barreled through.

Sestiva found herself in the middle of a large, round, seemingly empty structure, completely enclosed with multiple hallways branching off from her location. She had no idea where she was, but she knew one thing: This isn’t home. As the last hope she had of finding her way back faded, she slumped down to her knees, then curled up into the fetal position on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. She lay there for a long time, forgetting about everything else in the world except her family. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair!”

She would have stayed there for hours were it not for a small, yet commandingly posh voice. “What’s all this ruckus then? I’ll have you know I was in a very important meeting and your whining is not helping my concentration!” Sestiva hesitantly looked up. Through her wet eyes she saw a small, stern looking flying monkey hovering just above her. “So? What is it? Why are you here? Wha-” The key ring suddenly caught his eye. “Ah yes, so you’ve found the key ring Jaki lost, did you? I’ll take that!” He snatched it out of her hand, prompting her to begin crying again.

“Oh will you just shut up, child?! I’ve half a mind to-”

“That’s enough, Fitzhume. Can’t you see this poor girl’s been through enough already?”

“Ignus! I was just.. Well, you see… ugh, fine. You deal with her.” 

Fitzhume sullenly flew off to his desk as the man who had just intervened held out his hand. He was short and squat, with dark skin, warm, friendly eyes, and bright orange hair that flared out in all directions. “Ignus Ferric, Fire scholar. What brings you here today? Ya look mighty distressed if you don’t mind me saying so.” 

Sestiva took his large hand and mumbled through her tears, “I’m lost… I found these keys, and I thought it would be a fun adventure, and… and… and now I can’t get home! I just want my mommy!” The tears began to flow again as Ignus picked her up and carried her back to his office.

“Home, hmm? Let’s see what we can do. Where’re you from?”

She wiped her hand across her face. “E-empyrea,” she choked out. “Me and my mama live in Nowhere Village.”

“Empyrea! By Bartleby, I’m from Empyrea, too! Now, I’m not gonna mince words here. We haven’t had access to Empyrea in ages, and I don’t know if I can convince these other dullards to get workin’ on a solution. I’ll see what we can do, but in the meantime you’re gonna have to sit tight here for a while, alright?”

“A… a while?” she asked. “How long is a while? I’m already so late for dinner…”

“I’m afraid it’s gonna be quite some time,” Ignus replied with a grim face. Sestiva’s face began to tear up again, but before more tears began to flow, he quickly changed the subject, “I tell you what. Since you were able to use those keys at all, that must mean you have some magical talent--did you know that?”

“M-magical talent? No, there’s no way, I don’t have any of that!” As the words left her mouth though, she thought back to how Kinchley had greeted her and began to wonder aloud, “Wait… could I really have magic?”

“I guarantee it!” came Ignus’s hearty reply. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. The second you stepped through that door, I could sense the energy; the heat... you’ve got potential for pyromancy in there, young lass, and while we figure out how we can maybe get you home, I’m gonna be the one to show you how to use it.”

“Really? You’d really show me how to use magic? But why?”

“Let’s just say I feel like we’re kindred spirits. When we Pyromancers work together, our flames burn all the brighter! Besides, can’t leave you to go wandering the spiral forever now, can I?”

For the first time since that morning, Sestiva smiled.

[sulfurousdreamscapes]

There's a fire within you. That's what they always told me, all my life. If you were in my shoes, and you weren't attentive enough, you'd think it was just my grandmother and the neighbours. But it was the others too—the fishermen, the chief, the miners, the barterers, the relatives, and then, the friends I'd grown up with.

They'd all hidden the secret well enough, but when you pull something that tight, it's bound to snap at some point. The link that snapped was one of my newer and younger friends, Echel. I didn't believe a word she said. She looked serious, but looking serious is the point when you're trying to fool someone.

She told me she could prove it, that all my life had been veils and lies, from my grandmother to my neighbours to all the people I'd ever talked to.

"There's a fire within you," she said. "It's true. That's the secret."

I didn't like what she was saying, then, so I asked her to leave. I asked her not to speak to me anymore, and she didn't. I went on with my days, bringing back water from the well and bartering at the market and helping peel and cut the vegetables.

I also didn't like that it was all adding together. The solemn, patronising smiles, the strange looks they kept giving me. The way kept telling each other that I had a fire within me.

On the final day of the secret, there was an anticipation in the air. No one talked about it, but it felt like everyone was ready for a wedding, or an expected birth. My grandmother told me to put on my simplest dress, and I protested simply because I didn't know what was going on. She shook her head and said that I had a fire within me.

I didn't have the simple dress on when they made me walk to the temple. There were too many of them—men, women, all adults. They'd brought ropes and chains, even nets. Nobody would tell me why they'd brought all that. Nobody told me why they made me walk to the temple. I stopped asking, too, because mobs like that don't answer questions. Mobs are the opposite of questions.

In the temple, beyond the door they always kept locked, down the spiral stairs, we entered a room that by all rights should have been dark. But it wasn't, because there was a man on fire, chained to the far end, bound to the wall by his wrists and ankles. The flames on his body lit up the room, and he'd scream until he was too tired to scream.

This is when they had to hold me.

The priest began reciting verses from memory, from a book that was seared into his mind by his predecessors. I had not heard these verses before. The word 'fire' caught my eye.

"Now your fire wanes, and your strength depletes," the priest said. "We entreat the Goddess of Fire, that she may, in her ever-flowing mercy and her life-giving warmth, bless us with fire once more."

The fire on the burning man was dimming, I noticed. The priest made a wordless motion to two of the stronger women, and they picked up torches that they lit with what was left of the man's fire.

Soon, the torches were the only light in the room. The man lay on the floor, burnt black and smouldering with the vilest stench imaginable. The priest made more motions, and the mob carried me towards the shackles. Another group released the burnt man and carried his corpse away, frequently dropping him because he was still too hot.

I kept thinking of how I might escape, but whichever way I looked, someone would stop me. There was only one way out, by the winding stairs, and reaching them would be too difficult.

The priest raised two fingers and began his next verses. He stopped when a powerful boom sounded above the room. At first, all we saw was the dust falling from the ceiling, and the mob looked up, as if the stonework would hide clues about the sound of explosion.

Then, the stonework fell through, and buried much of the mob standing beneath it. Evening sunlight lit up the room, which was now a collection of debris from a smashed temple.

When the angel floated onto the debris from high above, he looked like the most beautiful, the most hardworking man I'd ever seen. He had no wings, no extra eyes, no robes of gold and silver. He was just a man, unclothed, unashamed, with a body that radiated with the fireless light of the divine.

In his hand, he held fire.

The priest, who was still alive, fled in terror. He began climbing up the stone debris, ignoring the groans and screams of the people buried underneath.

Every step the angel took seamed to sear the stone beneath him, as if his body was the hottest metal from a smith's forge. When he stood in front of me, all he did was hold up a hand, gently, and the shackles melted away. Red and white, they melted away like cream off of my wrists and ankles.

"Take it," he said, offering me his fire. "It's the fire of the gods, from the Goddess of Fire herself."

I stared at the ball of flames that licked his palm. "Is this a gift?" I asked.

"No," he said. "It's stolen."

I picked up a torch and lit it with the fire on his palm. The flame burned in every colour imaginable, and it spread into the flesh inside me, exciting every inch of my being.

"Now the fire belongs to you, and all those who come after you," he said, and he smiled. And in the next moment, before he could see me smile, he was violently pulled into the skies, leaving behind only a gust of wind that extinguished the torch in my hand.

There was a fire within me.

-

This one turned out very long, but I enjoyed writing it a lot! Thank you for reading!

[the--sad--hatter]

Name Calling (47)

FANDOM - MARVEL MCU, DEADPOOL & X-MEN

PAIRING - BUCKY X READER (female reader, no physical descriptions)

WARNINGS - ALL OF THEM, SMUT, VIOLENCE ANGST

DESCRIPTION -  

Vernichtung - Destruction, Annhialation.

It was what you were named and what you were supposed to be but the only thing you wanted to destroy was Bucky Barnes.

The ongoing and bloody war of words between you and Bucky turns in your favor when a disgruntled one night stand of his lets slip a secret when you run into her in the elevator… Now you have all the ammunition you need to destroy your enemy but you don’t plan on killing him quickly. Oh no, Bucky Barnes was going to suffer and you were going to enjoy every second. You just didn’t count on enjoying it quite so much.

But when your past catches up to you in the form of the mad scientist who made you, Bucky might be one of the only things that can save you from yourself. You can’t run from what you are but with his help, you can fight back.

Current Word Count -  127,743

MASTERLIST  or   Read on Ao3

Moodboard by @talesofakindredspirit

Chapter Forty-Seven - The Doctor Will See You Now

Jack Docherty, like all men was born with the potential for good and evil. There was no deciding factor ingrained in his DNA. At 06:24 am on December 3rd 19 1951 he was born a blank slate and his fate was to be decided by the man and woman the midwife handed him too.

Ian Docherty was a man of faith, a God fearing man. To him, the squealing babe in his arms was another miracle of the lord.

Emma Docherty was a woman who felt she was forsaken by God and her husband. To her, her infant son was nothing more than another burden.

The first three years of Jack Docherty’s life were unremarkable. Seven months into the third year, everything changed.

“Your father is sick. God is punishing him.” His mother told him.

Jack crept into his fathers room and peered at him over the top of the bed. His once vibrant father was nothing more than a bag of bones lying on the bed, his skin sallow and sunken in, stretched over his skeleton. His chest rasped and wheezed as he tried to breathe. Jack reached up and with his little fist, grabbed his fathers hand.

Almost like magic, colour bloomed across his fathers flesh and life returned to him. For the first time in days he opened his eyes. There was a small thump from the next to the bed and he looked down.

“Jack? Jack? EMMA!” He yelled.

Emma Docherty rushed into the room, falling onto her knees next to her sons prone form. As soon as she touched the boy her skin took on a sallow palour. And so at three years and seven months old, Jack Docherty healed his father and killed his mother.

“God knew my wife was poisoning me and gave me a son to heal me and punish her for her sins.” His father told the church.

At first nobody believed him but when his son lay hands on old Mrs Carver and she was healed of her blindness they knew the truth. It didn’t matter to them that Jack was now blind. It didn’t matter to his father. Until he realised that the next person Jack touched would inherit the blindness.

That was the day his father started buying rats. It was also the day Mrs Carver saw her husbands transgressions with the neighbour and killed them both.

Not even four years old and Jack Docherty was dragged to churches up and down the country to heal the sick, no matter how much pain it caused him. And everywhere they went there was a trail of dead rats and ungrateful people.

When Jack Docherty was seventeen years old he laid hands on a man with a painful, terminal disease. And instead of passing it to a rat, he passed it to his father.

“When you see God, ask him why he would do this to me and not expect my revenge.” Jack hissed to his dying father.

Evil is not born in the womb, it festers over time, through tragedy. And humanity was evil, Jack Docherty knew this to be true.

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

Leaving Bucky behind was the only way to keep him safe, if you hadn’t then he would be in a cell next to yours and while you loved him, you weren’t quite that co-dependant. Besides, if you were going to get out of this then you wanted Bucky out there, looking for you.

So you went quietly, letting Docherty lead you to the helicopter. You had planned to kill him as soon as you were in the air and you knew Bucky was safe but he had planned for that and as soon as you stepped onto the craft you were hit with several tranq darts and tazed for good measure.

When you woke up again it was in a cage almost identical to the one you had grown up in, the only difference was the room around it. This room was dark and musty and your grandfather was sat waiting for you to wake up.

He’d never been much of a talker before, apparently he had a lot to share now though.

Of all the tortures Docherty had subjected you to over the years, this was by far the worst. You shoved your hands in your pockets and gave him a bored look.

“So you’re a mutant?” You asked casually, it had been the only part of his story that had picked up your interest.  

“It never occurred to you I might be?” He asked, as if genuinely surprised you didn’t know.

In retrospect, it made sense. Your mother was a mutant, she had to have got it from somewhere. It also explained how he had poisoned a mutant with healing abilities.

“Honestly I never really gave much thought to why you were such a dick and I gotta say... Cool backstory, you’re still an asshole.” You responded with a shrug.

“Such fire. Stark was good for you.”He said mockingly.

“You thought if you could raise me like you were raised I would turn into a psychopath like you did? Well I bet you feel like an idiot now because guess what Docherty? It wasn’t your upbringing that made you the way you are, you’re just a dick.” You mocked back.

“I saw the depravity and selfishness that people posses. They don’t deserve to live.”He hissed.

“I saw it as well, courtesy of you and agree to disagree. There are good people in the world. I’m one of them, despite your best efforts.” You rebutted.

