#and they sit together in front of the crucifix just sort of looking at it

[mymoonagedaydream]

Part 1

Summary: Coming home from college for the summer, you expected your days to be spent reading in your bedroom and sitting through tense family dinners- but an old acquaintance had something else in mind for you.

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Language, anti-religious sentiment throughout

Author’s Note: I tried to write something new but I’m in a megafunk so I decided to just rewrite and improve upon an old series, it’s full official title is Only the Good Die Young 2: Electric Boogaloo (Die Harder). Yes this series has an underlying Billy Joel theme please don't ask me why because I do not know, I was obviously working through something 3 years ago.

---

‘Y/n! You look… healthy.'

Those were your mother’s first words as you walked through the door of your family home. She didn't exclaim how pleased she was to see you or ask how your flight was, no, instead she used her typical passive-aggressive euphemisms to subtly comment on your appearance.

This was going to be a long summer.

Initially you'd been adamant about staying in your apartment for the holidays, even on your own, cause all you wanted was peace and space. Then your parents threatened to cut you off if you didn’t come home so, here you were. You sighed and traipsed upstairs. Approaching your bedroom, you saw the bolt haphazardly screwed to the outside of the door, the one your father had installed years ago after catching you watching ‘ungodly’ TV shows in the living room at midnight.

Ah, coming back here always felt like plunging yourself back into the deep, ice-cold pool of childhood trauma.

Pushing the door open, you saw that your room had been redecorated. It looked fucking dreadful. You glanced up at the wall and a little bit of sick shot up the back of your throat when you saw the WWJD cross stitch, one of your mother's originals no doubt.

...a long, long summer.

—

Your first errand was grocery shopping. Typical of your parents to insist on you coming home for 'family time', only to then hand you a three-page chore list, the majority of which required you to leave the house. You took your time wandering around the store, making the most of your temporary freedom. Even obnoxiously bright fluorescent lighting and the sickly smell of cleaning products was preferable to that crucifix-coated prison.

Eventually you made it to the checkout and started unloading the cheap wine and raisin snacks onto the conveyor belt. The cashier offered the usual pleasantries but you found yourself distracted, wondering where the billows of smoke blowing past the front window were coming from. You tilted your head, trying vaguely to catch a glimpse of the cause, but soon got distracted as you had to try and recall your mom's PIN number.

Stepping outside with arms full of grocery bags, your eyes followed the smoke downwind. Mystery solved. Huddled on the corner of the sidewalk was a pretty big group of guys in leather jackets, most of them with cigarettes balanced between their fingers. It was a pretty intimidating sight. Usually you'd just avoid such an obstacle, crossing the road or just heading in an altogether different direction, but they'd managed to plant themselves directly in your only feasible path home. You just kept your head down, gripped your grocery bags tight and gave them a wide berth.

Your heart almost stopped when you heard one of them pipe up.

'Well holy shit, y/n?’

You turned towards the voice. James Barnes. The two of you went to high school together but, apart from the occasional stilted conversation and reluctant group project, you’d never really developed any sort of relationship. Besides, he always hung out with people your mother didn’t approve of.

And he was what, now? In a motorcycle gang? Figures.

'Hi, James. Good to see you.’ You mumbled, breaking stride momentarily. His friends seemed to find that funny.

'You too but, uh, people call me Bucky now.'

Nodding slightly, you gave him a polite smile before moving off again. You noticed your face beginning to feel warm and your stomach involuntarily tensing. Sure, he was more handsome and less punchable than you remembered, but you had no idea why being in his presence was making you this nervous. Hurried footsteps sounded behind you and in a second he was by your side, his stride syncing up with yours.

'You moving back to town?’

'No, just visiting for the summer.’

'Staying with your parents?'

'Mhmm.'

‘They still religious nut-jobs?’

You stopped and snapped your head round, in complete shock at the brazenness of his questioning.

'I’ll take that as a yes.’ Without taking his eyes off you he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, placed one between his lips and lit it. ‘Guessing you won’t be having much fun this summer then.’

'Not your kind of fun.'

He scoffed slightly at that, his face changing into something resembling pity. ‘Man, you Catholic girls start much too late.’

‘I don’t think I asked for your opinion, James.’ Your words came out much softer than you anticipated, barely a mumble. Not the kind of back-off-or-else warning you were aiming for. He was really getting under your skin.

'You didn’t, but I’ll give you another.’  

You raised an eyebrow, watching him blow a cloud of smoke over your head, your stomach now contorted into a tight knot. Against your better judgement you waited for him to carry on.

‘I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints,’ he stepped closer, bringing his lips to your ear and whispering, 'cause the sinners are much more fun.’

—

You dropped the shopping on the counter. The whole way home you hadn’t been able to get James Barnes out of your head, hadn’t been able to stop picturing his smirk or imagining his warm breath on your ear. For some reason you wanted to know more about him, wanted to find out what kind of reputation he'd made for himself while you'd been away, and if anyone had information it’d be your mother. She knew everything about everyone in this godforsaken town. Sitting down for dinner, you seized your opportunity.

'I saw James Barnes at the grocery store today.’

She abruptly dropped her knife and it hit her plate with a sharp clang, making you jump.

'You stay away from that boy,’ she punctuated the words with her fork, which was pointed directly between your eyes, 'he’s trouble. Him and his gang.’

You hated the way she spoke to you sometimes, like you were a child.

'He seemed nice enough.’

‘That’s how it starts,’ your father piped up, ‘then before you know it he’s got you hooked on drugs, living in a trailer, pregnant with his deviant child.’

'Amen.'

And that was the end of that conversation. Your father didn't say much but, whenever he did speak, your mother responded to his slow, dreary words like he was reading a new passage from the gospel. One thing you'd never wanted for yourself was a relationship like theirs, a loveless, bitter husk of a marriage with a biblical power imbalance and nothing left to say to each other. It was terrifying to think that you used to model yourself on them. They had you completely brainwashed before you left for college and, even now, some of their intrusive religious dogma still lingered in your subconscious.

You excused yourself upstairs as soon as dinner was cleared up, ready for your first day back in this hell-hole to be over.

—

Sunday. The priest had been droning on for god knows how long but you'd given up concentrating, his dull voice beginning to sound like a janky old extractor fan whirring behind the altar. You stood, sat, stood, kneeled and sat along with everyone else, singing and praying whenever prompted. This, every Sunday for ten weeks, was going to be torture.

It must've been a couple hours into the service when you felt yourself nodding off. Your shoulders relaxed and your head suddenly felt too heavy to be held up by your neck, you'd barely slept on your mother's concrete mattress the night before and this pew felt heavenly soft in comparison. Just as your eyes started to flutter closed, something startled you. It startled the whole congregation. The droning from the altar stopped and heads turned towards the door, where the disturbance seemed to be coming from. It sounded like a shuddering motorbike engine. Then another joined. In a couple of seconds the entire church was filled with an echoing cacophony of backfiring engines. Someone at the back stood up and ran to the door. There was some shouting and laughing before the noise eventually began to move away, fading into the distance. Looking around, you saw a sea of indignant and sour faces, a thick tension hovering in the air.

‘And that,’ your mother hissed through clenched teeth, ‘is why you don’t go near James Barnes and his friends.’

You had to suck in your cheeks to smother your laughter, nodding insincerely at her words. James’ voice echoed in your head…

The sinners are much more fun.

—

A few days had passed since the biker-blasphemy incident but you were still struggling to shake off James Barnes. You never thought you'd be one of those people who fawned after someone so obviously bad for them, you liked to think you were more sensible- but here you were.

You checked yourself in the mirror one last time before heading out. It'd been years since you had to conceal your actual outfit under the Amish garb your father insisted on you wearing but, by now, you were a natural at it. Once you'd broken free from your parents' Jesus programming you'd developed a great number of secretive techniques that allowed you to lead a semi-normal life without their knowledge, it was just depressing that you were having to employ them again this many years later.  

Your friend broke into hysterics when she opened the door and spotted the Yahtzee your mother had stuffed under your arm as you stepped out her front door.

'Is that your cover for the evening?'

'Yep,' you unceremoniously dropped the box in the hallway, 'I figured board game night at Ray's house sounded better than sloppy degenerate party at Ray's house.'

'I know which I'd prefer to be at.'

You smiled, embracing your old friend in a tight hug. 'I just gotta go de-Christian in the bathroom.'

'Is your dad seriously still telling you what to wear?' You nodded at her, rolling your eyes. 'Jesus Christ.'

'Don't get me started on that asshole.'

You stashed your bag of ugly rags alongside your mom's Yahtzee and began wandering from room to room, checking if there was anyone else there you recognised. Nope. Usually you'd just sip some liquid courage and start introducing yourself to anyone who looked friendly, but you knew if your parents smelled even a whiff of alcohol you’d be locked inside all summer, so you just skulked to the kitchen and opened a can of diet coke.

Just as you were beginning to question your decision to attend a house party stone-cold sober, there was a hard tap on your shoulder. You spun round to see James Barnes’ stupid wide grin.

‘Hey there, Church Mouse.’

‘James.’

Being nonchalant seemed the best approach here. You convinced yourself that you were just being intentionally aloof and sexy but, in reality, your parents' words had sunk deeper into your subconscious than you'd ever care to admit. Your wild attraction to this guy still wasn't enough to outweigh the suspicion they'd distilled in you.

'You enjoy your church service on Sunday?' James brought his beer bottle to his lips, smirking around it as he took a sip. 'Heard it was a rager.'

‘Would've been over a lot quicker without your interruption, you make a habit of pissing off strangers for fun?’

‘Nope. Just thought it’d be nice to welcome you home.’

Oh, that whole thing had been for your benefit? Interesting.

Your stomach started to flutter. A light tingle slowly made its way down your spine as you tried desperately to figure out whether he was genuinely trying to show some kind of vague interest or whether he was just mocking you, or even flirting with you for a bet. Your eyes searched his for any hints, your mind was racing faster and faster and you started to panic as you realised that you'd been standing there staring blankly at him for far too long.

‘You don't think it was a little obnoxious?'

‘Ah y’know,’ he leant against the counter, folding his arms, still grinning at you, 'we were just having fun, didn't hurt no one.’

You glanced away for a second in an attempt to smother any kind of smile, but he then bit his lip slightly and your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest. There was a second of lingering silence between the two of you, broken only by your embarrassingly loud gulp as he pushed himself away from the counter, took a swift step towards you and jutted his hand past your waist. His face was hovering no more than a couple inches away from yours. There was a quiet clink as he picked up a fresh bottle of beer from the surface behind you, a faint whisper slipping through his lips before he moved away.

‘Call me Bucky.’

A few hours passed, you'd built up the courage to chat to a few people but all the other guests were now reaching the point of drunken incoherence. It wasn't long before you decided you were no longer having a good time. After trudging around for ten minutes trying to find Ray, who turned out to be blowing chunks in the upstairs bathroom, you decided that a sneaky exit through the back door was the best course of action. You could always just gaslight her into believing she was too drunk to remember your emotional, prolonged farewell.

The glass patio door slid open and closed subtly enough but, while you were so busy focusing on not getting spotted, your clumsy ass managed to unceremoniously trample over someone’s feet.

James.

Of course it was. Brilliant.

He was finishing off a cigarette, his amused face fixed on yours as you gracelessly righted yourself. Laughing to himself, he held out the pack to you, but you shook your head.

‘Leaving so soon?’

‘Yeah, not much fun being the only sober person in the room.'

'So have a drink.' He shrugged before clocking your gloomy expression. 'Ah, I get it. Where'd they think you are?'

'Board games night.'

A deep chuckle vibrated through the still night air as he crushed his cigarette butt under his boot. 'That probably would'a been more fun than this mess.'

He nodded slightly, gesturing over your shoulder; you looked back through the glass to see two girls lying on their backs, trying to drink from beer bottles they were holding between their feet.

'Fair point.'

‘So, you wanna go somewhere else?’

Your heart stuttered at his question. You struggled to form a reply, gazing at him wide-eyed. 'I don't- I mean-'

'S'alright, I know the deal,' his arms folded across his chest, 'your mom told you all I could give you was a reputation, right?’

'Something like that.'

'Well, I wouldn't mind proving her wrong, if you'd let me.'

You couldn’t hold back your smile any longer, his eyes lighting up when he spotted it. Shrugging faintly, you scurried around trying to find something witty and attractive to say, something other than I think I might fucking love you.

'How about another time? I should really get home.'

A smirk dawned in the corner of his mouth, you couldn't tell if he was onto you or if he was just always this laid-back. The dull thunk of boots against patio brought his face intimately close to yours once more.

‘Come out with me tomorrow.’

---

Part 2

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[razrbladekiss]

TYRANTS | Chapter Eight - Angels Or Devils

WORD COUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: mentions of death, grief, tig, usual SOA shit

MASTERLIST

Irked, Chibs stuffed his cellphone into the pocket of his cut with a prolonged fuck to accompany the squelch of glass against leather.

He couldn’t get a firm grip on anything this morning.

Jax was at large, Isla and Tig had rolled onto the lot together looking much, much too comfortable, and Gemma was chewing every goddamn soul’s ear off about her son.

To say that he wanted the day to be over—before it had even commenced—was the understatement of the fucking year.

“Where the hell is he?” Clay barked from the front of the garage, turning to eye Isla directly. “You sure you haven’t seen him?”

“If I knew where he was, I would’ve told you by now.” Her retort was just as curt, prompting Tig to tense in his spot beside her.

He twined his hand around her bicep in order to calm her, but it was no use.

“Well somebody must know where he is—“

“You tried callin’ Tara?” Chibs cut the president off, hoping he’d be able to take some of the heat off of his daughter—the one that seemed to get all of Clay’s Jax-fueled frustrations launched atop her these days.

He just glared at the Scot.

“I can swing by his place? Make sure he ain’t there?” Tig offered.

“He isn’t. Wendy would’ve said.”

“Alright,” the sergeant smacked his lips together. “We’re gonna have to go without him, then.”

Isla hummed, agreeing with Tig.

That forced a vexed snarl from Clay, and she wanted to throttle him for being so fucking haughty today.

“What? He has a point. If we wait around for him, then we’re gonna be late and the other Sons will get to the cemetery before us. Jax knows where we’re going, and what time this fucking funeral starts, so just trust that he’ll be there!”

Her outburst was completely uncharacteristic. It was brash and loud, and Clay realized that her emotions were running a hell of a lot higher today than what they usually would have, so he allowed it to pass.

He cut her some slack because that was what she needed. Isla needed to blow off some steam, to raise her voice and yell out her frustrations because she would’ve let them bubble over, otherwise.

Plus, unbeknownst to him, she had started to take the Mirtazapine that had been prescribed to her, and she still didn’t know how to feel about it.

It was odd. Everything about today, was just fucking odd.

“Kids right.” The rasped acknowledgment came from Happy this time, nodding in her direction with that signature stoic expression he was known to host. “Jax wouldn’t miss this.”

“Alright.” Clay waved a hand tersely before gesturing to the sea of Harley-Davidsons parked side-by-side. “You heard ‘em. Let’s go.”

Tig grabbed at her hand as she went to slip away—exactly like she did to him last night—and pulled her toward him.

The moment didn’t go unnoticed by Clay and her father as they mounted their bikes, sharing the same look that’d been meshed with confusion and concern.

“You good now?”

She nodded, using her pointer finger to twist the crucifix that was sat against her neck, feeling a foreign heat prickle against her cheeks because all eyes were on them.

After turning up together today, people had their suspicions, too.

And those suspicions were mostly held by Chibs and the pres, but it was partly unrest because they both knew what Tig had done—though, Chibs wasn’t officially privy to Clay pulling the strings.

He would be, though. In time, he would find out for himself.

“Gemma and Wendy are heading out in the SUV. Are you going too?” He squinted underneath the sun, pulling his sunglasses from the neck of his shirt.

“I am.” Isla smiled, squeezing Tig’s hand. “Ride safe.”

She stood straight—not having to shift onto her toes because her heels provided some more height—and pressed a dulcet kiss to his cheek.

“Please don’t get into another fight today.” She expressed sadly, lightly ghosting her fingertips over the bruise sitting uncomfortably against his cheekbone. “I don’t think I have it in me to take care of you again.”

“I can’t make any promises.” Her lips curled upward, expressing some sort of smile—though, what with the forthcoming event, she didn’t feel too good about it.

But she remained silent, after that.

Isla got into the car without saying a single word.

The lull was of course grim, but stillness was what the three women needed. It was good for them to sit in complete silence—the only sound coming from the din of the car engine and outside of the vehicle—because it allowed them space to think.

She needed to collect her thoughts this morning, especially after what she had learned last night. Isla didn’t want to think that Jax would have flipped on Tig like that, but it was Jax.

He was unpredictable.

Never once had she felt a sense of outrage that she wasn’t sure how to quell whenever thinking of her best friend, but she was beginning to understand just why Clay was so pissed at his rashness lately.

Even if he was acting on instinct—using his conscience to rule his decisions—Jax was still acting recklessly. His desire to do the morally sound thing outweighed the need that his club had for him to carry out the act that would result in the greater good.

And he was right to stop Tig from pulling the trigger on that girl, but Isla was wary of how he had decided to handle it.

“You didn’t call me last night.” Gemma whispered as the car pulled up to the cemetery gates. “You said that you’d call me.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Genuinely, she told her. “When I got in I just went straight to bed, but then Tig turned up at my place and he needed my help, and then—“

“You let him stay.” She finished Isla’s sentence with a hum, providing her with an unusually somber glance. “If there’s anything going on between the two of you, then it’s okay—“

“There isn’t.” Isla shot her down, impatiently waiting for the all-clear to leave the vehicle. “He got hurt last night, needed patching up and didn’t wanna go to the clubhouse in case he saw Jax again, and so he came to me. And, because I’m nice, I let him stay the night.”

“Why wouldn’t he wanna see Jax?”

Wendy’s qualm came unexpectedly. She hadn’t thought that the blonde was listening to the little back and forth.

“Because he was the reason that Tig needed his face fixed.” She spat bitterly when Wendy just blinked at her, hoping to God that they’d be able to get outside soon.

Her irritation with the VP was palpable, and Gemma couldn’t help wondering whether Jax’s stunt had a part to play in why she was so galled when his name was brought up before they left the garage.

Regardless, Isla was getting along with it today. For the sake of Opie and his kids, she was putting her hostility aside and paying her respects to Donna the way that she had always been taught to.

“Woah, what a turn out.” Her admiration for the Sons grew with every single member—every Nomad—that she saw riding along the winding road.

Isla moved between Chibs and Tig, holding tightly onto her father’s hand as they walked toward Donna’s casket.

“Still no Jax.” Almost relieved, Tig noted. “Wonder if he’s gonna ride over with Tacoma.”

“Doubt it.” The Scot added. “He woulda followed us. Dunno where the fuck he’s gotten to.”

“He’ll be here.” She promised hopefully, breaking away from the two men—shaking Chibs off when he held on a little bit tighter, not wanting to let her go.

The black dress she’d thrown on was hardly funeral attire, but the tights hugging her legs underneath the cotton made it a bit better.

Tig watched her pad across the grass and toward Opie, trying to sniff back his own tears at the sight of her taking a long-stemmed blue flower, kissing the petals, and placing it atop the coffin.

It was horrible.

“I’m sorry, Ope.” Isla pressed a kiss to her fingers and ghosted it over the wood, feeling her eyes dampen. “Anything you need—anything at all that you can think of for yourself or your mom or the kids—I’m here. Always.”

He couldn’t quite find the words to thank her, but she knew that he was grateful. Opie didn’t have to say anything for Isla to recognize his appreciation for her, for his family, and for everybody that turned out today.

Jax wasn’t there, though. Not yet.

And, perhaps, Isla being at his side during a time of such harrowing distress was her way of trying to comfort him because his best friend was nowhere to be seen. But she would’ve done it for anybody.

She just wished that it wasn’t Opie.

“I love you…So much.” She whispered through a smile when more people began to filter in, backing away to sit beside Gemma and in front of Tig.

The cool metal of his rings were against her shoulder in an instant, anchoring her back to earth after floating much, much too high above the ground.

She was in a distorted haze, so to speak. Isla’s head wasn’t particularly in the right place today, and it could’ve been down to a multitude of things—but she wanted to simply pin it on her grief.

Chibs saw the way she gnawed into her bottom lip, the way she continually pulled Diane’s crucifix across the golden chain as means of comfort—or, maybe, it was just out of remorse.

He noticed that his daughter—his little girl—peered at Opie’s children sitting beside their grandmother as they said goodbye to the woman that brought them into the world.

He wondered if they understood the weight of it all. They were so young, so impressionable, so innocent, and he saw a lot of Isla in those two kids.

The dull throb of Isla’s heart almost slowed to a halt when the funeral commenced, and Jax was still completely out of sight. Juice held his cut while he stood beside Tara, feeling his chest tighten.

It was difficult to understand just why Jackson Teller didn’t show for such an important moment in Opie’s life.

“I can’t believe him.” Tig hissed out in a whisper, completely ruffled. Isla looked up at the man behind her, holding a dainty hand on top of his. “I can’t fucking believe him.”

He didn’t know what to say. Clay didn’t, either. As he stood beside his Sgt. At Arms and peered down at the disheveled blonde, Clay Morrow struggled to find the words to elucidate his disdain for the lack of action from his step-son.

Donna was family. Opie was family. Family was meant to be there for one another, not purposely ignoring such a pivotal event.

“He’ll be here.” Isla repeated her promise, melting into her space as Tig leant over to kiss the top of her head.

Her eyes glazed over instantaneously, coercing her to turn away before she broke down.

But she leaned backward into his embrace, and watched the ceremony commence.

And it only took a handful of moments for her mood to perk up—as much as it could have under the circumstances—but she was conceivably happier at the sight before her.

“I told you.” She mumbled. She refused to let up her grip on Tig, though, holding onto him firmer now.

It was comfortable. He was comfortable.

“What the fuck…”

Jax looked like hell. Still wearing last night’s clothes—still bloodied and bruised from his scuffle—he sauntered over the grass and made a beeline for Tara.

Isla’s throat hitched.

“Did you do that to him?” She mumbled in reference to the slit in his lip, craning her neck to eye the blue-eyed man.

“Yeah, probably.”

She just shook her head with a tiny smirk, shifting her focus back to the asshole that was taking his sweet fucking time.

It didn’t upset her as much as she thought that it would’ve, watching him go back to her like that. If anything, she was glad that they had managed to reconcile because she made him happy.

But, for a reason unbeknownst to herself, she felt bad for Wendy.

To watch the father of her newborn take his cut from a woman that’d only been back in his life for five minutes, to hold and kiss her in front of everyone, was something she shouldn’t have had to witness today.

They weren’t together, but she knew how that was bound to hurt—to sting and incapacitate her because it was all still so fucking raw.

Poor Wendy.

He took one of the flowers away from the sparse pile, holding it to his lips, and placed it atop Donna’s casket.

Jax glared over his shoulder, shooting the two guilt-ridden men a look that read fury. He made sure that Isla wasn’t looking at him when he did that, though.

He refused to look at her.

And he didn’t stay, either. He paid his respects for all of thirty seconds before stalking away, and leaving the most egregious of tastes on the tip of each tongue.

The funeral flew by, after that.

Before Isla knew it, she was dismounting Tig’s bike outside of T M—again—and stumbling over her heels when she couldn’t quite find her footing. She’d been in a world of her own for the last fifteen minutes.

“You want me to get you a beer?” She asked, handing him her helmet. “Or did you want some of that wine you like?”

He snorted at her taunt, taking it from her. “Beer—but none of that shit Bobby drinks.”

Isla chuckled, backing away from the bike and Tig.

“You want a drink, too?” She asked Clay when he strode over, hands in his pockets.

He nodded, waiting for her to slip out of sight before turning his attention to his Sergeant.

“What’s going on with you two?” Clay asked him accusingly, snatching Tig’s attention from the blonde who was ambling into the clubhouse.

He waved the pres off, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing, man. She’s just been helpin’ me out—“

“That’s what you’re calling it now, huh?”

“That’s what it is.” Tig shrugged, exhaling the smoke from his nostrils. “Y’know what she’s like. She sees someone that needs patchin’ up, and she does it. That’s all.”

Unconvinced, Clay leaned closer to him—striving for the little moment to go unnoticed by those that shrouded the lot. Jax and Tara, for one.

“That’s Chibs’s kid. You be careful.”

“Ain’t nothing to be careful about, brother.” Tig ground his lips together, squinting upward as he rested against his bike. “We’re just friends.”

“You stayed the night with her.”

“Yeah—“

“Twice.”

“Clay—“

“In the same fucking bed!” He snapped, running a hand over his face.

His desire to protect the women in his life—to assert the dominance he had, or his authority—was remarkably overbearing at the best of times.

Isla and Gemma didn’t particularly need to be coddled the way that they’d always been at the hands of Clay Morrow and his club, but they were.

And the thought of his sleaziest, loathsome, savage brother getting closer and closer to that woman churned his stomach. Because he knew what Tig was capable of—what he did—and would be damned if anything were to happen to her at the hands of Tig fucking Trager.

Chibs would kill him, too.

“Nothing happened, nothing’s currently happening, and nothing will happen.” He guaranteed. “Clay, I swear.”

“Alright.” Dubious, the older man responded. “But, if there is, then you be careful. Jax is onto us, and it’s only a matter of time before Isla puts two and two together—‘cuz she ain’t stupid.”

Be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

How about you shut the fuck up?

“I know she isn’t.” Almost irked that Clay would assume he thought that, he retorted. “But she’s got shit going on too, man, I don’t think she’s gonna be focusing on this right now so you don’t gotta worry.”

“Alright.” Clay repeated himself.

He didn’t think that his right-hand was telling him the truth, but he couldn’t exactly do anything about that until an issue arose.

What he did know, though, was that Tig Trager would’ve had some serious hell to pay if he had ignited something with Isla right now.

Or ever, really.

“Keep Jax away from her.” He told Clay, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “She’s pissed at him for what he did to me last night.”

“What’d he do?”

Tig pointed at the cuts on his cheek, grimacing. “She’s fucked off, and if they talk she’s probably gonna throw something at him.”

“Eh. Let her.” Clay waved him off, hastily shutting himself up when he heeded her heels clicking across the gravel toward them. “He needs to be humbled sometimes.”

The rivalry between the two had only intensified since Abel was born and Jax’s priorities shifted from the club.

His family came first. His biological family came first.

And maybe Clay didn’t understand the implications and responsibilities that came along with fatherhood because he’d never had that bestowed upon him, but Jax did.

He knew that he had to provide for his kid, for the one being that was solely dependent on him, and he would never compromise or jeopardize that.

Things weren’t going to be made easy for the man, however.

“Budweiser for you.” Isla smiled, handing a bottle to Tig. She passed one to Clay, holding onto it a little firmer as she offered it to him. “And one for you—but you need to take this, and go see your wife.”

“Why?” Hesitantly, he accepted the alcohol.

Isla shrugged. “She just wants to see you. Seems important.”

“Shit.” Clay hissed, taking a long swig before striding away.

She watched him stamp toward the clubhouse, heeding the change in his mood, and wondered why Gemma was so determined to talk to him at that specific moment.

It could’ve been anything with that woman, really. It could’ve been something so minor, completely insignificant, that Gemma had to get off her chest.

Or it could’ve been something along the lines of elucidating the bone-crushing lament that she held for both her husband and Tig.

Whatever it was, however, Clay wasn’t excited to face her.

“What’d he chew your ear off about?” Isla asked, struggling to open her beer. She sighed, suddenly remembering why she loved her screw-top bottles of wine so much.

“Pass it to me.” Tig took it from her, using his own bottle cap to pop hers off. He chuckled at her grimace, handing it back.

“Thanks.” She groaned, lifting it upward. “So…What did Clay want?”

Budweiser blanketed Tig’s tongue and lips as he pulled the drink away from his mouth, using the back of his hand to rub at the excess.

Quickly, he wondered whether lying to Isla—fabricating the truth and downplaying his superior’s concern—was in his best interest.

But she was perceptive. There was no doubt that she’d realize he was lying to her.

“He thinks that something is going on between us.”

She rolled her eyes, taking a pull.

“What?” A little nervous—on edge, perhaps—Tig asked her. “Did you already know that he felt that way?”

“No.” Instantly, she retorted. “I didn’t know about Clay, but Gemma feels the same. D’ya think they’ve talked?”

“Oh, definitely.” With a small glower, he told her.

They absolutely talked about the two, and that was what worried Tig.

There was nothing wrong with them colluding against the pair, as a rule. He wasn’t offended at the thought, he felt quite honored actually.

But it was the connotation that came alongside those conspiracies. The idea that Tig was only so friendly—so supportive and loving—toward Isla because he wanted one thing from her.

And, really, Tig hadn’t pondered that thought before. Well, not before last night, anyway.

For the first time—possibly ever—sex wasn’t on Tig’s agenda with Isla. Enticing her, breaking her heart, and sending her on her way was not something he wanted.

But Tig was renowned for that, wasn’t he? He was known for being a hapless bachelor. A man whose priorities were neither here nor there.

Everyone just expected that. They saw him with her, and came to that one conclusion.

Maybe Isla expected it a little bit, too. Because she’d known him long enough to understand the kind of man that he was—or had the propensity to be—and she could hardly lie and say that this version of Tig didn’t confuse her.

He’d always been the same with her, though. Perhaps that’d been the difference between every woman that entered and left his life, and Isla Telford.

He wasn’t interested in her. Like that.

“Does that bother you?” With an almost undetectable twinge of hurt, Isla asked.

As if it was a basic instinct, Tig shook his head. “Nah. They talk shit all the time. Stuff like that don’t bother me.”

She nodded, refusing to add anything else. Isla sipped her beer, hoping that the ground would open up and swallow her fucking whole.

There wasn’t a single word in the English language that’d ascribe her feeling at that precise time, but ashamed was possibly the closest she could’ve gotten.

And, still, that was a little bit further off the mark than what she would’ve liked. Because she wasn’t entirely ashamed for reacting the way that she had, more so the way that she fucking felt.

Isla’s heart took a blow when Tig told her that.

For why, though? She wasn’t sure.

It might’ve been the nonchalant expression. The complete colorless response that stirred a foreign emotion within her—striking hard against her chest.

Or, it might’ve been what he had said. It was such a casual proclamation. Something that didn’t mean anything, but everything simultaneously.

She didn’t feel anything for Tig. She didn’t particularly want to feel anything for him, either, but that hurt. A lot.

“Same, to be honest.” She lied, forcing her lips upward in a smile. “Gemma is always on my case about this sorta thing. But I just let it go over my head.”

“Always?”

“Yup. Always.” Isla mentioned around the protruding lump in her throat. “If she’s not talking about me and you—like there is a me and you—she’s talking about me and Jax. And if it isn’t that, she’s bitching about Wendy, or Tara, or just anything she can think of.”

Like there is a me and you.

Tig sniffed a little, nodding. He didn’t want Isla to think that bothered him, but it did. A bit, anyway.

“She’s so overbearing, sometimes.” Genuinely slumped, she stated. Isla leaned against the railing beside Tig’s bike, finally looking at him. “Don’t tell her I said that?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He chuckled, taking another swig. “I’d never purposely get you into shit with your mother—“

“She’s not my mother.” Her eyes rolled. “She acts like it, and I love her like one, but she is not my mother.”

Tig knew. He knew all too well just how Isla felt about that, and he wasn’t exactly sure why he said that to her, today.

Gemma was the best woman she knew and the one that, strangely, brought her all of the comfort and prosperity that she’d craved.

But she wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t close to being Diane, and maybe the comparison between the pair hurt a little. Because Gemma Teller-Morrow was nothing like Diane Telford—and the sooner everybody knew that, the sooner Isla could rest.

“I feel bad talking shit about her. All she’s done is help me.”

“And parent you.” He reminded her, tipping his bottle upward. “She parents all of us, but what I mean is she treats you like a kid sometimes. Jax, too.”

“Yeah. I know.” Peeved, she conceded. “But, what can I do? if I wanna keep her around—keep having her so close to me—then, I guess I’ve gotta make a few sacrifices. And, I mean, it’s not all bad.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not. I’m glad that she’s the woman that took a shine to me. If Luann ended up being the one…”

Tig smirked, sizing her up. “You’d probably be doing porn right now.”

“Exactly.” Without shame—not even feeling slightly bashful at the glance she was receiving—she said. “I don’t think I’d hate doing porn, but I don’t think SAMCRO would be thrilled.”

“Absolutely not. Chibs would kill you, for one.”

“And Gemma.”

“Clay, too.” Tig added, withering at the thought.

“What about you?” A little too bold, she asked.

Though their relationship was of the lighthearted nature, Isla wasn’t certain that the habitual riposte was a thing as of late. His response would probably jar her, she thought.

“I wouldn’t hate it.”

She halted, blushing at his words. Her ears prickled with heat, too.

“It’d be hot.” He shrugged, putting his empty bottle against the ground. “I’m sure Juice would love it, too—“

“Oh, get fucked.” She snorted a laugh, throwing the red cap at his chest as he got to his feet. It bounced off the fabric of his shirt, coercing a chuckle from Tig.

“It was only one time.” He taunted, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “That’s still one more time than most chicks ‘round here.”

“He wasn’t awful.” Isla shrugged. “He knew what he was doing, and I had fun. But, like, he hasn’t got any hair…”

“Hair?” Tig began to gesture downward, chuckling when she grabbed his hands to stop him.

“I don’t mean that. I mean hair on his head, Tig.” She calmed her laughter, letting go of him. “I like to tug on it, I guess.”

It felt somewhat illegal, obtaining this information from her.

He already knew that she was a sex fiend, that she liked it rough, and now that she had some kind of hair-pulling kink.

Tig’s chest tightened. So did his pants.

“Duly noted.” Like usual, he quipped. Tig motioned for Isla to head inside with him when he heeded things heating up between Jax and Tara.

She, as always, made a mental note to grill her friend later. Or, maybe, her friends. Because she and Tara were on that level, now, and she felt that things could’ve sailed smoothly between herself and the doctor.

Isla just hoped that she’d open up to her.

“Are you gonna talk to him?” He asked, reading her fucking mind. “I know that you two talk a lot.”

“Probably.” Her shrug was insouciant. “But I’ll leave it a while, I think. Leave the dust to settle over before I approach either one of them.”

Tig’s heart began to thrash. It battered viciously within the constraints of his chest, thumping at an unsteady rhythm the more Isla babbled on as they neared the clubhouse.

It was maiming him, having to keep this to himself.

He knew that concealing it—the weight of it all—was for the best. It’d guarantee peace and conformity within the club and Isla’s life, but it was also a crippling guilt that not even Tig was sure he’d be able to hold forever.

Clay was heartless, though. The nefarious leader hadn’t a single problem with lying through his fucking teeth, and Tig was more than aware that Clay would continue the charade if and when he decided that he could no longer.

He supposed he could thank him for that.

But, then again, he was also the reason that Tig Trager had found himself tangled within yet another web of lethal falsehoods. Thanking Clay was the very last thing that he wanted to do.

“Oh, shit.” Isla stated through partially gritted teeth. She gestured to her father and Happy’s scorned glares. “Why do I keep getting this fucking look from everyone?”

“It’s not you. It’s me.” He snorted another laugh, taking her hand and walking her further into the room after she stopped completely dead.

Really, Donna’s wake was as vibrant as it could’ve been and nobody—aside from Isla’s old man and the Tacoma Nomad—had their sights set on the Sergeant and Chibs’s daughter.

The atmosphere was strangely spirited, hearty and animated as everybody came together to celebrate the life of Opie’s wife…The way that they always had.

But Isla was still on tenterhooks. She loathed the thought of her dad disapproving of her, today, but she didn’t desire the castigation that would’ve come hand in hand with her need to talk to him.

“Tequila?”

“I’ll get back to you on that one.” She smiled at Tig, making a beeline for the bar when she saw Kip. He followed her.

“You’re turning down free alcohol?”

Isla scoffed. “It might be free, but the effects of it would cost me my fucking reputation here.”

Tig’s eyebrows raised. “How so? You don’t not drink, Isla.”

“I know.” Her lips pursed, watching Kip pop the caps off of six beers. “But I never drink tequila. It makes me…uh…it makes me feel a little hot—“

“Tequila turns you on, is what you’re saying.”

“Well, yeah.” A crimson blush bled over her cheeks, her nose, and even across her forehead as her entire face burned red. “It’s no big deal. Just something I discovered after getting black-out drunk when I’d barely turned twenty-one.”

If Tig wasn’t feeling aroused before, then he definitely was at her admission. He had to think of anything to throw his brain off of that mental image.

“I don’t tend to drink the strong stuff.”

“Unless it’s whiskey.”

She pointed with a smile, nodding her head. “That’s right—“

“Hey, what did you want?” Kip interrupted sheepishly, gesturing to the half-empty bottle she had between her fingertips. “Another Bud?”

“Yes, please.” Again, she smiled.

“Same for you?”

Tig nodded.

“Kip,” she began, “and you take something, too. You’ve dealt with these assholes for long enough, now. Take a break. I’ll man the bar if you’d like.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that—Gemma’ll kill me—“

“With all due respect, fuck Gemma.” She heard Tig chuckle beside her, shrugging when the prospect glanced at the pair nervously. “She won’t say anything if I tell her that I’m the one that told you to take ten minutes away from the bar.”

“Yeah.” He backed her up, grinning. “She never gets mad at Isla.”

It was completely uncharacteristic of him. But she brought something out from the very chasms of Tig Trager’s cold, black heart, and he lauded that.

Not many people had managed to scrape beneath the surface that way, not even Colleen.

God.

Tig shook himself out of the daze he’d slipped into, watching Isla and Kip trade places as she stepped behind the bar, and he made a beeline for a stool.

He’d been standing for a while, now.

“Are you gonna join me behind here?” She asked, drawing Tig’s attention back to her. Isla held up another bottle for him, twinkling underneath the yellowed light above the liquor shelves.

She looked, almost, angelic.

