#and when all the shadow cast is gone the original horrors carry on

[aparticularbandit]

....

what if they're called the cast of horrors

[symphony-for-the-eyes]

A short original horror story inspired by real folklore

The crisp snow that blanketed the grounds of the Midwestern campus carried an icy silence along with its crystalline shine.

Pausing her work at the canvas, Sister Isabel looked up and out the window. The snowfall was clean and untouched, save for the two pairs of footprints leading to the door, which she knew to be hers and Sister Esther’s, who was the only person working in Foley Hall that night.

Sister Isabel put down her brush, flexing her aching knuckles when a soft sound from behind made her turn in her seat.

A chill radiated down her spine as she took in the nun in front of her, and she shivered, feeling as if the room had dropped 10 degrees out of nowhere.

There was nothing specific that Sister Isabel could have identified as strange about the woman, in fact, it was hard to identify anything about her.

Sister Isabel stared at her harder, trying to put her finger on what was wrong, but the dull pain behind her forehead that came on suddenly made her wince, squeezing her eyes shut as her hand came to her forehead

“What’s wrong sister?”

Her voice sounded… odd. Like she wasn’t used to speaking, and the noises felt more like a sick imitation than real speech.

“I-” Isabel stammered, rubbing her temples as a wave of nausea washed over her. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here tonight.”

“I just came in.”

Even though her head was still buried in her hands, Sister Isabel could feel the nun coming closer, and she tensed when she felt the woman stand beside her.

“Is this your art?”

Sister Isabel lifted her head, staring at the nun’s coif, which blocked her view of her face, before turning her attention to the painting she had been working on.

“Yes,” she answered uneasily. “I haven’t finished it yet though.”

Sister Isabel stared at the painting, assessing the work still to be done and momentarily forgetting about her visitor. She shifted forward, eyes scanning the unfinished canvas.

“I’m sure it will be lovely when you complete it.”

The young girl turned, shocked to find that the nun was no longer beside her, but across the room and standing by the door, angled so Isabel could only see half of her.. face? It was still so difficult to look directly at her.

And how had she moved so quickly and soundlessly?

“I’ll be making the rounds.”

Did her voice sound different? More nasally perhaps?

The dim lighting cast unusual shadows onto the wall beside her, making her inky two dimensional clone appear much taller than she should have looked.

Before Isabel could question it, the nun was gone, and the throbbing needles in her head resided the moment she left the room.

She shivered, her nerves finally catching up to her body once the strange woman had walked away.

Wasn’t Sister Esther supposed to be the only one working tonight? Perhaps she had misunderstood Sister Esther earlier, but still it was unusual for more than one person to do rounds.

Not only that, but why had she never seen that nun before? Sister Isabel was certain that she knew every nun on the small campus, but this one was unfamiliar.

However, most peculiar of all was the horrible feeling that had passed over her when the nun entered the room, and subsequently left when she did.

Isabel had never before experienced a sense of awful dread like she had moments ago, and she could only reason that it had something to do with that mysterious nun.

She tried to turn her attention back to her art, but every time she raised the brush, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

The girl knew that the nun was back without even laying her eyes on her.

She could feel her presence looming behind her in the doorway, but she didn’t dare to turn around. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage, every practical thought in her jittery mind told her that she should run, but her shaky legs wouldn’t let her.

Isabel didn’t even know what she was so frightened of, but she held her breath til her lungs burned, not moving a muscle until the sick feeling passed and she knew that the nun was gone.

When Sister Esther finally returned to check on her, Isabel was on the brinks of hysterics, nearly jumping out of her skin when the older nun knocked.

She immediately rose to her feet, rushing to Sister Esther.

“Did you see her?” Her voice was frantic, tears welling in her eyes as she gripped Sister Esther’s arm.

“See who?” Concern creased across her face as she took in Isabel’s distressed state.

“That nun!”

“Which nun?”

“You told me you were the only one working tonight!” Isabel exclaimed in a hushed voice, tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

“Shh, calm down Sister Isabel,” Esther replied in a soothing voice as she rubbed her arm compassionately. “What’s wrong?”

“There was-” she paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, “there was a nun who came in to the art studio… b-but there was something strange about her. When she drew nearer to me, the most horrid feeling rose inside me.”

She inhaled slowly, trying to steady her trembling voice.

“She returned many times to check on me, she said she was doing rounds.”

Sister Esther’s face was gravely pale and she paused for a moment before asking the younger nun what she looked like.

“That’s the problem, Sister. I don’t know what she looked like.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…” She hesitated, trying to think back to when the nun had first entered. “Every time I looked at her for too long my head started to pulse with pain. It was like I couldn’t think straight. I tried to figure out who she was but her face…”

She felt ill again as she tried unsuccessfully to recall details, a hazy look clouding over her eyes.

“It was almost as if she didn’t have a face at all.”

Sister Esther frowned at that.

“Are you sure that you didn’t doze off and have some sort of nightmare?”

“No Sister! I’ve been awake and working this entire time. I know what I saw.”

“It’s not possible,” the older nun snapped. “I’m the only one working tonight, and besides, look.”

Sister Esther gestured out the window and towards the snow out on the lawn in front of the Hall.

The sight below almost made Isabel’s heart stop.

Aside from their two sets of footprints, the pearly snowfall was pristine and undisturbed.

…………………………………………………………………

The only sound in the dimly lit studio was the light ticking of Sister Isabel’s watch, which read 10:58 PM.

Only two weeks had passed since the strange interaction, and although it had been haunting her mind, Isabel had almost convinced herself that Sister Esther was right and she had dreamt the entire thing.

After all, fourteen days had passed without incident, and she had been tired that night. Perhaps she had simply fallen asleep and forgotten?

She was looking over her unfinished canvas, thinking through the finishing touches when a sudden chill passed through the space and goosebumps erupted across her skin.

Sister Isabel swiveled around to see the same nun from that night standing in the doorway, her coif blocking her face as she angled herself out of view.

Despite her racing pulse and the stomach turning cold sweat that the nun’s appearance brought on, Isabel stood her ground, swallowing down her fear and forcing out her quivering voice.

“Who are you?” She stuttered, anxiously taking one step back when the nun took a step closer.

Isabel was too terrified to look away, nervously staring at the strange woman and trying to focus on her face.

Anytime she zeroed in on one feature, the rest seemed to become fuzzy, and she felt a sharp stabbing pain if she looked at her for too long.

Nausea churned in her gut and she could feel the nun standing over her, watching her as intensely she clutched her forehead in agony.

“What are you-?” Isabel mumbled, but the sick feeling grew stronger and she knew that she was going to throw up.

Without looking, she pushed past the woman, rushing to kneel before the waste basket and emptying the remnants of her dinner into it.

Isabel tensed when she felt an icy cold hand come to her shoulder, the chill of her touch permeating through her robes.

Trembling, Isabel slowly turned, blinking away her tears before she finally took in the sight in front of her.

……………………………………………………………………………

Sister Esther heard the scream from across the building and she rushed down the halls to the art gallery with haste.

When she finally reached the doorway she was out of breath and nearly doubling over as she opened the door.

“Sister Isabel?”

Inside, nothing seemed amiss, the room seemed to be in the same condition that she had left it. At the far end of the room, she could see the young nun working at her normal station by the window with her back turned.

“Yes?” The young girl replied.

Sister Esther entered the room, shivering at the chilly temperature as she drew closer. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a scream.”

“Oh… I’m fine. I didn’t hear anything.” Her voice sounded different somehow, but Esther couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Sister Esther stared at the back of her head nervously, an uncanny feeling dawning on her.

“I must have imagined it,” she finally said.

“Must have.” She replied curtly, putting down one paint brush to grab another.

Perhaps it was the effects of the late hour, but Esther found Isabel’s shortness with her unusual.

“I think there’s a draft in here, Isabel.” She looked down to see her fingertips beginning to lose color. “I don’t know how you can stand to paint in here when it’s so cold.”

“It’s not too bad.”

She finally turned around in her chair, and Esther’s breath caught in her throat.

Isabel looked the same, except she didn’t, exactly. Looking into the eyes of the girl she had known for years, Sister Esther couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different about her. Perhaps her eyes seemed brighter than usual, or it was the shape of her nose that had shifted? And the smile that was stretched across her face seemed unnaturally wide.

Esther blinked and Isabel’s face seemed to go back to normal, like nothing at all had changed, and Esther let out a sigh of relief.

It seemed the old campus was playing tricks on both of their minds, she thought to herself.

“Have you seen our mystery nun again?” She half joked, trying to calm her nerves.

She could have sworn she saw a grin creeping onto Isabel’s face, but it was gone in an instant and the young girl shook her head ‘no.’

“No, and I think you were right, Sister Esther. I must have dreamt it.”

[one-boring-person]

Alrighty! I know I’m late but to make up I’m going to send a B U N C H of requests! You don’t have to do all of em but I think they’re going to be fun!

Ok first off how bout a Dutch x Reader where they got separated in the jungle and meet up in the chopper, but Dutch was sure she died and it’s a nice little reunion!

I cannot wait to write all of these! I'm so excited!😅 I think I may have gone a bit overboard with this first one, but the idea has been going round my head ever since I read the request, so I hope you like it!

We're Alive!

Alan "Dutch" Schaefer x reader (Platonic)

Warnings: death, spoilers, injury, blood, gun use

Masterlist

"(Y/N)! GO!" Dutch bellows at me as he scrambles to get up again, his arm bleeding profusely from his newly acquired wound, the major's voice laced with pain and urgency.

"No!" I snap back, taking up my gun and firing off into the trees, aiming for the origin of the blast from before, going in a wild arc as the automatic pelts the surroundings with a volley of bullets.

"(Y/n), get to the chopper, now!" He tries again, climbing to his feet, his own gun clenched in hand as he backs himself with me, the two of us staring out at the area.

"N-" I go to respond, only to be cut off by another flash of energy coming between us, the heat of it burning away the skin and fabric covering my leg, a surprised cry of agony escaping me as I instinctively buckle under the intensity. 

Dutch is quick to grab me, forcing me to duck down slightly as we take off into the underbrush, the veteran pulling me along with speed. Vines and branches whip past my face, welts appearing on my grimy skin as I do my best to hobble after the broad-shouldered man ahead of me, his physical size easily parting the jungle for him. Behind us, I can hear the pounding footsteps and eerie clicking of whatever the hell is chasing us, my pulse pounding in my ears as my panic fuels my adrenaline, allowing me to ignore the searing pain in my leg. Each breath is harsh and fast, my legs pumping quickly to cover as much ground as possible. 

All of a sudden, Dutch's foot goes out from under him, his massive body falling into the sharp slope to the side of us. A shout of panic tears itself from his throat as he tumbles out of sight, leaving me alone on our original trail, our ruthless pursuer hot on my heels. 

"DUTCH!" I scream after him, briefly considering going after him, unsure of how well I'll fare without him.

A low growl behind me makes the decision for me, my instincts kicking in as I ignore my heart and push on, limping on into the dense jungle, eyes widening as I realise exactly how close the killer is. My heart jumps in my chest as I suddenly feel the quick brush of air as it swipes at me, blades just catching the back of my neck before I've gotten out of the way, my legs carrying me faster as fear takes over. Completely oblivious to any pain now, I thunder through the undergrowth, slapping wildly at vines, leaping over fallen branches and logs, heartbeat racing faster and faster with each step. There's a taste of iron on my tongue, blood from a bitten lip dripping down my face now, coating my chin in a thin layer of the stuff. 

And then my feet are no longer touching the ground.

Crying out in surprise, I throw my hands out in front of me to catch myself, my palms smacking harshly into hard rock as I smash into the boulder below me. Pain explodes in my chest as it collides with the solid surface, winding me even as my knees crack loudly as they bounce off of it. 

For a moment, I lie still, trying to regain my breath, before I roll onto my back, staring up at the slight cliff I fell off, expecting to be met with the sight of three red dots on my chest. Surprisingly, I see nothing, the forest around me mostly silent, except for the rushing of water, which I quickly deduce is from the river nearby. Groaning, I let myself relax, closing my eyes as I finally register the full extent of the pain coursing through my body, my newly bruised torso not helping at all with the stinging from my leg, blood now pouring down the limb in great streams, staining my skin crimson. 

Steeling myself, I push myself upright and take in my surroundings, glad to find myself at the river where there are many boulders I can use as cover, the ground much easier to move over here, meaning I can make a quick getaway if I need to. Somewhat relieved, I force myself to get up and go to the river, knowing I need to clean my wounds or they'll get infected, not that it makes much difference: I'll probably be dead by the end of the day. 

I shake these thoughts from my head, focusing on getting to the river as I limp over the uneven surface, coming to kneel beside it with a wince. Swiftly, I peel back my frayed trouser leg and manoeuvre myself so that the appendage lies in the water, the cool sensation bringing tears to my eyes from the harsh sting. It is somewhat soothing, but mostly painful, the blood washing away quickly, only to be replaced by more as the open wound continues to bleed, the inflicted area being large, not deep thankfully. Biting my lip, I run a hand over it, cleaning it slightly before finally pulling it out, swiftly tearing off my sleeve and wrapping it around my leg as a makeshift bandage.

Having done so, I hobble back to one of the boulders,  sitting at its base as I think over my options. 

My first instinct is to find Dutch, wherever he may be, but the cynical part of my brain tells me there's no real point. If the killer stopped chasing me, it's because it thought Dutch was the better prey, and if the fall didn't kill him, he'll be too beaten up from it to really be able to do anything against the creature hunting him. Then again, Dutch is a tough one to subdue, let alone kill, so he may well be alive and kicking, but I have no way of telling whether this is the case. 

Hopelessness floods me as I think through this, my head dropping to my chest, completely unsure of what the best course of action is. Naturally, I'd go find the pick-up point, but again, I have no idea where I am, and so would struggle greatly to find the allocated place, meaning I'm totally stranded here, alone with a killer stalking around. Lifting my head, I check over my body to see which weapons I still have, glad to find my knife still attached to my hip, though I curse colourfully when I realize I dropped my gun in my haste to escape the predator at my heels, leaving me defenceless, unless it comes into close-quarters, which I would rather it didn't. Chewing my lip, I toy with my knife a bit, before deciding to try and locate the pick-up point, think over the possibility of retracing my steps. I would've left a trail through the jungle from my panic, so it shouldn't be too hard to follow it back to where Poncho was killed. 

At the reminder of this, my heart twists painfully, my chest tightening from the realisation that all of my closest friends, possibly bar one, are dead at the hands of this otherworldly killer, all because of some mission Dillon managed to get us mixed up in. When Dutch had first told us about it, I'd been sceptical, not quite believing that our team was needed for it, rather than another military branch, but I'd gone along with it in the end after a particularly snide comment from Dillon himself, finding myself with the need to prove him wrong. A bitter chuckle escapes my lips at the thought, reflecting on where his antics eventually got us, and him, though I scold myself for being unfair; it's not his fault there's a predator trying to kill us.

Climbing to my feet, I push aside the idle thoughts, ignoring the pang in my heart at my own callousness, limping stiffly back to the small cliff I fell off, glancing up at it to determine how I should get back up. Deeming it appropriate, I slide the knife back into its sheath and find myself a hand hold on the hard rock, beginning the tough climb up. Agony shoots through my battered body, but I simply grit my teeth and push past it, forcing my body to haul itself higher and higher, fingers scrabbling at the tough stone, leaving them raw and grazed, the skin chafing away with each movement. My muscles scream at me in protest, grimaces contorting my face with each pull, relief flooding me as I reach the top of the cliff. Dragging myself up onto it, I hastily scramble to my feet and observe my surroundings, wary of what might be hiding in the trees, my body tense and ready for action.

By now, darkness has fallen on the jungle, a bright moon shining down onto me from above, lighting up the trees before me slightly, casting them in a ghostly light. The dreary appearance puts me on edge, knowing that the new shadows provide all sorts of effective cover for any predator, especially the cruel one hunting me down. Breathing deeply, I start off into the dense shrubbery.

The going is slow, my leg now hurting me badly as I drag my body through the jungle, doing my best to head in what I think is a familiar direction. My eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to see in minimal clarity where I'm going, making the navigation somewhat faster than it could be, though I'm still painfully aware of how disadvantaged I am in this current state. Every sound and noise around me makes me freeze in place, terror stiffening my joints every few seconds, my hand reaching for my knife with each rustle of the leaves. Mentally, I know that if the creature was anywhere nearby, it would've killed me by now, but the weapon at my hip gives me some reassurance in any case.

Something heavy drops from the canopy to land in front of me, branches snapping under the weight, the sudden sound drawing a gasp of fear from me. Stopping still, I stare at the misshapen form on the floor, already dreading going closer, though my curiosity gets the better of me. Unfortunately, I regret this decision as soon as I look over what I now know to be a body. 

Before I can stop it, a cry of horror tears itself from my throat, the outburst horribly loud to me as I fight the urge to hurl, quickly looking away from the mangled body at my feet.

And then I hear it.

Clicking.

Whirling on my heels, I draw my knife and look around me, adrenaline pumping through me, my hand shaking uncontrollably as my wide eyes take in the surroundings.

The clicking continues, seemingly all around me.

Terrified, I jerk my head around, unsure of where it might be, breathing ragged now as I struggle to focus.

Suddenly, the knife goes flying from my grip, my wrist snapping painfully as it is twisted back against my arm, a surprised scream of pain leaving my parted lips as I can only watch the limb become disfigured, the invisible blow dealt to it having a lot more force than I expected. Taking a step back, I feel my heart pound in my chest, still unable to see where my attacker is, as well as who it might be. 

Agony explodes around my jaw as a camouflaged fist connects with it, blood filling my mouth from the strength of the punch, knocking me to the floor. Catching myself, I scramble in the dirt for my knife, ignoring the tears that have sprung to my eyes, spitting out mouthful of blood with each breath, my face aching badly. I don't get a chance to recover properly, before I've been thrown into a nearby tree, an invisible hand clamped tightly around my neck, holding me a good foot or two off the ground. Gasping, I grasp at whatever is holding me, feeling dark spots take over my vision, but not before I catch sight of what exactly is holding me captive. 

Eyes widening, I bat at the metal mask, hoping to knock it off guard before it can choke me to death, but I can feel my throat beginning to constrict, air struggling to flow through it as it used to. My pulse races, body now aware of its dying state, my arms weakly slapping at the huge creature holding me, darkness flooding my vision. Dizzy and light-headed, I feel my conscience starting to leave me, allowing me to fall into the blackness I so desperately want to give in to. 

Vaguely, I register the predator's head snap round, clearly distracted by something, before I finally succumb to the darkness.

*

A low beating sound draws me from the fog in my brain, my conscience coming back to me slowly. Blinking, I push myself upright, yelping in pain as my body aches and throbs, my neck feeling completely useless as the bruising agony there kicks in. Everything rushes back to me, confusion flooding my mind as I recall the predator choking me to death, explaining the pain in my neck, though it does not explain why I'm still alive. 

Frowning, I glance upwards, realising that the beating sound I can hear is the steady whir of helicopter rotors, my heart soaring as I recognise that I may still have a chance of getting out of here alive. Ignoring the agony in my body, I throw myself to my feet and start limping as quickly as possible in the direction of the familiar sound, elated at the thought of getting out of here, though I feel my heart twist at the thought of it only being me. Hope gives me some speed, allowing me to charge relatively quickly through the undergrowth, all thoughts of the predator forgotten as the sound gets louder, the aircrafts now visible in the sky from where I am, though only in the distance. 

A deafening explosion somewhere to my left jerks me from my feet, a shockwave from the blast easily throwing me to the ground. Covering my head with my hands, I instinctively keep myself small, knowing full well how to stay somewhat safe in the midst of an explosion, though I can feel my hope slowly draining away. What if the blast took out the chopper?

Minutes pass before I climb to my feet again, taking note of the thick smoke now shrouding the jungle, making it harder to see where I'm going. I decide to go towards the sound, knowing that the explosion will have drawn the pilot's attention, meaning it'll be much easier to see me if they fly over to explore it. As I thought, the beating of the rotors gets steadily louder as I delve deeper, glad to find that it is much more cacophonous here. 

Bursting out from behind a tree, I feel my spirit soar as I see the smoke in this area being whipped up and away from the clearing, allowing me to see in a large radius around the lowering aircraft. With it, however, I notice that the rotors have revealed something else. 

Immediately, my heart skips a beat.

Clumsily, I stumble forwards, tears coming to my eyes as I recognise the figure standing a little way away, the muscular man turning to me in surprise.

"(Y/n)?!" He exclaims, shock and relief lacing his accented voice as he sees me.

"Dutch!" I call back, running towards him even as he runs towards me, his arms outstretched towards me, the filthy major bloodied and beaten, but still alive. 

Upon reaching each other, Dutch wraps me into a tight embrace, crushing me into his muscular body even as I bury myself into him, clutching at his waist, leaping into his arms. Picking me up, he presses his face into my hair, muttering things to me, voice breaking in emotion, his grip tight around me, knees buckling out from underneath him as it overwhelms him. Tears fall freely from my eyes, my face pressing into his bare chest, ignoring the blood and mud, relishing the feeling of his body against mine, my hands pulling him closer to me as he falls to the floor, my form still wrapped around his. One of his hands comes up to press me head into the crook of his neck, allowing me to inhale his familiar scent, the smell comforting me and reassuring me as I sob in joy. Reluctantly, he pulls his head back so he can look down at me, his grey eyes meeting mine, their surfaces wet with tears.

"I-i thought...I thought you died…" He stammers out, voice breaking with emotion, his cheeks stained with his tears, my heart throbbing for him as the usually stoic man holds me close to him.

"I'm here, Dutch, I'm here." I reassure him, before continuing, "I thought it got you, too…"

I have to fight through the choking emotion, but I manage to get it out, laughing in giddy relief as he pulls me back into him, crushing me into him, his arms locking me in place.

Dutch keeps his arms around me even as we climb into the chopper, the veteran pulling me so that I lie against his chest in my seat, his hand resting on my back as if to keep himself grounded. I stare up at him, unwilling to look out at the jungle even as he stares at it, face blank as the grief and exhaustion finally catches up to him. Anna sits across from us, the guerrilla girl thankfully still alive, glad to see us in a similar state. 

"You have no idea how glad I am that you're still alive...I don't know what I would've done if…" Dutch murmurs to me, the man rambling a little as the emotions assault him, his grip tightening with every word.

"We're alive, Dutch, and I'm so, so happy we are." I respond, nuzzling into his chest, uncaring of the fact it is covered in a layer of mud.

Exhausted, the two of us drift off, sleep finally catching up to us as the trauma of the past few days sets in, our consciences unable to keep going after so long of simply running on survival instinct.

[mostthingskenobi]

i’d love to hear a little more about or read a snippet from parallel jedi!! thank you for sharing :)

Hello dear anon!! You’re very kind to show interest :) I’m not sure what I’ve written is any good. I don’t think I’ll ever finish it so I figured I’d share it with you as it is. I had intended to created these 2 plot lines that intersected, even though they took place during different Star Wars eras. It was a challenge I looked forward to... but I lost steam on the project. Perhaps someday I’ll write them as individual one-offs. Let me know what you think. Please don’t judge me to harshly LOL! I haven’t edited this at all, so pardon any typos.

PARALLEL JEDI

Original prompt: Could you do a story that parallels Luke in his prime post RotJ and Obi-Wan in his prime? Something where an enemy or group realizes these subdued, soft spoken yet confident men are actually quite dangerous?

——————–

Pravus – The Outer Rim (9 months after the Battle of Endor)

Luke Skywalker sat slumped against the stone bastion, one leg bent at the knee, the other extended strait in front. His wounds were extensive, requiring considerable concentration to suppress his pain and simultaneously control his labored breathing. His ribs ached and his lungs felt stripped. He was lightheaded from loss of blood, his nerves vibrating with exhaustion. There was little hope of making an escape in his present condition.

He had come alone to this isolated moon following a hunch, seeking out the last of Palpatine’s secret lairs. The Emperor had been dead nearly nine months but the war wasn’t over; Luke discovered evidence that the Dark Lord was caching weapons in remote corners of the outer rim. Skywalker methodically worked his way through the data, interpreting coordinates while cross referencing Sith and Jedi lore, letting the Force guide him from one location to the next. In four different systems he had discovered three bunkers and two private residences that the Emperor had kept for himself, each filled with treasures and horrors alike, each location more dangerous than the next. Palpatine was fond of sinister booby-traps and this current fortress built into the side of a mountain was no different.

Skywalker had breeched the abandoned castle’s walls only to face one ambush after another. The Emperor was clever and cruel, and though Luke ultimately succeeded, he paid dearly for his efforts as he fought through snares, climbed crumbling architecture, and battled assassin droids by the dozen. Hours passed as he made his way higher and higher into the mountainous fortress; each new level he ascended brought more difficult confrontations than the last. When he finally reached the top floor of this seemingly endless tower, he collapsed, his legs turning to jelly under him.

He sat for a long time, unable to move his burning muscles while blood pooled on the floor beneath him, oozing from innumerable cuts and other more severe injuries. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Luke knew his challenges were not finished but his body was screaming for rest. There were times when a Jedi had to power through physical roadblocks, but more importantly a Jedi needed to know his limitations. In this moment of great need Skywalker reached for the Force, let it wrap around him, let it permeate every cell in his body, staunching his blood loss, relieving his pain, soothing his exhaustion. For a few blessed moments everything became passive and silent.

Luke had not encountered a single living soul in the rest of the building but as he shut his tactile senses down and receded inward, he could feel another presence in the Force only a few meters away. Dragging his eyes open he peered into the shadows on the other side of the room.

“I know you’re there,” he said, slurring his words with exhaustion. “Show yourself.”

After a long pause boots scraped across the flagstones as a figure stepped into the light and took form against the darkness. A large man, too thin for his seven-foot frame, with bedraggled long hair and neglected, tattered clothes that had once been fine, stood in front of Skywalker.

“No one has ever made it this far.” The man’s quaking voice revealed his age.

Luke was not fooled by his apparent fragility; dark energy radiated off the old man. “Who are you?”

The old man shuffled closer but did not reply.

“Are you a prisoner?” Luke asked, knowing the answer.

The old man scowled. “Of course not, you impudent wretch. I am The Keeper, chosen directly by the Emperor to guard one of his most sacred artifacts.”

Luke tried to appear stronger than he felt. “You haven’t done such a great job if I’ve made it this far.”

The old man stepped closer to Skywalker, the light seeping in through upper windows casting a ghastly shadow over the wrinkled visage. “I assure you, boy, you will make it no further.” Luke saw the contraption too late as The Keeper raised a hand, leveling the weapon at Skywalker’s body, and fired.

A sharp pain ripped through Luke’s neck, his body instantly becoming paralyzed. The toxic dart worked with unfathomable speed. Skywalker fell back, his body contorting with pain before he slid down the wall and collapsed unconscious on the floor.

——————–

Inesco – Unallied Space (during the Clone Wars)

Cody was missing.

Waxer and Boil were the last troopers to see him. Two days ago the commander had gone off to inspect a rogue transmission that interfered with the squad’s com links. Cody climbed a hillock near the forward operating base; he disappeared over a ridgeline and didn’t come back.

Obi-Wan Kenobi could not deny that he was worried. Though Jedi were not supposed to form attachments, the idea of his trustworthy, loyal, and stalwart clone commander falling into enemy hands set Kenobi’s teeth on edge. Cody was made of tough stuff but the insurgent population had proven to be ruthless and cunning.

The Republic had sent Obi-Wan with a small clone contingent to Inesco, a desperate system nestled directly between Republic and Separatist lines. The depleted planet was constantly caught in the galactic conflict while both sides fought to possess it as a staging ground. Kenobi had no interest in tormenting the local populace any further and hoped to finish his mission quickly.

Fate was against him.

He and his platoon had instantly been caught up in a local fight between the Calvorian mercenaries that lived in the mountains and the Inescan tribes that lived in the plains. Kenobi was supposed to infiltrate and confiscate a Separatist weapons cache, but the local civil war meant that the Calvorians, the Inescans, and the Republic were all vying for the same treasure.

What was meant to be an easily executed smash-and-grab mission had turned into a week and a half of bloody conflict. In the beginning the Republic forces had easily confiscated the weapons but the Calvorian mercenaries had destroyed Kenobi’s transports. Meanwhile, the Republic attack cruiser waiting in orbit became embroiled in a standoff with Separatist’s ships and couldn’t spare any shuttles to rendezvous with their ground forces. That meant Obi-Wan, his men, and the weapons cache were stuck on Inesco until another Republic cruiser arrived. According to the latest brief, Anakin’s ship would enter the system sometime within the month—not very comforting estimates.

The situation on the ground had become dire. They were running short on food and water, but even more concerning were the frequent surprise attacks made by both the Calvorians and the Inescans, each trying to take their share of the Separatist weapons so that they could carry on killing each other. Obi-Wan’s men were starving, exhausted, and damn sick of being caught in the middle. When Cody disappeared, even Kenobi’s temper flared. He sent scouts in every direction to spy on the insurgents, desperate to discover his commander’s whereabouts, but no information came back. No one knew which tribe, if any, had captured Cody. The plain truth was no one was even sure if Cody was alive.

As the sun set on the third day of the Clone Commander’s disappearance, Obi-Wan felt utterly defeated though he refused to let it show in front of the other soldiers. He sat in a dark bunker with four other troopers; they were all supposed to be getting sleep while second squad kept watch, but all of the men were wound too tightly to rest. Kenobi was pouring over terrain maps trying to discover a likely place where insurgents might take prisoners. He hadn’t slept in days and his vision was blurring around the edges, but he didn’t care; he wouldn’t rest until Cody was safe.

The bunker door suddenly slammed open and Boil came in, shoving a tall, sturdy man ahead of him. Kenobi could see that the man was a Calvorian, the tribe’s distinctive tattoos visible on his hands and neck.

All of the clones in the room quickly stood and warily raised their weapons.

“Easy, everyone,” Obi-Wan said calmly as he also stood. “Weapons down. I’d like to hear what our guest has to say.”

The clone troopers lowered their weapons but they did not relax their guard.

“This one says he has a message for you, General,” Boil said, giving the insurgent another shove until he was right in front of the Jedi.

Kenobi crossed his arms over his chest. “What can I do for you?”

The Calvorian was strong, his shoulders broad and rolled back with good posture, but he looked as worn out as the Republic troops felt. “My general would like to put an end to this standoff between our tribes.”