“Ungrateful child. My best efforts made you what you are, into a god! You have no idea what I had to sacrifice to make you into Vernichtung, to bring the world to it’s knees and make people pay for their depravity!”

“Sacrificed? You mean your daughter? My mother. The one you kept locked away, waiting for the right moment to kill?” You snarled.

He looked taken aback.

Locked in another cage by him, you didn’t feel as brave as you sounded. But you were channelling Tony because this pathetic, snivelling excuse of a man would never see your fear again. So you would trade barbs with him and rile him up and you would do it with a smile.

You thought of your father and he gave you the strength to smile at the man you hated above all else.

You thought of Bucky and he gave you the strength to stand tall in the face of your abuser.

“Sorry, did you want to dramatically announce that? Go ahead, I’ll even fall to my knees in slow motion when you do.” You quipped with a signature Stark grin.

“Yes, I killed my daughter. I needed the healing mutation she had but she was weak. So I gave Vernichtung to you, your natural mutations and super soldier serum made you strong enough to survive the multiple volatile mutant abilities in your veins.” He explained calmly.

“She wasn’t weak. All those years and she still remembered me! She loved me!” You exclaimed furiously, determined to defend her memory.

“She was a slave to her heart, to her emotions. She wasn’t like me so all she was good for was her DNA. She died to help make you into what you are supposed to be.” He said callously.

“You’re right. You went to a lot of effort, sacrificed so much and for what? You’re an old man who has achieved nothing. I’m never going to destroy the world.” You scoffed.

“But you will. When you let that mutant escape I saw an opportunity. I let you go, let you be free. And I never stopped watching, waiting. You needed to have it all before I could take it from you.” He said, holding up a picture of you and Bucky, the one of you on the balcony.

“That was your master plan? Let me befriend Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and then steal me away from them? They will come for me. Whatever dank hole you have us hiding in, they will find us.” You vowed.

He chuckled and walked over to a button on the wall, pressing it. You winced as the wall in front of your cell rose and the light blasted in. As soon as your eyes adjusted you looked out of the window.

“Motherfucker.” You swore.

This was why nobody had been able to find Docherty, he wasn’t hiding. You were looking at Stark tower, it was a literal stone’s throw away. Three, maybe four blocks at most. He’d been right under your nose the whole time.

“Do you see? You never escaped. You never could.” He told you.

You couldn’t look at him, you turned your back on him as you tried to get your breathing under control. This whole time, he’d been right here. Those first days at the tower, learning to trust Tony... He had been down the street. Every moment you spent at the compound, Docherty was here where he could get to Pepper. You weren’t afraid anymore. Not even close.

You were pissed.

“Are you with me?” You growled.

“I’m always with you.”He answered.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” You said turning around with a feral smirk.

You raised your hand and blasted the cell door open, sending it spiralling across the room in pieces.  

“Vernichtung.” He breathed out reverently.

“Sorry grandpa, it’s still me.”You snarled.  

“Impossible.” He gasped.

“No, it’s not. Because all of me hates all of you.”

You stood tall and let the black veins ripple across your skin but your eyes remained clear. You and Vernichtung were united as you advanced on him, ready to tear him apart and put an end to him once and for all. In this, in your hatred of him, you were one with your darker self.

For you, for your mother, for every innocent he had ever hurt... He was going to pay.

“The thing about Vernichtung my dear is it is not a natural mutation.” he snarled and grabbed your wrist.

As soon as he touched you, the veins fled down your skin and onto his hand, rippling up his body.

“It’s a disease. That’s why it turns your blood black.” He said victoriously.

“No!”

You could still feel her in your mind, snapping at the man stealing her power. He convulsed as it overtook him.

“You need the healing mutation to survive it. You’ll be ripped apart.” You warned him.

“Not before I rip apart everyone you love, and then you will have nothing. Then you may have your power back and you will finally be ready to use it.”

“I won’t let you do this.” You said desperately.

He only laughed and you were thrown backwards, the Deathwave being unleashed on you and rupturing you from the inside out.

Your broken body landed in a pool of your own blood and you realised there was nothing you could do, he was going to rip apart New York and with it, everyone you loved.

And then he would get his wish, because you would destroy the world if you lost them.

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

Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn.

The next chapter is the penultimate chapter, the big battle, the explosive finale before the dust settles. So strap in folks, next chapter is going to be long and painful.

Also... Jake Peralta: Cool motive, still murder.

@nerdandproud-86 @harrison-shot-first@thejourneyneverendsx @thelostallycat @inquisitor-selvala@the-corruptor @iovher @kendrawr-kitkat @phoenix-whiskey-tears @the–real-wombat @buckitybarnes@fairislesheets@angieptt @meganjonezzzz@dugan365@fluffeh-kitty@memanda17 @krystallynx@theonelittleone@piscesbarnes@free-as-fishes@tarastudiesalot@captainamericasbeard@dropthepizza346@jaynnanadrews@likes-to-smell-books@drdorkus @life-wanderer@metalarmlover @animegirlgeeky@jsmith509

[noodledog]

In the town of Farningcaster there were two young boys. 

They were not brothers, but the time they spent together and the way they treated one another you might think differently. 

The older one was tall and the younger one was not and they both ran off to play together as soon as they were able every day, returning home covered in dust and scratches, with their pockets full of snakes and rubble that caught their eye for the colour or sparkle in the sunlight. 

But one thing they knew to never do was to go into the Old Fort after dark.

Farningcaster was one of those settlements that had popped up on the ruins of older settlements, in this case The Old Fort. Nobody quite knew who had run it or why, only that the ferns were the only thing that grew there and that animals that were brought close were unusually silent. 

So naturally the two spent quite a lot of their time there, waging wars against pretend foes and dying in horrific and honorable ways.

One day, when they were feeling particularly Grown Up and Brave, the two made a pact. To stay upon one of the ruined walls and not to leave The Old Fort until the moon was directly overhead, at the very least. 

On the night in question the moon was full and every stone and blade of grass was highlighted in silver light. The boys told one another stories and snacked on treats pilfered from their pantries, and when the moon was overhead an owl startled them with a low swoop overhead, drawing laughs from them once they overcame the shock. They returned home safely, feeling bold and invincible in the way young boys often do. 

The next week they did the same, this time upping the game by being within The Old Fort. They picked one of the buildings that looked more stable than the others, though the rooftop was missing. They could watch the half-moon rise among the leaves of a tree that had grown through the opening. The stones inside had scorch-marks upon them, lending strange, dark shapes to the dim scene that seemed to shift with the motion of the leaves above. The boys were far more subdued this time. No more boisterous laughter, and the stories were told in hushed tones, as if worried something else might overhear. 

Near their alloted time something shifted, a pile of rubble collapsed loudly at the other side of the space and the two nearly bolted in alarm. To assuage their own fears they insisted the other was more frightened than he, surely, and without saying as much they came to a silent agreement that they would stay longer. It was a test of resolve.

And so the moon crept on, and it's light did not shine through the missing roof any longer. It was late in the evening, or perhaps very early in the morning, when a cold wind began to drift through, prompting the two to call a truce and head home for warmth. 

 Neither one of the two acknowledged the strange sound that had accompanied the wind. A sound that seemed not to come from outside, but below. 

 Over the next week they both had uneasy dreams, the kind that is not easily remembered in the light of day. But what they did remember was one clear fact; someone was down there. 

 Where 'there' was specifically they couldn't have said. Just down. Below The Old Fort. 

The younger of the two did not want to go back. The older insisted he would go, even if it was on his own, and so the younger reluctantly agreed to come along on their usual night. This time they would stay all night and thoroughly inspect the entire fort. When the night came, the moon itself seemed to elect to stay away, as it was a dark and grim night. The younger boy held an ornate lantern to see by, but it's light seemed feeble and inadequate, only serving to make the shadows darker. Their inspection began in the roofless room, no longer chilly, but just as breezy. Out into what was once hallways but now was mountainous rubble and waist-high ferns where the sun could get through, they tried to piece together what rooms were there, the entire time testing rotten floorboards to avoid spraining an ankle if one gave way. There was a staircase downward in what they thought might have been a kitchen, and after a moment of hesitation they descended, feeling like they were being swallowed up by the earth itself.

Here as well the stones were scorched, and partway down the stairs dropped away, leaving a sloping pile of debris down to another room. There was a doorway, barricaded by nailed boards which had a thick layer of dust upon them. Despite the younger's warning, the older boy pulled them off, and yelled when beyond the door was a scattered pile of bones. Carefully, not wanting to touch the remnants, the two tiptoed along. 

They couldn't have said exactly how, but this space felt different than the fort above. The ceilings were higher and arched, the walls closer together. It was as if The Old Fort had been built directly over-top some other building. This other building was far more ruined than the fort above, and left barely any space for the two to maneuver. Twice they scrambled over rubble so high their backs brushed the ceiling, stirring up dust that had been laying there for unknown ages. The deeper they got the colder it got, but despite their misgivings there was a sense of being /almost/ there. Just a little further... down one more hall, and then a set of stairs spiraling down, duck under the beam holding all that crushing weight up, and then...

A hall lined in ancient, rotting cells. The thick wooden doors lay splintered or rotted entirely off their hinges. Except for one where, inexplicably, a man lay in the distant corner. He was emaciated and seemed too weak to stand but he raised his head when the two peered in through the bars of his cell. The older pried the door open and the younger seized his arm to stop him. 

 "The dust-!" He couldn't seem to get any other words out. "The dust!!!" 

 "He needs our help." Said the other, pulling his arm free in a sharp jerk. 

 Terrified the younger looked on, clutching his lantern tightly. The other knelt to tend to the ancient prisoner. They spoke softly, "Please.. I haven't seen the sun in so long..." but the young boy could hear the slow rising rush of wind as the temperature dropped sharply. 

 The light in the lantern suddenly went out. 

Fumbling, reaching blindly he dug for a firestick to relight it, whimpering with fright when he looked up and saw only a pair of  red eyes in the darkness, drawing closer, closer. He had the box and nearly spilling all of the sticks on the floor in his haste he grabbed one and lit it. 

 The stranger was gone, the was only his friend with a strange intensity to his features. 

He yelled and tossed the lantern at him, darting away down the hall. Blind, he had to retrace his steps by memory and feel, stumbling over lose debris and crashing into walls that were closer than expected. Behind him he could see nothing but those red eyes, hear nothing but the clatter of pursuit and a grim, hoarse breathing.He was too scared to yell himself, and instead whimpered and gasped at each bump or clatter, sobbing helplessly when he had to squeeze through tight spaces which seemed to slow him down dangerously. Just when he thought he was caught, the pursuit exhausting him so every limb felt heavy and rubbery, he saw... 

Well, he could see! 

There was light filtering in gently from a room nearby and as he turned the corner he saw dozens of thin shafts of light, filtering in through rotted floorboards. Up he scrambled, clawing at rubble and shoving his way through the unresisting wood, but oh gods there he was behind him now, hand reaching up and grasping at stone next to the young boy's ankle. He shouted a fearful "No!!" And kicked his dear friend in the face, knocking him back so he screeched like a demon and clutched at his nose. 

The boy took this chance to run, bursting out into the sunlight of a brilliant late morning. When he got halfway across the overgrown yard he turned back and saw his friend standing just past the doorway of the the ruin. He had been so certain that the light of day would have stopped him that he felt terror initially for himself, then secondarily for his friend, believing that any second he would turn to dust.

But 

He was weeping. 

 In the daylight it was easier than ever to see the purplish pallor that afflicted the older boy, but he looked so... happy, blinking up at the sun and running his hands through the grasses like he had never seen them before. And so... the younger boy approached. 

From that day on they remained friends. The older boy's health deteriorated, so he became gaunt and corpse like, but the younger kept him company, bringing him books and treats as well. Gone were the days they'd run wild through the countryside but they would walk together through the town. The older did not speak anymore but the younger kept him up to date on the latest happenings and that seemed to amuse him. They grew into responsible young men, pouring themselves into academia and enjoying life at a stately and relaxed pace.

Eventually the older boy fell ill and did not seem likely to recover. The words he muttered in fever that were expected to be his final utterances were: "Thank you, for a good life at last." 

The next morning his fever broke. He began to put on weight. He was cured of not only the fever that had him bedridden, but whatever had plagued him since the day they ventured into the ruins, exactly twenty five years ago, to the day. 

[ultravioletmeouch]

The Seer: Part 1

I don’t have another title for this but this is about my new character, Tarathiel! They’re a space elf seer who can see the future using stars! And anyway I love them.

This isn’t necessarily split into any kind of parts order but I really wanted to post what I had so far (which stopped at a logical point)! There is more and hopefully I’ll be able to share it soon!

***

In one swift movement the door was thrust open, and the Seer’s cape fluttered, revealing the galaxies on the underside of the otherwise white fabric.