“Sack—“ Tig grabbed at his arm when he tried to leave his seat, feeling the prospect go rigid under his grip.

Isla’s eyebrows bunched together.

“Take two beers for Hap and Chibs.” He released the grey shirt, grinning as he saw the man sweat—clearly anticipating something more than just doing a simple favor.

“Oh, sure.” Kip breathed a sigh of relief, taking the two bottles that Isla had slid toward him. “That all?”

“Yep.” She added, gesturing for him to get on his way and enjoy the break that he’d been appointed.

He headed toward the two men beside the pool table, handing them their beers and pointing toward Tig. He waved with a small smile—hoping to come off as genuine, rather than scheming.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Giving the two men a couple of beers to throw them off the scent—or, at least, to distract them from making a fuss—was just a ploy to defer attention from the two nestled amongst the alcohol.

And it seemed to work, too.

As Tig walked around the bar to join her on the other side, Isla popped a few bottle caps, mixed a few drinks, and talked to every person that stopped off in front of the oak, without being so much as glanced at by her father.

Gemma hadn’t noticed the change, either.

“You want anything?” She asked Tig, mindlessly pouring a glass of whiskey for one of the Tacoma guys. “Some tequila?”

Indifferently, he shrugged.

“Okay, well that was helpful.”

“Alright,” he chuckled, grabbing two shot glasses, “I’ll take one, if you do, too.”

“Tig.”

“Isla.” His tone was deriding, though she couldn’t help but smile.

She pushed the whiskey toward the unfamiliar Son, thanking him for showing his face today, and turned her attention back to Tig.

In the thirty seconds in which her focus had been diverted, he’d poured two shots, grabbed some salt, and two lime wedges from underneath the counter.

She swallowed thickly, hoping to god she’d be able to play off the effects of that liquor.

Because it was only the one, wasn’t it? She was only going to have one single shot of tequila and, surely, that wasn’t enough to intoxicate her…

Right?

“Aw, fuck.” She slurred, pushing the empty bottle aside. “I really—“ she hiccuped. “I really need to stop drinking.”

“Why?” Just as garbled, he responded.

“‘Cuz I feel like I’m gonna puke.” She snorted a laugh, pushing all of the limes strewn across the redwood into the bin. “And my breath stinks of tequila.”

He waved her off, looking at his chest as he wiped the alcohol from his leathers. “Tequila don’t smell that bad.”

Isla blushed, though she fished around her purse for some gum, regardless.

And her heart fucking plummeted to the pit of her stomach when she noticed the bottle of antidepressants in the smaller compartment, suddenly realizing that her excessive alcohol consumption tonight was for sure going to mess with her.

Shit.

“Water?” He asked, holding two empty glasses. He heeded the dread in her expression, how she looked like she’d seen a fucking ghost.

“Please.”

Tig handed her one of the glasses, slinging his free arm over her shoulder—mainly in an attempt to stabilize her—and padded over to the kitchen.

The clubhouse was a little more sparse, now. Jax and Tara sat alongside Juice, Chibs, and Happy, meanwhile Gemma and Clay were meters apart from one another.

But nobody seemed to notice the lack of manpower behind that bar, which was a wonderful thing. Because Isla feared that she might’ve collapsed had she not hydrated herself.

She feared that she might’ve said, or done, something that she might’ve regretted, too.

Tequila did make her feel “hot”, after all.

“God, I need this so bad.” She practically moaned, twisting the cold water tap, haphazardly holding her glass underneath it.

Isla didn’t even shut the water off, she just chugged that slightly lukewarm—strangely beautiful—liquid like her life depended on it.

“Fuck.” She gasped for air, putting her glass atop the draining board. “Oh my god, that was so fucking good.”

Tig watched in awe.

As droplets of water trickled from her lips, and chin, to her chest, Tig subtly groaned to himself. He stifled a reaction, however.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, hell yeah.” She nodded.

Tig held her glass underneath the tap again, filling it half way. “You want some more?”

Isla took it from him, cocking her head a little when he didn’t let go of the glass. “What?”

“How’d that tequila make you feel?”

“What?” She repeated herself, forgetting about what she told him earlier. “Oh…”

“How’d it make you feel?” He pressed, releasing his grip though lifting his hand to brush his thumb underneath her glossy lips.

“Good.” Isla stumbled over her words, watching his eyes flick over her features. She gulped, though she put the glass straight back down. “Really, really good.”

Tig jolted, though relaxed when she let her hands rest against his shoulders. He hadn’t expected this today. Or ever, really.

“How good is really really good?” He asked, twisting a couple of ringed fingers through long, loose curls.

Her heart was no longer sinking to the pit of her stomach, but fluttering wildly within her palpitating chest.

“Pretty good.”

“Right.” He caught her bluff, nodding. “I could think of something that’d make you feel really, really, really good, y’know?”

“You think?” Isla leaned into him when a hand pressed into the small of her back, and the other holding onto the nape of her neck. She shivered. “Because I think you could.”

Confidently, he bobbed his head. “Oh, I could.”

She was a bundle of nerves, frankly. Tig was so nonchalant, so breezy, and she was just so fucking fraught.

But he didn’t seem to notice—or care—while he surveyed her face, grinding his lips together in anticipation. He lowered his head a little to meet her height, though she still stood on her toes.

“Make me feel really good, Tig.” She whispered, the citrusy scent of tequila permeating his senses, quickening the rate of his pulse.

Isla’s sweet, soft lips ghosted over his own as she exuded a satisfied sigh, loosening up at the feeling of their noses brushing over one another.

It was so gentle. She hasn’t expected a man of such stature, such hunger and animosity, to be capable of something so soothing.

An unmistakable burst of desire started to seep through her, humming against his lips as she opted to wrap both arms around his neck while he backed her up against the sink.

With the support against her lower back, Isla wound a leg around his waist as the kiss amplified and Tig began to grind his hips into her whilst simultaneously moaning.

She didn’t know how badly she needed this tonight.

Pink nails wound into his unruly curls, mindlessly nudging through the hair—pushing him to hasten. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, then. Lauding the flavor of tequila and cigarettes.

But Isla promptly froze at the sound of footsteps—heels, precisely—clicking across the tile.

“Tig, wait.” She jerked her head a little, urging him to stop. “I can hear Gemma—“

“You can see her, too.” The matriarch stated, rounding the corner and immediately coming into Isla’s line of sight.

Both Tig and the blonde shifted to look at her.

“Am I interrupting something?”

[crowtrinkets]

There are No Ghosts at Fathom Castle

The barista cannot sleep because something or someone is making noises late at night. Felix tries to convince them there are no ghosts. But is it true?

Gender Neutral Reader as always

I hope people laugh at the BuzzFeed unsolved quotes as I did lol. I don't have a set time that this takes place, just sometime after the MC yknow *dead sounds*The trash house story is actually based on a house my friends and I found one, we all dicked around in it like a bunch of idiots and I'm p sure something followed me home :)

Tags: @sadnhvibes @uselessbeanies

Words: 3,514

*THUMP*

I am roused from my sleep, sitting up quickly, frantically looking for the source of the sound. Nothing. What was I doing? I glance down and notice the book in front of me. Right, I was reading and I guess I must have fallen asleep.

"Stella? Did you break into my room again? You better not be knocking Felix's books over again you know how he hates that," I call out. I don't hear the telltale sign of Stella's meows so she must not be in here. I sit up properly, stretching my sore muscles, groaning with my aching bones. I stand and stumble over to my bed, if I'm going to be asleep it should at least be somewhere comfortable. Curling up in my blankets, I let my eyes flutter shut and slowly drift off.

*THUMP*

I snap my eyes open when I hear the sound a second time, this time it's followed by footsteps. That definitely was not Stella. I grab my blanket and wrap it around myself, grabbing a nearby lit candle. I hastily put on my shoes and cautiously approach the door. I slowly push it open, enough that the hinges don't creek.

Stepping out of my room, trying desperately to remain quiet and unseen, I cup my hand around the flame to protect it and shield the light from whoever is lurking in the halls. The steps are getting louder, approaching me ever so slowly. Like its taunting me. I back up against the wall, just before the corner turns, and take in a deep breath. I should have brought a weapon but maybe I can scare the intruder, I grab the corner of my blanket so I can throw it if need be. The steps are louder now, just before they reach the corner I swing around to catch them by surprise.

"AAAAH-AAUGHHHH!" I drop the candle before I can get a good look at the intruder's to face. In an instant, green flames are thrown at me, along with the intruder's screams, I fall backward and toss my blanket at the flames, scooting backward, frantically trying to get away. My blanket catches alight and falls to the ground, a flurry of green flames and feathers. I look up and meet the intruder's eyes, my breath labored and heavy.

"Felix!?" I say. Felix has his hand supporting him against the wall, trying to catch his own breath. He meets my eyes and speaks my name.

"What are you doing attacking me with your bedding in the dead of night?" Felix tries to remain whispering, but his voice is high-pitched with fear.

"What are you doing stalking around at night? And what's with the thumping?" I point at him accusatorially from the ground. Felix eyes me up and down, his gaze dropping to my blanket, which is still very much on fire. The flames illuminate his expression. Casting green light and shadows on his tired yet confused expression. I finally get to my feet dusting myself off.

"I could not sleep… Anyhow, are you alright? Not singed or injured in any way?" Felix's concern seems serious but I can't help but still feel shaken.

"No, but I feel like I lost 5 years off my lifespan," I run a hand through my hair trying to calm my violently beating heart.

"Well, yes, dying and coming back will do that to you,"

"Huh?"

"What?" Felix's eyes snap to mine, the hallway filling with an awkward silence.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," I say with a sigh. Just then the fire from the blanket goes out. "Oh great now its pitch black, and I dropped my candle too," I grumble. I hear metal clinking and then suddenly my candle is alight in Felix's hand, who hands it to me.

"Oh um, thank you," I say, reaching to take it from his hand. Our fingers graze and I suddenly feel more awake and aware, or maybe it was because I had the bejeezus scared out of me a second ago. Taking the candle holder from Felix I clear my throat.

"So um, couldn't sleep? Does thumping around relax you or something?" I try to joke.

"Thumping? I'm afraid I don’t know what you're talking about?" Felix states, crossing his arms.

"Well, it sure as hell wasn't Stella,"

"You'd be surprised what she can do," his tone turning serious.

"Well if you weren't making those thumping sounds then who was?" Felix gives me a shrug. I chuckle slightly. "Maybe it was a ghost,"

"Oh please, if there were ghosts here I would know, and besides they wouldn't just make things go bump in the night,"

"Says the man that turned into a ghost and followed me from Porrima back to Fathom,"

"I was not-!" Felix cuts himself off with a sigh. "Trust me when I tell you this dear barista, there are no ghosts in Fathom castle,"

THUMP

We both jump, inching closer together, frantically looking around in the darkness, I hold the candle up to see if I can illuminate the hallway a bit, but it remains dark and shadowy, much to our dismay.

"That definitely didn’t come from Stella," my voice barely above a whisper.

"Please, if anything it's probably Sage trying to mess with us," Felix takes a step forward, trying to appear brave, but I can hear the shake of his voice. "Hilarious Sage, you can stop your charade now though, no need to frighten out friend, the hour is late,"

No response.

"Felix I don't think it's Sage,"

"Isn't there a particular bar calling your name about now?" Felix shouts down the dark hall. Still no response. His shoulders drop as he takes a step back, his eyes still scanning the darkened hallway.

"Maybe it was a ghooost" I mimic my best haunting voice and wave my free hand ominously at Felix who only scoffs.

"If there were ghosts here they would not be able to move objects on their own, and they do not sound like that!" Felix states, but I can sense a hint of a smile in the candlelight.

“Well, I won't be able to go back to bed now, fancy some ghost hunting Felix?” I nudge his side. Felix lets out a sigh as he glances at me, eyeing me up and down.

“Well alright, but don’t get your hopes up, I doubt we’ll see anything,” I can feel the excitement, or maybe fear, well in me, we begin to walk down the hallway together, looking for the source of the sound.

“So Felix, tell me about Fathom's ghostly history?”

“What other than the thousands of Starsworn who died?

“Right… Well, every haunted place has a story of some sort, it explains why it’s haunted,”

“Oh really? Such as?” Felix’s tone is almost teasing, as a smirk form upon his lips.

“Well, hmm… Oh, one time when I was a teenager my friends and I went walking in the dark. We found an abandoned house that was absolutely filled with trash and other items,”

“What does this have to do with hauntings?”

“Well, someone wrote 'it's under the house' on one of the walls,”

“And what was under the house?”

“I’m not actually sure, none of us wanted to go digging in trash, but I'm sure something followed me home, I would always hear weird sounds at night after that day,” I hear Felix scoff once again.

“Even if there were ghosts in that place I doubt they would follow you home, you were probably paranoid,” I shrug off his comment and we continue to walk down the corridor in silence.

Our shoes echo off the walks, the only sound other than the wick of the candle, popping occasionally. We continue to walk in silence, almost like we have run out of things to say. And neither one of us dare to break it. But the thump comes once again, stopping us in our tracks, wind flows through the corridor putting out my light. Without thinking I reach for Felix’s hand in the darkness as I let out a startled gasp. I can hear Felix’s breath hitch as he grips my hand as well.

"Felix, you're not doing that right?"

"No of course not!" the thumping becomes more frantic and louder. It's getting closer.

"Well, I'm not staying to find out!" I grip Felix's hand and book it back towards my room. Dragging Felix back with me, throwing the candle holder in the direction of the sound. He yelps in response but follows me through the dark halls. We finally make it to my room and I close the door behind us.

"Why did you run? I thought you wanted to find the ghost?" Felix says between gasps.

"I'm not fond of being attacked in the dark" I say.

"Well, now you've tossed away our light source,"

"Oh, Ummm," I think for a moment and walk to the table in my room, I rummage through my backpack which is placed on top. I pull out my house keys and remove the miniature flashlight from the key ring. I flick it on and shine it on Felix, avoiding his face, he squints at the sudden light facing him.

"Gods, what is that?"

"It's a flashlight, just a handy dandy Earth invention,"

"Your Earth 'slang' as you call it, never ceases to baffle me,"

"You wouldn't happen to have holy water? Or even a crucifix?"

"A what?"

"Ok, maybe we can just will the ghost away?"

"What? What are you talking about,"

“So we can banish the ghost!” I say almost a little too enthusiastically.

“There is no ghost!” Felix sounds exasperated at this point.

“You’re right, it can’t be a ghost…. More than anything it’s a poltergeist or a demon,” a smile creeps across my lips. Felix lets out a long sigh, he stares at the ceiling almost like he’s asking the heavens ‘why’.

“C’mon Felix it’s just for fun, and besides something is making that sound so we have to find it,” I approach Felix, hoping he’s not too annoyed and will go with me. His eyes meet mine and he stares just for a second.

“Fine, yes, we really should find the source of the noise,” I return Felix's grimace with a smile as we exit my room.

The hallway is just as dark and ominous as before. I scan my flashlight as far as it will reach. It’s a cheap dollar store flashlight I got for emergencies, so it doesn’t reach that far, but it's better than nothing.

“Hey there demons, it's me, ya Earthling,” I call out into the hallway.

“What? What does that even mean?” Felix sounds utterly dumbfounded. I’m now reminding myself to brush him up on the great Earth classics.

“Its nothing, just a little friendly greeting for the ghosts,”

THUMP

The sound again. It comes from one end of the hallway. Felix and I glance at each other and with a nod, we head towards its direction. I light up what little I can of the hallway as we make our way to the source of the sound. Our breath shallow so as to not allow whoever's there to hear us approaching. We make our way around a corner, peaking just before we move forward.

“Do you hear that?” Felix puts a hand out in front of me.

“What I don’t hear-“ I stop when the sound of a wailing echoes silently through the hall. “I-is that a woman crying?”

“It must be the wind, there’s a terrible draft in this castle,” Felix’s voice wavers slightly, but he clears his throat as though to mask it.

“No… that sounds like a woman crying,” I feel my nerves bubble in my stomach, telling me to go back to the safety of my room. But I have to know what this sound is, and even then I don’t think I'd be able to fall asleep. I suddenly feel warmth on my hand, even in the dark I can tell it's Felix. I squeeze his fingers in mine.

“Let's keep moving,” he whispers to me, we then continue down the path, towards the crying voice.

“Yknow back on Earth there's a famous ghost called La Llorona, she wanders the streets at night wailing for her dead children,”

“I guess grief can transcend the grave as well,”

“Well, some people say she killed them,”

“...Maybe we should talk about something else,”

“Right,”

As we continue down the halls, the wailing seems to travel, never in one spot or room, it’s almost as though it wants us to follow. Eventually, we end up outside of the castle, where we approach a rather rickety-looking bridge connecting two sections of the castle together. We walk into the moonlight, the chill air nipping at our skin. I am suddenly mourning my blanket.

Felix pulls his hand away from mine and walks over to the ledge of a wall near the bridge, looking up at the sky. Turning off and pocketing my flashlight I stand by his side.

“Are you usually up this late?” I break the silence.

“Usually yes, my sleeping habits are temperamental so I tend to take walks, hence why I was out and about when you frightened me,” Felix says, eyes never leaving the stars.

“Right, sorry about that, you do owe me a new blanket though,”

“Yes, I suppose,” Felix chuckles. I lean forward on the wall and look at the surroundings of the castle, lots of water, I can also see the forest I occasionally take walks in. Taking a deep breath I start again.

“If you ever can't sleep you can always see if I'm up, and if I am we can take a walk together,” I glance over at Felix who stiffens slightly, but then a small smile forms on his lips,”

“I would very much enjoy that,” he states. The moonlight shining brightly on him, casting his frame in cool blue light, fitting to the cold air surrounding us.

Suddenly a rattling sound startles us. Both straightening from our spots Felix and I look at the bridge, which shakes slightly. Felix and I approach it, gawking at the bridge which starts to shake more and more violently, almost like someone is jumping on it. I look across the other side and see a door in the castle wall, slightly ajar, something white flowing in the corner.

“What is that!” I point across the bridge. Felix squints.

“I’m not sure, but there must be some explanation,” at this point the bridge is rattling loud enough that Felix and I have to yell.

“Is there an explanation for a bridge moving violently like this?!” I wildly gesture at the bridge. Felix winces at my comment.

“No I don’t think so,”

"Screw this," I take a deep breath and grip Felix’s sleeve.

“FUCK YOU, GOATMAN!” I shout at the top of my lungs, running as fast as possible across the bridge, dragging Felix in tow. The bridge continues to shake but I keep my balance and speed. As I run towards the door frame the white object disappears behind the door, I kick in the door, and once Felix and I make it inside I slam it shut. I scan for whatever disappeared behind the door but I don't see it.

“Goatman?” Is all Felix can blurt out.

“Oh yknow, another famous Earth ghost. He attacks people who play on his bridge, thought I would cover my bases and scream at him,”

“Earth is quite obsessed with death and the afterlife, and you call me morbid,” Felix retorts. I look around the room for any doors or hallways, but there are only stairs that lead back to the inside of the castle.

“I guess all we can do is head down,” Felix nods and once I bring out my flashlight, we descend the stairs. Once we reach the bottom I notice a white blur disappear behind a door. I grab onto Felix’s sleeve and pull him close so I can whisper into his ear.

“I saw something go into that door Felix, I think it’s the ghost we saw earlier,”

“I didn’t see anything,”

“Well, I did! And at this point, I'm tired of chasing it!" I storm towards the door, Felix whispering protests behind me. I kick open the door and scan my flashlight around the room. It seems we're in a small mess hall of sorts. There are tables and benches everywhere, but I don't see anyone else in the room.

"I don't see the point of chasing something that potentially isn't even there!" Felix comes up behind me, sounding very done with our hunt. Just as Felix makes his way in, the door slams shut behind us. I shine my light at the door and see no one behind us. I approach the door and pull on the knob, trying to get it open, but it won't budge. I shoot Felix a worried glance, his lips forming into a grimace.

"Open the door!" Felix's voice wavers between scared and annoyed.

"I'm trying it won't budge!" I continue to pull on the door. Felix approaches and pulls on the door as well. But it remains closed. I suddenly feel the hairs on my neck stand, almost like someone is watching me, I tense my shoulders daring not to turn around. Put a hand on Felix's shoulders, I lean in to whisper in his ear.

"Felix I think someone is behind me," without waiting for a beat Felix turns around, his eyes going wide, he backs against the door and grabs my arm pulling me close. I turn around to see what he's looking at. There stands, the shape of a woman, standing a few feet away. White cloths drape her figure shielding her face. She reaches a hand out to us and the wailing we heard earlier in the castle starts to emit from her. At this point, my whole body is shaking.

"Felix I think that's the ghost,"

"N-no! It cant be, it must be Sage," Felix continues to grip my arm, holding me close to him or maybe he's shielding himself but at this point, I'm too scared to question it. "Ok Sage you can let up now, we're trapped in this room so there's no reason to keep going with your little prank," But the figure continues to advance on us. I reach behind me and continue to pull on the doorknob, hoping it finally opens. However, my prayers are answered too soon and the door does open. Felix and I falling backward, our backs hitting something behind us.

"Boo," a deep voice growls into our ears.

"AAAUGH!" Felix and I both jump and swing around to see…

"Sage!!" I shout, my thoughts catch up to me and I turn back around only to see.

"Annie!?" Felix retorts. Anisa pulls the cloth from her face and bursts out laughing, Sage, following suit. In between shaky breathes Felix and I look at the two of them and back at each other, confusion and fear plastered on our faces.

"I think I need to sit down," I stumble over to the wall and lean against it, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor.

"I knew it was just Sage messing with us, but Anisa! How could you,"

"I'm so sorry! It's just Sage had the idea and I couldn't resist having a little fun," Anisa says as she wipes tears from her eyes. Her fangs poking through her smile. Sage is now on the floor, having difficulty containing his laughter.

"Oh, the look on your faces! And Felix trying so hard to open the door!" Sage grips his stomach until his laughing subsides to which he lets out a sigh and sits up, using his left arm to support himself.

"So the wailing in the castle? That was you?" He gestures to Anisa who nods in response, trying to stifle her laugh.

"What about the bridge that couldn't have possibly been you?" he turns to Sage.

"Tied a rope to the bridge and pulled on it from the moat! I got a little wet in the process but I feel it was worth it," Sage sends a wink in my direction. To which I roll my eyes, still trying to calm my nerves.

"I do hope you'll forgive us," Anisa walks over to me and crouches by my side. I let out a sigh and look between Sage and Anisa.

"I guess it was kind of funny," I say.

"Nothing funny about scaring the lights out of someone," Felix mumbles under his breath.

"I think I can recall a certain someone setting many things on fire as a "prank", Felix?" Anisa shoots him a smug smile. Felix flushes slightly and shrugs. Anisa calls my name to get my attention. "How are you feeling?" I finally sit up from the wall and look at the three of them processing the night I just had with Felix.

"Like, you all owe me a new blanket,"

[thepetulantpen]

(Happy Valentine’s Day! Here’s my annual Saimota fic. As usual, keep an eye out for saimota fanart by @fancy-kryptonite​)

The anticipation leading up to Valentine’s Day is persistent, all-consuming, and, above all, irrational. It builds and builds past the point of overthinking and well into sleepless nights.

Holidays are always like this- a sort of performance anxiety to be happy, to make a day special. In a sense, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. He knows it can’t possibly be perfect, so he ruins it for himself before he starts.

It reaches a breaking point in the form of him mentally throwing up his hands, tired of debating with himself. There have been enough grand, somewhat ridiculous gestures over the last few years. No one is expecting him to do anything elaborate, least of all Kaito- who Shuichi finds sprawled out on the grass, a pile of books abandoned at his side. Unconcerned with the holiday a few days away.

“I was thinking we could try something normal this year.”

Kaito raises his head, not confused by the non-sequitur, but mildly offended- insofar as any of Kaito’s expressions can be called mild.  “I thought our other dates were normal?”

“Simple. I meant simple.” Shuichi can’t help smiling- only Kaito would consider scavenger hunts and secret love letters normal. He sits down beside Kaito, trying not to crush any of the books, borrowed far past their return date. “Easier to plan.”

Kaito looks relieved, and ecstatic- the latter of which is not particularly comforting. “Right, right. I’ve got the perfect thing.”

That’s fast, even for Kaito. Shuichi tries not to let it get to him- he hasn’t thought of anything specific yet. “Well, I figured we could each pick something- you take the morning, and I’ll take the afternoon?” Hopefully, that’ll give him enough time. “If you don’t mind. I mean, I could go first, if you’d rather.”

“Nah, I’ve got it covered.” He pats Shuichi on the back, with his usual lack of awareness of his own strength. “I won’t disappoint you, sidekick.”

I’ve really got to talk him into a new title.

He certainly sounds confident, but Shuichi has never known Kaito to not sound confident. He’d been thinking coffee or movies, but if Kaito has something perfect, then Shuichi has to step up his game. There’s only a day or two left- what could he do in that time?

“Shuichi? Did you hear me?” Kaito leans into his line of sight, waving his hand in front of Shuichi’s face. There’s no telling how long he’s been doing that for. He must take Shuichi’s expression for an apology, as he repeats himself, “I’ll text you the details. It’s a surprise, so don’t try to detect it, alright?”

Oh, good. Another thing for me to obsessively think about it. 

“I won’t, I promise.”

Kaito doesn’t look convinced. Shuichi can’t say he is, either.

…

Despite Kaito’s insistence that Shuichi would guess before they got there, the escape room ends up being a pleasant surprise. The waiting room is charming, filled with props to take pictures with and a massive winners board, and the hallway is filled with unassuming doors labeled with puns related to their theme. Their room is, fittingly, made out to be the scene of an old-timey murder- Shuichi and Kaito, wearing the deerstalker hats hung near the door, being the detectives called in to solve it.

It only occurs to Shuichi about halfway through that he’s spending Valentine’s Day rifling through blood-stained documents about a fictional murder while Kaito yells nonsense guesses to word puzzles from across the room. He wouldn’t have it any other way.  

“What if we arranged the dominos in a star shape? Is that anything?”

Shuichi glances up from the nearly illegible pages that have been unceremoniously shifted to his responsibility and finds Kaito juggling a tin of dominos and an armful of paintings that had once been on the walls. Those, at least, were meant to come off. 

“Uh,” Shuichi hesitates, caught between about three puzzles at once- one of them being Kaito, in general, “It couldn’t hurt?”

Kaito grins, obviously happy to do something. The paintings are scattered across the table, now crowded with other clues jumbled beyond recognition. From a glance, Shuichi can see that the lines painted on might actually make a star- but he doubts someone’s been assigned to watch the camera and wait for them to artistically arrange the dominos.

Kaito is not stupid. He’s practically an astronaut and, aside from that, he can be brilliant with people, far more insightful than Shuichi. It’s just- he tends to think in the abstract, approaching problems in a way no one else would. Meaning that the people who made these puzzles would never arrive at the solutions Kaito picks out. 

It doesn’t help that he refuses to use their hints, under any circumstances. The employee running the room had only egged him on by telling him no one had ever solved it in time without using a hint- Shuichi had accepted their fate, after hearing that. 

The intercom clicks on, the false cheer of their game master giving them a five-minute warning. Kaito scoffs, confidence never dulled, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him- his hands, over the dominos, have stopped, apparently realizing it’s not getting him anywhere. 

Shuichi had told himself, while they were waiting for the room to reset, that he wouldn’t take over. It’s supposed to be a casual game between the two of them, no pressure to win. Plenty of people fail these things, and they still have fun.

He has a feeling Kaito is not one of those people. 

“We still have plenty of time,” Shuichi assures, surprised to sound so confident, “I think the dominos are color-coded. Take these,” he hands off one of the papers, still running through combinations on the others, “and give organizing them a shot.” 

Kaito gives him a mock salute, but rises to the task. As predicted, he moves through the dominos quickly- giving Shuichi time to hurriedly unlock the next two safes. He’s had those figured out for a while, having thought he would have more time to guide them to the right answer. 

The solutions themselves are not terribly difficult. Nothing like solving crime, in any practical way, but they force him to slow down and connect all the pieces, adding up how every seemingly unrelated item fits together. 

“I’ve got it!” Kaito grins, the triumphant click of dominos set in the right position- a key to another code. “What’s next?”

“It corresponds to the filing cabinet,” he’s practically on autopilot as the clock ticks down, the flash of red numbers in his periphery, “I’ll take the desk drawers.”

It puts them shoulder to shoulder, both rapidly setting combinations and trading half-shouted numbers, unnecessary given their closeness. Kaito finishes first, so he gets to watch over Shuichi’s shoulder as he guesses the last clue. 

For a second, it looks like he’s gotten it wrong, that he’s failed them both, before the lights flicker dramatically. They all go out, save for a hidden projector that lights up one wall with the image of a wailing ghost- ah, he’d forgotten they were supposed to be avenging some spirit. He’ll admit, he wasn’t listening very closely during the introduction, distracted by Kaito’s grin as he took in the room. 

Kaito jumps about a foot in the air- clearly, he hadn’t been paying much attention either. Shuichi takes his arm, hoping to keep him from stepping on any of the discarded paintings.

“The necklace,” Kaito yells over the sound effects, wide eyed, “she wants the necklace!”

On impulse, Shuichi dives for it, digging through the pile they’ve accumulated, and tosses it to Kaito. He doesn’t present it to her so much as he holds it up as if it’s a crucifix he could use to exorcise her. The projection, unlike a real ghost, thankfully doesn’t mind his rudeness.

“I may finally be at peace.”

Figures that Kaito would be the one to bring peace to the ghost. It makes Shuichi smile, even as the lights are turned on abruptly, bringing an anti-climactic end to their adventure. The clock is paused at 17 seconds- not exactly a record to brag about, but he’ll take it. 

On their way out, Kaito elbows him to get his attention. “So, how long did you know the answers?”

Shuichi smiles and says, “Not long.” Which, judging from his expression, Kaito translates to “since we got in the room.”

Kaito doesn’t seem bothered, not like Shuichi thought he might be. If anything, he looks delighted. 

“We made a fantastic team, as usual. Under my guidance, of course.” He messes up Shuichi’s hair, a habit he didn’t bother kicking once they started dating. “With our smarts combined, we could do anything. You could be the first detective on the moon, you know?”

“I don’t know, maybe my calling is in paranormal investigations,” he teases, pretending not to notice Kaito’s grimace, “we could go on ghost hunts together.”

Kaito scowls, and Shuichi presses on, baiting the hook, “Unless you’re scared?”

“No man, nor beast, has ever bested me.” Kaito’s frown is close to genuine indignation, offended that Shuichi would consider him below ghosts. “Ghosts don’t even have bodies. I’ll take on a ghost, any time, any day.”

Luckily for Kaito, Shuichi thinks it’s unlikely he’ll ever have to deliver on that promise. “We’ll save that for another weekend, then.” He picks up the pace, leading the way, for once. “I’ve got something a little more romantic than a ghost hunt, this time.”

If Kaito looks inordinately relieved, Shuichi is generous enough not to notice.

…

Most people can tell when Shuichi is overthinking something. Most people know that answer is “always”. 

Kaito can tell when Shuichi is thinking of overthinking something. The calm before the storm, the buzz of energy that has him tapping his foot incessantly while staring into space. It started well before their date, carrying into the weekend of Valentine’s Day.

It all hits in the form of an over-packed backpack and piles of printed maps, stacked in the backseat. Shuichi has a schedule, complete with an annotated map of their hiking trail and final destination.

“We should make it there just as it gets dark enough to see stars. It’ll be a perfect view.”

The emphasis is obviously placed on perfect, Shuichi’s smile just a bit forced. Kaito gives the map a once-over- credit where credit is due, it looks as close to the perfect spot as you could get- and gives Shuichi a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

He may not be a detective, but it’s not hard to figure out that anything Shuichi comes up with will be incredible. It’d be difficult to have a bad time with Shuichi; any time spent with him feels like time well spent. The beautiful hiking trail is only a bonus. 

Kaito wouldn’t be surprised if Shuichi’s plans were flawless, every second mapped out. Every funny looking tree, every set of tracks in the ground- all set up for Kaito to notice, or for them to use as landmarks. Shuichi could say he’s set the stars on a timer, and Kaito might just believe him. If anyone could do it, it’d be Shuichi.

The sky, however, seems to have other plans. 

The clouds start rolling late in the afternoon and stick around stubbornly after the sun sets, filtering reds and purples through grey film. At certain angles, Kaito can see the moon in their gaps, but there’re hardly any stars persevering through. Dark grey shadows move over what might have otherwise been a fairly bright sky, now dimmed to a heavy static. 

It's remarkable in its own right, patterns of grey standing out starkly against the abyss of the night sky. It feels like the clouds are the only thing between them and limitless space, a simple barrier to surpass. Kaito only feels more drawn to it, eager to peel back the layers to see the stars for himself.

“I checked the weather,” Shuichi mutters, miserably, “I had three backups, and I was sure this one would be clear skies. I even looked up the constellations you could see from here-“

“That’s alright.” The grass has started to cool rapidly in the darkness, no springtime warmth remaining to greet them. Kaito lays out his coat to sit on, instead, and leaves Shuichi the more generous half. “It’s a great view, like you said.”

Shuichi squints at him, suspicious. “You can’t see any stars.”

“Stars aren’t the only thing I came here to see.” Kaito puts an arm around Shuichi’s shoulders, pulling against his side. He’s never embarrassed to be close to Shuichi, but he’ll admit he likes it best when it’s just the two of them, no distractions, no threat of self-consciousness. “It’s perfect.”

Shuichi looks down, hiding a smile. “Next you’ll be dropping cheesy lines with star metaphors.”

“There’s nothing wrong with star metaphors!”

He should be offended when Shuichi laughs at that, but he can’t bring himself to pretend. Shuichi’s laugh is reward enough- even if, objectively, star metaphors are among the best romantic gestures.

He’s still got work to do, as Shuichi sits silently beside him, staring at the galaxy print of Kaito’s jacket to avoid looking at the sky. It’s obvious he’s under the impression that he’s failed somehow, which just won’t do. As the hero to his sidekick, it’s Kaito’s responsibility to let him know he’s wrong- just, perhaps, not in those exact words.

Kaito nudges Shuichi and leans forward, craning his neck to get the best view of the clouds above them. “You’re underestimating the sky. Look, there’s always something beautiful to see.”

He points at the formations of clouds, shapes made of negative space against the moonlight. Their tops are highlighted by the escaping light, scattering over the uneven, cottony surface. Shuichi’s head tilts to follow him- it reminds Kaito of the escape room, focus taking over his expression. It’d almost feel out of place here, beneath the clouds with nothing of substance to analyze, if Kaito wasn’t used to seeing it all the time, for anything from figuring out a new coffee machine to spoiling a detective show by guessing the killer early.

“That one looks like a bear,” Kaito takes Shuichi by the shoulders, directing him to the cloud in question, “See? The other clouds are like the salmon it’s chasing.”

Shuichi doesn’t manage to sound very convincing, but he tries his best when he agrees, “I think I see it.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar, Shuichi?”

Shuichi elbows him in retaliation, turning away from the stars to look up at him. He’s going for disapproving, but Kaito can see through him, far easier than seeing through the cloud layer. 

Somedays, it’s hard to believe that Shuichi bothers to hang around with him. Kaito considers himself good company, but for Shuichi? He’s not sure he qualifies- and yet here they are, under the stars. Or clouds, as it is. 

“One day, I’ll bring you to see the stars up close. We’ll go high above the clouds and into the night sky.” Kaito holds him closer, no longer interested in looking at the sky. “Just the two of us.”

“I’d like that.” Shuichi leans more into him, pushing for room on Kaito’s jacket. When he smiles this time, he doesn’t hide it. “I’ll have to consider space for next Valentine’s Day.”

He doesn’t sound serious, like he doesn’t completely believe Kaito will be able to pull it off. That’s alright- he has plenty of time to prove him wrong.

Kaito’s not being completely honest, anyway. Space isn’t his ideal Valentine’s Day- and it’s not an escape room, or star-gazing, either. It’s by Shuichi’s side, wherever that might be. If it’s watching reruns of mysteries he’s memorized the solutions to, or teasing him for his choice of black coffee, or just laying on the grass, staring up at the same sky.

The promise of another Valentine’s with Shuichi makes it all worth it. Kaito doesn’t need much else- though, he’s still looking forward to sweeping the clearance section of chocolates.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Fractal Scarring

[Broadway Kids]

FINALLY THIS IS FINISHED. two days to write 12,000 words? that’s so shameful :/ 

also i hate writing in present tense

Word count: 12,029

Prompt: “And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” “Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

Tw: Abuse, waterboarding

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

The sound of the doorbell ringing rudely interrupts the heated kiss between Lynn and her girlfriend, Estelle. Lynn pulls back with a growl of frustration, waiting a moment before leaning into Estelle again.

  “You’re not going to get that?” Estelle asks.

  “No need,” Lynn says dismissively. “It’s probably just the Amazon guy.”

  “What did you order this time? More sneakers? Special energy drinks?” Estelle says teasingly.

  “Oh, hush,” Lynn bats at her. “Just because I’m a coach doesn’t mean everything revolves around sports. You, for example.” And then she leans in again, locking her lips with Estelle’s and falling back into the warm, buzzing trance of kissing.

And then the doorbell rings again.

And again.

And again, until it was going off every second in a rapid fire cacophony of chiming.

  “Persistent Amazon guy,” Estelle observes.

  “Oh my god!!” Lynn yells. She rips off the blankets, nearly exposing her girlfriend’s own naked body in the process, snatches her robe from the bathroom door (although she had considered flashing the solicitors to scare them off), and marches to the front door. There was a glass window at the very top, but was too high to see who it was, so she had no idea who was ruining her time with her girlfriend until she yanks open the door with force.

  “Sue?!”

Her student blinks at her from the stoop, trying very hard to not look at the white robe she was swathed in and put the pieces together. The way she clears her throat and then proceeds to say absolutely nothing didn’t help the situation be any less awkward, either. A halo of raindrops from the drizzle falling from the grey-blue sky twinkles on the crown of her head like dozens of silver spider eyes that seemed to stare straight through Lynn’s fluffy covering.