“That is wise,” Kenobi said dryly. “You and the Inescans have more in common than you know. You would do better to work together rather than try to kill each other…”

“I speak of the conflict between our tribe and your tribe.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan shook his head, disappointed. “Very well. What are your terms?”

“My general has something to offer you. He asks that you return with me and discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Kenobi felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He didn’t believe this was a trap, but he suspected he wouldn’t like what the Calvorian mercenaries had to offer.

“And what of my men?”

“You may bring no more than two.”

Obi-Wan didn’t feel the need to bring anyone with him. If he got into trouble, it might be easier if he were on his own. But he quickly changed his mind and turned to Boil. “You and Waxer are coming with me.”

The clone immediately straitened his shoulders. “Yes, Sir!”

Perhaps the troopers would be able to snoop around for Cody while Obi-Wan met with this general.

He lightly ran his fingers over his lightsaber hilt as a quick touchstone, a way to keep the Force foremost in his mind while he was suffering from terrible exhaustion. The kyber crystal at its heart was alive, thrumming with his life Force; and his energy greatly depended right now on his fellow troopers. Whatever he was walking into, it wasn’t going to be easy.

He gestured politely toward the door. “By all means, please lead the way, my friend.”

[turningtummyrubs]

r+a (1)

Ryek peeks out from behind a tall marble column just wide enough to conceal him. When his careful survey reveals no one other than his target—target 92—he quickly creeps over behind the next looming pillar, footsteps light as sound reverberates easily in the near empty museum, echoing in the tall domed ceilings.

The art showcase ended hours ago and now the only people left inside are the rather incompetent security guards, target 92, and Ryek—on the prowl.

The man he’s following (James Bairn, 29, Grecian sculptor) ducks down another corridor, this one lined with a series of minimalistic, abstract paintings. 

Ryek follows quietly in his wake, hugging the dark shadows. He’s grateful James is moving slowly because a dull ache has begun to spread across Ryek’s stomach and he’d really rather not have to upset it further by breaking into a sprint.

Ryek isn’t certain exactly what’s causing the slight discomfort in his abdomen but he suspects it may have something to do with the greasy leftovers he’d quickly shovelled into his mouth without a second thought before rushing off to the Captor headquarters. Now that he thinks about it, that food may have been expired. Oh, great.

Ryek shoves the growing dread to the back of his mind as the target turns down another shadowed hallway and grasps the sides of a tall oil painting showcasing a naked mermaid. Not terribly original. As James begins to lift the painting off the wall, Ryek silently comes up behind him, putting his years of training at Captor to use and placing the cold barrel of a gun to the apparent art thief’s temple.

James freezes, hands beginning to tremble around the frame of the painting. Ryek isn’t sure what he might want with it, but it’s not his job to ask questions. His only job is capturing this man and handing him in to Captor to do whatever it is they do with the people their members bring in.

An abrupt cramp tightens Ryek’s lower belly, rumbling quietly in his gut, and he grimaces and vows to get this over with as quickly as possible so he can get home and tend to whatever upset is going on inside his stomach before it gets too bad.

“Come with me or die,” Ryek says, voice slightly strained at the edges. He’s decided to forgo the professionalism he usually carries with him, instead cutting straight to the point. He doesn’t have time for formalities.

James’ jaw clenches tight as his teeth grind against each other. “You’re not actually going to kill me.” His voice is thick with an accent Ryek can’t quite place, rounding out his vowels and adding a certain elegance to his words. Ryek tries not to focus on the fact that this is a real person, though. That this is someone who matters to someone else. Being human and experiencing human emotions is something you have to give up in his line of work, difficult as it may be.

Ryek’s jaw flexes as a ripple of discomfort spreads through his now slightly swollen abdomen, sending its greasy contents churning earnestly. Yep, this is definitely going to turn into a full blown stomach ache.

“Wanna bet?” he grits out through clenched teeth, pressing the gun harder into James’ head as the growing frustration in his belly gets the better of him. He just really doesn’t want to be here doing this right now.

James stills, clear blue eyes going slightly far off, and Ryek wonders with distant horror whether he truly is about to bet on it. Ryek’s killed before and he knows if it comes to it, he’ll do it again, but he’d really prefer not to. It’s gross and sickening and haunts him for days on end. Not to mention the fact that he’s wearing an extremely expensive, cream designer shirt and blood stains are such a pain to get out.

After a long, tense moment, James sighs and his shoulders slump. “Alright, then. Take me away.”

Ryek slackens with relief, tying James’ hands together behind his back with wiry rope and concealing the gun again.

They slip past the security guards with ease, though Ryek finds himself moving slower than usual as they near his sleek car. The pain in his belly which had started out only a dull tingle has now graduated to cramps and churning, and his shirt and pants have now begun to press a bit tight into his middle.

After he (gently) shoves James into the backseat and settles behind the wheel, he tries to gently rub out a cramp plaguing his lower right side, but the added pressure only manages to deepen the pain and he quickly stops, sighing deeply with discomfort. This is going to be a long night.

The art museum is a thirty minute drive from HQ, and the ride back is filled with heavy silence—both from outside the car and within. James has taken to staring out the window at the quiet night with a dead blankness.

The only light illuminating the dark stretch of highway comes from the dim streetlights, the smattering of stars filling the black sky and a few sparse pairs of harsh, blinking headlights.

By the time they’ve reached the 15 minute mark, halfway there, Ryek’s queasy tummy has begun to bloat with gas, straining against his restricting clothes. He stifles a groan as something twinges and gurgles low in his belly with sick pressure. One of his hands comes off the wheel and rubs slow circles into his swelling stomach, massaging against the tight gas. His ministrations quickly prove futile, though, the ache in his belly refusing to wane, and he exhales heavily and tries to focus on the splashes of streetlight instead.

“Why are you doing this?” James asks at the 20 minute mark. 

Ryek startles, though it doesn’t show on his face. Usually, his captives don’t try to speak with him. “What do you mean?”

“Why join Captor? Don’t you find what you’re doing morally wrong?”

“You’re one to speak on morals,” Ryek says coolly. Truthfully, he has no idea what James has done, but he knows Captor doesn’t target saints. They target people who’ve done haunting things. Things a lot like what I’m forced to do every day, Ryek thinks bitterly.

“That isn’t an answer.”

Ryek swallows, rolling his shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve some of the tension bunching in them. Why did he join Captor? He remembers being cast out by his family, a disgrace. Remembers nights spent shivering on cold cobblestones, belly empty, face wet with tears. He remembers how scared he always was. The relief he felt when someone took him in, showed him the Captor HQ and told him he had a home there. Trained him to be strong, to be brave, to fight back. “It’s none of your business what decisions I’ve made.”

“You’re so young,” James murmurs, as if he isn’t only a mere five years older. “And already broken.”

Something tight aches in Ryek’s chest at that. The abrupt melancholy that wells up in him burns at his eyes and he blinks at the wetness, jaw clenched as he stares resolutely forward. The sudden emotional distress further upsets his belly, and it gurgles and turns its contents over nauseatingly. Ryek presses a careful hand to the side of the tense curve and winces, forcefully swallowing back a pained belch. The hot air rejoins the rest of the queasy gas burbling at the tenderly tight surface of his stomach, filling him with unease.

“I’m not broken,” Ryek whispers after a long stretch of silence, but his voice wavers precariously and his breaths have gone weak and shallow. He hasn’t felt so small in a long time.

James doesn’t respond, just continues to stare out the window with dead eyes.

After another ten minutes pass, Ryek turns down a dark, hidden road and pulls into the spacious parking garage attached to the Captor headquarters. The inside is nearly pitch black, almost as dark as outside save for the glowing, dusky violet lights bathing the garage in a mysterious sort of ambience. The entire building has been designed this way in order to heighten the tension and fear levels of all occupants inside. It works frighteningly well.

Ryek parks his car between two other equally sleek cars. Having a cool car is basically an unspoken rule of being a Captor member. The beaming headlights flicker off as he removes the keys from the ignition and James meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. Ryek suppresses a shudder.

A low moan escapes his mouth the moment he gets out of the car and gravity takes hold of the lurching contents of his stomach. He hadn’t expected the pain seizing his belly to spike so abruptly at the change in position. And now that he’s standing, it’s far more obvious how bloated he is as his pants dig tight into the swell.

Ryek grimaces and rubs with as much pressure as he dares at a spasm before unlocking the door to the backseat of the car and removing James. He walks him into the building to the front desk, where Nina the receptionist sits.

Nina smiles brightly at him, a stark juxtaposition with how he currently feels, and says, “Turning in a target?”

Ryek nods. “92. I need to report to Barlowe.” If he could, Ryek would avoid his strict squadron supervisor Barlowe at all costs, but unfortunately he has to meet with him every time he’s being handed a mission or completing one.

“He should be available right now,” Nina says, checking something on her computer. “Just knock on his door.”

Ryek nods again and leads James down a series of winding hallways after a murmured, “Thank you.”

Other members bustle busily past him as he walks, clutching papers or weapons in their hands. Ryek’s stomach sloshes miserably with every step, a low gastric gurgle occasionally emanating ominously from his intestines. A broad hand sneaks up to rub gently at the unrest whenever no one’s looking, fingers massaging helplessly at the dull cramps spreading through his gut.

When he finally reaches Barlowe’s office, he raps once on the hard oak door before stepping back. 

A moment later, a booming, “Enter!” sounds from behind it and he turns the knob and enters, his target in tow. Barlowe sits behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him and perpetual stern look creasing his face.

“Target 92,” he says, nodding towards James.

Ryek nods, swallowing back a sudden burp threatening to rumble out of his chest. His belly pays for the refusal to release the pressure, growling quietly as something squeezes tight in the pit of his stomach. He resists the urge to palm the tense swell, instead wringing his hands behind his back.

“Hm. Acceptable work, Marriano,” Barlowe says, words clipped as if they’re painful to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Ryek says stiffly. Something burbles and shifts in his lower belly, groaning with unease. Oww… Can he please just get out of here already?

“You’ll have to dock him in with the rest of tonight’s acquired targets.”

Ryek raises a dark brow. “And who might those be?”

“We, surprisingly, managed to amass quite a few. 12, 14, 23 and 105.”

105. Well that’s a surprise. The higher numbers are always so elusive. He’s honestly surprised James is a 92 considering how easy he was to take in. If Ryek were the one doing the ranking, he’d probably place him at a solid 70 instead.

As if he can sense Ryek’s surprise, Barlowe says, “Nax brought 105 in.”

Ryek’s lip immediately curls with distaste at the name. Arkane Nax is the other squadron leader. Of course, there are many more squadrons, but none as neck to neck as they are. They’ve grated on each other’s nerves for years now, always only a hairsbreadth away from snapping each other’s necks. Of course Ark’s the one to find 105. Well, Ryek will just have to top that tomorrow. He already has an idea where 112 might be stationed…

Barlowe fixes him with an impatient “Get on with it” look and he quickly hurries out of the office, a hand wrapped tight around James’ elbow. They wind their way through the labyrinth-like building towards the dock where all the captives are held when first checked in.

Ryek’s tummy rumbles quietly as he walks, the greasy gas moving painfully within him, adding uncomfortable pressure to his faintly bloated stomach. His noisy intestines burn slightly with irritated pain, too, as if inflamed. Most likely from trying to digest the probably-expired food he’d eaten in a haste.

When he finally reaches the dock, handing James off to the attendant, a dull heaviness has begun to settle in his gut like a sack of stones, painful and tender to the touch. The discomfort momentarily dissipates, replaced with a curling flame of intensity, when he spots Arkane Nax handing off 105. 

They make eye contact and Ark’s bright amber eyes flash briefly with the same burning tension. He opens his mouth, probably to deliver some sort of scathing insult, but Ryek brushes past him before anything can come out. He knows if Ark says something, then he’ll say something back, and it’ll dissolve into another one of their petty fights. Horribly unprofessional.

Besides, he doesn’t have the time for it anyway. He has a feeling if he doesn’t get home soon, he won’t be able to make it back—the pain in his belly too excruciating to drive through.

Ark wraps an arm around his bicep before he can get too far, and when he peers at him there’s something like concern furrowing his brow. Ark just stands there, face uncomfortably close to Ryek as he seems to heavily analyze him, and Ryek takes a step back, face burning.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks gruffly, crossing his arms tightly in front of his chest.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ark says in reply. Curiously, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

Ryek frowns. “I won’t engage in another argument with you, Nax.”

“Great, that’ll save me some trouble, then.” His hand comes up to lightly touch Ryek’s elbow, and the expression on his face is unmistakably worry now. Ryek doesn’t know what to make of it. “Now, really, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” Ryek snaps, hating how nice Ark’s thumb feels rubbing back and forth at his arm. He hasn’t felt real contact with another human in far, far too long. Unless wrapping his hands around someone’s neck in a stranglehold counts. “Don’t be nice to me.”

Ark’s face colors and he yanks his hand away. “God, Marriano, you don’t always have to be such a dick about everything.”

“I’m the dick?” Ryek wants to scream, but instead he carefully says, “Forgive me for being suspicious when the person who’s hated my guts for years decides they want to be all worried about me.”

“You’re so dense,” Ark mutters, exhaustion clear in his voice as he buries his face in his hands. He looks up after a long moment and decisively says, “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong. Once you tell me what’s wrong, I’m going to help because we’re co-workers and it’s important to the organization that one of their top members stay at peak health or whatever. If you have any further questions… don’t.”

Ryek mulls over whether refusing to comply is worth it, before deciding it’s not with a sigh and quietly saying, “My stomach hurts.”

“Were you poisoned?” Ark asks, and it’s distressing how common that is in their line of work.

Ryek shakes his head, a hand coming up to cradle his aching belly and rub at a tense twinge. “I don’t think so. Just ate something I probably shouldn’t have.”

Ark scowls. “I don’t doubt it. You basically survive off of hot sauce and instant ramen.”

Ryek just shrugs. He can’t deny it.

“Alright, well, are we taking my car or yours?” Ark asks.

Ryek blinks, momentarily taken aback, before saying, “Mine.”

Ark nods before looking him over doubtfully. “Okay but I sure hope you don’t think you’ll be the one driving. You don’t look in any state to be doing much of anything.”

Ryek sighs and tosses him the keys.

The trek back to his car is long and arduous and Ryek’s face is hot with exertion when he finally collapses into the passenger seat, slumping far back into the leather cushions with a heavy groan. Ark frowns, hands twitching at his sides, but all he does is turn on the car and pull out of the parking garage.

Ryek’s skin feels uncomfortably hot and prickly, and he resists the urge to press his burning cheek to the cold glass of the window. At this point, coming down from the adrenaline high of the mission, he’s too exhausted to even attempt to soothe his aching insides. He knows it’ll probably do more harm than good anyway. 

His belly grows noisier as time wears on, and the gastric gurgles have intensified in both volume and pain as Ark pulls into the grand driveway of his house. Ryek notes dully that Ark hadn’t even had to ask for his address, but he’s too out of it to question it.

Ark whistles, stepping out of the car. “God damn, Marriano. You didn’t tell me you live in a fucking mansion.”

Ryek looks up hazily, shrugging. His house is huge—hidden deep in the woods and constructed primarily of glass. Huge and empty.

“Alright, come on,” Ark says, opening the passenger door and grasping Ryek’s shoulder.

Ryek frowns and unbuckles his seatbelt, gingerly standing. Nausea sweeps over him the moment he’s upright and he immediately lists sideways into Ark. To his surprise, Ark wraps an arm around his back, catching him, instead of letting him fall to the ground.

“You are really out of it, huh?” Ark says as they begin to walk slowly up to Ryek’s front door. Why are there so many stairs? He doesn’t remember this many.

“Shut up,” Ryek grits out, elbowing Ark in the side just because.

Ark scowls and elbows him back. “What the hell? I’m literally trying to help you.”

“And we’re literally enemies,” Ryek murmurs, feeling stupid even as he says so.

Ark rolls his eyes. “We’re reluctant rivals at best.”

“Reluctant?”

“Shut up.”

Ryek quickly unlocks the front door when they finally reach it and practically collapses on the long leather couch in his living room, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the glass coffee table. Ark shuts the door and heads into his kitchen.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ryek asks, propping himself up on his elbow and wincing as the movement sends his stomach turning harshly. He rubs light circles into his belly over the shirt, trying to quell some of the cramping nausea.

“Do you have any tea?” Ark asks. He opens Ryek’s near empty refrigerator and his brows shoot up. “You really do live off of instant ramen. How the hell do you stay so fit then?”

“I work out. And I think I have some tea in the upper right cupboard.”

“Didn’t take you for a tea-drinking guy,” Ark says as he opens the cabinet and pulls out a lemon tea bag. He fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stove.

“I’m not.” Ryek winces as a sharp cramp tears through his lower belly, rubbing his hand lightly over the sore area as it twists and contorts. He’s certain he wouldn’t be experiencing so many cramps if his clothes weren’t digging into his tummy like they are, but Ark’s right there and he wants to preserve at least some semblance of dignity. “I bought some a while back for when my grandmother would visit.”

Ark’s brow furrows. “Captor allowed that?”

Once you join Captor, you have to cut off any and all familial ties and connections. They’re “liabilities.” That wasn’t too difficult for Ryek considering he was tossed out, but his grandma still reached out to him. He sighs deeply. “They approved it because she was already on her deathbed. Died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” Ark murmurs.

Ryek shrugs.

Ark returns to his side with the tea promptly, easing him up into a sitting position and handing him the steaming mug. Ryek’s unsettled tummy churns at the thought of being introduced to a new substance but he sips at the tea anyway. It audibly sloshes into his belly and the greasy contents of his stomach clench and seize around the liquid.

The pain he’s feeling must show on his face because Ark leans forward worriedly. His hand instinctively cups the side of Ryek’s bloated belly, thumb rubbing back and forth at the cramps.

Ryek leans into the touch, suppressing a low groan as the gentle pressure of Ark’s palm relieves some of the solid weight churning sickeningly in his stomach.

Ark looks up, brows raised slightly in surprise. “Does that help?”

Ryek hesitates, debating whether or not telling Ark how nice it feels is a good idea, but then another cramp hits and he quickly nods.

Ark slides his hand up the tense curve of Ryek’s belly and kneads at the tightness pooling at the crest of the swell. His other hand comes to gently support the base of his stomach, palpating with light pressure whenever something swells and gurgles low in his gut.

As Ark continues carefully massaging Ryek’s tummy, he frowns and says, “Do you want to change into something a little looser? Those pants look uncomfortably tight around your stomach.”

Ryek groans internally at the thought of having to get up, but nods.

He braces himself against the coffee table as he stands, his belly cramping and gurgling in earnest again at the absence of Ark’s soothing hands. He instructs Ark to wait there while he gingerly walks over to his bedroom, a hand holding the uncomfortably heavy weight of his belly as he does so.

He has to stop and take a seat on the edge of his bed when he arrives, breathing heavily as the contents of his stomach grow even further agitated. A sharp whine squeals painfully low in his gut and Ryek’s fingers massage desperately at the intense pain. He changes after the cramping lets up for a bit, and his tummy audibly groans with relief once his tight jeans have been unbuttoned. 

He slips into some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and when he returns to the living room, he finds himself oddly embarrassed. Ark’s never seen him like this before—all… human.

Ark doesn’t remark on it, though, just has him lie back down on the couch. Ryek visibly relaxes when Ark sneaks his broad hand back under his sweatshirt and rubs. The warmth from his hand helps ease some of the pain in the achingly sore muscles of his abdomen as they clench and throb.

Ryek’s eyes slide shut as Ark palpates and rubs firm circles into his bloated middle, expression tightening whenever something starts to ache too intensely.

Ark’s hand coaxes the spoiled food cramping in his swollen tummy further down until the contents of his stomach begins to noisily empty into his intestines. The gurgling and burbling shift lower and lower as the food slowly digests.

By the time Ryek’s belly seems to have settled—still bloated but not painfully so and gurgling productively, his breaths have evened out in sleep.

Ark sighs and smooths his hair back, giving his stomach one last gentle rub before he slips out the door, calling an Uber to come pick him up. He’s certain they won’t acknowledge this tomorrow.

———

these are my ocs ryek and arkane! you might be seeing more of them soon :)

[words-writ-in-starlight]

okay, i'm taking that as an invitation: PLEASE post your annotations for the kencyrath playlist?

OKAY SURE TWIST MY ARM I GUESS

Actually this playlist is...long as hell, BUT there’s only like twelve people in this fandom and I’m in a group chat with half of them, so everything is here but it’s got a cut for length because my annotations are Specific.

THE BASICS (in no particular order)

Can’t Cheat Death by the Ballroom Thieves, for Jame, no further comment, I am Correct

I spilled blood in the water Then let the storm roll in I put my hands in the fire Watched my welcome wear thin Salt in my wounds and spit in my eye I burned the path you walk on And I let none survive

Thistles and Weeds by Mumford & Sons, for Torisen, who is a good leader and also falling apart

Spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind

Hey Brother by Avicii, for Jame and Tori, in all ways

Hey brother, do you still believe in one another? Hey sister, do you still believe in love, I wonder? Oh, if the sky comes falling down For you, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do

Human by Rag’n’Bone Man, for Kindrie Soul-walker, out of his depth and doing his best

Maybe I'm foolish, maybe I'm blind Thinking I can see through this and see what's behind Got no way to prove it, so maybe I'm lying

Soldier, Poet, King by the Oh Hellos, for the Tyr-ridan (I have considered learning to draw SPECIFICALLY to do a comic of this song featuring Jame as the soldier, Kindrie as the poet, and Tori as the king, but I couldn’t pick a verse because it’s not a very long song)

Home to Me by Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, for Jame and Tori, which I would ALSO do a line-by-line breakdown of as a duet, because I love it for them

(Tori) How dare you love me like you've never known fear When you've got more troubles than minutes in the year (Jame) And a voice like your father's tells you nothing good's for free Well that may be, but you're walking home to me

Dear Wormwood by the Oh Hellos, the ORIGINAL Bane/Jame song, for which I could easily do a line-by-line breakdown cast as a duet between them, the song that I, personally, would set over their last conversation before Bane’s death and over Jame’s flight from the palace, if I was making a TV series, just, you know, if anyone wants to kick me a couple million bucks

I know who I am now And all that you've made of me I know who you are now And I name you my enemy

Glitter & Gold by Barns Courtney, for the Kendar, survivors to the last

Do you walk in the valley of kings? Do you walk in the shadow of men Who sold their lives to a dream? Do you ponder the manner of things In the dark?

Delilah by Florence + the Machine, for Jamethiel Dreamweaver, the first unfallen darkling, the finest weapon and cruelest victim of the Master’s schemes, and for her daughter, who saw more and ran faster

Too fast for freedom Sometimes it all falls down These chains never leave me I keep dragging them around

We Have It All by Pim Stones, for Tyrandis, just...listen to it, I’m right

There's glory ahead, but our love will be forgotten If my heart was still mine, I would go to the bottom And apologise to you until the day it went rotten

Mercy Down by Shayfer James, which is THE definitive song for the entire Kencyrath--half-desperate for their missing destiny, half-terrified of that destiny when it shows up at their door.

It’s getting mythical now You better pick your weapons up And throw your mercy, throw your mercy down

THE EXTENDED STUFF (loosely sorted by topic)

Control by Halsey, for Jame, heir to the Dreamweaver, Snare-of-Souls, and learning to dance and running away

They sent me away to find them a fortune A chest filled with diamonds and gold The house was awake, with shadows and monsters The hallways, they echoed and groaned

Little Boy by Barns Courtney, for Torisen holding the bones of a little girl who died at the same age as his long lost twin sister

Little boy inside my chest Breathe some life into my bones I've been lost and wandering Down and out and missing home

The Draw by Bastille, for Torisen and the shade of Ganth and the promise of madness on a sleepless night

Don't listen to your friends See the despair behind their eyes Don't listen to your friends They only care and want to know why

Carry Your Throne by Jon Bellion, for Jame and Tori at their best, kissing in the ashfall and dancing in Tentir

Two crowns and a gold cup And they're coming for the throne, love But if your heart is a dog fight Then I'm ready to go to war like

Coming Down by Halsey, for Jame and the twin she loves, who is always, always running away from her

Every single night pray the sun will rise Every single time make a compromise Every single night pray the sun will rise, but It's coming down, down, coming down

Graveyard by Halsey, for Jame and Tori and dreams and the soulscape and running and chasing and trying

I keep running when both my feet hurt I won't stop 'til I get where you are Oh, when you go down all your darkest roads I woulda followed all the way to the graveyard

Thick as Thieves by Shinedown, for Jame and Tori, who can barely have a civil conversation but still manage to be each other’s answer to the concept of ‘home’

Evidently, we can't work it out I guess that courage ain't allowed Evidently, you're not in the mood And everything I say just bothers you

The Horror of Our Love by Ludo, for Bane and Jame, and blood and binding, and shadows crossing continents

I'm a killer, cold and wrathful Silent sleeper, I've been inside your bedroom I've murdered half the town Left you love notes on their headstones I'll fill the graveyards until I have you

Irresistible by Fall Out Boy, for Bane in Tai-tastigon, a prince of the city and a monster in his beloved’s kitchen

Too many war wounds and not enough wars Too few rounds in the ring and not enough settled scores Too many sharks, not enough blood in the waves You know I give my love a four letter name

Hellfire by Barns Courtney, for Bane, giving your soul to the wrong person, and the Lower Town

Run in an alleyway Through a dead end street Murdering promises That I just can't keep

Punch Drunk Grinning Soul by Flogging Molly, for all the Kendar who keep surviving disasters while their people fall all around them, and especially for Marc and Brier

But these tired eyes are crashing down on me While the paint never dries on these four walls that now suffocate me But tonight, maybe tonight all will be free

Sleepsong by Bastille, for soulscapes and locked doors and armor and hidden gardens and a whole race with a collective unconscious who still manage to be awfully lonely

Oh, in the strangest dreams, walking by your side It is the hole you impose upon your life When you're out, loneliness, it crawls up in the ground It's what you feel, but can't articulate out loud

Bad Decisions by Bastille, for Tentir and all the children there who thought they were immortal

Do you remember what you said to me? 'Cause we lost track of time Yeah, we lost track of time You always let me down so tenderly So live fast and die young and stay forever numb 

For The Departed by Shayfer James, for every Kendar who’s ever sold a soul, broken under Honor’s Paradox, died in service, and gone unremembered

So dry your eyes and count to ten They'll have me on the pyre by then Forget the man I used to be You'll move along more easily

Bones by MS MR, for death banners, and for the dead of Kithorn, and for Dalis-sar, depending on my mood

Dig up her bones but leave the soul alone Let her find a way to a better place Broken dreams and silent screams Empty churches with soulless curses We found a way to escape the day

I Am Stretched On Your Grave by Dead Can Dance, for sisterkin, for the massacre of the Knorth women, but especially for Brenwyr and her ghost and her maledight madness

Calling out to the air With tears both hot and wild Oh I grieve for the girl That I loved as a child

NFWMB by Hozier, for Brenwyr and Aerulan (and could be for Jame and Tori but he’s, you know, an ostrich with his head buried in his own trauma)

Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves? Ain't it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes? Ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay? Ain't you my baby, ain't you my baby?

Church by Fall Out Boy, for everyone who’s ever fallen in love with Jame, from Dally to Torisen

Oh, the things that you do in the Name of what you love You are doomed but just enough

Renegades by X Ambassadors, for the good times in Tai-tastigon with Dally and Canden

It's our time to make a move It's our time to make amends It's our time to break the rules Let's begin

Breath of Life by Florence + the Machine, for everyone who’s ever fallen to the Knorth glamour and paid dearly for it

But I needed one more touch Another taste of heavenly rush And I believe, I believe it's so

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Soldiers of Fortune

I’ve been a bit busy the last month, so I’ve had less time to write.  My apologies.  I will try my best to get these out sooner.  So, sit back, and I hope you enjoy the story.  As always, I own nothing except Drake and his crew.

Mass Effect Galaxy

Terminus System

The message arrived after midnight, carried by a small starship sent all the way from the Citadel in the galactic center.  On board was one individual.  A SPECTRE.  The elite group of quasi-special forces soldiers that operated outside the normal law, allowed to bring Citadel justice to any major threats to galactic stability.  They were the scouts, the spies, the muscle, the eyes, ears, and arms of the galactic government.  And this particular SPECTRE had been entrusted with a very special mission indeed.  He had been in the Terminus System for many a week now, secretly observing a group of particularly nasty pirates, when he had been ordered to drop everything and bring a message to a very unusual group.  And now, locked in a vault aboard his ship, the message was carried to an unassuming human colony in the most volatile sector of galactic space.  He had been told that he might miss the various people to whom the message was addressed if he did not travel that same night, for the group moved swiftly.  And so that very same night he traveled.

Now, after a jump through the local Relay, his ship arrived at the planet.  A cluster of contacts, large, strange, capital ships, were parked far off in the endless black void of space.  His quarry was still here.  Good.  Carefully, as to not get close enough to the sensors of the alien ships, he slipped quietly into the atmosphere and landed on the planet.  He knew, instantly, where exactly he needed to go, for the night sky was lit with flames that served as a beacon.  Getting out of the sleek starship, weapons at the ready, he walked down the dirt road to the burning town.  A lesser man, or, in this case, Turian, would have been nervous of the sky, seeing the fire twist above the town’s outer walls to fill the night with a depp, churning smoke that was touched a livid red where it was struck by highlights of flames, but he was not.  Or, at least, that is what he told himself.  In truth, he was nervous.  Nervous of meeting these strange new contacts, from different galaxies no less, to deliver a message.  He looked to the pitch black sky again.  He had heard from humans, tales and fables of Hell, and thought to himself that this is what Hell must look like if it existed.  But he was a SPECTRE.  So he walked on.

The flames were centered around the southeaster gate of the town, and casted wild shadows upon the large fortress in the northwest, created to protect the townspeople from pirates and slavers.  The gate itself had been torn off its hinges with such violence that it had come to lay a full ten meters inside the city.  Houses within the city were aflame, their insides gutted and blacked while the hungry flames devoured anything in their path.  The SPECTRE shuddered to think at what force could do something like this, and it was then he saw shadows moving in the town, their forms made eerie by the wild light of the fires.  