     They walked with an air of importance to them as heeled boots clicked their way through the room. The lights dimmed as they approached the central table as though night were falling with every step they took.     ‘Sit.’ Their client - Zion, he’d said his name was, though they had found dishonesty to be a common theme of those that approached them - did as he was commanded. The room fell into complete darkness. The mesmerising cape was no longer visible, leaving only the white of their suit and the faint tinge of blue to their skin.     ‘Now.’ Tarathiel clapped their hands together, and above the table appeared galaxies reminiscent to those on the cape. ‘Let us see.’     They scanned their eyes over the galaxies before them. Zion, despite doing his best to appear relaxed, was sweating beads down his face. The Seer closed their eyes, took a deep breath in, and raised their hand towards the stars.     And from there they plucked a crimson star from the bunch.     ‘Misfortune,’ they spoke, not once opening their eyes. ‘In the near future. You’ve done something to upset somebody, haven’t you? A great enemy.’ The Seer laughed gently, a smile pulling at their lips, blackened by lipstick. ‘So that’s why you’re here.’     ‘What-’ Zion cleared his throat of his troubles as he made an attempt to sound tougher. ‘What can I do?’     Tarathiel placed the star right where it had come from. ‘The future is steadfast. It cannot be avoided.’ They plucked another star from the artificial sky, this one near invisible in the darkness of the room. ‘Ah - death.’     ‘What?’ Zion exclaimed, his voice echoing through the room. ‘The death of who?’     ‘One cannot say. A friend? Family? Perhaps yourself.’ They could sense their discomfort from the other side of the table and did their best to mask a smile. ‘The stars tend to hide their true intentions - much like people.’     Tarathiel’s ears twitched, and a numb shock went up their spine before opening their eyes. ‘Our meeting must be cut short. The Empress will soon be here.’     ‘But wait-’     ‘One does not keep the Empress waiting, regardless of the circumstances. Our conversation may be completed at a later date. That is, if misfortune does not consume you before the time comes.’     Zion sighed as he stood, and walked slowly for the door.     As the door slammed shut, the Seer closed their eyes again. They reached deep into the floating galaxy, fingers wrapping around one of the many stars.     Tarathiel scowled as a crimson star revealed itself to them. ‘That can’t be right…’     The doors opened, and the Empress strolled in as guards followed on either side. The Seer stood, eyes open, and turned to face her. ‘Your Imperial Majesty.’     She dressed in black, almost invisible to the eye in the dark room, a long, sheer dress which billowed behind her. ‘My dear Seer - Tarathiel.’ She stood before them, standing taller than anyone Tarathiel had ever known. ‘I would be disappointed in you if you didn’t already know why I am here.’     The Seer nodded. ‘The trouble which plagues our kingdom. The stars only continue to foresee trouble, and it edges closer and closer with each day that passes. As you are already aware, one cannot see a date until it arrives.’     ‘We need more information. A week, a month, whatever is available to you. Immediately.’     ‘The stars are yet to be consulted today - five minutes is all that is needed.’     Tarathiel turned back to their table and sat. The crimson star which they held in their hand was put back in position, and another was plucked from the masses. Particularly large, this one, and swimming with the deepest of colours.     ‘An omen,’ they spoke. ‘We might not have much time.’     ‘What do you mean?’ the Empress asked, speaking with urgency. ‘How much is not much?’     ‘The stars are mysterious - we should leave now.’     ‘Right now? But the residents-’     ‘There may be no time.’ Tarathiel grabbed the Empress’ hand. ‘We must hurry.’     The Empress looked Tarathiel in the eyes and, after a moment, nodded curtly. Tarathiel ran ahead of the Empress, not once letting her hand go. The guards, at first a little shocked with the forwardness of the Seer, followed behind.     Together they ran through the castle’s corridors, to the spiral staircase which led from the tower, all the way to the castle’s depths.     Their feet tapped against each stone step almost rhythmically, down, down, down until they reached the ground floor. Tarathiel pulled at the Empress’ hand, but was met with resistance. They looked back to notice the Empress doubled over, puffing heavily. Moonlight streamed in, coating her green-tinted skin in the darkness of the night. ‘I need rest.’     ‘We can’t risk it. Come - we can do this.’     The soft clanks of the guards’ armour soon joined them. ‘Your Imperial Majesty-’     ‘Go,’ she commanded, standing straight but still with laboured breaths. ‘That’s an order.’     ‘But we pledged-’     ‘I don’t care what you pledged. I won’t have you sacrifice yourself needlessly for nothing. Leave.’ The guards hesitated. ‘Go!’ And so they ran, leaving but two behind. ‘And you, Tarathiel…’     ‘We still have time,’ Tarathiel insisted. ‘Rest, but only briefly.’     ‘I’m sorry, Tarathiel.’ She looked up to meet their eyes.     ‘What for?’     ‘I was built for speed and grace, yet I’ve squandered it. Centuries of sitting in meetings and conferences has taken away my agility. And now…’ Her gaze wandered to the window, with Tarathiel’s not too far behind as they heard the marching of feet and the movement of heavy machinery.     They had brought an army.     ‘Tarathiel-’     ‘It’s too late,’ they interrupted. ‘For either of us.’     Silence, save for the movement outside.     ‘If I must die, then I am glad it is by your side.’     The blue light of tanks - eerie in this instance - moved as they adjusted their position.     The Seer stood in front of the Empress, holding their arms out to protect her.     Bang!     The tank had not moved, yet everything was frozen.     Breathing laboured.     Nobody moved.     Crash!     It came from above.     In a split second, Tarathiel jumped onto the Empress, shielding her with their entire body as they crashed to the ground. Pieces of wall and ceiling followed closely behind.     Crack.     Something heavy landed on their back. Tarathiel coughed, and they were sure blood was mixed in. Yet they refused to let go.     They couldn’t.     They wouldn’t.     Even as their eyes closed, and their consciousness began to fade.     I won’t.     I must protect her.     From somewhere, they swore they could hear the screams of the castle’s residents.

[abra-ka-dammit]

AU That Should Never Happen Pt. 4

:-))))

Again a forewarning for honestly pretty un-detailed adult situations. farts

also read part 3.5 guest-written by the lovely @dazzle-camouflage too, especially if you love a-fucking-dorable bathtime fluff

[PART 1][PART 2][PART 3][PART 3.5]

“See, here’s the thing, fellas,” he said, steepling his fingers as smoke billowed from between his lips. “You’re both fuckin' insane.”

Gremix gave a little chuckle.

“Boss, surely you understand. We only want th' world t' be a better place for goblin-kind.”

The large, thick-bodied goblin chewing on a cigar and donning a ridiculous island-print shirt—”The Boss”, founder and face of the mafia family that started spiraling into whatever was going on now—made a contemplative noise as he nodded slowly.

“About that…” The Boss said, taking the cigar with two fingers and leaning forward over the plan table towards his once-trusted generals; the Co-Trade-Princes of the new, “improved” Bilgewater Cartel. “You’re committin’ genocide. Straight up. Everyone but goblins? Yeah, no, mass genocide.”

General Catfeetz, who had remained silent until then, snickered. “So? Fuck 'em.”

The boss's thick brows lowered, shadowing intense carmine eyes.

“This is a problem.”

“Is it?” Gremix asked, with a note of surprise so obviously feigned that it was almost insulting. “Was this not the plan all along? You were so on board before, Boss.”

The Boss stood, jabbing a finger against the map on the table.

“Yeah. Before that.”

“The plan's already in action, Boss,” Catfeetz said. “The ‘copters already left. It’s too late t' call it off now.” He grinned maliciously.

A deep sigh cane from The Boss, and he eyed both co-trade-princes with a look that could only be described as “tired”.

“I can’t do this with you.”

“Well,” Gremix pointed out, “we’ve already done it without you, haven’t we.” It wasn’t a question.

There was a break of silence, where the only thing that could be heard was the tapping of The Boss's nails on the table as he considered the warlock.

“I’m out.”

It seemed that was the end of it, and The Boss started to the door. But before exiting, he tossed one last aside:

“An’ fuck th’ both a' you.”

They only smiled as the door slammed behind him.

After a silent moment, Gremix nudged Catfeetz’s arm with a robed elbow.

“Sick. D’you hear that? Boss wants t’ fuck us.”

Catfeetz broke out laughing. Was it even funny? Probably not, but Gremix knew how to tickle the undead ice cube’s funny bone. After all, they’d been working together for… how long had it been?

“You’re an idiot, I fuckin’ hate you,” Catfeetz said, wiping his eye in a habitual movement that did nothing considering he couldn’t even produce tears.

Gremix smiled; perhaps the most genuine smile he’d given to anyone who wasn’t Rusco in a long, long time.

“I hate you too, Cat.”

“Hey, congrats on the promotion,” Gremix said as they walked the stone halls together, heading back towards the throne room.

“What?” Catfeetz asked. “Who’s promotin’ me now?”

“Why, Gutshot, a’ course,” Gremix said. “With Boss gone, we take his place as th’ very tippy-top of th’ pyramid. What better time t’ change your title an’ rise above “general”? What have you always wanted t’ be referred to as?”

“What is this, 20 questions? Geez,” Catfeetz grumbled; but it was obvious he was now thinking about an answer, despite himself.

“Imperator Catfeetz,” the death knight decided.

Gremix raised a brow. “Alright. Didn’t give ya enough credit, I was sure you’d pick somethin’ dumb-soundin’. You’ve almost impressed me.”

Catfeetz—Imperator Catfeetz, flashed him a snarky smirk. “Alright, oh Grand one; what would you have picked fer me?”

“Tyrant,” Gremix said immediately.

“Now, that’s rude.”

“You asked.”

“So? What about you, huh? Is there somethin’ even better than grand?”

Gremix shook his head. “Afraid not. I’m quite fond of “Grand Warlock” anyways.”

“It’s gonna look like I’m taking the top an’ you’re jus’ gettin’ the tippy, if I get a nice new title an’ you don’t.”

“I am my own hierarchy,” Gremix said, outstretching his arms so the sleeves of his robes burst to his sides theatrically as he gestured to the palace around them. “I have always been at the top of this pyramid.”

“Okay, dude,” Catfeetz said, leaning away from the exuberant show of imagined grandeur (they were only in a gilt stone hallway, after all). “Up t’ you. I think I like mine though. I’m keepin’ it now.”

“Wouldn’t want anythin’ else,” Gremix said. “In fact, why don’t we announce it at th’ conference? It’ll be easy to relay alongside news of the other… changes in direction th’ Family’s takin’.”

“Good call,” Catfeetz said, pointing at him. “See, that’s why I’m keepin’ you around.”

“Oh, it’s you that’s keepin’ me around?” Gremix chuckled. “Well, I guess so; after all, you’re on top an’ givin’ me the tippy.”

Catfeetz pursed his lips. He tried really, REALLY hard. But he couldn’t—he burst into laughter again.

“Goddamnit, you fucker,” he wheezed.

“No, in this scenario, you’re the fucker; get it straight,” Gremix went on.

Catfeetz continued to crack up, taking a momentary pause in his trek to regain his composure.

“I fuckin’ hate you so much,” he finally said, rubbing a hand down his face and continuing along as Gremix smiled cheekily.

“I know, I know,” Gremix said. “You don’t have t’ confess your feelin’s for me every 20 minutes, I’m flattered, but…”

He didn’t get to continue, cut off instead trying not to fall over at a “playful” shove of the much too physically strong goblin to his shoulder.

“Shut it, we’re gettin’ to the throne room, ya dipshit. I don’t want none a’ your touch-horny followers thinkin’ you’re serious an’ gettin’ jealous of me.”

“Oh, I’m certain they already are,” Gremix admitted, brushing off his sleeve as though somehow Catfeetz had dirtied it. “You get far more one-on-one time with me than any single one of them do.”

“Aw, fuck, you better make sure nobody follows me back then, I don’t want no crazy fangoblin tryin’ t’ kill me. They wouldn’t succeed or even get close to it; but still.”

Their banter ended as they entered the palace’s throne room, where crowds of Gremix’s followers stood around, talking in hushed voices, the room generally sounding confused and maybe a little worried.

Gremix ascended the steps to his throne, then turned to the crowds, who had all started to quiet down, noticing their leader’s arrival.

“Children!” he started, voice projecting such that everyone in the large, crowded chamber could hear him clearly. The last who hadn’t realized him before came to attention, and hundreds of rapt eyes pointed up at the Grand Warlock. “The General and I have a magnificent announcement. We will be presenting it in the Midfields; go, now, and gather any others you find along th’ way.”