  “What-” Lynn finds her voice, although it came out tight and strangled from embarrassment for a moment. “What are you DOING here?! How do you know where I LIVE?!”

Shrugging nonchalantly, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, Sue says, “Chris knows a guy.”

THAT Lynn didn’t doubt. She wonders if this “guy” was Billy Nolan or her father tracking her or someone else entirely. Feeling like there were several more eyes on her, Lynn shifts uncomfortably and pulls the laces around her stomach even tighter.

  “Why are you here?” She demands with her Coach Voice. It made Sue jump, but then she realized that it wasn’t in fear like she was hoping, but some sort of jolt of remembrance.

  “Oh! Right!” Sue looks over her shoulder. Dismayed, Lynn saw that Tommy was there, too, but he was halfway hunched in his Jeep, fumbling with something. “Miss Gardener, you are the most trusted adult we know. Something happened- something really bad, and we need you.”

Usually, Lynn would instantly mount the problem that one of her students was facing and bring it down, but right now, she really rather be mounting something else and be brought down on a bed, so this was not her top priority at the moment. If none of her loved ones were dead, then she really didn’t want to hear it.

  “What about your PARENTS?” Lynn says, shooing Sue backwards. “Go to them!”

  “No, Miss Gardener, you don’t understand!” Sue cries. “It’s Carrie!”

Lynn froze.

And, at that moment, Tommy pulled out a bloody, beaten Carrie out of the backseat of the Jeep and into sight.

  “Bring her inside.” Lynn says without a shred of resistance. “Sue. Tell me everything.”

------

  “How do I look?” Tommy asked. “Good? Good enough? Christian-like?”

Sue giggled. “You look great, you dork. There’s no need to worry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “It absolutely IS a big deal!” Tommy squawked.

It really was, Sue had to admit. It was the first time Carrie White was EVER having people over at her house.

She said she had begged her mother for hours, swearing up and down that she would be the best daughter and never ever complain ever again if she could have her friends over, and her mother had finally relented. So, now Tommy and Sue were parked outside a cottage as old as time itself. It’s swathed by tendrils of ivy climbing their way towards the roof that was missing several shingles and splotched with patches of emerald green moss. The weathered wood is a chalk color, paint peeling and flaking off, and black peppering along its breast. The windows are tinted a deep brown and covered up by drapes, many of them cracked. The yard was a sea of weeds and the walkway leading up to the house was lined with deceased trees; their ebony branches bore no leaves. The very age of the cottage is shown in its deterioration.

This was no place for any child to be raised.

Withered brown leaves rustled in the ghostly wind. The street was almost silent, if not for the wailing gust, the crackle of fronds, and the gentle rumble of the Jeep’s engine. Black tires trampled over the dead blades scattered on the edge of the poorly-kept street, the crunching of their filaments like bones beneath a hammer. A flurry of brown leaves swept across the windshield. 

The couple slid out of Tommy’s car after Tommy checked his neatly-combed hair for the tenth time. He was acting like he did the day he met Sue’s parents for the first time in junior year, which was actually quite polite of him to do so. He was taking this very seriously. 

Above, the sky was awash with low churning clouds. Towering trees with ebony branches reached down far, almost blocking the way. Their naked twigs grabbed like fingers, clawing at their faces as they trekked up the driveway. The brittle limbs snapped and fell as kindling onto the ground when brushed away. They too cracked beneath footfalls as Sue and Tommy made their way up to the stoop, across the cracked sidewalk and through reaching snarls of weeds sprouting from the overgrown yard. The porch creaked beneath their weight, and for a split second they feared it might cave in, but the old wood held together firmly despite its age. Tommy knocked on the door; there were cracks inside the frame and the hinges were green. It looked like it would fall over if the curved door knob was yanked too hard.

There was a shuffling sound from inside and the tumblers of a locking mechanism fell away with a grinding crack. When the front door was pulled open, the hinges protested with a deafening creak, sounding as though the rotten wood was splintering even as the heavy door scraped along the floor. Carrie peered out at them like a lime green macaw in a tunnel of darkness in the overalls she was wearing, beaming.

  “Hello!” She greeted eagerly. “Come in!”

They stepped inside and entered a world that reeked of religion.

Wall-to-wall there were crosses ranging in various sizes and made of many different materials. There were wooden crosses, metal crosses, crosses made of twigs twisted together and crosses created from woven tangles of barbed wire. Among them were pictures of Bible scenes, like The Last Supper and Noah’s Ark and Jesus doing something with a staff and water- or was that Moses? Sue wasn’t very up to speed on Christianity, so she didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the bearded dude was definitely doing /something/ with water.

Aside from the paintings and crosses and some candles, there didn’t appear to be any other decorations. No photos of Carrie as a little girl, no potted plants, no big wooden letters spelling out “WHITE” on the wall- there were only religious adornments.

Carrie led Tommy and Sue through the cramped front room, passing a closet door and a small circular table with a single red candle on it, and into the living room. The smell of baking bread wafted strongly in this room, flowing from the nearby kitchen. A large crucifix was poised menacingly over the ancient fireplace mantle, Jesus’s face frozen in a permanent expression of agony. Each rivulet of blood, every cut opened up on his skull from the Crown of Thorns held so much detail that it almost looked like a real person nailed to the giant wooden cross instead of just precisely carved plastic.

There’s no TV, not that either Sue or Tommy were surprised, so the scuffed, fraying leather sofa taking up a large space in the room was just sitting in front of the fireplace with only a grotesque crucifix to watch. The coffee table in front of it held a Bible that looked like it would crumble into dust if picked up and a well kept nativity set of baby Jesus’s birth. It was probably the nicest thing in the living room, maybe even the entire house, with all the animals shined to perfection and the humans not bearing a single scratch upon their porcelain flesh. There was also a washed out velvet lounge chair with intricate golden designs across the fabric, where a woman sat sewing an article of clothing and watching the new arrivals intently.

Mrs. White was as mangy as her daughter, but not quite as filled out as Carrie was. She was thin and bony, with sunken facial features and spindly fingers like the hands of a skeleton. Tangles of chocolate brown hair were tied up in a messy ponytail, revealing her pale, narrow neck to the light of the several lit candles around the house, and Sue and Tommy both concluded that Carrie must have gotten most of her features from her father because she looked nothing like this banshee of a woman dressed in a grey-blue gown sitting before them. The only noticeable thing they had in common were their brown eyes, which were so dark they were nearly black. Mrs. White’s were piercing, yet tired and haunted, and she was looking at Tommy and Sue like she already hated them.

This woman had done terrible things that tormented her, Sue could tell.

------

  “That definitely sounds like Margaret.”

Sue and Tommy’s head whip around, but Lynn’s whips faster. She stares at her girlfriend, fully dressed, standing in the hallway spitting out into the rest of the house from the master bedroom. Her blonde hair is combed neatly, leaving no evidence of...things...having been going on. Her grey eyes are troubled.

  “You know Margaret White?” Sue asks.

  “Who are you?” Tommy says at the same time.

  “Estelle Horan,” Estelle answers the nosy teenagers. “And, yes, I knew her.”

She strides across the floor and into the living room. Carrie is lying on one of the couches, expression pinched even in unconsciousness. Sweat is beaded on her forehead and she breathes raggedly.

  “How do you know her?” Sue prods further.

Estelle looks at her, then says, “I was their neighbor.”

A beat of silence passes. A pin dropping would be the loudest sound in the room. And then-

  “WHAT?” Lynn yelps.

Estelle gives her an amused look. “Did I never tell you?”

  “No!”

  “Oh.” Estelle shrugs. “There wasn’t ever a good time to bring it up. And I’ve tried to put it out of my mind…” She trails off, a haunted expression flickering in her eyes, like something had shaken her. She looks at Carrie’s frail, bruised body and frowns. “I--never thought she would live this long.”

Lynn gets a terrified look on her face. She didn’t exactly like showing so much fear and weakness around her students, but she couldn’t help it. There’s no way Carrie’s life was as bad as everyone was making it out to be. There’s no way she had suffered so much for so long and she hadn’t done anything to help her.

  “What-- what do you mean?” Tommy asks softly. His expression is a mix of horror and rage and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides.

Estelle reaches out and gently touches Carrie’s head. “Everyone in the neighborhood knew of Carrie’s treatment. But nobody did anything. And then, one day when I was seventeen, Carrie came up to me while I was tanning. She was five? Maybe six? Anyway, she-” She laughs, “-she pointed to my breasts and asked me what they were. I told her and she said she wished she had some and then said how good girls wouldn’t. She said that her mother was ‘bad when she made her.’ Margaret called them ‘dirty pillows’ or something stupid.”

Tommy snorts. Sue elbows him lightly. Estelle shoots him a quick, agreeing smile, then continues.

  “Then her mother came out and snapped at her to come back inside. Margaret called me a whore, I called her a cow- I was a very mature and polite seventeen year old.” Estelle chuckles. Her expression soon darkens, however. “I could hear--her screams--from inside the house. After Margaret dragged her back in. Carrie started screaming and crying so loud that I could hear them from outside. Everyone started coming out, but--” She sighs, looking ashamed. “--we didn’t help. Not after the meteor shower. We all ran.”

  “Wait-” Sue says. “Did you say ‘meteor shower’?”

  “Yeah,” Estelle says. “These rocks just started falling from the sky, but they only hit the White’s house for some reason. It was so weird.”

Tommy and Sue exchange looks. 

  “Carrie mentioned something about stones…” Tommy says.

Estelle furrows her eyebrows. Lynn kneels down next to her and takes one of her hands, not caring about secrecy around her students anymore.

  “Sue,” She says to the girl, “continue the story. What happened next?”

------

  “Mama,” Carrie said, and the sound of her voice startled both Sue and Tommy. They don’t know why they had assumed Carrie would sign at home; her mother didn’t exactly seem like the type to put up with sign language. “These are my friends! Tommy and Sue!” She beamed at them both, radiating with pride. Her voice was so sweet and youthful.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. White merely said. Her hands are still working a needle and thread through the pale purple fabric, and Sue can see muscles rippling beneath the skin.

Tommy stepped forward first, gathering his shoulders up into a straightened position and marching smoothly across the room. Carrie skittered after him and stood beside one side of the chair, and then Sue followed.

  “Tommy Ross,” Tommy extended a hand and flashed a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. White looked at Tommy’s hand with visible disgust, but she shook it firmly when Carrie nudged her arm. She did the same with Sue, but with less reluctance. Sue guessed that she probably had something against men, which was something she never had a problem with, there were MANY reasons to hate men, but this woman looked like she wanted to chop off the penis of every male in existence and violently choke them with it. 

Or, perhaps, do something even worse.

  “It’s nice to meet you both, too,” Mrs. White finally said in a voice that could crack an iceberg in two. She sized Tommy and Sue up silently, sneering at Sue’s skirt, which barely reached her knees, but didn’t comment about it. “It’s so...wonderful...to see my precious angel with people she can trust.” She lifted a hand and Carrie eagerly ducked her head beneath it. It was quite cute to see her blissfully get affection, but Sue got a feeling of uneasiness in her stomach when she noticed that the action made Carrie look like a trained dog. And Mrs. White was her owner.

  “Carrie is a lot of fun to have around,” Tommy said, and Carrie grinned brightly at him. “Your daughter is amazing!”

  “Hmm,” Mrs. White said again. She looked at Carrie and a smile tugged on her lips. “She is, isn’t she?” She patted Carrie’s cheek. “Run along, my darling. Go play.”

Carrie nodded and her face scrunched up adorably with giddiness when she got a kiss on the forehead. She jumped up a moment later, darting past Tommy and Sue and to the staircase. She waved to them to follow her eagerly, grinning her head off and doing a little dance on the first step.

  “We’re coming, we’re coming!” Sue laughed as she and Tommy walked over. “Calm down!”

They ascended the stairs, and Sue could feel Margaret’s burning gaze scorch holes into her back with every step she took.

The first thing Sue and Tommy noticed upon entering the bedroom were the bars over the window.

Carrie’s room was plain. Plain cream walls, plain scuffed hardwood floor, plain white bed sheets and blankets (no pillow, as she had once mentioned before). There was a nightstand next to her bed with a lamp and a small Bible on it and a splintering bookshelf with very few books set up neatly. A chest at the end of the bed had ribbons of colorful fabric overflowing from the closed lid and a desk had a current sewing project spread out over its surface. A small table in the corner held a few old stuffed animals stacked neatly in a fuzzy pyramid. 

  “Welcome,” Carrie signed with a grand gesture with outstretched arms. She spun around once, looking around her room, then centered to Tommy and Sue again with a sheepish expression. “I--don’t know what to do now.”

Sue tilted her head, not understanding her hand movements, and Tommy translated. It made her pause in thought- what WAS there to do at Carrie’s house? There was no TV to watch movies on or teach her how to play video games like Tommy usually did. The place was actually quite...boring. Sue couldn’t bear to live in such a bare place.

  “Sorry…” Carrie lowered her head in shame.

  “Hey, no, it’s okay!” Tommy said quickly. “No worries!”

Sue looked around, trying to find something that would hopefully ease Carrie’s tension. She spotted the piece of fabric on the desk, which was a plum color with frills along the breast. She nodded at it.

  “That’s pretty.” She said.

  “Oh!” Carrie skittered over to it. “Thank you. It’s not finished yet, but it’s going to be a dress!”

Tommy translated her signs and Sue smiled. “Do you make all your clothes?”

  “Most of them,” Carrie nodded. 

  “That’s so cool!” Sue said. 

Carrie blushed. “Thank you.” She lightly brushed her project. “I can--teach you how to. If you want.”

------

  “And then we started sewing,” Sue says. She stares into the cup of water Lynn had gotten for her with a deeply troubled look. 

  “I made a scarf.” Tommy states in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “It was supposed to be a sweater.” Sue manages a giggle, although it was tight and slightly strangled.

Lynn wants to smile, she really does, but as she is pressing a wet rag to a welt on her young student’s stomach, watching blood seep into the white fabric, such an action feels impossible. 

If Carrie had looked worrisome when Lynn first saw her, then the removal of most of her clothes has only increased that concern tenfold. The few injuries that had been visible when she first got there were bad enough, but the skin on her torso and back were splattered with impossibly dark colors that were split open in the center of each mark, like she had been beaten with a thin object. Cuts and scrapes marred her tanned skin, which was now horribly pale.

Carrie is stripped down to the black shorts and white tank top she had been wearing underneath her green overalls, which were stained in her blood (not that it was much of a loss- those things were hideous). Her face is tight with pain and all her muscles were tense as if she wanted to run, but couldn’t. Each breath she took came out shallow and ragged.

There’s too many wounds. There’s too many injuries on her little body. She isn’t going to live. Carrie will die.

A touch on her shoulder brought Lynn out of her morbid thoughts. She looks up to see Estelle, still kneeling next to her, a worried, but “I’m here for you” look on her face. She leans against her and a sick feeling settles into the pit of her stomach. Her mind is a jumbled mess, a tornado of disconnected thoughts and overwhelming stress.

Sue takes a deep breath and all eyes turn to her again. She pries her gaze away from her cup, rests her head against Tommy’s shoulder for support, and begins the story again.

------

  “WHAT is THAT?” Carrie signed.

  “IT is a SCARF!” Tommy declared defensively, holding the long piece of red wool fabric as if it were a live snake. “And it’s very stylish!” He flicked it around his neck and lifted his nose in a very haughty, pompous manner. Carrie flopped backwards, giggling and kicking her legs in the air. Tommy looked delighted at her reaction.

  “I thought we were making sweaters…” Sue said, blinking down at the misshapen purple blob in her hands. Carrie giggled louder. 

She giggled and giggled, such a pleasant, relieving sound.

And then the bedroom door opened.

And a thunderous voice that could shatter a glacier spoke up.

  “What is going on in here?”

Tommy, Sue, and Carrie all jumped and twisted around to see Mrs. White slithering inside, growing bigger and more menacing with every step she took. Tommy and Sue both straightened up, trying to look like model guests, while Carrie scrambled up off of her back and to her feet. She was still beaming, however.

  “Hello, Mama,” She greeted sweetly. “I was just teaching Tommy and Sue how to sew! They’re not very good.”

  “I made a scarf,” Tommy said, holding up the droopy ends of his silly creation for Mrs. White to see. She looked at it as if it were the serpent that had bewitched Eve. “Also, oi! Rude!” He poked Carrie in the leg, then glanced up at Mrs. White again, like he was saying, Look at how good I am with your daughter! Look at how nice I am to her! Please like me!

  “Hmm.” Mrs. White merely said. She looked very suspicious of all three of them, even her own daughter. She looked around the room like she was searching for a shred of impurity that would give her a reason to throw Tommy and Sue out. This process, however, was halted when Carrie hopped forward and latched onto her arm.

  “Mama, I finished the dress,” She said. She bumped her head against her mother’s shoulder and smiled up at her.

She really does love her mom. Sue thought. But does Mrs. White love her back?

  “Did you?” Mrs. White said, half distracted. She was trying to not take her eyes off of the guests, Tommy the most in particular.

  “Mhm!” Carrie ran and grabbed the dress she had finished while she was giving the sewing lessons. She presented it to Mrs. White proudly. “See?”

Mrs. White delicately ran her bony fingers along the stitching and frills. Then, she looked up and smiled at Carrie. “Very good, darling.”

That smile flickered away, however, when she looked back to her daughter’s friends. She frowned at Sue, who was rigid next to Tommy. She wasn’t trying to suck up to her like he was.

  “You.” She said. “What are you making?”

  “Oh, uh--” Sue looked down at the malformed, barely-sewn sweater flopped pathetically in her hands. “A-a sweater.” She wanted to kick herself for stammering. Why was she so nervous around this lady? “I think?”

  “My scarf is better.” Tommy muttered, then flashed a smile at Mrs. White. She blinked at him slowly. Even she was curious about his adamant attempt to get on her good side.

Mrs. White sniffed. The edges of her eyes crinkled in distaste. “Maybe you should try lengthening that skirt. You’ll be burning in hell in no time looking like that.”

Sue stiffened. She suddenly felt like her clothes were paper thin--or maybe not even there at all. Mrs. White was staring at her like she had just finished having sex with every man in the entire world and was currently dripping semen all over her floor. Sue struggled not to squirm as silence descended upon the room.

At her side, Tommy’s mouth was half open in shock that an adult would talk to a kid, especially a guest in their house, like that. He kept looking from Sue, to Mrs. White, and then back to Sue, conflicted on whether he should defend his girlfriend and risk Mrs. White hating him even more or not say anything and have Sue possibly hate him (but she wouldn’t hate him. if it were him essentially being called a man slut, she would probably be too scared to say anything, too).

Mrs. White was stood up straight and she looked like she was trying very hard not to smirk. She may be thin and ragged, but she was alight with disgust, like a flame that would never go out. Beside her, Carrie was rigid, but didn’t seem very surprised by her mother’s comment. Her head was lowered, dark eyes flitting towards Sue with an apologetic look. And then, she moved, slotting herself between Sue and Mrs. White.

  “Mama, Sue is the nicest girl I know.” She said, and Sue felt a flutter of guilt inside her stomach. At one point, she had participated in all the teasing Carrie got. She had been in on schemes to humiliate her and had looked at her like she was the most awful creature to ever walk the earth, and Carrie knew this, she had known it, and yet she still defended her. “If she doesn’t go to heaven, then heaven is wrong.”

Crack, went something in Mrs. White’s head.

Carrie noticed it first, the way her mother’s twisted expression twitched and rippled on her face like a melting wax mask, the way a diseased light flickered behind her eyes, the way her nostrils flared with a silent breath, and then Sue and Tommy followed. They could see it now, too, how Mrs. White still had the same look on her face as she had when she insulted Sue, but just slightly lopsided. It was like a wrinkled photograph cut from a magazine or a blurry movie still. There was something awful swimming behind those beetle-black eyes, and Carrie had accidentally awakened it. 

Sue wondered for a fleeting second if she were infected with the same parasite as her mother.

Carrie was very tense, so much so that Sue could see the muscles in her neck bunching up and popping out painfully. Her knees were shaking and a bead of sweat ran down the side of her face slowly. Sue and Tommy had both seen her scared before, but this was nothing like the fear that came from bullying at school or being called on in class or getting humiliated somehow.

Carrie looked terrified. Genuinely terrified. Like she thought she was going to die.

  “Carrie.” Mrs. White said calmly, but they all still shivered. The weight of the fury in that one simple word--Sue hoped she would never have to hear anyone say her name like that. She might as well have called her daughter ‘Disappointment.’ “Dear. Come here.”

But Carrie didn’t move. Her breathing starts to become more ragged.

  “No, mama,” She whispered, and Sue had never heard so much fear in her voice before.

Twitch, went something on Mrs. White’s expression.

  “M-my friends--” Carrie went on shakily, trying to give a good reason for her to talk back. “Th-they’re here. C-can’t we wait…” But her words trailed off into meaninglessness when she met her mother’s sharp gaze and she fell into helpless silence.

Mrs. White stretched her neck to the left and there was a series of pops that reverberated around the room. She seemed to be swelling up like a venomous snake.

  “Hey--” Tommy leapt to his feet, the tail of his sweater-scarf wagging lazily in front of him. “It’s not Carrie’s fault. She was just being a good friend.”

Mrs. White snapped her smoldering gaze over to Tommy, and that was enough to send him slamming right back to the floor in a rigid sitting position. Sue had never seen him obey so much like a trained dog before. It was horrifying how much this single woman could strike so much terror into all of them.

  “Carietta Nancy White.” Mrs. White hissed, her voice dripping with icicles. “I will not tell you again.”

She knows she could just grab Carrie. Sue realized with a twist in her stomach. She wants the satisfaction of Carrie obeying her.

Carrie moved slowly, dragging her feet as if they were weighed down by chains, head bowed in a submissive way. The moment she was in reach, Mrs. White snatched her by the forearm and dug her nails in so deep tiny jewels of blood bubbled up around her fingers. Tommy twitched at Sue’s side, like he wanted to jump up and tackle Mrs. White, but his nerves were holding him back.

  “I’m sorry…” Carrie whispered, although Sue doesn’t know if it’s directed to her and Tommy or to her mother. She’s briskly guided out of the room a moment later, so fast that she actually clipped her forehead on the doorframe, but Mrs. White doesn’t stop to let her recover. Their footsteps shuffle and stomp down the hallway, down the steps, and then disappear downstairs.

Silence.

Sue and Tommy waited for yelling, crashing, banging, fighting to break out, but there was nothing. They could only hear the distant sound of Mrs. White’s voice, but neither of them dared to move to listen closer. They just sat there in Carrie’s room, surrounded by scraps of colorful fabric and sewing needles, not speaking a word.

Mrs. White came to get them five minutes later. Her eyes were filled with disgust and hatred and her mouth was twisted in a sneer.

  “Get out.” Was all she said in a voice filled with malice.

Sue and Tommy leapt to their feet and scampered out of the house with metaphorical tails tucked between their legs as fast they could. Mrs. White followed close behind them, like the devil on their heels, until they were out on the stoop. She slammed the door so hard Sue was surprised the entire house didn’t come crumbling down and they heard the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Silence.

  “That...was eventful.” Sue said.

Tommy doesn’t answer. He just began to pace up and down the front walkway, crunching gravel and pebbles underneath his shoes. 

  “Tommy?”

  “We have to do something.” Tommy blurted.

Surprised, Sue said, “What?”

  “We can’t just leave her in there!” Tommy said, then quickly quieted his voice. He looked around. “We have to save her.”

Sue knew they had to, even if the thought scared her. She wouldn’t be able to sleep that night knowing Carrie was probably thrashed for the skirt her friend had been wearing.

The two of them wait a moment, then sneak around the side of the house, romping through overgrown weeds and grass and knowing full well that they’ll get hell rained upon them if they’re caught. Tommy peeked in through a back window with a crack in it and saw the fleeting figure of Margaret ascending the staircase, giving him and Sue a chance to slip in through the back door and re-enter the house.

Being inside that place felt wrong, like they were intruding on sacred grounds. But the house was anything but sacred, especially with the muffled sniffles echoing from somewhere they couldn’t see.

Sue and Tommy ducked into a small closet that was cluttered with moth-eaten blankets and boxes. They were at the end of the main downstairs hallway and it was dark enough for them to crack open the door and peek out without being seen. There, they waited, peering out of the barely-open door. Sue’s back was just starting to hurt from hunching over when footsteps stomped down the staircase. She and Tommy watched as Mrs. White unlocked what they thought had just been a coat closet, reached in, and pulled Carrie out.

  “I’m sorry, Mama!” Carrie blurted instantly, as submissive as always.

Mrs. White answered in a low rumbling noise. She dragged Carrie into the den and out of sight.

  “Mama, please talk to me.” Sue and Tommy heard Carrie beg. “Please, I’m sorry! I just-- they’re my friends and I don’t like when people are mean to them. I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have talked back to you.”

Mrs. White snorted. “Friends.” She repeated the word as if it were a curse. “They aren’t your friends.”

  “They are!” Carrie said. “They are, Mama! And they’re really nice, too, you’ll see!”

Mrs. White huffed out a breath and Sue thought she may be shaking her head. “Nobody is friends with you, Carrie. You don’t have friends. You know why.”

Sue winced. That felt like it was needlessly cruel to the poor girl.

  “No, Mama,” Carrie said, this time much softer.

  “If I told them what you are--what you can do, they’ll run for the hills. Or worse: they’d lock you up and use your gifts. But me? I’ve always accepted and loved you the way you are, my sweet girl.” Mrs. White crooned. “You’re different, Carrie. And you know people love to destroy what is not like them.”

  “I don’t have to be,” Carrie said. “Tommy says I can be whoever I want!”

  “Oh. That BOY.” Mrs. White said with great disgust. “You know how boys are, Carrie. Do I need to remind you of your father?”

  “No, Mama.” Carrie replied with a shudder in her voice.

Sue and Tommy exchanged looks. They had both wondered on their own about Carrie’s father, but neither ever brought it up to her. By the sound of it, whatever happened to him wasn’t very good.

  “They’re good, Mama,” Carrie was saying when focus was brought back to the conversation. “I promise! I’m sorry for talking back, but Tommy and Sue are good people!”

  “They’ve entranced you,” Mrs. White said, not even listening to her daughters. “They are imps sent from the devil!”

  “No, Mama!” There’s a rustle of fabric and the scuffing of feet against the floor- Carrie must have been standing up. “They aren’t! Don’t you dare say that about them! They’re not imps, YOU are!”

The sound of a hand smashing against flesh filled the house; Carrie’s body fell backwards into sight on her stomach. She’s frozen in shock for a moment before pushing herself up on her hands. A second later, one of her legs was grappled and she was dragged backwards into the den, screaming and clawing helplessly at the floor.

It was like a scene ripped straight out of a horror movie.

  “Mama, stop! Stop it, Mama! I’m sorry!”

  “You’re going to repent, you vile little beast--”

Another slap reverberated through the house, followed by a sharp yelp reminiscent of a puppy getting its foot stepped on. 

  “Mama! Mama, no! Please, no! I’m sorry!”

  “You must be washed clean of the filth they put on you.”

There’s the sound of fabric scraping against the floor that traveled into the kitchen. A clatter of a body being thrown into a chair echoed from that room, followed by a stern, “Stay.”

  “Mama, please,” Carrie pleaded. “I don’t want to, Mama, I don’t want to be cleaned--”

Sue heard the sink running in the kitchen. What was going on?

--

A hand yanked her head backwards by the hair. Water hit the over her face cloth- small drips and then a heavy torrent. It flooded into her nose. She instinctively opened her mouth to gasp for a breath, and the water poured in. Her heart was racing, and her whole body was frozen. She could feel the freezing water trickling down her throat. She tried to toss her head to escape the torrent, but she couldn't even twitch. The only part of her that was moving was her chest as her body fought frantically to cough, to escape, to breathe, to survive.

   “Don’t like that, do you?” Mama’s voice was crowing as she lifted the cloth. She smirked at the way her daughter gasped for air, taking in quick, rapid breaths to soothe her lungs. “No, you don’t.” She felt her shake her hand beneath her hand. “Admit it, my darling. Admit that that boy and girl are sent from the devil and dirtied you. Admit it and it will end.”

Desperate to retain at least a shred of her dignity, Carrie said, “No.”

The cloth drops back down over her face with a wet plop.

She felt the moment the water hit her lungs this time around- there was a lot more poured over her. There was a sickening chill, so at odds with the burning pain. And then her arms and legs were tugging against the ropes as sheer panic enveloped her. She wasn't thinking of twisting her wrists to try to free them; her arms moved of their own accord, tearing the skin. She wasn't thinking of kicking out with all her strength; her legs jerked and tugged against the restraints, wrenching their own muscles. She wasn't thinking of trying to get away from whatever was pinning her down; her body writhed and shifted as panic and fear pulsed through it.

When Mama lifted the cloth again, water was spit up from Carrie’s lips. She lowered it, not giving her much room to breathe. She whined sharply, pathetically when she just inhaled a wet rag.

   “Please, please, Mama...” Carrie begged through breathless sobs.

   “Tell me the truth. Admit it. You know you want to. You want to damn their souls to hell for cursing you.”

    “No, Mama, I don’t--”

Carrie cut herself off with a horrid gag and water rushed down her throat, choking her.

Dying. Dying. Dying. She could feel it. Her very bones were vibrating with the knowledge that she couldn't survive. That oxygen, held away from her by nothing more than a piece of fabric, was still too far away for her to reach. That every frantic heave of her chest was drawing the water further and further down, pulling in more and more liquid.

Every fiber of her being wanted to fight, was trying to fight, but it wasn't a fight she could win. There was nothing she could do.

Unless…

   “I--”

Carrie’s squeal ended in an intense dry heave that twisted her stomach so badly she began to feel nauseous. Her head spun and the crying was adding to the extreme pain that infected her chest and abdomen.

   “Mama--”

A whimper, a whine, a keen of helplessness as Carrie’s limbs began to go limp.

   “I do!”

The bowl clattered to the ground. Mama removed the rag from her face, stared deep into her teary eyes.

   “What was that?”

   “I--” A weak sob shook Carrie, “I do. I do want to send them to hell. They made me dirty.”

She thought she’s having to lie to get out alive, but her mind is too fuzzy to know for sure... Maybe she does want them to burn for all eternity in hell.

   “You do?”

   “Yes, Mama. Yes, Mama.” Carrie bobbed her head rapidly. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry. I should have listened.”

Mama knelt down beside her and began wiping her face off with a dry cloth. When fresh tears streamed from her eyes, she gently dabbed them away. Carrie couldn’t help but press into his touch.

   “Is this the truth, Carietta? Are you really sorry?”

   “Yes, Mama,” Carrie said with a sob. “Yes, yes, I am. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

   “Good girl,” Mama crooned, continuing to dry off her face.

   “I’m sorry.”

   “Yes, I’m glad you know to tell the truth, but that doesn’t change what you did.”

Ice cold fear shot through Carrie’s veins.

   “I took your gun.” She was desperate now.

   “You still have to be punished, little jade.”

She lets out a whimper.

   “You know what you did.”

The dry cloth is put over her face.

Water sloshed above her.

She wanted to say she was sorry. She was sorry. She was so sorry. She wanted to be a good, obedient daughter. She wanted to make Mama happy. She wanted her to be proud.

Drip-drip-drip

The cloth soaked up the water, slowly this time, to drag out her punishment. Carrie took a shuddering breath of air, fills her lungs as far as they can go, fills them so full she feels like they’re going to burst.

Mama’s voice echoed.

You need to be punished

The water soaked the cloth. The cloth clung to Carrie’s nose as she inhaled, clung when she exhaled, and the panic exploded in her chest. Water slid down her throat, over her neck and into her hair, over her shoulders. So cold it burns.

She’s drowning. She’s dying. She’s suffocating.

Screaming.

Her throat hurts. There’s no air in her mouth, in her lungs. She can feel the water trickling into her nose. Can’t breathe. No air. No air. No air.

The ropes on her arms loosen and then are gone. She wanted to die. She can’t breathe past the panic in her chest. She was shaking. She was dying. She wanted it to end.

Oh god, please keep pouring. Please. Please. Please. You can kill me right now.

But then the faces of Tommy and Sue and Miss Gardener flash in her head and she thought, Do I really want to die?

--

Sue and Tommy didn’t think anything could get worse than Mrs. White waterboarding her own child, but then she raised a wicked-looking switch when Carrie lurched out of the chair she had been punished in. She coughed violently and slipped in the water coating the kitchen floor, falling to her hands and knees, but jolted forward as the switch swung down at her. It just barely missed her left leg.

  “I’ll thrash the devil out of you!!” Mrs. White screeched.

Carrie catapulted herself over the dining room table to get away from her and her switch. Sue and Tommy watched as she clambered over the top, scattering porcelain plates and cups, before tipping over in a very ungraceful landing. After hitting the ground, she scrambled up again to flee, but her mother was already upon her.

   “Ma--!!”

Before she could get the word completely out, the switch connected with her back with a horrible CRACK.

Carrie doesn’t scream, but she does whine sharply at the burning sensation that had to be blazing through her shoulder blades, even with her shirt on. She scampered around like a mouse below Mrs. White, as she had easily been sent to her knees by the blow. She’s fidgeting and fumbling, trying to speak up without sounding pained, as that would make her seem even weaker.

   “Mama, please, I--”

Another lash streaked across her lower back and Carrie gritted her teeth through the pain. Her fingernails claw and catch into the floorboards, but she would have much preferred splinters uprooting her nails than this beating.

   “Worthless girl! When will you learn to obey me?!” Mrs. White roared overhead before cracking the switch against her daughter’s waist.

Carrie’s arms gave in and she toppled over onto her side. She squirmed helplessly, pushing her heels against the ground in an attempt to get away, mouth agape as she watched Mrs. White raised her arm yet again.

   “Mama--”

This time, Carrie does scream.

She does scream because the switch lashed right across her belly. Her head threw itself backwards, knocking her skull against the floorboards, but it’s not enough to lessen the searing sensation burning itself through her midsection. For a moment, she can only choke and cry out, but then the incomprehensible wail turns into words.

  “MOMMY, STOP IT!! PLEASE, MOMMY, STOP!!!”

But Mrs. White doesn’t stop. She just kept on lashing her daughter until blood is soaking through green overalls and Carrie is a shuddering, whimpering ball at her feet. Even then, she does not stop.

Not until a voice cried out.

  “THAT’S ENOUGH!!” Tommy barreled out into the den, absolutely fuming and seeing red. It surprised Sue, who had been recording the abuse on her phone in shocked silence. She followed after him quickly.

  “Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” Tommy warned. His fingers were clenched and shaking, teeth bared, eyes alight with rage.

  “Tommy,” Carrie coughed out weakly.

Tommy looked down at Carrie and his eyes softened instantly. He looked anguished about how he wasn’t able to go to her, not with Mrs. White poising the switch over her back. 

  “I’m here, Caz,” He murmured. “I’m here.”

Carrie made a feeble whimpering sound. She tried to look up at him, blinking through tears and water and sweat and blood, but she was exhausted from the beating and her head flopped uselessly to the ground. She panted heavily, trying to curl away from her mother.

  “I thought I threw you both out.” Mrs. White said.

  “We would never leave Carrie.” Tommy said. “Not so devilish now, huh?”

Mrs. White snorted. “You think this proves anything? I know what you people are like.”

  “I got what you did on video,” Sue said, holding up her phone. “Just so you know.”

Mrs. White laughed an awful laugh. “Oh, you empty-headed whore,” She cackled. “You think evidence is going to change anything? Everyone in the neighborhood, new and old, have heard Carrie’s cries for years and they have never done anything. Not even when police are called. Nothing is ever done, and you want to know why?” She smirked wickedly. “It’s because nobody cares.”

Sue felt a sinking feeling of dread. Would really nothing be done to save Carrie even with video evidence?

  “I care.” Tommy said. “Sue cares. So does Miss Gardener.”

------

  “I do,” Lynn murmurs, gently touching one of Carrie’s hands. Tommy and Sue both give her tight smiles, then Sue continues telling the story.

------

Mrs. White rolled her eyes. “No you don’t! You’re lying!” She nudged Carrie with her foot and Carrie moaned weakly in response. Her daughter rolled over slightly, blood squelching beneath her, and gave her her full attention, even after being beaten to a bloody pulp. “I’m the only one who cares about you. No one will ever love you except me. You’ll always be a monster to everyone else.”

Sue shivered. It sounded like some kind of chant or curse, like something Mrs. White had repeated this to Carrie several times before.

Carrie whimpered. She craned her neck slowly, wincing in pain, and looked at Sue and Tommy desperately. Mrs. White nudged her again, prodding her foot against one of the cuts along her lower back and making her look back at her.

  “She’s not a monster.” Sue spoke up, glaring at Mrs. White.

Mrs. White barked a laugh. She looked down at Carrie quivering beneath her. “Is that what you’ve made them think? That you’re just some shy, innocent little mouse?” She laughed again and turned her blistering gaze back to Tommy and Sue. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into, children.”

What did she do? Sue thought. What has Carrie done to make her own mother call her a monster? 

And will she do the same thing to us?

  “Don’t you DARE talk about Carrie like that!” Tommy growled. “You have no right!”

  “I have every right,” Mrs. White said airily. “I am her mother.” She spread her arms in a grand gesture. Droplets of sparkling red blood twinkle on the edges of the switch she was still holding. “And I am just trying to cleanse the little devil he put inside of me.”

A tense silence descended upon the den, only broken by Carrie’s soft gasps and sniffles.

  “Who?” Sue asked quietly, reluctantly.

Mrs. White began to pace around the room, swinging the switch at her side and sending blood flying through the air in glittering crimson arcs. “I didn’t want him to put it in me. I tried to fight him.” She said.

  “Mama, please don’t,” Carrie begged weakly. She covered her ears and curled up tighter.

  “But he didn’t listen.” Mrs. White hissed, ignoring her daughter’s pleas. “He made me enjoy it. Satan gave him sin and, in return, he put a devil child inside of me.”