He shuddered and unholstered his sidearm.  This mission was supposed to be peaceful, but, judging by what was happening around him, he doubted it would end that way.  He passed a corpse of a human woman, completely naked, her throat cut and blood pooling beneath her lifeless form.  Nearby were several others, evidently the colonists who originally lived here, all messily dead.  Further on were dead Batarians.  That made sense.  A race, disdained by all the others, who based their society around slavery.  Colonies like this one were extremely vulnerable, so, despite the unfortunate loss of the colonists themselves, nothing was out of the ordinary.  Until he examined the dead more closely.  

None were killed by bullets.  That in itself would be alarming, but the nature of these wounds was more close to terrifying.  Cauterised craters, each ten to twelve centimeters in length, covered the dead Batarian’s torso.  They had passed through the kinetic barriers that all soldiers wore, and punched through the armor, stitching up and down the length of the chest.  Another body’s chest cavity was completely gone, leaving a charred mess, evidently burned away by a weapon of such force that it was able to go through the kinetic barriers, outer armor, bodysuit, and still melt away almost the entire torso.  The SPECTRE was so engrossed with studying the wounds that he did not see a lone Batarian soldier until it was too late.  The Batarian came from behind, knife in hand, and tackled the SPECTRE.  He flailed, reaching for a pistol that was no longer in his hand, the Batarian’s knife inching inexorably towards his face, until, suddenly, mercifully, it stopped, and the Batarian made a choking, gurgling nose, and flopped over, stone cold dead.  The SPECTRE shrugged of his assailant, only to see a figure, clad in shining grey armor that reflected the lurid light of the flames onto the ground below.  It was humanoid in appearance, and its face was covered by a helmet of similar colored armor.  It outstretched a hand to help him up, and he took it, slowly, hesitantly.  The figure looked as if it was going to say something, but it was cut off by the arrival of two new shapes.  They were like nothing he had ever seen.  They were humans, that much was obvious, but they were wearing old-fashioned looking grey-blue armor around their torsos, and nothing else.  No barriers, no full body suits, not even anything to protect their arms and legs.  In their hands were oversized, blocky black rifles of a type he’d never seen before.  Both the weapons and armor were emblazoned with a golden double-headed eagle, wings spread wide, a symbol he had never seen before.  The woman in front looked at him with distaste then spoke to the figure in grey.  

“Sir?  Are you alright?”  

“Never better.”  The voice was that of a human man, and the SPECTRE looked closer at him, but the armor was still not familiar.  The soldiers in grey-blue turned to look at him.

“What do we do with this one?  Kill him?”  The grey armored human rubbed his head with exasperation.  

“You can’t just go around killing everyone.”  He turned to the SPECTRE and spoke.  “Who are you and what are you doing here?  This is not exactly a good place to be right now.”  This was accompanied by a vague hand wave at all the destruction around them.  

“I’m a Council SPECTRE, and I bear a message addressed to a group calling themselves the Magnificent Scoundrels, addressed to the various governments they serve.”  The grey armored man laughed, a high, clear, clean laugh that seemed greatly at odds with the carnage surrounding them.  

“Well then, you seem to be in the right place.”  He stuck out a hand.  “Admiral Adam Vir of the GA.  A pleasure to meet you.  My compatriots should be somewhere around here.  Come on.”  He took off in a double time, and the bewildered Turian followed, with the two other soldiers giving each other dubious glances before taking up the rear.  

They passed the ruins of more homes, their timbers burned away by fire and walls crushed by explosive power.  Shopfronts were gone, their glass windows shattered and insides tattered.  The group passed more grey-blue soldiers, patrolling the streets, staring suspiciously at anything that moved, the golden eagles on their breastplates displayed prominently.  The farther they went into the city, the more they started to see different people.  Humans, in ragged clothes, their faces gaunt, evidently the civilians who originally lived here walked numbly through the ruins of their town.  Others, wearing mis-matched pieces of dark armor, with a flame decal on their shoulder pads, walked through the destruction.  

“Careful.  It gets a little deadly around here,” said the Admiral as they slid their way through the rubble.  In the distance, there was a shout, followed by a high pitched, whining crackle.  Some sort of communications device hummed to life within the Admiral’s armor, and a human voice cut through the night.

“All hostels within section 3-4 have been neutralized.”  This was followed by a chorus of acknowledgments.  What the hell was going on here?  Batarians, like most pirates and slavers, only ever fought hit and run.  This seemed to be a massive battle for the town, with at least three distinct factions involved.  

He suddenly heard a noise behind him, and, to his horror, saw a Batarian, weapon outstretched, pointing it directly at the group.  By the time he got his own sidearm up, he would already be dead.  It was too far out of reach, and too slow to get to.  He saw the Batarian’s trigger finger tighten, and he waited for the snap of the gun and the light of the muzzle flash.  It grinned, knowing it had him, and he waited for death.  It began to squeeze, and-

Exploded.  A force of such power struck the Batarian that its torso and lower head literally ceased to exist, instead becoming a spray of blood and viseria that decorated a nearby wall.  The legs, unsupported, toppled over and the arms, torn from their sockets, fell to the ground with a weak thud.  The Admiral and the two other unnamed soldiers turned to face it.  

“Holy shit.  Cain and Drake were not lying about that gun…” muttered the Admiral.

“What the hell was that?” half screamed the SPECTRE.  Vir turned and pointed to a watchtower on the town walls.  

“We have a sniper up there, getting rid of any stragglers like that one,” he gestured at the unpleasant stain on the wall.  “He’s armed with some fancy new weapon supplied by my colleagues.”  The SPECTRE shook his head, sighed, and decided it was best not to overthink things.  

They trotted through the destruction of the town until they reached a centrally located building, still standing, that looked much more sturdy than anything they had passed at this point.  As they stepped inside, raised voices could be heard.

“I will not allow you to take down the gate of the fortress!  You’ve already destroyed the town.  You don’t need to destroy anything else!”  This was shouted by a short, balding, rather pudgy looking man in civilian clothes.

“Listen buddy.  The only reason I haven’t leveled this entire town and be done with it is because some of my more humanitarian friends here don’t like that idea.  Now, leave this to the professionals or I will shoot you in the head and order an orbital bombardment.  Understand?” replied a human man wearing midnight black armor.  The civilian paled and ran from the room.  The black armored man turned back to his colleagues, a most odd and diverse group.  An incredibly, unbelievably tall green armored man, a man and woman, faces unnaturally pale, wearing the grey-blue coats emblazoned with golden eagles, and...SPECTRE Shepard.  The Turian SPECTRE frowned.  Well, he was warned Shepard was alive and was with this group.  Oh, well.  

A set of holographic projections were set up on the other side of the room, revealing another man in what looked to be a yellow and black jumpsuit, a relatively normal looking man, and a series of boxes, with with rising and falling lines inside; apparently the members who could not show their faces for whatever reason.  The black armored man turned towards Vir and the SPECTRE.

  “Who is this?” he asked curtly.  Surprisingly enough, it was Shepard who spoke next.  

“SPECTRE Irraldis,” he nodded.  “I know of your work.”

“Great.  A SPECTRE.  Why are you here?”  

“I’m bearing a message to the different governments you serve from the Citadel Council.  I have them in my ship, if you’d like to come over.”

“Love to.  Rather busy at the moment though-”  One of the holographic voice boxes crackled to life.  

“Central command, this is Star-lord.  The bombs are planted.  Over.”  The man in black, who had yet to be introduced to the Irraldis, ran over to the consul and pressed a button.

“Copy that, Star-lord.”  His fingers danced across a keyboard, and spoke to another box.

“Ordelphine?  Bombs planted.  Move out.”  

“Copy that, Captain,” replied the voice of a human female.  The black armored man pointed to Irraldis.

“You’re a SPECTRE, right?  Care to join the assault?”  

“Uh...yeah, sure.  Why not.”

“Excellent!  Oh, yes, by the way, introductions.  I’m Thomas Drake.  Over there,” he indicated the two soldiers in grey-blue, “are Colonel Kasteen and Major Brocklaw of the Imperial Guard.  That,” he pointed to the tall green armored soldier, who had still yet to speak, “is Master Chief.  And you already know Shepard and Vir.”  Drake fitted a black armored, blue lensed helmet on his head, then gestured to the door.  “Well, now everyone knows each other.  Wonderful!  Let’s go blow stuff up.”  The entire team, minus Kasteen and Brocklaw, who, with a team of grey-blue soldiers, seemed to be keeping tabs on the central communications area, followed Drake as he jogged through the shattered streets.  They reached the outskirts of the fortress, connected to the town by a massive, solid metal gate.  Nearby was a group of humans, clad in dark green, led by a tall man, wearing a sword of all things, dressed in a black and red greatcoat, emblazoned with the golden eagle.  He nodded at the newcomers and shot an inquiring look at Irraldis.  

“This is a Citadel SPECTRE who has a message for us,” replied Drake to the look.  The tall man seemed satisfied at this, then went back to checking his weapons.  Drake keyed his comms.

“Ordelphine, begin your run.”  

“Understood, Captain.”  Drake pressed a button on his wrist, then spoke again.

“Star-lord, this is Drake.  Detonate.”  In lieu of a response, the heavy gate blew upart with a fiery explosion, and came to rest at least ten meters away.  Red flames shot high into the night, illuminating the attackers, yet no one moved, and no one fired.  They seemed to be waiting for something.  

A low thrum sounded through the night, and high above, a large shape blocked out the moon, casting weird shadows on the ground below.  Ordelphine’s voice sounded through the comms system.  

“Approaching target.  Stand by.  Ready in three...two...one...go!”  Another voice, this one unfamiliar, spoke.  

“Copy that.  Stand by for Titanfall!”  The night was broken by a crackling noise, and Irraldis would see a dark shape falling from the sky.  It landed with a massive crash on the road to the gate.  Irraldis could see it was some utterly massive bipedal war machine.  A monster of metal, it stood at least six meters tall, wielding a gun as large as two humans were tall.  Rocket pods were mounted above its shoulders, and these fired, destroying a portion of the upper walls that concealed the enemy.  It ran forward, the various ground soldiers of the Scoundrels following.  A Batarian within the fortress, dazed from the explosive force of the rockets, tried to bring its gun up, but was instantly cut down by at least three different people.  The fortress’s courtyard turned into a bloodbath, the massive war machine destroying anything that posed a major threat, and the ground soldiers mopping up anything that survived.  Irraldis now saw the weapons of the Scoundrels at work.  The blocky rifles of the grey-blue soldier spat crimson death at the Batarians, cutting straight through kinetic barriers designed to stop projectiles, not lasers.  Drake himself flourished a triple barreled gun that fired electric blue and magenta balls of plasma with sufficient force to literally melt straight through armor and flesh.  The other Scoundrels held more conventional weapons, but they were no less deadly.  In less than a minute, all the Batarians in the courtyard were dead.   Satisfied with this, Drake seemed to be about to order the storming of the fortress proper, when a voice from the fortress itself spoke.  

“We surrender!  We surrender!”  A group of Batarians, their hands held high, exited the fortress.  Drake nodded approvingly.  

“Well that saves us time.  Disarm them,” he told a group of the dark armored, flame-decaled soldiers who followed him.  They proceeded to do so.  “Now kneel,” he told the Batarians.  They looked at him with bewilderment.  

“What?”

“I.  Said.  Kneel!”  They did so, hesitantly, reluctantly.  Shepard and Vir seemed to guess his intent.

“Wait, no.  You can’t do that, Drake!” said Shepard.  Vir nodded in agreement.  Drake turned his head towards them and drew his pistol.  

“And why not?  They’re slavers.  Murderers.  They deserve to die.”  At the mention of death, the Baratians flinched, but said nothing.  

“You can’t just kill them out of hand!  It isn’t legal!  They need a trial!” 

“Ah.  So it’s legality you’re worried about.”  Drake holstered his pistol.  “Cain.”  He pointed to the tall man in the greatcoat.  Cain nodded and stepped forward.  

“In the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, by the authority invested in me, I find you guilty of the murder and enslavement of humans, and thus guilty of crimes against the Imperium and Emperor.  Your sentence is death.”  He stepped up to the first kneeling Batarian and shot it through the head.  

“I am a SPECTRE, and this is my galaxy.  I won’t allow you to kill them.  I’ll hand them over to the proper authorities,” said Shepard.  Cain looked at Drake, who rolled his eyes.  

“Fine.  Then they’re your problem.”  He turned to Irraldis.  “Now then.  With that cleared up, I believe you have some messages for us?”

Wow.  That took a bit of a dark turn.  The messages will be here sooner rather than later, and then we get the full effect of the galaxies meeting.  If you like a particular time of story (i.e. battles, Scoundrels interacting, governments interacting), then feel free to tell me.  Also, if you have any comments, criticisms, ideas, thoughts, requests, concerns, or anything else, feel free to ask.  

[dolce-peach]

Hii! Could you do like a Loki X reader avenger that has like angel like powers that would be interesting! Btw I love your fics hope you're safe out there have a nice day :))

with you

pairing: loki x avenger!reader

warnings: slight violence, blood, loki being an absolute lil bean at times

a/n: tysm anon!  i got excited for this one, cuz i’m a sucker for anything fantasy :)  also i put loki on the team because i believe that’s beautiful *wipes eyes* hope you guys like it!

permanent taglist: @kaitlynmalikisnotonfire

** TO MAKE A REQUEST -- please check the status in my bio **

masterlist

----

You were grooming your large white wings, sitting on the edge of the Avengers Tower.  You relished the cool breeze circling your legs as they dangled over the side of the building.  Some pedestrians recognized you from down below and waved, and you smiled and waved back with a wing.

Life as an Avenger was strange but good.  Though you did appreciate them, you just couldn’t get used to the way humans went about their days.  They were odd yet endearing creatures.

When they asked you to be part of their team, you couldn’t refuse their cause to protect the world.

“Avengers, please report to Hangar 1,” JARVIS’ voice echoed through the comms.

Without hesitation, you folded your wings comfortably and made your way downstairs until you arrived at the hangar, where everyone was waiting.

You naturally gravitated towards Loki, who was surveying the scene before him.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Not the slightest idea,” he said.  “Something about Hydra, I assume.”

You frowned.

As far as you knew, Tony and Steve had been tracking down numerous Hydra forts looking for the stolen sceptre Loki wielded once before.  He had since then broken away from the effects, but you knew it still haunted him.

“What’s the situation, Tony?” Steve asked as he came forward.

“JARVIS picked something up over in Sokovia.  I think we should check it out,” Tony explained.  He brought up a hologram of a fort.  “It’s small and abandoned.”

“Which would make it easy for them to hide more numbers underground,” Natasha concluded.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.  “C-can they do that?”

“We must be prepared for whatever they throw our way,” Thor said.  “If that means to fight fire with fire, then we’ll do so.”

Clint shrugged.  “Seems sketchy, but this is the first lead we’ve had in a few weeks.”

Steve nodded.  “We’ll have two parties.  Y/N and Loki can sneak inside and look for the sceptre while the rest of us take them on from outside,” he directed.  “If they find it, then by the time they get out and get back to us, we’ll already be long gone before Hydra can do anything.”

“You heard the captain,” Tony said, quirking an eyebrow.  “Let’s move, people.”

You followed everyone onto the Quinjet when Loki grabbed hold of your wrist.   You turned to face him, seeing the concern in his eyes.

“Loki?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said.

“Why not?  I have you.”

He sighed.  “Yes, but if we manage to find the sceptre, what if i turn against you?”  He looked away.  “What if I can’t save you?”

You laughed.  “I’m an angel, dear.  I don’t need saving.”  You brushed his hair back gently.  “And you won’t turn.  I won’t let you, I promise.”

He closed his eyes, inhaling softly.  “Okay.”

“Come on, Rock of Ages,” Tony called.  “Waiting on you!”

Loki chuckled, rolling his eyes.  “You’re lucky I quietly deal with your antics, Stark.”

You pat his shoulder before getting yourself situated.  “Just let it go,” you teased.

--

You flew stealthily through the trees, carrying Loki as you went.  Gunshots and canon fire echoed in the distance, signaling that the Hydra soldiers were distracted by the rest of the Avengers.  

Once you were close to the back entrance, you set Loki down and ran alongside him, meeting a few soldiers head on.

You swung your arm out in front of you, flashing a blinding light that made the soldiers collapse.  You twirled around and blew down the door with one powerful gust from your wings.

“You know, I could’ve handled that,” Loki said as he followed you through the door.

“I know,” you explained.  “But we don’t have much time.”

“I know,” he said quietly with a smirk as the two of you continued down the dark hallway.

Most of the soldiers had cleared out, either evacuating or going out to assist against the rest of the Avengers.  The lucky few you encountered either instantly fainted upon looking into your golden eyes, or screamed in horror at the illusions Loki cast.

At last, you made it to a secret passageway that deviated far from the original hallway.  Your wings shivered from the chilled air that swept through the narrow tunnel.

Your breath was a cloud that barely escaped your lips as you were nearly knocked from your feet by a blur.

“Y/N!”

You turned to see Loki draw his daggers as he wrestled with a young teenage boy with silver hair.

Before you could go and help, your vision grew red before settling.  You turned to see a girl retreating to the shadows, her irises an extreme crimson.  Confusion took a hold of you as old memories clouded your eyes, but you were still able to fight through it and pin her against the stone wall.

“It didn’t work,” she breathed, staring at you with wide eyes.

“Who are you?” you questioned.  

You tightened your grip around her arms, feeling an intense fire rise to your fingertips.  The girl cried out.

“Let me go!” she hissed.  

“Answer my question,” you said calmly, raising your other flaming hand.  “I may be an angel, but I can be the devil if I want to.”

Before you could inflict any more harm, she disappeared in a blur.

You turned to see Loki wiping his bleeding lip, his daggers dissolving within his long fingers.  You rushed over, running your fingers along his lip.

He chuckled.  “I’m fine.”

Your eyes were filled with concern.  “Who were they?” you asked as you began to heal him.

“I’m not sure, but they were young,” he said.  “Maybe enhanced.”

Your fingertips gave off a soft golden glow, sealing the cut back together.  He touched his lip when you were finished, a small smile of gratitude appearing.

“Let’s get the sceptre and get out of here,” you said.

“Great plan.”

The said sceptre lay in the middle of the room under a large Chitauri Leviathan.  Other broken parts of the Chitauri soldiers lay around on various tables, making the room smell strongly of burnt flesh.  

Loki cautiously took the sceptre in his hands, shakily breathing out as he touched the gold staff.

You touched his shoulder.  “You okay?”

He sighed, which was enough for you.  “Let’s get back.”

“Captain, we have the sceptre,” you said in your earpiece as the two of you walked back through the tunnel.  

“Good.  We’re by the edge of the forest.”

“Copy that.”

You were suffocating before the two of you emerged out in the snowy forest, the fresh cold air filling your chest.

And without a warning, your knees buckled.

--

Y/N!

You watched drops of blood fall onto the white snow beneath your feet.  They fell one by one, staining the pure white until a pool was created around you.

Shaking, you lifted your gaze up to see someone aiming a bow and arrow at you.  His face was blurred and dark in the red fire of the forest.

A shot rang through the air, and moments later, the arrow dug itself into your stomach.

You fell to your knees, feeling the one thing you were promised you wouldn’t feel.  Pain blossomed from the wound, making you double over.

“Y/N!”

Your eyes shot open, staring directly into Loki’s.  

Breathe! your mind screamed.

Your eyes darted around, trying to grasp where you were.

“It’s okay!  You’re safe,” he said.  “You’re at home.”

“Home,” you murmured.  After a few deep breaths, you closed your eyes.  “What happened?”

“The enhanced we ran into...”

“What about them?”

“We think one of them might have affected you,” he explained.

You shook your head.  “That’s impossible.”

“They got their powers from the sceptre,” he said.  “Who’s to say they can’t knock an angel or a god off their feet?”

You sighed, covering your face in your hands.  You could almost still feel the snow against your skin.

“That vision you had,” Loki began.  “Who was that?”

“A fallen angel.  A comrade I tried to save,” you replied.  You looked at him and raised an eyebrow.  “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t look into my head anymore.”

“I needed to know if you were alright,” he said.  “If you died, I’d be beside myself.”

You pursed your lips.  “I’m fine,” you said.  “Just shaken, that’s all.”  You laughed bitterly.  “I thought I forgot it all, but I guess no matter how long you live, you’ll always remember something like that.”

Loki nodded.  “I know what you mean.”

You took one long look at the god and smiled sadly.  “Yes, you do.”

He brushed his black locks back.  “I’m sorry, Y/N.  I should’ve sensed them coming.”

“It’s okay,” you said.  “Truly, it’s okay.  It’s a good thing we were prepared anyways, otherwise, we would’ve had a hard time making it out.”

He chuckled.  “True, but nothing’s impossible for this god,” he said as he pointed to himself.

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, making Loki grin from ear to ear.  Hearing your laugh was enough to cure all the sicknesses in the world and ban darkness to the edges of the galaxy.  

It was a sound that vividly spelled, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

And it was.

[ribcagecarnival]

NO. 4 (Obama the Gleek)

Glee premiered in May 2009. I was about to transfer to a new middle school and Obama was four months into his first term. At just shy of 12 years old, I considered that pilot episode to be the best episode of television I’d ever seen. In seventh, eighth, and ninth grade, my mother and I watched the show religiously every week. In 2010 and 2011, we attended the concert tours—at one of them, we foolishly purchased VIP tickets that gave us virtually no perks, but through a cracked door, we saw Cory Monteith, and he waved at me before security shuffled him away to what I presumed was the actual VIP room, where he would participate in a real meet-and-greet. Monteith died in July 2013, the same day that George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin. By 2015, when the show ended, I hadn’t watched for years, and Donald Trump was entering the presidential race. And now, in early 2021, two more members of the original cast have died, Trump went from joke candidate to fascistic president to twice-impeached private citizen, and the entire world is in the throes of the worst viral pandemic in just over a century. Obviously I spent part of 2020 rewatching Glee. All art is a product of its time, either reflecting it back to us directly or functioning as a vision of what’s to come. Glee belongs firmly in the former camp. The progressive aspects of the show would not have been possible in the conservative pre-Obama era of American media, but plenty of premises and plot lines that passed for merely transgressive at the time would be shut down by contemporary cancel culture. Kurt’s coming out storyline in season 1 was a heartfelt, tender portrait of teen sexuality and coming-of-age that felt unprecedented and nuanced in 2009. But having an able-bodied actor play a wheelchair-bound teen (Kevin McHale) would have brought the full force of the online mob if it happened a decade later. A moment that has come under scrutiny on Twitter and TikTok comes from season 1, when Mercedes (Amber Riley) asks Mr. Schuester (Matthew Morrison) if the club can perform more Black music, to which Rachel (Lea Michele) snaps that it’s “glee club, not krunk club.” There are countless memes joking that in spite of the dizzying number of romantic pairings on the show, the OTP of Glee is Mr. Schue and jail—his bizarrely intimate relationships with his students were only ever called out by the show’s antagonist, Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch), and it was always played for laughs. The most heartbreaking episode of Glee is Season 5, Episode 3, “The Quarterback,” which is a tribute to the late Cory Monteith. But it is arguably more difficult to watch a moment from the following season, in which a group of McKinley alums crash an adolescent Tea Party Patriots meeting in order to recruit members for the rebuilding glee club. The episode is from 2014, but the remarks made by the student attendees are downright depressing when you know that 2 years later, Donald Trump would be the president-elect of the United States. In season 4, when a new cheerleader named Kitty (Becca Tobin) is introduced, she makes remarks about the “lame stream media” that are snuck into a litany of insults as rapidly as machine gun fire. The audience never has a moment to meditate on the significance of these jokes, because pre-2016, we didn’t have to. At the time, having characters parrot the fringe commentary of Sarah Palin and Fox News commentators was a shorthand meant to indicate that said characters would either undergo a change of heart or be permanently vanquished. Glee’s run spanned Obama’s time in office, and the Hope & Change candidate’s ascent did not make room for the victory of villainy. We had entered the Liberal Gilded Age. One thing I forgot about Glee was how often it mentioned the failing economy. As we all know, Obama inherited a broken economy from his predecessor, and the entire country was wracked by home foreclosures and unemployment. But as a preteen, all those references were lost on me in favor of glittery show choir competitions and the Finn/Rachel romance. The constant mention of budget cuts seemed more like an arbitrary plot device than a grasp at historical accuracy. Watching the show as an adult, however, the economic currents underpinning the show are impossible to ignore. Sue Sylvester often mocked the glee club for having a warped, rosy, show-biz view of reality, but they always prevailed. Even when they were temporarily down, they would rebound, and they would eventually win. But Sue, the comically evil opponent to the superficially valorous glee club, was right. You could not fix the evils of the world by simply celebrating diversity, accruing celebrity guests, and singing a feel-good song. Yet this has been the Democratic establishment’s strategy since 2009. And it hasn’t worked for a long time. The secondary characters, much like real American citizens of the time, were desperate for real change and real solutions. This is not an Obama Exposed essay—of course, he made progress on certain issues. But most of what the country got were charming late-night appearances, secret concessions to conservativism as the Democratic establishment shifted further to the right, and an increasingly divided populace that left both the progressive wing of the Democratic party and the growing alt-right movement increasingly agitated with the state of the union. I loved Barack Obama when I was a teenager. But over the course of the Trump presidency, I became radicalized. I saw the flaws in his administration that wreaked havoc both domestically and internationally, and that ultimately enabled Trump to carry out much of his hateful agenda over the last four years. Just as I have outgrown the version of myself that watched Glee uncritically as an adolescent, I too have outgrown the fractured politics I parroted before I was of voting age. Glee characters are prone to flights of fancy, acts of supposed altruism that often wind up harming themselves or others, and inspirational speeches that are ultimately meaningless. Mr. Schuester is offered the opportunity for a transgender student to have private access to a single-stall bathroom in exchange for a moratorium on student twerking. At first, he refuses. It takes the full length of an episode for him to realize that this thing is not worth fighting for. And even then, it’s seen as some huge sacrifice for the club! This, to me, is a perfect allegory for the Democratic party—an institution that is purportedly invested in betterment and equality, but in reality was more concerned with optics and symbols. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Schue would have wept seeing BLACK LIVES MATTER murals being unveiled, and likely would have said that instead of looting the protestors should’ve just knelt and sang a Journey medley to the cops. Rachel Berry would have gone to a protest for a photo op while carrying a sign that said IF HILLARY WON I’D BE AT BRUNCH RIGHT NOW. I know this as deeply as I know that Spongebob Squarepants is gay and Daffy Duck is Black. Some things are just TRUE. In 2009, simply having queer and PoC characters centered on television was groundbreaking. In 2020, this is no longer enough. Simply acknowledging that marginalized people exist is not sufficient activism. In media, we deserve nuanced and complex stories that don’t subject them to even more of the stereotyping we’ve been experiencing for decades. And in politics, we deserve more legitimate structural change—reparations, secure voting rights, anti-discrimination laws, a livable minimum wage, universal healthcare that includes access to safe abortions—and less empty virtue-signaling. Glee is a tremendous way to escape from the horrors of our current state of affairs. But it is not merely a camp masterpiece. It is a cautionary tale. The circumstances that gave us Glee—an Obama presidency, decreasing voter turnout, the rise of the social internet, increased representation for queer and PoC and disabled people—are the same circumstances that gave us Trump. We don’t merely need our lives to be visible, we need them to be viable. We need to weaponize our passion and empathy against tyranny. We need to rebuild the world for the versions of ourselves that first loved Glee, without reverting back to who we were when it first aired.

[luna-almighty-god]

Guardian Angel N°19 [EPILOGUE ]

Hello everyone, here's the Guardian Angel's epilogue! The final point of this story! Have a good read!

===

First Chapter  

Previous Chapter

===

Distant voices... terribly distant voices...

Rustle... feeling...

But it's all... it was all hushed up. Smothered by his unconsciousness.

He had no knowledge of anything. Not his environment, not even his identity.

A deep sleep, devoid of dreams and thoughts.

At times he felt a terrible pain, a pain coming from his chest. A pain due to a lack, but a lack of what? He knew the answer, he was sure of it, but like his own name, the answer did not come.

The darkness... nothing but darkness.

There was a time when he was afraid of the dark, of loneliness, of confinement.

And yet... trapped in that space of darkness... He was not afraid. He felt... ...good. At peace. Free of a weight, as it were.

Yet his situation was not to be envied. He was bathed in total incomprehension.

But he wasn't afraid. He had confidence.

Confidence in those distant voices, voices he didn't understand but knew were familiar. He felt touched, caressed, pampered, pampered. He felt that he was being taken care of, despite his chest, which always hurt.

He had confidence.

Completely confident.

In this total absence of landmarks, both physical and temporal, he eventually realized something. After what seemed like an eternity... he realized that it didn't hurt anymore. The pain in his chest had stopped.

It had ceased to give way... to a strange comfort. Comfort he had never seemed to experience.

[And finally, he woke up.]

The first thing he perceived was a flash of light. The outside light, the soft rays of the sun, filtering through the curtains to come and caress his face. He blinked, somewhat confused, and didn't move at once. He let his eyes get used to this sudden brightness, which contrasted so much with the preceding darkness.

He regained contact with his senses. Slowly, very slowly ... the touch of the fine sheets, the smell of freshly washed linen, the familiar sounds of the castle ...

The castle.

He widened his eyes, straightened up completely to observe his surroundings. He was... in his room at Dreamtale. This room that Nightmare had given him. And that realization warmed his soul with a warmth he'd never known so strongly.

[His name was Nyx]

Yeah, his name was Nyx. He was Nyx. Time traveler, son of Nightmare and Ink, but from another timeline. And as all the events came back to his mind, the misunderstanding grew: what had happened? He remembered talking to his father... but then? The dark, just the dark... He'd crossed the line.

He'd... fallen asleep?

Normally, he'd be worried. But, um... (sighs) But he wasn't. Why wasn't he? As if he was released from something, something too big, too heavy to carry.

He got off the sheets, slowly put his feet on the ground, and shivered. He was only wearing a jogging suit, nothing else, and the contact of his bare bones on the floor caught him off guard. He shivered, was unable to get up, and fell back on the mattress. As if he had forgotten how to walk.

But if falling down like that surprised him, he was more shocked by what was revealed to him. His soul had just slipped out of his rib cage, mischievous and playful, throbbing with strange joy, to come and show itself to him.

His purple soul.

...Purple?

[ But...? ]

He doesn't grasp it immediately. Simply because it involved too many things, too many things.

Black apples. How long had it been since he'd eaten them? They had made his soul blacker than the night itself, and if that blackness had now disappeared ... did it mean that he was no longer in the grip of those cursed fruits? That he... was now free from corruption?