“Yes, Master,” the whole room seemed to say in perfect unison. Catfeetz’s brows rose in admiration. Now that was some good leader-work; if they were only standing in perfect grids with straight postures though…

The crowds began to depart, most heading out of the chamber and through the great stone doors that marked the main entry to the palace, others rushing down halls to fetch those who were absent from the announcement.

Gremix descended the steps gracefully, each bare foot stepping without a sound as he bounded down several at a time.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Ladies first,” Catfeetz said, waving an arm ahead of them, towards the entrance doors.

Gremix couldn’t think of a good one, so he conceded and accepted his fate as the lady who went first, and they made their way to the Midfields.

The Midfields, as it was known, was a huge, flat area of nothing, high enough people could see a nice view of the shores of Azshara, the Pleasure Palace, and the Orgrimmar gates over the tops of the clutter of buildings below. (There were hundreds of homes there before, but the war machine needs materials, after all.)

It was practically jammed with followers by the time Catfeetz and Gremix reached it, and still more were rushing to catch up behind them; everyone atwitter in excited befuddlement as they gathered there so late in the evening. Obviously not even half of the overall troops were there for the proclamation; many being deployed in various base camps and attacks, and many more in bunkers across the water… the Family had grown so fast that there was simply not enough room in the harbor anymore.

“Children! Silence, if you will,” Gremix called out as he and Catfeetz came to the front end of the Midfields; somehow even here, outside and in the open, he projected unnaturally well. As such, the followers, hearing him, stood to attention: Catfeetz’s soldiers straightening their stances and giving a firm salute while Gremix’s simply quieted down, enthralled eyes on their Master as he spoke.

“Our dear old Boss, the great Gutshot, has… departed.”

There were some mutters in the crowd.

“As such, the general and I are taking full control of things from here on out. And we, your beloved co-trade-princes, have chosen a bright new direction for the future of our family!”

Catfeetz stepped forward now—so used to barking commands across battlefields at this point he needed none of Gremix’s magical amplification. “Soon, we goblins will rise above all others! As we grow in power, so do we grow in rank! From now on you maggots will refer to me as Imperator. A new General will be selected soon—but for now…”

Catfeetz and Gremix leaned together, each outstretching the arm on their open sides like cheesy performers and yelled in unison:

“Let’s start our new world with a bang!”

It was eerie; like the sound of the entire planet had gone muted. Then, a rumbling began. Low at first, but soon enough it became a horrible, dissonant roar—and the sky flashed suddenly into bright, fiery orange. Behind the two gesturing leaders, in the not-so-distant distance, Orgrimmar was, within moments, entirely engulfed by explosion. The giant ball of flame seemed to move in slow motion, taking what seemed like forever to transform into a cloud of ash and smoke that blocked their view of what had become of the city. The general consensus among the crowd was that the Horde capitol was pretty much fucked.

“Soon, the world will bow to Goblin, and Goblin shall bow to no one!”

They cheered, they applauded, and they celebrated the beginning of a new era.

Many drinks were had by all, chunks of people splitting into different parties—Gremix and Catfeetz ended up with the one that headed back to the palace to tap into the celebratory kegs stored in a room among the cool cellar-like dungeons. The two leaders, however, eventually broke off from the crowd, both nearly having to peel tipsy, fervent followers off of themselves to escape. They headed up to the war room to make sure they had the next step in eventual world domination down; dictatorship never rested, after all. Drixzy followed close by Gremix, her clicking boots and Catfeetz’s stompy ones an intimidating cacophony as the dark three strode through the passages. (Irrelevantly, Gremix, in contrast to his companions, preferred soft-soled shoes or none at all.)

Tipsy conversation of other things overtook any actual planning when they got there, however.

“Man, can y’ even imagine how many useless orcs an’ trolls an’ other bullshit people we jus’ took care of?” Catfeetz cackled, humoring himself by sticking as many pins into Orgrimmar on the map as possible, the paper becoming useless shreds beneath them.

“It’s quite a feat,” Gremix agreed. “T’ think th’ Alliance couldn’t accomplish in all that time what we jus’ did so swiftly.”

Gremix cast a look to Drixzy before turning back to Catfeetz—a detached, nondescript voice seemed to speak in the back of her head. “Obey.”

“In fact, Imperator,” Gremix said, coming to Cat’s side and placing a hand on his thick forearm. “What’s a celebration of such a feat without a gift of good will between the leaders of th’ new goblin empire?”

“A gift?” Catfeetz snorted. “Sorry, Grem, I didn’t get ya anythin’ in return.”

“That’s more than fine.” Gremix gave him a sly smirk. “If you enjoy it, that’s all the return I need.”

“Oh yeah?” Catfeetz asked, curious brow rising. “What is it, huh?”

“I’d like for you to spend the night in my palace. Our deluxe guest suite can be truly decadent,” Gremix said, dropping his hand and stepping back towards Drixzy, then running a demonstrative fingertip from very low on the front of her torso all the way up to her chin in a soft caress that made her gasp silently.

Catfeetz seemed to take a moment to process what was being said, but slowly a smile grew on his lips until he bore his teeth in full wicked grin.

“For real?” he asked in disbelief.

Drixzy’s ears lowered ever so slightly. “Obey”. She had no choice, did she? It was for The Master.

“Jus’ for th’ rest of the night, ‘a course,” Gremix said. “I do need it back in the morning.”

The death knight’s lichfire-blue eyes flicked to Drixzy. Cruel eyes. Cold eyes. Hungry eyes. “Finally! I knew ya couldn’t hold out on me forever.”

“Yep, you wore me down,” Gremix said with nearly tangible sarcasm. “If you’ll excuse me, now, I have other things to attend to before I retire, myself. Drixzy, take our dear Imperator to th’ guest suite, and do make sure he’s completely comfortable before you deign t’ leave.”

Drixzy pulled in a breath. “Yes, Master.”

He was almost half out the door before he spun on his heel, pointing a finger and moving it back and forth between both of them.

“The blindfold—”

“Stays on, yeah, I get it,” Catfeetz scoffed, waving the warlock off as he stood to follow Drixzy from the room. “Only part of a chick’s face I care about’s still perfectly accessible, anyway.” Drixzy crinkled her nose in disgust.

Gremix nodded, and headed off down the hall, Drixzy and Catfeetz heading in the opposite direction. With every clack and thump of boot closer to the guest suites, Drixzy could feel another ounce of dread weighing on her. Not that she was going to disobey or even dare to say anything, but she reserved her right to not be happy about following some demands.

She could sense the awful goblin’s eyes on her back as they walked, the man tracking a few steps behind to get a good look and clearly already mentally undressing her. A shudder ran down her spine, but they reached the room in question and Drixzy opened the door, waving him inside.

“Your accommodations, Imperator.”

“Not all of ‘em,” he corrected, and scooped an arm around her waist, pulling her in and slamming the door behind them.

It was… not great, or at least at first. Drixzy was essentially so disinterested in the newly-promoted death knight that in combination with what was surely a ridiculously large package for such a small man, the overall friction situation was not very enjoyable. It certainly didn’t help that touching his skin was like touching flesh-textured ice—or that just before they started, he had commented that the candy you’re not allowed to have always turns out to be the most delicious. She couldn’t say it was exactly a flattering comment.

But then, as Catfeetz leaned in to run a cold tongue up her neck, Drixzy felt that familiar, dull feeling that happened just before a mental message from her master came through. “Touch”, it said this time. She furrowed her brows in uncertainty but then perked, noticing a green glow from behind the man’s shoulders where her hands rested. She shifted one up to take a glance at her wrist, and sure enough, there was an intense radiance coming from the runes thereupon that seemed to morph from light to a physical vapor, which drifted slowly up just a bit before appearing to be sucked into Catfeetz’s flesh.

Suddenly, she understood why Gremix had left her with such an otherwise vile task.

As the fel vapor emanated from her wrists behind the death knight, so too did it seem to flow into her own body; unexpectedly and a little begrudgingly, she found herself quite enjoying herself, (if only physically, but that was enough.) Able to get more into it, she got to work on the task at hand: letting the magic seep into Catfeetz for as long as possible. The longer they went, the more he absorbed, and the more dazedly those lichfire eyes leered at her, only making her job all the easier.

By the time Drixzy left the guest suite, the sun had risen, and she had just finally managed to wipe out the Imperator’s seemingly endless energy (much assisted by her Master’s gift affecting Catfeetz’s sensation situation along with her own.) He was utterly knocked out, to her surprise; she didn’t even know the undead man slept to begin with, but found herself glad for it, uncertain just how much longer she could have kept that up.

She knocked upon the door to the Grand Warlock’s chambers, waiting for the sound of his smooth voice to call out an “enter” before opening it. It was obvious by the tone of his voice he knew who was there, and he didn’t so much as bother turning from the mirror where he was switching out earrings before addressing her.

“I presume you’ve succeeded, if you’ve dared return t’ me.”

“Yes, Master.” Drixzy’s voice was rigid, her ears slightly downturned. Gremix peered aside at the woman, and, finishing his task, turned and headed towards her with outstretched arms, much to Drixzy’s surprise. She did not hesitate to close the rest of the distance between them and squeeze him in as tight an embrace she could without hurting the warlock, burying her face into the robes at his chest.

“Oh, Drixzy, my dear Drixzy,” he cooed, stroking fingers through her hair and leaning his head down to give her a gentle kiss atop the head, “I know it wasn’t th’ most fun of jobs, but you understand why it needed t’ be done, don’t you?”

Drixzy nodded into him.

He squeezed her back in a much weaker return embrace before they broke apart, Drixzy automatically taking it upon herself to re-neaten the embroidered robes she had shifted from their perfect aesthetic positioning.

“You did an excellent job, my girl.”

“Thank you, Master.”

After the Imperator woke and left with his troops later that afternoon, Drixzy, finally, got to spend some nice time with Gremix again. Catfeetz’s forces were deployed to scour the ruins or Orgrimmar for any survivors, salvageable materials, or, though doubtful, Horde soldiers. Gremix’s instead worked tirelessly in the dark labs and various chambers dotting the halls—on what, Drixzy was not told. Nor were any of those working on it, oddly enough. The Grand Warlock had many different teams working on many different things that made no sense alone; but together, apparently they would form the next big step.

But she hardly cared about all that. Finally, she was there with him again upon his throne: draped across his lap like a pet, stroking her fingers down his chest lovingly, while his hand idly caressed the tight leather around her legs. Sometimes, his fingers moved just ever so slightly too far up and brushed against the exposed skin of her upper thigh—“accidentally”, but with each gentle touch she felt the very deliberate rush of Fel energy sending tingles through her whole body and making her crave him just that much more. He was teasing her on purpose, and it was a wonderful kind of torture… just like the old days, before—

“Rusco!!”

Drixzy internally groaned.

“M-Master, Rusco is here to—”

The door guard was trying to chase down the new arrival to do the introduction proper, but Rusco, at full sprint and with a gleaming dagger in each hand, apparently didn’t care about formalities.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHI—”

With a loud THWACK, the knife-brandishing rogue was kicked straight in the face with a heavy, hoof-toed boot, the impact tossing him like a doll several feet across the ground. Drixzy, on instinct, had leapt from her spot immediately upon sensing a threat; and reacted how she was trained to: protect the Master.

“Drixzy,” Gremix said imploringly.

Her ears shot up. “I’m sorry, Master, he had knives, I—”

“No, no, you did wonderfully, my dear, but remember,” Gremix said, standing and placing a hand on her shoulder, “we’re gentler with Rusco, yeah?”

“Yes, Master. My apologies, Master.”

A long moan came from aside, Rusco shakily sitting up and holding a hand to the side of his head in pain.

“Geez, what th’ fuck’re those shoes made outta? Bricks?” he groaned. He pulled his hand away from his temple and dizzily looked at it. Not surprisingly as guessed by the stinging pain, a dark red stain had wet his fingers. He tried to look around for his knives, but his head was so out of wack from the hit he could barely make out the gleam of the blades against the dark stone floor. It hardly mattered, as guards had already retrieved and confiscated the weapons by the time he figured out where they’d clattered away to; and to his chagrin, Gremix was approaching him with his classic, haughty-looking hands-folded-behind-his-back stance.

“My darling Rusco, how have you been?” Gremix asked, leaning slightly over Rusco as he came to a stop just a couple feet ahead of him.

“Cut th’ shit,” Rusco spit, pressing his hand back against his bleeding head. “You destroyed Orgrimmar!”

“Oh, yes,” Gremix said with a smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

“There were people there! Hundreds—maybe thousands of people! Innocent citizens! Kids!” Rusco yelled, the indignation cracking his voice. “You murdered them all!”

“Not all,” Gremix corrected, straightening his posture and waving his hand in a gesture towards some followers who had, prior to Rusco’s arrival, been idly chatting. “Those two over there are from Orgrimmar. In fact, many of our newest recruits are.”