Oh. Sue realized with a jolt. She was raped.

Mrs. White shook her head. “I don’t hate Carrie. Far from it. If I did, she would be long dead.” She looked down at her daughter with a strange look in her eyes. “I just...have to cleanse her. Remove all her sin.” She tilted her head like Carrie was a new plastic body to decorate the crucifixes with. “And then--she will be--perfect.”

There was something very, very wrong with Margaret White. And Sue didn’t feel safe being around her any longer.

How could Carrie live with such a mother?

Mrs. White looked up at Tommy and Sue, scrutinizing them. “Does that make sense?”

Sue nodded a tiny bit and Mrs. White gave her an appraising look. Tommy, however, only fumed even more.

  “What the fuck?” He seethed. “No! Not only no, but HELL NO!” He glared at Mrs. White. “You are fucking psychotic! You can’t treat people like that! Why did I want you to like me? You’re insane!”

Mrs. White glared right back at him. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. Men.” She nudged Carrie, who tentatively removed her hands from her ears. “Why don’t I show you why purification is necessary? Carrie, my darling little creature, show them.”

Carrie doesn’t move. Mrs. White exasperatedly rolled her eyes and grabbed her by the top of the head, throwing her to Sue and Tommy’s feet. Carrie landed with a heavy thud and a soft grunt. She looked up at the pair with guilty black-brown eyes so eerily like her mother’s. Sue shivered, finding it difficult to look at her anymore.

  “Go on.” Mrs. White waved a hand.

  “No, Mama,” Carrie whispered. She tried to make herself as small as possible.

  “Why not?” Mrs. White smirked. “Is it because you know they’ll hate you for it?”

Carrie whimpered. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She began to rock herself back and forth on her knees.

  “Look at that,” Mrs. White mused. “She doesn’t trust either of you at all. How sad. Some great friends you are if she can’t tell secrets to you.”

Sue felt a smudge of betrayal streak through her. What was so important that Carrie couldn’t tell her and Tommy about? Did the best friend's oath she once made them take mean nothing? She looked to Tommy to see his reaction, but there wasn’t a hint of hurt on his face. He squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Mrs. White.

  “It’s her business,” He said. “She can tell us when she’s ready. I wouldn’t admit anything while being pressured, either.”

I should have reacted like that, Sue thought with a twist of guilt. Not immediately assume Carrie is a bad person. She looked at Mrs. White. She’s...so cunning. And convincing. It’s scary.

  “Tommy,” Carrie gasped from below. She gripped tightly to one of his pant legs. “Tommy, it hurts.”

Tommy dropped to his knees in front of Carrie and bundled her protectively in his arms. Blood smeared against his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care much. Mrs. White watched with a murderous look in her eyes.

  “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.” Tommy whispered to her soothingly.

  “And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” She spat.

Tommy glared right back up at her. “I’m protecting her from you.” He said.

  “Foolish boy,” Mrs. White shook her head. “You don’t know what she could do to you.”

  “Carrie would never hurt me.” Tommy said.

Mrs. White laughed. “That’s what you think! But she could! She easily could!”

  “Mama,” Carrie wheedled. 

  “Release my daughter.” Mrs. White said. “This instant.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes at her and said, “No.”

Mrs. White’s face twisted in fury. She gripped the switch in her hands tightly and, for a moment, Sue worried she was going to strike Tommy with it.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t move.

  “Mama, please stop.” Carrie begged. She had her head twisted around to stare at her mother. Most of her wounds have stopped bleeding by now; dried blood clashed horribly with her green overalls.

  “You devil,” Mrs. White hissed lowly. 

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Mama.” Carrie whispered. Her body had gone worryingly cold in Tommy’s arms. Her voice was the sound of dead leaves rustling against pavement. “Please don’t make me hurt you…”

Mrs. White was stiff in her spot, arm half raised. The muscles were contracted tightly beneath her skin. Why wasn’t she moving? Was she scared of Carrie? And if so...why? Carrie was anything but threatening.

The next words Carrie spoke made her mother go deathly pale.

  “I’ll bring the stones again.”

Mrs. White staggered backwards, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.” She whispered.

Thunder rumbled deeply, then cracked across the darkening sky outside like a warning. Lightning flickered in through the tightly-drawn drapes, illuminating Carrie’s eyes like ebony flames, and Sue realized they weren’t as black as she thought. There were hues of amber and red-brown, and they glowed intensely in her skull. Her gaze was hard and cold.

  “I will, Mama.” Carrie said. Her voice was drained and dry; she sounded so tired. “If you touch them-- If you dare--” She was shaking like a newborn baby goat in Tommy’s arms. She looked up at her mother with the same diseased light that had been in her mother’s eyes. “I will bring the fire down on you.”

Mrs. White dropped to her knees, falling like a bird with broken wings. She clasped her hands together and began to pray loudly, although her words were wavering and slurring together. She rocked back and forth, shaking her head like she was trying to ward off sinful thoughts from worming their way into her brain.

Carrie sucked in a sharp breath, her body shuddering in an awful, bone-shattering way. Her head flopped limply onto one of Tommy’s shoulders, panting heavily. Sweat was soaking her brow and a feverish expression contorted her face.

  “Tommy,” She gasped weakly.

  “Grab her.” Sue ordered. “Grab her, Tommy! Let’s go!”

Tommy scooped Carrie up into his arms and ran for the door, Sue tailing right behind him.

Mrs. White did not stop them.

------

  “And then we got in the car and drove here.” Sue concludes with a frown.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the house, only broken by the pattering of rain on the window and low rumbles of thunder. Tommy shifts closer to the couch, casting Carrie yet another worried glance. His gaze practically screamed, Wake up. Please wake up.

  “That can’t--that can’t be true,” Lynn whispers. Her breath is caught in her throat in horror. There was just no way. No parent could possibly be that cruel to their own child. She didn’t want to believe it.

  “It is.” Sue says sadly. She slips her phone out of her pocket and hands it to Lynn. Estelle leans over her shoulder to see. A video is displayed on the screen. With a quaking finger, Lynn presses the play button.

And it all fell away.

Hope that the story wasn’t true, hope that Margaret wasn’t as bad as Sue and Tommy made her out to be, hope that Carrie wasn’t getting brutally abused this whole time, right under her nose, and she never did anything to help her.

Because on the screen, clear as day, is Margaret White lashing her young daughter with a whip-thin switch, splattering blood everywhere. And the agonized yowls of Carrie will echo in her ears, haunt her nightmares, for years to come, always reminding her that it was very, very real.

Lynn’s vision blurs and she realizes she is tearing up. She blinks and claws away the tears hopefully before anyone would notice, trying her best to be strong, trying to not let her facade fall and reveal that she was actually horrified. Horrified and sickened and shocked and livid. She would not let her mask fall, and not just because she was supposed to be a tough-as-nails gym coach that would make numerous students vomit during Suicides and never flinch when bones broke savagely during games. But because she has to be strong for Carrie’s sake.

And then she looks up and sees blank onyx eyes peering at her blankly and tears cloud her vision all over again.

  “Carrie!”

Tommy is the first one to react, lunging to his friend’s side in an instant, nearly falling face-first into the rug in the process. He clasps one of her hands with both of his.

  “Carrie,” He says again, this time quieter. “How are you feeling?”

  “Everything hurts,” Carrie replies in a soft, hoarse voice. She sighs. “But what else is new?”

She...doesn’t sound very surprised, Lynn realizes with an awful twist in her stomach. Like this has happened before.

Like she’s gotten used to it. Waking up in pain.

Carrie lifts her head slightly, wincing, and looks around the room. “Where am I? Why is Miss Gardener here?”

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Lynn smiles at her warmly.

  “We brought you here.” Sue says.

  “Oh.” Carrie’s dark eyes dart around again, searching, and then fall on Estelle. Her brow pinches together. “I know you.” She whispers.

Estelle moves closer. “Hello, Carrie. It’s been a long time.”

  “You were my neighbor,” Carrie says. “I asked you what breasts were. Estelle.”

Despite the situation, light laughter ripples through the room. It almost, almost eases the weight pressing on Lynn’s heart.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Estelle chuckles. “It’s good to see you again, Carrie.”

  “You called Mama a cow,” Carrie muses, slightly dazed. Sue gets up to grab the painkillers Lynn left on the kitchen counter.

Lynn gives Estelle a look that says, “You what?” Estelle returns with a crooked smile.

  “Where is she?” Carrie asks. She’s looking around more fervently now and trying to get up. “Where’s my Mama?”

Lynn feels that awful twist in her heart again. Even after what Margaret did to her, Carrie is still so attached to her mother. But after living with such a treatment all her life, she must have gotten used to it. Maybe she even learns to overlook it.

  “She’s at your house, Caz.” Tommy says, brushing back a loose fringe of hair from Carrie’s face.

  “Is she alive?” Carrie asks. Then, more softly, “Did I hurt her?”

The beat of silence and exchange of worried glances is just a bit too long; Carrie begins to whimper and cry. Tommy soothes her quickly, brushing her tears away with gentle hands.

  “She’s okay, Caz. She’s alive, I promise.” He assures her. “Shh… It’s okay.”

Carrie looks up at him and calms slightly. Lynn is impressed- out of everyone in the room, she would have thought Tommy would be the least comforting, but here he was, treating Carrie so tenderly. Perhaps the most awkward one with comfort, at least with Carrie, would be Sue, who was standing listlessly with the bottle of Ibuprofen gripped tightly in her hands. Lynn takes it from her and she and Tommy are able to convince Carrie to swallow two of the pills.

  “They’ll make you feel better,” Tommy tells her, stroking her hair.

  “Do you ever take medicine?” Sue asks curiously.

Carrie shrugs. “Sometimes. Not always. Mama didn’t--believe--in that kind of stuff.” 

With weak arms, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, despite the several arguments for her to stay laying down. She sucks in a sharp breath, the cuts along her belly straining and stinging in the open air, and she stubbornly tugs her shirt back down to shield the expanse of scarred flesh. Lynn makes a clucking noise of disapproval.

  “You shouldn’t have your clothes covering them,” She says. “They could get infected.”

Carrie gives her a wry smile, “I haven’t got any awful infections yet, have I?”

Lynn’s heart wrenched once again, like a claw was dug inside her chest and turning it to mush. Carrie looks so used to this, so used to getting up and shaking off wounds from abuse, and she hates it. She wants to take her away from that kind of lifestyle so badly.

For a long few minutes, the house is silent. Carrie is looking down, her eyes clouded and haunted; Sue is over near the window, hands gripping the sill firmly, peering out at the storm with a deeply troubled expression, like she was considering leaping out into the tempest so the rain could wash away the chill rattling through her body; Tommy has climbed up onto the couch beside Carrie and kept squeezing her hand like he was trying to remind himself that she was still there with him and still alive; Estelle’s arms are crossed over her chest and she’s considering Carrie in thoughtful silence, most likely straining her memories back to the days when she was the White’s neighbor; Lynn is currently getting her heart turned into pulp, emotions tumbling over themselves in the whirlwind that was her mind- anger, guilt, shock, fear, maternal instincts, anger again, then guilt...it was all mixing together. 

Everyone was lost in their individual thoughts, listlessly wandering the winding corridors of their own minds.

The one who speaks first is Sue.

  “Carrie,” She says slowly, turning away from the window, “why do you love your mother?”

  “Sue!” Tommy hisses, then whips his head around to see Carrie’s reaction.

For just a moment, there is a flash of anger, and Lynn so badly wants to see it come out. She wants to see Carrie get mad at her mother for the treatment she got. But it is chased off by deep sadness and confusion, like Carrie herself didn’t know why she was so attached to such a wicked woman.

  “How much do you know about her?” Carrie asks instead of answering. She looks around, including everyone in the question. “Aside from her being an extremist, how much do you know?” 

Looks were exchanged as minds were dug through for any information on Margaret White that weren’t rumors. Carrie waits patiently, a tiny, sad smile ghosting her lips. 

  “You once said,” Estelle starts slowly, “that she was ‘bad when she made you.’”

Carrie nods, her smile twitching up a little more. “My Mama,” She says, “is a delusional, accursed witch.”

Stunned silence. Carrie tilts her head at them, as if to say, “What? I thought you were waiting for me to say something mean about her?” She shakes herself out, like she was getting rid of evil spirits clinging to her, then went on, “She hates everything about the world. Men, most girls, people who follow different religions, even churches. She doesn’t trust them, so we hold our own ceremonies at the house. She’s the preacher, I’m the congregation…” She splays open her hands and looks at them as if they had nails lanced through the palms. “She hates my father the most, I think. Even though I believe she does love him still, despite what happened. And that makes her hate him even more.” She closes her fists and looks up with dark eyes. “She hates me, too. She says she doesn’t but I know. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. I remind her of him.”

  “Have you seen him before?” Sue asks softly. “Your dad?”

  “Only once,” Carrie answers. “In a picture. I look like him.”

There’s a beat of silence. Carrie runs a hand thoughtfully over her bottom jaw, looking horrifyingly calm while speaking of her home life. But there was fear in her eyes. Lynn could see it flickering in her hugely dilated red-brown-black pupils, very much there, but being stamped down. It was honestly quite startling to see her young student, who would flinch when someone simply raised their hand to ask a question, who always tried to make herself seem smaller when teams were picked for games, who had to use sign language to speak to people because she was too anxious to even verbally talk, be so reserved and nonchalant.

That was another thing- Carrie speaking so many words. Lynn doesn’t think she’s ever heard her talk so much before. She’s wanted to hear her talk, yes, but not like this.

  “If a prayer was said just a little wrong,” Carrie begins again, “if a cross was bumped and became crooked, it all fell apart for her.” She leans back, staring out the window. What is that look in her eyes? Disdain, fear, anxiety, relief about finally telling about this? “And she took it out on me over...”

  “…and over…”

  “…and over…”

  “…and over…”

Carrie’s eyes became vacant, darkening until they looked completely black, lost in the abuse that gripped her so tightly. The calm demeanor only then breaks and is replaced by intense terror and anxiety. At her side, Tommy is too stunned to react, so Lynn lunges forward, grabbing the girl by the shoulders. As soon as contact is made, Carrie begins to thrash and cries out, “…AND OVER!” 

Lynn’s grip on Carrie’s shoulders does not break, even when the girl swats fearfully at her arms in a panic. She could only stare as she seized out of control. It was like watching an exorcism happen right in front of her.

  “Carrie, stop!” Tommy pleads.

With a start, Carrie stops breathing and tightens every muscle in her body. Prolonged contact with someone who wouldn’t hurt her is starting to have an effect. Her eyes close and her spasms slow. Silence fell around the group.

Then, Carrie expels her breath and sucks in another. She grasps Lynn’s hands and gently pries them away from her shoulders; her touch is like ice.

Sue beseeches her, “What happened to you?”

And on the inside, Lynn thinks, “Is this the girl I want to take in?”

Carrie didn’t look at anyone. Shame carves deep grooves in her face. 

  “Mama says I’m different,” Carrie smolders. “That I was born from my father’s sin and that’s why--I’m the way I am. And she believes that she has to purify me and remove the devil from inside of me.” 

After a second, Carrie turns her head back ever so slightly and peers at the group around her out of the corner of her vision. There was pain in that bloody ebony eye. 

Her next three words were tight with humiliation.

  “She broke me.”

The pit in Lynn’s stomach dropped until it was a chasm. She can’t speak. Nobody could speak. Carrie looks away again, hiding her disgrace from sight.

  “My Mama damaged me in a way that cannot ever be repaired. No matter how many decades pass, I will always be just as broken as I am now. I can’t become whole again.” Her voice cracked as she mourned. “She passed her sickness onto me.”

Tommy reaches over, slowly bridging the gap between him and his dear little sister figure, but Carrie shrinks away from the hand, shaking her head and whimpering, “It’s like a curse that spreads from people to people.”

Tommy swiftly retracts his hand, and the speed at which he does so causes guilt to bloom all over his face. Carrie looks up at him with an understanding frown.

  “I will never let anyone share in my sickness. I can’t.” She shakes her head miserably. “I have to--stay away--from people. To protect them. That’s what Mama says.” She clenches her fingers into claws and anger, pain, longing, shame all flash in her eyes. 

  “But Carrie, how could you pass that sickness onto other people? Onto us?” Tommy asks. “You wouldn’t hurt us!”

Suddenly, a guilt-ridden sob tears out of Carrie’s throat and she doubles over, face buried in her hands.

Quivering, Tommy whispers, “You wouldn’t hurt me, right?”

Carrie wails. 

Everything is falling to pieces, to ashes. Lynn is frozen, unable to think straight. At her side, Estelle is frowning--like she’s seen this before.

  “You don’t want to hurt us.” Estelle says. “You don’t want to hurt anyone at all.”

Carrie sniffles and looks up from her hands. She looks absolutely miserable.

  “Would it matter if I did?” She shakes her head and looks at her hands with so much hatred. “I’m a monster. Just like Mama always says.” She covers her face again and sobs.

Lynn can see it now: Carrie wasn’t just shy and anxious and socially awkward, she was fragile, too--too fragile for the awful things she’s been through.

  “Oh, Carrie,” Tommy murmurs. Despite what had been said, he pulls Carrie securely into his arms and she lets him, curling into his warmth. “Carrie. Carrie, I love you anyway. I don’t care.”

And Carrie cries.

She cries and cries and cries for a long time. She cries until she’s reduced to weak sniffles and hiccups and can barely lift her head from Tommy’s chest. She looks absolutely exhausted by the end of it, completely drained. She is feeling the full effect of her wounds, now, and whimpers softly.

  “I have a spare bedroom,” Lynn says. “She can sleep there. She’s tired.” She frowns at Carrie’s pale face.

Tommy nods silently and carefully picks Carrie up. Lynn leads him to the guest bedroom and he sets Carrie down beneath the blankets. Her eyelids are fluttering as sleep--or maybe unconsciousness--begins to take hold of her. Tommy kisses her forehead.

  “Sleep well, Caz,” He murmurs.

Silence descends upon the house once again. Lynn, Estelle, Tommy, and Sue all sit at the dining room table with mugs of peppermint tea Estelle had made. They didn’t look at each other for a long time.

  “What are we gonna do?”

Everyone looks up. Like before, it was Sue who spoke first.

  “About Carrie.” Sue states, but it wasn’t really necessary. They all knew who she was referring to.

  “She can’t go back home,” Tommy says. 

  “But she also needs help.” Sue says. “I’m not-- I don’t know if it’s the best idea, but there’s a mental hospital in--”

  “No.” Tommy growled. “Hell no.”

  “Tommy, she needs help!” Sue says.

  “She wouldn’t last a day in a place like that!” Tommy reprimands. “You know that. And mental hospitals aren’t exactly well known for actually helping people. Locking Carrie up with batshit insane people isn’t going to fix her, it’s just going to make her worse.”

  “He’s right,” Estelle nods. “I have a cousin who was in a mental hospital for a few days. He said that both suicidal people and homicidal people were put together. So there would be someone who tries to kill themselves with any object they could get their hands on and then someone who loudly talks about wanting to kill everyone in the place in the same room. Not exactly very comforting.” She shakes her head. “What Carrie needs is a stable place to live with sane people who can take care of her. Does she have any relatives?”

  “Doubt it.” Tommy sighs.

  “She can stay here.”

All eyes turn to Lynn. Her jaw is set and she looks confident in what she said.

  “Really?” Tommy’s eyes lit up slightly in hope.

  “Yes, really,” Lynn says. “As Estelle said, she needs someone who will take care of her. I can. I /will/. And I want to.”

  “That’s a really sweet thing for you to do, Lynnie,” Estelle coos.

  “Ooooo, Lynnie?” Sue and Tommy tease simultaneously. For the first time in hours, they had real, wide smiles on their faces. 

Lynn rolls her eyes. “Watch it, Snell. I’m still your coach. I can make you run until your legs give out.”

  “But you’re not mine.” Tommy says, puffing out his chest.

  “You doubt my ability to make kids run Suicides.” Lynn smirked at him.

For just a moment, things felt good again. And maybe they would continue to be good, because if Lynn had her way, Margaret White was never going to see her daughter ever again.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

We All Pay for Power

Even at sunset, the yellow fireball in the sky was scorching hot. Not a single waking soul around for miles, save for a dusty old pickup truck roaring down the lonesome road. Its driver and passenger traveled closer and closer towards an even dustier, even older tour bus. The unforgiving desert winds swept over them.

Layers of grit and grains of sand caked the windows of what looked like a steel whale, beached in the Nevada desert. Far away from the road, in a circle of cacti, resting in a place invisible to natural eyes.

But the truck’s driver knew how to find it. The wheels spun and screeched as she veered off the thin strip of cracked asphalt, cutting through the landscape of red sand, sparse vegetation, and rocky hills. The tires found traction and dug into the dirt, carrying the truck closer to the old abandoned bus.

With each inch the truck drove closer to the bus, the sky darkened. Defying nature’s laws. Devouring the sun before it even set in due time. The black void of a nightly sky opened up overhead, and the darkness between the stars loomed ever-darker in between the tiny lights.

Watchful, and hungry.

The driver cut the engine. The pickup truck continued rolling until she hit the brakes and rocks and dust ground underneath the wheels, stalling the machine till it lurched forward and fully stopped.

She was the first out of the vehicle, grabbing a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun and slamming the car door shut behind her—the noise echoing through this pocket of Otherworld, hidden away in the desert. Paying no mind to how the starry sky had appeared before sunset and the sun vanished. This was not Kim’s first time of crossing over into another dimension that looked similar to our own on the surface.

Unlike Javier, who hopped out of the car next, leaving the passenger seat open. He stared up at the sky in disbelief.

“The fuck?” he asked. Getting no answer.

Kim did not reply. She approached the dusty old tour bus with steady steps.

Javi’s gaze wandered, coming to rest on the cacti nearby. Their thorns took the shape of wicked little knives; crooked and jagged and sharp-edged. Their stalks twisted to elongated, thin shapes that did not belong on Earth.

“Hey, Kim, seriously. What the fuck?”

He got no answer from her. She held the shotgun in her hand and slowed down before she arrived by the tour bus’ open door. Something echoed through space and time, as if it had just burst open mere moments ago. But now, the door leading inside the bus swayed gently in the wind. The metal of its hinges creaked eerily.

A dark presence waited inside. Palpable. Watching. Born from the void between the stars, coalescing in the bowels of this steel giant, taking familiar shapes. Silver eyes that peered outwards, that Kim could not yet see, but eyes that saw her clearly before she entered. Piercing through matter, through the veil between worlds.

Having spotted something that vaguely resembled a vulture, Javi backed away from the truck and towards the bus, following Kim without looking where he went. The winged creature on the rocks glared at him and he broke out into a cold sweat as their eyes met and the thing’s stare locked onto him.

It crept closer, like a four-legged predator, crawling over the bend of the rock, stopping on its perch and flapping its leathery wings twice. It didn’t look too much like a vulture anymore, owed to many sharp teeth in its beak and the eight eyes on its unfathomably hairy face.

Kim raised her weapon and entered the bus, oblivious to Javi’s panicked breathing as he stumbled backwards and caught up to her. He had his hunting knife and revolver out, ready for the winged thing to pounce, but it just waited. And watched.

Like the entity inside.

They entered the bus, back to back.

Plastic clicked, and Kim swept her flashlight’s cone of illumination across the darkened interior of the abandoned bus. The leather on the seats had been chewed up by time and tiny teeth. Piles of trash littered the place all over, making it look like a hurricane had hit someone’s belongings and scattered them about.

Someone had pinned vast amounts of newspaper clippings to one wall. Everything from serious reporting to lousy tabloids had found its way here. Reports of two missing men, Brent Carver and Rick Sutton, members of the indie rock band The Lost Number. The only remaining person in the group was Kevin, whose mugshot adorned one of the cut-out articles.

Kim remembered the story from her research: how two of the three band members vanished mysteriously out here in the desert, how no bodies were ever found, and how the police eventually released Kevin into the wild where he started a new life.

The punchline of the articles continued on from there, following Kevin’s ensuing career trajectory. The flamboyant, cross-dressing bassist player of a dead-end rock band had transformed into a successful stage magician on the Strip with a cult following. A snippet from a Rolling Stone interview book-ended the assortment of notes.

In red color, someone had spray-painted over the tail end of this creepy collage:

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Javi gasped when something cracked and he spun around. The plastic of a CD case broke underneath his boot; an autographed copy of the EP, Sexy Vampire in the Basement by The Lost Number. He stepped away from it, stumbling over empty cans of beans and bacon and other assorted canned food, kicking loose a brief cacophony of clattering and clanking.

Kim glared at Javi, silently imploring him to stop being so jumpy.

The wind outside picked up, resembling a coyote’s howl. But unlike a natural animal’s howl, it petered out into a ghastly screech. Something flapped its horrid wings to underline the ungodly origins.

From the darkness, deeper inside the bus, silver eyes stared out, watching the two new arrivals.

“Did he live here?” Javi asked. His voice trembled. So did he—his entire body.

Even if he couldn’t see the presence, he felt it.

Kim refused to answer. This was not a place to answer redundant questions.

“How can anybody live like this?”

Kim set her jaw, shining the flashlight down the narrow corridor of the bus into its deepest parts, where the silver eyes awaited them.

Finally, she answered, “Power always has a price. We all pay for it in our own ways. And this—this was his way.”

Someone cleared his throat and Kim pointed her gun in that direction. The darkness swallowed the cone of light, though a set of two eyes reflected it back as they blinked. A man in black sat there, in the bedroom at the end of the bus. Lounging on the beds, legs crossed, hands folded behind his head. Not a care in the world.

Bright white, clean teeth bared, a wide grin plastered across a face of handsome features. Chiseled, sharp jawline, symmetrical. A glint of the devil’s own confidence in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked. Smooth voice—like smoke and velvet rolling over sanded stone.

Kim and Javi approached with careful paces, stepping over the trash heaps strewn about the floor. Both of them had their guns pointed at the stranger.

He budged not one bit, sitting like he belonged here. Garbed in black leather boots, dark jeans, and a crumpled old duster over a fancy black cowboy shirt with red patterns on it, this guy had the air of both a rich man and a vagrant.

“Are you Michael?” Kim asked him.

“No,” he lied. His smile widened. His steel blue eyes turned silver for a split second of the flashlight blinding him. He didn’t even blink this time. Lapped up the attention. Drank in their anxiety, thirsting for their fear.

Sprawled out in front of him was a circle of odd objects. Kim scanned over them with a quick glance, not quite registering what all of them meant or represented.

A circle of rice grains outlined the circle clearly, framed by a square of metal legs broken off a chair. In a pattern inside these shapes rested a tourist trap postcard from the Grand Canyon, a coyote’s skull, a tiny crucifix fastened to an old-timey alarm clock, a pill bottle of Alprazolam filled with black-painted fingernail clippings, a spiked dog collar, a folded piece of paper stuffed with a dark powder spilling out of the seams, and a pile of paperback novel covers glued together. Blue paint chippings covered the various objects.

“Please, let me know how I can help. Are you looking for Kevin?” asked Michael. “So am I. Perhaps we can help each other.”

“Don’t listen to him. He’s fuckin’ lyin’,” Javi said. He emphasized that by taking a threatening step towards Michael, but Kim elbowed him to stop him in his tracks.

“Stay outta the circle,” she growled at Javi.

Michael raised his hands, displaying his open empty palms. He brought his hands together and steepled his fingers like some sort of discount villain.

“You might as well put those lil’ peashooters away. Even if you manage to waste me, you gotta deal with Smokey out there,” Michael said, gesturing at the way they had come from.

The cawing shriek pierced the air, followed by more flapping of the wings. Something heavy landed on top of the tour bus, thumping. Sharp claws scraped over the metal, and one of its many beady red eyes peeked in through an old bullet hole in the roof. It kept moving, thumping until it stopped, out of sight. Right above them.

Both Kim and Javi found they had been holding their breath all the while.

“You spill one drop o’ blood in here, then Ol’ Smokey’s gonna be all over this place like flies on shit. And none of us are gonna look pretty at the end of it,” Michael said. The smile slowly faded from his visage, lending credence to the visceral danger lurking just outside.

“We can find your friend if we join forces. Work together,” Michael lied again.

Javi’s lips curled into a sneer but he swallowed any remark, and Kim picked up on the subtle cue. He could sense Michael’s lying. He smelled bullshit five miles against the wind, which is why she had brought him along.

“Alright, whaddya got?” she asked the sorcerer.

Michael smiled again. Like the wolf inviting Little Red Riding Hood inside.

He raised a hand, index finger outstretched, cautioning them away from shooting him and indicating that he was not about to draw a weapon. Digging his other hand into his coat’s pocket, he produced a small silver object.

A flip-top phone from the early 2000s. He held it out for a second, and then gently tossed it across the room to the two. It clattered onto the ratty carpeted floor in front of Kim’s boot. She handed Javi her flashlight and picked up the phone.

Flipped it open. Didn’t question why it still had juice, because nothing needed to make sense in this pocket space adjacent to Earth. No network, all sorts of little arcane symbols blinking on the display. Memory full. The buttons triggered ridiculous little beeps as she thumbed her way through the phone’s storage, browsing through a set of photos.

Kevin was on each of them, striking different poses in front of a mirror, dolled up with make-up and wearing women’s clothes. She always knew him from his stage performances as a magician to pull off the androgynous look quite well, so it did not surprise her that he looked rather pretty as a woman.

Without looking up, continuing to click through them in hopes of finding anything unusual, she asked, “Anything else?”

Michael pointed to something behind the two.

“Yeah. What do you see in there?”

She clapped the phone shut and pocketed it in her jacket then followed the cone of light that Javi shone on the object behind them.

A heavy-looking safe with a digital lock, its display dull and deactivated, its door open. It was empty except for a mirror sitting in it, pushed up against the back wall of the safe’s hollow belly. Kim and Javi only saw themselves inside of it.

Then Kim spotted the silver eyes creeping up behind them, closer and closer. Shining out from a cloud of darkness, billowing out and growing and preparing to engulf them.

She spun around and the deafening shot from her gun made way for a vicious ringing in their ears. Kim frantically pointed the gun around, looking for a target, but she had hit no person, only blown a hole through the back wall of the bus where Michael had been sitting mere seconds before.

“This how you thank me for helpin’?” Michael’s voice spilled out. Everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. Like a voice in the back of their heads, like he was telepathically communicating with them.

“Run,” Kim breathed.

Javi didn’t need to hear it twice. He tripped over some of the junk on the way out but was out of the bus within a matter of heartbeats, kicking up sand as he sprinted towards the pickup truck.

The cloud gathered, swirling and pooling in the corners inside the bus where silver eyes opened in its center, staring at Kim.

“You’re just as messed in the head,” Michael said. His laughter erupted, revolving and booming and growing in volume like the stifling black fog that filled the bus.

Kim coughed and held her breath, stumbling away from the bedroom. The thing outside cawed. Thumped, thundered, as it climbed down the side of the bus. Claws sliced through steel, causing the metal to screech under the pressure of the creature’s tremendous weight.

Michael’s laughter swelled to a crescendo and stopped abruptly.

His voice right in Kim’s ear, “He tried to cheat his way outta the deal. And if you try to help him, you’re just gettin’ in on the cheatin’. And you don’t wanna know how I’m gonna deal with you. You girls don’t know what repercussions you’re lookin’ at.”

She fired another shot, blindly at where his voice had come from. The wind howled, and so did Michael, one of them expressing otherworldly hunger, the other incredible pain. He tripped and slipped on old magazines and fell. Blood had sprayed against the walls inside the bus and he coughed.

“Bitch—”

He groaned and held his side, collapsing onto one of the chewed up couches. In his hand he held a mean-looking knife—something straight out of a horror movie, all jagged and meant for unholy rituals.

“See you in hell,” Kim muttered, scrambling away from him. The junk around her clanked and she tumbled down the short set of stairs leading out of the bus.

The pickup truck’s engine roared and its wheels kicked up sand as it spun around, sliding to a halt next to her. Kim’s eyes went wide but she hoisted herself back up onto her feet. Ripped open the passenger door as it banged against the frame without engaging and Javi hit the gas pedal, making the ragged old engine growl and roar again.

The truck sped off before she even slammed the door shut, and the vehicle kicked up more sand. The distance towards the bus rapidly grew. The winged thing peered after them with its eight red eyes.

With trembling hands, Kim blindly reloaded both barrels of her still-smoking shotgun, craning her neck to observe what the creature would do next.

It defied her expectations—did not leap or fly after the pickup truck. It instead swung around the edge of the bus, moving like molten, living shadows. Folded its wings up behind its back and crawled inside the yawning door, leading into the bus.

Michael’s screams of agony pierced the heavens, louder than the wind, and the old tour bus of The Lost Number shook violently as a struggle for life and death ensued inside there.

The radio in the truck screeched, almost like the creature, followed by garbled static and white noise. Kim hit buttons on it until she silenced the device.

A gust of wind kicked up a huge cloud of sand, sweeping over the truck and causing both driver and passenger to cough until the air cleared.

The sky had changed, the starry night making way for the warm orange tones of the sunset. The natural one. Earth.

Kim and Javi looked into the rear view mirror, seeing no bus, no alien-looking cacti, no winged monstrosity that belonged in another world.

They allowed themselves to breathe, emitting sighs of relief, knowing they could put this experience behind themselves. Maybe get a good night’s sleep some day.

They wouldn’t even talk about it for the next ten miles. Dealing with these sorts of things took it out of you. The unnatural always gave you that extra little oomph to unpack later on.

For the entire ride back to Vegas, they failed to notice the disgusting, football-sized egg stuck inside the back of the pickup truck.

They would only find it after it had hatched.

—Submitted by Wratts

[shineonmalcolmbright]

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Nine

Table of Contents

Present

There are enough lights out in the yards to make a person wonder what the electric bill looked like every December. Malcolm trails behind Owen glancing at glimmering candy cane, sparkling snowmen, and blinking Santas. Christmastime is here. Happiness and cheer. Own gets right to business. It’s not like he’s a cop anymore and the split second of distraction is gone. Malcolm hops up onto the stoop of the house before them where Owen’s knocking and it’s time to wait to see what they may or may not learn about the Junkyard Killer.

It’s getting cold. You’ve been colder, Malcolm tells himself. It means nothing. He rubs his hands together to let some friction heat him up.

Owen smirks at him. “Smile, kid. This is the fun part.”

But Malcolm doesn’t smile. He looks at Owen’s feet instead while keeping his hands together. It’s hard to smile when you have words such as, But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back, on the brain.

“Don’t worry.” Owen leans forward, he’s chuckling as he reveals a concealed weapon. “You were right before, it’s not registered.”

“Oh, well, in that case. . .” Malcolm tries not to roll his eyes because how is that supposed to provide any comfort (and it’s so cold).

Owen goes back to knocking on the door only for Malcolm’s phone to go off. It’s tugging at his attention and he pulls it out of his pocket to see what’s up. Hopefully, it’s not Jessica or Ains calling to tell them how disappointed they are in him. Except it’s neither and he picks up, turning away from Owen like it’ll help create a more private conversation.

“Gil. Hey.” If he really wants, he reaches out to Gil himself through the shining but Gil couldn’t reach him. Made the world a little more lonely. Behind him, Owen’s still banging on the door. There’s no telling how many miles separate the two but some panic leaks through the phone from Gil. I got a lead.”

“So do I. Macy didn’t do it.”

Figures, figures. Malcolm nods even though Gil can’t see him or hear his present thoughts. There’s not much to read other than the annoyance of Owen still knocking on the door. Not at Owen but the mystery of if this lead is worthwhile and a consistent noise of any sort is easy to dislike.

“So the frame job and the murder were two separate crimes,” Malcolm says hopping right into too many thoughts even with the knock, knock, knocking. “Turner was investigating The Junkyard Killer. . .” It’s enough to get Owen to stop with one subtle What the fuck as he glances at Malcolm. “So maybe, maybe. . .”

The thoughts are the same for Gil. His surprise hangs in the air, distance can’t change that. He even blurts into the phone, “Wh-Wh-What?” Where are you, Bright?

“Maybe he found out Turner was on his case.” There’s no stopping Malcolm, the words might as well be word vomit because they keep coming, no questions can stop him. A little too close to the truth so he follows him to the hotel. . .”

Bright, where are you?

“. . .Didn’t expect him to be there with a sex worker but who cares, he’s there to kill a cop and he’ll happily throw in Emily, too.”

Even though Owen’s listening, he keeps up the occasional knock to not let their progress die.

“Wait, wait. . .” I’m not asking you again, where are you, Bright? “Are you saying that our murderer is the Junkyard Killer?”

Malcolm’s grinning, not that Owen nor Gil can see him. His back is still to Owen and there’s the distance to consider. But still. It’s hilarious, isn’t it? “We were working the case this entire time.” Cosmic humor bringing them together.

Before Malcolm can get out more words the door explodes open behind them with a woman grunting, she’s full of an odd sense of fury. “I may be blind but I’m not deaf.”

Malcolm faces her and maybe the odd sense is more than how upset she sounds because, beyond spoken words, there’s a lot of silence around her. There’s been other times Malcolm has faced such a silence. It’s an odd one where the rest of the world let’s you realize how busy it’s been all along from the buzzing Christmas lights to passing cars with their music floating on stereos.

“What do you want?” A tinge of sadness bites into her words because maybe she likes being alone? Maybe she’s not alone and wants to be with people. It’s impossible to tell.

“I-I got to go.” Malcolm hangs up real fast in order to join Owen.

Before Malcolm could cut off the call, he heard the ghost of Gil shouting, “Bright. . .Bright?” Damn it! Bright!

The woman has the door partially closed on her as she leans out facing them. “Unless you plan on singing, get off my front step!”

Shit, didn’t think this far ahead. . . Owen’s grumbling in his thoughts without a plan.

Malcolm hops right in, there’s a lot more energy than he needs right now. A jitteriness that takes over and he needs to shake it off. “Uh! Merry Christmas! We’re looking for John Watkins.” What appears to be confusion warps the woman’s face as she listens to Malcolm. Not an extra word or a hint to what’s going on inside her head. “Do you know if he used to live here?”