To find out, he turned his gaze to the shadow of his bed and concentrated on making his tentacles appear. But... (sighs) But no matter how hard he concentrated, no matter how hard he tried. It didn't matter how many minutes passed. Nothing was happening. His appendages were not showing.

Wouldn't show up.

He hiccupped, not knowing if he should be happy or panicked, not knowing what to do with this revelation. He was just too confused.

He had been addicted to black apples for years, too many years. Lacking these apples caused him to have terrible seizures, as he had experienced hundreds of times before.

Now he was not having any seizures at all.

Suddenly he had a flash. He remembered the pain he had felt when he was unconscious. This pain that was actually a seizure. A long seizure that he had experienced through his sleep.

A seizure ... that had ended.

He was... detoxed? ... He was just... Just like that?

No, it couldn't be that simple. All his problems couldn't be solved in just one night's sleep.

... How long had he been asleep?

His thoughts did not have time to dither as the bedroom door opened, immediately attracting the attention of Nyx, who observed the newcomer... ... and remained silent in amazement.

A heavy silence fell. In the doorway stood a young skeleton, a teenager about 14 years old. A teenager ... ...far too familiar. With black ink-black bones, pink eye sockets, and yellow and blue pupils.

A teenager who became livid when he saw Nyx sitting in bed, wide awake.

“G-big brother... ? “ stuttered the newcomer.

Even the voice, though slightly muted, was familiar. And the name ...

Nyx widened his eyes:

“... Jammy?”

The nickname pushed the poor Paperjam to the edge of tears, and without warning he threw himself into the arms of the elder, pressing him against the mattress with all his weight, coming to curl up against him, the first salty drops sliding down his cheeks.

"You are awake... ! You're awake... ! "sobbed the smallest one, holding himself tighter and tighter against Nyx, as if afraid that he would disappear.

And this only confirmed what the older one feared: he had slept a long time.

[Much too long]

His throat became tied and he came feverishly to respond to his younger brother's embrace, tenderly caressing his back in the hope of calming his tears, but also to reassure himself. A multitude of questions came overwhelming him and he dreaded having the answer. What had been going on all this time? What had he been missing? Were his loved ones well? Or was he thinking of going back in time to change some new event?

“... J-Jammy... what is... ?”

The cadet sniffed softly before standing up, feverishly wiping his eyes without really succeeding. Nyx also straightened up to bring his face closer to his own and put his hands on his cheeks to dry his tears with the back of his thumb.

“It's going to be all right... calm... I'm awake now... I'm awake now, and I'm okay. Okay?“

He gave him a sweet smile and Paperjam sniffed a second time, before slowly nodding his head. Nyx took the time to calm down before daring to question him:

“ ... Jam, do you think you can quickly explain to me everything I missed?”

The youngest nodded his head once more, before coming back to curl up against Nyx and hide his face in his neck:

“Y-You... Oh, that was a while ago... You jumped into the portal to help Oshoku... But when Papink and Nightmare left to help you, they brought you back unconscious...

- A-And my father?

- Oshoku was with them... he was worried about you. He tried to cast his spell to keep you awake, but Lux and Yumerai wouldn't let him. They said you needed to sleep, even if it took a long time... but we missed you so much... Nightmare kept you in the castle. Me and my dads came to live here to look after you. We all took turns looking after you!”

Nyx felt his soul squeeze, moved by the words of his younger brother, whom he questioned a second time:

“And... how long have I slept... ?

- S-Six years...”

Although he expected worse, Nyx petrified, the length hitting him in the face. Damn it. six years wasn't nothing! And Paperjam thought no less ...

“... a-and... did anything important happen... ? stuttered Nyx with uncertainty.

- Well... Yes !”

Paperjam found a fabulous smile, although his eyes were still watery. He looked at his elder brother with some excitement, happy to be the one to tell him everything:

“Under Shiroken's advice, Cross finally confessed to Epic that he loved him ! They are a couple now! Oh, oh! And we have a new little sister! Her name is Shera! DaddInk and Perror fought over a name, but you'd see her! She's so cute! I have to introduce you to her! And Horror and Dust are a couple too! Ah, Insomnia's all grown up! He'll be so happy to see you! And, uh...”

Nyx had a sweet laugh:

“Take it easy, Jammy, catch your breath...

- Ahah, sorry! But I'm so happy... I'm so happy... I missed you so much, big brother...”

And Paperjam seemed to be about to cry again, but he quickly rubbed his eyes to contain himself, before resuming his story more slowly:

“Also... Shiroken, Yumerai and Lux lived for a while in the castle. But I think they felt out of place .... They said they wanted to watch over this multiverse, but on their own side.”

Nyx fanatic smile almost immediately:

“...you... you mean they're gone ... gone?

- Yes, they're gone... I'm sorry, maybe I'm coming at you too abruptly ... We're... We haven't heard from them in a while. But Nightmare and Dream don't seem worried, I think they're still feeling their emotions. So that's all good for them, isn't it?”

The older one did not answer, but bit his tongue to contain the bitterness that was taking hold of him. His uncle... His cousin... His master-of-arms... They were gone. Again, they were separated. And Nyx somehow blamed himself for not waking up sooner, if only to thank them for stepping in. If only to thank them... for taking care of him.

He swallowed his saliva, heavy soul, before feverishly asking another question:

“...and... about my... ?

- ... parents? Oshoku and Etsuko ?”

Paperjam took some time to think. He could see that it was a lot for his elder to assimilate...

"Well... They disappeared too. Etsuko... Etsuko didn't talk anymore about seeing his memories. I think he's... bugged... ? I don't really remember, it was a few years ago... You'll have to ask Papink. But for all I know... he and Oshoku and the Horror and Dust of the Future have closed the portal to your original timeline. I don't know if they stayed in our timeline or not though... Nightmare and Yumerai didn't seem to want them to stay.”

Nyx's soul missed a beat:

“ ... They ...

- I can't say anything for sure, big brother, I'm sorry...”

The eldest son fell silent, feeling a wave of emotion drowning him. He looked away, but his pupils turned blue, showing his inner struggle. Paperjam looked at him sadly before coming to embrace him delicately:

“ ... You can let go Big brother ... I'm right here, I'm right here. You can ... You may no longer have your timeline, nor those who were connected to it ... but now you have a new timeline. You have a new family. And... it's... it's not so bad, no... ?”

A first tear escaped Nyx as he responded to the embrace with trembling, his voice rising in a hesitant murmur:

“Jammy...”

A second tear slid down his cheek as he squeezed his little brother tighter:

“...not so bad... Are you kidding? ... I couldn't have wished for better.”

Both of them suddenly jumped when the door slammed again. Surprised, they straightened up and, through his blurred vision, Nyx saw a small skeleton about 7 years old, with black tears and a terribly familiar azure look in his eyes.

“ ... S-Somnia... ?” he stammered.

Little Insomnia had grown up, just like Paperjam. And if his memories of an awake Nyx went back a long way, he had immediately recognized his emotions, just as he had felt the emotions of Paperjam.

Confused, the child did not have time to speak that Nightmare suddenly arrived, having also felt the emotions that emanated from the room.

He petrified at the sight of Nyx. His mouth remained half-open, in a silent hiccup, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing... and finally he turned around, only to return a few moments later in the company of Ink.

Ink rushed over his two sons and hung them in his arms:

“Oh Nyx! Nyx!” he exclaimed with emotion, caressing the elder's head, kissing his cheekbone, cuddling him as a father would have done if he had been too attentive.

Nyx was unsettled, not having expected such a reaction from the painter. Especially since his last memory of Ink was when he had disowned Etsuko?

But Ink showed him such tenderness that he felt himself melting under his caresses, and when he felt Nightmare hugging them in his appendages as well as Insomnia joining them, he cracked.

He sobbed, and then broke into tears against his youngest son, clinging to him as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And despite his hiccups, his groans of pain, his tear-ridden face...

Nyx smiled.

He smiled sincerely.

[Today was a new beginning.]

=== THE END ===

Thank you for following this story, I hope it took you on a journey! See you for future stories, hope you will enjoy it!

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Have a nice day!

[sapphirestarxx]

Through the Night

Chapter 3

Also posted on my AO3

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@lavendertwilight89 @hnnwnchstr @cstormsinukagblog @ravisk @superpixie42 @fawn-eyed-girl

It had been decided to meet at Sango’s apartment and from there they all would search out the location of the rune with Kagome guiding them. Kagome had said that there was an overwhelming feeling of malice coming from the point of origin...more than had been present at the abandoned ruin they had encountered a week before. While there could be no way of knowing exactly what had occurred at the previous attacks, this was undeniably worse than what they had already come across. Whatever this was it was big.

Miroku had been the first to arrive, armed with his holy staff and sutras, and waited while Sango got dressed in her demon slayer gear. Between the staggering evil Kagome was sensing and what was known about the runes, they all wanted to be prepared for the impending altercation that was sure to take place. 

He hadn’t had too many dealings with the slayers before, seeing as his line of work dealt almost entirely with the spiritual side of supernatural problems. Despite this he knew the outfit was a complicated mix of leather, armor plates at the vitals and joints, with various vials and compacts of poisons and powders tucked away into hidden spaces. While he knew in theory what the outfit consisted of he had never had the pleasure of seeing it worn in person, especially not by someone with Sango’s stunning physique.

When Sango exited her bedroom Miroku sucked in a breath at the sight. That skintight black leather that clung to her every curve...it was beyond enticing. There was something so incredibly sexy about it he couldn’t help but take in every inch of her lush form with his gaze. In that moment he knew he would let her do anything to him she wanted and he would enjoy every second of it. Even if it was just her kicking his ass.

He forced himself to drag his eyes away from her body to her face and saw she was looking at him. Something shifted in her eyes and he could tell she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone. He hadn’t exactly been subtle about checking her out but he was a man with eyes and she was exquisite. 

“I like the pink.” He told her, opting for something safer than what he was really thinking. ‘You’re fucking hot and that leather makes me want to do bad things to you.’ would probably not have gone over well. The plates of her armor were a pretty shade of rose and he wondered if it was a concession to her femininity or if it was just her favorite color.

“It’s my favorite color.” Sango admitted after a slight pause confirming his suspicions, and Miroku knew she had probably expected another one-liner out of him. “I know it sounds kind of frivolous but it makes me feel more confident on the job.”

Before he could respond there was a knock and they could both hear Inuyasha through the closed door.

“Hey! Hurry the fuck up, will ya? Let’s get going!”

“Inuyasha! Would it kill you to be a little patient?!” came Kagome’s admonishment.

Sango and Miroku shared a look at their antics, a small secret smile between the two of them before she went to the door, opening it.

“There ya are. What’s the hold up?” Inuyasha said without preamble. The beads for his human glamour were back around his neck but because they all had seen his true form it had no effect on any of them. The glamour only worked so long as a person was unaware of the reality. Once that illusion was dispelled it no longer had any effect.

Kagome was standing beside him in clothes more practical for fighting than her usual attire - jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. A bow and quiver full of arrows was slung over her right shoulder and a look of determination was on her face. Around her wrist was a bracelet that no doubt was disguising her weapons from view of the average passerby.

“We’re ready.” Sango reappeared by his side, her hair tied back in a high ponytail and he noticed the large weapon hoisted across her back, almost as tall as she was. It was in the shape of a boomerang and if he had to guess he would say it was made of demon bone, with brown leather straps at both ends to grip it. Such a weapon had to be heavy but she carried it with ease. He became impressed with her all over again.

Setting out, they followed Kagome, letting her take the lead as she focused on the location of the rune. She had explained that it gave off a feeling, almost like an aura that allowed her to trace it across the city. Finally, she stopped outside of what looked to be a condemned warehouse in the more run down part of the city just as the sun was setting.

“It’s here. I feel it.” Kagome’s voice was full of trepidation. 

Even without her words it would have been obvious. The sheer evil emanating from the place was palpable. As a whole they all readied their weapons and approached the structure, Inuyasha taking the lead. Considering he was the most resilient of the four of them no one fought him on it. The heavy metal door, rusted with disuse, swung open with a creak. 

“Inuyasha, we should be careful. We don’t know what’s waiting for us.” Miroku warned.

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” The half demon scoffed. “Besides this aint nothing I can’t handle.”

‘I wish I had that kind of confidence.’ Miroku thought, sighing.

Cautiously, they entered. Immediately upon crossing the threshold the scent of blood was unmistakable, even to Miroku’s human nose. Shafts of the remaining light of day crept forward from the busted out windows along the walls, helping to illuminate the emptiness inside. It stretched wide, the remnants of what was probably once a bustling business years ago. But the years hadn’t been kind to the place, cracked concrete and chipped paint accentuated by spots of mold and mildew. And worst of all, the decaying bodies towards the back wall, cast halfway into shadow. Underneath the stench of blood was the fetid smell of rot.

“There’s so much blood. Those bodies...” Kagome said in a slightly horrified voice.

“Yes. Likely killed by whatever demon is currently inhabiting this place.” Sango said, her expression grim.

“Where the fuck is it though?” Inuyasha growled.

As they warily made their way deeper inside Miroku’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he suddenly noticed the thick cobwebs all around. At first he had discounted them as merely vestiges from the deterioration of the place but there were so many, the strands thicker than anything a normal spider could produce. Now that they were closer he could see the dead bodies were pale and bloated, and almost as white as the filaments of web they were cocooned tightly within. Red stained the floor around them where no doubt the victims had struggled before being overtaken by the spider demon. 

Next to the carcasses were white sacs with bulges that shifted every few seconds, ensconced in more web. There had to be at least twenty of them that Miroku could see and it made his skin crawl. They could only be one thing. Spider egg sacs. This was going to get messy.

“Spider demons. Such nasty things.” Sango commented beside him.

“Ew! Are those…?” Kagome didn’t finish the question but they could all see where her line of sight was. She had also noticed the eggs sacs and was staring at them with revulsion. 

“It’s just some fucking spiders. Big deal. I’ll squash them then hunt down the bastard that’s behind all this.” Inuyasha said with his usual bravado.

About midway into the building they still hadn’t seen any sign of the rune but it was a big place. Wherever it was, no doubt it was feeding all the negative energies straight to the person responsible for orchestrating this carnage. Blood sacrifice was the strongest source of power for black magic so Miroku was hardly surprised but it made the scene no less disturbing.

He felt something wet drip onto his shoulder and, with a bad feeling, turned his head to look. He reached up with his free hand to dip his fingers into the fluid and inspect it although he already knew. Blood mixed with some kind of clear fluid…

Sango glanced his way and noticed what he was looking at then locked eyes with him. Understanding dawned. As one they turned their eyes upward and the scene that greeted their gaze was an even worse horror.

More corpses hung from the ceiling suspended from strands of spider silk, dripping blood and what was possibly the remnants of the demon’s poison. The ceiling was covered with the largest spider web he had ever seen and right in the middle of the net was the mother spider demon. It was huge, her body glistening and black, legs splayed across her massive web. The humanoid head had a mane of black hair and was wearing an ugly sneer full of teeth, red eyes trained right on them.

“Look up! It’s on the ceiling!” Miroku called out.

Sango slung her weapon from her back, preparing to throw it while Kagome yelped and Inuyasha readied his sword. The spider demon scuttled from its perch towards the wall where the other bodies and eggs lay, moving with surprising quickness. 

Sango threw her weapon with a battle cry of, “Hiraikotsu!” and the spider demon leapt from the ceiling to the ground at the same time, narrowly avoiding it. The demon knocked it with one of its legs throwing her boomerang off course and into the egg sacs. It landed with a thud and there was the sound of the sacs ripping. Black bodies began pouring out of them.

“Shit. I had a feeling this was going to happen.” Miroku said in resignation as they watched the spider demon babies crawl towards them. There were hundreds. 

“Get them, my children!” The demon hissed as she used her legs to rend the remaining egg sacs open, and the whisper of thousands of legs and bodies scurrying around filled the air.

“Fuck, if I could use the Wind Scar this would be so damn easy.” Inuyasha griped as he leapt forward to meet the mother spider in battle. Miroku agreed; with the modernization of everything using an attack that powerful risked leveling the entire building they stood in, and possibly part of the surrounding structures. Not to mention exposing demonkind to humanity, which would have serious repercussions.

“Inuyasha!” Kagome called out, running after him while casting her gaze about, no doubt still searching for the location of the rune in the huge place.

“Miroku, we should let Inuyasha handle the mother spider and take control of the babies!” Sango called as she drew her sword, cutting a path through the demon spawns, trying to make her way to where her main weapon, Hiraikotsu, lay.

“I was about to suggest the same thing.” Miroku agreed, swinging his staff as they began to be overtaken by the massive outpouring of spider babies. Hundreds. Possibly even bordering on a thousand...the sheer number of them was overwhelming. Miroku took a moment to wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t discovered the scene...the city would have been literally overrun.

Numbers were against them, that much was becoming apparent as they fought against the press of bodies. Miroku’s shakujo burned with holy power where it struck the demons, but there were just so many. Next to him Sango was wielding her wakizashi with expert skill, her movements smooth and practiced, but for every two she cut down ten more took their place. It was never ending. He reached into the jacket he was wearing and pulled out a set of holy sutras and flung them at the demons, activating them with his spiritual powers. The move took out a considerable amount but it was like a drop in the bucket for how many they still faced.

“Miroku, cover your mouth and nose!” Sango suddenly called, and he instantly obeyed, trusting her and creating a barrier with his power to shield them. Without him noticing she had equipped her slayer mask, retrieving a vial of some kind of poison from one of her hidden pouches. She threw it down upon the ground and into the swarm before them. It shattered, releasing a blue cloud that began to spread across the demons. Where it touched the demons started to convulse and cease their movements.

Taking advantage of the momentary reprieve they rushed forward. There were still hundreds attempting to crawl and bite their way at them but they continued to move, Miroku throwing out more sutras and slamming his staff down into the fray while Sango hacked away at them. Even though the situation was serious he still wished he could take a moment to simply stop and watch her. Her movements were so fluid, like a dance of death, and it was captivating.

Just as they had almost reached their goal, the webs all around them shifted suddenly. Shooting out from behind them the strands wrapped themselves around Sango’s leg. Miroku saw it coming and attempted to break the hold with his shakujo, and while it severed part of it, the filaments burning from the holy power, they still held firm. More webs shot out and knocked him to the side. Sango attempted to cut away at the web surrounding her with her sword but more just took their place. As she was dragged upwards more encircled her arms, trapping her movements. She struggled against her bonds and they just gripped her tighter. 

“Sango!!” Miroku cried out, his heart missing a beat.

Kagome had run after Inuyasha when he leapt forward to fight the spider demon head on. Spiders sickened her but she forced herself to concentrate. This was no time to be acting scared. She had a job to do. Besides, she had Inuyasha with her. Even though his attention was being taken up by his fight with the mother spider she trusted that he was fully aware of her safety. Or at least she hoped he was. Preparing her bow with an arrow she stood by and attempted to hone her senses. Where was it…?

There.

“Inuyasha! The marking! It’s back there, on the far wall!” Kagome yelled, already on the move. Almost instinctively she knew she had to destroy it. Break the connection that had been formed between the corruption taking place here and where all that negative energy was flowing. Right now it was a conduit, feeding power to the person at the other end of the spell.

“I’m a little busy here!” Inuyasha shouted back, blocking a strike from one of its legs with his sword while flipping to dodge another one coming at him from behind. With a grunt he sliced his sword to the side and severed one of its legs, diving beneath its abdomen to slash at the vulnerable underbelly. Screaming in pain at the dismemberment, it rose up on its two back legs, the thing faster than it had any right to be, and avoided his attack. 

“Dammit!” Inuyasha cursed, rolling to his feet in one smooth move and vaulting to stand atop it just as webs shot out to surround him. They wrapped around his sword arm, cutting off his downward swing.

“Inuyasha!” Kagome stopped, taking aim with the arrow already notched onto her bow. She fired and the arrow flew true. Leaving behind a trail of pink it shot towards its target and struck right at the point where the strands were connected to Inuyasha, freeing him.

“Cutting it a little close there, don’t ya think?! You almost hit me!" He called to her as he avoided more webs.

“Except I didn't! A simple thank you would be nice!” She snapped back.

Inuyasha didn’t bother to reply as his attention was consumed again by his fight with the spider demon; so Kagome continued on her way to the rune. As a priestess she could take care of herself and clearly Inuyasha didn’t need or appreciate her help anyways. 

She was almost at the back wall where the rune was engraved into the concrete when she became aware of the sounds of scuttling behind her. Looking over her shoulder in horror and already knowing what it was, Kagome saw the demon spider babies advancing on her. With a surge of adrenaline she raced the rest of the way and reached it just as the demons reached her. In one smooth motion she grabbed an arrow from her quiver and notched it as she turned around firing, facing the onslaught. It cut a path through the swarm in front of her and she breathed a sigh of momentary relief.

Her sacred arrow didn’t stop them from coming though, and she found herself firing arrow after arrow. No matter how many she killed there were more to take the place of their dead siblings. The rune needed to be destroyed, she knew this as well as she knew her own name. Finally, with a cry of frustration she stopped in her assault and slammed her right hand onto the rune, her left hand still gripping her bow tightly. Her power flared, engulfing the bow in the pink halo of light with her spiritual power and simultaneously channeling power through herself into the rune to purify it. 

Using her bow as a focus Kagome formed a barrier around herself. Where the demons hit it they burned but that didn’t seem to stop them. They kept pressing in on her until they killed themselves, suicide by purification, and more crawled over the ashes to continue the charge.

Gritting her teeth she maintained her barrier while she turned her attention to the mark her right hand was pressed upon. Again she felt that thick oily sensation of evil coating the back of her throat and she fought against it. It almost seemed to reach within her attempting to taint her with its malevolence and Kagome only intensified her power, refusing to be corrupted. She was gaining ground, but with her focus split between the preservation of her barrier and the purification of the rune she couldn’t destroy it. This would require everything of her, and she simply wasn’t able to do that if she wanted to keep her barrier up.

‘Screw that.’ she thought, ‘I’m stronger than this. I can do this.’

“Sango!!”

Sango heard Miroku’s cry as she was lifted up by the webs wrapping more and more tightly around her. With her arms trapped she could no longer swing her wakizashi to free herself, and it hung from her hand, useless. Dammit. She hated spider demons.  

Triggering the hidden blades at her wrists, the curved knives sprung out and sliced through the strands enveloping her arms. In the same breath she pitched her weight forward and used her now-free sword arm to cut through the remaining webs that had captured her leg. No longer restrained she continued the movement into a somersault as she fell, resheathing her blades in the process. It was a long way down and she risked spraining her ankle but it was better than the alternative; become another sacrifice for the spider demon and her children.

She let out a soft oof as she landed, but it wasn’t the landing she was expecting. Instead of the shock of landing on hard concrete vibrating up her legs as her feet struck the ground she felt strong arms wrap around her and a very masculine grunt rumble through the warm chest she was pressed up against. Miroku must have caught me… she barely had time to think. Before she could fully register the position she found herself in, the spider babies began to encroach upon them.

“Sango! Are you ok?” Miroku’s voice came right by her ear, his breath hot. With one arm still braced around her he used the other one to swing at the demons while setting her down onto her feet. One of the demons managed to avoid his staff and jumped at him, landing on the side Sango was not being held against. Miroku let out a pained sound and Sango quickly slashed down at it with one of her wrist blades but not fast enough. It fell away, the damage done and Sango could see the blood beginning to spread from where its tiny fangs had pierced him. 

“Miroku!!” 

“I’m fine.” He told her as he held out his shakujo and focused his spiritual power on the formation of a barrier. A thin blue shield encircled them, but despite his words Sango could see the beads of sweat forming on his temple and the strain on his face. The spider babies continued to attempt to get at them but with Miroku’s power protecting them they were untouchable.

“I’m sorry but to keep you inside my barrier I have to keep you near.” Miroku told her, still holding onto her and beginning to move them forward. “Inuyasha should defeat the mother spider soon and once we retrieve your weapon you can impress me some more with your slayer prowess.” He joked weakly.

“Miroku…”

The spider bite had to have had some venom to be affecting him this much, and she felt guilty. If he hadn’t taken his attention away from the fight to catch her he wouldn’t have gotten injured. As they made their way to where her weapon lay she could feel him begin to lean more heavily on her. It was concerning. Finally they were at the wall where her Hiraikotsu lay amongst the corpses and empty egg sacs. She lifted her weapon up and turned to Miroku. His entire side was stained red where he bled and his face was pale.

“Keep your barrier up, I’m going to fight them.”

Before he could respond she left him propped against the wall and slipped from his arms to face the demons. In one smooth motion she threw her weapon and cut a swath through the hordes facing them.

‘Stupid fucking modernization of the world and stupid fucking demons.’ Inuyasha thought in irritation as he fought the mother spider. He hated not being able to use his sword’s full power; what use was the thing if he couldn’t even use it like it was meant to be used? Yet again, he would have to rely on himself but that was nothing new.

The damn thing kept chittering at him maniacally every time he missed and it was pissing him off. He was over it. It and all its damn babies needed to die and they needed to die now. Finally gaining the upper hand he leapt upwards, dodging more strikes from its remaining five legs and the gnashing of its fangs. A wave of web shot out at him and caught his left arm in its grip but wasn’t enough to stop the killing stroke of his sword. With one final slash Inuyasha beheaded the mother spider, putting an end to the fight.

“...Ba….kiiii…..” The demon croaked before the life faded from its eyes.

The webs around his arm loosened at the death of their mistress and Inuyasha pulled them off of him in disgust. Mission accomplished, he turned his attention to his companions.

Sango was throwing that giant boomerang weapon around killing spider babies left and right and Miroku had a barrier surrounding him, looking the worse for wear. Inuyasha could smell his blood and the demon poison but his friend was still alive so he figured any worrying could wait until the danger had passed. He turned to them and called out, “Hey! You guys good there?”

“Doing great, Inuyasha. Thanks for asking,” came Miroku’s sarcastic response. 

Sango didn’t bother to reply and just kept slaying demons, and Inuyasha had to admit she was damn good at what she did. She moved like a well-oiled machine.  

Where was that damn girl though…?

“Hey! Where the fuck is Kagome?!” 

Even as he asked the question, Inuyasha could smell her scent coming from the opposite side of the building.

“She followed you when you decided to fight the mother spider.” Miroku answered, his breathing more labored now. 

Inuyasha wasn’t listening anymore, was already running towards the far wall where he could see Kagome. The pink glow of a barrier surrounded her while she held her ground against the horde attempting to break through her defenses. What the hell? It was his job to protect her, his duty and she ran off with a whole host of demons on her tail. Did she have no regard for her own safety? He grudgingly admitted to himself that she was doing a good job of keeping them off of her but she couldn't maintain it forever. She had to know that.

He made quick work of the remaining demons and Kagome released her barrier with a gasp of relief. She opened her eyes fully and he was swallowed up in her gaze for the space of a heartbeat. She annoyed the hell out of him but damn if she didn’t find ways to get under his skin, and not always in an unpleasant way.

“Hey what exactly do you think you’re doing here, huh?” He demanded.

“Destroying the rune.” She answered shortly, turning all her focus onto the aforementioned rune her right hand was placed over. It was a nasty piece of work; he could smell the black magic pouring from it in waves. It was acrid and foul. If Kagome said it needed to be destroyed then he trusted her enough to believe her. Trust…

As he sheathed his sword his thoughts went back to that day she had invited him into her bedroom. She had told him she trusted him implicitly. And she had said it so easily, with no hesitation like it should have been obvious. That wasn’t something he was used to hearing, especially not from someone like her - a priestess. Sure he had an agreement with her family but it didn’t guarantee something like trust. That was something that didn’t come to him easily and it was difficult for him to understand how she could extend something as precious as that so readily.

Kagome’s power flared and she focused everything she had on the purification of the rune. Now that Inuyasha had killed the rest of the demons she didn’t have to split her attention and power in half trying to accomplish two things at once. She had been getting close, but it was definitely taking its toll on her. Her legs were starting to get wobbly from her sustained assault.

With a final burst she poured her all into the rune, purifying it and rendering it useless and inert. As the purity of her power consumed the black mark Kagome heard a scream of outrage echoing inside her head. 

‘You meddling little girl...you and your friends are next…!’ a shrill feminine voice shrieked. And then it was gone and she was alone inside her own head again and she was so tired.

Kagome took a step towards Inuyasha and before she realized what was happening her legs gave out. All at once the exhaustion of the confrontation hit her and her vision went a little fuzzy. She had used more energy than she realized, fighting a battle on two fronts for as long as she had.

Warm arms enveloped and supported her while she struggled to regain her bearings. Inuyasha. With a sigh she buried her face into his chest for a moment. She just needed a moment. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for. 

“Kagome! Hey, Kagome!! Don’t you faint on me!”

There was genuine concern in his voice and she thought she must really be tired because she had to be imagining it. This was Inuyasha, afterall. With an effort she opened her eyes and lifted her head, pulling back slightly to meet his golden gaze. For a moment she was speechless. He was looking at her in actual worry, brows creased. As she stared he moved one of his hands to cradle her face.

“Hey! You ok?”

“Yes. Just tired...used a lot of power.” She finally replied.

At her answer he removed his hands from her and she felt bereft for a moment at the loss of his touch. Her strength was returning though so she was able to stand on her own two legs again. It was over. For tonight anyways.

Sango finished off the last of the demons with a speed she didn’t know she possessed. There was an ever present worry for Miroku in the back of her mind as she fought and the quicker they killed these demons the quicker they could get him patched up and healed. The guilt continued to eat at her. If she was a more talented slayer the webs would never have even caught her and Miroku would never have been injured.

When the last one lay in its death throes Sango rushed back to the monk’s side as he dropped his barrier, removing her slayer mask while settling Hiraikotsu across her back and kneeling beside him. He looked at her and gave a weak smile and she didn’t return it. There was no way she could smile seeing him like this.

“Hang on, Miroku.” She told him as she wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders and stood, helping him to his feet. He leaned on her heavily, his breathing ragged in her ear.

“My dear Sango...is that worry in your voice for me?” He quipped. 

“Yes. And shut up. Now isn’t the time to be making jokes.”

“Sorry.” He laughed feebly. “But I’m honestly touched by your concern.”  

Before she could respond again Inuyasha and Kagome had made their way to them. Sango felt relief at the sight of the rest of their companions. Now they could get out of here and get Miroku the treatment he needed.

“Miroku! What happened?” Kagome gasped as she caught sight of him and noticed his condition for the first time.