One of the followers Gremix had mentioned chimed in; “yeah, there were fliers goin’ ‘round the slums. Warnin’ to get outta Org before th’ day. Said to keep it down-low—goblins only.”

Rusco looked appalled.

“Only g… what?! Even then, not all of th’ goblins coulda possibly gotten away! What about th’ ones that didn’t see th’ fliers? What about people who’d jus’ arrived?” He winced, his own voice causing his head to pound, the blood seeming to gush more from it the more upset he got.

“Such is the price of war, Rusco,” Gremix said, a faked sadness in his tone.

“This ain’t a war, it’s insanity.”

Gremix crouched in front of Rusco, lifting a hand towards the injured side of his head.

“Don’t you touch me, you… you…” Rusco tried to shove the hand away but still hadn’t seemed to reclaim his ability to not see double, missing terribly and instead just gently smacking an ear as the warlock’s hand successfully found its place on the bloody boot-wound. He squeezed his eyes shut, which sent another pound of pain through his skull, but as he had agitatedly expected, a warmth came from the warlock’s palm, and within moments, the pain had mostly resided, Rusco’s eyes finally able to focus as the world stopped spinning.

He pulled away, nose crinkled as he now successfully swatted the hand away and scrambled to stand.

“Now you made a mistake, idiot—”

What mistake that was, Rusco didn’t get to say, finding himself cut off by a pair of lips abruptly pressed against his own.

All that bristling rage, all the fury and hatred seemed to melt away like wax in the summer sun, and instead he found himself nearly sinking into the bastard’s arms. Drixzy, not far away, watched with a scowl as the violet gem centered at Rusco’s throat upon the delicate, ivy-like collar fused to his neck glowed in deep purple pulses. She scoffed, sure she’d never understand why Rusco was allowed to be touched and even have an artefact when he hadn’t even been Blessed.

Mouths pulled apart just slightly, a thin strand of spit hanging between them for a second before splitting away; heavy-lidded violet-blue eyes stared into fel-flaming magenta and Rusco searched his mind.

What was he mad about again? How long had they been kissing? When did he get here?

Rusco stared blankly at Gremix.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Because you missed me, silly.”

Rusco’s eyes squinted in doubt, but for some reason he could simply not remember what he was so sure was important just moments ago.

“Why don’t we head to my chambers,” Gremix suggested, his hand sliding down Rusco’s back and finding a comfortable spot of flat ass to squeeze, “and I’ll give you a proper welcome?”

Rusco found himself mildly agitated at his sudden forgetfulness; but somehow, even more than usual, he just couldn’t resist the warlock’s advances.

“Fine,” Rusco said, trying not to sound too eager despite the fact that the longer they stood so close the more he wanted it, “but after, I’m yellin’ at you. About somethin’. Once I remember what it was.”

“Of course,” Gremix said, leading Rusco away with an arm scooped behind him.

It was odd. Rusco had only meant to stay for the afternoon, or perhaps even less, a faded memory seemed to tell him; yet there he was, sprawled in a huge comfortable bed next to an actual evil villain after fucking for the… how many times? In fact, how many days had he been there? Or had it been weeks? He only felt entirely sure it wasn’t the same afternoon. He found himself once more garbed in Gremix's weird stocking fetish crap, though free to wander the creepy labyrinthine halls of the palace; but strangely, having no desire to leave. Perhaps it was just nice to sleep in a bed again after trekking around doing… whatever he had been doing before he returned. What was he doing? Why had he left? Rusco sighed, staring at the canopy as green glows and shadows danced upon it as though the crystal that lit the room were a fire instead. Did that always happen? He tried to remember the room full of pillows he used to be imprisoned in, the crystal brazier in the corner by the bars… he squeezed his eyes shut, his head starting to ache. Whatever. It seemed like too much effort to think about it.

The marching could be heard long before the troops arrived at the great stone doors of the palace. Grids of perfectly systematized soldiers marched into the gilded chamber, led by Imperator Catfeetz, his replacement general, Gaztonne, and Gaztonne's own selection of lieutenant, Niknack—who Rusco, having come to peek into the throne room at the sound, recognized as the woman who had happily splashed boiling oil on a man's bare skin at Catfeetz's command. His nose crinkled and he glanced to Gremix, who had been lazing in his big gaudy chair expectantly.

“Imperator,” Gremix said with a nod of acknowledgement.

Catfeetz gave Gremix a lazy salute, the rest of the troops all instead giving him rigid, trained ones.

“I have some fun news,” Catfeetz said with one of his usual nefarious grins.

“Go on,” Gremix prompted, waving his hand. “I don’t have the patience for chit-chat. Did you find her or what?”

“We sure did,” Catfeetz laughed. “Madame Steelknuckle was located along with some other rebels in a cavern Northeast of th' harbor. Sneaky bitch found a nice li'l hidey hole, but I’ve got ships an’ cannons at the ready t' take her an' the rest of that stupid rock out at our command.”

Gremix stroked a finger down his jaw in thought. “Perhaps we shouldn’t kill her quite yet,” he suggested.

“What? Why not?” asked Catfeetz, aghast.

Gremix scanned the troops behind Catfeetz, and his own followers chatting in hushed voices around the perimeter of the chamber.

“We should discuss in private,” he said. Catfeetz pursed his lips, but complied, turning to Gaztonne.

“Report to the temp barracks outside the palace an' await further command.”

“Sir, yes, sirrrrr,” Gaztonne said with a salute, turning to the troops and barking the command to move out. The army turned on its heel, the perfect squares of goblin soldiers marching out of the throne room in a measured rhythm of boot-stomps. Gremix and Catfeetz began to head down towards the hall… that is, the exact hall Rusco had been peeking from.

Hurriedly pulling his head back, Rusco made a dash for the nearest branch off from the hall, slipping behind a wall just as the villains entered the passage. He pressed himself back, hoping desperately they wouldn’t turn there.

Luckily, they passed by, Rusco going unnoticed as they talked in low voices.

“What th' fuck, man, I thought we had this down already,” Catfeetz grumbled.

“I assure you, I’ve thought this over quite a lot,” Gremix said. “I think once I explain, you’ll understand why I think it’ll be better this way.”

Catfeetz shook his head, stuffing bony hands into uniform pockets. “If ya say so…”

Their conversation cut off as the door to the war room shut behind them.

Rusco watched the hall around the room for a moment. Nobody seeming to be around, he began to step out back into the main passage, but was unexpectedly turned by a rough hand on his shoulder.

Shoved back against a wall by his neck, Rusco had a good guess who it was before his eyes even caught a glimpse of her.

“What do you think you’re doin', little sneak?” Drixzy asked in a sinister coo. “Did Master give you permission to stalk him? Or do you jus’ have nothing better to do? I'm sure my darling pets could use another hand scrubbing the ballroom floor by nailbrush.”

“Sounds great,” Rusco said, grabbing at Drixzy’s arm to try to pull her hand away. “But I—nngh—let GO!”

Drixzy leaned in reaaaaaaaally close, the tip of her green nose touching his.

“Leave.”

She released him, and he shook himself off, rubbing at his throat. Oh yeah, he thought as his fingers traced over familiar intricate metal filigree—he’d forgotten that he was still wearing that collar. Just another thing that slipped his mind.

Rusco scoffed. “Whatever,” he said, shrugging and plodding off down another of the many halls, that he could swear there were more and more of every day. “The walls are soundproof glass an' all covered from inside so even if I was stalking him, there’s no use anymore.”

Drixzy merely sneered and watched him until he was out of sight before heading to the war room door herself and standing guard.

“Yeah, I guess,” Catfeetz muttered, leaned back casually with his arms rested on the back of the war room sofa to each side of him. “I still think bombing her out would be more fun, though.”

“Trust me, Cat. You know I wouldn’t lead us astray.”

Scoffing, Catfeetz conceded. “Fine, fine. Tomorrow mornin', then. I wanna be the one t' kill her when we do, though.” Catfeetz stuck a finger towards Gremix pointedly.

“I wouldn’t dream of gettin' in your way,” Gremix said, pausing ahead of Catfeetz, where he had previously been pacing as they spoke. “Well… If you’ll assist me in an act of humorous irony, that is.”

“Irony?” Catfeetz raised a brow. “The hell you talkin' about?”

“Back in the day, the Steelknuckle militia would give each other celebratory smooches upon a well-won victory; if you recall.”

“No, you dipshit, I don’t recall an' you know that.” Catfeetz frowned, doubt in his eyes. “Sounds like bullshit though.”

“Oh, of course,” Gremix said, feigning forgetfulness. “You can’t remember th’ times from before you died. It was such a charmin’ tradition an’ you used t’ take part in it so often, what a shame.”

“I kissed dudes?” Catfeetz scoffed in disbelief. “Now, that don’t sound right. I think yer jus’ makin’ this up cuz you wanna kiss me.” He grinned. “That it?”

“Please,” Gremix sighed, giving Catfeetz a stare of incredulity. “You’ve seen my taste in men, and it’s certainly not…” Gremix gestured to Catfeetz in general. “…any of this.”

Catfeetz’s head tilted back and he narrowed his eyes with an amused half-smirk up at Gremix. “Hey! Now you’re almost offendin’ me. You sayin’ your gay ass wouldn’t enjoy gettin’ some a’ this?”

Gremix snorted. “There would only be one way to find out, wouldn’t there?” He gave a shrug of apparent defeat along with an exaggerated sigh of “but ya can’t even let me have a small peck’s worth of fun.”

Catfeetz snickered. Just more of those silly suggestive conversations with Gremix, right? “Fine, I guess, I’m gonna believe you that it’s a thing an’ humor your stupid in-joke… but jus' real fast so you’ll shut up.”

Gremix smiled, leaning in to the death knight's face, where said death knight had shut his eyes and crinkled his nose in preparation for the disgusting act. Two surprisingly warm hands—Catfeetz could barely feel temperature, how were they so warm?—rested upon his bony cheeks, pulling him ever so much closer… Also surprisingly, the warlock's lips were incredibly soft, just like a woman’s. And the way he moved his thumbs at Catfeetz’s temples was so relaxing that the cold soldier felt suddenly very… distracted.

Gremix pulled away a little bit to observe his work—with this feeding and what he had pumped through Drixzy, he must have started to take some control. Catfeetz seemed mildly drained, but not yet responsive… at least, Gremix thought so, until the dead blue gaze (beginning to seem a teeny bit more teal) flicked up to him and two powerful arms pulled Gremix down atop his lap.

Gremix, ever the trooper, kept his grip on Catfeetz’s head and kept the magic flowing despite being manhandled. However, now he stared closely into the eyes of what appeared to be quite a different situation than he’d expected.

“So, tell me you didn’t like that, even a little,” Catfeetz said, narrowing eyes which, despite his unanticipated aggression, were getting greener and greener by the moment.

Gremix swallowed, eyes drifting down slowly, slowly towards the space between them. Yep. That was one big ol’ dead-guy boner barely staying within the confines of its clothing covers. He closed his eyes and took a deep, resolute breath.

“And what if I said I did?”

Rusco really hadn’t gone too far, having simply taken a path of halls that looped him back to the war room from another direction. As he returned, his brows rose; he had expected to find Drixzy guarding the door; not peeping.

“So what’s goin’ on in there?” Rusco asked, causing a clearly very focused Drixzy to yelp, startled.

“I told you to leave!” she said in what could only be described as a whisper-yell. Her face was unusually red, as were her ears. Rusco leaned to one side, tilting his head to try to see what she was looking at. Between two of the curtains blocking the contents of the room from the inside was a small gap, where if you looked at just the right angle…

“NO!” Drixzy shoved him away and stood against the glass wall, back to the peeking-hole. “It’s a very secret important meetin’, um, plans and—"

“C’mon, lemme see!” Rusco said, trying to shove the blindfolded woman out of the way.

“It’s not your business!” she hissed, shoving back against him in resistance.

“Well it clearly isn’t yours either!”

Drixzy opened her mouth, but didn’t necessarily have a retort, considering he was right.

“Fine!” she said, moving away so suddenly that Rusco stumbled forward, barely catching himself before he could faceplant into the thick glass. “But be quiet.”

Rusco smushed his face against the glass where Drixzy had been watching—it was extremely poorly lit in there, unfortunately. Rusco huffed, remembering that the woman had some sort of magic hoo-haa eyes or something. Cheater. He squinted hard, trying to focus into the darkness… finally he saw light catching movement. A bony hand clutching a robed butt, grinding its owner’s hips into theirs… faces pressed together while that eerie green glow Gremix made flowed around. Rusco suddenly realized why Drixzy had been so flustered.

He glanced over at her. “They fuck?”