Only a smile bursts on her face. She chimes, “My sweet John! Of course, he did! How did you know my grandson?”

There’s something sweet yet poisonous about the way she speaks. It gets to Owen first, he’s there gawking at her unable to connect what he wants to think about. Malcolm’s not sure either. He’s hanging onto the words he told himself before, You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

Owen’s looking at Malcolm for help and the lie happens so fast. It’s hard to tell who thought it up first. Malcolm admits, “We’re old friends.” Then again, maybe it’s not necessarily the lie he thinks it is. Owen has no idea.

The woman lets them inside the claustrophobic house. The sort that reminds one of hoarders. The woman collects little porcelain angels and skinny candles. There are crucifixes hanging from all the walls. She insists on food for them and leaves Owen and Malcolm alone to the eyes of God watching.

A broken radio spits Christmas songs at them, Said the night wind to the little lamb, Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?

Malcolm’s taking it all in, smiling the whole time as he looks at all the gauche figurines. So many are faded from years of too much light. Across the room, Owen’s shaking his head. Malcolm’s still shaking from all the energy built up inside him.

“Why are you smiling?”

“This is John’s childhood home,” Malcolm comments as he moves a little closer to Owen. Cutting the distance so their voices don’t carry too much. He’s pointing at everything around them. “That’s, like, the Holy Grail for profilers.”

Do you see what I see? Do you see what I see?

Malcolm can’t focus on one thing, Owen included who’s just gawking at him by this point stuck on ?!?!. “Serial killers aren’t just born, they’re made.” He moves closer to the mantel place letting Owen’s ?!?! grow louder. Malcolm comes so close to touching the little angelic statues that watch over them. “And John was made. . .right here.” Rather than touch, he takes a step back taking in the sights. The regular decorations speak volumes. “Religion played a prominent role in his development. It impacts the way he kills. His messianic mission.”

There’s more than angels but other images of the Christian faith hosted by the house. All gathered to judge them and every other person to walk in front of them.

?!?!

“There are clues everywhere,” Malcolm lowers his voice looking beyond the room the stand in. The whole house is a museum.

The curation of John Watkins' past.

As Malcolm’s looking, the woman interrupts them. Her voice is a bit shrill, it cuts straight through the radio spitting Christmas tunes at them and Owen’s thoughts. “I thought I told you to sit.” The first few words sounded as if they were in trouble, but maybe she means it out of hospitality. She rounds a corner near a little table with plates in her hands. She starts to set the table for them.

Do you hear what I hear?

Owen shakes his head, he takes off his jacket. Malcolm stays in his long coat. They plop into seats at the dinner table to find old TV dinners there. The plastic still on. It’s all moist and hard to rip off with the food making unsettling sounds underneath.

You’ve got to be kidding me. . . Owen frees his food.

Malcolm wrinkles his nose as he listens to the woman speak. “Just remember to peel back the plastic. Sometimes I forget.”

While Owen wrestles with his meal, Malcolm picks up a fork. He’s staring at the table as he speaks. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Watkins.” Owen says nothing. He shakes his head. This leaves Malcolm to keep on talking. “We were wondering, uh. . .if you’d seen John recently.” Malcolm looks at his food, it’s as if it's melting and was never meant to be eaten.

“Oh! It’s Matilda, please. Now, how did you know my Johnnie again?”

For the first time, Owen talks even as he’s digging into his meal. “We worked with him at St. Edward’s.”

Malcolm glares at his food, his hands sink to his seat and he sits on them as he waits. He comes close to adding the bit about the Overlook and maybe he did say it out loud. Hard to tell. Owen gives him a look but Matilda’s smiling.

“He always said he made good friends there. Ah, everyone loves John. I raised him to be a good boy.”

Malcolm ends up pushing his food a bit away from him. The thought of eating upsets his stomach just something about it messes with his head. Not necessarily this meal, but all. Like times he’s at home reminding himself to eat over and over again then unable to do so.

“Were John’s parents around when he was a kid?” he asks.

Matilda chortles. “No father that I knew. Least of his worries, though, with that mother.”

Owen’s watching Malcolm not eat, maybe studying how he reacts to Matilda’s story.

“She was a sinner!” Matilda spits out. “FILTHY whore till she died. Chose HEROIN over her own child.” Matilda’s squirming in her seat with the fury ready to burst through the seams of her pink clothes. “You WANT his real mother, you see ME!”

“That must have been hard,” Malcolm comments, the sort of tone saved for condolences.

Matilda’s sitting up straighter, she folds her hands together. “God doesn’t put us here to do easy things, son, just right ones.” She scoots a bit to face Malcolm. His food sits there untouched, collecting the cold. Another brand new edge cuts into her voices. “Would you like something else?”

This leaves Malcolm looking between her and Owen and the food and food he’d rather not eat. Anxiety clenches in his stomach, he lifts his hands for no real reason, doesn’t do anything with them. He kinda just flutters around for a bit as he tries to answer her. “No. I’m. . .It’s fine.” He ends up grabbing a fork and holds it with both hands before letting the fork touch the food.

“Guests in this house deserve better than fine,” Matilda comments. A kindness returns. The hospitality of it all because if it isn’t there then there’d only be guilt. She’s already climbing from her seat. “Sit tight!”

Off in the kitchen, Matilda sings some old song. Malcolm can’t really make it out. He’s cleaning to his fork for dear life.

Owen leans forward whispering, “So he lost his parents young. I mean, that’s rough. But Grandma, she’s not bad. . .” He trails off looking at his food. “Could learn to cook, maybe.”

Malcolm’s shaking his head and clinging to his fork. “It’s all here. In Matilda.” He keeps his voice low, as well. It’s easy to tell Matilda is in the kitchen, still. She sings her song. “John targets people on the fringe because of what she made him believe as a child. That his mother was a sinner, that addicts are evil.”

The singing stops and footsteps approach. Matilda returns with a can in hand, she starts to splatter gravy all over Malcolm’s food almost hitting him a few times. He scoots back while Owen keeps going Oh, Oh, Oh and Matilda hums, “Here you go.” Owen cracks a joke that is so easy to miss. Malcolm sits there unable to touch the table any longer or look at the food without the idea of throwing up.

“Uh, Matilda, do you have any photos of John? We’d love to see him as a kid?” Malcolm talks still with his hands up, ready to flutter with nowhere to go. Grandparents loved showing off photos of their children and grandchildren.

On cue, Matilda hops up all smiles and nods. “I do!” She springs off into another room and brings back a scrapbook with roses on the cover.

Fades photos are inside. Clipped into the pages. Meant to stay. There’s sometimes words beside them pretending to describe people and places and events.

“Who’s Benjamin?” Malcolm points at one not quite able to get a good look.

“My husband, he was good to Johnnie. Pushed him to be his best but my poor Johnnie had to watch him die. Benjamin was working on his car in the garage and like a bolt of lightning straight from God, the car fell and CRUSHED his head. Horrible accident.” She keeps turning the pages leaving Malcolm and Owen to exchange a look because that’s a lot, a lot to take in about John Watkins. “And this is his first communion.” Matilda stops showing off pictures of John Watkins. He’s there in so many of them, faded images tuck in place with little informational tags yet in all of them his face is gone, scratched out of memories.

And Matilda continues on bringing them on a tour of John Watkins’ faceless life as she smiles and exclaims, “Family. Is. Everything.”

There’s not just faceless photos of John Watkins but a postcard of The Overlook Hotel as well. It’s not alone. Instead, it’s hidden on pages all too familiar to Malcolm. There’s the missing girl who was last seen running down a hallway, images of her in the elevator with the timestamps in the corner.

11:05; 11:06; 11:07; 11:09. Then L,E looked out at 11:11.

And close to her is a photograph almost unrecognizable. It’s from a magazine, it says Last known photograph of Alexie & Alexa Grady but their eyes look gouged out. And with them, the saddest part of their story: Family Annihilator. Their father destroyed them all.

Articles about the woman who threw children from the roof of the Overlook before she disappeared herself, found hanging in the basement. Salacious photos of the crime scene are cut out and pasted there.

The worst is ripped up pieces from a journal found their way inside.

11/08: Woke up in library. Thought I went to bed. 11/09: Woke up in ballroom (?). Remember going to bed. Mother said something to sleep better. Don’t remember falling asleep. 11/10: Is it possible to not remember falling asleep but waking up? I feel like I haven’t slept for days. Ask somebody about it. (Would Gil know? Where did Gil go?)

11/12: ????

Malcolm looks away. This world is full of memories, and memories are no different than ghosts. They’re always lurking around corners waiting to haunt you.

Owen’s still looking through the scrapbook shaking his head. “They’re all the same. He knew if Turner was onto him, that people would come looking.”

“So he made sure we wouldn’t be able to I.D. him when you did.” But that’s not wholly true, there’s evidence left behind just for Malcolm to know and no one else in the world. Still unable to look down, Malcolm glances up. Matilda left them again, but she’s close. He ends up whispering right to Owen. “See if you can find out when he was last here. I’m gonna take a look around.”

Even as Malcolm goes to get up he spots the page all about the Overlook and ends up changing it catching sight of one last entry.

11/13: Woke up in bed. Last thing I remember, boiler room. Looking at newspapers. Then nothing. Is there something wrong with me?

Matilda scurries back into the room as Malcolm is half out of his seat. Owen returns to his food looking at a new page of photographs.

“Matilda, can I use your bathroom?”

Matilda halts. “MAY I use your bathroom! Poor grammar is just a short walk to delinquency.” She returns to her smile and hangs onto the back of her seat looking ready to dance. There’s no way to understand her beyond what she says. Malcolm gulps, he watches her not wanting to move and not wanting to look down and catching sight of his own ghosts. “And you may. It’s the first door at the top of the stairs.”

Malcolm peels himself from his chair, he never takes off his coat, he keeps in on like it’s normal to wear one to a private bathroom. Owen’s stuck at the table with Matilda and Malcolm turns into the dark, dark house. He looks up the steps, they twist around, out of sight. There’s no decoration on the walls here. He needs to stay present, he needs to stay present but it’s so hard whenever the Overlook comes bearing down on his shoulders.

Thoughts of a not so lost past where he lost memories to chloroform and woke up half remembering all the times he found Martin in the basement or another corner chatting with the walls and almost unseen ghosts. Such hungry, hungry ghosts. They waited to feed on anybody passing through.

Matilda’s radio continues to spit out its Christmas music providing a backdrop that hides the voices in the kitchen of her and Owen chatting.

Ding dong ding dong, That is their song, With joyful ring, All caroling.

Malcolm inhales, he counts his breaths trying to ignore the lyrics and the encroaching thoughts. Of the girl in Room 217 who still haunts him, asking him to solve her death as if it were a riddle. Of him walking into the room after pushing Ainsley forward on a little tricycle, the big wheel sort meant for the insides of a building. He entered the room hearing her sing a song that would forever remind him that he’d be seeing her as she’s stuck inside of the tub inside the room.

One seems to hear, Words of good cheer, From everywhere, Filling the air.

The house groans underneath his weight as he moves up to the second floor. Up there, the lights are off forcing him to use a flashlight to guide him through the curation of John Watkins’ past.

Oh how they pound, Raising the sound, O'er hill and dale, Telling their tale.

Only crucifixes grace the walls. There’s no personal images up there and at least the angel figurines remain only downstairs. Malcolm avoids the bathroom with a half-remembered dream of the girl in Room 217. Instead, his light catches a vanity license plate at the end of the hall and on a door, the sort you buy in gift shops.

John.

Jesuses watch him steer clear of the bathroom as he enters John’s room. He pushes the door open glad it doesn’t whine on his hinges. Somewhere downstairs the radio continues to play and hopefully, Owen is learning something. There’s no telling what’s hidden up here in the murkiness of disuse. Malcolm shines his light around the room. There’s a single gold plated cross above a twin bed with two lights beside it. No decorations. Nothing to define what John once loved. Behind him, another Jesus watches from a framed image. There’s a long mirror capturing Malcolm and the wall with the crucifix above the bed, it reflects it back at him.

He moves forward peeling back at the threads of abandonment in the room. Dust falls like fog. Nobody’s wanted here. There’s a closet by the door and a lock on the door capturing his attention. It glints thanks to his flashlight. Malcolm walks to it, he’s hesitant though. Careful to make as little sound as possible because he’s of course in the bathroom.

It's too big of a lock to put on a closet and what closet has a lock? Malcolm touches it regretting, he uses his other hand to hold the flashlight and open the door finding a place for chains on the floor. All around are scratch marks, as if something past and present is trying to get out. Malcolm runs his hand over some of the scratches on the door finding himself listening to another time and another place. There’s no more carol of the bells but a sobbing child who begs. He can feel splints burring underneath his nails, ready to make them pop off. Sometimes fingernails litter the floor. They grow back, they always grow back to be lost again.

Malcolm releases the door and the memory, as well. He’s back in the present, almost.

Somewhere across the city, Malcolm can almost hear Gil shouting for his attention. Others are also starting to ask, Where is Bright right now? And Gil’s furious his answer is We don’t know.

[thinkingaboutyoungroyals]

Lost Boy (Chapter 2: The Boy)

Summary: When his family moves from San Francisco to the town of Shadyside, T.J. thought his life would change. And it did. He just didn’t think it would come in the form of the ghost of a boy who haunted his new bedroom.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Tag list: @delicatesleeper, @ibroughtachallah, @frenchtohste,@alittletooliteralleah, @tyrusmagocious, @tjskipping,  @mirrorslover, @opatrickr, @lesbianrelateddeath

.......

“T.J.! T.J.! Help me!”

“What did you do?!”

“She was mean to you!”

“She’s my sister! Amber!”

“T.J.! Help me! Help me! T.J.!”

“T.J.?”

Familiar gentle fingers caressed his hair, stirring him to consciousness. He was lying down on something soft and comfortable, his head cradled by what could only be a pillow.

Slowly, T.J.’s eyes fluttered open, his vision adjusting to the sudden light and glimpses of flowing blonde hair. Amber’s bright blue eyes caught his own green ones, fraught with worry and relief.

“What… happened?” he croaked, his throat dry.

His sister breathed in relief. “I heard a noise and when I came in here, you were on the floor. You fainted, Teej. Mom said it must be the hunger. She just left to go to the store to grab some stuff for lunch, but she told me that if you woke up before she’s back, I need to feed you the McDonald’s.”

As the memory of what happened came back to him, T.J. couldn’t help but look around his room. His heartbeat began to pick up pace again, but there was nothing there. No one else but him and Amber. Yet, he knew they weren’t alone.

Picking up on his anxiety, Amber followed his gaze. “Was there… something?”

With the way she was suddenly holding on to his hand, she was scared. He could lie to her. Make her feel safe. No need to stir that paranoia that often took over her back in San Francisco.

But, he couldn’t lie to her.

“There was something,” he confessed, slowly sitting up on the bed. Amber reached out to help him. “A boy.”

He bit his lip, recalling the ghost’s bright disposition. He had introduced himself to T.J. But, T.J., already fraught with nerves and fear, failed to respond.  

“He didn’t seem bad. Kinda… friendly, actually.”

And kind of cute, but he chose not to voice that out loud.

“A friendly ghost? Like Casper?” Amber joked, despite the shaking fear in her tone.

“Cyrus,” T.J. replied, remembering. “His name is Cyrus.”

As if he heard him, the boy appeared in a shimmer behind Amber.

T.J.’s eyes widened.

The ghost – Cyrus – looked shy, almost unsure.

Noticing T.J.’s look, Amber subtly moved her eyes to look behind her. “Is he…”

Swallowing, T.J. nodded. “You don’t have to stay,” he said to her.

For all of her support in his abilities, Amber wasn’t fond of ghosts. She preferred not knowing that they were there. And for this very reason, she often wore a crucifix, even if they weren’t exactly a super religious family. But, it made her feel safe and T.J. would never tell her that they didn’t exactly work. He just kept the ghosts away from her as much as he could. And this was no different.

“I’ll come down in a bit,” he continued, patting her hand in reassurance.

She nodded before quickly standing up and rushing out of the room. She walked past Cyrus, who didn’t even blink an eye when her shoulder went through him.

When the door closed shut, T.J. curled himself up against the headboard.

“W-What do you want from me?” He failed to keep the nerves out of his tone.

The ghost scrunched his eyebrows. “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding soft and concerned. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.”

“I fainted because my blood sugar was low, not because I was scared of you,” T.J. bristled. “And let me ask you again. What do you want from me?”

Cyrus flashed him a confused look. “I… don’t want anything?”

Yeah right, as if T.J. believed him. 

“Ghosts always want something from me,” he seethed. “Once they find out I can see them, they have me do all sorts of stuff for them to help them move on or whatever. So, tell me what you want so you can finally leave.”

At that, the ghosts’ demeanor darkened. “I don’t want anything,” he insisted.

And, just like that, he disappeared.

T.J. was all alone once more.

………

Ten minutes later, he found himself seated at the kitchen island, chewing on a now cold egg and cheese on a croissant sandwich. Across from him, Amber happily finished the rest of the hash browns as she scrolled through her phone. Their mom was still at the store.

“So…” Amber broke the silence.

T.J. looked up. “So…?”

Amber cleared her throat. “What did the ghost want?”

T.J. was still pretty stumped about that. “He said he didn’t want anything.”

“And you believe it?”

“I don’t know, Ambs. Most ghosts that say they don’t want something from me usually ends up wanting something. And I’m just tired.” He sighed as he pushed the half-eaten sandwich away from him, suddenly losing his appetite. “I really don’t want to keep doing this.”

“Then why do you? You don’t have to. You’re not obligated to do any of it. You’re not some superhero, Teej. You’re just a kid.”

“Just a kid who can see things other people can’t,” T.J.’s tone was almost bitter.

It wasn’t fair. He already had dyscalculia. He was gay. And, then, he could see ghosts.

Why couldn’t he just be normal like everyone else?

Before Amber could respond, the kitchen door opened and in entered their mother, arms full with paper bags of groceries. When she saw T.J. sitting at the island, she immediately abandoned everything on the counter and rushed over to him.

“Are you okay, honey?” she asked, placing a hand over his forehead. “Are you sick? You passed out. Do I need to take you to a doctor?”

“Mom, I’m fine.” T.J. gently batted her hand away. “I just got dizzy, that’s all. I’m fine now. And I ate.”

He gestured to the sandwich.

Stella still looked worried as she stared at her son. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Sighing, she gave in. “Okay.” She returned to the groceries. “Have you two unpacked?”

“Mostly,” Amber replied. “Not like we had much to unpack begin with.”

Their mom hummed as she opened the fridge to put away the meat and vegetables.

“Well, after you two finish eating, why don’t you go out and explore the town? You can get some stuff for school while you’re at it.”

“Really?” Amber perked up and T.J. rolled his eyes.

Shopping was the one thing that could lift Amber’s mood. And their mother knew it.

“I’ll give you my credit card, but do not spend more than 30 dollars, each.”

“Yay! I’ll go shower and get changed!”

Amber jumped off her stool and practically skipped out of the kitchen.

T.J. chuckled and shook his head before picking up his sandwich again. As he chewed, he watched his mother finish putting away the groceries.

She sacrificed so much for him and Amber and he wished he didn’t give her so many headaches back in San Francisco. Fraternizing with the ghosts often got him trouble and his mom got the short end of the stick. If he could only pay her back for every instance she had to go to the Principal’s Office or pick him up at the police station. 

He swore to himself that she wouldn’t have the same trouble here. She got a great new job and this awesome new house (even if it had a ghost residence). He couldn’t ruin all of that.

“Hey, mom?”

“Hmmm?”

“About the people who lived here before… do you know them?”

His mother closed the fridge with a thoughtful look. “I didn’t meet them but the realtor mentioned them a few times. Uh… their name starts with a G… Uh… Go-something…” His mother pursed her lips, thinking. “Oh! Goodman! That’s the name. They were psychiatrists, I think. Why?”

T.J. shrugged, nonchalantly. “Just curious, I guess.” He tore off a piece of his sandwich. “Did they have a kid? Like, maybe my age?”

“That, I don’t know. The realtor told me they just wanted to sell the house as quickly as possible. Didn’t even care that they were selling for less than what the house is really worth.”

“Oh.”

“Why so interested?”

“No reason. Just curious, I guess.”

It was sort of starting to make sense to T.J. now.

If Cyrus had died in the house, then maybe his parents didn’t want to be reminded of it. Thus, they decided to sell the house, instead. He had heard of similar stories from other ghosts he had helped out.

“Hey.” His mother was right in front of him now, patting his hand. “I can tell you’re worried. And it’s okay. But, T.J., you can start over here. You can make new friends, join basketball, anything you want. The world is your oyster now, honey.”

He smiled at her. “Yeah.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Mom. For all the stuff that happened back home. And I swear to you that I won’t get in trouble here. So you won’t have to show up at the police station every week to pick me up.”

Stella laughed, good-naturedly. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and ruffled his hair.

“That’s my boy. Now, go get ready. You can shower in the bathroom in my room. Hurry or your sister will have your head if you’re not done by the time she is.”

“So, I’ve got an hour.”

Stella laughed again and shooed him off.

Seeing his mom happy, it made T.J. even more determined to get his life together.

No more getting in trouble.

He would avoid all the ghosts he would come across so they wouldn’t bother him and make him do things.

And if the ghost in his bedroom decided he wanted something from him after all, he would refuse.

He was done.

………

The next day, T.J. barely thought about the ghost that haunted his bedroom. The rest of their stuff finally arrived and he and Amber spent the entire morning helping their mother arrange all the furniture. Then, they both retreated to their respective rooms to start unpacking the rest of their things.

With his clothes put away in the closet and dresser, his books arranged on the new bookshelf, his CDs in a stack next to his stereo on the dresser along with his spelling bee trophy, and the basketball hoop tacked on the back of his door, T.J. was ready to put up the picture frames. He had found the nails and hammer in one of the boxes and got right to work.

His stereo played a “Panic! At The Disco” CD as he hammered away.

When the nails were all in, he hung up the frames. There was one of him and Amber when they were kids, one of them with their mom, and one with their late grandmother. 

Part of him wondered if Nana had lived on a bit longer, would she have like the house?

“That one’s a little crooked.”

T.J. jumped ten feet into the air, almost dropping the last photo. He turned around to scowl at the boy standing behind him.

Cyrus was smiling as he made a little gesture with his hand. “Move it a little to the left.”

T.J. rarely ever took advice from a ghost – it only led to trouble. But, when he looked at the frame – really looked at it – it did look kind of crooked. He fixed it and took a few steps back. Next thing he knew, he was right next to the ghost who was nodding in approval.

“It looks great,” Cyrus stated.

“Thanks.”

He looked at Cyrus. And Cyrus looked back at him for a moment or two before looking away and scanning the room.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he stated. “It doesn’t look like my room anymore.”

“This was your room?” T.J. couldn’t help but ask, watching as the ghost boy began walking around.

When ghosts walked, they look like they were almost gliding… weightless… even if their feet were planted firmly on the ground. And although normal people could walk through them and only feel a slight shiver (sort of like breeze), T.J. could touch them. He didn’t know why. He just always could. 

And, he was sure that if he touched any part of Cyrus right then, he would only feel coldness. T.J. could never forget the feeling of when he first hugged his grandmother’s ghost, how cold she was against his skin that goosebumps popped up.

“Yeah, it was,” Cyrus said. “I lived here before… you know.” He gestured at himself.

T.J. nodded.

Cyrus seemed harmless. So far.

T.J. still didn’t completely trust him but a little conversation wouldn’t hurt, right?

“So, Mr. I-See-Ghosts, how long have you been seeing dead people?” Cyrus asked, jokingly. “Do you feel like you’re in The Sixth Sense?”

For the first time since meeting him, T.J. laughed as he settled back on his bed. “Sometimes. I started seeing them when I was 6. After my grandmother died. She was the first ghost I saw.”

He remembered the joy he felt seeing her sitting on her favorite armchair. The confusion when his mother and Amber didn’t believe him. How scared he was when he realized what he was truly seeing. How he denied the existence of his abilities until he was eight.

T.J. shook the memories away from his head and turned his attention back to the curious ghost in front of him. “So… how long have you… uh…”

There was really no sensitive way to ask it. Thankfully, Cyrus knew what he was asking.

“About a year, I think,” he replied. “I haven’t really kept count. My dad and step-mom, they lived here. Then one day, they just up and left. And I’ve been alone ever since.”

T.J. nodded, feeling solemn at the sad story. It was never his favorite part of being able to see ghosts. Finding out how people died always put him in a somber mood but it was something he needed to know in order to help them.

Even though he swore to himself that he wouldn’t, the curiosity was killing him. So, really, he was only asking questions to satisfy that, he reasoned to himself. That didn’t mean he was going to help.

“So… why are you still here?” he asked.

Cyrus perched himself on top of the desk and began to swing his legs like a little kid at the playground.

“I don’t know, actually. People who die usually end up somewhere, right? I don’t even know why I’m still here.”

“Maybe you have unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business?” Cyrus tilted his head to the side.

T.J. tried not to think about how cute the action was. “Yeah. You know, things you were in the middle of that you never finished? Revenge on the person who killed you or ruined your life while you were alive? Justice on an unjustified death? That sorta thing.”

Cyrus laughed. “I know what you meant. And I’ve thought about them but, honestly, I can’t really think of what it could be. I was only 13 when I died. I didn’t exactly have a huge life goal I didn’t get to fulfill or revenge to enact or justice to achieve.” 

Now, that piqued T.J.’s curiosity. “How did you die?”

Cyrus turned away, staring at the rolls of posters T.J. had left on the floor. “Not really something I want to talk about, if you don’t mind.”

That was an interesting change from the usual. Most ghosts didn’t seem to mind talking about their death. As if talking about it made them feel more inclined to accept it.

So, T.J. just nodded and said, “Okay.” He stood up and walked over to him. “Well, if we’re gonna be sharing the room, we might as well get along, right?”

Cyrus looked up and smiled. “Yes, that seems like the best thing to do. And, don’t worry, I don’t take up much space. And I’ll give you privacy, of course. So, if you need me to leave anytime, by all means, just let me know.”

Wow. A considerate ghost. That was a new one. The ghost at their old apartment wasn’t like that at all.

“Thanks. And, uh, so my sister gets really freaked out about ghosts watching her so do you mind not… you know… peeking on her or anything. Or my mom. Cause I’ll kick you to the curb if you do.”

Cyrus chuckled. “You don’t need to worry about that, trust me. You have my word as a non-corporeal spiritual being that I will never ever peek at your sister, your mom, or you.”

T.J. nodded. “Good.” He extended a hand to the ghost. “I’m T.J. Kippen.”

The boy took the hand and shook it, his touch cold and making T.J. shiver. “Nice to meet you, T.J. I’m Cyrus Goodman.”

Of course, T.J. already knew his name. But, he guessed politeness was just part of the boy’s personality.

Honestly, this was one of the strangest encounters T.J. had ever had with a ghost.

But, on the bright side, at least Cyrus was a cute ghost. Not that T.J. would ever tell him that.

[etlunainmorte]

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

An old Priest bravely came forward despite his trembling knees, holding up his crucifix in hopes of warding off the Demons.

“Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio,…”

The enemies fell silent, looking at each other, confused of what’s going on. The priest took this as an opportunity to keep praying.

“Cóntra neqúitiam et insídias diáboli - ”

One by one, the enemies started laughing at his words, clearly not affected by his prayer.

With sweat running cold and courage slowly diminishing, the poor old Priest went on, “… ésto p - p - præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus - ”

One of the Demons came forward and mockingly uttered the prayer with the frightened Priest. “… SÚPPLICES DEPRECÁMUR: TUQUE, PRÍNCEPS MILÍTIÆ CÆLÉSTIS -

“… SÁTANAM!” The Demons finished for him as they laughed and insulted.

The poor old Priest was about to lose all hope when, all of a sudden, the enemies abruptly stopped laughing. Little by little, the smiles on their horrendous faces vanished, to be replaced by expressions of either pain or depression.

Then, all of them stopped moving, frozen and rooted to the ground. This gave the Priest enough motivation to keep on praying.

“… súpplices deprecámur: tuque, prínceps milítiæ cæléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos,” The Priest prayed with renewed courage as the Demons seemingly cowered before him and his crucifix. “… qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo, divína virtúte, in inférnum detrúde.”

“Ámen!”

The people of the church looked behind them upon hearing the loud voice of an old woman who just finished the prayer. And when they saw three old nuns, one bearing a pail of water, and the other two wielding procession crosses, they couldn’t help but chuckle and be worried at them at the same time.

“WWWAAAHHH!” Their leader, the one bearing the pail, howled like a warrior and charged straight at the Demons, almost tackling the old Priest on the way. She doused the nearby enemies with that suspicious water, and lo and behold, the fiends actually shrieked in pain as their hideous skin melted!

It was holy water!

“HHHOOOAAAHHH!” The other two nuns bearing the crosses then charged at the enemies, driving the pointed bejeweled things through the Demons’ heart and successfully killing them.

The nun with the pail addressed the people as her two comrades did the “Demon Hunting”.

“Tränkt die Dämonen in Weihwasser!” She said in instruction for the people to fetch themselves a pail of holy water. “Dann durchstoße sie mit diesem zeremoniellen Kreuz!” She, then, pointed at the two nuns who were still skewering some holy water - soaked Demons.

“Lasst uns diese gottlosen Dinge zurück in die feurigen Gruben der Hölle schlagen!” The old Priest, who was more than ready to fight the enemies, began howling. “ANGRIFF!”

As the people started working together, fetching procession crosses, or anything that’s sharp, and pails of water from the back of the church and letting the old Priest bless them to “weaponize” them, Kyrie made her way towards the altar and leaned against the lectern. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth as tears began pouring out. She, then, removed the hand from her mouth and placed it against her belly.

She cried tears of happiness.

“We’re saved.” She whispered as she rubbed her belly, now with both hands. “Your daddy saved us. Nero,… saved us!”

Meanwhile, at the other side of the globe, Nico, Trish, and Lady were staring at Shadow the feline demon as she sat in front of them, seemingly guarding the human who was sitting on the sofa just behind her. The strange human girl, whose clothes were stained with blood, just glanced calmly at them, unmoving, emotionless,…

… and she was clutching at her mid - section as she healed it with her equally strange power.

“Uhh, so who are you again?” The tattooed woman carefully asked the stranger.

“You can call me Galatea.” The girl answered.

“Hey, I thought that’s (Y/N)?” Lady whispered to Trish, still wary of her movements as Shadow stared at them.

“Perhaps.” Galatea answered for her, making them even more baffled.

“What do you mean by that?” Trish bravely asked her.

The Bearer of The Past smiled at her as she closed her eyes. “… we are connected,… by that one feeling. Her branches mixed with mine,… and our roots,… together joined.”

Nico’s jaw dropped open as she slowly nodded. She looked once more at the huge demonic cat as it remained vigilant on the floor. “I think,…” she began. “I know what kind of feeling you’re talking about. Yeah. You and her are definitely the same.”

Trish and Lady only nodded.

They were all thinking of the same thing.

The mystic words, the feline familiar, her languid eyes,…

Oh, damn! The three women thought simultaneously. She’s just like V!

***

XXVII

***

By that time, the moon had already risen high above the night sky.

V and Dante cautiously made their way inside the mansion, looking for the man behind all the demonic attacks. Knowing the location of Fleminger’s office by memory, the poet led the way, and when they finally opened the ornate wooden door, something made them stop right on their tracks.

The office, itself, looked as neat and as tidy as the first time he was there but, an awfully foul smell of rotten corpses combined with sulfur was wafting around the area. The scent was even more appalling than the Dreadnought’s insides.

The brothers covered their noses in disgust.

“Big fancy room? Funky smell?” Dante spoke in a muffled voice. “Ugh! We’re definitely in the right place! So, where’s the boss?”

V did not answer. Instead, he glanced at the portraits of the pale people on the walls.

“Where could an intellectual man such as Fleminger hide a secret room?” The poet mused as he searched through (Y/N)’s memories in his mind like an archive of some sort. He may have gone back in time but, her memories still clung to him after being acknowledged by the Bearer of The Past. He knew (Y/N) have a clue. After all, she had the first hand experience with Fleminger’s ancestors.

And as V searched for clues in his mind, Dante began moving objects around the room, looking for buttons, trapdoors, anything.

The poet was still thinking when his twin found the old record on the small table near the wall. Being Dante and all, he smirked, poking fun at it despite the situation.

“Eh? Who knew he still keeps an ancient thing around here?” The Legendary Devil Hunter stated as he played the record,…

“On the farm, every Friday.

On the farm, it’s rabbit pie day,…”

“Huh, that’s funny. Today’s Friday! What are the odds,…” Dante said to himself as he placed his fingers on the fragile vinyl and started turning the record in the opposite direction.

“Nur, nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,

Nugs remraf eht soeg gnab, gnab, gnab, gnab,

Nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,

Nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,”

“Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run,

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Goes the farmer’s gun!”

“Hehe, that sounded awful. Sorry about that.” Dante apologized as he let the record play normally.

As the music played, (Y/N)’s memories of a familiar scene flashed through V’s mind. It was when the uptight woman made them dance to the tune of a broken melody that was being played on an old record,…

“Is this,… the same thing?” V questioned as he glanced down at the vintage mechanism, carefully touching it with his light fingers.

He searched through the memories once more, looking for more clues, until he finally arrived at the moment where (Y/N) actually saw the woman playing that thing on the record.

“Hey, Mr. Poetry, what are you doing?” Dante inquired as he saw V rummaging through the drawers in search of something.

“It must’ve survived the onslaught. Fleminger’s grandmother must’ve brought it with her.”

“The what?”

“That thing.” V answered as he took out the oldest looking piece of record he could find. He stopped the music by raising the tone arm and pulling the cueing lever up. He then moved the tone arm over to the resting place and pressed the stop button.

Dante tapped his toes impatiently as the poet placed the old record on the platter of the player. Making sure that the speed was correct, V pressed play and raised the cueing lever. He aligned the tone arm with the record and dropped it carefully.

And as the first few notes of the sickly sweet music began, (Y/N)’s memories of Fleminger’s grandmother flashed through his mind.

“Perfection is everything.” He could almost hear her say in front of the dancing orphans. “There is no true beauty without worldly perfection. Eternal redemption is the reward for attaining worldly perfection. And those who could not achieve this perfection,… have no right to stand before the true god, Pandemonium.”

“That sure looks graceful,…”

“I beg your pardon?”

V watched with wide eyes as Dante pointed at something behind him. He turned and saw, in utter horror, a ghost of a mutilated lady dancing to the tune of the sweet music in the middle of the room.

“Yeah, just perfect,…” the younger twin muttered in sarcasm as he watched the mutilated lady dance whilst parts of her flesh fall down from her rotting body to the floor.

“It is perfection.”

“Excuse me?!”

“The Pale Ones wanted to achieve earthly perfection by creating girls such as this.” V explained. “They wanted a perfect sacrifice for Pandemonium’s vessel. And this girl happened to have failed on achieving perfection. Thus, she was doomed to dance for eternity like that.”

“How did you even know that?”

V only smirked at Dante. “I just know things which others doesn’t.”

“Whatever.”

The twins watched as the painful dance commenced and when the doomed dancer finally stopped, pointing at something behind them, the music also came to a close.

The two looked behind them to see a really large portrait of Fleminger’s pale grandmother smiling sinisterly down at them. They, then, heard an ugly and wet - sounding thud against the floor. They looked back and noticed that the dancer’s arm has fallen to the floor, its finger still pointed at the portrait. After that morbid display, the doomed dancer finally vanished into thin air.

“I don’t ever wanna see that again.” Dante monotonously uttered.

“Agree.” V replied with the same tone. “So, we’ll set her free. And the others.”

“How do we do that?”

V glanced back at Fleminger’s grandmother and grinned. “This woman knows how,…”

*

“Venit ergo Pandemonium. Venit ergo Pandemonium. Dona nobis virtutem tuam. Det nobis vitam aeternam. Venit ergo Pandemonium. Venit ergo Pandemonium,…”

The Pale Ones went on praying as Fleminger situated himself in the middle of the evil rune near the demonic idol. He closed his eyes, holding up his huge palms in front of the statue,…

“JACKPOT!” The Pale Ones heard a loud and distinct voice as the walls crumbled, revealing the Sparda twins.

“Jack,… pot.” V muttered poetically, his image of the fearful Vergil giving him a weird vibe. “So, it is written.”

“Honestly, are you really my brother?” The red twin asked as he summoned the Devil Sword Dante. “Because Vergil would never say that. Not in a million years.”

“What’s the harm in trying?” V answered humorously as he drew the Yamato in preparation for battle. “After all,… a truth that’s told with bad intent,… beats all the lies,… you can invent.”

Dante smirked at V’s words as he drew his own weapon, ready and pumped up for the fight. “So, it is written! Or whatever that was!”

The Pale Ones removed their heavy robes as they transformed into gargoyle - like Demons with long sharp claws, twisted horns, and equally twisted teeth.

“Now, that suits you better!” Dante quipped as he fought against the Demons all by himself.

Meanwhile, V had another enemy to confront.

“My Lord,” Fleminger clasped his hands as he put on his vulnerable look and pleaded. “ …it seems that you have gained your power.”

“I did.” The poet answered as he pointed the Yamato at him. “Now, set (S/N)’s soul free, along with others you enslaved for a hundred years, or I’ll use my newly obtained power against you and your horde.”

“You don’t understand, my Lord! (S/N), and the rest of the orphans, we need them to defeat the Dreadnought! We need them to kill (Y/N) - ”

“And summon Pandemonium through your chosen vessel?” V cut him off as he channeled his power to the Yamato. “(Y/N)’s sister would not like that now, would she?”

Fleminger grinned nervously as he realized that he had no other choices left. The Sons of Sparda already knew about the truth!

But, how?!

“Then, I’ll be the vessel, AND NOT (S/N)!”

V watched as Fleminger touched the image of Pandemonium. It gave him massive power as it engulfed him with crimson light.