“Probably got bit. Idiot.” Inuyasha answered but he said it mildly, no heat in his words. He came around to the other side of Miroku and helped Sango support his weight.

“He’s not an idiot. It was my fault.” Sango snapped, not in the mood.

“First your concern, and now you’re defending me...am I dreaming?” Miroku joked. 

“I swear, if you keep making jokes I’m going to drop you.” Sango warned.

“Like I said-- an idiot.” Inuyasha remarked. Sango didn’t argue with his assessment this time. Miroku sighed in defeat.

“What are we going to do about all these demon corpses? There’s just so many.” Kagome worried. “If someone were to come upon them…”

“I’ll call the slayers in the morning and get them to take care of the removal of the bodies.” Sango replied. “Right now I’m more concerned about Miroku.”

“Of course. He comes first.” Kagome agreed. “Where should we be taking him?”

“Sango’s place is closer than mine.” Miroku input, his voice strained. His hair was damp with sweat.

Night had fallen across the city as they emerged from the abandoned warehouse. They made their way to Sango’s apartment as quickly as they could, avoiding detection from all human passersby. Fortunately thanks to the shroud of darkness night offered it was easily accomplished. Once they walked into her place she and Inuyasha brought him to her bedroom and laid him down onto her bed.

After he was settled Sango removed his jacket and grabbed a pair of scissors from her kitchen drawer to cut off his shirt so they could see the full extent of the damage. She had Kagome go grab her first aid kit while she set about her task. 

“I hope you weren’t too attached to this shirt.” She told him as she began to cut the material away.

“If you wanted me naked in your bed all you had to do was ask.” Miroku joked back weakly.

“I thought I told you now wasn’t the time for jokes.” Sango replied sternly. Inuyasha was right. He was an idiot. Nevertheless, the fact he was still able to crack his one-liners was a good sign and she took a little comfort in that.

Once she was done removing his shirt she took a good look at his chest and grimaced. It was bad. The wound on his left side was still oozing blood, but worse than that and much more concerning were the streaks of purple radiating out from the site of the wound that spoke of the infection from the demonic poison. This would require a purification or it would spread to his heart and likely kill him.

Kagome returned with the first aid kit and got her first real look at the wound. “Oh no. I’m going to have to perform a purification,” she said, confirming Sango’s thoughts.

Inuyasha roused himself from where he leaned against the open bedroom door. “With what power? You’re already wiped out from the fight! You almost fainted, or did you forget?”

Kagome scowled. “I’m not that weak. I’m a Head Priestess, or did you forget? I just needed a moment to collect myself and I’m fine now.”

“Can’t we take him to the shrine and get someone else to do it?” Inuyasha argued.

“There’s no time!” Kagome burst. “Do you want him to live?? Because if I don’t do this now he’s not going to. I know you’re just trying to look out for me because that’s your job but I’m perfectly capable, ok?”

Sango glanced at Miroku and saw his eyes had closed, his breaths coming in short pants. 

“Isn’t Miroku supposed to be your best friend?” She asked, growing a little angry with Inuyasha. She couldn’t fault him for trying to protect Kagome, but at the expense of his best friend?

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. Of course I don’t want him to die. That stupid monk and I go way back and I’ve saved his ass more times than I can count. It doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to him but my obligation to Kagome and her family comes first.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this.” Kagome told Inuyasha. She knelt on the left side of the bed and placed her hands over Miroku’s wound. Sango sat on the edge of the bed on the other side and before she could think better of it grabbed Miroku’s hand, holding it tightly. It was cool to the touch. 

Memories of a similar situation with her father were surfacing in her mind. Against her will she was starting to become emotional. Miroku had put himself at risk to catch her, to protect her. Why had he done that…? The man had only known her for a week. She barely gave him the time of day and yet he put his life on the line for hers. More and more it seemed she may have misjudged him. 

Kagome set about purifying the spider bite, a pink glow coming from her hands as she focused her power into his wound. Miroku grimaced and Sango imagined it had to be painful. His eyes opened and locked with hers and she couldn’t bring herself to look away from his indigo stare. She wondered what she looked like to him right now. Was her face as open and vulnerable as she was feeling inside at that moment? 

Several long minutes passed and finally the demonic poison from his injury was gone. Finished, Kagome stood unsteadily and Inuyasha came over to help her. Without a word he picked her up and she didn’t protest. She had to be bone tired. Sango noticed how carefully Inuyasha cradled her in his arms and wondered if perhaps there was something there between them after all. As the half demon carried Kagome from the bedroom Sango turned her attention back to the monk lying half naked in her bed. He was still looking at her, but there was the smallest smile playing across his lips now. Swallowing, Sango released his hand and went to get the first aid kit left on her dresser. He let her hand go after one final squeeze.

Carefully, she cleaned the wound and wiped away all the blood. She tried to keep her ministrations professional and definitely tried not to notice how perfect his abs were as she worked. He had an undeniably nice body and she was a woman so she couldn’t be blamed for appreciating it, she told herself. It was perfectly natural.

Reaching a hand under his back she prompted him to sit up while she wrapped bandages around him. He placed a hand on her shoulder to steady himself as she patched him up. When she was finally done she helped him lay back down and she could see the exhaustion on his face. This night had definitely taken its toll on him. 

Without thinking she reached a hand up and stroked his hair, wiping away the sweat and brushing his bangs from his forehead. As she started to withdraw her hand he caught it with one of his own. She glanced at him in surprise.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue holding your hand.” Miroku told her. Searching his face she found no trace of his usual humor. It was an honest request. Blushing, she swallowed and nodded her consent before finding her words.

“I suppose. After all, it’s my fault you were injured.”

“Sango. Don’t blame yourself.” He told her seriously, then smiled, “Besides, I had to protect that flawless body of yours.”

“Go to sleep before I knock you out myself.”

“As my lady wishes.”

Sango rolled her eyes but she didn’t let go of his hand. His eyes closed and eventually his breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. Vaguely she heard the door to her apartment open and close and could only assume Inuyasha was taking Kagome home. Her own eyes began to grow heavy and before she knew it she was asleep as well.

Gradually she began to wake up, and her first thought was to wonder when her pillow became so firm. Not that it mattered, whatever she was resting upon was warm and comfortable and she gave a soft sigh of contentment and burrowed in deeper. A hand brushed through her hair gently and with a jolt of realization the previous night came back to her. She gave a soft gasp as her eyes opened and the hand stroking her hair stilled.

“You awake?” Miroku’s voice asked.

She had passed out next to him, her chest pressed against his side, her head on his own very naked chest, still holding his hand. The intimacy of their positions was not lost on her and she blushed as she slowly lifted herself up to look at him. Hesitantly she met his eyes and her heart began to pound so hard she wondered if he could hear it too. There was none of his usual teasing flirtatiousness present, instead she saw a gentle affection...and heat. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Good morning.” He said, and his accompanying smile made her breath catch.

“M-morning.” She managed. “I’m sorry, I...I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” This was so embarrassing. She should get up right now but she couldn’t seem to make herself move.

“I assure you I’ve enjoyed every second of it.”

“I...I’m...” ‘I’m sure you did’ she wanted to say but couldn’t get the words out.

If she leaned forward just a little more...their lips would touch. It was such a tempting thought. And she knew he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. His lips looked so inviting and she licked her own reflexively. His gaze shifted to her lips at that and Sango held her breath. She couldn’t believe how much she wanted to kiss him. Hadn’t she decided she wasn’t going to give in to him and his flirtations? It was a bad idea but it didn’t make her want it any less.

With an effort she pulled away and although she thought she saw disappointment in his eyes he let her go. For her it wouldn’t be just a kiss and she wouldn’t do that to herself. It was dangerous how quickly he made her forget her self control. Distance. She needed distance.

“I’m glad you’re ok. I need to go call the slayers about the demon corpses. And take a shower. I’m sure you need to get home.” She said and hastily retreated from the bedroom before he could say anything else.

Barricading herself in the bathroom she made the call to her father and when she was done with that she stripped down and turned on the water. She knew she was being ridiculous, not to mention obvious about avoiding him, but she couldn’t face him right now. Her heart was still beating way too fast. Leaning against the wall she waited until she heard the door to her apartment open and close before she relaxed. He was gone.

Good. That would give her time to compose herself. Next time she saw him she would have herself back under control again. Her walls would be back up and she would no longer be thinking about how his lips would have tasted or how it had felt to be pressed up against him. Even if she was starting to...feel things for him, she wouldn’t let it show. She refused to consider the possibility that she was more than just a challenge to him. If she did that she might start hoping for things and that would be even more dangerous.

~☆~

Kagome finished dressing in a navy sweater and a simple gray skirt that landed mid-thigh and exited her bedroom, needing to talk to Inuyasha. He had said he had something important to tell her last night but she had been so damn tired he hadn't had a chance before she passed out. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought of how he must have carried her home and, more shockingly, tucked her into bed. Thinking about it made her blush a little. It was so at odds with the side of Inuyasha she was most familiar with-- brash, gruff, and kind of a jerk.

As she finished her descent down the stairs she heard the voices of her grandfather and Inuyasha. The half demon’s voice abruptly cut off at her appearance.

“Oh, there ya are. Finally.”

“Good morning. What’s going on?”

“Kagome. Inuyasha has just told me something concerning.” Her grandfather said.

“Does this have to do with the thing you said you needed to tell me last night?” She asked.

“Yeah. When I killed the demon it said somethin’ right before it died. ‘Baki’.” Inuyasha replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kagome’s face scrunched up in thought. “Baki? What does that mean, though?” Something suddenly occurred to her. “Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Right when I destroyed the rune I heard a voice in my head. Like it was talking to me through the connection I had made.”

“What?! Why didn’t you say something sooner??” Inuyasha demanded, and Kagome could tell it was out of concern for her but it still annoyed her. She couldn’t help but poke the bear a little.

“I was a little busy passing out in your arms if you recall.”

“In my arms?” 

“That’s right. Or did someone else carry me home and tuck me into bed?”

“I-I--...W--whatever!” He sputtered, reddening a bit. “What did the voice say?”

Kagome couldn’t stop the giggle that came out, earning herself a glare. That was fine. He cared, if only just a little bit and that was enough for now.

“It was a female voice. She called me a meddling little girl and said me and my friends were next.”

“A female voice, you say?” Her grandfather asked, and they turned to look at him. “This only confirms what I have feared.”

“Grandpa, what is it?”

“Years ago there was a beautiful and powerful priestess...but she became too greedy, too vain. She turned dark. After she was found to be practicing black magic she was cast out from her shrine. Her name was whispered about throughout all the shrines as a warning. I believe the spellbook missing from our own shrine was taken by her. It seems she is now consorting with evil demons, but that is hardly surprising.”

“How do you know it’s this dark priestess, though?” Kagome questioned.

“Because Inuyasha told me the last words of the demon. ‘Baki.’ The name of this dark priestess is Tsubaki. It is too much to be a coincidence.”

“If she’s making deals with demons now then how did she manage to steal the spellbook? The aura of the demons on her should have kept her out despite her spiritual powers. They would be too tainted to break through our wards, after all.” Kagome pointed out.

“She must have an accomplice. It would certainly explain how she was able to manage so much chaos in such a short amount of time.” He replied.

Kagome was quiet for a moment. All the pieces of the puzzle they currently had were starting to fit together. 

“Hey, old man.” Inuyasha spoke up. “Do you have any idea what she’s tryin’ to achieve here?”

“Tsubaki craved power as well as eternal life and beauty, or so they say. She is a jealous and vain woman, and very dangerous. I would imagine this is all a means to accomplish her ends. It's hard to say.”

“So how do we find her?” 

“I think I have an idea.” Kagome said. “There’s a location ritual I can perform. I already know the signature of the runes she’s been leaving behind. I can use that and the residual energy left behind from the telepathic connection she opened up with me.”

“She threatened you and you’re just gonna open yourself up to her??” Inuyasha exclaimed. 

“Then what do you suggest?” Kagome shot back.

“Not that!”

“That's not an answer!”

“I don’t like it.”

“Well I’m not going to sit around and let people get hurt when I could do something to help!”

“Listen, it’s my job to protect you. Kinda hard to do that when you keep throwin’ yourself into harm’s way.”

“Then protect me. Stand guard. Do whatever you have to do. But I’m performing this ritual. You can either help me or get out of the way but you’re not going to stop me.” Her tone was fierce. She could tell Inuyasha was surprised at her vehemence, and to be honest she kind of was too, but she wasn’t going to be kept on the sidelines of this fight. She wanted to do her part.

“Fine.” The half demon finally relented. “This is fucking stupid but fine. If you insist. But I’m gonna be with you the whole time.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

[pollylynn]

Title: The Glass Cell WC: 1600

“You know reality isn’t fiction, right?”  — Dr. Clark Murray, A Death in the Family (1 x 10)

She wears a dress of her mom’s to prom, he decides. He imagines it in detail—cut-work lace over taffeta in bright emerald green, a satin empire waist band a shade darker, a full A-line skirt. He envisions her with mismatched quasi-punky hair hanging down to half hide her dramatic eye-makeup. She stands out, of course. In a sea of off-the-shoulder, halter neck, heavy fabrics in primary colors—crayon red, royal blue, black, black, white, white, red again, with an ill-advised plunge neckline. She stands out. 

She likes her date, though she doesn’t exactly let him know that. He imagines that, too. She doesn’t exactly let anyone know that she likes this boy on the verge of being a man, because she’s not sure that she’s supposed to. He’s quiet and sensitive. Not a dork—not outright unpopular, but a dark horse candidate for asking her in the first place, and her unexpected, unhesitating yes had sent shockwaves through the eleventh grade. 

She is awkward on the dance floor. She is a vision in her mother’s dress, but there is architecture to it. There is a hidden foundation that requires time travel of her ribs, her spine, her hips, and her date—the boy on the verge of being a man—has no idea where to put his hands during the slow songs. She has no idea where to put hers, so she locks her fingers behind his neck. She breathes Let’s get out of here well before Boyz II Men get to the spoken-word part, and they do. 

They race across the ballroom with their fingers linked, laughing like fools. They leave her friends, his friends, the tiny intersection of their friends to gawp as they bang through the double doors.They roam the streets around the hotel in a spiral pattern, talking and talking. 

She shivers and pulls the cream-colored silk-and-seed-pearl wrap close around her. With well-intentioned gallantry, he tries to drop his tuxedo jacket over her shoulders. He misses, and they both watch in horror as the long tails drag through something nameless and awful before he can catch it. 

The hem of her dress is dirty and her mom’s dyed-to-match pumps with their rhinestone butterfly clips will never be the same. But they share french fries at a nameless diner. They share a tentative kiss in the back of a cab as the boy escorts her home. They share a burning, frenzied, back-against-the-glass follow-up in the doorway of her apartment as the sun comes up. 

She misses curfew by a lot. Her mom brings her coffee and toast in bed long after morning has tipped over into afternoon. She asks a million impertinent questions about the boy she likes, about the evening, about her plans to save up for what should be an astonishing dry cleaning bill. 

This is how it happens. This is what he decides. 

**********************

She sprains her ankle on move-in day. He knows. He sees clearly how the events unfold. 

She has a plan. She has keys in hand by 8:01 am. She has a spot for the van with her things, hardly a block away, and her second-hand office chair can serve as a makeshift dolly. She has almost nothing. It’ll be two dozen quick trips, she figures, but the apartment is full of junk. 

Oh yeah, the creepy building manager tells her, last guy skipped out. 

The junk is her problem, apparently. Her problem. She plumps down on some kind of ottoman and immediately regrets it as an oily smell rises up. It’s not just the ottoman, though. The whole place reeks of food and animal fat. She registers the distant clatter of dishes, of silverware, and the hiss of a hot grill rising up through the floor. 

She props her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. She wastes ten precious minutes of the three hours before she has to have the van back contemplating the space that is smaller, dingier, filthier than the unit she saw when she signed the lease. 

She hauls herself up and lugs the ottoman and a broken laundry basket full of dirty t-shirts with her down to the dumpster. She bumps milk crates full of electronics odds and ends down the stairs. She carries awkward lamps like jousting lances. 

It’s a box of kitchen things that does her in. It’s a mile wide and heavy. She knows she should unpack and repack it. She should make two trips, three, four, but she’s tired of this. She misses a step. She goes down to the landing. She can feel the rush of heat into the ankle she has wrenched badly. 

There’s a neighbor—a pair of neighbors—who hear the commotion. They rescue her, Cleo and Pete, who are just a little older than she is. They extricate her from underneath the box. They help her into their apartment and give her an ice pack. They give her a stiff drink and an ace bandage. 

They share stories about the guy who skipped out in the middle of the night—his questionable activities and his even more questionable taste in music. They order pizza and won’t take her money when she offers. The three of them agree that the building manager almost certainly collects clown paintings by serial killers. 

They insist that she spend the night on their couch. She protests. She tries to put weight on her ankle, then gives in. She spends her first night not in her first apartment staring at a ceiling that belongs to strangers with tears leaking from the corners of her eyes because her fucking ankle hurts. Because she doesn’t have the money to pay for another day of the damned van. Because her mother is dead and she is alone in the world. 

He knows all this. He sees it clearly. 

************************

He cannot picture the shadows on her skin in that basement room. He sees the backs of his own hands criss-crossed infinitely with weak, unflattering light coming in through the cage. But he cannot see hers. Would her fingernails be as neat and no-fuss as they are today, or would they have been ragged with the pain of all the long years before she made it that far? 

Would she—and the possibility is like a lattice work of burning hot ice spreading through him from the inside—would she have gotten the chain for her mother’s ring when she first put on the uniform? Was there a time in that dingy apartment—in her college days with her dad drowning and her left wrist as yet bare—was there a time when when she would have slipped it on her finger each morning instead of ducking her head to let the delicate links of a think gold chain slither down over her collar bones?

He doesn’t know, any more than he knows if she would have risked the rickety table with its hard, back-breaking chair. He cannot say whether she would have waited for the most desolate hour each possible night, then set to work right where he did, or if she would have, instead, arranged herself on the cracked tile floor, knees drawn up and hunched over the tight beam of a penlight. 

He looks for signs of her in the creases and ragged edges, the rusty indentation of an ancient paperclip removed and replaced, the corner of a thin stack torn away along with a now-missing staple in a moment of frustration. He scours the faded, triple-carbon paperwork and holds the glossy, terrible photos at an oblique angle to the light from his desk lamp, the light from his computer screen. In the riot of smudged, overlapping fingerprints he wonders which might be hers. 

It’s no use, this afterthought of a search. She is nowhere. There is no detail remembered from his own few hours spent in that basement room, no physical trace of her presence in the file itself that sparks the rush of absolute clarity with which he envisions her at the junior prom, her on move-in day at that first three-story walk-up that smelled of chicken wings. 

She is nowhere, because he has never once bothered to imagine her—not once. He relives the abrupt sting of her rapped out pair of questions—You don’t think I’ve haven’t been down there? You don’t think I haven’t memorized every line in that file? He sits, staring at the file now with tide of shame advancing, receding, advancing. 

He didn’t think. In all these weeks, he has not once thought about the space between the wound delivered and the scars she bears. He has not once thought about the dreams she must have cast off, what it must have cost her to forge a path to that basement room. He has not once considered what those long years must have been like. He has never stopped to ask himself how the woman she is now—the relentless, fiercely intelligent, extraordinary woman he has come to know—could ever have come to accept her mother’s death as a random, wayward event.

He thinks now. He asks himself now. He tries, now, to picture the shadows on her skin, the tense outline of her body and the tight beam of a penlight. He tries to imagine that lonely work, but he can’t. 

She is gone from him. She is nowhere.  A/N: This is an especially weird not!thing. I had to decide that Castle has the actual Johanna Beckett file that he’s taken, not just copies. That doesn’t make much sense, but the autopsy photos look to be originals, complete with labels and handling wear. Fixation on those details is just a distraction from how not a thing this is. 

images via homeofthenutty

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

Your Zenith Fades (Big Bang 2019)

Summary: 

Papa Emeritus the Third, former star of the ‘Ghost’ project, is not taking very well to retirement. After assaulting Cardinal Copia in front of an entire party, Papa seeks out advice to come to peace with both the end of his career and life in general. His father is less than impressed, per usual. But the Third finds his Catharsis in the most unexpected places- his two older brothers. Who have their own burdens to bare when it came to retirement. 

 Tags: Violence, property destruction, Copia getting sucker punched, yelling, made up first names, mentions of sex, drinking, smoking, mentions of drugs possibly, possible blood, and Three being a huge hedonist in general.

(Amazing Art by @sleepybatart, find the original here!! -> [Link] )

Read Entire Fic Under the Cut! (Long!!)

He had that dream again. 

He had been suffering the same one for so long he forgot what a decent night’s sleep felt like. Just the same damn scene playing in his mind night after horrid night. A broken record stuck in a loop with no end in sight; seeking to torment him like an everlasting Hell.

He never remembered the dreams no matter how many times he awoke in a cold sweat. Only the recurring feeling of shame and humiliation lingered in his gut as the memories fled. Even if the images faded they always manage to reduce him to a shaking, flustered mess. Scared like a child with the fear of a boogeyman under his bed. If he thought hard enough, he might remember an inkling of the vision... 

The beginning was always the same, masquerading as the one recent memory he desperately tried to repress. The same that haunted him every moment of his waking life. Rising from the depths of his subconscious like a vengeful spirit no matter how hard he ignored the truth. The last fleeting glimpses of his final performance flashed before his eyes.

He saw the lights of the show beaming down, drowning the band in multi-colors. Him being on stage front and center, where he belonged. Arms in the air, heart beating to the cords of the Bass. The air buzzing with the chanting of the crowd as their last song rang out. Most importantly, his basking in the glory of it all. The audience cheering- their praise, their adoration sounding out all for him. The audience loved him, and he loved every moment of it.

In the dream it replayed how he went from preening to the attention to being ripped off his feet. Plucked from the stage as painfully as a feather ripped from a wing. Two sets of hands viciously grasping his arms and tugging him from his perch above the crowd. Confusion and panic blinded him as he kicked and flailed, struggling to break free. Head turning to the shocked faces of the crowd who cried out for him- demanded he be brought back! His own cries dying in the thunder of hysterics and instruments being dropped. 

Above it all, one voice booming out slow and distorted- piercing through his entire being like a dagger through the heart. 

‘il medioevo comincia ora...’

The two security guards dragging him past the backdrops and curtains where none could see. The backstage slowly turning pitch black and oppressive. He would gape helplessly as the floors start to become sticky and dark, like tar. The unrelenting grips never yielded, and carried him on as though he weren’t stuck on the ground. 

Shadows churned the farther they plunged into the dark. Twisted tiny forms pulled out of the tar, hunched and deformed and dripping from the sludge. His eyes were never fast enough to discern what shapes they mocked. Only able to hear the hisses of the little monstrosities as the spit and snapped at his ankles. Their beady eyes bright pin pricks amongst the suffocating darkness. The sickening squeaks slowly dying into fits of choking laughter. Jeers and cackles that grew into a crescendo of booming voices from every direction. Louder and louder until it pounded in his ears like a demonic heart beat. 

The sticky shadow shapes always stretched and grew as they shrieked their mirth. They danced mockingly in the periphery of his vision. But he knew what they had become as they pointed and mocked him as he passed. Their bright eyes now shining in the masks of nameless ghouls. All of them screaming after him, chanting the same word over and over.

Failure. Failure. FAILURE! 

Before he could ever beg them to stop, the darkness would break into sudden neon light. His feet now dangling at the mouth of a vast chasm. Fire and brimstone rolling within its belly as an orange glow painted his face. He gazed down horrified as he realized it was Hell itself. His mouth opened to scream and no sound came out. The heat unbearable and the flames far below burning his skin as sweat broke on his forehead. 

He turned to plead with his captors one last time for salvation- knowing they were eager to cast him into the abyss. To his horror, the guards behind him were gone. Instead his own abandoned ghouls, Alpha and Omega, leered back at him. Their masks now twisted and senseless with mouths cracked into their surface, one a smile the other a frown. One to mock his predicament, and one to weep for his damnation.  

Shamelessly he begged for their forgiveness. That they return and join him, like old times. If only they accepted and set him free. He could prove himself worthy of their respect and loyalty. Their fate could be different this time!

Alpha laughed a cruel, sinister sound that made his blood run cold. But not Omega. Omega only sighed remorsefully. The only ghoul he ever admired shook his head softly. Pity and sorrow shining in his blue eyes before they blinked into black depths under his mask.

“Can’t you see that you’re lost?” 

He screamed as he was plunged into the mouth of the underworld. 

---

Smoking.

Since when was the last time he smoked? An awful habit that ruined his tailored clothes and threatened to stain his teeth. Yet there he was, ruining his good designer button up with the scent. It reminded him of how many cigarettes his father and his serpent of a mistress used to suck down growing up. Papa had hated it then, and he hated it now- despite inhaling another lungful of noxious fumes. But it was intoxicating and comforting, nonetheless. It’s not what Papa had particularly wanted… but it’s what he needed right now. 

Aside from countless bottles of wine and staring at the wall, the nicotine was the only thing that seemed to calm his nerves. Truth be told, it was a nice change of pace. Papa was getting bored of guzzling down his prized collection of vintages. His wine cellar was virtually bare and his personal liquor cabinet was now bone dry. Worse yet, he took up drinking alone. Not willing to find company, Papa become content to hold himself in his chambers and become a social hermit. 

Hell’s Gates, it had been weeks since he even adorned his chasuble and greeted his adoring masses in sermon. The idea of facing the outside only made him drown in resentment- let alone finding a single being to spend time with! It was much easier for him to drink and scowl at nothing. At least the walls didn’t need to be woo’d and charmed into his bed… Papa’s nose scrunched at the thought. How long had it been since he last had a full bed? 

Lately, not even his favorite past time brought him any joy. His once hedonistic luxuries only made him feel hollow and bitter. It had been one too many times that he cast out Sisters from his bed too early in the night. Him feeling as jaded and unfulfilled as they did when they sobbed on their way out. Papa lost count of the Sisters that fled from his chambers with disheveled habits and tears from broken promises.  After one particularly bold and scorned sister screamed at him, Papa stopped trying to sate any carnal hungers. 

Her words constantly rang in his head after their short stint together. The Sister shrieking that he was a fiend, dried up, and worse, a total has-been. The sheer amount of willpower it had taken to not throw her out on her ass was astronomical. Instead, Papa had slammed the door behind her so hard the hinges broke. He was not proud to admit it, but it set him off to the point he ripped the door off its frame altogether. 

Papa slammed his hand down on the table next to him- making the ashtray tremble. It royally pissed him off thinking back on the memory! To think a lowly child of sin could talk to him so terribly, so LOWLY. What was he? A groveling ghoul? A piece of dirt? Papa could recall many sisters who would eat their habits before even THINKING of addressing him so disdainfully. And now what? Just because his singing career ended, he was no longer worthy of their respect. 

The glowing end of his cigarette consumed the last of the white paper, letting the ashes flutter down as he inhaled too quickly. His black and white lips pulled back in a sneer as the grey flecks fell down his white shirt. With one last resentful puff of smoke, he finally squashed the butt of the damned thing into the marble tray. Papa watched with fleeting interest as the embers died in burnt ends and scorched varnish.

Much like he did...  

Papa barely registered the sound of his chamber doors being opened. He was far too engrossed with his thoughts to even care. Lucifer himself could have strolled in with all the gold and whores in the world and Papa would not have paid any mind. A sardonic side of him was tempted to wish for an assassin. How amusing would that have been? Papa doubted many would have minded, including his own father or the snake of a woman running the damned Church...

The Anti-pope continued to stare ahead at nothing as footsteps quietly approached. The shades of his sunglasses concealed his mismatched eyes as they followed the figure coming out of his periphery. 

“Do you have what I asked for?” 

Blunt. The charming lilt to his honeyed words long gone. Papa doubted he could even force himself to be polite if he tried. All he cared about at that moment was the Brother of Sin in front of him. The man looked ready to keel over and die from nerves alone. Shaky hands held out the all too familiar shape of a magazine- something Papa found himself hoarding lately. He was keen to see why the newest publishing of that Rat was causing such a stir. 

“Y-yes, your Unholi-”

Papa snatched the book from his hands. The laminated cover almost ripped from the sheer force. With a yelp the Brother relinquished the magazine. If he had claws, he might have torn the Brother’s hands to shreds. The Brother looked ready to turn heel and flee. Papa scoffed at the pathetic display and flicked his bare hand- long shed of his perfectly tailored white gloves.

“Go.” 

He didn’t even bother watching the young man retreat, too engrossed in satiating his curiosity. The only reason he would stomach holding ANYTHING with that Rat in it. Papa had expected to see a flattering portrait- like the ones he used to take. But he was met with the sound of his own shrieking before he could even process what he saw. 

There, staring back at him was a mockery of his own face. 

His own HEAD- messy and decapitated. Held in that RAT’S arms as he looked stupidly at the camera. His own FATHER even posed behind the man- trying to look intimidating. The page didn’t need words to illustrate their meaning. 

An era was dead. Killed in cold blood by the next. HIS era was gone. 

Ashes were sprayed everywhere as the side table was sent soaring across the vast chamber. The marble of the ashtray shattered as cigarette buds littered the floor. The cover was torn from the book, the mockery of his visage destroyed as it was ripped to shreds. Pieces of the laminated paper fluttered limply to the ground in messy piles. Soon page after page followed until the magazine was no more. Papa stomped on the shreds with the heel of his black shoes- crushing them with all his weight and might.

Another howl and his hands were in his hair- pulling at the raven locks and digging into his scalp. But the pain from his nails brought him no respite. Instead he reached for the chair. There was the splintering crack of wood and it too was thrown the opposite way. Glass shattered as the ruined chair crashed through the balcony doors. The curtains that covered them soon followed, and the decorative vases were next. Piece by piece, the sitting room was destroyed; every tasteful decoration, every rich tapestry and painting. All ripped and shredded until nothing covered the walls, and the floor was cast in ruin. And in the center of the storm was Papa, rage the only thing that registered in his mind. 

It might have been minutes, it could have been hours. But the third Emeritus did not stop until the entire chamber was in total carnage. The rage did not subside as one might have hoped. Instead, the wreckage only fueled it. Papa’s whole body shook, boiling with barely concealed wrath. Taking his anger out on his sitting chambers was not helping. It only made him feel worse.There was no rational thought as he stomped over the broken furniture; only the unquenchable need to rend and tear anything and everything that crossed his path. And that path ended with one goal.