Drixzy’s face screwed up in disgust. “No! They’re not, I mean… Master is tryin’ to overtake Imperator Catfeetz’s mind, but…” She cleared her throat. “Well, sometimes it feels very, well, sensual, you know? I don’t think that he expected this outcome, necessarily—typically when it happens, the person jus’ loses it in their pants. Catfeetz seems to be of a, uhm, different breed.”

Rusco blinked at her. “Weird. Aaaaand why’s he doin’ that, exactly?”

Drixzy sneered. “It’s none of your business. But if you must know, the answer is so simple maybe even you can understand it: Catfeetz controls half of th’ Family. We control half of th’ family. So if we control Catfeetz…”

“…you control it all.” Rusco’s ears lowered. “He’s really jus’ tryin’ t’ take it all over, huh? The whole world, with jus’ him sittin’ on top?”

“Not quite,” Drixzy said with a twinge of spite. “Him, sittin’ on top—with his nasty little puppy Rusco on his lap.”

“He doesn’t control me,” Rusco scoffed, “an’ he never will. An’ ya know what else? He won’t control Catfeetz! I’m tired of all this control crap!”

Drixzy gave him an incredulous look, but before she could make sense of how he meant, Rusco was already ripping open the door to the war room. Crying out in anger, she dashed and followed him in.

“Stop!” Rusco called, jumping to the fore—that is, in front of the sofa where Catfeetz was in the process of being mind-drugged with a heaping serving of heavy makeout. Startled by the intrusion, Gremix’s focus broke and the green energy flow cut off.

“Rusco!?”

“I’m sorry, Master, he got through—” Drixzy stammered, trying to snatch at a struggling, slapping and scratching Rusco.

“Well get him out of here!” Gremix snapped, glancing back and forth between her and the fel-addled horndog who quickly seemed to be getting even more handsy the longer the fel siphon was cut off.

Struggling, Drixzy huffed “You said be gentle—”

“I changed my mind!” Gremix yelled, and he twisted back and shot one arm forth from the sofa. A couple yards away, a demonic gate containing an abyssal rift rose from green flames on the floor, and before Rusco knew what was going on, Drixzy had shoved him through it.

As Rusco stumbled backward, the last thing he saw was the Grand Warlock suddenly looking very uncertain, laughing nervously as the Imperator flipped him around and onto his back on the sofa; then the scene vanished, the rift closing and the demonic gateway crumbling into dust before his eyes.

“No!” Rusco cried, scrambling forward far too late, only to scoop up the ashy remains of fel magic with a frustrated groan. He looked around to gather his bearings, but wherever Gremix had sent him was such generic a palace hallway that he had no clue which one it was. It didn’t help that rooms weren’t labeled and there was nary a sign to be found in the entire building. He sighed, and clambering onto his feet, he began to run.

He didn’t know where to run, exactly. He just followed his gut: left here, right there, stay straight here and then turn…

He stumbled to a halt, hitting a dead end. Where were dead ends? He didn’t remember there ever not being another direction to go. Was this a part of the palace he’d never been to before? How deep down was he? He glanced around again, then, with a weird sinking feeling, looked down. There was the dusty remains of the demonic gateway.

He’d ended up just where he started.

A small sound came from behind the nearest door, which upon observation stood out from all the others, because of a short chain hanging from the handle: it was wrapped around loosely, but not locked, the padlock dangling open from one end of it. Especially interesting was the fact that this was the only door in the palace halls he’d ever even seen even seemingly intended to be chained shut. Every other one he tried to open simply wouldn’t budge, except for the one to Gremix’s quarters, all locked by some sort of internal or magical mechanism he had yet to figure out.

But he really didn’t have time for that. He had to stop Gremix! From… doing…

Rusco made a loud frustrated sound that echoed through the halls for what seemed like forever before fading away.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of forgettin’ everything! What th’ fuck is goin’ on here?!” he yelled out at nobody.

He heard the same strange sound from behind the door. A sort of… croak? He eyed it.

No time.

He made a mad dash in the other direction this time. He’d be sure to measure his lefts and rights so there would be no possible way he could end up…

He stopped, panting, and grimaced in defeat at the chained door, which somehow, he had once again returned to.

“Fine!” he gasped, tossing his hands in the air in defeat. “I’m gonna do it! Geez!”

The chain clattered to the stone brick flooring and the metal door’s hinges gave a horrendous creak as it moved, as though it had not been opened in quite some while.

It was… just an unimpressive, mostly empty dungeon containing only one ankle-shackle chained to a wall, a bucket that reeked of its purpose, and one extremely dead-looking goblin splayed out on his front.

It was sort of horrifying, not only because the prisoner was emaciated from obvious starvation and dehydration, but also because as Rusco made wary steps towards the corpse, it moved.

He made a quiet startled noise, taking a step back as the seemingly-dead person’s head shifted slowly, wads of clumped, matted pink hair falling aside to reveal one side of a dry, dying, defeated gaze.

Rusco swallowed. This guy was in an unlocked cell, and his feet were both free of the shackle, but from the looks of it, he simply did not have the life left in him to escape.

“How long… have you been down here?”

A wheeze came from the floor-bound goblin, and a gravelly, dry-throated voice croaked, “always”.

Rusco shook his head. “That’s not true—it can’t be. This place hasn’t existed that long.”

The prisoner showed no sign of acknowledgement, empty eye just staring at him.

Rusco pondered his next course of action. It wouldn’t be right to leave this guy, would it?

“Kill me,” wheezed the withering goblin.

“What?” Rusco’s ears pinned. “No, I’m not gonna—”

“Please!” A sharp, wheezing inhale followed, the goblin clearly having used more effort on increasing the volume of his voice than he had in him, his head flopping aside once more, face again covered by the dirty dreadlocks of pink.

Rusco took a deep breath.

“I ain’t gonna kill you. But I ain’t gonna let ya rot here, either.”

There was no response, but a gentle wheezing sound told Rusco the man was still alive yet.

“I’m gonna save you.”

“You’re in panties,” the goblin wasted his breath wheezing out in reply.

Rusco clenched a fist. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

It was surprisingly easy to heft the gaunt prisoner onto his back, little weight enough left to make him bearable despite being a decent bit taller than Rusco. But then came the walking, which would have been much less a problem if Rusco could figure out how to get back to the parts of the halls he knew. In tiresome steps, he passed the door to the weak prisoner’s cell three more times before giving another roar of defeat.

“Do you know the way out?” he desperately asked his living cape.

The goblin shook his head ever so slightly, but formed a pointing gesture with one hand which he weakly tweaked in a direction—Rusco tried to follow the sad excuse for pointing, but found himself puzzled, as the guy was apparently pointing to the dead end, where there was nothing but...

“What? The torch thing?”

An extremely weak nod told him his attention was on the desired topic, but Rusco wasn’t going to put money on his companion being able to explain what he meant.

Carefully, Rusco set the guy down, propped sitting against the wall, where his head hung uselessly to one side, unable to upright itself. Then he turned to inspect the torch. It was just like the one from his pillow room, as he remembered it, at least: a golden pole brazier over which a floating green crystal hovered, which was the most common lighting in the whole place. So what was special about this one? He searched the eyes that seemed to slip in and out of consciousness for some sort of clue, but there was nothing.

He kicked it. Nothing. Tried to pull it, push it. Wouldn’t budge. Warily, he reached for the crystal itself, but as his fingers approached it they began to burn furiously and he couldn’t help but draw away, sucking on blistering skin. He groaned, feeling around the walls of the dead end for anything special. But it was just stone, nothing more. Sighing, he looked around one last time—then a glimmer caught his eye. A tiny speck of light bouncing off the gilding that decorated all of the halls that he knew drew his attention to the fact that many of the walls around him right then did not have that. His eyes dropped to the floor where the torch base ended. From it extended a stretch of intertwining golden filigree décor across the stone floor and up the wall, where it turned and continued on horizontally for as far as Rusco could see.

“Ah, you observant dyin’ bastard,” Rusco said with a grin, scooping the other goblin back up onto his back and hurriedly following the gold-plating path through the convoluted halls.

Finally, things started to seem more familiar, the slant of the ground telling him he was ascending and thus growing closer to the ground floor, where surely he’d be able to make heads and tails of things. However, Rusco’s shuffling run slowed to a halt as he looked around again; now all the walls had the gold décor; and even odder, when he turned around, so too did all the walls behind him.

Puzzled, Rusco simply heaved his deathly companion up a little higher to get his grip firm again and trudged forward.

He seemed to be on the right level now; at least, he was fairly certain he was. The air had a different feeling to it aboveground. But he simply couldn’t find his way, and somehow, he hadn’t seen a single other person the whole time. The halls were silent save for Rusco’s shuffling walk for a great deal of time.

Suddenly, Rusco’s ear twitched; to one side, he heard the faintest of sounds, and his head whipped around in excitement—another person? What he was met with instead was a plain door, cracked open just a tiny bit, which shut instantly as his eyes met the two unmatching ones that peered out at him, one over the other.

“Wait!” Rusco shouted, scuffling over towards that door. “Wait, can you give me directions?”

There was no response for a moment, then the door creaked open a tiny bit again, revealing a sliver of a rather short, young, buff goblin wearing rather bizarre leather clothes. Well, bizarre normally, but Rusco could hardly talk in his own getup.

“Yeah, how can I help?” the goblin behind the door asked humbly.

“D’you know which way th’ war room is from here?”

“Oh!” said the goblin, seeming to brighten up at the sheer thought of really being able to help the stranger. “Jus’ follow the hall all th’ way to that end an’ take a left, then th’ third right, fifth left, take the stairs up an’ you’ll see th’ throne room’s arches—”

“That’s good enough, I’ll know from there,” Rusco said, cutting him off. “Thanks.” Once again affirming his grip on the guy he carried, he hobbled away, ignoring the hushed voices from within as the door re-closed behind.

The throne room was in the opposite direction of the war room—ignoring the chit-chat from that side, (followers mingling, Rusco was sure), he beelined for the war room. He set his buddy down hurriedly but delicately before busting into the room again.

However, to his dismay, the only person within was Imperator Catfeetz, who was lounging on the sofa, legs crossed and foot bouncing as he spaced out. In fact, Rusco noticed as he slowly approached, Catfeetz didn’t seem to even realize he was there. There was something off about him. Rusco squinted, leaning in real close to the death knight’s face. Were his eyes always teal? Rusco could have sworn they were blue.

“Hey,” Rusco said, putting a hand on a cold uniformed shoulder, giving the guy a gentle shake. Why had he just been left in there? “Dude. Imp-rotter? Catfeetz.” Rusco shook him harder and harder, until finally just giving in and heaving him off the sofa.

That seemed to do the trick, Catfeetz scrambling up and onto his feet in a start and looking entirely disconcerted.

“What th’—what’s goin’ on? When’d you get here? Where’s—we were plannin’…” Catfeetz’s brows lowered and he looked Rusco over.

“Nice sockies,” Catfeetz said with a smirk. “They go great with your frou frou poet shirt.”

“I don’t have time t’ make fun of Gremix’s taste in harem attire with you,” Rusco said, waving a hand toward the door pointedly. “You need t’ do somethin’! Th’ dude’s tryin’a brainwash you an’ take over th’ whole family, or somethin’!”

Catfeetz stared blankly at the panty-clad goblin. “What’re you yammerin’ about? I’d know if that idiot tried his stupid conversion spell on me.”

“Then explain why you were sittin’ here so zoned out so I could push you over, huh? Why I got teleported outta here after catchin’ you two dry-humping while he gave you a fancy fel headrub?”

Catfeetz barked a laugh. “What’re you talkin’ about? Dry-hu—” Catfeetz froze mid-sentence, his amused grin slowly dropping into a slightly agape look of revulsion. Rusco could almost see the memories clicking into place again as revulsion morphed into pure rage.

“THAT MOTHER FUCKER!”

Rusco didn’t realize the top-heavy military man had that kind of speed in him, but he was already out of sight by the time Rusco rushed out after him. He stumbled ahead, pausing to scoop up his questionably conscious compadre before waddling after the death knight as fast as he could.

The Grand Warlock was reclining in his throne once more, seeming even more content as usual as he ran his fingers across the tight leather worn by his faithful Drixzy, who was again draped across his lap and quite enjoying his touch. Idling high-ranking followers watched in envy, some whispering snide remarks while others only sighed about what a dream she got to live. Truly, Drixzy was the most blessed of followers. She was even given little pets, one of which was tied to the side of the great throne by a leash—Zubert sat obediently, causing no fuss.

Catfeetz's troops had returned at Gremix’s command, and stood in perfect formation, taking up much of the chamber's space. They waited wordlessly for their Imperator to return, Gremix having told them he may be a while.