“What the hell?!” Dante muttered as the enemy transformed into a huge and hideous Demon with scales, three pairs of wings, and a pair of twisted horns. His form was too big that it took up most of the space.

“I WILL OBTAIN POWER,… AND IMMORTALITY!” Fleminger howled, his monstrous voice booming and deafening. “THERE IS NO NEED FOR PERFECTION! THERE IS NO NEED,… FOR A USELESS VESSEL! I WILL OBTAIN,… EVERYTHING! I WILL BECOME,… PANDEMONIUM!”

“THEN, FUCK YOU!”

The brothers turned just in time as they saw Kyrie Eleison coming out of the wall they just busted, glowing and soaring through the air. And riding it was none other than Nero, himself. The youth revved the vehicle and landed right at Fleminger’s face, its spiky front wounding it, making his dark blood splatter on the ground as he howled in pain.

“Is that my son, or is he yours?” V innocently asked as he watched Nero drove Fleminger out of the room, making a new hole in the wall behind them. “Because, I’m very sure that we have no resemblance, at all. And he acts just like you.”

Dante looked at him in surprise. “No resemblance, my ass! And how did you find out?”

“I told you.” The elder brother answered as they followed the boy and the Demon outside. “I just know things,…”

Nero managed to throw Fleminger out using Kyrie Eleison, and as the massive Demon calling himself Pandemonium scrambled to his feet, unable to see due to his wounds, his servant Reginald, who mysteriously just popped out of nowhere, came to his rescue.

“KILL THEM!” He commanded.

“Naturally, Master.” Reginald answered as he stood before Nero and transformed into a Fury - like Demon but, this time, this creature did not have the power of lightning. He raised his scaled arm, pointing his claw at the sky, and when he brought it down, the ground before him split, and fire erupted from it. He, then, vanished with a crimson blur, ready to kill Nero.

“YOU’RE NOT FAST ENOUGH!” Nero bellowed as he changed into his Devil form and matched the Flame Fury’s speed, successfully stopping Reginald with his pair of blue fist - like wings.

“WHAT FORM OF POWER IS THIS?!” Reginald howled in disbelief.

“Okay! Time to join in the fun!” Dante exclaimed as he made his way towards Pandemonium, only to be stopped by Fleminger’s gargoyle underlings. “What?! You again?! You just don’t know when to give up!” He raised his sword and pointed at them. “Okay, I’m gonna start with,…” his sword, then, landed on the Demon to his right. “… YOU!” He announced as he morphed into his Devil form and began fighting.

Fleminger was about to get up but, he fell down once more as he felt something strange within his whole body. He tried to use his power but, he failed.

“You are not perfect.” V informed him as he pointed the Yamato at him. “You could never wield Pandemonium’s power! And you would never achieve immortality!”

“I’LL KILL YOU ALL THE SAME!” Fleminger boomed as he got up and blindly charged at V, flailing his massive claws and destroying everything in his path. The poet easily dodged and evaded each and every erratic attack, all the while wounding the massive Demon in places to disable him. V made one last slash with the Yamato and wounded Fleminger on the stomach, making him fall. Until the very end, Pandemonium did not acknowledge him as its vessel.

Just when they thought that they finally defeated the Demon, it started squirming on the ground, his wounds radiating with a strange light as if something was trying to come out of them. And just when Nero dealt the final blow on Reginald and when Dante brought down the last gargoyle, the Master stood up, its eyes rapidly changing color as it started rampaging mindlessly about. Then, as it opened its mouth, a powerful light in the form of a crimson laser erupted from it, destroying the mansion before it.

It was the same laser that annihilated everything from the apocalyptic future that V just came, or escaped, from.

Pandemonium was trying to get out of Fleminger’s corrupted body but, it couldn’t.

V sensed this immediately as he prepared to finish it with the help of the Protector of The Present’s power. It must be destroyed, at all cost! Or else, the dark future would still occur, and he could not let that happen! Not now when Galatea entrusted the future of humanity to him!

However, the Aspect of The Future took hold of his mind once again, showing him bits of the future.

A book, a meteorite, a shower of destructive light,…

… an Angel,…

Cassandra showed him these things. And these things would occur in a few moments,…

The poet’s eyes widened as he snapped back from his reverie.

“We’ll end this!” Dante howled as he made his way towards the rampaging Demon.

“I’m with you!” Nero answered as he joined his uncle.

“STOP!”

Uncle and nephew alike halted, unnerved at V’s word.

“We can’t let that thing live!” Dante screamed at him as he raised his sword. “It will destroy everything!”

“ARE WE GONNA KILL THIS FUCKER, OR WHAT?!” Nero howled, his golden eyes seething with wrath.

V calmly went closer towards the rampaging Demon, placing himself between his family and it.

“Let me handle this.” The poet simply told them as he bowed down low. He, then, raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, summoning the golem. It fell down from the sky in the form of a meteor that destroyed everything beneath it.

But, instead of forming into the dark creature called Nightmare, it merely stayed in liquid state, its massive violet eye hovering above the ground, radiating a weak kind of light.

Cassandra showed him this, and she was right, as always.

V smirked as he took out his book - his beloved illustrated William Blake anthology. He opened it and started reading as the violet eye slowly regained form.

“The Angel that presided o'er my birth,” V began reading as the creature rapidly pulsated before him. “…said, ‘little creature, form’d of joy and mirth, go love without the help of any thing on Earth.’”

Meanwhile, back in the trailer, as V read the passage from the book, Shadow the feline familiar radiated with light, making her hover above the ground.

“W - what’s happening to that kitty?!” Nico stuttered nervously as she pointed at Shadow.

“Get away from her!” Trish commanded as she channeled her powers. “She might be dangerous!”

“Please, calm down.” Galatea firmly said as she remained unfazed on the sofa.

“What’s going on with her?!” Lady questioned her in panic.

“Vergil’s Nightmares would be,… no more,…” Galatea answered, still calm. “By the power of the Sisters of Fate, these Nightmares,…”

“SHALL BE CLEANSED!”

Dante and Nero looked all over the place, trying to find that familiar voice. And as the two men looked at the little orbs of light forming above V, seemingly bearing the metal cane that was forgotten on the Dreadnought, the three women inside the trailer looked in shock as the contract markings on (Y/N)’s right arm returned.

But, this time, the markings were not black and inky in appearance. The contract formed in beautiful swirls of shimmering gold and midnight blue. And as it was completed, it radiated with blue - colored currents on (Y/N)’s arm.

V smirked as he witnessed the orbs forming into one creature - a five foot - tall boy with skinny features. He had a pair of the most gorgeous midnight blue wings that glowed, and a golden horn protruding from the middle of his forehead.

Dante and Nero’s jaw dropped open as the creature spread both his wings and his arms, completing the transformation.

He opened his pair of golden eyes and smiled, showing them his jagged teeth and blue tongue.

“Aww, and ya honestly thought I’d be gone for good, eh, kids? SHAME ON YA FOR THINKIN’ THAT!” The boy quipped as he threw the metal cane at V, who caught it just in time as the boy pointed at him with a dark - nailed finger. “And, you! Such a high maintenance ya sure are! Have ye come to yer senses, eh Shakespeare?”

“I did not just come to my senses,” the poet answered like he was greeting an old friend. “… I have finally awakened from my mistakes.”

“Is that? Is t - that - ?!” Nero stuttered as he pointed at the boy, his eyes wide open.

“Damn! It’s the LITTLE CHICKEN!” Dante confirmed, still not able to believe his own eyes.

“MADE YA LOOK!” Griffon, now in his cleansed human form, answered as he turned at the rampaging Demon. He, then, spread his fingers, summoning a golden staff that looked like a lightning rod. Showing his jagged teeth through his wide smile, he pointed the rod at the sky and spread his wings. “FUCK YEAH!”

At those obscene words, Griffon was able to rain down multiple blasts of lightning from the sky that pierced through the Demon’s body like an endless barrage of silver bullets.

V opened his book once more and read another passage.

“I curse my stars in bitter grief,… and woe,… that made my love,… so high,… and me,… so low,…”

The violet eye that was hovering above the ground cracked like glass, letting a blinding form of light radiate from it.

A few seconds later, as the light subsided, all of them saw the golem’s cleansed form - a white - armored Angel that stood eight feet tall, with three pairs of wings made purely out of light and a golden halo atop his head. The Angel carried a huge, heavy - looking metallic staff that radiated with the same light as the Protector of The Present. And as the Demon fired another destructive laser, V’s most powerful familiar pointed its weapon at it, channeling its power and countering the attack with a laser of its own but, much more powerful. The Angel, that was once called Nightmare, easily overpowered the Demon, its laser of judgment coming down at it and melting its demonic exterior, exposing the human inside. V saw this and hastily made his move, charging at it with his metal cane and the Yamato raised high above his head.

Fleminger opened his eyes and saw the son of Sparda above him, about to end his life. The metal cane and the Yamato pierced through his heart, making his eyes open wide in total disbelief.

“I,… lost,… it seems,…” Fleminger whispered.

“Little wanderer,” V began. “… hie thee home.”

***

The three descendants of Sparda, all tired and filthy, made their way towards the fallen Dreadnought in the middle of the ruined city as Griffon, the not - little - chicken, flew above them.

“Make it fast, slowpokes!” He mocked with his obnoxious voice.

“Easy for you to say!” Nero retorted. “Just you wait! I don’t care if you’re a human or what! I’ll still pluck your feathers when I get my strength back!”

“Can we just make this fast?” Dante complained, heaving heavily with each and every step. “I’m beat! I just wanna take a rest.”

All four of them went directly towards the heart, which, apparently, stopped pulsating a long time ago. V touched it with a single hand and spoke to it.

“It’s okay now. You are free.”

At his words, the heart burst open, spilling blood and guts all over the place and making all of them even filthier than ever before. The girl inside was about to collapse when V caught her just in time. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

“M - my s - sister?”

“She’s safe. The Pale Ones are gone. You can take a rest now.”

“Please,… take care,… of my sister,…”

V listened to her, taking her words and instilling them to his heart like an eternal vow. He, then, nodded.

“I will take care of her for as long as I exist,” he gave his honorable answer. “… I promise.”

The poor tortured girl smiled as she closed her eyes, finally taking her peaceful eternal rest, along with the souls of the other orphans that Fleminger’s ancestors enslaved for a hundred years.

***

🖤 Again, special thanks to @la-vita for the German dialogue and translations. 🖤

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

[thedyingmoon]

***

An old Priest bravely came forward despite his trembling knees, holding up his crucifix in hopes of warding off the Demons.

“Sáncte Michael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio,…”

The enemies fell silent, looking at each other, confused of what’s going on. The priest took this as an opportunity to keep praying.

“Cóntra neqúitiam et insídias diáboli - ”

One by one, the enemies started laughing at his words, clearly not affected by his prayer.

With sweat running cold and courage slowly diminishing, the poor old Priest went on, “… ésto p - p - præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus - ”

One of the Demons came forward and mockingly uttered the prayer with the frightened Priest. “… SÚPPLICES DEPRECÁMUR: TUQUE, PRÍNCEPS MILÍTIÆ CÆLÉSTIS -

"... SÁTANAM!" The Demons finished for him as they laughed and insulted.

The poor old Priest was about to lose all hope when, all of a sudden, the enemies abruptly stopped laughing. Little by little, the smiles on their horrendous faces vanished, to be replaced by expressions of either pain or depression.

Then, all of them stopped moving, frozen and rooted to the ground. This gave the Priest enough motivation to keep on praying.

"... súpplices deprecámur: tuque, prínceps milítiæ cæléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos," The Priest prayed with renewed courage as the Demons seemingly cowered before him and his crucifix. "... qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo, divína virtúte, in inférnum detrúde."

"Ámen!"

The people of the church looked behind them upon hearing the loud voice of an old woman who just finished the prayer. And when they saw three old nuns, one bearing a pail of water, and the other two wielding procession crosses, they couldn't help but chuckle and be worried at them at the same time.

"WWWAAAHHH!" Their leader, the one bearing the pail, howled like a warrior and charged straight at the Demons, almost tackling the old Priest on the way. She doused the nearby enemies with that suspicious water, and lo and behold, the fiends actually shrieked in pain as their hideous skin melted!

It was holy water!

"HHHOOOAAAHHH!" The other two nuns bearing the crosses then charged at the enemies, driving the pointed bejeweled things through the Demons' heart and successfully killing them.

The nun with the pail addressed the people as her two comrades did the "Demon Hunting".

"Tränkt die Dämonen in Weihwasser!" She said in instruction for the people to fetch themselves a pail of holy water. "Dann durchstoße sie mit diesem zeremoniellen Kreuz!" She, then, pointed at the two nuns who were still skewering some holy water - soaked Demons.

"Lasst uns diese gottlosen Dinge zurück in die feurigen Gruben der Hölle schlagen!" The old Priest, who was more than ready to fight the enemies, began howling. "ANGRIFF!"

As the people started working together, fetching procession crosses, or anything that's sharp, and pails of water from the back of the church and letting the old Priest bless them to "weaponize" them, Kyrie made her way towards the altar and leaned against the lectern. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth as tears began pouring out. She, then, removed the hand from her mouth and placed it against her belly.

She cried tears of happiness.

"We're saved." She whispered as she rubbed her belly, now with both hands. "Your daddy saved us. Nero,... saved us!"

Meanwhile, at the other side of the globe, Nico, Trish, and Lady were staring at Shadow the feline demon as she sat in front of them, seemingly guarding the human who was sitting on the sofa just behind her. The strange human girl, whose clothes were stained with blood, just glanced calmly at them, unmoving, emotionless,...

... and she was clutching at her mid - section as she healed it with her equally strange power.

"Uhh, so who are you again?" The tattooed woman carefully asked the stranger.

"You can call me Galatea." The girl answered.

"Hey, I thought that's (Y/N)?" Lady whispered to Trish, still wary of her movements as Shadow stared at them.

"Perhaps." Galatea answered for her, making them even more baffled.

"What do you mean by that?" Trish bravely asked her.

The Bearer of The Past smiled at her as she closed her eyes. "... we are connected,... by that one feeling. Her branches mixed with mine,... and our roots,... together joined."

Nico's jaw dropped open as she slowly nodded. She looked once more at the huge demonic cat as it remained vigilant on the floor. "I think,..." she began. "I know what kind of feeling you're talking about. Yeah. You and her are definitely the same."

Trish and Lady only nodded.

They were all thinking of the same thing.

The mystic words, the feline familiar, her languid eyes,...

Oh, damn! The three women thought simultaneously. She's just like V!

***

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

***

XXVII

***

By that time, the moon had already risen high above the night sky.

V and Dante cautiously made their way inside the mansion, looking for the man behind all the demonic attacks. Knowing the location of Fleminger's office by memory, the poet led the way, and when they finally opened the ornate wooden door, something made them stop right on their tracks.

The office, itself, looked as neat and as tidy as the first time he was there but, an awfully foul smell of rotten corpses combined with sulfur was wafting around the area. The scent was even more appalling than the Dreadnought's insides.

The brothers covered their noses in disgust.

"Big fancy room? Funky smell?" Dante spoke in a muffled voice. "Ugh! We're definitely in the right place! So, where's the boss?"

V did not answer. Instead, he glanced at the portraits of the pale people on the walls.

"Where could an intellectual man such as Fleminger hide a secret room?" The poet mused as he searched through (Y/N)'s memories in his mind like an archive of some sort. He may have gone back in time but, her memories still clung to him after being acknowledged by the Bearer of The Past. He knew (Y/N) have a clue. After all, she had the first hand experience with Fleminger's ancestors.

And as V searched for clues in his mind, Dante began moving objects around the room, looking for buttons, trapdoors, anything.

The poet was still thinking when his twin found the old record on the small table near the wall. Being Dante and all, he smirked, poking fun at it despite the situation.

"Eh? Who knew he still keeps an ancient thing around here?" The Legendary Devil Hunter stated as he played the record,...

"On the farm, every Friday.

On the farm, it's rabbit pie day,..."

"Huh, that's funny. Today's Friday! What are the odds,..." Dante said to himself as he placed his fingers on the fragile vinyl and started turning the record in the opposite direction.

"Nur, nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,

Nugs remraf eht soeg gnab, gnab, gnab, gnab,

Nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,

Nur, nur, nur, tibbar nur, tibbar nur,"

"Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run,

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Goes the farmer's gun!"

"Hehe, that sounded awful. Sorry about that." Dante apologized as he let the record play normally.

As the music played, (Y/N)'s memories of a familiar scene flashed through V's mind. It was when the uptight woman made them dance to the tune of a broken melody that was being played on an old record,...

"Is this,... the same thing?" V questioned as he glanced down at the vintage mechanism, carefully touching it with his light fingers.

He searched through the memories once more, looking for more clues, until he finally arrived at the moment where (Y/N) actually saw the woman playing that thing on the record.

"Hey, Mr. Poetry, what are you doing?" Dante inquired as he saw V rummaging through the drawers in search of something.

"It must've survived the onslaught. Fleminger's grandmother must've brought it with her."

"The what?"

"That thing." V answered as he took out the oldest looking piece of record he could find. He stopped the music by raising the tone arm and pulling the cueing lever up. He then moved the tone arm over to the resting place and pressed the stop button.

Dante tapped his toes impatiently as the poet placed the old record on the platter of the player. Making sure that the speed was correct, V pressed play and raised the cueing lever. He aligned the tone arm with the record and dropped it carefully.

And as the first few notes of the sickly sweet music began, (Y/N)'s memories of Fleminger's grandmother flashed through his mind.

"Perfection is everything." He could almost hear her say in front of the dancing orphans. "There is no true beauty without worldly perfection. Eternal redemption is the reward for attaining worldly perfection. And those who could not achieve this perfection,... have no right to stand before the true god, Pandemonium."

"That sure looks graceful,..."

"I beg your pardon?"

V watched with wide eyes as Dante pointed at something behind him. He turned and saw, in utter horror, a ghost of a mutilated lady dancing to the tune of the sweet music in the middle of the room.

"Yeah, just perfect,..." the younger twin muttered in sarcasm as he watched the mutilated lady dance whilst parts of her flesh fall down from her rotting body to the floor.

"It is perfection."

"Excuse me?!"

"The Pale Ones wanted to achieve earthly perfection by creating girls such as this." V explained. "They wanted a perfect sacrifice for Pandemonium's vessel. And this girl happened to have failed on achieving perfection. Thus, she was doomed to dance for eternity like that."

"How did you even know that?"

V only smirked at Dante. "I just know things which others doesn't."

"Whatever."

The twins watched as the painful dance commenced and when the doomed dancer finally stopped, pointing at something behind them, the music also came to a close.

The two looked behind them to see a really large portrait of Fleminger's pale grandmother smiling sinisterly down at them. They, then, heard an ugly and wet - sounding thud against the floor. They looked back and noticed that the dancer's arm has fallen to the floor, its finger still pointed at the portrait. After that morbid display, the doomed dancer finally vanished into thin air.

"I don't ever wanna see that again." Dante monotonously uttered.

"Agree." V replied with the same tone. "So, we'll set her free. And the others."

"How do we do that?"

V glanced back at Fleminger's grandmother and grinned. "This woman knows how,..."

*

"Venit ergo Pandemonium. Venit ergo Pandemonium. Dona nobis virtutem tuam. Det nobis vitam aeternam. Venit ergo Pandemonium. Venit ergo Pandemonium,..."

The Pale Ones went on praying as Fleminger situated himself in the middle of the evil rune near the demonic idol. He closed his eyes, holding up his huge palms in front of the statue,...

"JACKPOT!" The Pale Ones heard a loud and distinct voice as the walls crumbled, revealing the Sparda twins.

"Jack,... pot." V muttered poetically, his image of the fearful Vergil giving him a weird vibe. "So, it is written."

"Honestly, are you really my brother?" The red twin asked as he summoned the Devil Sword Dante. "Because Vergil would never say that. Not in a million years."

"What's the harm in trying?" V answered humorously as he drew the Yamato in preparation for battle. "After all,... a truth that's told with bad intent,... beats all the lies,... you can invent."

Dante smirked at V's words as he drew his own weapon, ready and pumped up for the fight. "So, it is written! Or whatever that was!"

The Pale Ones removed their heavy robes as they transformed into gargoyle - like Demons with long sharp claws, twisted horns, and equally twisted teeth.

"Now, that suits you better!" Dante quipped as he fought against the Demons all by himself.

Meanwhile, V had another enemy to confront.

"My Lord," Fleminger clasped his hands as he put on his vulnerable look and pleaded. " ...it seems that you have gained your power."

"I did." The poet answered as he pointed the Yamato at him. "Now, set (S/N)'s soul free, along with others you enslaved for a hundred years, or I'll use my newly obtained power against you and your horde."

"You don't understand, my Lord! (S/N), and the rest of the orphans, we need them to defeat the Dreadnought! We need them to kill (Y/N) - "

"And summon Pandemonium through your chosen vessel?" V cut him off as he channelled his power to the Yamato. "(Y/N)'s sister would not like that now, would she?"

Fleminger grinned nervously as he realized that he had no other choices left. The Sons of Sparda already knew about the truth!

But, how?!

"Then, I'll be the vessel, AND NOT (S/N)!"

V watched as Fleminger touched the image of Pandemonium. It gave him massive power as it engulfed him with crimson light.

"What the hell?!" Dante muttered as the enemy transformed into a huge and hideous Demon with scales, three pairs of wings, and a pair of twisted horns. His form was too big that it took up most of the space.

"I WILL OBTAIN POWER,... AND IMMORTALITY!" Fleminger howled, his monstrous voice booming and deafening. "THERE IS NO NEED FOR PERFECTION! THERE IS NO NEED,... FOR A USELESS VESSEL! I WILL OBTAIN,... EVERYTHING! I WILL BECOME,... PANDEMONIUM!"

"THEN, FUCK YOU!"

The brothers turned just in time as they saw Kyrie Eleison coming out of the wall they just busted, glowing and soaring through the air. And riding it was none other than Nero, himself. The youth revved the vehicle and landed right at Fleminger's face, its spiky front wounding it, making his dark blood splatter on the ground as he howled in pain.

"Is that my son, or is he yours?" V innocently asked as he watched Nero drove Fleminger out of the room, making a new hole in the wall behind them. "Because, I'm very sure that we have no resemblance, at all. And he acts just like you."

Dante looked at him in surprise. "No resemblance, my ass! And how did you find out?"

"I told you." The elder brother answered as they followed the boy and the Demon outside. "I just know things,..."

Nero managed to throw Fleminger out using Kyrie Eleison, and as the massive Demon calling himself Pandemonium scrambled to his feet, unable to see due to his wounds, his servant Reginald, who mysteriously just popped out of nowhere, came to his rescue.

"KILL THEM!" He commanded.

"Naturally, Master." Reginald answered as he stood before Nero and transformed into a Fury - like Demon but, this time, this creature did not have the power of lightning. He raised his scaled arm, pointing his claw at the sky, and when he brought it down, the ground before him split, and fire erupted from it. He, then, vanished with a crimson blur, ready to kill Nero.

"YOU'RE NOT FAST ENOUGH!" Nero bellowed as he changed into his Devil form and matched the Flame Fury's speed, successfully stopping Reginald with his pair of blue fist - like wings.

"WHAT FORM OF POWER IS THIS?!" Reginald howled in disbelief.

"Okay! Time to join in the fun!" Dante exclaimed as he made his way towards Pandemonium, only to be stopped by Fleminger's gargoyle underlings. "What?! You again?! You just don't know when to give up!" He raised his sword and pointed at them. "Okay, I'm gonna start with,..." his sword, then, landed on the Demon to his right. "... YOU!" He announced as he morphed into his Devil form and began fighting.

Fleminger was about to get up but, he fell down once more as he felt something strange within his whole body. He tried to use his power but, he failed.

"You are not perfect." V informed him as he pointed the Yamato at him. "You could never wield Pandemonium's power! And you would never achieve immortality!"

"I'LL KILL YOU ALL THE SAME!" Fleminger boomed as he got up and blindly charged at V, flailing his massive claws and destroying everything in his path. The poet easily dodged and evaded each and every erratic attack, all the while wounding the massive Demon in places to disable him. V made one last slash with the Yamato and wounded Fleminger on the stomach, making him fall. Until the very end, Pandemonium did not acknowledge him as its vessel.

Just when they thought that they finally defeated the Demon, it started squirming on the ground, his wounds radiating with a strange light as if something was trying to come out of them. And just when Nero dealt the final blow on Reginald and when Dante brought down the last gargoyle, the Master stood up, its eyes rapidly changing color as it started rampaging mindlessly about. Then, as it opened its mouth, a powerful light in the form of a crimson laser erupted from it, destroying the mansion before it.

It was the same laser that annihilated everything from the apocalyptic future that V just came, or escaped, from.

Pandemonium was trying to get out of Fleminger's corrupted body but, it couldn't.

V sensed this immediately as he prepared to finish it with the help of the Protector of The Present's power. It must be destroyed, at all cost! Or else, the dark future would still occur, and he could not let that happen! Not now when Galatea entrusted the future of humanity to him!

However, the Aspect of The Future took hold of his mind once again, showing him bits of the future.

A book, a meteorite, a shower of destructive light,...

... an Angel,...

Cassandra showed him these things. And these things would occur in a few moments,...

The poet's eyes widened as he snapped back from his reverie.

"We'll end this!" Dante howled as he made his way towards the rampaging Demon.

"I'm with you!" Nero answered as he joined his uncle.

"STOP!"

Uncle and nephew alike halted, unnerved at V's word.

"We can't let that thing live!" Dante screamed at him as he raised his sword. "It will destroy everything!"

"ARE WE GONNA KILL THIS FUCKER, OR WHAT?!" Nero howled, his golden eyes seething with wrath.

V calmly went closer towards the rampaging Demon, placing himself between his family and it.

"Let me handle this." The poet simply told them as he bowed down low. He, then, raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, summoning the golem. It fell down from the sky in the form of a meteor that destroyed everything beneath it.

But, instead of forming into the dark creature called Nightmare, it merely stayed in liquid state, its massive violet eye hovering above the ground, radiating a weak kind of light.

Cassandra showed him this, and she was right, as always.

V smirked as he took out his book - his beloved illustrated William Blake anthology. He opened it and started reading as the violet eye slowly regained form.

"The Angel that presided o'er my birth," V began reading as the creature rapidly pulsated before him. "...said, 'little creature, form'd of joy and mirth, go love without the help of any thing on Earth.'"

Meanwhile, back in the trailer, as V read the passage from the book, Shadow the feline familiar radiated with light, making her hover above the ground.

"W - what's happening to that kitty?!" Nico stuttered nervously as she pointed at Shadow.

"Get away from her!" Trish commanded as she channeled her powers. "She might be dangerous!"

"Please, calm down." Galatea firmly said as she remained unfazed on the sofa.

"What's going on with her?!" Lady questioned her in panic.

"Vergil's Nightmares would be,... no more,..." Galatea answered, still calm. "By the power of the Sisters of Fate, these Nightmares,..."

"SHALL BE CLEANSED!"

Dante and Nero looked all over the place, trying to find that familiar voice. And as the two men looked at the little orbs of light forming above V, seemingly bearing the metal cane that was forgotten on the Dreadnought, the three women inside the trailer looked in shock as the contract markings on (Y/N)'s right arm returned.

But, this time, the markings were not black and inky in appearance. The contract formed in beautiful swirls of shimmering gold and midnight blue. And as it was completed, it radiated with blue - colored currents on (Y/N)'s arm.

V smirked as he witnessed the orbs forming into one creature - a five foot - tall boy with skinny features. He had a pair of the most gorgeous midnight blue wings that glowed, and a golden horn protruding from the middle of his forehead.

Dante and Nero's jaw dropped open as the creature spread both his wings and his arms, completing the transformation.

He opened his pair of golden eyes and smiled, showing them his jagged teeth and blue tongue.

"Aww, and ya honestly thought I'd be gone for good, eh, kids? SHAME ON YA FOR THINKIN' THAT!" The boy quipped as he threw the metal cane at V, who caught it just in time as the boy pointed at him with a dark - nailed finger. "And, you! Such a high maintenance ya sure are! Have ye come to yer senses, eh Shakespeare?"

"I did not just come to my senses," the poet answered like he was greeting an old friend. "... I have finally awakened from my mistakes."

"Is that? Is t - that - ?!" Nero stuttered as he pointed at the boy, his eyes wide open.

"Damn! It's the LITTLE CHICKEN!" Dante confirmed, still not able to believe his own eyes.

"MADE YA LOOK!" Griffon, now in his cleansed human form, answered as he turned at the rampaging Demon. He, then, spread his fingers, summoning a golden staff that looked like a lightning rod. Showing his jagged teeth through his wide smile, he pointed the rod at the sky and spread his wings. "FUCK YEAH!"

At those obscene words, Griffon was able to rain down multiple blasts of lightning from the sky that pierced through the Demon's body like an endless barrage of silver bullets.

V opened his book once more and read another passage.

"I curse my stars in bitter grief,... and woe,... that made my love,... so high,... and me,... so low,..."

The violet eye that was hovering above the ground cracked like glass, letting a blinding form of light radiate from it.

A few seconds later, as the light subsided, all of them saw the golem's cleansed form - a white - armored Angel that stood eight feet tall, with three pairs of wings made purely out of light and a golden halo atop his head. The Angel carried a huge, heavy - looking metallic staff that radiated with the same light as the Protector of The Present. And as the Demon fired another destructive laser, V's most powerful familiar pointed its weapon at it, channeling its power and countering the attack with a laser of its own but, much more powerful. The Angel, that was once called Nightmare, easily overpowered the Demon, its laser of judgment coming down at it and melting its demonic exterior, exposing the human inside. V saw this and hastily made his move, charging at it with his metal cane and the Yamato raised high above his head.

Fleminger opened his eyes and saw the son of Sparda above him, about to end his life. The metal cane and the Yamato pierced through his heart, making his eyes open wide in total disbelief.

"I,... lost,... it seems,..." Fleminger whispered.

"Little wanderer," V began. "... hie thee home."

***

~ A V X Reader set in an Alternate Universe wherein the world was finally saved! 👌👍👍

~ Again, special thanks to @la-vita for the German dialogue! 🖤

~ @heaven-on-a-landslide , @yepps , @krazy06 , @micaelagua , @sofia-micaela , @beyond-the-mirror , @vergils-daughter , @ehrzeth , @ceruleanworld , @gxthghoulfriend , @lessy86 , @simmy-ships , @diabeticsugarush , and @boundbysoul . 🖤

~ The Priest and his three old nuns: Charlie and his angels, German Version. 😂👍👍👌

~ Oh! And one more thing ( and I'm sure @krazy06 knows this ): I have a WIP of the humanized Griffon we just read! I've been planning this for a very long time and I'll post him when I finish him. What? Did you really think that Griffon will stay dead? Guys and gals, I may be a fan of Game Of Thrones but, I'm not George R. R. Martin! 😂

***

The three descendants of Sparda, all tired and filthy, made their way towards the fallen Dreadnought in the middle of the ruined city as Griffon, the not - little - chicken, flew above them.

"Make it fast, slowpokes!" He mocked with his obnoxious voice.

"Easy for you to say!" Nero retorted. "Just you wait! I don't care if you're a human or what! I'll still pluck your feathers when I get my strength back!"

"Can we just make this fast?" Dante complained, heaving heavily with each and every step. "I'm beat! I just wanna take a rest."

All four of them went directly towards the heart, which, apparently, stopped pulsating a long time ago. V touched it with a single hand and spoke to it.

"It's okay now. You are free."

At his words, the heart burst open, spilling blood and guts all over the place and making all of them even filthier than ever before. The girl inside was about to collapse when V caught her just in time. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"M - my s - sister?"

"She's safe. The Pale Ones are gone. You can take a rest now."

"Please,... take care,... of my sister,..."

V listened to her, taking her words and instilling them to his heart like an eternal vow. He, then, nodded.

"I will take care of her for as long as I exist," he gave his honorable answer. "... I promise."

The poor tortured girl smiled as she closed her eyes, finally taking her peaceful eternal rest, along with the souls of the other orphans that Fleminger's ancestors enslaved for a hundred years.

***

🖤🖤🖤

***

~ 10 ~

***

[deathghost8]

You often think: perhaps maybe a long long time ahead i shall reach the point where i wake up from manifestation, and overcome the world illusion, and discover that I am the supreme reality behind all this diversification - My friends there is no diversification! In other words, what you call diversification is your game in the same way as you chop the thing and then you say it is made of pieces. Or did you forget that you cut it? So when you see the world is complicated and that there are life problems and that you might one day succeed.... There are hundreds and hundreds of people are running like mad after something that they thought was success and they have no idea what it is. So in exactly the same way the Guru is keeping you running and running after spiritual attainment. You don't know what you want. That's where Krishnamurti is so clever because he says "If you ask me for enlightenment, how can you ask me for enlightenment? If you don't know what it is, how do you know you want it? Any concept you have of it will be simply a way of trying to perpetuate the situation you're already in. If you think you know what you're going out for, all you're doing is you're seeking the past, what you already know, what you've already experienced; therefore that's not it, is it? Because you say you're looking for something quite new, but what do you mean new? What's your conception of something new?" Well, I figure I can only think about it in terms of something old, something I once had, so he doesn't say anything; he doesn't indicate anything positive. Everybody says "why are you so negative? Why don't you give us something to hang on to?" Well the simple answer is it would be spurious; you don't need anything to hang on to; you're it; you don't need a religion. But then you say "well, what is all this religious stuff about then? Why don't we just forget it?" You can try. By all means, go away. Don't go to gurus, don't go to church, don't enter philosophical discussions, just forget it. But then you'll realize that by having consented to forget it, you're still seeking! What a trap! What can you do? You see, if you stay here and listen to me or to anyone else who comes around here, you're fooling yourself, but if you go away, you're fooling yourself too because you still think that's going to improve your situation, it won't, and therefore when you discover that it doesn't, you'll think "well maybe it was a mistake to go away" and you come back to the guru and he looks at you and says "you are very undisciplined, very very inferior student and you need to apply yourself." Well, as I explained, I expect what he's doing, but it comes down in a way to a sort of contest with a guru, you see, well will you call his bluff? You're afraid to because you might discover that if you do call his bluff, he's no better than you are and that's what you're supposed to find out, but without being cynical about it. He's as divine as you are, but you've got to call the bluff, there's going to be a showdown and it's it's a double-bind, the whole situation is a double-bind because it doesn't do any good to stay here and it doesn't do any good to go away; either to do something about it or to do nothing about it. Now then, there's something else: when you understand that and when you realize that there's nothing to realize and it's all here, then what are you gonna do? then what are you going to do? well, of course this is the sense of the Zen poem supernatural activity and marvelous power drawing water carrying fuel you know- do whatever one does as a human being but there's a little element of philistinism in that it's like when a child is pestering father or mother with all sorts of questions, they finally get down to the deepest metaphysical problems they say: oh shut up and eat your donut! and I wouldn't say that, you see. at this point- because life, as one looks at it you see, is in fact a celebration of itself  when you look out at night at the stars and you really wonder, good god, what is all that about? well it's a firework display, and it's celebrating High Holy Day. It's whoopie. and the whole world is whoopie.  it's a kind of exuberance now, for the proper function of religion is digging this. it's not seeking. it's not seeking anything, but is in a way Thanksgiving. that's why of course the Christians were right in following the mass, the Eucharist, the Thanksgiving. only they had such a complicated way of thinking about it that nobody can understand it. so in religion, or religious exercises, whether they are meditative or whether they are ritualistic, are Whoopie. they are not something you do in order to attain anything. they are like art forms, like dancing. they are expressive of attainment - of the attain-less attainment. so here's another hang-up for you: when you go to mr. Suzuki who runs the Zen Center, he's a good disciple of Dogen, who brought Zen, a certain school of Zen, to Japan in the 13th century. Dogen said: you can't sit and meditate unless you're already a Buddha - in which case, why meditate?  well meditation is just the way a Buddha sits, and he called this sitting just to sit. not to attain enlightenment- the minute you do that, you see, you're not meditating. So you only become a good meditator if you're not looking for anything, and therefore, you realize what a great thing it is to be able to sit, and what a great thing it is not to dissect the world with your analytical intellect. to be able to look out with the water or the trees or the floor and the light on it in front of you, without calling it light or floor or trees, or thinking that it has parts, or thinking that it's complicated. it isn’t. so when you can sit without thinking- not with an empty mind, mind you- I'm going back to that point- not with an empty mind but just a non analytic mind. a non probing mind where you're not creating problems all the time by trying to control it. by trying to control your mind, by trying to control your experience, what you see and hear, you then just simply discover that there is no way of controlling what you're experiencing, because what you're experiencing is You. And to try and really fundamentally control that? that's just going around in a circle- so if I would say to you: now what you have to learn is to let it happen  - that's wrong - there's No-one to let it happen. if I say to you: accept your experience, be calm and open to things - that, again perpetuates the illusion that you're something different from it. -so we go round and round. but if there are some people who want to get together, and, like we would get together to play poker or to have a walk, go fishing, or sail a boat. if there are some people who want to get together to meditate and have rituals and to chant, great! it's an art form, and you can only use it and make it a good art form if you're not using it to get something. and this is what really is the bane of temples all over the world. you go into Buddhist temples where they theoretically don't believe in any God but there are people praying and they are all doing it in order that we get a male child next time around or that the horse recover from a disease or that mama gets cured of the dropsy. and all these petitions are going on and on and on, people always coming to the temple to ask for something. lowbrow people for lowbrow things, Highbrow people for highbrow things. and there, all the vendors sit outside and sell souvenirs and magic and charms and all the people go in, and do this, and all these serious priests sitting there really having to keep up face, and say yes uhhh.. we can't provide these services. on the other hand if you go in to one of these temples along with all the faithful followers and have a ball, buy a bead, buy a candle, buy a this, buy a that, buy some incense, go in and dig this great thing going on. Salute the Buddha's or the crystal the altars, or the crucifixes or what you will, but don't take it seriously.  and this is one of the great important transformations of today, in our consciousness, is that a great many people are finding out that religion is not supposed to be taken seriously. this is a shocking thing to many people. there used to be an old saying that a religion is dead when the priests laugh across the altars- that's true in one sense, when the priests know that they've got a racket going they don't believe one word of it and they are laughing across the altar because of all these suckers around doing it. -then it's true the religion is dead. but when the priests laugh at the Altar because they're having such fun because this whole scene is so beautiful, well it’s the difference between some stuffy old Buddhist priest humming a Sutra and Allen Ginsberg chanting a Sutra. that's the thing to hear. Cuz these priests are going They're going na na na na , they're going off interminably, ru ru, it's a bore. they're sick of it, but they get paid for it. this is magical. but when Allen Ginsberg chants a sutra everybody gets in the circle and gets these little bells and they get going it's just like a it's like a jam session where everybody is absolutely delighted. well that's the way to do it and if you can't do it that way, forget it

Some of The most important closing minutes on any talk from Watts. Transcript is not found after my scouring, so I located part and hand made the final 8 minutes that follow it. Full talk is in the foundational / intro page of my zen show picks, on the subject of the folly it is to Want to create Explanations for everything which thereby enable Control of everything. When actually we control nothing, and there is no You. There's just This. https://youtu.be/iHcxkmwBOJY?t=3489

[ohblackdiamond]

no change in the weather (peter/paul, nc-17)

“You’re gonna owe me the rest of your life for joining the band. Just like I’m gonna owe you the rest of my life for letting me in. Whether you like it or not, that’s the way it’s always gonna be.” During the Farewell Tour, Peter confronts Paul.