Papa Emeritus the Third didn’t even notice walking over the disappointed look of his father’s face. The stoic visage of the Grand Papa on the sliver of paper was swept aside by a new breeze and lost in the chaos. 

----

Even being consumed by near blinding rage did not stop Papa from navigating the vast halls of the cathedral. The distant cacophony of laughs and muted chatter aided him in his search. The third Emeritus stumbled all the way down the corridor, following the noise. His haze prevented him from making out the words, but it wasn’t necessary. Papa merely focused on the distinct, awkward gait of one voice. The annoying pitch of one man that stoked his hatred into hot coals.  

When he crossed the threshold of the hallway, he found himself in one of the many open rooms. There were many bodies around, yet none he cared to even focus on. They were blurs to his racing thoughts and need for blood. Papa was only distantly aware of being acknowledged. The pleasant greetings and his title being acknowledged were ignored. Instead, Papa’s eyes instantly locked on one red figure in the back of the room. One that was chuckling and nodding along to a conversation, as though Papa had not just entered. The Emeritus pushed pass all of the confused outstretched hands and eager faces, leaving a trail of shocked eyes following him. 

His eyes never left the damned Cardinal, watching as Copia continued his conversation nonchalantly. The red of Copia’s cassock bothered his eyes as much as the man’s face. The rat like way the man moved almost made Papa sick. From the twitches of Copia’s mouth to the beady eagerness of his eyes, Papa hated every inch of the Cardinal. Worst of all were eyes that looked far too much like Papa’s own. The Anti-Pope felt unbridled fury wash over him the closer he got. His whole body trembled with more violently with every step to wear he could barely see straight. 

The small ghoul speaking with Copia must have noticed Papa first, staring wide eyed under his chromed mask. He doubted Copia would have noticed his presence at all had his conversation not halted. The Cardinal has the audacity to seem shocked at Papa’s disheveled appearance- but offered a polite smile anyway. Copia bowed his head in proper respect and sheepishly raised a gloved hand in greeting. 

“Good evening, Papa. How are you this-?”

The question was cut off by a chorus of shrieks and gasps. 

Papa towered over the crumpled figure of Copia, his knuckles screaming in agony from the strike to the Cardinal’s face. His foot came down on the Rat’s side. Listening to the high grunts Copia let out only spurred him on. The sound made Papa ravenous for blood, for the chance to maim and destroy. Lifting his leg back Papa brought it down heavily for another series of blows to the Cardinal’s gut. He paid no mind to the mortified crowd that shrank away from attack. Copia desperately tried to pull away with them, retching and gasping for breath as he clutched his stomach. The Cardinal would not get the chance to run as he was kicked onto his back once more in a shower of stomps. 

A metallic skittering on the floor was what brought Papa out of his savage mindset. He saw the glint of crystals shining up at him as something hit his foot. Papa realized Copia’s Grucifex, made of the finest stones to signify his meager office, had become detached by the violent assault. It laid face up, somehow in one piece despite its snapped chain. Papa’s nostrils flared as he saw a tight, leather clad hand weakly reached for it. A sickening crunch echoed as Papa’s dress shoe heel came down on the hand. Copia let out a howl of agony before retracting his arm, holding it pathetically to his body like a wounded animal.

Another crack and the Grucifex was mangled under his shoe. Papa kicked the offending jewelry across the tiles, ignoring the stray crystals that flew in every direction. 

“You might have all of them fooled,” he spat, a wide hand gesturing to the horrified onlookers, emphasized by another jab with his heel. “You might have the world groveling at your feet, now. But you are nothing.”

Papa didn’t stop, he physically couldn’t if he wanted to. Had it not been for the large ghoul that ran up, he might have kept going until Copia was bloody pulp under his feet. The ghoul shoved the Emeritus away by the shoulders. Papa snarled and fought back to hurl more abuse at the Cardinal. 

“You are nothing but a leech, trash- a rat!! And that’s all you will ever be! Envious of our noble blood, but never worthy for the crown. We all know it! You’ll never be good enough, no matter how much paint they put on your face!!”

Had he been in his right mind, he might have been taken aback by the look Copia sent him. The pretender’s own white eye blazed as he laid on the floor. As white hot as his own anger. Could looks kill, Papa would have been murdered a thousand times over. The Emeritus did not relent, even as a second ghoul tried to pull him away. To his credit, he fought with all the demon blooded strength he could muster. All to get at the rat writhing under his gaze.

“You are just the dirt under our shoes, Imperator's LAP DOG! A laughing stock! Wait until you fail!! We’ll be the ones laughing then!!” 

He kicked and shrieked, hurling incoherent abuse after abuse. A third ghoul was forced to stand up and restrain Papa. Finally able to haul him off of his feet and past the gawking crowd. The youngest Emeritus made a spectacle of himself as he was carried out. His legs flailing, as his arms were locked back by the burly ghouls. He continued to shout until his voice was hoarse, lost as echoes on the walls. So many eyes stared at him, as though watching an active car wreck. Just like his last ritual…

Papa managed to get out one last shriek before the double doors shut. 

“RAT!!”

---

The next morning he awoke to a fieresome headache. One that made his ears ring and his temples pound. Papa imagined this is what it must have felt like to have a rubber band threaten to collapse your skull. The bright sunlight streaming into the office windows did not help. Even with his designer sunglasses, it was hell for his hangover. Papa gave an exasperated sigh as he looked around. Anything to avoid the disappointed look the painting of his father gave him from beyond the ornate desk. The youngest Emeritus wanted to flip the portrait off. But why settle for a painting when he could do it to the real thing? 

As if on cue, the door behind him creaked open. Papa didn’t bother to stand or acknowledge his father as he shuffled in. The unmistakable wheezing and clinking of the air tank wheels did nothing to bother him. The Third Emeritus kept his seat, fiddling with his water bottle as the decrepit figure lumbered into view. There was a screeching of chair legs as the elder man settled, followed by a quick bout of gasping. Papa didn’t bother to meet the set of cataracted, dead eyes glaring across the desk. 

Grand Papa Nihil looked less than pleased to see his youngest son. More disappointed than usual, if such a thing were possible. 

“Antonio,” rasped the elder man’s voice- strong despite his rotting lungs. 

Antonio, when was the last time anyone had called him that? Not since  his ascension to Papacy, at least. The name almost sounded foreign coming from the older man, as though summoning a spectre long since passed. Antonio could barely make the connection to himself. But here he was, forced down to the man he was under all the paint and lavish robes.

“Good Morning, Father.” Began the youngest, bitter expression betraying the lilt in his voice. “And how does this absolutely FINE day find you?”

“Enough with the mindless prattle, boy. You know why you are here.” 

Antonio winced, and clutched his head. Despite being barely a rumbling growl, Nihil’s voice managed to pierce his ears. The hangover was unforgiving. He supposed this was his punishment for drinking in earnest last night. Anything to drown out the anger and bitterness after the stunt he pulled. The memory made his temples pulse again, and he rubbed a thumb into the side of his head. Willing the pain to subside long enough to get out of this relatively quickly. 

“Care to enlighten me?”

 Nihil slapped a large hand onto his desk. His age did not betray his strength, and it sent a tremor through the wood. The rattle of papers and knick knacks made Antonio want to vomit from the noise. The younger Papa hissed at the sound, and the snarl of his father. 

“Don’t dare to play coy with me, Antonio! Once again, your actions disgrace both the Clergy and myself! Causing such a scene at the party last night. Have you no shame, boy?” 

Nihil held up a shaking hand before Antonio could respond. A noise of protest leaving the younger man’s lips. 

“I do not want to hear it.”

Antonio watched bitterly as his father bent down. Lifting up the oxygen mask from his tank. With a rattling breath, the Grand Papa inhaled deeply. The old codger gaped like a fish out of water, trying to suck down as much air as he could. The youngest Papa had often wondered how much the geezer had left to him. It was moments like this he figured the old man would never die. Fitting. Nihil was probably keen to haunt Antonio for the rest of his natural born life. Antonio waited for his father to speak once more. After an uncomfortable silence the Grand Papa hissed out a sigh. 

“Would it be too much for you to conduct yourself properly? Is wearing your crown proudly too much of a burden? No dignity, no regard for your rank! Such disgrace- An utter embarrassment!” 

Antonio winced as the Grand Papa’s voice boomed around them. The sound made his headache feel that much worse. In another life, he might have cared that he was being belittled yet again. Antonio was that much tempted to respond the way his always did. Take it for every word. Letting the disappointment of decades soak in. Only to eventually slink out of the office with his tail between his legs and resentment permeating around him. All that was stripped away as soon as Nihil gestured to his son with a gnarled hand. An angry wheeze making him snap to attention.  

“Are you listening, Antonio?” 

“Oh, I am listening, father. You know I’m alway so EAGER to learn how I’ve failed you.” 

Far from their first back and forth, this much was true. Yet venom dripped from the younger man’s tongue. Nihil hissed through his mask as though his son spat acid at him. His tone low with warning as he wheezed another breath. 

“Boy, you-”

“No, father! I WILL NOT sit here and be demeaned yet again! Have I not heard it entirely before?”

“Antonio-”

“What? No longer enough to just scold me like a child? Instead, why not REALLY speak your mind, father!” 

His voice rose to unreached heights. Never, even in his rebellious years, did he have such audacity to raise his voice so high. He could tell the Grand Papa was taken aback. His cateracted, cloudy eyes blinking in disbelief. Anotino stood, ignoring his throbbing skull’s protest. His hands slapped down on the strong wood as he leaned face to face with his father. 

“Might I suggest switching it up? We all know you’ve been dying to say so much more! Even after I bring you home success? Followers? FAME? But no, tell me again how much I am a failure.”

The old man’s jaw snapped shut in indignation.

“Antonio-”

“I know! Why don’t we call our precious Sister Imperator down! She’s usually in the spirit of helping you carve me down! These were mostly her thoughts weren’t they? After all, we know how you can’t think without the snake-”

“That is ENOUGH!!”

The large chair screeched as Nihil pulled to his full, frightening height. As a child he would have been cowed by the monstrance difference. Antonio remained steadfast as his mismatched eyes bore into the challenging milky depths of Nihil’s. A smarter man might have kept his mouth shut- backed down. Even ask for forgiveness! Hurt would not let him. Not after the agony of his current position- all the humiliation, degradation, and long buried transgressions coming to light. Antonio flashed his canines at the older man. Practically challenging him then and there. The Grand Papa snorted and wheezed. 

“Never speak so poorly of Sister Imperator in my presence again.” 

“Forgive me, O’ Grand Papa- I tend to forget. She is far more valuable than any of us humble beggars.”

“Sit down, Antonio-”

“Let alone the meager soul of your youngest-”

“I’m ordering you to-”

“So much more beloved than your own CHILDREN!”

“Sit DOWN-!!”

The proud, sturdy wood of the desk splintered under the ancient Papa’s hand. Nihil struggled to catch his breath, but refused to yield to his son. His tall form shook with age and the demonic blood that sung in his veins. Antonio could only blink in disbelief for a heart beat. Then a dry, bitter laugh rasped from the Third’s throat. Lifting his arms up and out, tilting his head up to get that much closer. 

 “Or what, Father? Tell me. What possible punishments do you have for me? What fate could you possibly deal that hasn’t already broken me?”

Antonio snarled before his father could even open his mouth. The shouting bounced off the old walls in a cacophony of anger. He raised a finger, a claw slowly coming out of the tip as his inner beast came to light. 

“What more could you possibly do! Drag me off the stage again? Take away all I have ever truly loved? Then I’m sure you and your precious sister could have a good laugh! Just watching your ‘idiot son’ be humiliated in front of the world again! Surely that will bring me to my knees! I can already feel myself seeking penance for it. Here father, why not strip and lynch me in front of the whole Clergy. Let them see how shameful I truly am!”

The younger slammed a fist hard on the desk, scattering knick knacks to the floor with barely concealed might. His voice broke and became a shrill cry.

 “After EVERYTHING I’ve done for you! Done for THIS ministry! Rub salt in the wound! Quarter me, bury me- CRUCIFY ME for last night! I am already dead to the empire I BUILT. What could you possibly do now that hasn’t already been my damnation?”

He didn’t even feel the tears running down his face. Nor did he savor any self pity or sorrow they brought. His head was too gone and his heart in too much turmoil. It was a miracle his father, the instrument of his life long misery, had not interrupted. Had let him vent everything welled up and festering in his soul for so long. Antonio could not even bare keeping the Grand Papa’s cloudy eyes. He finally dropped his own to the desk as he began to sulk. Shoulders dropping and pulling away from the fine would that now sported two sizable dents. 

Papa Emeritus the Third did not wait to be dismissed, and turned tail. 

The large ornate door slammed shut without so much as a glance back to the Grand Papa.  

It was for the better that he didn’t. Antonio might have broken if he had seen the look of pity in his father’s eyes. 

--

Here they were again in the little sitting room. Neither of them were Papas in this moment, just brothers. Albeit rather estranged in their old age,  and hurting for time to visit. But they were still brothers. 

As with his father, his title didn’t matter. He was no longer Papa Emeritus The Third, Unholy Vessel of Lucifer and the World of the Clergy. 

And his brother was no longer Papa Emeritus, First to bear his name. 

They were simply Enzio and his baby brother Antonio. Like they were decades ago, and like they will be in the future and, eventually, afterlife. The only thing missing from their quiet little meeting was their middle brother. Understandable, as he was always quite preoccupied with meetings, both of the business and intimate sort. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, his other sibling’s absence. It gave Antonio some much needed one on one advice he desperately sought… 

Just like they were as children, Antonio found himself sitting in his big brother’s chair watching the older man work. Maybe if he was small he would have been kicking his legs contently. Antonio still watched with the same childlike rapture as his older brother worked. Enzio, per usual on his down time, was bent over his sprigs of herbs that he meticulously grew by the windows of his office. The eldest brother had once described them as ‘crucial’ to his rituals. But Antonio suspected the older man simply enjoyed gardening. The eldest Emeritus was rather good at it, as well. There were pots of luscious, full green leaves on every available window sill. Vibrant, yet trimmed lovingly by their vigilant and patient care giver. 

The youngest couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched Enzio work. The elder man muttering to himself and pouring pre-measured cups of water into marble pots. Antonio had always found it such an endearing sight to see how his brother fussed over his plants. Babbling about their leaf length, color, and even soil moisture. Such minor details to many, yet a world of difference to this one man. These little details was why Enzio was such a good Papa to their Clergy, Antonio thought. Even if he was the least favoured among their Ministry by the youths, Enzio was by far the most nurturing. 

A shame really, but Antonio understood the disconnect between their followers and Enzio. The eldest Emeritus, despite his caring and love of his flock, was the most intimidating of the three brothers. Enzio’s first offense being his unfortunately frightening appearance. Age giving him no favors to his sharp, hooked nose, beady eyes, or tall hunched figure. The second being his preaching style, in which he conducted sermons in the same fire and brimstone passion one might find in some cartoon villain. Finally, and most tragically, was his often wispy, monotone way of speaking. Often blunt and almost TOO to the point, betraying any hint of compassion he might be trying to express. Siblings of Sin regularly accused the oldest Emeritus brother of being hard to confide in for all these reasons. Yet, to Antonio, it was hilariously to the contrary. 

Antonio used to laugh at all the Siblings of Sin who would cower under the Enzio’s gaze- as though expecting him to strike them down the moment they skipped their unholy hymns or arrive late to a sermon. If only they had known what he did! That the man they feared was nothing but a frail old scholar, who obsessed over his plants and studies. That Enzio would rather scold a book for being out of place before he ever raised his voice to a Sibling needing guidance. For Antonio, it was almost like having a dirty little secret knowing that he saw the real Enzio. That underneath the mitre, incense smoke, and impassioned speeches was just his brother. 

Then again, Antonio knew he was biased as he watched his oldest brother again. A fond smile tugged at his lips as Enzio consulted his growth charts and watering schedules. How could Antonio ever be afraid of the man that practically raised him from childhood? If only their flock could see the soft, caring man that raised his two younger siblings. The man that, in his youth, dutifully studied, worked every hour, and still found time to give to his needy younger brothers. 

 Enzio was only ten years their elder, yet much more of a parent than their father ever had been. Grand Papa Nihil far too busy with running the clergy and attending to his mistress than raising three boys. Enzio had given everything for his two younger siblings and the Ministry. There were times Antonio remembered Enzio being sleep deprived, but insisted he help with his brother’s studies. Or the countless childhood nightmares making Antonio beg to sleep in big brother’s bed. Enzio agreed every time, and used to read to Antonio enough to let him fall back asleep. 

Antonio remembered being heartbroken the day Enzio left for his Seminary after turning eighteen. It was a blow to his little heart watching his beloved brother disappear for a whole decade. Only eventually to return with black robes and a wickedly painted face. Nothing kept Antonio then, a new adult himself, from embracing his newly promoted brother- like nothing had changed. Truthfully, nothing between them did, other than a busier work schedule and less time to bond. How lucky Antonio felt thinking that one of the only stable aspects of his life was always in front of him, wrist deep in soil and foliage. 

There was a sudden curse that pulled the youngest Emeritus from his thoughts. He watched as a pot teetered on the edge of the table, Enzio recoiling form having smacked into it with his elbow. Antonio raced to Enzio’s side as it plummeted from its perch, snatching the pot mid air before it struck carpet. The younger man hopped up with sage triumphantly in one hand. Enzio couldn’t help but grin at the theatrics and happily accepted his potted friend back from his brother. 

“Thank you,” rasped the eldest Emeritus with a grateful nod. 

“My pleasure,” Antonio huffed, catching his breath. 

“You are much more spry than I am. I was fearful that I might be mourning good sage.”

Enzio carefully sat the plant as lovingly as one might a child. Once in its rightful place he offered Antonio a grateful pat on the shoulder. His firm touch betrayed his old age yet Anonio did not mind. He fondly watched Enzio shuffle past back to the pair of plush armchairs. The older man quickly made himself comfortable as he waited for Antonio to join him. Enzio cleared his throat as Antonio dropped down next to him. 

“My thanks for your patience, Antonio” he began in his slow and deep voice. “My plants were overdue for their watering this week. You understand.” 

“I should be thanking you for taking the time to see me. Tea?” 

Porcelain clinked as it was picked up from the full tray Antonio had requested be brought to them. Two cups, one decorative pot, and a plate of small finger sandwiches waited for them. Warm steam rose up as Antonio poured the tea water into Enzio’s favorite cup. The elder brother clicked his tongue in thanks, savouring the herbal smell. Antonio plucked one of the delectable bites up as his brother fixed their cups. 

“You haven’t been sleeping.” 

The sandwich stopped halfway up to his mouth, Antonio dropping it in surprise. He cursed as the cucumber filling splattered onto his designer waistcoat. Damn it. How could he be stupid enough to believe he could fool Enzio’s supernatural levels of perception? A plastic like smile graced Antonio’s features as he tried to compose himself. Producing a napkin he dabbed at the new stain with a stiff chuckle. 

“Pardon me?”

“You haven’t been sleeping,” his brother reiterated, pointing down at the cups. “You only drink Mate-blends when you have insomnia.” 

Antonio hesitantly looked down at the offending tea bag, and frowned. Sure enough, ‘Mate-Green’ was on the tea bag label. The man could read him like a book, that much was obvious. 

“Does something trouble you, Antonio? It’s not like you to not sleep.” 

The younger Emeritus bolted upright and stiffened straighter than a board. Antonio wanted to argue, to play it off like it was one of his many week long stints. He was a man of nightlife, wasn’t he? He could blame it on the dinners, parties, and orgies he was no longer having. The look in his brother’s eyes made Antonio immediately reconsider. Antonio had never been able to lie to Enzio, not even as a child. The look in Enzio’s eyes was far too sympathetic and trusting. The older man must have seen Antonio’s sudden look of apprehension. 

“You know my door is always open for you, Bambino.” 

The use of his childhood pet name is what broke Antonio. Shamefully, he broke down like a dam with all of his emotions flooding out. As he did so many times in his youth, he wept in front of Enzio. Barely able to string a comprehensive thought, let alone speak- the youngest continued to sob. Everything he had been holding it was too much, and Enzio had seen through his nonchalant facade. 

Maybe if he was in his right mind, Antonio would have admitted to being at his lowest point. Everything was crashing down around him, and he wept in front of his beloved brother with the ferocity of a toddler having a meltdown. Antonio buried his face in his hands for what felt like hours. Shoulders heaved as he cried out every last drop of frustration and sorrow that plagued him for weeks.  

“S-sorry-! My apologies, I was not intending to-”

Enzio lifted up an open palm, quieting down his brother immediately.

“Antonio, when have I ever scolded you? I’ve always asked you be nothing but honest with me in your feelings. Now I will do the same for you. You must understand how you have nothing to be ashamed of. Like us before you, you carried great pride for your work and your duties. Bowing down gracefully is an act of strength and humility- so much against what we’ve been taught, no? Let it be a solemn time for you. You’ve dedicated so much to the Ministry and to His Infernal Majesty. It is only fitting that you weep for that which you have sown. ”

Enzio- so genuine in his lack of judgement, so kind in his understanding. Granted, a tad on the preachy and rehearsed side, but Antonio appreciated it more than the other man could know. Yet he couldn’t help but pull a sour face at the comforting speech. Antonio finessed a finely embroidered handkerchief from his breast pocket. Wrinkling his nose in distaste he soiled the fine silky fabric with tears and smudged paint.    

“I don’t remember you sobbing like a babe when you were demoted.” 

“Demoted? No. Stepping down for the good of the project? Yes. Antonio, you understand, I knew it was inevitable. I was prepared to hand over the role for the success of our Church. Yet that does not mean I was not heartbroken, like yourself.”

“‘Heartbroken’? You must be joking. Enzio, you practically handed away your title on a gold platter!” 

“Remember what I said about humility?”

Enzio chuckled dryly at his little brother’s puzzled expression. 

“Antonio,” he began again softly, “Though we must bask in Pride, as Lucifer has taught us, we must know our place in the grander scheme of things. The Ghost Project is only a small piece of our roles. You must know that there is more to you than this one act. Lucifer wills you to continue, that he needs you for something grander. Have faith in Him.”

Rolling his eyes wasn’t intentional, but Antonio found himself scoffing at the advice. He crossed his arms and pouted like a child. 

“What does that have to do with how “Heartbroken” you were? That’s not what I asked!”

Another whisper of a laugh sounded from Enzio, the same one he gave whenever a younger Antonio would fuss and complain. The younger man was tempted to snap at his brother, but chose to bite his tongue. 

“I was incredibly heartbroken that my time was up, Antonio. You know this pain well. It is never an easy feat to give up one’s place. Yet I know that this was not the only plan our Dark Lord had for me. Yes, I could have kicked up a fight and scrapped for my position back. But I had faith that this was not the end for my duties, nor my life’s work. As they say, dear brother- the end is also a new beginning. I rather prefer to step down when the time comes and welcome a new chapter- both for the Clergy and myself. I have no doubt our times end when they need to in light of another path. This is what comforts me.” 

The brothers sat in pregnant silence when Enzio finished. With shaking hands Antonio sipped his tea, trying to calm himself. Faith in Lucifer? He was devout, but never as zealous as his eldest brother. How could he have faith in something so drastic and unforgiving?

“Enzio-?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s say I do not have the ‘graciousness’ to step down so humbly as yourself. That I’m not ready for a ‘new chapter’.” The older man arched an eyebrow but nodded along quietly. 

“Let us pretend I am virtually incapable of such a feat. Perhaps my own pride is too great. What do I do then?” 

“You do not give yourself enough credit-”

“Brother, please- humor me.” 

Surprisingly, Antonio watched as Enzio leaned back in his seat and stared off into the distance- his tell-tale sign of seriously considering the question. The dregs of his mate-tea were slurped down as his knee bounced, waiting for the infinite wisdom to come spouting from Enzio. He was sorely tempted to wave a hand in front of the older man’s face when it did not come quickly enough. His patience was rewarded as Enzio stared back and nodded matter of factly. 

“I do not think I am the one that can help you, Antonio.” 

“Then who should I speak to about all this if not you?”

“Our Brother.” 

--

Idle time was hard to come by in the life of the Papacy. Despite all of the perks and benefits of being Papa, it left luxuries like family bonding as some sort of commodity. Schedules were tricky to match when all three siblings rotated between obligations, Clergy meetings, and chasing one’s own private pleasures. Antonio had been extremely fortunate to have found an afternoon he could spend with Enzio. The stars aligning just right so he might speak with his eldest brother relatively painlessly. On the other hand, arranging a night with his middle brother had been much more frustrating. 

Papa Emeritus the Second, Antonio’s brother and predecessor, was an incredibly busy man. 

The younger Emeritus had bothered the Second’s secretary for two days straight until he had a definitive date. Finally finding an exception to their harrowing schedules for one night, so they might meet. The secretary bullied enough to jot the exact time down in the fancy, leather bound planner. Antonio even insisted on sending a text reminder, making sure no precaution was forgotten. This being the first time in months he was able to speak to the Second uninterrupted, and he was not going to squander it! 

Antonio chose a favorite restaurant of theirs as the meeting place. The younger brother could think of no better way of spending time than at such a fine establishment. After all, dining was a passion they had developed together as soon as they were young men. A particular favorite sin of indulgence they shared together, outside of their similar tastes for women and luxury. Not to forget, an unblessed excuse to get away from Ministry grounds for the evening.  

The youngest Emeritus arrived first. A classy yet quiet Italian place that had been around for decades. It boasted a long history of hosting the finest and richest guests. The food alone was well worth the bribe it took to squeeze in a last minute reservation. He booked a secluded table table for two on the outside balcony. That way they could enjoy the sunset and the subsequent city lights when night followed. A cool breeze marked the perfect time of year. Fresh air and lovely scenery would pair well with their meal. Antonio was confident his brother would never turn down such a night! 

With a flourish he sat down and placed a wine order immediately. Their finest, of course, only lightly chilled. He was content to tide himself over with the fresh bread and oil laid out. No orders were placed as he waited, insisting on nursing his new glass of Masseto Toscana. Though the burgundy elixir was downed in minutes before Antonio anxiously poured himself another serving.  After being alone for so long the new wait for company was becoming borderline excruciating.

Minutes ticked by, and soon he found himself waiting for half an hour. The waiter would meekly ask if he would like to order, but Antonio declined- seeming nonchalant. The bread kept his stomach from being too empty, thankfully as he got half way down the bottle. After the third glass was polished off he frowned, the temptation to cut his losses almost had him requesting the bill. Thankfully, a firm yet smooth voice banished all of his fears. 

“Pardon my Tardiness, the meeting ran later than anticipated.”

Antonio grinned wide, the first time in ages. The younger stood up and held out his arms in greeting.

“And here I worried you stood me up again.” 

There was a shadow of a smirk from Papa Emeritus the Second as he regarded his younger brother. There was no embrace, nor handshake from the two- and there didn’t need to be. Only the meaningful chuckles as they both took their seats. Antonio wasted no time in pouring them both a fresh glass. The older Emeritus took it gratefully and swirled it, weary from the day’s events. His brother’s deeper, rich voice finally broke the silence. 

“Stand you up? There’s an idea. But then who would pay for my meal?” 

“I could name plenty of Sisters who would gladly,” Antonio said, laughing light-heartedly. He cleared his throat as he offered a small grateful smile to his curious brother. 

“It really is a pleasure for you to join me, Giovanni.” 

The Second Emeritus glanced over his signature sunglasses at the mention of his first name. Very few ever called him by it since his own ascension into Papacy. Antonio knew he was always an exception to this unspoken rule.   

“It has been far too long,” Giovanni agreed. 

The waiter was quick to scurry over as they settled. Neither of the brothers were phased by the interruption. Instead, they were happy to deliberate their order together- a bit of a past time in lightly debating wine would pair perfectly with their meal. It took a few minutes of light bantering before they settled on two bottles of Pinot gris with their entrees. Giovanni refused the Wine List and picked the finest bottles in the restaurant stock. Both men grinned at one another as the waiter dashed away, chuckling as he hastily complimented their choice. 

Fresh bread and oil were brought out and swapped with the old basket, as their wine was poured. Excellent service, thought Antonio as he and Giovanni sipped their topped glasses. Definitely worth a decent tip should it continue. The pair sat in peaceful silence as they patiently waited. Together they basked in the quality of their drinks and the nice breeze over the balcony. Antonio hadn’t realized how hungry he had actually been until two steaming plates of seafood were served in record time. The waitstaff, he concluded after inspecting his perfectly cooked scallops, would be getting their usual %50 tip. 

Giovanni was the first to speak after they had their fill of exquisite pasta and shellfish. A thoughtful look graced his normally stern face as he poured more of the white wine. A leather clad finger traced the rim of his glass as he looked up to Antonio. 

“You look troubled, dear brother.” 

Antonio scoffed as he grabbed for the bottle, unceremoniously filling his empty glass.

“Would you believe me if I said I was quite tired of hearing that?”

“Absolutely not- considering what I’ve been told of the good Cardinal’s Congratulatory Party.” 

A smirk was shared between the brothers as Antonio carefully pressed the glass to his lips. He took a long, easy sip as he regarded Giovanni’s words. There was a chuckle as Antonio tried to play coy. 

“Oh, you heard about that?”

“The whole Abbey was in an uproar over it. Not to mention I was the one stuck hearing about it from Father. He had some colorful words about the ordeal. So I’ll thank you for that fun afternoon.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m buying you dinner,” Antonio muttered with a grimace. 

“Oh, you’ll be treating me for a week- I can assure you. Just be grateful that’s the only slap on the wrist you were granted.”

They snickered quietly, polishing off their glasses. Another blanket of silence fell over the pair as the air started to cool. Antonio shifted in his seat as he turned to study the scene below. lights dancing awake on the streets as the sun dipped under the horizon. He could not bear the quiet for long and eventually cleared his throat.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you for not doing the same to me when I ascended…” 

Giovanni gave him a thoughtful look as he smirked. 

“In all honesty, I was very much tempted. Someone should have wiped the smug look off of your face.”

Antonio could not fault him there. His arrogance at his new title was apparent from day one. It only grew as Antonio became more successful. At the time he felt he deserved to be vain, selfish- entitled to anything and everything he wanted. That was his thinking then, before everything crashed down around him. Antonio was not as confident now, and suspected Giovannin could sense it. 