The silence was broken by heavy, fast bootsteps as they echoed through the stone halls to the left of the throne's staircase-tower. Gremix’s brows furrowed. The only person he could imagine would be wearing rubber soled boots deeper within his palace was—

“Oh, no,” Gremix said, paling as the death knight skid to a pause under the arches just to turn his momentum towards the lounging felcaster, “He’s awake too soon!”

Drixzy leapt from his lap in a flash of purple and blonde, standing between him and the raging Imperator as she drew her knives. Catfeetz roared as he came down upon her and it came to attention that her blades were of little concern to the rampaging man, since a hard, bony fist made solid contact with her face. She was tossed down the staircase with a clatter of metal and pained grunts, rolling down the last few. From aside the throne, her bound boytoy cried out in concern.

Gremix, the moment Drixzy had stood, had made to hide or evacuate, but with nowhere to run he instead glanced hopelessly over the terrified followers and soldiers, who all watched with the clear internal conflict of not knowing whether they were supposed to assist.

Now with Drixzy tossed out of the way, Catfeetz had open access to Gremix. “You stupid asshole, you think you can control me?” he rumbled, teeth bared not in his usual devious grin but a snarl that belonged more on a feral wolf than a goblin.

Gremix gave a nervous laugh, stepping around Zubert and behind his throne. “Drixzy,” he said loudly and perhaps even pleadingly, eyes flicking aside to the woman who though back on her feet was still at the bottom of the stairs, having been intercepted.

General Gaztonne stood in her way, sharp meat cleavers in each clawed hand. “Sorry, hottie,” he snickered. “I don’t think I’m aloooooooowed to let you interfere with th' Imperator—whatever it is he’s doin’.

She scowled, but having grabbed her own daggers off the floor, just went at him—the goal only being to pass by, but the perpetually bleeding rogue was made General for a reason. Clashes of blades and skids of shoes on stone as they struggled and danced around each other was all that answered Gremix's call.

Unfortunately for him, a fist also did, smashing a chunk off the back of the throne right by Gremix's head. He yelped, circling around further as Catfeetz pursued, the poor guy who remained tied to the seat hunkering down and holding his head close to his body, afraid of being stepped on or tripped over. Gremix couldn’t keep the little circle chase going forever, though.

Determination in his eyes, the Grand Warlock stepped away from the throne and faced the oncoming furious brute. An angry fist made its way straight for his head and… he moved forward, grabbing Catfeetz's face and shoving their lips together frantically.

Drixzy and Gaztonne stopped their standoff mid-fight, all the troops and followers in the chamber just frozen and watching their leaders in absolute confusion.

Beefy arms went to shove Gremix away immediately, but then hesitated, slowly lowering to rest hands instead on Gremix's hips. Catfeetz's eyelids drooped and closed in magically forced contentment. Peeking his own eye open, Gremix took a small step back, still holding the now-dazed death knight's head and channeling his Fel... But it wasn’t enough. Burning blue still broke through his green from the undead goblin’s mind.

Wild green flames erupted from the Grand Warlock’s hands, engulfing Catfeetz's body in fire. The flames flickered wildly as though in heavy wind, and Catfeetz cried out in what may have been conceived as pain, though Gremix was certain the man didn’t actually feel pain. It stayed that way for a while, the intense inferno nearly blinding everyone who watched; and when the fire finally subsided and Gremix lowered his hands, Catfeetz collapsed. Somehow, his body showed no sign of burn—nor harm of any kind—despite having seemingly just been on fire for a good 30 or more seconds.

Drixzy had never seen it this way… Her heart sank into her stomach. She hadn’t ever seen it because after all, she had been the only one it happened to before.

And Rusco, finally catching up and trying to gather what he'd missed from the archways as he huffed and puffed for air, definitely hadn’t ever seen it. Frozen in fear or perhaps despair, his grip on the mostly dead goblin he carried loosened, unintentionally letting the guy slip to the ground with a plop.

An eerie silence came over the throne room, all eyes locked on the scene. By all intents and purposes, it seemed the Imperator had been slain.

Then, Catfeetz began to move again. Slowly, he pushed himself off the floor, rising to his feet and brushing dust off the front of his uniform before raising bright glowing green eyes to Gremix.

Gremix looked him over warily, seeming about ready to bolt. Had it worked?

“Uhhhhhh… Imperator?” came a timid voice from below.

Catfeetz’s head snapped to the side instantly and he raised one thick arm. A shadowy purple tendril of energy that looked akin to some ghastly witch’s hand erupted from the knight’s palm, zig-zagging through the air like a lighting bolt until its gangly tendrils met flesh and wrapped around the neck of the errant speaker—Gaztonne. With a swish of Catfeetz’s hand, the general was lifted into the air by his throat and then smashed into the nearest stone column, which cracked and chipped where the goblin struck it.

“You will not speak unless spoken to, maggot!” Catfeetz barked, getting a moaned “y’sir” in response, and a hand lifted dizzily into the air from where Gaztonne lay at the base of the column, bleeding, and in quite a lot of pain.

“An’ stand up! You’re in th’ presence of The Grand Warlock and will show proper decorum an’ respect!”

The battered goblin agonizingly obliged and clawed his way up to standing, or close to it, leaned back against the semi-crumbling column. He gave a weak salute and crooked smile, blood streaming down his face and dripping off to stain the stone below.

Gremix watched the exchange with a satisfied smirk, and gave an interested sideward glance to the… former death knight.

“Catfeetz?” he asked, tentatively.

Catfeetz turned back to Gremix and grinned wide, a sinister and hungry look behind his narrowed, hollow eyes.

“Yes… Master?”

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Fool Me Once. Chapter 5 (epilogue)

Phew, well, that short epilogue got away from me a bit (2k+ words, geesh).  But, anyway, here it is, the, hopefully, satisfying conclusion.  Just some angst and fluff :)  Chapter 1 with links to all the subsequent chapters is here.

Tagging @tonystark5ever  @ambersagen  @larrklopp @livgg15 @anastasiaformarvel @cwar1864 @pleasant-music-bouquet @journeythroughtherain  @chrwythyn @fondofeveryprickle  @erya-lainfa @elenajones23 @hurricanesass @asdfghjkldafuq @chanderefk @giulisetta

Hopefully, I didn’t miss anyone.

Chapter 5. Epilogue

Carefully she pushes open the door to Tony’s room, throwing a quick hopeful look at the man in bed before looking away, disheartened.  Settles her gaze on the small, hunched over figure at his bedside instead.  The kid.  Peter.  She’s not surprised to see him here.  As far as she knows, he hasn’t left Tony’s side since…

 She shakes herself out of the disturbing memories, closes the door behind her with a soft click. She knows he heard her, sees the telltale tension in his shoulders.  But he doesn’t turn around, remains as he is, slouched awkwardly in a bedside chair, one hand stretched out toward Tony, fingers curled lightly around his wrist, resting on the skin above his pulse point.  Checking, she realizes, her lips curving into a smile, soft and fond.

 “Any change?” she asks, knowing the answer even before the kid shakes his head mournfully, his shoulders seeming to sag even more.  She sighs, closing her eyes briefly, swallows past the now ever-present lump of worry. At least he’s still breathing, she thinks ruefully, at least he’s alive.

She takes a step closer to the bed, placing a hesitant hand on the teen’s hunched back.  “How are you holding up?”

 Peter shrugs minutely under her hand.  “I’m fine,” comes the response, and the inflection in his voice is so much like Tony’s, it makes her heart ache.

 “Your aunt called,” she tries again.  “She’s worried.  Wanted me to ask you to go home and rest a bit.”

 He turns toward her then, cheeks pale, eyes red.  “I’m fine, Ms. Potts, really,” he says, chin wobbling unconvincingly.  “Besides,” he shrugs again, drops his gaze back to where his hand lies curled around Tony’s.  “Colonel Rhodes isn’t here.  You and Mr. Hogan are leaving, too, and I… I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

 There’s no judgment in his voice, but she can’t help a flush of guilt that heats her cheeks at his words. She can’t stay, as much as she would have wanted to (and she does want to, she really, really does).  Because she’s got a multi-billion dollar company to run, Tony’s company, and she was already gone for several days – she can’t afford to be absent any more.  Tony would understand, she knows he would.  But it doesn’t make leaving any easier.

 “How could he do this?”

 The murmured words snap her out of the self-recriminating downward spiral of her thoughts, and she frowns questioningly at Peter’s downturned face, waiting for him to elaborate.

 He does.

 “Rogers.”  The teen’s free hand clenches into a fist, the muscles under Pepper’s hand bunching up with tension.  “Mr. Stark was his friend, his teammate.  How could he just fire on him like that for… for no reason?  I don’t… I don’t understand.”

 She bites her lip against an all-too-familiar upsurge of anger, counts to ten in her head, letting that anger fizzle out.  There’s no room for it here, not now, not in this place.  She nods silently to herself, lets her hand slide down from Peter’s shoulder.  Walks slowly around him to stand by Tony’s head.

 “Did he ever tell you about a man named Obadiah?” she asks, reaching down to push a stubborn lock of hair off Tony’s forehead.  Rests her fingertips against the cool, pale skin.  

 “No.”

 She smiles, wistful and knowing. She wasn’t expecting anything else – Tony isn’t the type to talk about the things that trouble him, not until those things become too much for him to handle.  His post-New York nightmares were a great testament to that.  She closes her eyes briefly, inhales, long and deep.

 “Obadiah was Tony’s mentor,” she says finally, absently rubbing her thumb back and forth along the skin above Tony’s brow.  “Ever since his parents were… ever since they died,” she stumbles, not quite ready to voice this latest betrayal, “he became like a father to him.”

 “What…uh… what happened?” Peter’s attention is on her now, undivided, brown eyes watching her expectantly.

 Her lips twitch – a twisted, bitter semblance of a smile.  “He paid a terrorist group to have Tony killed.”

 Peter’s eyes widen impossibly, mouth falling open in obvious shock.  “What?”

 She nods, looking away, the grainy images of Tony’s torment flickering before her in her mind’s eye – as horrifyingly vivid as when she first saw them over eight years ago.   “Turns out Obadiah was dealing weapons illegally behind Tony’s back, and he needed Tony out of the way so he could take over the company and continue his dealings on a larger scale.  We didn’t know.  Nobody knew.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, forcing the images away. Her fingers tremble against Tony’s skin and she pulls her hand away, curls it into a fist at her side in an attempt to hide the tremor.

 “And then when Tony came back and started going after all those illegal weapons, Obadiah decided to take matters into his own hands.  Quite literally.”  She clasps her hands together, clenches them hard, her nerves getting the better of her. Takes another breath that feels too shaky to her somehow.  “He wanted Tony to die knowing that his legacy was going to be exactly what he feared, what he despised – a Merchant of Death.  He ripped the arc reactor out of Tony’s chest, while telling him how he planned to use that technology to create a line of iron soldiers, monsters powered by the very thing that was giving Tony life.”

 Beside her she hears Peter gasp.  Watches as the teen blinks rapidly, his face growing impossibly white.

 “His arc reactor?  He… he took his…?  And then Rogers …with his shield…?” Peter clamps his free hand over his mouth, looking for all the world like he’s about to get sick.

 She grasps his shoulders, crouches in front of him to capture the panicked, wide-eyed gaze.  “Breathe,” she orders him softly.  “Come on, Peter, breathe.”

 The teen shakes his head furiously, his features crumpling.  Stares back at her, looking so lost, so helpless, that she moves before her conscious mind comprehends her intentions.  Wraps her arms around him, holding him tight as he shivers against her.

 “He… he gave him back that shield after… after this…  He protected him in battle…,” Peter gasps out into her shoulder, and she tightens her hold on him because he’s shivering harder now, undercurrents of anger slipping into his voice.  “Why?”

 She huffs mirthlessly, pulls away, waiting until he meets her gaze.  “Would you believe me if I told you he tried to save Obadiah, too?  Even after everything that man has done?”

 Peter gapes at her, incredulous, and she sees the exact moment the realization strikes; the moment that disbelief and anger bleed out of those big brown eyes to be replaced with understanding and then acceptance.  

 “Yeah,” the kid agrees, hoarse, his gaze drifting over to Tony’s unconscious form.  “Yeah,” he repeats, his voice tinged with a kind of mournful fondness that she herself has felt all too frequently toward Tony, “I would.”

 She smiles wistfully at the familiar sentiment displayed so clearly on the teen’s face, at the protectiveness she feels rolling off of him in waves.  Tony was right, she thinks.  He’s a good kid.  