Notes: Credit to @collatxral-damage for input on the initial rough draft and the necklace; without it I don’t think this fic would’ve been completed.

“no change in the weather”

by Ruriruri

It’s wild when he lets it hit him, just how long he’s known Paul Stanley. More than half the bastard’s life. He was still Stanley Eisen when they met, legally, at least, but he’d never been that to Peter. He’d introduced himself in front of Hendrix’s old studio as Paul, stuck out his hand nervously and smiled, there with his long, curly hair and flower-printed tee and jeans. Peter remembered being disappointed, and then just resigned. Paul told him later he was twenty, but he looked younger. He looked like a kid. It had been ten times worse during his actual audition, when Gene and Paul both walked into the restaurant he played at wearing the exact same hippie outfits as before.

“You guys just stay in the back, all right?” Peter had gestured, unnecessarily, to the clientele in their immaculate suits and ties. “They think you’re fruits.”

They think you’re fags would have been more accurate, but he hadn’t wanted to blow his own audition with an insult. Paul and Gene both knew it, anyway. Gene had kind of nodded and Paul had followed him over to the corner of the restaurant. Peter had played the set and that was it; he was in. He was in the band of a part-time cabbie and a schoolteacher. A band that didn’t even have a name yet. Didn’t even have a lead guitarist yet.

In five months, they’d gotten the name and the lead guitarist. Another five or so and they had the record deal, and then they were on the road. And by that time, he’d spent a stupid amount of time with that kid. Eaten the sandwiches he’d brought back from the deli on the way to band practice. Listened to him bitch and fret on the phone and in person, share his dreams in weird, furtive little bursts, as though Paul was always counting on a dismissal before he even got the words out.

“I used to have this fantasy,” he’d confessed once, late at night, after a show, “when I was real young. Like, shit, maybe eight or nine, I dunno.”

“That’s kinda young for fantasies. You find a dirty magazine or something?” Peter had taken another gulp of beer and sat up in the bed across from Paul’s, squinting at his face in the dim lamplight. They’d shared a girl just after the show, a pretty brunette undergrad. Showered together after she left, fooled around in there a little too long. Gone from smacking each other with washcloths to real stupid stuff. Jacking each other off as the shower ran, high off the excitement of the concert and the girl. Once they’d stepped out of the bathroom, with all the evidence washed down the drain, Peter had thought he’d feel awful about it, but he hadn’t. He still felt good and high and—secure, oddly secure.

“Not a sex fantasy, pervert.” There hadn’t been a blowdryer in the hotel room, so Paul was lying in bed with a towel wrapped tight around his hair. Every so often, he’d rearrange it and try to twist out a little more of the water. “Anyway, I’d be in the schoolyard and sitting up in some chair and all my classmates would be down beneath me, calling me King Paul.”

“That’s pretty screwed-up,” Peter said after awhile, and Paul had glanced away. “Who do you think you are, Joseph out of the Bible? You want everyone who ever picked on you worshipping you?”

“I didn’t say they picked on me.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’d probably been plenty to pick on, from what Peter could see. Paul had been a bit fat and still was a bit effeminate, and he had a lisp that he kept trying to get rid of but couldn’t. Not that it took much for grammar school kids to start tormenting. But most people got over it. Peter had, or thought he had. Up until that night, he’d thought his and Paul’s rockstar ambitions came from the same place. They didn’t.

It should’ve been more of a wedge between them than it managed to be. From then on, they kept sharing girls and kept fooling around every so often. They didn’t discuss it. It didn’t mean anything. Peter would do it with Ace, too—Ace was wilder, warmer about it, but Paul, for all his shyness, was more consistent. Just something that took the edge off, something that felt a little more real than dressing up in bondage gear to play the drums four days out of every week.

About a year later came the Hotter Than Hell photoshoot. Lydia sitting nearly naked in his lap, soft and flirting as he’d posed with her. Paul laying ten feet behind him on that king-sized bed, uncharacteristically soused, head lolling like a rose on too thin a stem, just about ready to break. Just about ready to pass out. There’d been a couple guys on the set, too. One of them had been watching Paul, tossing out catcalls Paul was too drunk to do more than laugh at. Peter had laughed, too, at first, until the guy started to head toward the bed between shots, until the come-ons got nastier. Paul was still laughing then, completely oblivious, guileless as a kid, half-dangling off the bed as he tried scooting over to offer the guy some room.

Peter hadn’t seen anything else, but he’d heard Gene stomping over. Heard the thump as he shoved the guy off the bed and onto the hard studio tile. Twenty minutes later and the shoot was over and Gene had locked Paul in his own car, like he thought the pervert was going to drag him out bodily, and that was that.

Peter had felt a little sick, thinking about it. Even back then. He hadn’t stopped it. Been too damn stupid to think it’d get any farther than a kiss or a grope, at best. Only Gene had recognized the danger for what it was.

Afterwards, half-sober at best, Peter had tried to ask him about it. Maybe even thank him for it. Gene had just shrugged.

“Paul’s fragile.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve only been living in the same room with him the entire year.”

“You don’t understand.” Something in Gene’s expression had curdled. His voice was lower; there was an edge to it Peter didn’t recognize. “Paul can’t—handle things.”

Peter hadn’t pushed for any more of an explanation, for once. The look on Gene’s face told him enough. Christ, he’d never thought Gene had ever handled anything more traumatizing from a woman than a venereal disease. Thought all his stupid bravado about the girls he’d laid was only because he’d never really gotten any until the band got big. He hadn’t thought there was any more to it than that. Hadn’t wanted there to be any more to it than that.

But even Hotter than Hell’s more than twenty years on. Twenty-six years on, now, and Gene’s still up to all the old bullshit there anyway. Fidelity never did matter to him when he had Cher, when he had Diana, and it doesn’t matter to him now that he’s got two kids by a Playboy Playmate he won’t even give his last name to. No Coop, but he’s still getting the roadies to pick out chicks for him during the show. Huge-titted blondes that weren’t even alive during KISS’ prime. It’s like Gene thinks there’s a fountain of youth in being desired. Like hell he really is desired now—he’s just a bedpost notch they can brag about to their girlfriends later. Same as he ever was. Same as any of them ever were.

But Gene isn’t the only one. Ace has some drugged-out girlfriend that’s there often enough; otherwise, he’s got a groupie or two that he finds himself. He’s got computers set up in his hotel room, probably cameras, too, as if he’s going for one more hedonistic thrill. Ace used to seem indestructible. Even five, six years ago, he seemed indestructible, like maybe the Jendell bullshit wasn’t bullshit and he’d keep on and on and on, bouncing back from every wasted night. He’s faltering now. He’s really faltering now.

Paul, well. Paul’s in bad shape from all the stage stunts he’s still stupidly pulling. Probably back to gulping down white cross before shows just like he used to in the seventies. But for all his come-ons and preening onstage, he isn’t even trying to pull the girls into bed anymore. Just stalks off to his hotel room alone after concerts, barricading himself in like fucking Greta Garbo.

Paul’s wife used to drop by sometimes. She hasn’t this entire tour, and fuck, Paul honestly seems to think Peter doesn’t know why.

Paul seems to think Peter doesn’t know a lot of things. Par for the fucking course. When Peter calls him out on it, about the tour profits, the contract renegotiations—Paul dismisses him out of hand as smoothly as he would a journalist trying to get an angle. Gene isn’t any better about it, but it hurts worse, coming from Paul. Maybe because he didn’t used to be half this slimy. Maybe because he used to care.

Maybe because Paul still has something like a hold on him. Materially, anyway. God knows he hasn’t touched the guy for anything more than a handclasp or hug for the cameras in years, for all Peter’s certain Paul still thinks he’s worth fooling around with. No. Paul had had sort of a fascination with crosses, one he’d obliquely apologize for (“I think they look cool, guess that makes me a pretty lousy Jew”), whether Gene was next to him or not. They’d traded off a couple times, worn each other’s jewelry. Not just for photoshoots, but for going out in general. Paul swapping out the gold Star of David necklace he occasionally wore for one of Peter’s smaller crosses. Never the crucifixes, only the crosses. At some point Peter had just given one to him, out of convenience. The only reason he remembers is because Paul tried to put it on immediately and got the chain stuck in his hair. Peter’d had to help him free it. Doesn’t matter. Some little eighteen-karat necklace from the days they’d both drop thousands a month just on their wardrobes. Paul probably doesn’t even have it anymore.

It’s just as well.

He catches a glimpse of Paul behind him in the hallway one afternoon around noon. Paul glances his way, speeds up, then they’re walking together in silence, passing a couple stiff-suited businessmen on the way to the elevator. Paul pushes the lobby button, then looks over at him again, finger still hovering over the panel. Peter shrugs.

“Same.”

“Oh.” Paul pauses, resting a foot against the side of the elevator, all the way up against the metal railing. Has to be uncomfortable just holding that position, but Paul doesn’t flinch or even wobble. It’s like he thinks Peter has a camera at the ready for a photoshoot ten years too late to attract anybody. “You hungry?”

With Gigi back home, he’s been taking half his own lunches alone in his hotel room, not wanting to spend the meal listening to Paul bitch or Gene hit on the waitresses. Not wanting to see Ace drink himself to oblivion. He starts to shrug again, but Paul’s expression, weird and a little strained, keeps an outright no at bay.

“Wanna stop somewhere with me?”

The elevator dings before Peter answers. He keeps staring at Paul as the elevator descends, looking for some sign of deception. That smarmy, satisfied look he couldn’t erase while he was busy screwing him and Ace over. He can’t find it. The bags under Paul’s eyes are worse than usual. Eyeliner’s on, probably concealer, too. It’s just his mouth, pursed and crooked, giving him away now. Paul’s not trying to pull one on him right now. He’s just sad as hell.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“I don’t care.” And then, seeing Paul’s deflated look as they get off the elevator, “Maybe something light like sandwiches.”

“There’s a bistro down the block. Gene said it was pretty good.” Paul digs a pair of sunglasses out of his pants pocket and puts them on.

“You’re pickier than Gene.”

“I won’t send anything back. Promise.”

“Like I believe that.”

“No, really, I won’t. Well, maybe if it’s really awful, but…”

They pass up the front desk on their way out. The girl behind it offers a cheeky little wave and a giggle that can’t be part of the five-star hotel experience at all. Paul lifts his hand idly and offers a smile, and Peter does, too, both speeding up their pace so she won’t have time to ask for a picture.

Maybe a picture wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to stop for. No one comes up to them the entire walk to the bistro. Peter feels a couple of stares from passerby, but none of the old excitable murmurs, those are-you-sures and it’s-them-it’s-them-I-swear. No screaming, sobbing high school girls trying to grab Paul by the arm like they thought he’d run off with them if they just tugged hard enough. No bodyguards following them around to keep fans in check. All the old ego boosts are gone except for the roar of the concert crowd.

Paul holds the door open for him at the restaurant. They have to seat themselves, a piece of normalcy Peter feels like he should resent, but he doesn’t. Peter barely glances at the menu before ordering a Reuben sandwich, fries, and a Sprite, while Paul yanks off his sunglasses and deliberates for five minutes over whether to get a half-sandwich, half-soup combo or just the soup. He ends up getting the lobster bisque instead.

“That’s really all you’re eating?” Peter asks as he passes the menus back to the waitress. Paul shrugs.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“First time in a long time.”

“What, me not being hungry?”

“No. You having soup for lunch.”

“It’s a bisque, be specific—”

“Are you going to have candy for dinner, too? Like you used to?”

Paul winces.

“God, I’m not that sentimental.”

“The hell you’re not,” Peter says, and he means it harsher than it comes out; instead, the words sound almost warm, almost fond. He can’t manage to call Paul out on his own nostalgia trips with any real rancor when he’s putting on the old greasepaint, too. “You used to eat, what, two rolls of Life Savers before concerts—”

“And a bag of Satellite Wafers for nutrition.” Paul stirs the bisque before taking a swallow. His nose wrinkles as Peter watches, but true to his word, he doesn’t send it back or even start complaining, just reaches across the table to get the pepper shaker. “Or maybe because they were about five calories a wafer, who knows? You can’t even get them anymore.”

Peter shifts a little in his seat. The Reuben’s just okay, nothing great, but the fries are fresh and smothered in grease. There’s that oily sheen radiating off them unapologetically in the dim lighting of the bistro. Miles better than the five-star shit Paul raves about. If he’s not careful, he’ll finish them off in another five minutes.

“I never ate all the Life Savers. Gene always got the cherry ones.”

“Does he even like cherry?”

“He likes getting his tongue red.” Paul takes another few spoonfuls of the bisque. Peter expects him to continue, to start a stupid tirade against Gene—they’re not the big buddies they used to be right now, as if Peter cares—but there’s nothing.

Nothing except that worn-down look on Paul’s face and that emptiness in those too-big, too-sad brown eyes. The girls used to go crazy for them, just nuts, but Peter had only ever been reminded of a droopy-eyed beagle. Without the Starchild façade perking them up, the comparison��s more accurate than ever.

It should be satisfying, Paul having a hard time. Should really make Peter feel vindicated for the hell he’s been through over the last decade, to see Paul really struggling to pull himself together. It’s about time Paul struggled for anything. A guy like him, so fucking sensitive and vain, stupid enough to believe his own hype even now. Greedy and spiteful enough to be sucking him and Ace dry for daring to ever quit the band. Berating him during practice like he’s just a hired gun, like he’s Eric Carr or Singer, those poor bastards. Enjoying knocking him down peg after fucking peg. It ought to feel great knowing Paul’s sinking faster and harder than he ever did, knowing he’s trying to crush Peter’s ego out of his own flat-out misery.

But every time Peter looks at Paul, he doesn’t feel satisfied or pleased or any of that shit, just hollowed-out and edgy all at once. Like he should do something—which is fucking stupid. There’s nothing he’s ever been able to do for Paul. Not in twenty years at least. Paul doesn’t want anything from him, either, except a series of servile yeses and contract signatures and a drumming ability his destroyed arms can’t manage. Paul’s never wanted anything from him that Peter could offer up.

Peter’s tapping his fingers against the table before he realizes it. At first Peter doesn’t think Paul notices, either, until he feels his eyes on him.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” A breath, then, quiet, abrupt—“You better go easier on yourself sometimes, Paul.”

“I can’t.”

“You should,” Peter says, insists, weirdly, and then he shoves the basket of fries towards Paul’s side of the table.

He’s not positive why he’s done it. He doubts Paul will do anything but push them back. Wouldn’t be the first time. Paul’s piss-poor relationship with food is just like everything else in his life, all about control and a desperate need for approval. He’d starve if he thought it’d make one more chick in the audience think he was attractive. Eat an entire cake if that same girl told him he looked good doing it. No real sense of self, just a still-pretty face Peter shouldn’t give a damn about anymore.

Paul’s expression shifts slightly. He doesn’t look quite as blatantly miserable there for a second, as he reaches out his hand—black nail polish chipped, knuckles ragged—and takes a fry from the basket. Hesitates, eats it carefully, like it’s something delicate—and then he puts a hand on the basket, about to push it aside.

“Paul, c’mon, it won’t kill you. Lose any more weight and you’re gonna need those suspenders.”

“Pete, I can’t—”

“Sure, you can,” and Peter reaches over and takes another fry, holding it up a few inches from Paul’s mouth.

To Paul’s credit, he doesn’t glance around the restaurant, or snap at Peter to cut that shit out. Maybe even he realizes nobody’s looking. His fingers curve on top of Peter’s—no wedding ring—and he leans in, tugging the fry out of Peter’s grasp with his teeth and tongue, and eats it. There’s the quick flick of Paul’s tongue against his skin, brief enough Peter almost wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for that glint in Paul’s eyes. That sudden eagerness. Just like he’s found an advantage to press. Just like one of their old impromptu photoshoots. The effect isn’t the same on a dozen different levels, but something too-familiar and raw coils up in Peter’s stomach anyway. He starts to move his hand down, but Paul catches his wrist before he can manage.

“You gonna give me another?”

“Quit fucking around, Paul.”

“I’m not fucking around.”

“You are. Knock it off.” Peter yanks his hand back. Paul lets him.

“I—” Paul falters. He looks a little hurt, bewildered, maybe, which is strange to watch. He almost looks like he’s about to apologize, which is even crazier, but then his lips purse tight and he snatches a sudden, awkward fistful of the fries. Then he pushes the basket back with his other hand.

They don’t talk much after that. Paul makes some halfhearted conversation about Gigi, asking when she’ll be back by. When Jenilee’ll be back by. Peter barely answers, just eats the rest of the Reuben as Paul finishes off the fries he took. The only real discussion they have is over the check.

“I’ve got it.”

“No, I’ve got it. I invited you out.” Paul’s already thumbing through his wallet. Peter catches a brief glimpse of the plastic-covered photos inside, and he’s vaguely surprised to see Evan and his niece Ericka in there instead of Starchild. Evidence of Paul’s basic humanity’s been just that lacking lately. Paul pulls out a twenty and a five, sticks them on top of the bill, and stands up. “You coming back to the hotel?”

“Got nowhere else to be.”

“Sure? We’ve got six hours before they want us at the stadium.”

Almost thirty years of knowing him, and Paul still doesn’t want to go anywhere alone. The guts that made him eager to sing to twenty thousand people a night, paired with an anxiety that crippled him out of being able to do basic fucking things like sit in a restaurant by himself. Probably still does. Probably exactly why he even invited Peter along.

“I’m still heading back. You go off if you want.”

“No, I’ll head back, too.” And it’s confirmed, no matter what Paul says next to justify it. Peter’s just another prop to stave off his own pitiful lonesomeness. “I mean, there’s nothing really here to see.”

---

The walk back from the bistro isn’t as quiet as the walk there. A couple passerby stop them for autographs and they pose for all of one photo before getting back inside the hotel. The attention perks them both up, briefly, especially Paul, and they’re talking again on the way to the elevator.

“That last girl was really looking at you, Pete.”

“She was looking at both of us, c’mon.”

“No, no, it was you, I could tell.” Paul starts to smile. “She said she had your solo album.”

“I had four of those,” but Peter can’t manage much rancor over it. It feels a little too good to be wanted, however briefly. The concert crowd, fickle as it is, rarely compares to a gushing fan out on the streets.

“I’m just saying, she didn’t say she had mine. You could’ve had a real easy opening.”

“Yeah, twenty years ago. C’mon, Paul, I’m done with the groupie shit. So’re you.”

Paul blinks, then inclines his head and pushes the button for the elevator.

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m done with a lot,” Paul says shortly. For a second Peter almost wants to push it with him. Call him out on why Pam never comes around. Ask him if it’s the groupies from the last four years—or fuck, the last ten—or if it’s the escort services he used to patron on tour, or if it’s just too many years of breathing the same air as him that’s made her leave. It might be worth it after Paul’s stunt at the restaurant. It might really be worth it to see Paul’s expression crumple, except that’s not the crux of what’s bothering Peter, and it never has been.

“Done fucking me over?”

“What?”

That stupid doe-eyed look again. That twitch to Paul’s mouth as the elevator ascends like a ski lift.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Peter, what’ve I done—”

The elevator dings and they get off, Paul still giving him that look like he really has no idea at all. Peter speeds up, trying to force Paul to pick up the pace.

“You’re cheating me. I sign whatever the hell you want me to sign after I get my lawyer on it, and every month I get a fucking check that doesn’t even match the terms in the contract. Now explain that one.”

“It’s based on ticket sales, Peter, I explained that.”

“You didn’t explain shit.”

“You wanna look at numbers? I’ll get out whatever paperwork you want. The Reunion Tour was a flash in the pan. We won’t ever make that kind of money again.”

“Oh, you’ll make it. You’ll run this show straight into the ground just to get one more nickel.” Peter exhales. “I can’t take this shit anymore. You guys are fucking me at every turn.”

Paul stops dead in his tracks. Looks him straight in the eye and takes his arm. Peter’s too surprised to flinch or pull back as Paul leans in, right in the middle of the hallway, and kisses him on the mouth.

He hasn’t kissed him in years. Years. Peter’s mouth might as well be a plank of wood for all he responds to the still-familiar pressure. There’s no warmth to it. Paul’s eyes are closed and his hand’s squeezing Peter’s arm, but there’s no warmth to it at all, no pleasure, no want, even, nothing but meanness. By the time Paul pulls away, there’s a sick, choked feeling somewhere in Peter’s throat, almost a shakiness as he yanks his arm back, and then Paul’s got the nerve to spin another lie.

“Peter, I swear on my kids, there’s nothing going on.”

“The hell there isn’t,” Peter manages, shoving Paul aside and walking straight back toward his hotel room.

“Pete—wait—”

Paul’s following him. Peter can hear those stupid, clipped steps of his against the carpet, one more unforeseen product of wearing six-inch heels for over a decade. But Peter just quickens his pace, tugs out his keycard midstride and shoves it into the slot, satisfaction seeping through him as he slams the door right in Paul’s face. He doesn’t even wait for Paul’s knock before throwing open the minibar door and getting out a bottle of champagne, one he doesn’t even end up drinking. The sight of the label makes him think of Ace and how many braincells the poor bastard’s fried with every drop fizzing down his throat. Ace’ll be mush onstage soon if he doesn’t quit, and Paul won’t care, and Gene won’t care, as long as he can shudder through the solos. They won’t care at all.

He thinks, crazily, about pouring every single bottle down the sink. Paul and Gene can pay for it. Put it on their ever-expanding tab. Paul’s upcoming divorce is already on it. A minibar full of booze ought to be the least of their concerns.

He doesn’t do it. He doesn’t do anything, just lays on the bed for over an hour before he hears a knock at all. Long enough he’s sure it’s a cleaning lady, and doesn’t check the peephole before opening the door. He regrets it as soon as he’s gotten the door those first few inches open. There’s Paul.

He almost shuts the door. God only knows why he doesn’t. God only knows why he walks into the hallway and closes the door behind him, except to get the satisfaction of making Paul take a few steps back.

“Pete, look, come over to my room, we can go over everything. Whatever documentation you want. If I don’t have it, Gene will. I want to be fair with you.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paul.”

“You just might. C’mon.”

“No.” Peter pauses. “No, you get in here.”

“But all the paperwork—” Paul starts.

“I don’t care. You meet me on my terms or you won’t meet me at all.”

Paul  looks at him flatly. Disbelieving. As if Peter’s just throwing another fit for no good reason. As though Peter really is just a paranoid asshole, as though Paul’s some innocent angel. Peter’s pulse feels more like a battering ram pounding at his neck once Paul answers.

“It’s hotel rooms, Peter, what’s it matter to you?”

“You’ll do it or I’m cutting out. You can get Singer back and wave goodbye to half your fucking ticket sales.”

Paul starts to laugh.

“You can’t pull that shit anymore.”

“No, you can’t afford for me to pull that shit anymore.”

“The fuck do you expect, Peter? You expect me and Gene to just bend over backwards for your whiny ass? You think it’s ’73 again? You think you can threaten to quit whenever you want and—”

“No, I don’t think that. I know that. And I think a guy who’s about to get divorced might wanna hold onto every dime he—”

Paul grabs the door handle to Peter’s room. Yanks it, pointlessly. Peter tries not to snort as he pulls the card key out of his pocket and unlocks the door, tugging it open for Paul to come in first. He does, immediately shoving aside the phone and alarm clock from the nightstand to lean up against it. Peter just sits on the bed.

It’s plush in the suites. It has been ever since the Reunion tour four years back. Every hotel elegant to the point of being uncomfortable. Themed rooms—not tacky Vegas shit, either. Jacuzzis. Gene had told Peter at some point over dinner, a month or two ago, that it’d been Paul’s doing.

“He doesn’t think we’ll feel big in Ramada Inns,” he’d said, almost embarrassed. None of that interview-ready self-assurance. Weird as hell to see Gene acquiesce to any of Paul’s bullshit instead of brush it off.

“We didn’t need a ritzy hotel to feel big twenty years ago. We were big.”

Gene had shrugged.

“It’s perception. Maybe he’s right. Elvis wouldn’t have done a farewell tour and come back to a Motel 6.”

“Elvis had the dignity to keel over first,” Peter muttered, and Gene had laughed, and laughed hard, enough that he almost choked on a bite of one of the cookies he’d ordered for dessert. The conversation hadn’t eased Peter’s mind much, still certain at least half the star treatment was just another means to placate him and Ace while cheating them both. The other half was just feeding rotten egos.

The soft, yielding mattress might as well be concrete for how comfortable he feels sinking down onto it. Peter almost expects Paul to snap at him immediately, but at first, he’s just standing there against the nightstand, hands behind him, curling over the table’s edges.

“You got me in here. Congratulations. You going to rail me out over your contract? Complain about how fucking unfair it is that you’re not getting a quarter-share of everything? Go ahead. I’ve heard it the last four years, but go ahead. Maybe it’ll wear a little better now, who the fuck knows. What do you want, Peter? I’m all ears.”

“I just bet you are.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wanna know what I want?” Peter’s voice sounds weird even to him, close to throaty. Nerves all stretched out, taut and tight as piano wire. “I want a bandmate instead of a dictator. I want to share the stage with somebody I can stand to be around. But that ain’t happening. I guess I’d be better off asking for my quarter-share.”

“Don’t try to play me—”

“Then don’t you ever fucking kiss me again unless you mean it.”

Paul just stares at him. He looks almost as though he’s about to laugh, his mouth twitching up for a second or two, and then he shakes his head.

“That’s what this is about? Really? God forbid I get my mouth on you anymore. I guess once you’ve got a good Christian girl you’re done fucking Jews—”

“I haven’t fucked you in years.”

“Nah, you’ve just fucked me over.” Paul does laughs then, throatily. “You say I’m the one doing it when it’s been you the whole time. You and Ace and Gene. You all jumped ship the second you got tired of it. The second KISS wasn’t fun anymore.”

“I didn’t jump ship—”

“Decided you’d rather play house and do coke than play the fucking drums. Right before we were set to tour—but that’s fine. Doesn’t matter. Ace quits. We lose fifteen million. That’s fine. That doesn’t matter. Just me and Gene, right? Like you thought we always wanted, right?” Another laugh. “I didn’t ever want that.”

“You sure as hell gave off that impression.”

“I didn’t want it. I wanted a team, I wanted the four of us. I thought we were gonna be like the Beatles. Like they were in the movies. I really thought—I was a kid, I bought into it. I thought they really did stay all together in the same damn house and—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I was so naïve, I…”

“A team stands up for each other. I don’t remember you doing a whole lot of that when Ezrin—”

“I’m not talking about Ezrin. I’m talking about the band. Or what was left of it.” Paul shifts against the nightstand, yanking a hand through his hair. “You think we were still living it up after you quit. I don’t know what the hell ever gave you that idea.”

“Must’ve been all those gold albums.”

“Yeah, all two of them.” Paul snorts. “Lucky we even got that many. Gene fucking off to Hollywood was the last straw. Left me holding the bag for everybody. Found out if I wanted a record made, I had to pull the whole damn thing together myself. Like the solo albums all over again, except nobody was in line begging to collaborate anymore. I got fucking front-row seats to watch KISS turn into the biggest joke in the industry. I had to beg on my hands and knees just to get the band on MTV. And meanwhile you still got your nice quarter-share of all my work. You got that for eight fucking years after you quit. Just right out there for you.” Paul takes a breath. His voice is starting to crack. “Then you’ve got the nerve to say you want anything out of me. You don’t deserve what you’re getting out of me.”

“You want me to feel sorry for you, Paul? Is that it?”

“Please, the only person you’ve ever felt sorry for in your whole life is yourself. I know you couldn’t give less of a shit.”

“That’s a lie. If I didn’t give a shit, I wouldn’t still be touring with you.”

Paul’s expression starts to twitch. Then it hardens back up right like it used to, when an insult cut a little too close, like every insult did, and his mouth tightened and he’d be sniping for the next half-hour. He starts to say something, but Peter cuts him off before he can.

“I wouldn’t tour with you, I wouldn’t eat with you, I wouldn’t even talk to you.” Peter exhales. “But I do. I owe it to you. And you owe me something, too.”

“Don’t act like you’re such a martyr for wanting a paycheck,” Paul snaps out. “What do I owe you for? ‘Beth’? You still get your royalties—”

“Not ‘Beth.’ It ain’t that simple.” Peter’s hands are sweaty against the covers. “You’re gonna owe me the rest of your life for joining the band, Paul. Just like I’m gonna owe you the rest of my life for letting me in. Whether you like it or not, that’s the way it’s always gonna be.”

“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. I don’t—” Paul pushes forward from where he’s been leaning against the nightstand. His eyes are glassy, that strange, haunted look making every curve and jut of his face seem like it’s carved from alabaster. It’s only when Pete feels a tug on his sleeve that he realizes Paul’s reached out a hand. “Come with me and I’ll prove it to you. I-I’ll make sure.”

He shouldn’t get up. He shouldn’t follow him. It’s going to be another attempt at robbing him of what’s his. Paul’s going to use the time it takes to get there to get his bearings and then he’ll really lay in on him, cut him up with surgical precision. Peter’s never going to get the contract fixed. He’s never going to get the money he’s owed. He’s never going to get that flowerchild wannabe back again, that shy kid still propelled by a dream from when he was eight, that vulnerable, stupid kid who had to be protected. He’s gone now. He’s been gone for decades. Even the nightly stageshow’s just a parody of the Paul that Peter remembers.

But Peter does get up, and he does follow him. Not to some conference room like he expects. He doesn’t call up Gene or any lawyers or Doc. Paul just takes him four doors down to his hotel room, lets him in.

Inside, it’s the same bland opulence as in his own suite. The same “Welcome, KISS” banner from the hotel next to the full-length mirror. A made-up, empty bed. No printouts or laptops. Paul hasn’t gotten any business materials out at all. Paul heads straight for the vanity, pushing away a small stash of makeup and creams as Peter watches. It’s a second or two before Paul’s hand closes around a small velvet box, pops it open, and he pulls something out and pushes it into Peter’s palm.

“There. That’s all. You wanna renegotiate the contract, talk to Gene. I’ll tell him to give you whatever you want.”

“Paul—”

“I don’t owe you. I don’t owe you, all right?”

Paul’s not looking him in the face now. His eyes are on the vanity table. Slowly, Peter opens his palm and looks down, confirming what he already knew he’d been given, the metal hard and cold in his hand. It’s nothing special. Eighteen karat gold. No tarnishes. No scratches. It’s the cross necklace he’d given Paul more than twenty years ago.

All of a sudden, Peter can’t lift his gaze from his own hand. His eyes are burning, and he’s far too aware of every breath pushing through his lungs. The cross glints in his palm, dangling heavy as an oath from its chain, and he can’t seem to close his fingers back around it. Can barely seem to speak.

“This is yours.”

“It’s not. It’s yours. I’m giving it back.” Paul still isn’t facing him, still staring at the vanity counter, fingers curved on its edge. He isn’t even looking at his own reflection in the mirror. “Y-you can go on now. I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

“Paulie.”

Paul stiffens up. Peter doesn’t see him do it, but he can tell, something in the way he shifts. He won’t ever get another chance. He knows it. Peter tears his gaze away from the necklace, fingers closing around the cross, and he takes a breath and says his name again.

“Paulie.”

Peter swallows and steps behind him. Paul doesn’t react at first. Peter almost expects Paul to start snapping at him, or pop off with some acidic comment to make him leave. Peter takes the chain between his fingers, cross dangling, as he drapes it over Paul. No wild mop of curls to brush forward anymore. He hesitates, watching Paul’s expression in the mirror, waiting for a sign that he should pull away, but Paul doesn’t move or shake his head or anything. His eyes are a little watery, and he’s biting his lip, but the rest of his expression’s blank up until Peter’s fingers brush against his collar as he closes the clasp. Then his lip starts to twitch and he turns around, bracing one hand against the counter.

“Pete—”

“It’s yours.”

Paul looks stunned. He reaches up to the necklace like he can’t believe it’s there. There’s something painfully nostalgic about watching Paul fingering that cross, watching a real moment of surprise sweep across his features. Reminiscent enough to almost hurt.

Peter’s sick of hurting. Now he knows Paul is, too.

His hand finds Paul’s shoulder a moment later, only to shift over to cup his cheek as he leans in, thumb dragging across his jaw. Peter can still feel the tension even as Paul inclines his head to meet his lips. Paul’s mouth against his is timid at first, almost afraid, for all that he’d kissed him so hard in the hallway. Peter has to ease him into it at first, like the steps to a half-remembered dance, fingers roving gently down from Paul’s face to the back of his neck.

They never did talk about it back then. What they liked. Just went in blind and laughed off the screw-ups. Paul was always headstrong with the groupies, all too willing to initiate, but shyer with him. Peter’s going off what he remembers and what Paul’s responding to, trying to be gentle without coddling, fervent without overwhelming. Trying to impart some meaning, some reassurance. It’s been so long, Peter forgot what a delicate, frustrating balance it is with him.

He almost doesn’t think it’s paying off, for all that there’s less caution to Paul’s kisses now, the brief swipe of Paul’s tongue against his lips. Peter parts them on automatic and Paul’s there, tongue darting lightly at first, then a little more urgently. He breaks off the kiss for a breath, hands shifting to rest on Paul’s shoulders, only to feel Paul get his arm around his waist and pull him in close, until they’re flush against each other. Then Peter knows Paul’s getting his bearings again, though feeling the start of Paul’s hard-on against his thigh is plenty, and flattering, evidence enough.  It’s taking Peter longer to get there, but Paul seems determined, rocking against him steadily, groping and fondling his ass. Peter responds in turn, eager, pressing in hard, grinding their hips together, until Paul’s soft grunts turn into a groan.

“Pete, every time you do that, you’re knocking me against the vanity.”

Peter just grins.

“Then maybe we better move.” His grip tightens on Paul’s shoulders as he leads him towards the bed. Peter tries once to turn him around so his back’s facing the bed, but Paul doesn’t respond and so Peter doesn’t attempt it again, just lets Paul press him up to the bed, easing against him until he’s seated. Paul doesn’t seem half as nervous now, pushing kisses against Peter’s neck as his fingers work the button and zipper of his jeans, tugging them down just enough to free his cock.

“All this time and you’re still not wearing underwear.” Paul’s breath is warm against his neck, a hint of a laugh in his words.

“I wouldn’t even wear the cup, what makes you think I’d—nghh,” Peter trails off as Paul’s hand wraps around his dick. Twenty years and, unsurprisingly, Paul’s hardly out of practice at all, the steady rhythm of his fingers urging Peter to full hardness before long. But it’s Paul’s mouth driving him crazy, the way he’s leaning in, the hunger of each kiss. Peter returns it all eagerly, insistently, pressing tongue and teeth against the soft skin of Paul’s neck, not managing to stay there long enough to leave a real mark, while his hips push up with every pump of Paul’s hand, a hand that’s soon withdrawn. Peter’s about to complain when he realizes Paul’s sinking to his knees in front of him, rubbing his hands against his thighs. Peter puts his own hands on top of Paul’s, resting against his wrists.

“Paul, hey, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Paul’s hands shift beneath Peter’s, fingers rubbing circles along the seams of his jeans. “At least lemme get you worked up.”

“I’m pretty damn worked up as it is,” Peter retorts. Every second without some contact is making his arousal all the more distracting. Judging by the glint in Paul’s eyes, he knows it, too. Peter’s down; of course, he’s down. His uncertainty’s borne more out of concern for Paul’s comfort level than his own. If Paul’s pushing himself for the wrong reasons and they’re about to fuck each other up ten times worse. “You think you can handle it?”

Paul snorts.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific on where,” he says, and before Peter can respond with more than a laugh, Paul’s laving his tongue against his dick. Peter’s breath hitches, hands tightening around Paul’s wrists. Paul tugs meaningfully at his jeans, lets up for a second so Peter can pull them down further. They’re around his knees now, Paul roving his hands eagerly across his bare skin. Freshly shaven. The spandex costumes still won’t allow for anything less. “Either way, I got this. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

Paul starts in earnest, then. His mouth’s encircling his cock before too long, taking him in further and further, a hand closing over what he can’t fit inside his throat. The only performance Peter’s ever known Paul to stay quiet for, apart from those occasional soft hums, the vibration intense around his dick. He’s still adept as ever. It’s almost bewildering. It’s like the way he felt that first night when they all went backstage together and put the greasepaint back on again. How close it is. How much everything’s falling into place. Like the years are melting in front of him, time lapsing backwards if they’ll both just let it.