“Though I would not have gone as far as you might have for your little predecessor- I must congratulate you on your boldness. You’ve certainly made your impact on the Higher Clergy, Antonio. I doubt they expected that from you of all people.”

“Yet you did nothing when you stepped down?”

For the first time in a while, Giovanni perked an eyebrow up at him, confused. His voice was not annoyed, nor contained any hint of malice. 

“Pardon me?”

“Why did you never lash out at them? You never resented me… Or, at least I’m SURE you never did. But you never fought back when they demoted you from the project. You practically loved-”

“-Loved the stage more than you. Yes, I know.”

“Then why? Surely they would expect such a thing from you.” 

“You speak of it as if you wanted me to maul you in front of the whole congregation.”

“Not me, but the Higher Clergy.”  

The mouth of the wine bottle clipped the lip of the wine glass as Giovanni poured himself more- emptying the last of it as he huffed to himself. The wine was gone in one undignified chug before the glass clattered on the table, startling Antonio. Giovanni slapped his hand on the table, looking over his glasses with a sudden serious gaze. 

“Simple,” came the firm answer, “I choose not to live my life for them.” 

“You could have continued had you not been ready.”

Fingers drummed violently on the table as Giovanni pushed his glass aside. 

“Did you invite me all the way out here to antagonize me, or just to speak of my apparent lack of effort in holding my spotlight?” 

“Incidentally, I did.”

Disbelief painted Giovanni’s face at the admittance. A small, apologetic smile was offered before his older brother could retort. Awkwardly, Antonio cleared his throat while looking his brother dead in the eyes.

“Giovanni… I need your advice. I’m afraid- quite bluntly, I’m afraid I have not been as strong as you.” Giovanni grunted and lifted up a gloved hand.

“With all due respect, Antonio- what exactly do you want me to say? Do you want me to pity you for fulfilling your purpose? I will not add to your self imposed pity party.”

“That’s not what I want!”

“Then what? What could I possibly have to offer you?”

Had he not known his brother, Antonio would have missed the anger in his voice covering up the hurt. The old wound that made Giovanni the wounded, bitter old man many accused him of being. His brother had nothing to offer him because he had no idea himself. 

“I just want to know- how did you get past it all?” Antonio bit back, failing to keep the emotions at bay. “You were the star before me. You said it yourself, you loved the stage! The work and music meant everything to you…. Just please, give me this. You’ve always been the hard ass among us. How?” 

Two sets of mismatched eyes stared at one another for a long moment. Antonio barely took a breath as the tension set between them. Giovanni closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Not to keep his legendary temper down, Antonio knew, but to will away the deep pain. He poured his brother another glass like an offering on the chapel altar. It was gone in a heartbeat and Giovanni sighed. 

“I already told you, Antonio. Live for yourself. I- you might feel worthless and expendable by Them. Like some little puppet to sing and nothing more. But we are so much more. We as greater than them, without their little project. Without their stupid band that pales in comparison to what our blood has built for centuries. I refused to bow to their wants, and refuse to feel any less because they decided my time was over. Understand?”

Without looking at his brother he looked out onto the streets below. They were empty save for the few flickering lights of the street lamps, like fading stars in the distance. In that moment his mind flashed back to all the city lights from his tour bus. All the arenas, the cheering, the love and energy of the crowd. He remembered the interviews, and the one glorious moment where he held the golden award in front of thousands. A tear threatened to fall down his eye. 

“Don’t you miss it?”

“Every day.” 

The tear streaked down his face, and he was none the wiser that it would be his last one. 

“Antonio- look at me.” 

By some miracle, Antonio willed himself to meet his brother’s eyes- now softer, if such a feat were possible. Giovanni leaned in, his tone in a serious growl. 

“You are much more. Remember your worth.” 

Dinner ended in a blur as the final drops of wine were shared. Antonio suspected that the chat had lifted weight from them both, but never dared to question it further. His brother’s final pieces of advice rang in his head as he bid Giovanni a good night. Per usual, they had departed in their own vehicles- Antonio to the Clergy and Giovanni to who knows where for pleasure seeking. Antonio stayed quiet as he watched the city lights from his car door window. Suddenly a new appreciation had bloomed in his chest, and he felt a calm like he hadn’t known for many nights. 

--

The repairs of his sitting room went surprisingly well. The work had taken a few days, but the repairmen were thorough and swift. It was definitely worth the inconvenience of having workers in and out of his quarters all week. The glass door of the balcony was finally fixed, as were the sconces that lined the walls. Antonio had even put in a special order to replace them with more ornate pieces. The gold fixtures went well with the new chandelier and a fresh coat of paint on the walls. He had tipped his interior designer handsomely for the suggestion. Ivory and gold made the space grander and more lively!  

Antonio stood in the middle of the chamber, arms contently tucked behind his back as he admired the new room. The new carpet beneath his shoes felt great, and the colors brought a smile to his face. All that remained were the furnishings that were scheduled to be delivered soon. Fine mahogany chairs and tables, with soft yet bold upholstery. A darker wood than he was used to, but what fine contrast he was sure it would make. 

When it was time for the room to come together, Antonio was sure it would end up more Victorian in style. A slight, brighter look than the Gothic appearance he was used to. He assured himself the change would be worth it. The lighter colors already brightened his mood and made him feel lighter. Antonio had all the time in the world to contemplate the rest of the decor. 

 He mused over the idea of skipping curtains over the balcony doors, altogether. The sunlight was more refreshing in recent days when he left the doors uncovered.The glass door eased open as he stepped onto the balcony. Lifting his chin, he smiled to himself as the rays of the morning sun warmed his face. Only weeks, yet it felt like years since he last greeted a new day. There was something invigorating about the feeling. Hands found the railing as he gazed out into the world. The same trees, the same sky- but something different in the way he saw it. A new appreciation for the sights below him. 

Antonio let the gentle breeze play through his hair and smiled again. Same, yet brand new. Just like he felt. 

[imagine-loki]

To Know Better

TITLE: To Know Better - trigger warning PTSD CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: One shot. AUTHOR: marvelgirlonamarvelworld ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine being in the Avengers Compound with the whole team, including Loki. You were all in the living room about to have movie night. That night it was Loki’s turn to choose the movie you would see, and as soon as you sat by his side, he chose the movie, or at least the genre: horror.

…

You tried to leave, but Loki hold you by the waist and told you that he was right and that you were just a weeper little girl. You being the prideful you were, sat down again and tried to watch the movie. And for a couple of minutes it worked. The few moments were the aliens appeared you put all of you to keep your eyes in the screen. But just as the final scenes started, you couldn’t keep handling it. You stood up and ran to your room, ignoring the calls from the others and with your face full of tears.

RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS: TRIGGER WARNING PTSD, mentions of past trauma, torture, child abduction. Emotional distress, language, angst, slight fluff towards the end. Loki’s an asshole in this one.

A/N2: this was requested by a good friend of mine, a one shot based on the imagine above  just before the end of the year. Thank you very much for reading!

-

It all was going according to plan.

Tension permeated the lounge. Clung like claws to every bone as light reflected and tainted the faces of everyone in the dark. Surged by suspense; by the not knowing; by the movie unfolding.

The black night seeped through the glass. The only boundary to the outside. It only enhanced their thrilling suspense. And the trickster’s enjoyment.

Every sound was a spark. A caress to the spine. Goosebumps to the heart.

Their eyes were drawn, soldered to the action, caught in the webs of the screen’s psychological thrill. Mostly expectant, completely distracted while they stuffed their mouths with never-ending snacks.

It all unraveled to his will. 

Loki had chosen wisely. And had been gifted with the thrill of her fear. He had toyed with it. Used it to his benefit. Now she was clinging to him. 

Pretty thing. Frightened little fawn. She sought refuge in his wolfish disguise. And pleaded to the god for the movie to be stopped, for the horrors to be cast out.

Loki paid deaf ears to her pleas as a matter of fact. He was ecstatic with her company. With her arms embracing him.

Pretty frightened thing. Beside him she trembled. Flinched and clung to him as her hand clutched and entwined with his. As if those creatures with eyes as black as the void and pale scaly flesh would detach and turn to a vivid nightmare. As if they too, would snatch her away from the room.

“Please turn it off…” she was hating it. She was loathing every second as much as she was now despising the foolish trickster. Abhorred him as much as she did her repressed memories. Her ever-present secret. For each macabre sound prickled her veins numb. Each look to the creatures of other worlds enticed her heart to hammer loud, fast, heavy in the backdrop of heavy breathing coming from the tv. All to no end till she was rendered against a void of dizziness and visions.

And he was enjoying it. Not the film. The movie was as boring as it could ever be. But to have her so near. Yes! He was blissfully delighted. 

“And just why would I do so?” His surmised response shushed her fears.

A grimace of anger shadowed her face as her eyes drifted to the screen. She was hating it.

On carried the film. Each scene immersed the lounge in scalding silence; in a grim background orchestra which raised all hairs on end. Drew in the Avengers with every creature from a foreign land and every kidnap. With every victim growing mad, paranoid, desperate for they couldn’t tell who was who, or who had gone where.

“Never thought you’d be a weeper,” Loki mocked her fright with a snarky smile. His eyes twinkled enamored as he had an internal fight.

He was being heartless after all. Just a little. Perhaps a lot.

“Okay, I think that’s enough.” Nat arbitrated at some point. She was one of two who’d been aware of her friend growing anxious. “Turn it off.”

But who had the power? Loki smirked. It sure wasn’t her and he wouldn’t do so anyway.

“It’s okay,” her voice was small, helpless while her eyes drifted anywhere else but the hideous aliens. All eyes had suddenly landed on her. “Think I should go to bed early anyway.” She excused herself, just to be denied her parting by Loki. 

Selfish little asshole.

His grip, yet soft, was firm around her middle. His smile, much like the cheesier cat, twinkled mischief as much as his eyes did. They were stars fallen from the sky. Meteors crashing to cause a furor. “So you are a weeper girl. How can you possibly be an Avenger?”

”I am not a weeper you idiot.” Annoyed of his speeches her pride bloomed forth again and her timid eyes wandered back to the screen. “Now get your hands off of me.”

Loki had succeeded again. His grip softened though he did not move his arm. That mischievous side had won the internal fight. And now as the victor, he reclined back and feigned to focus back on the movie itself and not her. So too, did the Avengers drift their confused eyes back to the unfolding plot. So too, did hers.

It all was silent again. Everyone was expectant while the stars gazed down on the compound. On her. 

Minutes passed, seconds withered away, more and more aliens appeared on the screen and caused mayhem. More victims had fallen to them, to their tests. Communication with them was futile, their reasons remained in a language none of the characters could comprehend, worsening their chances to know why had such creatures reached earth. It all seemed the end would unfold with colonization. 

Loki was less and less interested in the plot itself. But more and more did her anxiousness bloomed and exploded in her chest, flooded her veins, tainted her mind until no more could she stand to stay.

“I can’t do this,” she murmured brokenly as she rushed out of the lounge and into the dim-lit hall.

“Wait!” Wanda stood and paused momentarily. A grimace shaded her face against the light of the screen as she turned to Loki. “You insensitive idiot,” she snapped as her accent thickened evermore and rushed after the girl.

Loki was only left with perplexity in his mind as well as guilt building up in every thought. For he hadn’t thought such a movie would cause someone as much distress as it had.

Silence was grim, tension clung to it, suffocated it, to say the least. In a blink, all light dimmed back to life and ushered the night back out. So too, was the screen frozen and shut down. All eyes drilled down on the trickster who had nothing to do but hide his astonishment with his usual mask of indifference. 

“Brother!” Thor roared angrily.

Natasha stood and stiffened her jaw. Her glare, cold as the snow, pierced through as Loki gazed at her as she paced trying to hold her wits and not kill him instantly. “I’ve had it with your bullshit Laufeyson.”

“Oh, it was all but pure fun,” the trickster excused himself as he sat back pinching his lips, disguising lazily his amused sneer.

Nat shook her head and chuckled angrily, “You’re an insensitive asshole! Do you ever think before you act, huh?! Do you even realize what you’ve done?! How much harm you’ve caused?!”

“Oh, do please, by all means, enlighten me as to how I’ve presumably done any harm,” Loki humored as the rest stared in silence with concern in their eyes.

“She was kidnapped Loki! As a child!” Natasha gestured. “And it’s not for me to tell you all this. But why do you think she was acting the way she did?! This!” She pointed to the black screen, “This was too much for her. Those people in the movie! All those who were kept as lab rats for experiments in there! She was them!” 

Her fury rained down crimson. And if Loki was already pale, he was now a ghost as he studied the redhead’s face in the search for an expecting lie he did not found. But Natasha was a trained spy, one to lie so easily even he, the god of lies, would not be able to distinguish it. So it must be a lie, right?

Loki cocked his brow reluctantly, unwilling to believe. “Have you a better lie to tell, Romanoff?”

The former spy glared at the sitting trickster helplessly. “You’re a heartless piece of shit,” she growled and folded her arms. 

Silence again placated the place before she spoke again, this time on a much calmer tone than before.

“Loki, she was used as a human test for years by people who thought themselves to be God. By people like HYDRA if not worse than them. They played with her mind. They injected her god knows what, every single day. Exposed her to heaven’s know the amounts of radiation throughout the years! She was taken from her parents when they had decided to go on a picnic…her powers are the collateral damage, her everyday reminder, of what they did to her. You yourself claim to have gone through hell and understand how it feels. And if what you claim is true…then you should understand what you did triggered her.”

Loki’s breath faltered. His heart seemed to slow, to almost come to a stop as the hurtful truth sunk. The room somehow seemed to have gotten cold and much larger than it was. And he realized…he was an insensitive idiot. A bloodless asshole as Nat had barked. Again his pranks had crossed the line. 

And she was right. Loki had to admit, the read head was as right his own seldom could not abide to let it pass.

It all had gone according to plan. Yet somewhere along the lines, things had fallen apart. His wicked game had spiral and caused harm. Loki hadn’t aimed for that. He never meant to cause as much distress. It was all after all supposed to be harmless, innocent pure fun. Another of his unexplainable ways to have that one soul who made his heart soar stay close. 

Yet, he had fucked up. Big time.

Right away Loki sprung up from his seat just as a hand gripped his collar and pulled his upper body. “Your better make this right, brother,” Thor snarled as his knuckles whitened. His deep-sea glare sparked rage much like the clouds in the foreground. “Your tricks have gone too far.”

Yes, his tricks had gone too far. Loki was now aware of that.

Brusquely he stepped away from his brother’s death grip and spun on his heels, and chased after the poor soul he had so carelessly hurt.

You idiot! You fool! You clueless big dumb fool! All you ever do, is hurt people. And of all people you could have harmed with your stupid games, for your personal amusement, you come and hurt her…you fool.

The grand halls were barren in the backdrop of the starry night. The stars, hanging and twinkling so knowingly, peered back at the desperate trickster whose footsteps echoed against the midnight silence. All of a sudden Loki had forgotten where in the compound was her chambers.

Was it this way or the other way? No. This is the way. Yes.

Briskly he turned once again and was met by a familiar adorned door down the hallway. Silently he neared it and noticed it was ajar. A soft accented voice drifted in the dead of silence inside. Loki knew it was Wanda, comforting her just like the good friend she was.

Deep down, Loki wished he had been that friend.

“It’s okay, they can’t hurt you now,” the redhead cooed softly. “They’re gone, we made sure of it.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Her voice sweet as sugar, assured the trembling girl before soft, barely audible, footsteps replaced her voice. “I’ll go get you some water and something to calm your nerves. And probably kill that tricker somewhere along the way,” Wanda humored, “Hang in there.”

“Oh, please don’t,” soft laughter reached Loki’s ears which made his heart skip a beat and placed a soft, guilt-tripped, smile on his face. He acknowledged in his head, although he knew Wanda meant the latter to an extent, he deserved it.

Right away Loki shielded his presence from Wanda’s eyes as she walked out the door and down the hall. He waited a few moments, before growing enough courage and nearing the open door.

One, two, three silent steps.

Once there, his inquisitive eyes wandered from the neatness of her room to her form sitting on the bed. And noticed her eyes were glazed, pensive; they were a pair of crystals lost in the dark forest just beyond her window across. Loki didn’t have to inquire to know what were her current thoughts.

Ever so slightly, Loki knocked on the door frame and leaned against it. His fingers right away started fidgeting with each other as her eyes darted his way and widened ever so slightly.

  “What? You’re here to continue mocking me,” she sniffed and raised her brow.

Loki parted his lips but no words came out. His throat had gone dry just as a tug of guilt had nestled in his chest. He knew it was the nerves.

Her eyes remained on him for another minute, disinterested yet drilling down his soul, before she set her gaze back on the dancing branches of the trees outside. The midnight breeze softly whistling outside filled the room in place of the deafening silence.

“No,” Loki finally answered.

“I suppose Nat spoke to you about it,” she inquired distractedly, “otherwise you wouldn’t even be here looking like a sad scolded puppy.”

Ouch.

Loki only fell silent and observed the contour of her face as she breathed in and closed her eyes. His lack of words spoke tenfold of what he knew although the vagueness of it.

“What I did…” Loki lowered his eyes to the gray carpet on the floor and slowly stepped forth, “words alone cannot express how sorry I am for hurting you…” ever so slightly he raised his gaze as he stood two footsteps away from her, “for causing you to remember. I never meant it. It was heartless.”

A tear rolled down her cheek as she still refused to acknowledge Loki who right away summoned a delicate white cloth and offered it to her. Silently she took it and dried away the stray crystal bead.

“Oh, I relive those memories every day, you know. You didn’t cause me to remember. I always see them, in my nightmares,” she said in a hushed tone, almost broken, melancholic for a dreamless night she now doubted she would ever have. An evening when closing her eyes never meant to relive the past. “Whenever I close my eyes I remember. I remember every single detail. My mind forces me to. I recall their whispers, their heavy breathing, the glossiness of the walls, the pinch, and coolness of their needless, the rubber of their gloves against my skin, how blinding were the lights I could never see clearly,” she explained. “I remember them every day, the only difference is…whenever I close my eyes, I have the control to fade them out so they don’t hurt as much.” She paused for a beat. Another tear meandered down her cheek, “but today, you took the control I had over my memories. I could feel them so vividly, as if they were there, sitting beside me, holding me down so they could continue on with their painful tests.”

Loki’s face grimaced sourly as he swallowed the lump that’d formed. The harm he’d cause…it was far worse than he had thought. He knew from his past how the ghost of endless torture still loomed about in the aftermath. How the control one could have over such things was limited but precious, invaluable. And he had triggered in her, that helplessness she’d once experienced time and time again. 

“I was only seven when they came…whoever or whatever they were. I never saw their faces regardless of how long I was kept by them,” she said out of nowhere while memories from the past resurfaced. “We were out at the park, having a picnic with mom and dad. It was a sunny day, breezy too. We were playing hide and seek, I ran to hide behind some bushes that were some feet away…The next thing I know is I’m laying on a metal table with needles and tubes stuck to my arms and my chest. And they wore these sort of gray suits whenever they came to the room. Though to me as a naive child, they seemed like…aliens.”

Loki reached to place his hand on her shoulder but hesitated. Rapidly he withdrew it and bit the inside of his cheek. He was no longer sure if it was the wises way to approach her without causing her any more distress than he had already inflicted. After all, as he thought of it, he was no good but to only cause heartache to others. He was a fuck up.

“It was never my intention, I never meant for my foolish games to have gone so far…” a shadow of pained desperation crossed over Loki’s face, “I never desired for you to relive it all over…I… I should’ve…”

“Known better,” she finished off his sentence as he perplexedly fell silent. “I know,” her eyes still remained on the dancing woods outside. 

“Yes,” he agreed, slowly tilting his head. “I should have known. I was a fool. A heartless idiot.”

“But you didn’t know.” She turned her head and made eye contact with Loki. Her reddened eyes bore down on him, drilling him to his spot. “Nobody did. So how can I blame you when you knew nothing?” 

“Regardless,” Loki insisted, his voice soft like that of a boy who just had been reprehended for something. “I should have not done what I did. I shouldn’t have forced you to stay!” He quickly crouched in front of her and wiped away another tear from her. “It was completely stupid. I was an idiot. I should have known better.”

“I know it wasn’t your intention to make me relive it,” she acknowledged to his luck, “all you wanted was…my company,” she lifted her knowing gaze and half-smiled at Loki whose eyes were wide. “I know. You just went about things the wrong way without knowing. An old cliche which wouldn’t have worked by the way.” She pointed out as she wiped away the remnants of her tears and sighed.

“I…I…how did you…but…” Loki mumbled but no coherent, no complete sentences were able to come out of his mouth. For all he could wonder was how could she have known those were his true intentions?! 

Though it dawned on him she still remained a mystery to him. For very little was known about her and her true potential. He was amused to know one of her powers was…telepathy.

“I try not to use it, although I just did, it’s too intrusive,” she excused herself. “Way too intrusive.”

“A tad bit like me,” Loki uttered, still perplexed and lost in his head.

“Yes, a little like you,” she chuckled shyly. 

And Loki could have sworn his heart almost stopped. He had made her laugh, unintentionally, but he did! 

Loki glanced at her with enamored eyes and felt the world still for a brief stance. Good thing he was already crouched for his knees would have threatened to give in upon him witnessing such a warm smile. His lips eagerly curved and mirrored her semblance of shyness and sudden bloom of happiness. 

“Will you forgive me, dear? If there’s anything I could do to atone for my wrongdoings…there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Please.”

The wind continued to quietly whoosh and whistle outside as it waded through the starry night. So too, continued the tree branches to dance a lazy waltz.

Shadows formed on her eyes through her lashed as she gazed at Loki with gentle warmth. Perhaps she too felt something towards the fool.

“I forgive you, Loki. Just think before you play another of your tricks on someone.”

[redrose-arrow]

Frozen Fire

I am posting this now because it adds to the depression support post going around. Obviously, @uncanny-accuracy started the petition for me to (re)write this fic a while back, but I never got around to actually finishing it because I wanted to do it justice. Now, I’ve taken a small fraction of my homework time to dedicate to this fic. I have included as many of the Will-post-warmweed headcanons as I could, thus resulting in a much longer fic than I had originally intended. It’s pretty heavy, at some points, and because I’m not familiar with everyone’s limits, I am including a trigger warning for the following: anxiety, depression, selfharm, and suicide. But also: friendship, love, persistence, and the hope for a better future.

He was wearing himself out, desperate and forlorn.

Halt sat watching from under his cowl, thankfully making use of the shadows casted on his face to hide the worry and concern he knew were glistening in his eyes.

It had been three months since their return from Skandia. Two months since they came home. And in those two months, his apprentice had done nothing but practice, practice, practice, and practice.

Halt sighed and shifted the papers in his lap. He was restless. The boy was pushing himself farther than he liked, but so far he had remained unable to stop him.

Will was now almost buckling under the weight of stones that he was carrying through the obstacle run and Halt grimaced. When the apprentice stumbled, then fell, the grey-bearded mentor jumped up. He recognised the symptoms way before Will even knew they were there.

The panic started like a tightening of the chest, as if the muscles were trying not to let another breath in, but instead die. Then the breath came, shallow, lungs unable to move much against the suddenly heavy ribs. And then Will’s mind became as static, thoughts making no sense, replays of horrors never forgotten. But sinking to the ground, limbs giving up on movement, it was no option. Will was small and so the only way to go was up. Up in a tree, higher and higher and higher, up until the tiniest of branches that were out of reach of the tall bullies from Battleschool. Out of reach of the Skandians.

A sigh escaped the mentor’s lips, but it was one of concern rather than annoyance. He glanced up, but the boy was far gone. Barely visible through the densely grown branches of the top, the deep brown eyes gazed into the woods, seeing nothing but the horrors locked inside his mind.

Halt made himself comfortable underneath the tree that Will had chosen to hide in. It would take some minutes, hours maybe, before his apprentice would be ready to come down. Until such time, he would sit there with him, a token of the support he found himself unable to provide. Just sit there. So far, the older Ranger had found nothing that prevented the unexpected episodes of panic and anxiety. Despite the many sleepless nights, the songs, the talks, and the hugs, the attacks had not grown any less frequent. But he would continue to sit here, under the tree, until such time that his apprentice was ready to come down, and never climb back up again.

>>>---------->

[two days later]

The tall figure moved unseen. Even despite the fact that he was riding a horse, the couple was practically invisible from more than a couple of meters away. As soon as the trees widened, however, and they rode into the clearing, the mysterious rider shook his cowl off. His horse neighed a greeting. Two replies came, but the enthusiastic greeting that the Ranger had grown used to stayed put. Gilan frowned but shrugged it off. His visit had been requested, he was no surprise.

What was a surprise, however, was Halt’s greeting.

“Gilan!” the grey Ranger exclaimed. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

Said Ranger raised an eyebrow, but he had learnt not to ask questions. Except for one.

“Where’s Will?”

Halt’s message had been cryptic, to say the least, but had mentioned ‘Will’ combined with ‘not doing well’. The tall Ranger had half and half expected his young friend to be slowly bleeding to death, but so far the cabin and its surroundings seemed rustic and peaceful.

Halt gestured vaguely.

“He’s out in the woods with Tug. I told him I wasn’t comfortable with him going out so far on his own, but the boy’s too stubborn to listen. Why don’t you put Blaze with Abelard and come inside. I’ll pour you some coffee, then we can talk.”

Halt sighed deeply.

“I’m worried about Will. Ever since we’ve been back he’s been pushing his limits, trying to regain was he supposedly lost in Skandia.”

Gilan was confused.

“Isn’t that good, in some ways? He’s moving on-”

But Halt shook his head.

“He’s sixteen, for God’s sake! He shouldn’t have to move on if he isn’t ready.”

“And I take it he isn’t, even though he thinks he is?”

That did earn a nod as reply.

“It’s all just too fresh. Everything’s a trigger at the moment; if he accidentally cuts himself, if a couple of arrows to make it to the target… he shuts down, starts shaking uncontrollably. Couple of times he seeked refuge up in a tree. He hasn’t slept well, hasn’t eaten well. I can sit with him, talk with him, and he’ll nod and agree but a few minutes later he’s at it again. He keeps on pushing.”

“But now Arald has been receiving reports from up north in the fief, about robbers going around pretending they own the place. He’s asked me to put an end to it, but I just don’t dare leave Will alone. I was hoping you’d keep an eye on him while I’m away.”

The story seemed finished, the request openly on the table. But Gilan had a feeling that he hadn’t been told the full story.

“Anything else?” he asked.

There was a hint of hesitation, before Halt answered. He shook his head.  

“No.”

But he corrected himself mere moments later.

“Actually, there is. But I’m not going to tell you, on the grounds that he will know if you know and that will… complicate matters. Just… keep an eye on him, okay?”

Gilan nodded.

“Of course.”

But it wasn’t enough for Halt. He grabbed him by the arm and looked him deep in the eyes. This time, the dark eyes were filled with something even more unfamiliar.

Desperation.

The grip on his arm grew tighter.

“I mean it, Gilan. Please keep an eye on him - at all times. I - and you - we - don’t know what he’ll do to himself.”

>>>---------->

“I’m not hungry.”

Gilan frowned. The weight loss was unmissable.

“When did you last eat?” the Ranger asked, concern evident in his voice. But Will didn’t know. His appetite had just gone, like a switch had been flicked. He shifted in his chair, restless. The bags under his eyes seemed to grow darker.

“When did you last sleep a full night?” the Gilan continued, and Will shrugged.

“I’ve… been busy,” he said, “so can I… can I just go now? I still have some practice-”

But Gilan remembered Halt’s words, he remembered what he’d said about the limits pushing and the breakdowns. He wrapped his arms over each other.

“No.”

The brows came together in frustration.  

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

Gilan shrugged.

“I just don’t see any necessity as to why you should go out and practice right now. Why don’t we have a night in? We can play games if you like.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. Instead, he stood up, calmly walked to his room.

And firmly shut the door behind him.

Silence remained.

The tall Ranger paced the room, unsure of what to do. He filled the kettle with water for coffee he had no intention of drinking, kept throwing worried looks to the door that refused to open.

He was almost happy when he heard Will’s voice mumbling something from the other room. But it was closely followed by the heavy thump of a body jumping out of bed. The door was slammed again, open this time, and there stood a bewildered Will, woken up from what Gilan assumed had been a terrifying nightmare. He lightly laid his hand on Will’s shoulder, in an attempt to calm him, but his younger friend flinched. Will moved back, fear evident on his face. Then he turned around. The apprentice ran outside and his friend followed. Gilan called his name, again, and again, but to seemingly no avail.

Then suddenly Will shot around. When he talked, he was spitting out the words. The breakdown came out of nowhere.   

“Sometimes I miss it, okay?”

When he saw the shock on Gilan’s face, he continued. He snapped.

“That’s right, I miss it. I miss leaves melting on my tongue as a warm feeling spreads out through me. I miss having something to look forward to every night, even if nothing else mattered. I even miss the coldness because it meant warmth was near.”

He pulled at the basket with practicing knives that Gilan recognised from his own apprenticeship, grabbed a handful. And with every ‘miss’, sent another knife flying down towards the specially designed target in one of the trees lining the forest. Moving his arm back, then forward again, the blade between his fingers, Will threw out all the anger, frustration, and anxious that had been building up inside him.

“I miss being just another ordinary face in the crowd.”

Knife.

“I miss not having to flinch every time someone unexpectedly comes near.”

Knife.

“I miss not trembling every second of every waking hour.”

Knife.

“I miss being able to think about anything without my mind twirling back to that place, sending me into the so-manieth panic attack.”

Knife.

“I miss not feeling ashamed.”

Knife. He sniffed.

“But most of all-” He bowed down to get a hold of more knives.

“I. Miss. Not. Having. To. Care.”

Will’s words were reduced to sobs as he rapidly threw the last six knives, each throw emphasising a single word. All knives hit the tree, but only a few of them ended up in the target.

His trembling and shaking were now out of control and he stood swaying on his legs.

When he turned around and Gilan could see him in the pale moonlight, tears were streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” he whispered, words half blocked by the lump in his throat. His limbs missed any form of muscle strength and he fell. Thankfully, Gilan was there to help him, and together they sank to the ground.

Softly Gilan pulled back the fabric, revealing the scars he’d noticed before. The fresh scars. Horizontally, from wrist to elbow. Each deeper than the one before.