 She straightens back up, leans toward him, placing a quick kiss on his cheek.  “Thank you, Peter,” she tells him as he blinks at her, surprised, eyebrows raised in near-comic confusion.  “Tony… he doesn’t have too many people around him that he can trust not to….” She cuts a glance at Tony’s motionless form, a watery veil washing out his slack features.  Presses her lips together, feeling the saltiness of tears against the tip of her tongue.  “…not to break him,” she whispers, swiping a hand across her eyes before meeting Peter’s open, empathetic gaze once more. “Thank you for being one of the few good ones,” she tells him sincerely, and he nods mutely, his own eyes looking suspiciously wet.

 She squeezes his shoulder one last time in a gesture of comfort, turns her attention back to Tony. She hates seeing him like this – so pale, so uncharacteristically still.  Another injury, another close call.  Too close this time around.   She blinks away another stray tear, raises her hand to wipe it off her cheek.  Leans down, brushing her lips across Tony’s temple.

 “You gotta wake up, honey,” she whispers above his ear.  “I really need you to.  We all do.” She presses her lips to the cool skin once more, squinting against the insistent burn of tears.  “Please.”

 ***

 Peter dreams – a fragmented, disjointed sequence of images, flashes of light and dark.  A memory, but not quite.  

 He’s with his Uncle Ben, they’re returning home from a fair, walking down a side street to get to the bus.  Suddenly something emerges from the shadows – a darkness that momentarily obscures the picture before him, and then he’s on his knees on the ground, leaning over Uncle Ben’s body as his life’s blood seeps out of him into the cold, gray stone.  He cries and he pleads for his Uncle not to leave him, but the man disappears before him, his features dissolving, morphing into another, equally familiar, equally dear. Peter reaches for him, but a large figure inserts itself between him and Mr. Stark.  Pushes Peter out of the way, throws him aside like a weightless rag doll. And Peter can’t get back on his feet quickly enough, struggles futilely against the sudden heaviness of his limbs that slows his movements to a crawl. And he’s powerless to stop what happens, to prevent that creature from pouncing on Mr. Stark, the sound of metal hitting flesh deafening in the shadowed space.  He screams in rage, strains against his uncooperative muscles, fighting to inch closer.

He finally makes it, but not before the creature grips the edges of the arc reactor with its claw-like appendage and yanks it out, disappearing into the night.  

 “No!”

 Mr. Stark gasps in pain, his body jerking upward with the force of the pull before falling limply back onto the ground, eyes slipping closed. And Peter moans in distress, dropping to his knees beside him.  

 “No.”

 He pulls the man toward him, tapping his cheek in an attempt to rouse him.  Wraps his arms around him, pleading, pleading for him to wake up.  But he remains silent, still, and the air seems to grow colder and colder and colder.  And he feels the exact moment that the faint, thready beat of Mr. Stark’s heart slowly, inexorably comes to a stop.

 “No…”

 He jolts awake as the hand he’s been clinging to all this time shifts minutely in his grip.  He raises his head up off the bed, blinks myopically at his surroundings, the harrowing visions from his uneasy slumber still standing before him in his mind’s eye.   And then his wide-eyed, bleary gaze settles on the pale face of his mentor, on the thin sliver of brown that grows wider with each labored flutter of the eyelids, and the last of the sleep-induced haze surrounding his brain leaves him in a rush.

 “Mr. Stark!  You’re–”

 His lower lip wobbles, and he already feels the tears coming, his emotions too frayed for him to wrestle back under control.  Mr. Stark’s eyes widen in confusion and worry, his hand twisting within Peter’s grasp, fingers scrambling weakly to grasp Peter’s wrist.  That gesture, that feeble attempt at comfort is enough to sever what’s left of the strings holding him up, and Peter crumples forward like a broken marionette, burying his face in his mentor’s chest as tears stream down his face, burning him from the inside out.

 He can hear Mr. Stark’s worried calls of his name, can feel the man’s arms, weak and trembling with effort, as they wrap gently if a bit awkwardly around his sob-wracked frame. Focuses on the steady beat of the heart underneath his ear, strong, reassuring.  Thinks back to those awful minutes when he felt that heart stop, the sudden absence of its faint, halting rhythm dousing his senses with a wave of crushing, bone-chilling cold that froze him mid-swing, nearly made him lose his grip on the webbing as he rushed to get Mr. Stark to safety.  Thinks of the hours spent outside the operating room as he waited, as they all waited to know if Mr. Stark would live or die.  Thinks of the days, days, days of more waiting, of cautious, slowly fading optimism, of regretful, pitying looks thrown his way…

 “Hey.” Mr. Stark’s hand shifts, and he feels it ruffle clumsily through his hair, feels the brush of a thumb across his tear-stained cheek.  “I’m okay, kid.  I’m alright.”

 He nods at the raspy whisper, burrows deeper into the solid warmth of his mentor’s embrace, letting the tangibility of it soothe his overwrought senses.  Real, he reminds himself, feeling the first huff of genuine, relieved laughter bubble wetly to the surface even as he clings to that reality for dear life.  Real.  Alive.

 He doesn’t notice drifting back to sleep, his body, exhausted by too many sleepless, worry-wrought nights, succumbing to its need to rest, to recharge.  But this time there’s a cocoon of safety around him that, he knows, somehow, even in the fog of sleep, won’t let him go, a steady thrum of heartbeat against his ear, and there are no more nightmares.  

The End

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 22

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Zuko woke somewhere dark. As his awareness grew, the first sensation to come back to him was pain, a sharp ache at the back of his skull and a dull throb down the left side of his face that he knew would only get worse. Whoever had knocked him out had left his mask on, and it did nothing to relieve the feverish itch of his skin. His hands were chained above his head; the metal clinked when he tried to move. He drifted off again, falling between wakefulness and unconsciousness so that even with his ability to sense the sun, he couldn’t tell how much time passed. 

Eventually, he heard footsteps. One set steadily approaching, echoed by another running to catch up. They stopped beyond the shadow he presumed to be the door of his cell. 

“Food for the prisoner.” 

He shifted, tense, the guard’s muttered response lost in the pop of joints that hadn’t moved for hours. 

“Katara, are you sure this is a good idea?” The Water Tribe boy. “You know –” 

“I know what I’m doing, Sokka.” 

Sokka sighed. “Just be careful.” 

She murmured something Zuko couldn’t hear, and then a key turned in the lock and the door swung open on the groan of old hinges. He turned away. Her footsteps carried her through until she halted, and the door slammed shut again, and the scrape of her boots over the packed dirt floor came with the smell of hot food and the glow of a candle. 

“Zuko?” she called, with a wary, muted quality to her voice that grated on his nerves. She sighed and crouched down next to him. “How’s your head?” 

“Spare me your false pity,” he snarled, unable to help the way his fists clenched. 

“It’s not false pity. I’m going to take your mask off now. Even if you won’t admit it you’ll be more comfortable with it off.” 

He watched her hand reach for the ties behind his head but didn’t move away, knowing that��to do so would be useless, and token shows of resistance were beneath his dignity besides. Even so, he hissed when she pried the mask off him, flinching away as the bandage over the left side of his face stuck to the wood and broke the scab. He had hated her for months – a lifetime – but somehow, it was her gasp on seeing the ruin of his face that formed the hard lump at the back of his throat. 

“Don’t touch it,” he snapped as her hand stretched out again. 

Her fingers curled in on themselves. “What happened?” 

“Why do you care?” 

“I care,” she replied. “Zuko, this is infected, let me help you. I can heal –” 

“Get away from me!” He jerked upwards, calling fire to his fists so she had to flinch away. “I don’t need anything from you. You did this to me.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Her gaze held something inscrutable, like a riddle she was on the cusp of solving, but he was glad when she didn’t reach out to touch him again. “Why are you here?” she asked instead. 

He bared his teeth. “Why are you here?” 

The only answer was another sigh as she pulled a ring of keys from a loop on her belt and rose on her knees to unlock the shackles above his head. His wrists were still bound together, and the rush of blood back into his hands made them sting as they dropped into his lap, but he nevertheless had to bite back a sigh of relief. 

Katara was already standing. “You should eat something.”

He hadn’t noticed her place the bowl next to him. It was mostly rice with only a small amount of some thin, gristly broth soaking around the edges, but at least it smelled edible, and as his watering mouth and rumbling stomach reminded him, it had been at least a day since he had eaten.

“There aren’t any chopsticks, I’m afraid,” she told him. “It was decided you might try to escape – which I wouldn’t recommend, by the way. I managed to convince them to bring you down here without taking off the mask, but everyone knows who the Blue Spirit is now, and the Prince of the Fire Nation is a valuable prisoner to have.”

“I won’t help you,” he managed, because of all the retorts crowding on his tongue, that one was the safest.

“I wasn’t asking for your help,” she replied coldly. “That was a warning. There’s more than one person here who would love the chance to avenge family killed in the war. By your people.”

“Are you one of them?”

She turned away from him, and was nearly at the door before she threw her answer over her shoulder. “My quarrel isn’t with you.”

The door groaned open at her knock and as she stepped through a shadow detached from the wall and reached out for her. She paused, but ignored the touch and kept walking, leaving Sokka an instant to glare through the darkness at the prisoner in the cell, before the guard blocked the sight and slammed the cell closed once more.

When it opened again, dawn was not far off, but the air was more bitterly cold than before. Zuko had managed a few hours of fitful sleep after Katara’s visit, the food palatable but nowhere near enough to fill the hunger that gnawed deeper into his gut whenever he thought about it. He had never had to go hungry, not even on the ship. At some point, someone had left him another candle, with a bowl of salted water, clean bandages, and a pot of ointment to treat his burn. Though he tried to ignore the offer, without anything else to distract him the itching on his face became unbearable, and before he knew it he was reaching for the small stone pot and all but whimpering with relief as the thick, herby salve cooled his fevered skin. He had applied the new bandage as best he could without a mirror, but he left the mask lying where Katara had dropped it. He had no use for it now.

A guard stood before him, one of the ones in deep blue and white. Close to, he noticed a floral pattern embroidered into the hem of the quilted robes, and over the white mantle that draped the man’s shoulders, a heraldry that he’d never seen before.

“On your feet,” the guard snapped.

Prisoner he may be, but Zuko was still a prince. People did not talk to him with such disrespect. “Why?”

“Because I’m authorised to make you if you won’t cooperate.” The man grinned. “Don’t worry, you’re too valuable to haul off to the execution block.”

“Then where are you taking me?” Zuko asked, deciding to stand. His legs wobbled from being cramped for so long, but he didn’t stumble.

“The Grand Master wants to see you.”

Another two guards joined them beyond the door of the cell and together they led their prisoner through a maze of tunnels. He was blindfolded, and though he tried to keep track of all the turns as they took him through the maze of corridors, the construction of the temple was disorienting, and all he could tell was that they were climbing up into one of the towers, the steps worn and uneven beneath his feet. Draughts whistled down the spiral staircase, cutting through his thin clothes and dousing his inner fire until even shivering was too much effort, but perhaps that was the point, a way to make him less dangerous.

Eventually they reached a landing. One of the guards opened a door that creaked on old hinges, spilling warmth and the familiar scent of jasmine out into the corridor.

“The Grand Master will see you shortly,” someone said as he was pushed forward onto thick carpet. The door slammed behind him. For a moment he stood, cautious of his new surroundings, suspecting a trick of some sort because while he was still manacled, nobody had said he could take off the blindfold. When he was sure he was alone with only the howl of the wind for company, he reached up and peeled away the offensive layer of cloth.

The place was plush, well-appointed. Scrolls of artwork decorated the walls and artefacts from every nation filled blank spaces in the shelves that lined the room. The airbenders had little use for fire outside of cooking, so there was no hearth, but someone had installed a stove in one corner of the room, and it blazed with a lively fire while an iron kettle heated water on top of it. Zuko edged towards the only window only to find it locked, the sheer drop on the other side added discouragement to try and escape. As he looked around for another opportunity, his gaze was drawn to the centre of the room, where a low table was laid with a Fire Nation tea set on a lacquered tray.

He started when the door opened. And stared.

“Prince Zuko.” The man who surveyed him was squat, old, his jowls sagging and his brown eyes framed by deep wrinkles at the corners. He too wore one of the blue and white uniforms, but his beard was carefully trimmed in the fashionable Fire Nation style, and though he was balding, his wiry grey hair was pulled back into a topknot with a golden general’s clasp.

“I am afraid if you were looking to find a way out of here, you were wasting your time,” the Dragon of the West said as he ambled towards the stove. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to one of the large cushions by the table.

Zuko, numbed by shock, forgot his defiance of a moment before and tottered to where he was directed.

“I suspect you have questions,” Iroh continued, turning away to busy himself with the kettle. “I do as well, but that can wait. First, we must be comfortable. How about we share some food and a pot of nice, warming tea?”