Peter closes his eyes briefly, his hands wandering from Paul’s wrists to his shoulders to finally his hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp. For all the time it took to get him here, Peter’s unraveling quickly, mumbling curses and groans, trying to resist the urge to move his hips as Paul’s throat constricts tight and wet around him. He’s starting to moan, watching Paul’s expression, simultaneously intense and dazed, and he has to force himself to tug his hair and get them both back to reality.

“If you wanna fuck today, you better stop now.”

There’s a pause, a lick to the underside of his cock, and then Paul slides his mouth off his dick with a wet pop.

“All right, all right,” he says after taking a few sharp breaths and clearing his throat, not bothering to wipe the spit from his face before standing up. Peter shoves his jeans the rest of the way down, kicking them to the floor, shifting to give Paul room to climb onto the bed. Onto him. Paul’s already stripping, peeling off his pants and boxers far too fast for it to be a show, to Peter’s relief. He’s watched enough of that over all their tours and even from the times they’d share girls. He’d never really done it for Peter. The only thing he's careful about is the necklace. Peter watches him carefully tuck it underneath his t-shirt just before tossing the shirt to the floor. Peter waits, expecting him to fumble with the clasp, but Paul doesn't, just heads to the bed, and Peter realizes, suddenly, warmly, that Paul's leaving it on.

They’re still showering together after the shows, the three of them, Gene still abstaining from the stupidest and longest-held of their concert rituals. The years haven’t been bad to Paul, but then, he hasn’t had quite as many. Hasn’t yet even hit fifty. Despite all the diets and workouts, Paul’s abdomen is softer when Peter runs a hand down his hairy chest, but that’s about the only appreciable difference. He doesn’t get a chance to pay too much attention. As soon as he’s helped Peter shuck off his own shirt, Paul’s all over him, none of the cautious hesitation from before, practically crawling into his lap. The cold metal of the necklace makes a shiver run down Peter’s spine when Paul presses his chest against his while he’s licking a long stripe against Peter’s neck, hard-on rubbing up against his stomach. Peter’s own erection is making him heady enough, half-afraid he’ll come from just their fooling around, but Paul’s almost desperate, hands everywhere his mouth isn’t. He’s toying with and sucking on Peter’s nipples the way he used to, leaving Peter panting, his dick aching painfully with every swipe of his tongue.

Paul only stops to rustle around in a drawer for the lube. At first Peter figures he’s overcompensating for earlier, but then he realizes that’s not it at all. Paul’s not trying to prove that old Lover persona right with the one person who’d never buy it. It’s just that every bit of contact, every touch of skin to skin is soothing and maddening all at once. It’s just that he’s longing, too.

Peter eases Paul onto his back after awhile, leaning over him, kissing him on the neck and cheek as he slicks himself up, starts to prep, Paul’s gaze on him feeling more intent than ever. He’d said he could handle it. God knows his mouth still could, the memory of it making Peter’s cock twitch anew, but he’s really not sure about the rest of him. Paul never complained about Peter’s dick being too much to take in the seventies, for what little that’s worth now. Paul grunts as Peter slips and crooks his fingers inside him, legs splayed, hips lifting up, urging him deeper. Peter feels the familiar, faint bite of short nails against his back, a sharp hiss of breath against his forehead as he keeps working Paul over, stretching him out further. He’s pleased that Paul’s moaning starts before Peter’s so much as rubbed his dick teasingly against his entrance.

“C’mon,” Paul urges, rocking up to meet thrusts Peter hasn’t even made yet. It’s flattering as hell, whether it’s for show or not. From the consternation in his expression, the sweat beading on his face and chest, Peter doesn’t think it is. He can’t argue with the plea, can’t tease further when he’s wanting it so badly himself. Before long, Peter’s entering him, slow at first, getting him accustomed. Erasing the separation between them. Trying to. Paul fidgets beneath him, a little quieter once Peter’s fully inside him—and maybe that’d worry Peter more, if he wasn’t starting to smile, if his fingers hadn’t gone from digging into Peter’s back to rubbing his shoulder in a warm, encouraging rhythm. But Peter can’t help but ask anyway.

“You’re okay, yeah?”

“Yeah.” A wry pause. “I mean, you could give me a hand here—"

Peter barely swallows a laugh, wrapping his hand around Paul’s dick, trying to time each thrust with the pump of his hand. The pace is inconsistent despite his best efforts, but Paul doesn’t seem to mind, cock already throbbing, precum long since dripping from the tip.

After all the desperation from earlier, it doesn’t take much for either of them. Peter’s breathing gets harder and harder, curses and groans bleeding back into Paul’s name as he feels his orgasm approaching. Paul beats him to it, but barely, spilling into his hand with a sharp cry and a shudder, hand going lax at his shoulder, dilated eyes sliding shut. That’s nearly all it takes for Peter. Sweat’s dripping from his face, his hair, onto Paul and the bedsheets both as he manages another thrust or two before coming inside him.

He practically collapses against Paul in the aftermath, and he doesn’t pull out straight away. Stupidly, he doesn’t really want to. He feels way too—whole, odd as that seems. This hasn’t buried everything. Twenty years of hurt can’t disappear in one afternoon. Not for either of them. But it’s a start. It’s a start. It’s like something’s coming back to him. Like someone’s coming back to him. Like he understands now, that maybe things are finally going to be all right between them, maybe even great, maybe even grand. He could believe that now. He really could. All the more with Paul’s arms clasped tight around him as he murmurs quietly in the afterglow, the rise and fall of his chest against Peter’s the best tempo he’s felt in years.

[thelastspeecher]

For the prompt, how about the werevamp au where Stan and Angie celebrate Chistmas together since Angie can't exactly go home to her family to celebrate, but also it's also Stan's first actual Christmas

I wanted to include something at the end about Angie asking Stan when Jewish holidays are so they can celebrate them together, too, but I liked it ending like this.  So here, have Stangie celebrating Christmas in a cheap motel room with a sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

              Stan wokeup freezing.  Without opening his eyes hereached out for Angie.  His hands brushedagainst blankets, but not Angie’s warm body. He opened his eyes.  He was alonein the bed.

              “Angie?”he asked.

              “I’m overhere, darlin’,” a soft voice said.  Stansat up with a groan.  He lookedover.  Angie was crouched on the sill ofthe only window in the cheap motel room, staring outside with a distantexpression.

              “What’swrong?”

              “Nothin’.  It’s just…” Angie sighed.  “I can’t believe it’sChristmas Eve.”

              “Oh,yeah.  It is.”  Stan got up from the bed and walked over tohis girlfriend.  “Merry Christmas,” hesaid, putting a hand on her shoulder. Angie sighed again.  “Babe,somethin’s wrong.  What is it?”

              “I can’tremember any of my fam’ly’s holiday traditions,” Angie said after a moment.  “I- I know we had ‘em.  I have this- this vague memory of warmfeelin’s and comfort.  A full stomach.  But I can’t remember anyone involved, or whatexactly we were doin’, and-”  Sheswallowed.  “What sort of Christmastraditions does yer fam’ly have?”

              “Uh,none,” Stan said.  Angie stared athim.  “I’m Jewish.”

              “…Oh.”  Angie’s mouth quirked in a small grin.  “Didn’t know there were Jewish vampires.”

              “Didn’tknow there were Christian werewolves.”

              “Touche.”  Angie looked out the window again.  She wrapped her arms around herself.  “I just- I want to celebrate with my fam’ly.”

              “Youmight not be able to celebrate with them, but you’ve got me,” Stan said.  Angie managed a small, weak smile.  “Whattaya wanna do?”

              “Gocaroling.”

              “Uhh…”

              “I’mkidding,” Angie said, nudging him.  “But jokin’aside, it might be nice to get a tree.”

              “It’sChristmas Eve.”

              “Mm-hmm.”

              “You dorealize that if we manage to find a tree, it’s gonna be one of those shittyCharlie Brown ones, right?”

              “It’sstill a tree.”

              “Yeah.  Okay. Lemme get dressed.”  Stan walkedover to the chair he had tossed his clothes onto the day before.  He picked up his shirt and sniffed itidly.  “Did your family go to church onChristmas Eve?  My high school girlfriend’sfamily did.”

              “I haveamnesia, I don’t-”  Angie paused.  “No, wait. I do remember.  Yes. We did.”

              “So youguys were like, Christian Christians.”  Deciding the shirt didn’t smell too bad, Stanslipped it on.  “I shoulda figured.”

              “How couldya have figured it out?  I didn’t realizeI grew up goin’ to church until ya just asked me.”

              “A fewthings.”  Stan tugged on a pair of pants.  “You never say ‘God’, you say ‘Lord’ or ‘goodness’.  You corrected a Bible quote we saw the otherday.  And whenever we’re around jewelry,you go right for the crucifix necklaces.”

              “Huh.  Yer right, there were a lot of ways to figureit out,” Angie said softly.  Stan turnedaround.  “Why are ya wearin’ thoseclothes again?” Angie asked.

              “They don’tsmell.”

              “Not toyou,” Angie muttered.  She got down fromthe windowsill.  “A few things are comin’back to me.”

              “Yeah?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie furrowed her brow.  “When we went to the Christmas Eve service,my older brother would always fall asleep. And my- my older sister…  We hadto dress up, so she’d braid my hair fer me.”

              “You havea brother and sister?”

              “…Iguess.”

              “Do youremember their names?” Stan asked.  Angieshook her head.  “You’ll remembereventually.”  Stan shrugged on hisjacket.  “What’s the flavor ofChristianity your family practices?  Newand Improved or Classic?”  Angie staredat him, bemused.

              “Wh-which branch of Christianity is which?”

              “Catholicsare Classic, and the other one is New and Improved.”

              “Hon, that’snot-”  Angie shook her head.  “Okay, well, Classic.”

              “You’reCatholic?”

              “Yep.”  Angie frowned, thinking.  “I remember vaguely learnin’ prayers thatweren’t in English.”

              “Latin?”

              “No…”  Angie shook her head again.  “I could almost hear one of ‘em, but it’sgone.”  She looked up.  “Let’s go get us a tree.”

----- 

              Stan dugthrough the grocery bag.  Angie hadinsisted that they not steal on Christmas Eve, but he wanted to make sure thatshe didn’t see the one item he had surreptitiously pocketed at the store.

              “Youreally should shower,” Angie said.  Shewas decorating the tree they had found at the lot.  It looked exactly as Stan had warned:scraggly, tiny, and losing needles with every jostle.  Angie carefully draped a cheap garland overthe tree’s branches.

              “I showeredyesterday.”

              “Youshowered three days ago.”  Angie lookedat Stan.  “I love ya to bits, but I havea wolf’s nose, Stanley Pines.  If ya goone more day without takin’ a shower, I will hose ya down myself.”

              “Don’t offersomething if you don’t plan on following through.”

              “Itwouldn’t be sexy,” Angie warned.  Stansnorted.

              “That’swhat you think.”

              “No, Imean it.  Think less ‘we are bothunclothed and there are soap bubbles everywhere’ and more ‘I am fully clothed,holding you down while I hold the shower directly over yer head like I’m givin’a dog a bath’.”

              “…Could stillbe sexy.”

              “Lord,yer insufferable.”

              “You knowit, babe.”  Stan found the small box hewas looking for, slipped it into his back pocket, and kissed the top of Angie’shead.  She swatted him playfully.  “When do we put up our socks for free candy?”

              “Afteryou shower.”

              “Fine,fine.”  Stan strode into the bathroom,whistling.  He paused before closing thedoor.  “Hang on.”

              “Stan, Imean it, I can’t deal with yer stink much lon-”

              “Did youjust say you loved me?” Stan asked. Angie stilled.  “If you did, I’d-”

              “Justshower,” Angie said in a small voice.  “Please.”

----- 

              Tenminutes later, Stan opened the bathroom door to let the steam out while hefinished toweling off.  He paused.  Someone was singing.

              “O, holynight, the stars are brightly shining…” Stan stuck his head out.  Angiewas sitting in front of the tiny tree, her eyes closed, singing.  A small smile began to spread across Stan’sface.

              I don’t get to hear her sing very often.  He cleared his throat.  Angie looked over, startled.

              “That wasnice.”

              “…Thanks,”Angie mumbled, her face pink.  She duckedher head.  “And thank you fer showerin’.”

              “Eh, Iwoulda had to shower soon anyways, if I wanted to maintain my impeccablehairstyle,” Stan said, gesturing to his mullet. Angie snorted.  “You should singmore.”

              “I don’tknow.  I feel so strange singin’ in frontof people,” Angie said quietly.  Stanwalked over, only wearing a towel wrapped around his waist.  He sat on the floor next to her.

              “I’m ahomeless vampire.  Pretty sure I don’tcount as people.”

              “Nah, youdo.”  Angie leaned against him.  “By the way, earlier, when I said I loved you…”

              “Yeah?”

              “I meantit.”  Like her, Angie’s voice was soft,but full of warmth.  “And it ain’t someStockholm Syndrome thing, neither.  You-yer a good man, and you challenge me and take care of me and-”  Angie kissed Stan on the cheek.  “I can’t think of anything else to describemy feelings fer you.”

              “Not justreally good friends?”

              “No,Stan.  I love you.”  Angie’s eyes caught his determinedly.  “I mean it.” Stan stared back at her silently, at a loss for words.  Finally, he cleared his throat.

              “Okay,uh, yeah, uh, I guess, uh-”  He clearedhis throat again.  “I’ve got somethingfor- uh-”  He rushed back to thebathroom.

              Dumbass, why’d you put it in your pantspocket if you were gonna take your pants off right away?  Stan dug hurriedly through his pile of clothes.  Ha!  He grabbed the small box from earlier andreturned to where Angie was sitting. Angie cocked her head at him curiously.

              “What’sgoin’ on?”

              “Here.”  Stan handed her the box.  Angie shot another confused glance in hisdirection before turning her attention to the box.  She slowly opened it.

              “Oh.”

              That’s it?  An “oh”?

              “You hateit,” Stan said, dejected.

              “No,”Angie said.  She removed the necklacefrom the box.  “No, Stan, I love it.”  She let the chain of the necklace slipthrough her fingers to admire the crescent-shaped charm.  “A lil moon.”

              “‘Causeyou’re a werewolf.”  Stan rubbed the backof his neck.  “Girls like sparkly things,and you always get excited when we go to a store with jewelry, and you don’thave any jewelry, so I figured-”

              “This iswonderful,” Angie said softly.

              “It’s nota cross, though.  You always look at thecrosses.”  Stan scratched his cheek.  “I’m allergic to religious shit, so that’swhy I didn’t get the cross, but it’s still not-”

              “Shut yeryap and help me put this on, would ya?” Angie interrupted.  Stan grinned. Angie handed him the necklace and turned around.  Stan carefully clasped the chain.  Angie turned around again.  The necklace sparkled on her sweater.  “Does it suit me?”

              “Babe,everything suits you,” Stan said earnestly. Angie laughed.

              “Stan,this was a wonderful Christmas present. Thank you.”  Her eyestwinkled.  “I actually got you somethin’,too.”

              “Really?”

              “Mm-hmm.”  Angie nodded at the tree.  A box was resting underneath it.  “Go ahead. Open it.”  Stan eagerly ripped thebox open.  His eyes widened.  “I saw you lookin’ at those watches.”

              “Oh,hell, yes,” Stan breathed.  He slid thewatch onto his wrist.  “Now my wristlooks way classier than the rest of me. It’s perfect.”  Angiechuckled.  “How did you afford this?”

              “…I didn’t.”

              “Ithought you said you didn’t wanna steal on Jesus’ birthday.”

              “Hisbirthday’s tomorrow.  Not today.”

              “Myhabits are rubbing off on you.”

              “Yep.”

              “Probablynot a good thing.”

              “Fer ahomeless vampire and werewolf, I think it’s perfectly fine.”  Angie leaned in and kissed Stan on thelips.  “Merry Christmas.”

              “MerryChristmas.”

[zakthefiend]

Nightmares of the Destroyer

(So, as it turns out, Khadgar is pretty much absent from Wrath of the Lich King to Warlords of Draenor. @drew-winchester made the art, and I couldn’t but remember somethings that Deathwing had said to Khadgar when seeing this peace. Without any more time to lose, here’s Nightmare of the Destroyer!)

Night had fallen upon the continent of Kalimdor. Somewhere isolated, two lovebirds were sleeping united after so long since their separation. Khadgar and Peregrïn, after Khad had returned from his isolation in the outlands, wanted to spend time with his lovely night elf. Same could be said for Perry, humans live such short lives, and change over long periods of time! She was worried that the sweet boy she fell for was gone, luckily fate had other plans for them.

After the Lich King’s fall by the Heroes of Azeroth and Tirion Fordring, the world was at peace. It was during this peace, that Khadgar and Perry made plans at a certain couples retreat in Kalimdor. They planned to make up for lost times and spend months away. After a couple of months, our lovely couple had mended some wounds done in from the seperation. They were happy.

However, peace has always been a blissful lie on a world such as this. This world was forged in conflict and war, peace was much like a sunset: As beautiful as it is, it’s just as fleeting. Which is why one night, Khadgar found himself having trouble sleeping...

Khadgar laid in his bed, next to Peregrïn, sound asleep. Perry was dreaming that she was on an adventure with her idol: Elise Starseeker. She was on an adventure to claim the great treasures of Zul’Amon in a very dangerous ruin. The two dodge and faced many dangers that the forgotten ruins of the trolls, such as spike floors, snake pits, tribal trolls, arrow walls, a fire hallway, and a really big snake-like creature! Eventually, the two claimed the treasures of Zul’Amon! 

“Thank you Perry, I couldn’t have succeeded on this expedition without your help.” She smiled at Perry with pride and gratitude.

Perry, trying not to die from excitement, replies in sort of a high pitch voice, “Just... Just doing what I could!”

Elise smiled, and held her hand up for a victory high five. Perry was not going to hesitate on this moment! She heard a loud scream, which the dreamland fell apart and she was awoken to a screaming Khadgar!

“Khadgar! Khadgar! Wake up!” She shouted, pushing and pulling him until he wakes up. It succeeded, and Khadgar awoke hyperventilating and in a cold sweat.

“P...Perry? What’s going on?” He asked confused.

“You were screaming in your sleep. Are you okay?” She asked worriedly.

“I... I think so. I honestly can’t remember.”

“Good. Good...” 

Khadgar gets a face full of pillow! Then another one! Then another one!

“OW! OW! Hey, what’s the matter with you?!?”

“I was about to high five Elise Starseeker after a great adventure with her, but you woke me up before then jerk!” She shouts, still hitting with the pillow.

“You can’t blame me! I don-ow! Don’t even remember my dream!” Khadgar pleaded, trying to defend himself from the angry Perry assault! It was devastating!

“Still! It makes me feel better!” She stops with one last thwap from the pillow. She huffs, turning away from Khadgar. “Of all the times to wake me up, why then?”

Khadgar hugs Perry from behind, trying to have the angry elf calm down. “I don’t know, but I’m sure it won’t happen again. Won’t you join me for the remainder of the night?”

She tries to stay mad at him, but his bed head was too much for her. She complied, hoping this would be the last time it happens.

It wasn’t.

This kept occurring multiple times a week! It seemed to only get worst from then on! Eventually, Perry and Khadgar agreed that this was no normal nightmare. So, they decided to finally find out what the hell was going on.

Perry purchased a night elven scroll. The scroll allows one to enter another’s dream for 20 minutes. After careful consideration and precautions, the two readied the ritual and Perry entered Khadgar’s dream.

It was dark. Very dark. She couldn’t see an inch in front of her. It smelled like something was burning. Then, the darkness lifted, and with it revealed a horrible sight! Wyrmrest Accord in ruins, bodies upon bodies of heroes cover the ground below her, the entire dragonflight lie dead and butchered upon the ground! Their bodies torn to pieces with various organs scattered across from them.

Peregrïn felt like she was going to puke, backing away from it until she hit something behind her. As she turned, her nausea would be quickly replaced with a crippling fear. Behind her was a Ginormous tale, darkened in Onyx scales. following the tail led to a heavily armored dragon with what appears to be lava dripping from the cracks of the armor. When her eyes continued further, she quickly realized who had been the cause of Khadgar’s torment.

The Xaxa had been attacking Khadgar. Deathwing was the cause of this.

Before she could say a word, Perry saw Khadgar crucified on a cross like structure of iron. He struggles to break free as the fallen aspect laughed at his futile attempts.

“Give up mage. Not even your former master Medivh could have shattered the bonds that bind you!” It spoke in a deep thunderous tone. His speech was enough alone to shake the ground under him. “Why do you mortals insist on making more difficult than it has to be? If you’d just give in to my will, the pain will stop.”

“Never! I won’t fall to your tactics Neltharion!” Khadgar shouted, grunting in pain.

Perry looked on in horror as it released a large amount of smoke and steam from it’s mouth and nostrils, “It’s Deathwing! Neltharion was a weak fool, a plaything for the Titans amusement!”

“And your the plaything for the old gods? It seems you only switched sides on-” Khadgar was cut off, as the dragon aspect lifted but a claw and shot a torrent of lightning onto Khadgar! He screamed in unbearable pain!

“What’s that? I can’t hear your smartass mouth over all this lightning...!”

Perry had enough, and rushed over to Khadgar’s side to save him! She turned into a bird, and soared up high and landed near Khadgar’s crucifix. She turned back to elf and tried to shatter the chains that bind him.

Khadgar turned to her, and looked on in shock. “Perry?”

“Don’t worry my love, I’ll-” She was cut off when a draconic claw made from earth grabbed a hold of her.

“Well, well, well! A visitor! I should have known you would bring aid. Is the rest of the Kirin Tor here as well?” He laughed in joy at a new toy he can break! “Wait, you say “my love”? You two are...!” He bellowed a twisted laughter now! His metal jaw spilling out hot magma onto the floor below them. “Fantastic! I now have the means to break the mighty Khadgar! After all, what’s a better way to break a man...” His head drew closer to Peregrïn, her eyes grows wide as she realized what awaited for her now. “then his heart?”

Khadgar shouted insults at Deathwing, trying to get his attention to turn back to him. It was not enough, as the fallen aspect blew a mighty gust of steaming ash and smoke at the small elf. Her skin burned as her screams were muffled by the hot white ashes being blown at her. He laughed in amusement in seeing the small elf crying in pain.

“Oops! I forgot your pitiful race of elves are not good with incredibly hot steam! I should remember to be more careful, I might break my little toy too soon!” Deathwing once again laughed maniacally at his nefarious deeds. Khadgar kept shouting Perry’s name, trying to be sure that she wasn’t... that she wasn’t...

He noticed Perry suddenly looked fine. Her burnt flesh, bloodshot eyes, even her clothes looked like they were completely fine. Deathwing stopped his victorious laugh to see this. “Wait, you should not be doing that.” He says, looking on in disbelief.

Perry shook her head, coughing out some ashes. “Well, that wasn’t nice. Then again, what can I expect from the sadistic jackass of the old gods!”

Deathwing slammed his fist near her, “Silence mortal! I will crush you if you do not heed my words!” There was a slight hint of desperation in his tone.

“Khadgar, this is a dream. He’s been invading your head and trying to drive you mad!” She shouted at him. “Wake up!”

Deathwing Roared in furious passion, as he released a torrent of black flames at him. Unfortunately for our monstrous creature, Khadgar had disappeared. “NOOOO!!!”

When Khadgar woke up, he remembered everything Deathwing had done to him in his dreams. The two realized Deathwing was using a spell that makes people forget when a specific action occurs. The action that was chosen was whenever someone or something outside of the dream wakes the dreamer up.

Khadgar instantaneously performed a spell that prevented Deathwing or any of his minions from enterring his mind again. He then rushed to tell everyone about the news but he was too late. Deathwing made his presence known across Azeroth.

The destroyer had returned...

Khadgar sat on the bed. He thought about all he could’ve done to have prevented this from occurring. Peregrïn walks in on his pondering state. “Khadgar?”

“Hrmm? Oh Perry. I’m fine if you were wondering. No need to check on me.” He lied fantastically bad. Their both bad liars to each other.

“Khadgar. You don’t need to hide anything from me.” She walks over to him, and sits beside him. “What’s the matter?”

Khadgar sighed, “I saw you die. I saw your flesh boil to that monsters will. I was helpless. I... I should’ve...!”

He stopped when he was suddenly pulled into Perry’s embrace. “Remember what happened in that library all those years ago? When I snapped at seeing you almost dying. What you are feeling are the exact same ones I felt back then. I felt helpless when those bullies almost killed you and...” She took a deep breath and continued, “What I am getting at Khadgar, is that despite you not being able to protect me then, doesn’t you can’t protect me from things to come. We’re a team, and we stick together no matter what.”

The two stayed the way they were for a long time. Perry held Khadgar close, not wanting to let go of the wizard until he felt better.

“I love you Perry.”

“I love you too Khadgar. Now, and forever...”

[proses-are-red-blog]

Don't Go Into The Woods At Night

Caelyn watched as her father roamed about the house locking doors and windows and muttering to himself under his breath, his thin and frail frame slightly trembled as he clasped his hands together and prayed. Caelyn shook her head somberly at her father’s obsessive behavior and stomped upstairs to her room, careful to avoid the step with a loose board. She collapsed onto her bed and thought back to her childhood and when her father started this strange behavior. Her earliest memories go back to when she was about four years old and her father had picked her up and warned her about the monsters. He told her that they lived in the woods surrounding the house and that if she wasn’t careful they would snatch her up, just like they did her mother. Soon after, the daily prayer sessions started and crucifixes lined the walls. At the thought of her mother she reached up and felt the necklace that was left to her by her mother. Though she had never known her she felt her absence painfully.

She had believed him when she was young and had heeded his warning to stay out of the forest, but as she got older she realized that monsters don’t exist. At least, not the ones he told her about. Now though, the forest was her safe haven away from the obsessive havoc her father wrought. She picked up a book from her nightstand and read by the light coming through her window across from her bed until she could feel herself about to pass out from exhaustion. As she drifted off she momentarily recalled that she had not closed her curtains but she was fast asleep before she could get up and shut them.

She jolted awake disoriented and groggy before getting her bearings and looking around to see what had woke her. She glanced at her clock, it read 3:15am. She looked to her window, the curtains still open, and got up to draw them closed. She stopped short when she heard a faint, inaudible whispering coming from the direction of the window. Unease washed across her but she pushed it aside and drew closer to close the curtains. She froze as she saw a dark figure at the treeline. She stared at whatever it was but it never moved. She relaxed and assumed it was some sort of object that she couldn’t make out, she would check on it in the morning. She moved back to her bed, briefly noting that the whispering sound had stopped. She pulled the covers back over herself and tried to get back to sleep.

Morning came far too early, she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep for another two hours and to make matters even worse, the whispering had started up again. She had no idea where the sound was coming from but she figured that maybe it was something in the ventilation. After showering and dressing she headed downstairs, careful of the loose step, to prepare breakfast. She didn’t see her father this morning, as per usual, he was sprinkling holy water around the house and fervently praying. She worked in silence, her father’s delusional mutterings and frantic footsteps the only sounds to be heard.

The walk to school was her only comfort away from both the consuming madness of her father and the alienating stares of her schoolmates which she would soon have to face. She arrived at her school, bracing herself before opening the door. It was a small building, needing only to hold about a hundred students. The inside was filled with small hallways and the harsh fluorescent light cast everything in an ugly shade of yellow due to the age of the coverings. As soon as she stepped foot into the building a hush fell over the crowd of students and many pairs of eyes turned to look at her.

This wasn’t an odd occurrence, in fact, it happened every day. People would look at her with scathing eyes but none would dare speak to her let alone touch her, so she was left in relative peace. She put her head down and ducked into the bathroom to splash water on her face. She gasped as a shock ran through her body at the cold water. She gripped onto the sink and looked up into the mirror. She stared at her reflection, taking in the pallidness of her skin, to the dark shadows under her eyes, and the messy nest of short, curly, black hair on her head. She fell backwards from the sink with a yelp as the mirror suddenly cracked. She stared in bewilderment from the floor until she heard a gasp come from the entryway.

She whipped her head around to look at the girl and the girl jumped in fear and quickly walked backwards out of the restroom. She stood up and dusted herself off, following suit and leaving. She was met with murmurs from the students outside, catching whispers like “witch”, “cursed” and “freak.” She hung her head and walked faster, ignoring all the eyes on her back. She sat down at her desk in homeroom in the back of the classroom, as usual, there were at least two or three empty desks around her, as no one wanted to sit too near to her. The teachers didn’t say anything about it, they never did, after all, the teachers were the parents of the students that feared and hated her so much.

The school day ended and Caelyn started the trek back home, walking slowly to prolong the time she had by herself and away from her father. Eventually though, she did arrive home but instead of coming in and being pulled into one of her father’s rituals like usual, she took a detour around the house and to the forest. She looked around for the thing she had seen last night but she found no objects big enough to look like the thing she had seen at her window last night. Whatever it was had moved. It's possible that her father put something here for another of his bizarre rituals but she highly doubted that. Her father warned her about going to the forest and would almost certainly never go himself.

She brushed it aside and headed to the house, hoping to avoid her father. She slowly opened the door and took a step in, looking around. She didn’t hear her father’s rapid murmuring or pacing footsteps. That was odd, he was always here waiting for her to return home so he could “cleanse” her. She shivered at the thought, oh well, she wasn’t going to complain if she didn’t have to do it. With a shrug she headed back out the door and to the forest now that she had a chance to escape her father’s watchful eyes.

She entered the forest making sure to keep an eye out for anything that looked like the thing she saw last night. She headed to a clearing a little ways into the forest where the grass was high and a large rock sat. She hopped onto the rock and laid back, taking in a deep breath of the fresh air. The afternoon sun warmed her skin and she soon fell asleep. She dreamt of places far away from her home, far away from her father and the scornful and fearful glares always cast at her. Places where no one knew of her or her father, where she could start anew and leave behind her painful life.

She awoke hours later with a crick in her neck and pain in her back from sleeping on the rock. The sun had already gone down and she was left with only the light of the moon to see. She rubbed her eyes groggily and looked around. She froze as her eyes landed on a silhouette at the treeline. It looked like the thing she saw last night.

The thing appeared to be around seven to eight feet tall and it’s arms were elongated, unnaturally disproportionate to it’s body. The thing stepped closer into the moonlight and Caelyn’s blood ran cold. She sat in shock at what she was seeing. It was vaguely humanoid but it was hunched over with a hump in it’s back. Sickly bluish gray skin covered portions of it’s body, the rest was exposed, rotting muscle and bone. It’s face was featureless aside from a huge, gaping, bloody maw that took up most of it’s face. There were simply empty sockets were eyes would usually reside. At the end of it’s arms were mangled looking fingers ending in giant razor sharp claws.

The creature was slowly moving forward but seemed unaware of her presence. Caelyn slowly shifted on the rock and lowered herself to the ground, trying to make as little noise as possible. Her heart beat rapidly and her breath came in short, shallow breaths. What was that thing? Had her father been telling the truth the whole time? Where was he? She heard the creature shifting through the grass and moving closer to her. She stood and slowly moved one foot in front of the other, quietly moving forward.

The grass rustled as she moved and she heard the creature let out a terrible screeching sound. It sounded like multiple voices screaming at once, it was breathless and had a wheezing quality to it, like it didn’t have enough air to produce the sound. It was ear piercing and sent shivers down her spine. She covered her mouth to avoid making any sounds in her fear as her eyes watered with tears. Was she going to die? She heard the creature move faster in her direction now and she hurriedly pressed herself back against the wall. The creature came around to her side of the rock and paused only a few feet away from her.

It swung it’s head around and then stopped, facing her. Fear gripped her heart and she couldn’t bring herself to move. Shaky breathing sounds came from the gaping hole in the creature’s face and she could feel it’s warm, putrid breath blow into her face from it’s exhale. It made no movements for a few moments before darting off into the forest after a rustling sound in the bushes. Whatever that thing was it was blind. Caelyn took this opportunity to to run as fast as she could back to her house, the branches slapped against her face and leaves crunched under feet making a racket. She distanly heard the cry of the creature and ran faster. She burst through the front door and slammed it shut, leaning back against it before sinking down onto the floor.

She brought her knees to her chest and put her head in her arms, shakily breathing and trying to wrap her head around what she just saw. She slowly lifted her head again and saw a figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Dad?” She called out but received no answer. She squinted her eyes to try and make him out better but could not as the house was pitch black. She slowly stood up and reached to the lightswitch on the wall but the lights did not come on. The power was out.

She approached the bottom of the stairs, still trying to make out the figure to no avail. As she got closer, the outline of the figure grew blurrier and blurrier until it simply vanished.

She gasped and stilled at this. Suddenly a loud bang came from the front door and she whipped her head around to see the creature from the forest clawing at the door. The creature slammed its head into the window on the door and it cracked under the force. Caelyn gasped and fled up the stairs. She yelped as her foot fell through one of the steps and her ankle caught in between the wood. “Shit!” She frantically tried to pry her foot out of the gap as the creature kept butting it’s head into the glass, breaking more and more each time. She managed to pull her foot free just as the glass shattered and the creature’s claw poked through, turned the lock and grabbed hold of the handle, opening the door. The creature flung itself towards her just as she finished climbing the stairs. She scrambled towards her father’s room, the creature right on her tail.

She dove into his room and the creature tried to follow suit but was stopped as it ran into some sort of seemingly invisible barrier. She sat on the floor looking at it struggle to reach her to no avail. She looked down as her hand touched something wet and a shadow not her own was cast onto the floor from the moonlight shining through the window, swinging slightly. She turned and screamed at what she saw. It was her father, hanging from the ceiling fan by his own entrails. His stomach was slashed open and blood dripped down, forming a puddle underneath him. His face was frozen in the expression of horror he wore as he died. Looking around the room she saw that blood splatter was everywhere and claw marks riddled the walls and the ceiling.

She gasped and her cries fell silent as a figure materialized in the room. It was her father, she realized.

“Caelyn, listen to me. Do not leave this room until morning, do you understand?” He warned.

She finally regained her voice and spoke. “What the hell is going on and what is that thing!?” She yelled, pointing to the creature still trying and failing to enter the room. “What happened to you and how are you here speaking to me!?” She demanded.

“I know you have a lot of questions but I don’t have much time, please, you must stay in this room until the sun comes up and when it does, I want you to look under my bed for a box. There’s money inside. Take it and leave town, don’t look back, just keep going. The monsters won’t follow you. And I know I was never really there as a parent but I did everything for you, I love you, please remember that.” And with that, he vanished.

Caelyn sat, staring at the place where her father stood. She turned back to the creature, watching it claw at whatever invisible barrier was there. She figured it was something her father must have put up. She sat and waited for hours for the sun to rise. Finally morning came and the creature gave a screech and ran down the stairs and out of the house. She did as her father instructed, looking under his bed and fining the box with the money in it, along with an address.

She packed a few things such as food and clothing and did just what her father said. She walked out the house and down the road leading out of the town. She left and she didn’t look back.

[thorn-tooth]

We have an unwell tree in our front yard that has been dropping large branches since we moved in, and it is right outside of our bedroom window. With all of the storms that have passed and are still to come, we were relieved to finally get someone out here to take a look at it last week.

It turns out they will be cutting the tree down, as well as one in our back yard (they didn't specify which, or if it was going to be branch-removal or the whole tree was going to be cut; everything gets filtered from the landlord through a property management group, then to us, and no one cares about the "us" part).

While I am definitely ready to stop being terrified of a tree crashing into our bedroom every time it rains, I'm also so sad this has to happen to the trees.

Tonight I will be holding small ritual to honor and thank the trees (in this case, the offering will be a donation to a local environmental organization specifically focused on trees) as well as an offering (of food) to both house and land vættir who have been here through the many human tenants that have passed through.

(At this point I sort of go the hell off about Trees and I get kind of emotional)

My chest is tight with emotion for the trees. I have a tendency to go read Dream of the Rood when I feel this way, an old English poem describing the tree-turned-crucifix as Christ's co-sufferer. (I'm not a Christian, but who in this world wouldn't be moved hearing a tree's horror as it is transformed into a tool for torture?)

I also think, of course, of great Yggdrasil-- a name which I'm sure is familiar to many even in a loose, pop-culture kind of way. The cosmic tree with Asgard at the crown and the underworld at the roots, where Odin hanged himself for 9 nights to gain the knowledge of the runes-- what many people forget, or don't realize, is that Yggdrasil is, mytho-historically, mortal. Yggdrasil can die, and with it, we would all perish as well.

For too many, too often, it is too easy to consider a tree as not alive, or not alive in the same sense as you or I. The growth is slow enough to fool us that a tree is not moving. The non-verbal nature is unfamiliar enough to convince us that trees do not communicate. (This is a serious problem humans have with other humans, as well.) Our intense reliance on trees for materials, for shade, for soil structure, for breathable air, is juxtaposed with a normalized view of trees as passive, dormant, decoration, object.

It has taken a lot of unlearning to stop myself from literally objectifying trees. And it's hard, because shifting into an animistic perspective is a constant cycle of kindling love and experiencing heartbreak; it is reminiscent of the moment in a human relationship where you realize you have wronged the lover, that you were so very wrong but you thought you were right (that awful embarrassment), and you only thought you were right because you didn't realize you inherited trauma, not knowledge, from generations prior.

I consider a part of the offering I give tonight to be me sitting with the discomfort. More and more often I find that sitting with discomfort is potent offering. It really does depend on who, of course, you're offering to, but it reminds me of my experience with ritual at the Chattahoochee River-- after asking what would be a good way to honor our time together, an answer popped into my mind: tears. To cry for the river, for all it has been through and seen. The image in my head was of me touching a finger to my tears and then dipping those fingers into the river. At first I thought it was silly, and maybe I was just coming up with something that was supposed to feel poetic. I did it anyway. Now looking back, I think I heard the river correctly.

The rivers and the trees need us to cry for them sometimes. To awkwardly explain, through an open window, that some men are coming by tomorrow and they are going to cut someone down. To fumble an apology. To feel guilty. To write a ritual. To send a donation. To remember this for next time, how it feels, to speak to a tree. To remember that it felt like it was listening.