“Sometimes, when I’m asleep,” Will stammered, “I know that I’m dreaming, but I can’t seem to wake up. I’m usually subconscious enough to grab one of the knives that’s laying on the nightstand. Cutting myself, it… it wakes me up and makes me realise that I’m no longer there - I’m home now. I find it to be easier to live with the physical pain because… at least I know that will heal.”  

Gilan ran his fingers over the scars, his touch warm against the cold skin.

“You’re living the life of a Ranger, Will. A life that is filled with happy peaks, heroic events. But it’s also filled with terror, filled with horrific touches. It’s what you chose for, when Arald offered you the chance to go to battleschool, and again, when Duncan offered you a place in Castle Araluen. And it was the right choice. Because you are a Ranger, Will. I know it, Halt knows it, and Crowley knows it too. They didn’t give you that bronze oak leaf for nothing, you know.”  

Will swallowed audibly. When he spoke, there was a lump in his throat.

“What if… what if I said that I’ve thought about how much easier everything would be for everyone if I… if I was dead?”

“Don’t speak like that!” Gilan said. The authority of a full-fledged Ranger sounded in his voice.

“I’m not going to tell you to get over your struggles and simply continue your apprenticeship, because you shouldn’t be expected to after all you’ve gone through the past year. You’re allowed time have troubles, you’re allowed to take more time to get somewhere. But don’t you ever be ashamed of yourself, what you’ve gone through or what you’re struggling with!”

“But it’s not Ranger-like!”

Gilan sighed. He rolled up his own sleeve to reveal a long scar, running down from his shoulder to his elbow.

“It’s not always cutting, sometimes it’s deliberately not dodging the cut,” he explained, gentler now. “We’ve all done that.”  

“Everyone?”

Gilan chuckled.

“We’re Rangers, Will, not inhuman. No one said it would be easy. But we’re fighters. We fight evil and sometimes, that evil is inside us. We stumble and we fall, but in the end, we stand back up again.”

They sat together, for a few minutes, in complete silence. Gilan had wrapped his cloak around the boy for comfort. It was still early, and the warmth of the day hadn’t quite disappeared yet. A summer breeze was softly blowing. With it, came the sound of voices.

Will looked up, to see four figures approaching them.

His friends.

Gilan winked.

“Why don’t you get a fire going? You still know how to do that, don’t you?”

The boy smiled through his tears. It was a weak smile. But a smile nonetheless and he sniffed but wiped away the tears with the palm of his hand.

His jaw was set as he waited for his friends, gathering a few wooden sticks that would come in handy.

The five wards sat around the fire, enjoying each other’s company and each expressing their support in a different way. George rubbed his back. Jenny hugged. Horace softly bumped against him on multiple occasions. Alyss looked at him, and any time their eyes met, smiled.

When, at one point, their eyes distantly met over fire, Gilan saw it. It was small and faint, but there really was the hint of a twinkle lingering in the brown eyes.

>>>---------->

[a few months later]

His exams had been pushed back as promised. Now he stood in the middle of the woods surrounding the Gathering grounds, ready to finish off his final exam. He’d done well so far. Overall speaking, his arrows and knives had hit the targets. Not always perfectly in the middle, but close enough to eliminate an opponent. He’d had a short moment of panic during his combined strategy and mapping exam, when his assignment had been to find a location for a group of archers in the midst of war. His mind had flashed back to the battle in Skandia. To his archers, Horace and Evanlyn, as they stood behind the frontline but with the arrows flying around them. He remembered the fear, the blood, the muted thump of a body hitting the ground… But he’d breathed slowly, like Halt had practiced with him, and Crowley had muttered soft phrases of support to keep his mind from swirling back to that place. And so line by line the idea had come together. Now all that there was left was getting to the improvised shelter hidden in the bushes underneath Crowley’s latest hiding point.

Will slowly slipped forward, closely following the movements of the shadows. He brushed a twig to the side, but the twig was covered with a layer of snow and now it all came tumbling down on him.

Will froze. He just stood there, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew rapid and he shuddered.

Out of sight for the young apprentice, stood the Halt, Crowley, and Gilan. Halt’s face was grim and set. Crowley knew that his friend was itching to move, ready to dive in and save his apprentice. But if he did, if the mentor interfered with his apprentice’s exam, failure was imminent. The rules were strict.

Gilan glanced sideways, seeking the smallest form of confirmation. The tiny movement of Crowley’s head going up and down was enough. He jumped in. Gilan made sure to keep his footsteps quiet and precise, as not to interrupt the flow of the exam, but he knew Will would hear him approaching. He did so from upfront, and slowly reached out to him. He made sure not to startle him. Nothing unexpected, nothing close to the shoulders, nothing from behind him.

“Will?” he asked softly.

Quietly, the apprentice looked up again. When he opened his eyes, Gilan noticed the silent cry for help.

“Take my hand,” the tall Ranger whispered.

Will did.

“Let’s set out a fake trail now, shall we?”

Gilan led his young friend through the woods. There was no particular direction, just walking, without anyone knowing whereto. Instinctively, Will adjusted his movements to those of the shadows around him. Shaking and cold. But he kept moving forward. Until Gilan let go of his hand and Will - without interruption - moved all the way into the designated area.

Crowley clapped his hands. The exam was over.

Halt dove forward, pushed away branches and twigs until he’d found his apprentice. The boy sat hugging his knees, shaking, tears streaming down his face. The Ranger threw his arms around him, muttering words of comfort.

After a few minutes, Crowley joined them. He went down on his knees and laid a hand on the apprentice’s arm. Again, not his shoulder, not from behind him. They had all made sure to know and avoid the worst triggers.

The Commandant took something shiny from his pocket and held it out to him. Will stared at the necklace. Something within him was too ashamed to reach out to it, as if he didn’t deserve it.

Halt squeezed his shoulders and nudged him forward, urging him to accept. At last, a small shaking hand was raised, palm up.

The Commandant handed him the bronze oak leaf. As soon as the metal touched his hand palm, the shaking stopped.

Crowley knew from experience that the now third-year-apprentice had a long road to walk before he would be able to take on everything that the life of a Ranger brought with him.

He saw what Gilan had seen, months earlier. Except this time, it was stronger. The twinkle in the brown eyes.

If you ever feel like Will in ANY sort of way, don’t be afraid to seek contact, reach out. Like Halt, like Gilan, like Crowley and like Horace and Alyss and Jenny and George and Evanlyn - we’re there for you.

[chiseler]

The Head -- It Just Won’t Stay Dead

In the early 1960s, the overwhelming majority of European horror films imported to the United States were either British or Italian, the British films being easily understood and the Italian ones frequently pretending to be of British origin. Examples of French horror were rare (odd for a country whose cinema was so rooted in the fantastique), reaching an early apex with Georges Franju’s Eyes Without a Face (1960), which came to the US in a well-done English dub called The Horror Chamber of Dr. Faustus during the Halloween season of 1962.

Seldom paid much attention in retrospectives of this fertile period in continental horror cinema is a rare German example, Die Nackte und der Satan (“The Naked and the Devil,” 1959), which came to the US retitled The Head almost exactly one year before the arrival of the Franju masterpiece. Critics like to refer to The Head as “odd” and “atmospheric,” words that seem to disregard deeper consideration, never really coming to terms with it as anything but a sleazy shock trifle. However, it was in fact the product of a remarkable and rarely equaled concentration of accomplished patrimonies.

Consider this: The Head starred the great Swiss actor Michel Simon, renowned for his roles in Jean Renoir’s La Chienne and Boudu Saved From Drowning; it was directed by the Russian-born Victor Trivas, returning to his adopted homeland for the first time since directing Niemandsland (1932, aka No Man’s Land or Hell On Earth), a potent anti-war statement that was all but obliterated off the face of the earth by the Nazis when he fled the country, and who furthermore had written the story upon which Orson Welles’ The Stranger (1946) was based; it was photographed by Georg Krause, whose numerous international credits include Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory (1957); its sets were designed by Hermann Warm, the genius responsible for such German Expressionist masterpieces as Robert Weine’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919), Fritz Lang’s Destiny (1921), as well as Carl Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928) and Vampyr (1932), and its score is a wild patchwork of library tracks by Willy Mattes, the Erwin Lehn Orchestra, and a group of avant garde musicians known as Lasry-Baschet, who would subsequently lend their eerie, ethereal music to Jean Cocteau’s The Testament of Orpheus (1960). If all this were not enough, The Head was also filmed at the Munich studios of Arnold Richter, the co-founder of the Arri Group, innovators of the famous Arriflex cameras and lenses.  

Though made after the 1957 horror breakthroughs made in Britain and Italy (Terence Fisher’s The Curse of Frankenstein, and I vampiri, co-directed by Riccardo Freda and Mario Bava), The Head represented a virtual revolutionary act in postwar Germany, where horror was then considered a genre to avoid. The project was proposed to Trivas by a young film producer named Wolfgang C. Hartwig, head of Munich’s Rapid-Film, whose claim to fame was initiating a niche of exploitation cinema known as Sittenfilme – literally “moral movies” – which, like many American exploitation films of the 1930s, maintained a higher, judgmental moral tone while telling the stories of people who slipped into lives of vice (prostitution, blackmail, drug addiction), their sordid experiences always leading them to a happy or at least bittersweet outcome. Though it goes quite a bit further than either Britain or Italy had yet gone in terms of sexualizing horror, The Head nevertheless checked all the boxes required for Sittenfilme and was undertaken by Hartwig in early 1959 as Rapid-Film’s most prestigious production to date.

After the main titles are spelled out over an undulating nocturnal fog, the story begins with a lurker’s shadow passing along outside the gated property of Prof. Dr. Abel. With its round head and wide-brimmed hat, it looks like the planet Saturn from the neck up. When this marauder pauses to pay some gentle attention to a passing tortoise, we get our first look at the film’s real star - Horst Frank, just thirty at the time, his clammy asexual aura topped off with prematurely graying hair and large triangular eyebrows that seem carried over from the days of German Expressionism. More bizarre still, he later gives his name as Dr. Ood, whose explanation is still more bizarre: at the age of three months old, he was orphaned, the sole survivor of a cataclysmic shipwreck .

“That was the name of the wrecked ship,” he explains. “S.S. Ood.”

The ambiguous Ood takes cover as another late night visitor comes calling: a hunchbacked woman wearing a nurse’s habit as outsized as an oxygen tent. This is Sister Irene Sanders (the screen debut of Karin Kernke, later seen in the Edgar Wallace krimi The Terrible People, 1960). Though Irene cuts a figure as ambiguous and unusual as any Franju ever filmed, she owes her greatest debt to Jane Adams’ hunchbacked Nina in Erle C. Kenton’s House of Dracula (1945). As with Nina, Irene lives in the hope that her deformity can be eradicated by the skill of a brilliant surgeon.

When Irene leaves after meeting with Dr. Abel, Ood presents himself with the written recommendation of a colleague he previously, supposedly, assisted. A burly old walrus of a man, Abel (Michel Simon) already has two younger associates, Dr. Walter Burke (Kurt Müller-Graf, “a first class surgeon”) and the handsome, muscular Burt Jaeger (Helmut Schmid), who hasn’t been quite the same since an unexplained brain operation. Both associates share a creative streak; Burke is also “an excellent architect, [who] designed this house,” while Jaeger “designed my special operating table; it allows me to work without assistants.” (So why does he have two of them? With names that sound the same, no less!) Given the high caliber of Hermann Warm’s talent as a production designer, Burke and Burt together are every bit as skilled in architecture as was Boris Karloff’s Hjalmar Poelzig in Edgar G. Ulmer’s The Black Cat (1934). The main floor of Abel’s sprawling house is dominated by a vast spiral stairwell, striking low-backed furniture, a mobile of dancing palette shapes, and an overpowering wall reproducing Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Virtuvian Man.” Down in the lab, Burt’s robotic surgical assistant looks as if it might have been conceived by the brain responsible for the Sadean mind control device in Jess Franco’s The Diabolical Dr. Z (1965) - a film that, along with Franco’s earlier The Awful Dr. Orlof (1962), seems considerably more indebted to Trivas on renewed acquaintance than to Franju. The film was shot in black-and-white and at no point inside Abel’s abode do the silvery, ivory surfaces admit even the possibility of pigment.

Adding to its effect, the music heard whenever the film cuts back to Abel’s place is anything but homey. It consists of a single, sustained electric keyboard chord played in a nightmarish loop that seems to chill and vibrate, its predictable arc punctuated now and again with icy spikes of cornet. Though I don’t recall reading any extensive discussion of the film’s music, The Head represents what is surely the most important advance in electronic music in the wake of Louis & Bebe Barron’s work on Forbidden Planet (1956). Though the film’s music credits list bandleader Willy Mattes, Jacques Lasry and the Edwin Lehr Orchestra with its music, the most important musical credit is displaced. Further down the screen is the unexplained “Sound Structure, Lasry-Baschet.”

Lasry-Baschet was a musical combination of two partnerships – that of brothers Francois and Bernard Baschet, and the husband-and-wife team of Jacques and Yvonne Lasry. The two brothers were musicians who played astonishing instruments of their own invention, like the Crystal Baschet (played with moistened fingers on glass rods), the Aluminum Piano, the Inflatable Guitar, the Rotating Whistler, and the Polytonal Percussion. The Lasry couple, originally a pianist and organist, began performing with the Baschets on their unique devices in the mid 1950s. Some of the music they produced during this period is collected on the albums Sonata Exotique (credited to Structures for Sound, covering the years 1957-1959) and Structures For Sound (credited to the Baschet Brothers alone, 1963), a vinyl release by the Museum of Modern Art. These and other recorded works can be found on YouTube, as well; they are deeply moving ambient journeys but I cannot say with certainty that they include any of the music from The Head. That said, the music they do collect is very much in its macabre character and would have also fit very well into Last Year At Marienbad (1961) or any of Franju’s remarkable films.

When Ood meets with Abel and expresses his keen interest in experimental research, the good doctor mentions that he has had success copying “the recent Russian surgery” that succeeded in keeping the severed head of a dog alive – however, his moral code prevents him from taking such experimentation still further. After leaving Abel, Ood finds his way to the Tam-Tam Club, a nightspot where a life-sized placard promotes the nightly performances of “Tam-Tam Super Sex Star Lilly.” This visit initiates a parallel storyline involving Lilly (Christiane Maybach), who supplements her striptease work as an artist’s model, and is the particular muse of the brooding Paul Lerner (Dieter Eppler), a man of only artistic ambition, much to the annoyance of his father, a prominent judge who wants him to study law. Maybach reportedly won her role the day before she began filming. According to news reports of the day, the actress originally cast – the voluptuous redhead Kai Fischer – had signed on to play the part, after which producer Hartwig decided she must also appear nude. Fisher sued Hartwig for breach of contract in March 1959 and he was sentenced to pay out a compensatory fee of DM 4,000 – in currency today, the equivalent of about $35,000. As it happens, Christiane Maybach doesn’t appear nude in the film’s final cut either.    

The English version of The Head opens with a credit sequence played out over a shot of the full moon taken from near the climax of the picture. Unusually, the German Die Nackte und der Satan doesn’t present its title onscreen until Lilly is ready to go on. It’s superimposed with inverted commas on pleated velvet curtains that suddenly rise, revealing a stage adorned by a single suit of armor. Lilly dances out, stage right, garbed in a medieval conical hat, scarves, a bikini and a black mask, performing her dance of the seven veils around the impervious man of metal. She only strips down to her bikini but her dance ends with her in the arms of the armor we assumed empty, which tightly embraces her as its visor pops open, revealing a man’s face wearing skull makeup. Lilly screams, the lights go out, and the house goes wild with applause – a veritable blueprint for the striptease of Estella Blain’s Miss Death in Franco’s The Diabolical Dr. Z (1965).

The music heard during the film’s Tam-Tam Club sequences was recorded by the  Erwin Lehn Orchestra, evidently with Jacques Lasry on piano, though its emphasis on brass is its outstanding characteristic. Erwin Lehn was a German jazz musician and composer who established the first German Big Band Orchestra for South German Radio. Brass was a major component of his sound – indeed, he made pop instrumental recordings credited to The Erwin Lehn Beat-Brass. You can find their album Beat Flames on YouTube, as well.

Backstage, the beautiful Lilly is a nagging brat, drinking and flirting with patrons while berating Paul’s lax ambitions on the side. Dieter Eppler, a frequent player in the Edgar Wallace krimis and also the lead bloodsucker in Roberto Mauri’s Italian Slaughter of the Vampires (1964), makes for inspired casting; he looks like a beefier, if less dynamic Kirk Douglas at a time when Vincente Minnelli’s Lust For Life (1956) would have still been in the minds of audiences.

Once Ood joins the payroll, Dr. Abel confesses that his heart is failing rapidly. The only means of saving himself and perpetuating his brilliant research is by doing the impossible – that is, transplanting the heart from a donor’s body into his own, which he insists is possible given his innovation of “Serum X.” What Abel could not foresee was that his own body would die during the procedure. Ood tells Burke that the only way to save Abel’s genius is to keep his head artificially alive, which his associate rejects uncatagorically, pushing Ood over the edge into murder. Then Ood proceeds with the operation,  working solo with Jaeger’s robo-assistant passing along surgical tools as he needs them. When Abel revives, Ood breaks his news of the procedure gently by holding up a mirror and exclaiming that he’d had “one last chance – to perform the dog operation on your head!” Abel screams in revulsion of what he has become. The conciliatory Ood gently cautions him, “Too much emotion can be extremely dangerous now.”

The severed head apparatus is a simple yet ingenious effect, shot entirely in-camera and credited to Theo Nischwitz. It utilizes what is generally known as a Schufftan shot, a technique made famous by spfx shots achieved by Eugen Schufftan for Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926). Essentially, Michel Simon was seated behind a pane of mirrored glass with all the apparatus seen from his neck up. The silvering on the reverse portion of the mirror was scraped away, allowing the camera to see through to Simon and the apparatus while reflecting the apparatus arrayed below his neck, in position for the camera to capture its reflection simultaneously. In at least one promotional photo issued for the film, Simon’s shoulders can be transparently glimpsed where they should not be.

Irene returns to meet with Dr. Abel and is surprised to find new employee Ood now alone and ruling the roost. When he offers to perform her operation himself, she instinctively distrusts and fears him – but is reassured after hearing Abel’s disembodied voice on the house’s sophisticated intercom.

After the killing and burial of Burke, whose body Bert Jaeger later finds thanks to the barking of Dr. Abel’s kenneled hounds (a detail that one imagines inspired Franju’s use of a kennel in Eyes Without a Face), the film introduces the dull but nevertheless compulsory police investigation, headed by Paul Dahlke as Police Commissioner Sturm. Sagging interest is buoyed by a surprise twist: when Dr. Ood returns to the Tam-Tam Club and asks the perpetually pissy Lilly to dance, he refers to her in passing as “Stella,” prompting her to recognize him as “Dr. Brandt” (the scorecard now reads Burke, Bert and Brandt), who has inside knowledge pertaining to her poisoning of her husband! Given that his  earlier writing projects include Orson Welles’ The Stranger and the bizarre Mexican-made Buster Keaton item Boom In the Moon (also 1946), in which an innocent shipwrecked sailor is rescued from his castaway existence only to find himself confused with a serial killer, Victor Trivas would seem partial to characters who live double lives.

Though Ood/Brandt’s aura is basically asexual through the first half of the film, the second half requires him to take an earthier interest in the female bodies finding their way into his hands. He takes the already tipsy Lilly/Stella home for a drink and some mischief.

“What’s in the glass?”

“Drink it and find out.”

“I hope it’s not poisoned.”

“That’s not my specialty, is it?”

Lilly/Stella becomes the necessary auto parts for Irene’s pending operation. In a nicely done montage, the film dissolves from Lilly’s unconscious body to a glint of light off the edge of Ood’s poised scalpel. It cuts to a curt zoom into Abel’s scream at being forced to watch a procedure he abhors, then a dissolve from his mouth to the spinning dials of a wall clock, followed by some time-lapse photography of cumulous clouds unfurling from an open sky, before Irene awakens in her recovery room with a decorative choker around her throat. She is able to gain her feet and covers her nude body in a sheet. She finds Ood lounging in Abel’s old office. He walks toward her as the sheet tumbles off her bare shoulders.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Well, I… I’ve a strange kind of feeling, as if my whole body were changed, as if my body didn’t want to do what I wished.”

Therefore, Ood has not only taken away her deformity but her responsibility for her actions, as well. Though she has never smoked before, she craves a cigarette. As Ood lights one for her,  her wrap falls further, undraping her entire bare back and thus exposing a birthmark on her left shoulder blade that becomes an important plot point. Ood confesses she’s been unconscious for 117 days, during which time he has passed the time by performing numerous enhancing procedures on her inert body. When he compliments her superb figure, she self-consciously covers her legs and recoils from him.

“Why run from everything you desire?” he asks. “You can’t run from yourself.”

He draws Irene into a surprising deep kiss, which – to her own apparent horror - she returns. Ood then tries to take things further but she refuses. After a brief (and surprisingly curtailed) attempt at abduction, he releases Irene, who dresses in a black cocktail dress and heels left behind by Lilly and returns to the humble apartment she kept in her previous life, where a full-length mirror stands covered. In a scene considerably shortened by the US version, she rips the cover away in a movement evocative of a symbolic self-rape, and glories in her new reflection.  The score turns torrid, brassy, and trashy as she admires her shapely terrain, fondling the curves of her breasts and hips in a prelude to a gratifying personal striptease. She then goes to her bed, where she tries on an old pair of slippers; she laughs and kicks them away, delighted at how small her feet now are. When she wakes the next morning, she finds a pamphlet for the Tam-Tam Club in Lilly’s old purse, which leads her body back to its former place of employ. When she arrives, another striptease artist is working onstage with a bed. This performance appears to burlesque Irene’s own motions from the night before; she kicks off one of her shoes as Irene had done.  

From the moment she walks into the club, still wearing Lilly’s clinging black dress, Irene evokes a black widow, a kind of Alraune – the femme fatale of Hanns Heinz Ewers’ novel, filmed in 1930 with Brigitte Helm and in 1952 by Hildegarde Knef. Like Alraune, she’s the beautiful creation of a mad scientist’s laboratory, but unnatural. In this case, she’s not really a soulless artificial being out to destroy men; on the contrary, she is soulful, starving for some insight into who she is, what she is. In this way, she particularly foreshadows Christina, the schizophrenic subject of Baron Frankenstein’s “soul transplant” played by Susan Denberg in Terence Fisher’s Frankenstein Created Woman (1966).

She quickly attracts Paul’s artist’s eye, just as the now-topless dancer onstage swirls into a swoon on a prop bed – unconsciously mimicking Lilly at the only time she ever saw her, when Ood gave her a sneak peek at the unconscious woman on his living room couch. She asks about Lilly, whom Paul mentions has been dead now for three months, her body (in fact, Irene’s former body) found maimed beyond recognition on some railroad tracks. He asks her to dance, but Irene refuses, as she has never danced, never been asked to dance before. But he insists and they both discover that she can: “You must be a born dancer!”

Beautiful and irresponsible, she allows herself to follow Paul back to his studio, where drawings of Lilly are displayed. Paul asks to draw her, and when she turns her back to bare her shoulders, he recognizes Lilly’s beauty mark. She flees from the apartment and confronts the unflappable Ood.

“You must have grafted her skin on my body!”

In the movie’s most hilarious line, he fires back, “You have a poor imagination!”

She rejects his true account of the procedure and demands to see Dr. Abel, so Ood takes her down to the lab for a personal confirmation from the man himself. Ashamed to be seen this way, Abel pleads with Irene to disconnect him from the apparatus. She is driven away before she can accomplish this, and tries to shut away the horror of the truth that’s been revealed by losing herself in her new relationship with Paul – but the old question arises: Does he love her for her body or her mind? There seems to be one answer when he first kisses her, and another and his lips venture further down her front.  

I should leave some things to be discovered by your own viewing of the film, but it demands to be mentioned that Irene – the triumphant climax of Ood’s genius, so to speak – actually survives at the end of the film to live happily ever after. Think about this. This is something that would have been considered unacceptable in any of Hammer’s Frankenstein films at the time – indeed, through the following decade. So, although Ood is ultimately destroyed (you’ll need to see it to find out how), the mad science he propounds is actually borne out. It’s left up to Paul and Irene, as they walk off together toward a new tomorrow, how they will manage to live with the fact that the two of them are in fact a ménage à trois. Will they keep the details of her existence a secret? Will medical science remain ignorant? Should they ever have any, what will they tell their kids?  

The Head was hardly the first word on severed heads in horror entertainment. In his own admiring coverage of the film, Euro Gothic author Jonathan Rigby likens the film to the story of Rene Berton’s 1928 Grand Guignol play L’Homme qui à tue la mort (“The Man Who Killed Death”): “There, Professor Fargus revived the guillotined head of a supposed murderer and the prosecutor lost his mind when the head continued to plead his innocence.” Earlier such films would include Universal’s Inner Sanctum thriller Strange Confession (1945, in which a never-seen severed head is a main plot point), The Man Without a Body (1957) and The Thing That Couldn’t Die (1958), the latter two proving that the concept was actually trending at the time The Head was made. Also parenthetically relevant would be She Demons (1958), which involves the nasty experiments of a renegade Nazi scientist living on an uncharted tropical island, who removes the “beauty glands” of native girls to periodically restore his wife’s good looks. Though The Head wasn’t the first of its kind, many of the traits it introduced would surface in similar films that followed – not only in Franju’s Eyes Without A Face or Franco’s The Awful Dr. Orlof and The Diabolical Dr. Z, but also in Anton Giulio Majano’s Italian Atom Age Vampire (1960), Chano Urueta’s The Living Head (1963), and most conspicuously in Joseph Green’s The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, not released until 1962 though filmed in 1959, some six months after The Head.

It must be mentioned that the film’s unusual quality did not go unrecognized by its American distributor. Trans-Lux Distributing Corporation advertised the film that took a most unusual approach to selling a horror picture. The ads did not promise blood, or that your companion would jump into your lap, or shock after shock after shock. Instead, Trans-Lux promised that “At The Head of All Masterpieces of Horror [my italics] That You’ve Ever Seen… You Must Place… The Head.”

Of course it was an overstatement, but the size of its overstatement would seem to have narrowed appreciably with time.

So why has The Head, with its rich pooling of so much European talent, been so neglected?

A key reason may be that horror fans like their actors and directors to maintain a certain consistency, a certain fidelity to the genre. Horst Frank (who died in 1999) would appear in other horror films, but never again played a lead; he pursued his career as a character actor and singer, maintaining a career on the stage and keeping close to home, never making films off the continent or appearing in productions originating from England or America. After The Head, Victor Trivas made no more horror films. The other four features he made had been produced a quarter century earlier and the majority are impossible to see in English countries. Those who remembered him for Niemandsland would have considered The Head an embarrassment, an unfortunate last act. It wasn’t quite a last act, however. The following year, he returned to America, where he sold his final script to the Warner Bros. television series The Roaring 20s, starring Dorothy Provine. Though the show avoided fantasy subjects, it was a voodoo-themed episode entitled “The Fifth Pin,” directed by Robert Spaar and televised during the series’ first season on April 8, 1961. The guest stars included John Dehner, Rex Reason, Patricia O’Neal and, surprisingly, beloved Roger Corman repertory player Dick Miller. Trivas died in New York City in 1970, at the age of 73.

The English version of The Head is considered to be a public domain title and has been available from Alpha Video, Sinister Cinema and other PD sources. This version was modestly recut to create a new main title sequence and to remove certain erotic elements unwelcome to its target audience in 1961. Happily, a hybrid edition – which, in a fitting fate, grafts the English dub onto the original uncut version from Germany – was recently made available for viewing on YouTube.

In the immediate wake of The Head, producer Wolf C. Hartwig pushed another erotic horror film into production, Ein Töter hing in Netz (“A Corpse Hangs in the Web,” 1960). Scripted and directed by Fritz Böttger, the film (Böttger’s last as a director) was first released in America as It’s Hot In Paradise (1962), sold as a girlie picture with absolutely no indication of its horror content. It was later reissued in 1965 as Horrors of Spider Island (1965). Under any of its titles, the film is notably lacking all of the artistic and aesthetic pedigree that made its predecessor so special and, indeed, influential.

Sixty years further on, The Head warrants fuller recognition as a spearhead of that magic moment on the threshold of the 1960s when so-called “art cinema” began to be fused with so-called “trash cinema,” leading to a broader, wilder, more adult fantastique.  

by Tim Lucas

[1] Victor Trivas’ Niemandsland may be viewed online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-4XhNMWoyw

[2] Rapid-Film’s later successes would include the German film that was subsequently converted into Francis Ford Coppola’s directorial debut (The Bellboy and the Playgirls, 1962), Ernst Hofbauer’s Schoolgirl Report film series (1970-80), and Sam Peckinpah’s Cross of Iron (1977).

[3] You can see Lasry-Baschet perform and be interviewed in a French newsreel from January 1961 on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awaFd6gArLg&t=46s.

[4] Well, as “recent” as 1940, when footage of a supposedly successful Soviet resuscitation of a dog’s severed head was included in the grisly 20m documentary Experiments In the Revival of Organisms. The operation was performed (and repeated) by Doctors Sergei Brukhonenko and Boris Levinskovsky, making use of their “autojektor,” an artificial heart/lung machine not unlike the contraption seen in The Head. A close look at Experiments reveals that it really shows nothing that could not have been faked through means of special effects. (When George Bernard Shaw learned of the Soviet experiment, he’s said to have remarked, “"I am tempted to have my own head cut off so that I can continue to dictate plays and books without being bothered by illness, without having to dress and undress, without having to eat, without having anything else to do other than to produce masterpieces of dramatic art and literature.") Experiments In The Revival of Organisms has been uploaded to YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ap1co5ZZHYE.

[5] Rigby, Jonathan. Euro Horror: Classics of Continental Horror Cinema (London: Signum Books, 2017), p. 79.

[6] Joseph Green also worked in motion picture distribution and later formed Joseph Green Pictures, which specialized in spicy imported pictures, some from Germany. It’s possible that he saw the Trivas picture when it was still seeking distribution in the States. When Ostalgica Film released The Head on DVD in Germany under its Belgian reissue title Des Satans nackte Sklavin (“The Devil’s Naked Slave”), the disc included The Brain That Wouldn’t Die as a bonus co-feature.

[7] A fine quality homemade experiment, it runs 91 minutes 47 seconds and can be found at: The Head (Die Nackte und der Satan) 1959 Sci-Fi / Horror HQ version!.